creepyfriendly

Somnambulance.

It's the traffic that gets me. 240miles in an automobile only to be imprisoned by a stop some 20 miles from your destination. The sound of acceleration, the smell of diesel, the red tint of brake lights in my peripheral. It's a long haul and all I wanted to be is released.

Being introduced to the gem better known as Lebanon hills was a step in the right direction as riding and hanging with Brent of Twin Six sealed the deal. Kudos to MORC who really seem to have their peas in a pod when it comes to trail design. With lightening fast single track and rocky terrain to break up any catch 22 that might divert you this 10mile circuit is a must for anyone in the area. It's grounds like this that confirm why Minnesota is king of the knobby hobby. Twin Six? Well, I figured I owed one of my raddest sponsors a visit after a full mtb season of support and sweet threads. Yep, Ryan and Brent are everything you'd imagine. Two creative, seasoned pros who love what they do and know how to ride trail.

The Bob Brown Brigade invaded the Washington park spooktacular cross event with a strong one two showing this weekend. Plenty of half drunk cheering costumes greeted us every lap and into the sprint finish where only a tyre width separated Marko from myself.

The usual suspects fabricated as the go was heard. The boys of velotrocadero designed a fabulous course which resulted in some early lap washouts and fatalities. Fortunate to get away from the halloween carnage I latched on to Marko, Cole House, and Kyle Jacobson by the end of lap one before throwing in some bunny hop surges on 3 pack hill.

By lap 3ish I was feeling good and the hops were forming gaps. I began strategizing the remainder of the race as Marko took a flyer which resulted in the break as I latched on. Holes were plugged and screws tightened as we cruised the course occasionally verbalizing our maneuvers.

I went to the front during the later laps of the race and pulled it through the final set of barriers at a medium pace. Not to fast and not to slow until Marko took me on the left. Up the quick pavement section before the wide right sweeper into the finish I caught a glimpse of take back as it appeared the darkness went high and me low before cycloning into king of the rpm's. I can't imagine what we looked like duking it out to the line. By far one of the best times I've had on the bike in a while. Props Marko and props to the younger "non-licensed" brother James who took the 4's.

12 days until iceman!

photo cred:

Pete DiAntoni.

Djonnymac.

Jay Labecki.

Demonomania.

The sounds of fall follow me as I continue the stroke through my favorite path. Crunch, crunch, as the intermittent breath catches a squirrel off guard. This time of year the muscles are begging for rest but for some reason we push far beyond lactic threshold and far beyind any mental capacity of a squirrel.

Enter the Whitewater trash dash. Appropriately named, this 3/4 mile track consisted of a flat bumpy circuit that not only challenged your dismounts but also questioned the sanity of many. My race? Well, I'm still not accustomed to critiquing unknown channels since I'm too busy focusing on the wheel in front of me or better yet focusing the projectile vomit away from any BKB superfans.

Words were said, rules read, and we were off. I quickly filtered through the front with the regulars in tow. I took a mild pull before settling in behind the Darkness who was on a mission. Feeling off kilter does wonders to your confidence as I fumbled for my legs. Marko seemed possessed as Brian squeaked between us. As the "LaLonde Sandwich" snaked its way through the superfan zone Darko showed us whos in control with a double dismount to PBR hand off. Damn, it's only lap 4 of 15 and the skinny dude is doing beers? Ok, focus as I slip a bit. I struggled to get a grip as B-Matter and the darkness slip into the distance. With the support of fellow racers and fans I dig deep to close the gap. Two laps later and I find myself back on wheel. Marko skibs a pedal and I bypass the group. I didn't feel the necessary motivation to gun the last two laps so I sat up and kept it even. Matter started turning screws and that was that. We rode it in with B, me, and Marko rounding out the podium.

After rounding up the troops later that afternoon we head over to the Eastside of madtown to meet Brian for the trip to the WORS banquet. Already late we hop in the PCW vehicle and head north towards the old stomping grounds.

After missing the banquet dinner some of us opted for the country club bar and grill while others hung with friends and beer. Landon and Kate met us while the rest gathered for awards. Autographs were signed, wine was drunk, and high fives were given. Props to the up and coming Landon Lueck, Marko and Matter in the Marathon series, and the rest of the amazing faces of WORS. Without you we'd be a bunch of bums building illegal trail.

Sunday morning: without hesitation my corpse rises and feels the need to destroy itself again. With an organized course and ready competition I'm prepared to throw down at Gibbs lake. Boasting one of the most entertaining courses and ready competitors this venue seemed right for the Bob Brown.

