a light, grungy snack

I love grunge. I grew up with grunge. Even though it's re-hashed by guys now far removed from their 90's era lives, perspectives and income levels, I'm still waiting patiently for this:


Toadies were never my favorite, but they remind me of a time and place that that was pretty big for me. So if done right, this album will be an interesting addendum to a genre that served as the soundtrack to my early teenagerdom. If done poorly, I'll probably still listen to it. It'll be good trivia either way.

another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults

May is so far disappointing. Too many hands-jammed-in-pockets days. Too many desperate, last-minute grinds to work, splashed in the gutter by cars worth more than the houses I grew up in. These have not been fine weeks to be a time-stretched track sprinter. Exactly 1.5 track workouts in May have escaped the weather, work destroyed one sprint night and moisture the second, Thursday track has been nothing but pursuits, and PIR is the highlight of my month, but still only batting .500. A touch of stress to top things off and my Colorado life of predictable training routine is no more.

Go from 20 hours a week of sitting in a desk chair on youtube, waiting for customers to wander in to 40 a week on your feet and things change in a big way. Not ideal in the least, but necessity is the mother of retail jobs. It seems 2 years of delay, delay and deferrment makes Sallie Mae a heinous wench, and all that travel and groceries on credit cards have piled up quick. The bills are paid, but only just. No grand adventures in sight.

Bring on the benevolent sun! Open up! I need some flying efforts to wring the stress out of my bones. A few max speed burns to clear my head. I need to smell some sunscreen and forget to drink enough water. A day of sweat instead of mildew and tension.

Meanwhile. In a hollowed out volcano somewhere sits a gathering of white-haired has-been bureaucrats who fancy themselves wizards. The letters "UCI" were struck into a granite arch on the volcano many years ago. Seems these de-evolutionary masters have decided that track racing in 2012 is not worth a relevant Olympic program. First the pursuit and madison, now only one rider per nation for the sprints and kierin, and an 8 person sprint tourney.
Strategy: make track cycling unwatchable, claim low tv ratings in order to spend velodrome money on more swimming seats in RIO. Doom and gloom these days on the international side as attendance records are set every dry week at Alpenrose.

On the literal home front, the photo library on my computer has shifted quite a bit. A while since any sightseeing, hotel rooms or poorly lit track interior shots. These days it's friends, laughter, family. Illustrations of epic low-lit stories. Silver city lights and Jenny's smiling face. Who can complain.

"go back to those gold soundz"

The drive was great, thanks for asking. America by car is a funny thing. It's like an informative speech that goes on too long, punctuated by little comedy intermissions called truck stops. You're always trying not to fall asleep, and during the comedy intermissions the jokes are bad, but entertaining.


Headed west, at the speed of a bucking rental, plodding through the mountains.

Since we've been here we're comfortably installed in our apartment, but far from financially comfortable. I was fortunate enough to have full time work from day one of our return, but Jenny's search for a place in the Jenga tower of Portland's employment world is ongoing. For the time being, The Bike Gallery is stepping in and giving her hours on the front counter at the shop, but with the asterisk of temporary status hanging low. So we scratch on. Keep our costs down, eat cheap, thank our endlessly generous parents (that costco trip will keep us alive for many months), rest up for that interview tomorrow and hope for the best.


Low-quality cell-phone picture of a view to be reckoned with. Our roof is a wonderful place.

My place in the cycling world is hazy for now. While our finances are relatively grim, I'll keep working my current schedule, which leaves little time or energy for training or anything else. I forgot how easy I had it at the shop in Colorado, how draining it is to work 9 hour busy days at a bike shop in BikeTown USA. My paychecks reflect the extra work, thankfully, so the rent is paid and the lights are on. Things will come around, but for now my break from the athlete's lifestyle and focus will extend a little longer.


On my weekends, the morning starts like this and ends many miles later.

Cyclists in this city don't know how good they have it. On my days off, riding is much more a pleasure than it was in Colorado. Helps to not be constantly in fear of the tobacco-stained Billy-Bobs, ready to knock you into a ditch or worse. Granted the big city has its fair share of piss-poor drivers, but not many as malicious as the back-water boys of the Rocky Mountains.

