62 Miles of Mud and Snowpack

Mostly mud.

Utah Steve, PhD and I drove down to Dubuque on Saturday for the eighth running of the Triple D Winter Race. The weather had been warm, and the worry was that we'd be riding 62 miles of mashed potatoes. Turned out on the pre-ride that most of the snow was gone, but thankfully the ground was still frozen. We also attended the pre-race the night before and got some valuable insight into the course. Had dinner at an Italian place downtown and turned in for a long but somewhat restless night's sleep.

(Utah Steve and I at the start, photo courtesy of Utah Steve)

It was just below freezing and sunny at the start. race director Lance had wanted to say a few words, but the natives were restless and a couple of long-time vets sounded the rollout gun at 10:00 sharp. We were supposed to stage and sort into groups by speed at the actual start line, but the field just took off.

The ground was frozen and the trail pretty fast through the first couple miles of singletrack. Even the water crossings and farm fields didn't slow us down much. In the time since last year's race, I had adopted a more conservative and aerobic training style, but at this stage I was mostly ignoring my heart rate alarm—not burning all the matches, but definitely putting my shoulder to the proverbial wheel. The arm warmers, beanie and gloves came off, and I rode the rest of the race with my jacket unzipped.

(yours truly, rocking a cornfield, photo courtesy of Rob McK)

Tough climbs were to be had between the fun downhills, and the Humke B road (but really ice and rock chute, complete with downed tree blocking the main line) did not disappoint. We found a cold west wind up in the highlands, so the gloves went back on. I hit the Heritage trail before noon and grouped up with a couple guys. Drafting on the now-wet trail, we rolled into Chad's looking like Roubaix riders at about 13:30.

Fifteen minutes was longer than I had wanted to stay, but it was busy and I wanted to stick with newfound company Duane. Refilled water, crotch creamed, ate a little, and were well out of Dyersville before 14:00. It was still sunny and the trail was pretty soft all the way to the Holy Cross tunnel, where we found a few substantial, fast stretches of hard-packed snow.

Duane was good company and we rolled along not stopping much and picking up a few places as the trail continued downhill. We caught up to his pal Drew and became 3 for a while before getting another pulse of energy. The checkpoint in Durango had a lot of bikes out front, and Duane decided it was time to change his sweat-soaked base layer. He was cold enough, and his hands weak enough from his handlebars' bad ergonomics that I had to help him zip up his jacket. Riding again, he was chilled at first but warmed back up quickly.

We finished off Heritage and turned onto the Dubuque bike path along the Northwest Arterial, uphill and into the wind and setting sun. Pavement, road, grass, ditch, pavement and then onto the final section of singletrack before the gentleman's finish line. The course markings in the last section were really sparse, and Duane said he would have gotten lost repeatedly had he been by himself.

We cleaned the last few creek crossings and mucky hills, crossing the railroad tracks just a couple minutes before a long Norfolk Western freight rolled through. Ever the gentleman, Duane ceded me a place, I guess for serving as tour guide. We humped it back up to the hotel and put our names on the list at 16:58 for 32nd and 33rd places, respectively.

Tyler U. from Madison won it, Utah Steve, PhD took fifth, and Nick took 18th—so Wisco represented. There was some confusion about the final leg of the course (not surprising, given some ambiguity at the pre-race and less than ideal marking) and a bit of a dispute about the top placements.

The bikes and our clothes were well and truly a mess, covered in limestone from the Heritage trail. We left a trail of it in Chad's and back at the hotel. We ended up not taking our bikes inside and just locked them up on the hitch rack for the overnight.

So overall, a success for me. Not great time or placement, but I felt good for the vast majority of the race and recovered quickly afterward.

Now, a couple of weeks off before training commences for the Race That Shall Not Be Named.

Time For Fat Bikes

Winter is the best time for fat bikes. Yes it is.

It's funny to have been in on this fat bike thing from pretty early on. Ruby was one of probably the first dozen fat bikes in Madison back in 2010, but they seem to be everywhere now. I spent a lot of time on the MTBR Fat Bike forums in the beginning, when it was mostly Alaskans and other adventure types using fat bikes to go where no bicycle had gone before.

There's been a trend lately that amuses me quite a bit, with people I've met in real life and on the interwebs saying that they love fat bikes so much that they've sold off all of their other bikes. That sentiment sure smells of fad.

Sure, fat bikes make pretty good mountain and trail bikes, but honestly, riding them on pavement just isn't that much fun. They really shine on snow, sand and other loose material where floatation makes a big difference. Those are the occasions that make it worth dragging those big tires around, and the idea that I'll get to ride my fat bike more also helps me have a more positive attitude toward winter.

Though it may puts me in the minority, I just think bike fun can be had in a lot of different forms.

Cheese Soup, Served Cold

"Oh look, stars," Steve said, pointing overhead, and sure enough, the inky night sky was full of them. I was a little surprised, given that it had been foggy or overcast since before sunrise. We all groused and joked again about the soft conditions, knowing that we'd be underway again soon. This was the longest wait yet, and I was beginning to wonder if we should backtrack to look for him. I grew impatient and walked back up the trail and into the box culvert. Maybe halfway in, the other end took on a pale blue glow, and ten steps later, the point of Brian's headlight appeared. I turned and walked back toward my bike, not eager to get back on.