With the shout of an official we're off as Cole House bolts to the front and around the first corner for the 1st lap preem. Matter and I quickly follow form and let Cole go as we know the preem is childs play. Around the hair pin and over the fallen log we're lean. A 1/4 mile climb proved a love hate relationship with me as we settled in before Cole launched the next two barriers. Two seconds gained Two minutes lost. The race is on as Brian and I seperate ourself from the pack. Brian on a mission, me in tow. Nothing left as Brian pulled out a solid five second win over the Bob Brown Brigade.

I'm still in a cyclone of hurt after the double weekend. What does this leave? Who knows. A couple more bunny hopping hours of power as iceman approaches. In the meantime its time to slip in to some new threads and plan for 08!

Mullet sandwich.

Skills to bills.

Trailbound.

To-days are limited. The air, leaves crunching under 23psi, the warm sun slicing through last years saplings. Time in the woods will be restricted by gun season as quick as winter will fall and we'll be back to planning the future months. For some the season is empty, others unsure of where to go. Me? I'm on a mission to finish on a admirable note.

The radical morning set off with a trip to the radical shop where we got rad with our wrenches. In, out, and on the radical highway we traveled Northward in search of first-rate dirt. The radical T-da and I knew the days are limited so we decided to hit the radical Levis Mound trail system which in my eyes remains some of the most radical riding in the midwest.

With temps hovering in the low seventies we set out on our radical steeds down the radical trail. We stomped roots and rocks along toad road with a radical transition into porky point before dumping out into the lower glen. T-da was ranting and raving about his radical new ferrous. "Gunnar for sale." as he referred to one of his many. "This thing is like cheating." I agreed as I pondered the thought of my radical race bike. We continued on through the lower glen at a radical pace before cruising through yellow jacket which by the way was radical. Next up we entered my favorite of the radical system, cliff hanger which happens to be listed as a imba epic ride and for good reason. This newest addition is brief but allows you to thread the needle at high speeds while enjoying the view if you have time. Most definitely radical.

In fact, cliff hanger was so radical that we did it a second time before rallying down buck hill and over to the Goat dance. Goat dance allowed me to reminisce of radical times when WORS came to the mounds. The leadout was definitely not radical as I raced my radical pink gunnar. I wasn't near as radical as I am now and was very inefficient in my gear choice. After a less than radical start I worked my way into the top five by mile 20ish before fading to seventh in bonk mode. Being undergeared is not radical.

T-da and I enjoyed the radicalness of nature as leaves fell before us and deer darted behind us. We rode nearly every bit of the system at least once and some twice before finishing up with the upper hermosa which on the radical scale fell due to the heavy logging.

After some less than radical stretching we headed home just in time for cloudy skys and brief sprinkles. We made a point to stop at the Nike outlet near the Dells in order to find some radical hi-tops. As usual it was less than radical and we came away empty handed but made up for it the radical ride we just had.

>>>Rad.

>>>Radder.

>>>Raddest.

>>>Most Rad.

>>>Most Radical.

Good morning (10.16).

Filling space.

Redemptive resolution.

With plenty of racing to be had I narrowed my decision down to the Badger prairie race which turned out to be just what I needed to get out of the slump. After Sheboygan I was pretty bummed. Not bummed in the sense of moping around but rather can't wait to get after it and redeem myself.

With Marko, Tristan, and Kyle racing the UCI races in Ohio I knew the field would be slimmer than normal but not necessarily lacking competition. I warmed the Bob up with some light spinning as the rain held off for the start of the race. A quick leadout into a swooping muddy right is all it took to string it out. I sat content in thirdish while watching a few fumble through the slick corners. It wasn't long before I went to front and slowly upped the pace.

By lap two I began to hear the melodies of Maiden creep in. "Bring your daughter... to the slaughter." I was having a hard time distinguishing the lyrics from the superfans on the log run up so I began hopping it lap after lap until my lead grew to around a minute. In the meantime BKB part timer Ronsta was busy pushing his uno speed into second place even after winning the Beechwood Blaster the day before. Props.

The Bob was a mud machine. Like a hot knife through butter I piloted my steed to it's first win and also my first CX win. Ever.

27 days until iceman.

photos: ©Djohnnymac

Migrate.

I remember my first pair of nike airs like it was yesterday. My waffle soles lacked the high top and signature model of the upper classmen. They didn't offer support when I needed it for the off kilter lay-up or when I rounded second base during the kickball tournament. My nike airs were from the discount rack. I didn't care as long as I could look down to admire the swoosh looking back up at me. The bully at recess couldn't keep me down as long as I had my nike's on. Now that I've grown up I have found solace in other objects. Bicycles, wrenches, dark beverages... you name it! But what I've been most satisfied in is the beauty of cycling apparel, specifically the aesthetic of my friends to the north. Nothing brings a smile to my face more then slipping into a fresh twin six jersey. Wear one while hunting, bowling or better yet while kicking that bully in the shin. Yeah, I knew you were smarter than those other guys.

BreakFAST bunch cubed.