Something about the twisty, abandoned lanes and forgotten roads in the west hills actually makes me want to climb. Crazyness. The descents don't hurt. Blasting through corner after perfect corner, down hundred-year-old roads built long before the traffic engineers and highwaymen clamped down on switchbacks and one-lane tarmac. Keep your arms loose, your eyes open and your brain quiet. Let the good times roll.


Five days of the week my training is limited to my commute and occasionally a few hours in the gym. Luckily, my commute does not suck. Bridges and boulevards, fixie on fire. Flying home in a private killer-copter.

SixDays and FouteenDays

The six days for me ended and era. They ended the era where cycling occupied a place in my mind of an unattainable goal. Now I live in an era where cycling is a rockstar sport, and I can be on that stage with enough work.



It is not all spotlights and loud music. Check that. It is all loud music. But for every stomach tightening 30 seconds of cheers and reptile-level thinking, there's an hour of staring at this as spastic lighting engineers have their day and DJs play the same 8 songs at eardrum-shattering decibel levels.



It's all worth it. The 6 hours of waiting are worth the moments like this. 10,000 people either willing you on or willing you to go down, and go down hard. Either way, that energy is palpable.



Hearing your name from the crowd in a foreign accent is something I'm not sure I'll ever get used to. Even if those encouragements are being drowned out by the cheers and shrieks for the champion behind you.



This is where thinking stops. The brain fights for control but the reptilian self has it now. You go, react, shift gears, shift tactics, change your position just enough, but never think about it.





When race A is done and race B is up after a madison, a derney and a concert from some rhinestone-encrusted human sneer, things are pretty loose and relaxed in the cabins. You're guaranteed to go home every night with total sensory overload, so the less serious things are, the more bits of sanity everyone gets to take home when it's als tal over. This photo was taken just after a kierin round which featured an elbow to the face of the guy next to me (the guy mugging for the camera on the right). I came down from the blue line and put him onto the apron, ears ringing, helmet cocked over one eye. I hit him harder than I intended to (brian abers and his headbutt-induced broken ribs can attest to the fact that this happens every now and then), but after it was over things were right back to normal. Just another day in the pits.

It's all for the show. By the end of the six, we were the most violent (towards each other, mostly) of all the sprinters. By no coincidence, the crowds loved us. If you don't have those rainbow stripes hanging in your closet or stretched across your barrel chest, you have to compensate. Give people a reason to cheer for or against you.



This last picture is both unfortunate/awesome. I got to know Bauge pretty well at the two sixes we both did this year, and I can say that he's a standup guy. Always the right dude at the right time, so to speak. This is in a kierin round at the Beijing World Cup, right after Rotterdam. Bauge is crashing downtrack from the rail while Denis Dmitriev from Russia pulls probably the coolest move ever actually caught on film. No, he didn't land, but who cares? No one got a photo of that part. Just the extra-gnar before impact.


The horror! The humanity! The EXTREME-NESS!


The Joy!
In fourteen days Jenny and I will pack our few meager belongings into a Uhaul van and point ourselves West. West to the promised land. Back to Portland. Away from the culture-void and strip-mall suburbia we've been in the last two years. Back to home base. We recently returned from a quick weekend trip to find an apartment (successful) and things became very clear on the plane, about 40 minutes from landing. I look up from from my book (George McGovern sounded like a cool cat) as the captains gives his "soon we'll be landing in Portland, the weather is a bla bla bla" bit, and I look around the cabin a bit. I see: Girl with pink hair. Guy with purple beard. Lady in business attire with tattoos down to her wrists, a grey-haired man in a sequined dress, not a single tan on the entire plane. An aircraft full of smiling, pasty people.

So soon I'll be back to teammates, friends, family, racing, a happy wife and the rhythm of the city. Soon, but not soon enough.

DT

up to 11

The most important thing to remember as an American six-day rider is: This is not your normal life, so don't get used to it.

It's mind-bendingly strange to go from spectator numbers in the high tens to racing for paying fans that number 10,000 or more. So much about the sixdays are foreign to us, but so much about them could be a successful model for racing in the US, it's hard to wrap your head around it all at once.