—

I had posted a concept for a ride both as a blog and on social media with the idea of traveling the only mostly-gravel loop from Madison, sometime around the winter solstice. Long Ride, Short Day.  People have done this route before both as solo efforts (as I did this summer) and as group rides with names like the Big Ass Long Loop Shindig (BALLS) and the Militant Badger, but never as a group ride in the winter. It follows the Badger rail trail south to Monroe, connects to the Cheese Country ATV trail west and north to Mineral point, then goes along some paved bike path and road to Dodgeville, returning to Madison on the Military Ridge rail trail. Just over 130 miles, 110 of which are not paved.

The first attempt in 2013 was a solo ride for me that went only to a point just south of the Stewart tunnel on the Badger. Four inches of ice-crusted snow proved too much to bust through for that kind of distance.

This year had seen early cold, but with not a whole lot of snow, and with only minimal precipitation for the 3 weeks leading up to the ride. The forecast called for mid-forties and fog on the day of the ride. My guess had been that there would be patches of mud on the low spots along the route, but that most of it would be reasonably dry and firm.

The Start

It seemed that I was mostly right for the first half of the ride. Steve, Nick, a newcomer named Brian (who had done the Militant Badger) and I met up at the trail kiosk in Fitchburg at 06:00. Steve was a little late thanks to a non-functional taillight, but we soon enough struck south on the paved section of the Badger. When we reached the limestone, it was covered in ice and snow. This is not unusual, since this first section is in a groove cut through a hill that sees precious little sunlight, so we pressed on in our optimism and were soon rewarded with fast sections of exposed limestone.

I hadn't finished an important part of my morning routine, so we made an early stop at a C-store in Belleville. At this point, the ambient temperature was just coming up to about freezing.


The approach to the tunnel was also through a cut and covered in ice and snow. Nick and Brian both fell, fortunately with no harm done. Icy stalagmites had already formed on the floor of the tunnel, along with several loose chunks of limestone from the ceiling.

The Cheese

Further south we rolled through Monticello and on to Monroe, where we left the Badger and picked up the Cheese Country ATV trail. Though the surface is a larger aggregate mixed with more sand, the going was still pretty good despite some long icy stretches.

We stopped for lunch at a c-store in Gratiot, filling up on wedge sandwiches, pizza and chocolate milk. Upon returning to the trail, we found that it had begin to get soft and the spray was beginning to make a mess of the bikes. We made another brief stop at a Casey's in Darlington, which, disappointingly, was out of pizza.


Nick had a brake problem out near Calamine (the spring on his rear caliper somehow got caught in the rotor) and I decided to inspect my nonfunctional rear brake while we were stopped. Turned out that the grease I had used in my rear hub is not waterproof and had leaked its grey matter all over the caliper and rotor on one side, the cassette and chain on the other, and all around the inner circumference of the rim. There was nothing to be done but rely on the front brake. Brian, being the slowest of the group, decided to forge ahead to Mineral Point, and I did the same a couple minutes later.

By this time, the temperatures were in the forties and the trail has turned to soup. The most effective strategy was to ride the narrow margins where roots made the going spongy but rideable. Steve and Nick caught me in short order, and it was clear that I was still not fully recovered from the flu I'd had the week before. We found Brian in Mineral Point, and pressed on after a brief break, wanting to clear the ten miles of road to Dodgeville before it got dark.


The Stretch

Rolling north up Shake Rag St., the fog started to get pretty thick, and stayed so all the way to Dodgeville. Fortunately, there's a separated bicycle path for most of the way that runs parallel to, and then crosses the four-lane US Highway 18.

A mile or so south of Dodgeville, the path dumps out onto state Highway 23, but we chose the option of crossing onto a short section of gravel named Lover's Lane. It was immediately obvious that it doesn't get much traffic, and still had snow drifts stretched across it that were weeks old. Dusk was almost over and the lights came on. There was more falling on ice and slogging through gravel slurry. I got off and pushed my bike at one point and declared that I could drop out and call my wife right then and there for a ride and be done with the whole thing. Steve gently reminded me that we'd soon be taking a break and to let him know if I needed anything. We rolled onto a Dodgeville pavement just as the daylight was giving its last.


Right about mile 95, we rolled into the KwikTrip parking lot soggy, tired and covered in limestone. We stalked the good provisions aisle by aisle and I remember thinking that this is about as lousy as I had felt at the very end of some of the longest, most difficult rides I've done. We did our best to eat, rest and rally, but concern about the 40 miles of unpaved rail trail ahead was clearly weighing heavily on our mood. I said I was concerned, which was sort of an understatement. I bought some string cheese, a banana, some chocolate milk, jerky, and chips. We were there for maybe 45 minutes, and somehow we rallied.

The Darkness 

It was dark when we left the store. We started out riding north on the main drag but quickly opted for back streets. We found the trailhead easily enough, but as we had suspected, most of it was soupy. There were a few stretches of snow or dry surface, but we mostly had to ride on the vegetation at the edges of the trail. There was a stretch of paved trail before Ridgeway we got to ride at speed, but it ended too soon. The parts through Ridgeway and Barneveld were the soupiest of all, and we rode the parallel streets where we could.

All of us were miserable, but Brian, riding a regular mountain bike with 2" tires and narrow drop bars had it the worst by far. We found ourselves waiting for him at regular intervals for increasing lengths of time. He told us a couple of times that we should just leave him, but no way would my conscience allow me to leave somebody alone after dark, in the middle of nowhere, on a trail with no other traffic. No way. As we rolled up on Riley, there was some joking about stopping at the Tap for a beer, and I suggested that we could also call and ask how much a cab back to Madison would cost. Brian vetoed the idea:

"I've come this far. I'm not quitting now."

