sicker

You know what sucks more than getting sick? Getting sick right before the Boulder Handmade Bike Show Halloween Zombiefest Road Trip. Suckfest.
I may be under, but the bike show looks to be pretty kickass. Perfect weather (mid 70s and sunny, as usual), tons of great builders (Courage, Nobilette, Tiemeyer, GROUNDUP!) and some Halloween polyfreakery. There's even a USGP cross race right after the show. Should be fun if I can quit coughing, and it'll make me feel better for missing the Astoria Hecklefest this year.

DT

only good things

Most anniversaries are pretty much no-brainers. Everyone knows what to do on the annual markers of weddings, or national independence, or births. The question is, what do you do on the anniversary of your friend's death?

We lost Brett Jarolimek a year ago yesterday to a bicycle vs. garbage truck collision that the police essentially called "bad luck." All things considered, the situation surrounding the accident was absurdly frustrating. The way I see it, Brett was an uncompromisingly good person who deserved nothing but happiness and the best things in life. So if a person like Brett could be taken away by "bad luck," then all bets are off. This is not to say that the future is pointless, but the present is far more important. If it could happen to him, it could happen to any of us, which only strengthens the idea that we should make every day worth it. This ultimately made it easier for me to let the little things slide, see the bigger picture, enjoy my days a little more. So that said, I didn't want to spend the entire day analyzing the experience and what it meant to me. I know what it means. I know what I'm doing about it.

So Jenny and I came to the conclusion that the best way to remember the event and celebrate Brett's life would be to spend the day living our interpretation of what he meant to us. In short, doing only the good things in life. Making people happy. So we took the day off. We woke up late and wandered to our favorite cafe for breakfast and coffee. I did a short workout while Jenny watched her favorite show. We made a great dinner and drank wine until late and enjoyed the cold mountain air. We lived outside of stress and obligations for a day and enjoyed ourselves and each other's company. It was Jarolimous.

DT

bcn pic

On the podium with Blatch and Jergen





Pete. English National Team coach. With a friend.

tige's special request hour

A few from LA. Still haven't managed to bring in the Barcelonan pics yet.

187 from 719. 25 it.

El Velodrom' D'Horta. Barcelona, Spain.


jerseys are cool

bikes are cool

El Beacho De Barcelona. Giant golden fish in the background. Frank Gehry is almost as weird as Gaudi. They're both from another planet.

win or don't bother coming back

So I'm sitting in the pits. Slumping, actually. Tired, wrecked, overall exhausted from 2 weeks of hard racing and endless travel. It's round 2 of the kierin. By this point I've had a dissapointing Nationals. My legs feel like they've quit, like they're already back in Colorado on my couch, leaving me a stressed out legless torso with a lot left to prove. When the first round rolled around, I reverted back to my brain and elbows. The safest way to make a dangerous living? Maybe. Not sure what really happened in the first round aside from a great fight with a young Rock & Republic rider. The moral of that story was toestraps are good and don't ride a 2000 dollar front wheel in a kierin with a frustrated sprinter who can see you coming. Anyway. So it's about 45 seconds before round 2 and I get a text message from Kacala that says "Kay says either you win something or don't bother coming back." Kay is the owner of the bike shop I work at back in Colorado. Awesome.

By the time the kierin wraps up, I'm not in the place I want to be, but there's not much else I could've done. Tuckerman would've been proud. There was chaos, there was violence. Not quite the "hosing all the blood off the track" scenario that he wanted, but I couldn't get kicked out before the team sprint...

Which went as well as it could've. Teamed up with Kelyn Akuna and the freight-train Jimmy Watkins. I rode first, got caught in the gate (of course), had an average first half and the best first lap of the day by a half second. We end up winning by over a second over the second place team. Finally! After about a billion 4th and 5th place finishes at Nationals, I got to stand up on the top step, get a sweet jersey and a chunk of (fake) gold. Brian hugged me so hard he almost crushed my larynx. It was brutal.

As for what this says about my future, it's uncertain. at a low 47 seconds we didn't do a world-class time, and missed the qualification time for a world cup by a half second. We could probably still make "coaches' selection" since we were the winning team, but the problem there is funding. Namely, we'd be on our own. We'll see what happens. Most likely scenario is that the Training Center starts picking up my food bills and I concentrate on the Christmas Carnivals in Tazzy. Anything after that? Well. It's all in the air. The coaches are either scattered across the country or in cardiac surgery as we speak (good luck Des!). After everyones out of the hospital and back in the springs we're having a meeting, but until then I'll assume that Tazzy is the end of the season and cross my fingers.



