It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Single speed worlds, what a fucking weekend. 950 mile drive, sleep on the ground, get real drunk, sleep on the ground, ride for fucking ever, get real drunk, sleep on the ground, 950 mile drive.  I’m sitting in my apartment wondering what in the hell just happened to me. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, my attention span is gone. Coffee isn’t working, beer isn’t working and worst of all, porn isn’t working.  I may as well shut the windows and put my head in the gas oven. Just end this now.  I’ve been in Tucson around four nights out of the last four weeks. I’ve got no food, no money and well, you get the idea. It’s time to start working again for the big man, as much as I hate to admit it.

And I do hate to admit it.  I imagine I should say a few things about the single speed worlds, as it just took ten years off my life.

Made it to Flagstaff, Arizona Wednesday night at 2:30 am. Pass out on the ground and watch the stars through the trees. I wonder what I’m getting into?  Meet up with Sarah, a girl I ran into at Ragbrai this year. She’s going out to Downieville with the Gnome and I just for shits and giggles. She told me she tries to never pass up a chance to go somewhere she’s never been before.  Sounds A-oh-fucking-Kay to me.

We head west, then north. Through Kingman, over the Hoover Damn, and blaze through Las Vegas. Then out into the great wide open where whore houses fly like so many mileposts. We’re making good time. Three friends, three bikes and one big Buick. This is going to be a good trip.  I hand the wheel over to the Gnome and hit the store for a six-pack. OK, I grab a twelve pack instead. The girl at the counter, God bless ‘er, tells me, oh, you want the 18 pack.  Really, why?  Well, this is $10.49 and the 18 pack is only $10.99.  I tell her I’ll be right back. Shit, an extra six beers for .50 cents? How cool is that? I’ll tell ya this much, this candle’s getting lit right now.

After much deliberation I have decided Reno is best seen at 85 miles per hour. Floor it and keep on trunkin; there ain’t nothin to see here.  Not after spending last weekend and most of my soul in Vegas. After that, Reno is about as impressive as Atlantic City. And that ain’t very impressive at all. I've taken more impressive shits.  We’re into some road construction and Gnome notices the engine stuttering a bit. He looks down at the gas gauge and, well, yes, it’s on empty. The little red light that usaully alerts the driver to such things, yeah, it's on.

We Roll into Truckee, Cali-fucking-fornia, somehow we've made it on fumes. Open the door and I’m falling out of the car. I find six or seven spend cartridges around my feet and stuffed in-between the door and car seat. I manage to get them in the trash and even open another. I am totally flagged.  And it’s a good thing the Gnome is driving. Bastard damn near ran the tank dry on us and he even pegged a bat. Fucking bat killer.

Day three. I’m actually in Downieville and it looks like I’m early. We have breakfast and try to register. Ha ha, jokes on you fuckstick. Registration will happen when we say it will and not a moment sooner.  I hang out in the bar with Garro. We’re drinking long necks and they’re going down like water. Is it even noon yet? When can I register and get the hell on my bike already, fuck.  I’m just busting balls. This was a well put together event from top to bottom. And it was no small task I’m sure. I can’t imagine the man hours put into an event such as this. I don’t know the names of half the people involved, so let me just say thanks to all of you right now. Great job all around.

When I pulled my bike off the roof rack, I was surprised to find our dead bat friend wrapped completely around the little piece connecting the seat stays, right above the rear tire. Fucking sick little splattered bastard must have lasted a hundred miles up there.  I figure he bought the ticket, he’s taking the ride. I zip tied him down and decided to take him racing. I named him crash. I found it somehow meaningful and appropriate.  The Gnome and I think about catching a shuttle to the top and pre-riding the second half of the course. Neither of us can get past the whole shuttling part, kinda dumb idea isn’t it? Friends don’t let friends shuttle.  So we try our luck at the climb instead. We’re camping across the street from the race start and the bottom of what I was told was an eleven mile climb. A local told me, Oh, I spin out my 2 - 1 on that climb. It’s not bad.  Either he’s in a whole lot better shape than I am or he was trying to kill me. Maybe both. After climbing for an hour, I come to the concusion that I had better gear down. A 32 - 18 sounds a whole lot better than the 36 - 18 I’m trying to push up this beast. Easy climb my ass.

I mistakenly believe I can climb anything eleven miles long in under two hours with my new and improved lower gearing. To paraphrase Bob Roll on descending Gavia in the Giro on that epic day when Andy Hampsten took the lead, I have never been so wrong about anything in my life.  I stood, I swore, I walked, and it took me a whole lot longer then two hours. I hung out in the "laughing group". That climb went on for fucking ever. And, once I passed the first aid station, I mistakenly believed the climbing part was over with and it was all going to be downhill from there on out.  Um, no. Not really. Up, down, over, around and fucking up again. For ever. I died a thousand deaths out there. It was pretty hard, I’ll tell ya that. One of the hardest loops I’ve ever done, and easily the hardest thing I've ever raced. If they were trying to make it hard, they succeeded.