So we slogged on. The low section of trail between Riley and Verona might not have been as bad as we had expected, but it was still some of the worst. The wait between the box culverts was probably one of the longest, but the last section before hitting pavement was also long enough to cause some worry. Steve and Nick and I were clearly past our Bike Fun freshness date, but I really have to hand the prize for raw determination to Brian. I honestly have no idea how he did this ride on the bike he had chosen.

The pavement was a major relief. There were some icy stretches, but forward progress was suddenly much easier and faster. The last miles rolled by in some kind of daze as the fog returned. We parted ways at the Three Trails, and I was the first to cross the bike counter at six minutes past midnight.


I pulled in the driveway at 00:28 on the morning of the 14th of December and the wife was still up. She fed me and I took a shower before falling into bed. I was so exhausted, wired and mentally shattered that restful sleep refused to visit me. Taking the burden of others' well-being upon myself had taken a real toll on me—something I have to learn to deal with more constructively. I took it really easy all day Sunday, doing laundry, washing the bike and watching a couple of movies, finally sleeping well Monday night.

Afterword

My hubris needs a check after this one. Frank and Tyler had both tried to warn us that the warm temperatures in the forecast were going to turn the trail soft, and it turned out that they were mostly right. It's sort of a shame that this is the only trail loop to which we have access from Madison, because it's really a little too long. Either that or my motivation is too short.

Pics on the Flickr.

Triple D 2014

Trained wrong, ate wrong, set the bike up wrong and did not live up to my own expectations. Didn't even take any photos. Not gonna beat myself up about it, and on the bright side, I finished. Better luck next year.

Triple D Number 5

One might think that a bike race of the same length, running through just about the same locale and held at just about the same time every year might become boring. But Triple D has somehow managed to do the opposite and have a distinctly different feel every year it's been run. My fifth attempt at it was no exception.

This year featured a new venue, a substantial variation in the route, no snow and lots of ice. The field grew again, from maybe 70-some last year to around 100 this year. Part of the increase was the lack of snow tipping a number of skiers over to the bike event. Still, the growth of fat biking and winter cycling must also have had an effect.

We had had major snow events back in December, including a blizzard that left much of northeastern Iowa and southern Wisconsin with almost two feet of snow, but most of that had melted by race day. The temperature the day before hit 47˚F, and a pre-ride of the course was very spongy, with open water on the creek crossings. The night before the race, a front blew in out of the northwest on gusts of up to 50mph, and the temperature dropped into the single digits.

The missus and I drove from Madison to Dubuque the day before the race and set up camp at the Best Western Plus.
 
Went to dinner with a friend from Madison at the Star Brewery that night (pretty good, really), prepped the bike and turned in early. Got up early the next morning and had a hearty breakfast, went to the pre-race and saddled up right about 10 o'clock.
 
We rolled out on about a mile of pavement and to the starting point in a cul de sac at the bottom of a hill. A bit of a bottleneck on the narrow trails, and then on to the first creek crossing.

(photo courtesy of Troy Pearce)

The first creek we crossed was frozen, and the mad rush was on through some pretty rough territory.
(photo courtesy of Troy Pearce)

Then there was some industrial park, a bit of pavement at about mile 3 to mile 4.5 and then back into the rough through a cattle range. It was here, coming off a snowmobile bridge like the one in this photo, that I miscalculated on the icy egress and biffed it to my left.
(photo courtesy of Troy Pearce)

Banged my left knee and elbow good on the frozen manure next to the trail, which, in addition to being very hard, has a very rough texture. Worse, I jammed the heck out of my left thumb. Knowing without looking that I was bleeding from a torn nail and scraped knee, I stood the bike up as Lance rode by, replied with an "I think so" to his asking whether I was okay, and threw my leg back over the bike. Quite painful at first, but remarkable what the endorphins will do for a guy.

More rough, the fairgrounds (with a new hook to the right and back over the railroad tracks) and then over Seippel Rd. and out into the farm fields.
(photo courtesy of Troy Pearce)

A lot of bare ground in the fields, and a lot of ice and crusty snow. I stuck to the snow as much as possible because it was faster. The leaders made a wrong turn not too far into this section, and it cost them a good ten minutes. I managed to stay on course and kept a pretty decent pace, somewhere in the top ten. As we climbed again before crossing Humke Rd., I got off and pushed a bit so I could eat and drink and was passed by Ben Oney. Then over Humke, through a few more fields and then down into a super-gnarly wooded section. Had this been a snowmobile trail with good snow cover, it would have been an unmitigated blast. But it was pretty icy and I gotta say that it required a steady hand on the tiller and a willingness to keep the speed in check. Came around a little corner to a huge patch of ice at the bottom and had to brake hard and pull left to avoid another biff. Lance skidded to a stop behind me and chose to ride around it in the rough. After a coupla more snowmobile bridges, we came to the foot of a quarter-mile, 600-foot climb.