Spanish Kierin round 2. Prepared to stomp.

the best of times, the worst of times

I hate Los Angeles. This place is a wasteland. Brown skies, endless choked roads and angry people as far as the eye can see. What a monumental bummer to come from Barcelona to this.
Nationals is not going as well as I hoped. By the time l adjusted in Barcelona I was feeling lethal, here I can't seem to get my head out of the sand. My standing lap on the first day was an improvement over last year, but not nearly the time I feel capable of. Sprints were downright embarrassing. Bad 200 followed by an even worse first round put me in the stands for the next round. Kierin and a chance for good times and redemption tommorow. Going to throw on a big gear and ignore some rules, see who's watching. Maybe headbutt a watercooler and drag a junior by his hair through the pits screaming bloody murder just to set the tone before racing begins.

At least I'm not on the fast track to a cold doctors table. Des felt some odd chest pain and a tingle in his pacemaker his morning, so he's on the first flight back to CO to see his cardiologist. Not to be outdone, Blatchford has added "mystery back pain" to his trans-Atlantic post grand-prix fatigue, and has promptly pulled out of competition and into the doc's office. Guess that means I'm starting the team sprint on Sunday. Funny how quickly things turn around sometimes.
DT

an update of updates

Racing is blurry. The brain is sloshing around in a sea of exhasution, coffee, sangria and seafood. Racing has ended, they sponsors have been smiled at, the promoters wined and dined us and generally, all is well.

Beginning from the beginning, the sprints started horribly.

Maybe that´s not the beginning.

The beginning is like this. A Euro Grand Prix is something else. Certainly bigger and cooler than anything I´ve ever done before. The racing featured riders from the Netherlands, England, Scotland, Russia, Spain, Catalunya (they don´t like to be called Spaniards), Switzerland, Germany and probably a few others I´m forgeting. Most riders were from their national "B" or "development" teams save for the Spanish who brought a few big guns for the home crowd. All in all it was a bit wild to be on the line for a keirin with all those national jerseys instead of the local club teams. But anyway. About those sprints.

With the perfect equipment and the perfect warmup, it just did not come together. Slapped on a 94, rolled up and did a perfect windup, but the legs would not fire. Rolled in with a time almost a second slower than I´ve been doing in the last few weeks. Pathetic really. Put me near the bottom of the seeding list, but at least I was in. First ride: Jose Escuredo. Olympic medalist and current world cup baddass Jose Escuredo. To my credit, I rode smart but was just overwhelmed in the drag race. This put me in the rep round which went almost as well. The whole time I think I´m riding fairly aggressive rounds and Des tells my I´m riding like a passive idiot. "Make a diversion" he says. "Hook someone, if the officials like you they won´t see anything." When all was said and done, I finished 10th, and on to the Keirin.

Keirin was considerably more fun. The first 2 rounds ran directly after the sprint rounds on Saturday. This was new. I'm already feeling beat from my sprint humiliation and I´m getting called up for another go. Damn. To compensate for my crappy legs I put on a bigger gear and put on some white gloves. Turned out to be the magic pill. First round felt like a rugby match. I heeded Des´ and Kacala´s advice and rode like the lanes were mere suggestions. Took me back to the days of Abers´ Grasstrack Gauntlet From Hell. Nothing but fur flying, wheels scraping and me managing to scrape across the line first. In the second round I ended up again with Escuredo, the top seeded Russian, Theo Bos´ brother Patrick, his sneaky-ass Dutch teammate Yondi, and the biggest Catalunyan the world has ever seen. As the motor came off, Bos tried to come around with what I assumed was Yondi on his wheel. I immediately right turned into Bos´s front wheel (shredding my right shoe cover and part of my shoe) then sharply left turned to put the charging russian on the apron. Meanwhile Escuredo wound up a supersonic jump, and flew around with the Catalunyan on his wheel. Coming onto the home straight I was a solid third, with three through to the gold medal final. Then (remeniscent of a pink flash I saw at AVC) an orange Dutch flash named Yondi pipped me at the line for 3rd. Aparently he had watched the whole thing from the back and afterward told me "I think I shit myself twice before I could get close enough to pass you."
Respect.
Anyway. The 6-12 final was my favorite ride of the weekend. It was somewhere near our 11th hour of track time, I was dead tired but somehow managed to feel magical for 7 laps. The highlights: Kneed the Russian´s handlebar to get the wheel I wanted, flicked Bos so hard he squealed (we laughed about it later) and dropped everyone to get to the line first. Sure it was only for 6th, but for my first European Gran Prix, I´m happy.