As far as the racing goes, for me it was as good as it could have been. Racing with riders who have supportive federations (and tracks that stay open year round) is tough when you live in Colorado, in the land of the USOC and USAC. On days that the weather was clear and the roads were dry I was told there was "no way in hell" that I would be allowed on the track. So out on the road bike I'd go. The other 70% of the time the roads were covered in snow and ice, so onto the trainer or rollers I'd go. The result of all this was a slow first half, and a building second half to the six. I'd see my times drop a bit every day, and know that if it wasn't for the awesome beaurocratic bullshit that kept the gates to my home velodrome locked, I could've come here on much better form.



Complaints aside, I did my job. We all did. Sprints and Kierins at the sixdays are the ultimate test of a rider's skills with contact at speed. You have never given a real headbutt until you've done it to a man wearing World Champion's stripes at top speed in front of thousands of gasping fans. You've never ridden a rough sprint round until you've come blazing down the back-straight at the rail, elbows locked, leaning hard against your opponent, then pulling out of the tailspin at the final moment for the semi-controlled dive to the lane, drag racing elbow to elbow through the final corner and finishing it with a desperate bike throw.


A mother of a young American girl who was racing in the Women's Six was lamenting loudly to our cook about the sprinters. She said it was disgraceful how we ignored the rules, and that we'd never get away with such behavior in the US. He responded with something along the lines of "nobody wants to see those boys follow the rules." We put on a show, gave the paying spectators the thrills they were looking for, went home tired and toasted to our collective success.



Racing like this doesn't always end well. Compared to the madison riders, we were relatively safe, only 2 crashes in the entire Six. Both happened in the kierin (no suprise), and neither seriously injured the unfortunate board-surfer. This time it was Mulder. He's crashing downtrack here, right into the lane and into my path. You can see the imminent doom in my eyes, as I'm hoping the officials on the apron have enough sense to jump out of the way. They did. I rang the finish line bell with my shoulder, narrowly avoided splitting Mulder's head open with my front wheel and made it back onto the 50 degree track mid-corner from the apron at speed.



More later. For now it's coffee and long, slow miles.
DT

feeling huge, cookie style

This is definitely the year of christmas cookies/brownies/candy. I should never agree to do any racing in early January. The holidays are just to sickly sweet and calorie-rich. That coupled with my complete inability to ride outside has left me with the feeling that all my muscle mass has been replaced by chocolate and butter. Doesn't help that my self control is non-existent in this arena. I don't eat a cookie. I eat every single morsel in sight. At once.

This inspired me to ride to the gym yesterday instead of driving, which I probably shouldn't have:

That was fun.

There's a new Suberbike in town. Project '10 ("turning it up to 11"). Eric spent a few weeks with his machines and torches, trapped in a loop of ultra-heavy metal, and this is what crawled out of the bog when he finished.



Blacker than the blackest black. Times infinity.


Aaron wishes he could ride something so scary.


The Euro Sixes are an extremely flashy affair, so the bikes got a bit of sparkle to finish them off.

Actually they got a bucket of sparkle. Sparkle Motion.

And now for something non bike-related.
Found this gem a few days ago, the new video from Auckland/Portland's Mint Chicks. So strange I feel like a epileptic fit's coming on about halfway through, but can't turn away.

Don't Sell Your Brain Out, Baby (censored version) from Mint Chicks on Vimeo.

Sweet dreams.

DT

Hey SHOEMAKERS

Sooo. DMT? Nike? Any chance you guys could bring the heaviness in the form of SPD-soled wingtips? Like this?



And if you do decide to one-up those cheese-fiends from the big red B, I wear a 45.

DT

WARNING: COMPLAINING AHEAD

I try not to complain too much on this thing. I hate self-important behavior, but I thought I'd update the few who still read this space in the winter.

Very edgy lately. Sleep isn't coming easily and my nerves are iffy at best. The snow and ice in Colorado has cut my training down to gym work and trainer rides for the entirety of December. November was a coach-mandated month off, so the combination isn't doing great things for my speed going into Rotterdam. In short: I'm slow.