(photos courtesy of Troy Pearce)

A couple of farm fields later (alfalfa this time, thankfully) and we came out onto Sundown Rd. There was maybe a mile of pavement here and we dropped back into the fields as we crossed Humke again. Another drop down into a wooded area, a confrontation with a downed tree across the trail, and soon after, a mad dash through a horse pasture with the leaders (some guy turned to me at one point as we were running over piles of horse apples and said "those ain't walnuts," as if I'd never seen a horse turd before!) Then a creek crossing and one more decent-sized climb before coming out onto Potter Hill Rd. I stopped here and used a CO2 to bring my tires up from 6psi to about 10. Jumped on with Frank and a coupla skinny riders as we dropped down the hill and picked up the Heritage trail just east of Graf.

Heritage is normally a snowmobile trail, but this year it was exposed limestone in the middle with icy margins and hardpacked snow at the edges. Sometimes bare all the way across, sometimes icy all the way across; sometimes ice with no snow at the edges, and even a few spots with snow all the way across. Here at mile 14 began the 15-mile odyssey to the halfway point in Dyersville.

Frank called on me to work with him to push the pace into the headwind, but I was a bit too spent to really hang on. He latched up with a skinny rider and they pulled away from me within a mile or two. There were two bridges under repair along this stretch, and one required that we negotiate about 30 yards of flowing water. Fortunately, there was a narrow bank to walk along while rolling the bike in the stream. One of the skinny riders with me at the time was not so lucky. He stumbled and got at least his left hand and forearm submerged in icy creek water. Shortly after this section, my rear wheel washed out when I tried to shift tracks on the trail and I went down a second time. Pretty minor, but my thumb definitely hurt. Another creek crossing, a bridge covered completely with 4 inches of glare ice, the tunnel under Holy Cross Rd. full of ice—all hazard, and all requiring full attention.

After the tunnel, I jumped on with two skinnies, and we conspired to buck the headwind into Dyersville. We caught Frank after a bit, and he told me, having had enough of the ice, that he was going to drop at the halfway point. I bid him good race and continued on, passing a defeated-looking Dennis Grelk and someone else I didn't know. We were pretty close to Dville this year by the time we passed AJ Turner and Drew Wilson coming the other way in the lead. Steve Wasmund and (I think) Alex were not far behind. Caught another skinny as we came into town, and signed in at Chad's at 1:03.

Dirty, Dangerous Determination

 It's been almost two weeks already, but I raced in the sixth Triple D this year, which was my fifth attempt and third finish. Official results aren't up yet, but I came in ninth overall in about six hours and ten minutes. Fifth among the fat bikes and I think I was the first person over 40 to finish (with many under 40 well behind me.) Conditions were icy, and there were many crashes, including three for me. Bruised knee and elbow and sprained thumb. 

Full report to come.

Reports from Fat-Bike.com, Dave G. (parts 1, 2 and 3); Guitar Ted (parts 1 and 2) and T.J. & Gumby.

Oh, the Places You'll Go

Have fat bike, will travel.

The Horses Seemed Impatient

I've never been much of a racer, but I do get into the spirit for this event. Been having some trouble with my left hip since early November; flexors, adductors and the sit bone. A real pain in the ass. Though I'd been on the mend, I toed the line concerned about not being able to get very far. Mrs. Babilonia made me promise that I would be able to lift my bike onto the roof rack the next morning, to which I solemnly swore.

The rollout at the start always begins slowly as we pull out of the Star Brewery courtyard, but builds a fair amount of steam as we near the edge of town. Lance explicitly said "5 miles per hour," but we were up around 12 by the time we crossed 32nd street and the proverbial starting gun went off. There was just enough snow on the unmaintained city path to keep the pace moderate with some sliding around. I had a washout turning onto the first bridge and racked my jewels on the top tube—a real auspicious start. Entering the tunnel under John Deere road, the prehistoric reverberation of every kind of knobby fat tire drowned out the conversation. We single filed it through a narrow gap and headed out onto the private snowmobile trails. The sheriff stopped traffic as we crossed Central Avenue, and shortly thereafter the climbing began in ernest.

The first hill was a 220-foot, 10 or 12-percent grade about 4.5 miles from the start and our first dismounted push of the day. It was followed by a series of its smaller, off-camber siblings for the next two miles.

I passed fellow Madisonian Frank Hassler in this section and wouldn't see him for the rest of the race. Started running neck and neck with Ben Oney and James Zimmerman (on his brakeless, fixed-gear Pugsley) and would trade places with them all day long.

A little over a mile of downhill respite on paved bike path before going back to the ditch. Some sidewalk, farm fields, cattle range and more farm fields. A couple of open water and snowmobile bridge crossings.

My chosen tire pressures were working really well, with the Big Fat Larry on the front at 6psi and the Endomorph on the rear at 8psi. Plenty of grip and cushion without really risking a snakebite flat.

Right around mile 14 a group of about 6 or 7 of us started the final pushing climb to Humke Road. Took a break at the top and chatted with a guy on a Moonlander whose name I don't know. He was having fun. Set off down the tarmac and was soon joined by Ben and Joe Nolan. Felt good to have a break from pushing and hit 25mph+ on the big downhill just before Sundown road. Then it was onto the gravel and down to the B road, which is the best part of the whole course. The B is a rutted double track that drops down about 300 feet at 8 percent through a picturesque woodland. Much fun in spite of the patchy ice in the bottoms of the wheel ruts.

At the bottom of the B road, I saw Joe walking back up the trail. He asked whether I had seen his gloves and I replied that I hadn't. Once I rolled out onto Girl Scout road, I decided to deviate from my plan and wait to see how firm the Heritage trail was before adding air to my tires. Cresting the hill, I could have sworn I saw a couple on a tandem up ahead. Very surreal.