Team sprint. Ouch. Rode third. Hurt-box. Rode with one of the Dutch, who tried to talk his way out of it when he saw Blatchy and I start in warmups. All ended well though. I don´t remember anything past the first lap. Think I woke up with the announcer telling the crowd (in rapid-fire spanish) that we were third. Great way to end the tourney: standing on a podium with a trophy and flowers. With a gingerheaded Dutchman showing his teammate the international symbol of the full moon. What a bunch of tweaks.

DT

heaviness increased

The Groundup got the pro treatment today. Full shebang. Mavic iO in front and Comete disk, Conti Sonderclausse tires and ceramic bearings. Feels fast just rolling on the apron. Started the usual warmup with our group plus the Dutch, which meant the whole thing was 30mph faster than usual... "im not hurting yet, are you?" Ended starting with 12 and finishing with 3. Rolled onto the apron with Des giving us that WTF? look. Don't give me that. I wasn't about to get dropped by a skinny carrot-topped dutch guy on a sparkly white BT in a warm up paceline. I've got an ego to consider.

Flying 100's went well. Des timed everyone that was there, and Blatchy and I were going the fastest. Good sign so far, but the Brits and French are still yet to arrive tonight. Juniors just rolled around while Des and Howard kept saying "just have fun" "just have a good time." Meanwhile we're in the middle of a tightly controlled workout with each 50m timed, compared and critiqued, and at one point Blatchy says "What about us?" They both say simultaneously "Don't fuck up!"

Guess we're not in Kansas anymore...

Anyway. Off to the showers, the cafe and out yonder. Barcelona has an incredible subway system that was installed for the 92 games. Lets you get anywhere in the city for a few Euros, so I'll see how lost I can get. Just need to make it back in time for dinner and a solid night's sleep. Crunch time tommorow. Racing starts at 10am. Trofeo International 2008. Got maneuvers to make.
DT

dia numero dos

How is it possible that I'm the only one awake this morning? Even the juniors "sleeping" in the "beds" which are actually cupboards underneath my and Blatchford's beds are still asleep at the late late hour of 5:10 am. Which is actually 9pm at home. Amazing stuff, this Ambien. Kills jetlag faster than a Polar Bear standing next to Sarah Palin. Oh, it's only 11 o'clock in the morning where you live? Just take one of these and zzzzzzzzzzz...

13hrs later when I finally come to, I'm adjusted to the time zone and ready to get my food on. Couple things about the food here. Catalans (Catalonyans? Catalites?) eat rice with tomato sauce at every meal. Also on the menu every meal of the day is some variety of fish. For instance, last night at dinner I ate some squid that must've had tentacles 5 inches wide. Huge. Tasted a little like starburst which was weird, but strangely satisfying. I guess that's probably just part of life on the Mediterranean coast. Squid, sangria and siestas. The whole siesta thing is pretty cool too. Everything shuts down for an hour or two in the middle of every day. This used to be a glorified national nap time but now it seems to be an excuse for everyone to wander down to the corner cafe to get a little soused before going back and facing the rest of the work day. We ended up at the track during nap time, so no one was there except a haggard old caretaker who was probably cursing us for interrupting his afternoon hooch.

The track.
Is all kinds of cool. Outdoor, looks over a hillside covered in ancient buildings, tons of spectator seating and a soccer field on the infield. The boards are no more than an inch tall each but a couple feet wide, which gives the surface sort of a bizzarre look, like someone dropped about a billion chopsticks on a concrete track. It's immaculately maintained and smooth as ice. 250 meters, 43 degree banks, long straights and perfect transitions. Makes LA feel like Alpenrose. Talked to a bunch of racers today. Pretty big group from the Netherlands (including Theo Bos's brother) who are all tall and thin and speak perfect English.
Did some flying hundreds and a standing start.
More of the same tommorow, then I'm headed to the Sagrada Familia and the Museu DePicasso.
DT

Day one

A few notes from a short day.