The strongest man and woman won that day, that’s for sure.

The best part about going so slow is the company you keep. Back in the laughing group I was riding with my man Joshua from Jericho, a welder from Independent, guys from all kinds of websites (none as cool as mine), a girl from Bianchi and a guy from Pauls Components. Even a guy on a drop bar Matt Chester with fenders. It was fun back there.  And, going as slow as I was, most of the race came by me at some point. I saw about 6 or 7 people wearing red drunkcyclist jerseys. Now, considering I only sold 38 of those bad boys, that is a pretty damn good representation.

At the second aid station, Steve told me they were cutting it off in ten more minutes. There were people all over the trail at this point, and many were not going to make it. A little bit down the trail there was a turn off, a short cut. I thought about it, even made a wrong turn and started down it. Nah, I didn’t come all the way out here to not finish.  And, this close to the back, I could be last. Last. Think about that one a minute. Dead fucking last. How cool would that be?  I hatched a plan. Go even slower. Walk everything. Get dropped on purpose. Hell, I’ve been getting dropped all day, this is going to be easy.

I stopped, sat on a log and ate a cliff bar. I stopped every time a decent view point afforded itself. I stopped at every rock, log, switchback, you name it. I let everyone who came up to me go by.  I asked everyone if they had made the check point. Many had not. This might actually happen. I might be in last place.

Well, to make a long story short, it didn’t work out. There were all kinds of people on the trail, and try as I did, I just couldn’t get to the back. Once I got onto the last two miles of single track, I cracked. I couldn’t do it anymore. I was actually pedaling up hills. I stopped stopping. I finished and I wasn’t last.  Damn.  Travis Brown took it home for the men’s side of things and a really nice girl named Stella won the women’s title. I’m sorry, but I just don’t remember her last name. They both got branded and everyone got loaded.

The beer was flowing and it seems everyone likes to give Canadians shit. At least I did. I told one guy we love you Canadians here in the states, sure, you guys are great. You’re like our 51st state.  He told me to fuck off.  I got a chance to talk to Travis Brown at one point during the night as people were handing me beers left and right. I started feeding him lagers and asking about the race. He told me he ran two to one gearing and had been in town for a the week. He had prerode the course with some of the locals a few days back, and they were putting some time into him on the downhills. I figure knowing your own trails accounts for that. He said that just meant he had to make sure none of those guys were anywhere near him at the top of the climb.

Looks like his plan worked. I asked him about the brand, did it smell like bacon when they burned ya? No, he replied, it just smelled bad. I’ll bet.  Now, Stella I didn’t get a chance to talk to very much. Not because she was distancing herself from the public, not by any means. It’s just that I started swilling down the free beer like it was water, and my memory starts to get a bit fuzzy.  I do know she told me the brand didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. She said the climb hurt a lot worse, so it was OK. I can relate to that one. That climb fucking sucked ass.  I’m a strong climber, for those of you who don’t already know this. At six foot four and two hundred fifteen pounds I literally fly uphill. It’s a joy.  

I woke up the next morning to discover I had been camping next to Phil the Horse for two days. I love that guy, what a fucking riot. He’s a long time contributer to the site with his great emails detailing the adventures across the pond. To borrow a phrase, simply brilliant.  Watching him eating breakfast was one of the highlights of the weekend for me. He spread margarine on two pieces of bread, humus over the margarine on one side, then smashed potato chips in a pile on top of all that. Spread on the hot sauce and consume. Repeat as necessary till no longer hungry.  Fucking amazing watching him eat. Amazing. And the rest of his buddies do not fail to disappoint in the entertainment category. After sitting around bullshitting for a few minutes, one of his mates pops his head out of a tent flap with a short, ‘ello. Startled I ask how may more are in there?  Without missing a beat one of the others replies, four. He then proceeds to show how his one hand is without feeling by pressing his cigarette against the fingertips and pulling things like hot dogs and toasted bagels off the fire. Says its "nerve damage".

And so it went. They make good coffee, served chocolate with hot sauce. I thought, what??? Chocolate with hot sauce? Don’t knock it till you try it. It’s actually pretty good.

The Brits were heading to Reno for some action at the skatepark and shooting range. They figured while they were in the states, they ought to shoot some guns. I agreed. One of them wondered if you could pick your target. He wanted to shoot something with a maple leaf.

Big Johnny
www.DrunkCyclist.com

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