Turning onto the trail, I saw what I think in retrospect may have been Craig's cheering section. They told me that I was the 14th or 15th bike to go past them. I immediately started seeing runners, male and female, coming down the trail from the east. The only person I recognized was Laurel Darren, one of the female bike racers from last year. Within a couple hundred yards, I had decided that more air would make things go faster, so I pulled over and got out my CO2. Two things:

1. A single 16g cartridge will take an Endomorph from 8 to about 12psi with a little left over, and another will take a Big Fat Larry from 6 to almost 10psi; and
2. While you may not need your gloves inside your pogies on a relatively warm day, you still need to wear them while using CO2. That stuff is cold.

Once the tires were aired up, things went mostly from about 9 to 11 miles per hour. Worth it, but James still passed me on his fixer.

A couple of snowmobiles passed me at Gun Club Road and shortly thereafter, Rob McKillip caught and passed me. Or I should say that I wanted him to pass me. With the snow all chewed up in the wake of the sleds, somebody had to make a new track. Better him than me, and it turned out that he was really good at it. I followed him all the way to the tunnel under Holy Cross road near Farley. My strategy for dealing with the hip was to stand frequently and pedal for 5 or 6 strokes and sit back down. That, and wiggle around on the saddle a lot. My quads frequently reminded me that they weren't too fond of the whole production. But so it went, and it turns out that standing will increase your speed.

Just after leaving the tunnel, I spotted a 20-something male sitting in a huge pickup alongside the trail. I immediately assumed that this was someone's cheering section until he leaned out his driver-side window and shouted:

"Go get 'em, Grizzly Adams!"

Best. Heckle. Ever.

Fan? Redneck with a six-pack of Grain Belt on the seat next to him? I may never know.

From here, the trail got a lot faster. It was largely clear of snow and downhill, so average speed picked up to something more like 14 or 15 miles per hour. Rob tucked into his aero bars and quickly opened up a large gap. I shifted up, passing James again and putting a pretty good gap between us. The speed felt great but was tempered somewhat by intermittent drifts across the trail. They were well-tracked but I still didn't relish the thought of biffing it at 18 or 20 mph, so I checked speed somewhat while crossing them.

Pulling into Dyersville there was some nice clear pavement. Then some gnarly stuff in the ditch. Then some streets. I pulled into Chad's Pizza at about 2:05, refilled the fluids, grabbed a bag of peanut M&Ms and was out the door for the return trip by about 2:12...

On the Trail of the Fox

Another year, another Triple D. This time the bike field was quite large at 75 riders—about twice the size of last year. I suppose the huge upswing in the popularity of fat bikes in the midwest had something to do with that. You couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a Pugsley or a Mukluk when we lined up. There were also a couple of Moonlanders, 9:Zero:7s and Fatbacks, along with an assortment of mountain bikes...and even a cross bike.

Beautiful day, with temps that would rise from the mid-teens to just above freezing. Solid 20-mile per hour wind out of the Southeast. We rolled out of Dubuque at about 10:10 and into the wild:



With just one snowfall's worth of base, the going was sketchy. This was especially true as temperatures warmed up and the snow became less consolidated. Less experienced fat riders were running too much pressure and had lots of trouble holding a straight line. The skinny-tire riders didn't look like they were having much fun in the loose conditions either. Me? I just constantly looked for the track of the fat bike in front of me and did my level best to stay on it.


Following the trail of the fox. Looking for it when it was lost. Wipe out. Get up. Pedal. Sit. Stand. Coast. Push. Eat. Drink. All day.

7:10; 14th place.

(If you want more reading, here's the gateway to last year's account. I think I'll write more about this year later. Maybe.)

Snowy Singletrack at Quarry Ridge

Ruby the Big Red Pony

This is the bike I call Ruby. It's generically known as a fat bike, a kissing cousin of the Surly Pugsley. Designed by the folks at Chain Reaction Cycles in Anchorage, it's built to the shop's specifications by Sapa Extrusions, an aluminum fabricator in Portland, OR. Sapa also make frames for Titus, Santa Cruz and others, and the build quality is quite good.

Like the Pugsley, it accommodates the 4-inch wide Surly tires using a wider bottom bracket spindle and shell, and by offsetting the rear dropouts 17.5mm to the right. This moves the drivetrain outward and allows for a full 3x9 setup without letting the chain rub on the sidewall of the tire. The compromises are a much wider Q factor and a purpose-built rear wheel.

Ruby currently uses a steel Pugsley fork with standard 100mm front hub spacing. This makes getting the front wheel on and off more of a challenge (an inflated tire can just be squeezed between the brake caliper and the other dropout, if the wheel is angled properly.) I might eventually go to the 135mm symmetrically-spaced version that Surly introduced this year.