People in barcelona are painfully fashionable. Walking around this city feels like strolling through the pages of GQ and Vogue at the same time.

If you're ever in this part of the world, visit the Parc D'Laberint de Horta. Like Forest Park, but with 17th century marble sculptures, an incredible hedge maze, something that looks like a dog house with a moat around it. Think Pans Labyrinth outdoor scenes, since this is where they filmed it.

Catalan might be the most beautiful language on the planet. Which is good, because these people are stuck in an endless loop of conversation.

The track is closed today for a national holiday of some sort, but you can tell it hosted an Olympics. That thing is sweet.
DT

rain, rain, don't make me punch you in the face

Can we get some of that magic Chinese silver nitrate anti-rain spray in the clouds above Barcelona? Can someone get that done?
If the 10 day forecast is correct and it rains the entire time I'm overseas I'm going to fight someone. Probably someone smaller than me, because I don't like to loose. In fact I might fly to Portland to punch that skinny cripple in the jaw. So you better hope it doesn't rain, Tuckerman.

Blazin Apes.

I don't have anything particularly important or exciting today (not that I ever have anything important to say), but Tuckerman's bored at home with two broken heels and the shop hasn't had a customer walk through the doors in over 2 hours.
Wait.
Two broken heels, you say? How can that be? Well, maybe you should ask the invalid himself for the full story, but the abridged version involves: 1 late night, 1 tall concrete ledge, the desire to scare some friends and an undetermined amount of alcohol. The end result being a pair of hideous black and pink casts and Tuckerman being incapable of leaving his apartment without someone else opening the elevator door. This gives me semi-hilarious visions of my friend sitting in a rolling desk chair, holding his heels off the ground, doodling on his iPhone, waiting for some good samaritan to open the door and maybe roll him down to the coffee shop. Anyway. This one's for you buddy.

Recently the US Collegiate National Track Championships rolled into town. This to many collegiate racers is the Rose Bowl of turning left over and over again in skinny pants. The non-cycling world regards it somewhere on the level of the World Championships of Short Haired Kitten Wrestling, and the bike shop world thinks of it as a rough storm that must be weathered. Ten days of confused collegiate racers wondering why we don't have square-tapered italian-threaded Campy bottom brackets or requesting things like 15 matching aero helmets (and immediately following with questions about our return policy). No, these helmets are not prom dresses.

So we stock up on chainrings, chains, tools, cogs, all that crap that Aaron and I will probably buy anyway and hope for the best. The racing goes by smoothly, and it becomes pretty clear from the stands that this race is many of these riders' first time on the track.

One rider who's been on the track more than once is Aaron Kacala, who is racing for University of Colorado, although you wouldn't know it by the blank grey t-shirt he raced in. Aaron is awarded the Ride of The Year by virtue of a 4-up match sprint which was the most entertaining of the night by far. Aaron has been overloaded with school and work lately, so his training has been less than stellar. Read: he's ridden his bike to work a few times. Knowing this, The Big Gorilla decides to try and win by virtue of intimidation and control. If a rider tried to go over the top, he quickly found himself heading toward the rail so fast a parachute would be the only thing to save him. If a rider tried to go underneath, he would be immediately sandwiched between a slab of concrete and a big hairy ape in a gray t-shirt. I've seen a lot of match sprints, but until this day I've never seen someone travel farther laterally than they did forward. The officials were so overwhelmed that they stopped all the riders with one lap to go, removed the offensive simian Kacala from the track and restarted without him. Hilarious. So funny. Made me shoot beer out of my nose.


DT

skoolzbackin

CC is buzzing with a new crop of privileged youth, UCCS is back in session and all the news can talk about is CSU Pueblo's new football team (and that ghastly Palin woman). Since Labor Day there's been about a 100% increase in popped collars and baseball hats at the local bar. I don't think it's a coincidence. Also not coincidentally I've lost yet another training partner. First Blatchy goes to Beijing and now the Gorrilla Goes To College (good movie name). The infamous Aaron Kacala is stuck in the icy grip of homework and study, therefore I'm by myself at the track. Just me and Des with a stopwatch. Scary. Not as scary as the coming weeks of traveling, but still...

The Ground Up is in the middle of the painting process (read: Eric Barr with a can of flat black Krylon), so I'll get some pictures up soon, then FixedGearFever will have a feature on its birth.