I'm doing what I can, but when I meet with the velodrome director and he says that there is "no way in hell" that I'll be able to get on the track even once before takeoff, it's frustrating. It validates every reason I have for moving away from here, away from the federation and the olympic committee and all their political pissing matches with each other and the athletes they are supposed to be helping. I'll take the rain if I can at least ride! One month before a major international competition and I'm informed that alarms will ring and security will be dispatched if I jump the fence and try to do a workout on the dry, ice free, empty velodrome.

So I do what I can. Trainer rides. Weight lifting. The track in Boulder is utterly useless for any sprint efforts, so I do fixed gear road rides on days when the temps are above freezing. Hope for good flat-tire luck on the gravel-covered roads and hope there's not ice in that blind corner coming up. Fight the cars who think I should be riding all the way over on the shoulder in the snow drifts. Get it done, do the work and get to Europe and back to where I can do what I love under the lights.

Zesdaage Rotterdam

LANDROVER ORBEA_GENESIS from monster vs. robot inc. on Vimeo.

the season continues...

Nothing says "bathing suit weather" like January in Holland! Looks like I'm packing wool socks and rain coats, because contracts are settled, tickets are booked and I'm set to ride the Rotterdam 6 the week before my birthday. Throughout the entirety of the Amsterdam 6, all anyone could say was "wait till you see Rotterdam."

It's going to be epic.

Timing couldn't be better, as everything was confirmed only 2 days before the end of the coach-mandated rest period. Definitely a good motivator for the crappiest months of the year. With a new frame and fork on the way and a plane ticket in hand, there's no excuse for skipping the trainer rides this winter. Game on.

christmas shopping, anyone?

I think one of my favorite product partnerships of all time has to be with Rolf Prima. Most of the time, companies are perfectly happy slapping a logo on the jersey and handing you a pro-deal form. And as much as I appreciate getting sweet deals on cool stuff, these guys are different.

When we started working together, I was happy to be riding on nice road wheels, but didn't think much more of it. Rolf, however, realized that they were missing out on a great and passionate sector of the sport. A sector of the sport that to this point has been completely dominated by one scrappy American company and a pack of Frenchies that think the world of their track racing wheels, and charge accordingly. So they started asking questions.
"do people like tubulars or clinchers?"
"aero or lightweight?"
"carbon or aluminum?"
And so on.
For months and months.

I didn't immediately realize that I was a sounding board for a bunch of guys that were preparing to enter the track market, but when the first pair showed up completely stickered and ready to ride, the light clicked on. We went through several versions, we hashed out little nit-picky details and they finally landed on three versions ready for ultimate thrashing, commuting, and racing. Granted, they did all the hard work (I hear engineering is kinda tough. all that math and stuff), but after a summer of test pilotry, long winded emails and many many races on untested gear, there are 3 finished products.
So now, I am very proud to present to everyone:



The Rolf Track Alloy.
These are designed as a daily training wheel and a weekly race workhorse. I think the two words I typed the most when we talked about these wheels was "lateral stiffness," and that says it all. I am 190 pounds, and wanted a rock-solid wheel that I could do starts on all day, then turn around and race on that same night. This is the product. Custom 14 gauge bladed spokes, 20h rear, 16h front, clincher. Crazy stiff, very aero and virtually bombproof. A sprinter or enduro's dream. Beautiful. Black.



The Rolf 58 Track
Same brutally stiff setup as the alloy, but add a 58m deep carbon tubular rim. Low, paired spoke count on the front keeps it extremely aero, while the higher spoke count, paired design and high tension on the rear makes power transfer instantaneous. I rode these wheels in our winning team sprint at the Elite National Championships this year (and recorded the fastest first lap of the week, including Wednesday's 250 times). Not a bad debut. Also all the pics below from the Amsterdam six feature this front wheel and Rolf's forthcoming Carbon Disc. This is by far the fastest wheel I have ever ridden. It is also the blackest wheel you could ever ride. It is like the race wheel from the black lagoon, but blacker, and with menacing yellow eyes. Which is pretty great.



And last but certainly not least:
The Rolf P-Town
These wheels are sexy. Conversation over.
Based on the race wheels, but styled for... well... style. 130m rear spacing, so they'll fit on your hooptie fixie, killer mustache bar commuter or single speed cross bike. Flip-Flop hub will do fixie or free. These wheels will smash your face with killer-ness and leave you moaning and groaning for more. So get some. Today. Actual mustache not included.