Here's a full build list:

Crankset	Bontrager Big Earl with ISIS splines, 175mm arms; bashguard/32/22
Bottom Bracket	FSA Platinum DH CrMo BB, ISIS - 100 x 148mm
Pedals	Shimano SPD PD-M515 clipless
Front Derailleur	Shimano XTR E-type bottom-pull with Problem Solvers 'Cross Clamp Pulley
Rear Derailleur	Shimano Deore DX medium cage
Shifters	Shimano 8-speed bar ends on Paul's Thumbies
Cassette	11-28t 8 Speed
Chain	KMC 8 Speed
Hubs	Shimano Deore XT 32 hole 6-bolt disc (M755 front, M756 rear)
Spokes	Wheelsmith Stainless Steel 14/15
Rims	Speedway Cycles Uma II 559 x 70mm
Tires	Surly Larry front, Surly Endomorph rear
Brakes	Hayes HFX Mag Hydraulic Disc with 160mm rotors
Brake Levers	Hayes HFX Mag
Headset	Cane Creek S2
Handlebar	Titec H-bar
Stem	80mm Threadless alloy, 4-bolt faceplate
Grips	Ergon
Saddle	Brooks B.17
Seatpost	Easton Havoc 30.9

This is kind of a big dorky bike, but I really like the way it rides. Considering how massive the wheels are, it's really pretty responsive.

Triple D 2011, Part the Second

Continued from Part the First.

The Journey Home
Chad's Pizza is a quaint little joint housed in an older storefront in downtown Dyersville. I walked in with a really huge beardfull of ice and asked where to sign in. I was number 7 on the sheet and put the time down as 1:47. Frank was there and (jokingly) pointed out that I had a little something on my chin. I handed over one of my water bottles (I started out with two 24-ounce insulated bottles of Accellerade) to the staff, asking for a lukewarm fill-up of water and for the location of the restroom. Answered the call again and changed into a dry base layer and added arm warmers. Said goodbye to Frank as he headed back out. I collected my water bottle, added some water to my Camelbak, and headed out myself.


Stopping had let me cool off a bit. I went out to the bike and mixed the bottle of Accellerade from powder I had brought along (note to self: take the powder inside with you next time) and downed a Gu gel and a couple of fig bars. Then I decided that if a little bit higher tire pressure is good, then even more must be better. So I set about pumping the tires to 12 and 14 psi. This took a little while, and my fingers got pretty cold. Another strategic mistake—I lost at least 5 minutes, and my speed didn't improve except maybe on pavement.

As I rolled out onto the street, my fingers were painfully cold, bordering on numb. Passed an arriving cyclist right away, and more as I turned back onto the main highway leading back to the trail. Arriving at the trailhead, I decided that the headwind I was now encountering required the use of one of my homemade face masks. I stopped and put it on (fingers still really, really cold) and called my wife to check in.

Back on the trail, I encountered the same icy, drifty obstacles in reverse order. Passed still more cyclists headed toward Dyersville. Maybe 20 minutes out, I passed a Canadian National freight train headed in the other direction—six huge diesel locomotives pulling well over a hundred black tank cars. It's no secret that I love trains, so this was a considerable boost (you takes them where you can gets them out on the trail.)

Rolling through this section, I could have sworn I heard someone chopping wood. Just the occasional, sharp report of a splitting maul hitting a good-sized block of oak. Okay, after a couple of miles, I figured out that it was the Tyvek number bib pinned to my jacket, blowing in the wind and making a snapping sound. Sheesh.

Just as I was arriving at the Tarley Funnel, I passed Piera, the Triple D's first female finisher. I remembered to go slow on the ice in the tunnel, and was soon rolling downgrade.

Alone With My Inadequacies
Had to stop and answer the call again, meaning that my hydration plan was working like a charm. Everything seemed fine, except that my butt hurt. As soon as I got back on the bike, it was confirmed—my ass hurt like hell, and I wasn't sure exactly why. After all, I had ridden over 4000 miles this year on similar saddles without a problem. Not my sit bones really, but the inner hamstrings where they contacted the middle of the saddle. I had a couple of theories about why this was happening. First, I think I had raised my saddle a little too high way back in Epworth when I pumped up my tires the first time. Second, all of the pushing and climbing early in the race had hit some muscles that weren't properly trained for that much effort. Third, and worst of all, it could be that after all those years of faithful service, a Brooks saddle had finally turned on me.

Thoughts of dropping out crossed my mind now, and I was standing more and looking for the smoothest parts of the trail. I soon stopped and lowered the saddle a bit, which helped some. I also used my clipless pedals to great effect by pulling up on the back side of the pedal stroke, enlisting lots more help from the front group of leg muscles. I finally settled into a decent pace somewhere around 10 mph. Slower, owing to the headwind, pain, and in the 20-degree temps, slightly softer snow. In retrospect, I think I should have gone back to 10/12, or maybe even 8/10 psi tire pressure.


Fortunately, the trail got much more scenic, and the distraction helped a little more. I kept a zombie-like rhythm, standing occasionally but not stopping. Finish I kept telling myself.

I hadn't seen a soul in a long time, when I rounded a bend just before Graf and saw someone pushing a bike. I asked, at some distance, whether everything was okay, but couldn't hear the reply clearly. I rolled up and got off, walking now with one of the female bike racers. She was clearly not having a good time at that moment and told me that her ride was over and that she had called to sag out of the race. She told me her fingers were really cold and hurt and that her hand warmers weren't really helping. Deciding at that point that she was coherent and not in danger, wished her good luck and continued on. I later tried to call the sag number to confirm that she was getting a ride out, but I wouldn't get cell reception again for a long time.

The Grind
After passing Graf, I settled into a good rhythm, with my butt feeling considerably better. Somewhere between Asbury and Budd roads, I had a brief out-of-body experience, feeling like I was floating above the trail. Gonna have to chalk this one up to some sort of runner's high, and soon I began to get concerned that I had missed the mandatory checkpoint at Durango.