Collegiate Natz! Coming soon! This weekend! If you're in CSprings and you're not in school, let's heckle! Heckle the Gorrilla!

I've also been writing the shop blog lately, so check that out if you want to see some boring crap about what bikes we have in stock.

DT

seven-one-nine

Spanish!

I wish I would have paid attention in Spanish class instead of doing... whatever it was I did in high school. Probably would have been good to take a few college classes, since I actually attended my college classes.

Either way. I can order food, I can ask for the bathroom and I can swear like a Spanish dockworker, so I think I'm ready. Headed to Barcelona for a UCI sprint tournament at the end of september. "But wait" you might be saying. "Isn't the US National Champs at the beginning of October?" why yes. Yes it is. So I'll spend (by priceline's estimate) about 23.8 hours in planes and airports, rebuild my track bike and hop right back on the thing for Nationals. Bitchin. I'm in. Sounds great. Wouldn't have it any other way.

Actually I am a little bummed that I won't be going to LA in the freak-mobile RV that we took to Portland, but hey. Whaddyagonnado.

building dangerous things

So the AVC and all its triumph and bits of disappointment are behind me, and we’re rolling strong back into the routine of training. Disappointment, you say? Que? Yeah, well. The keirin was a bummer, but more so I wish I had some more time to hang out with family who came to see me race, friends I never saw, and friends I didn’t see enough of. But bills call louder than loud and I had to get back to work. Being a non-pro cyclist doesn’t pay much.

Speaking of which…

Do you love Land Rovers? Because I do. But not because I have that much money or am a closet off-road enthusiast. I love Land Rover because they’re the main sponsor of the new Land Rover-Orbea Professional Cycling Team. Yeah. Remember Rubicon? No more Rubicon. Now Norrene and Dave are the proud, very stressed parents of the newest UCI Continental pro team. I was perusing the UCI rules to see if a track sprinter could even be on a road team, and found that it can be so. The only catch is the rider must be ranked in the top 150 in the world by UCI points. Drag, I said. Mostly to myself. Then out of curiosity I checked the UCI rankings and sure enough, there I was, number 133. Bitchin. So looks like Dave and Norrene are stuck with a track racer who is building a death-metal track bike. So bummer for them, but I’m psyched.

Speaking of the new bike, it's brutal. It’s so brutal I’ve decided to name it Murderface Murderface. Or Snizzysnazz Bullets. One of those.


This is a pile of metal. Heavy metal. Biggest legal aero downtube available. Another downtube for a toptube. Seat-tube, chainstay and seatstays intended for a tandem. Big chunks of metal for secret tricks and pieces. And a local beer for good luck.


Handmade from the GroundUp.


Making dangerous things in dangerous ways.


Jigged up.


Speaking of dangerous… That top tube doesn’t come like that. That top tube was placed in a vice between 2 steel chainstays and deformed by hand. Comment of the moment from Eric was “Man I hope this thing doesn’t hit me in the face like last time…”


Does your seat tube pierce your top tube? Cause mine does.


Heavy metal moustache.


Nothing caps a good day of building like some DizzyDrome construction. Hmmm... what could make this thing a little sketchier? Wall ride!


Dallas hitting it, fur flying.


Dallas misjudged that one and had to resort to his emergency landing-gear apparatus (most people call it a collarbone).

ill write a new post tommorow, i promise

But for now I'm at work, so you get this.

Stolen from the Bummer Life.

AVCQUICKPOST

Since I'm at "work," the two second update commences:



The team sprint was ugly, but ended with us on the top step...


The Keirin was going swimmingly until I lost by this much to a unicorn in pink panties...


The sprints went well, I tried not to blow a top seed and ended up riding Geo in the final...


Which went well.

More later.
DT

this man wants your wheel

Lock up your daughters and booze. Kakaka is on his way. But maybe someone could get him a band-aid? He's starting to smell like blood.
DT

bumps in the road, chumps on the road

Anybody seen our downhiller? Seriously, anyone? Our 5th driver for the trip, Erick has vanished in a trail of blood and confusion. Last we heard he was somewhere in a bar in Snowmass losing blood from a beer bottle vs. bar vs. hand collision. Since the cut is allegedly 2 inches long and just as deep, the race was a no-go, but further angry drinking was a go. Only contact from him in the last 24 hrs was a single word text-message: Arrested.

So, anyone know where our downhiller is?

DT