DT

a few more pics

Here's a sequence of one of my many 3rds in the kierin. It's a shame it misses the violent last-lap dive under one of the dutch guys to get back to Mulder's wheel.













Bauge and I after our team sprint win.

Twitter + Doofus + Shatner = Gold

This is the True Hollywood Story about how Jenny and I met.

professional circus animals

Day 3

The sprint World Champ has figured out his role. I have the luxury of a common language with the Dutch, so my first pro Six has gone fairly smoothly. They've acted as translators for VIP schmoozers, organizers and announcers, and I'm endlessly grateful. However. They nor I speak anything close to French, and Bauge speaks about 10 words of English, so that line of communication has been iffy. High-fives, shrugs and smiles only go so far.

But finally, after a few touch-and-go evenings, the massive french champion really Gets It. Before the kierin we are all relaxing in the cabins, mocking some awful song the DJ has chosen, when Bauge throws down a fierce French rap. Yondi immediately makes for the announcer's booth, smiling wickedly.

As you wind up for your 200, it's equally important to wind up the crowd. I ride my 200 while the previously mentioned "Born In The USA" plays at maximum volume, with the first two laps at the rail no-hands, clapping to the beat and willing the crowd to cut loose. So far, the DJ's have chosen some lifeless techno song for Bauge to wind up to, but tonight is different. He rolls up the track with his usual World Champion game face. Deadly serious. A true professional. There is a moment of silence as he climbs the banking and the song cues up. The chorus of 50 Cent's "In Da Club" erupts from the speaker stacks and the crowd absolutely loses it. Bauge smiles wide and for the first time seems to be enjoying himself, bobbing his head and dancing with the crowd on lap 2.


We are circus animals in colorful clothing, brought here to play to our national stereotypes and entertain the patrons. Winning the race and destroying your competition is secondary to the much more difficult task of winning the crowd.



They will know immediately if you are over your head. These people have watched cycling like football their entire lives, and there are no excuses worth their time. So make it a good one. Get out of the gate like you mean it, don't disrespect someone with rainbow stripes and give it everything for the show. There is no UCI or USCF rapping your knuckles for headbutts or chops. If we raced like they want us to at US Nationals, spectators would leave their seats and never again slap down 30 euros to watch a bike race. No reward without risk.

let go of the bars, and do your job

This week was many things. Stressful? Yes. Successful? Yes. I returned from Europe with some great memories, average pictures, a notebook full of over-caffienated writing and a paid invitation to return.

So instead of going through a tedious day-by-day account of what happened, we'll start with a couple of excerpts of what I wrote at the time and a few pictures.

Day 2:
Baggage difficulties, language barriers and twisted, sleepless nights fade instantly as you find yourself riding at the rail, winding up for your 200 as "Born In The USA" blasts out of the stadium speakers. Now you're playing to the crowd like you've never done before. Hands off the bars in mid-corner, fist-pumping, willing the crowd of rabid Dutch out of their seats.
Keep your machine under control amid the road, the music, the derny fumes, the strobes, lasers and nerves. Just keep your head up, be the rockstar the crowd paid 50 bucks a pop to see. This is your job, so enjoy it.



The riders' cabins are beyond cramped. 36 pro men including the sprinters. 2 riders per 3X5 cabin, each pair with 2 soigneurs and mechanics drifting in and out. Add to that a constant stream of "VIP Liasons," taking paying fans through the rider's area to see their favorite starts. As a World Champ, Bauge is in high demand, so most high-roller patrons end up at the end of the row, standing in front of the sprinter's cabins asking for autographs and pictures.




Day 3:
The derny smoke hangs thick tonight. 3 rounds of 50-lap noise-fests down, one to go and I cannot wait for those laps to be over. Every night at the hotel I'm spitting black crap and listening to my ears ring, waiting for the noise/fumes/adrenaline/exertion headache to fade away.
This a scene tailor made for Vegas. Singles dressed to the nines, stalking each other and liver disease, swilling free booze on the VIP infield, chaotic frenzy from the cheap seats, strobes and lazers everywhere.