It's strange how much my memory had compressed the route from previous years. Sundown ski area came into view, and I thought Durango must be right around the corner. Turns out that it's almost five miles away.

During this period, the sky was pretty overcast and I decided to switch from sunglasses to clear safety glasses. Took a brief break and did just that, ate and drank a little and got back underway. I was still having a little trouble seeing clearly, and it sure looked like my contacts were getting cloudy. The weak but persistent headwind seemed to be getting the best of them, and chilling my feet and torso a bit besides.

Finally, around the next bend, Durango came into view.


Crossed the last bridge and staggered into the Handle Bar to sign in. Traci (one of the race directors) checked me off on the list and told me I was free to go. I got back on the bike and called my wife to let her know I was about 45 minutes out.

Last Leg
The remaining bit of Heritage was pretty easy, but flat.


Passed some locals out on cross-country skis with their dogs. Rolled through the trailhead parking lot and onto a rough, narrow section to the crossing at Highway 52. It was almost dark, so I turned on my lights, but still managed to get off-trail at the crossing and onto someone's driveway...it took a short detour over a really rickety-looking bridge got things back on course. Made it through the golf course parking lot and found the course directional markings to the tunnel with the last few minutes of sunlight. I was surprised how narrow the track back through the tunnel was, and not surprised later to find out that others had missed it in the dark.

Now came the absolute worst part of the race. It was twilight, I was having a difficult time seeing through my now-translucent contact lenses, my butt hurt, I was tired, my tires were inflated too much and now Ruby and I were facing mile and a quarter of the same stupid, frozen posthole moonscape from way back at the beginning of the race. I couldn't find a decent line to save my life, so I just grinned and bore it for what seemed like an eternity. Sure, I could have let air out of my tires, but I just didn't have the patience. Never thought I'd be so happy to come to a stretch of clear, dry pavement. Called my wife one last time, giving her an ETA and asking for a bottle of electrolyte water at the finish line.

The return route through Dubuque was firmly committed to memory. Cleaned it in under 15 minutes. Rolled into the hotel parking lot and waved to the spectators looking down from the second-floor windows. Met my daughter in the lobby and my wife upstairs...hugs and kisses all around.

Official time in: 5:24, for a total of 7 hours, 24 minutes out. Time elapsed on bicycle computer: 6:57 for 67 miles. Sixth place right behind another Madisonian, Frank Hassler, who finished just 5 minutes ahead of me.

In retrospect, I could have eliminated several blocks of wasted time and picked up at least one place, but that's the kind of stuff you learn in an event like this. It's intended to serve as a training ground for those looking to break into winter bike racing. I just had no idea that I was that close to Frank. Never saw him once we had parted ways in Dyersville.

Wasn't moving too fast after the race, but felt pretty good. Seems as though my food and hydration plans had worked out well. My eyes were so dry that my vision was cloudy even after I had removed my contacts. Took a long shower, ate some real people food and went down to watch other racers come in. Shot the breeze with the other snow geeks and got a medal and $20 at the award ceremony.


Slept pretty well that night, packed up early the next day and drove home in a snowstorm.

The End.

Triple D 2011, Part the First

Funny how it isn't really that much of an adventure if nothing goes wrong, but sometimes that's exactly how a person wants it to go. After failed attempts in 2009 and 2010, I got my finish in the Triple D Winter Race this year, and the bonus was that I placed in the single digits.

Before
Drove down to Dubuque the day before and checked into the hotel. Hung out with some friends, had pizza and beer, dressed the bike and watched a little TV. Finally laid down for a fitful 8 hours, listening to the Packer faithful cheer during, and party after, the playoff win over Atlanta. Got up the next morning and did my routine, got some route maps and went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. They were really slow, and I ended up rushing through getting dressed and to the pre-race meeting. Briefly traded good-luck wishes in the lobby with another friend who was down to do the ski race, and said hi to his family.


Lots of fat bikes at the meeting. Mostly fat bikes.

The Start
The weather was ideal, about 12˚F, and mostly cloudy with little wind. It was a little different for me this year with my family and our friends accompanying me to the start. A boost, really. We chatted and took a few photos as the racers lined up in front of the Star Brewery, exchanged a few hugs, and I was off with the herd through the streets of Dubuque.


It's a controlled rollout through town, and for the third year in a row, I dawdled. Talking to Bob and Dave a little, I ended up in back as the race was about to start. I know that from a total time and finishing place perspective, this was a strategic mistake, but I like talking to people and not taking the racing part too seriously. I soon excused myself and moved up closer to the halfway point in the pack just about the time the race started.

The Trails
Forgetting to pump up my tires in my rush to get ready that morning turned out to be a blessing. The 6 psi in front and 8 psi in the back turned out to be just about perfect for the unplowed section of the bike trail that came next. Thousands of footprints had been made in melting snow a couple of weeks prior and then frozen into thousands of random bumps. This is where I began to pass people. Anyone with skinny tires or a little less experience on this kind of surface struggled. Finally, we came the tunnel—single file through the gate and then across Central Ave. and out onto the private snowmobile trails parallel to the Northwest Arterial.

Here the real fun began. After a couple hundred yards, we came to the first climb—a 15% grade pusher with an icy base. The toe cleats in my Lake boots seemed to do almost nothing. Tried to kick into the snow to get purchase, but it was mostly too hard. Bit of a struggle for a while. At the top, guys were already stopping to strip off layers, and I passed them too.

Word has it that we climbed 800 feet in the first mile, and I believe it. Lots of sketchy turns with off-camber sections, more pushing climbs, a couple of descents where I went off alongside the trail in the soft snow to keep my speed down. Passed a couple more people and eventually fell in behind Jesus Joe on his Pugsley. I had long practiced riding in the tracks of a fatbike to increase efficiency, and it was working here. Plus, there was no good place to pass and I felt like I should moderate my pace a little. Problem is, I did this for a little too long, and that was my second strategic mistake. I think I could have pushed my pace a little more at this point without exhausting myself.


(photo courtesy of Mikael Wolke)

Humke Dumpty and the B Road
I passed more folks in the fields shortly after we crossed Radford Rd. and started to pick up the pace a little. We came next to a paved path through an industrial park, and another racer (either Ben O or Curtis) caught up to me there and eventually passed me on the next section of trail west of Seippel Rd. These trails ran over some tough open farm field terrain up to Humke Rd. I had passed a few more racers but was joined by Jeremy, a member of the Iowa City crew. We chatted for a while, passing the time over two or three miles of pavement. Soon, the road curved, but the course did not—we dropped down onto a wide, well-used gravel road, and then onto a rutted, snow-covered minimum maintenance "B road." Jeremy was a little behind me, and I heard him dab or fall down immediately.

Then something really exciting happened. The B road runs downhill through a wooded area, and I wasn't braking. In fact, I think I was hooting something about how great the B road was as I leaned into a sweeping right turn. Suddenly, my front tire caught an icy rut and decided to go to the left. Way to the left, toward a precipitous dropoff at the edge of the road. Out of sheer panic, with the bike almost sideways, I clamped down on the rear brake lever and locked up the rear wheel. The yawing momentum whipped the rear end around to the right and as I put my left foot down, I came to rest, still standing and straddling the bike. Pointed back toward the top of the hill.

"You're facing the wrong way!" Jeremy yelled.

"I know."

"You meant to do that."

"Yes I did."

The rest of the B road was a barely controlled blast. Seriously, you could sell tickets to it.


(photo courtesy of Mikael Wolke)

On to Heritage
At the bottom of the hill, the B ended and another gravel road that led to some pavement, which finally came to the Heritage Trail. By this time Jeremy had caught up to me again.

The trail is more scenic than the average midwestern rails-to-trail, winding up through a river valley from Dubuque to Dyersville. The trail is used during the wintertime to connect all sorts of snowmobile trails, so it was well-packed and pretty fast. Jeremy and I tried to chat, but there wasn't really room to ride abreast. After a few minutes, we started to pass participants in the running race headed in the other direction. After another 10 minutes, I was struggling to hold 10 mph at Jeremy's wheel, so I excused myself to answer nature's call (which really needed to happen anyway) and stopped to regroup.

After eating and drinking a bit, I got back on and continued riding, which turned out to be another strategic mistake. I had failed to put any more air in my tires. Finally, after maybe 45 minutes after leaving the end of the B road, I stopped at Gun Club road near Epworth and pumped up my tires to 10 and 12 psi and raised my saddle. In the course of doing so, I was passed by 4 or 5 bike racers.

What a Difference a PSI Makes
It suddenly felt like I was riding a different bike. I went from an average of about 9 mph to well over 11. I passed all of the people who had just passed me within maybe 20 minutes, and they were all well out of sight before I reached the Holy Cross road underpass near Farley.


The tunnel was very icy inside and I nearly biffed it. Came out the other side thinking Tarley Funnel icy...bad...slow on the way back. The trail to Dyersville was level and out in the open, with stretches of drifted snow in some places, and big rough icy patches in others. At some point along this segment, I decided that my bike should now become known as "Ruby." Ruby the Red Pony. Clearly, my brain was doing its best to keep itself busy. I also began to wonder where the race leaders were. I took it as a good sign that I had not seen them yet.

Rolling over a couple of really soft drifts, I began to offer Ruby some encouragement. Come on girl, you can clean this one! Good girl, that's my good Ruby! For icy stretches, it was more easy, girl...steady on now. Soon we were rolling down a stretch of smooth hardpack downhill and picked it up to a steady 14 mph for better than a half-mile, which felt really good.

The Leader
Then I saw him, like something out of a desert scene from Lawrence of Arabia—the tiny but growing lead bike coming toward me as I neared Dyersville (though not as near as I had hoped.)


It wasn't who I had expected. I had no idea who it was, but it wasn't Lance (the race director and last year's winner.) I had the camera out, so I yelled "say cheese!" Damn point and shoot missed his reaction though. Soon after, I passed Lance, hot on the leader's tail, and two others before arriving in Dyersville.

I pulled into town past the tank and dropped onto the snowmobile trail adjacent to the road (just like on the route map), discovering very quickly that there were no other bike tracks down there. I immediately got back up on the road and followed it past the grain bins, turning left at the stop sign. I thought I had seen a cyclist in the distance who might have missed the turn and wondered whether Jeremy might have gotten lost. Nothing I could really do about it though.

I rolled up to Chad's Pizza at about 1:45 and signed in.

Coming soon: Part 2: the Journey Home.

Official results are here.

Lots of photos here.

Race reports from the other finishers:
Drew, Troy, Ben S., Dave