My corner of the world for six nights is very literally that. A tiny corner, with a light, a dirty mattress and a shelf. It is cramped and it is hot, but it's also mine. In someone else's country, at someone else's event and on someone else's turf, this is all the real estate I need to keep grounded. That and a free coffee every now and then...

DT

sneak previews R us

Longer version of this video is coming soon, but here's the short version:

Landrover Orbea Sizzle Video from pierre robichaud on Vimeo.

Big thanks to Pierre Robichaud for making this happen.

DT

Killer Commute

tour of the cities of sin

Home is where the heart is? Where the wife is, the cat, the french press and by far the most comfortable bed in the world. Yes. All of these things. It's good to be home (for a minute). A quick breath, try to recover from a few weeks in two of the most vile places on the planet and off to somewhere unknown.

Vegas, first up. What a city. A bunch of rich guys showing off in the desert. The trade show went well, but it wasn't quite the show that it's been in the past. No huge announcements, not many revered euro-pros, very few (meaningful or exciting) unveilings. But there was a pretty sweet high-wheel:


Cav's Tour bike was cool to see:



It was also pretty entertaining watching the Chinese exhibitors assembling some future Wal-Mart Specials in the parking lot.



All in all I would say that the business side of my trip to Vegas was a success. Learned some good stuff for the shop, saw some important things, got some things settled. However, one thing is for certain: Vegas right before Nationals is no good. Too much free beer, waaaay too much walking, not enough riding. I did get one important thing accomplished. Every now and then you must go above and beyond as the only sober person in the room. Every now and then you need to take apart your couch and reassemble it on your unconscious, barely alive co-worker.



Enough of that. On to Los Angeles.

Nationals this year was not a bust, but it was not the nationals I was hoping for. I false started the standing 250 and destroyed my chance at a National record and another jersey. My time in the 200 was less than stellar. In face it was pretty much unacceptable to my coach and the USAC folks in the stands. My tactics in the Kierin were questionable (first or last!). I even briefly toyed with the idea of having my mechanic go chop some tendons:



Looks like he liked the idea. Actually not surprisingly the cause of Dave's burst of activity was cake. So there ya go.

It all came around on the final day for the team sprint, not a moment too soon. I rode first, lost a few tenths coming out of the gate a little late (was not interested in false start X2) but still rode a first lap that would have won me the 250. Lanell Rockmore rode a stellar lap and Kevin Mansker fought the big fight to chase back and finish the third lap. In the end we won by a comfortable margin and got to stand on the top step of the podium and pull on another one of these:



Feels good.

What will also feel good will be wearing it (or something like this) in the Amsterdam 6-Day. One week from today I'm back on a jet plane, headed over the pond to Holland. This is a huge opportunity for me, and something I've wanted to do for a long time. If you had asked me a year ago, I would have been happy just to see a euro 6, let alone race one! If you're interested, you should be able to follow the race at www.zesdaagseamsterdam.nl. With a little help from Google Translate the site is pretty cool.

As for me, I have a roller session to do. Rest is for suckers.
DT

dont be a jerk, you stupid knee

Training has been chugging along like a brakeless hell-train straight through the desert. No stop, no rest for the weary... until.

Thursday.

Awesome day, 3 sets of 3 standing starts in increasing gears. USAC's athletics director was milling around at the track, so every effort put me deeper into the hurt locker. Things were going well, I was setting PR's at every distance (including a 250m that was 2 tenths off the national record), and the coach was happy. I start feeling some strangeness coming out of my hip flexors and we call it a day to avoid the dreaded 4-weeks-before-nationals-injury. I pack up my crap, squat down to pick up my water bottle and BANG! my knee crumples. fantastic.

Rode home with one leg and began a mandatory 4 day break, which thankfully ends today. Turns out I don't sleep so well without workouts during the day.

Looks like I'll be joining the rest of the cycling industry at Interbike in Vegas this year. Shame it's 1 week before Nationals, means I'll have to be on good behavior (which is not so much fun in vegas), but I'm not worried. This close to a national record and possibly a big fat check from USAC means there's plenty of motivation left. Guess I'll just have to try and keep Tuckerman A: alive and B: out of prison. That may be my biggest challenge yet.

DT