Ice Ice Baby!

When you’re a kid, virtually anything can become a finish line…a trash can, a stop sign, the end of the street, a telephone poll, etc. Your propensity to want to beat your fellow peers to a designated line is quite intense and it doesn’t take much coercing to get your engine revved and a race sparked. There is no such thing as unofficial or official, sanctioned or not, prize purses, race licenses, etc. It is a special time in life when measuring your speed, ability, and gumption against your friends and local click is highly valued and embraced. What is on the line…what are you racing for? All those elevated heart rates are for nothing more than territorial bragging rights accompanied by a wealth of stories to tell in your future. There are unspoken rules and undisputed respect that this all entails.

Everyone once in awhile, I find thoughts of resentment start to slowly seep into my psyche. I try to dismiss them quickly, but alas I cannot deny their presence. These thoughts of resentment are directed toward my most intense passion…the bike. It’s usually a cyclical thing; introducing it’s ugly self around October and November. Some call it “burn out”. Too much of anything, even good things, can eventually become destructive I guess. Usually when I start to recognize these feelings I try to take concerted steps to stop them.

Gary Fisher and a handful of other people, pioneered the great sport of mountain biking by simply pushing some clunkers up a dirt hill and riding them back down as fast as they could. It was a social endeavor; they were doing something new…creating stories and memories. Their focus wasn’t commercialization of the sport, nor was it training for a big audacious race event.

The Iceman Cometh is an annual celebration of mountain biking that takes place in November in Northern Michigan every year. Over the race’s history it has grown almost exponentially in popularity, attracting some of the most talented riders from all over the country. The race usually serves as an end of the season motivator but also as a way for all of us fat tire addicts to celebrate our shared passions of mountain bikes, but also the well-earned oat sodas that accompanies a season of dirt, sweat and gears.

Last season I decided to start a local group ride called “The Ice Ice Baby Ride” in preparation for the Iceman. The focus of the ride was not to simply train for the event but more importantly to take that ever-important step of ensuring that I don’t resent my two-wheeled companion. The idea was to get back to that kid-like mentality of racing your friends for the camaraderie of it but also the lactic acid induced bonding that comes from trying to best each other on a weekly basis.

The rides usually drew 10-15 riders of elite caliber. Much to my surprise, this season there has been a great deal of increased excitement and enthusiasm circling around this ride. I have seen an upwards of 30+ of the “who’s who” of Michigan Mountain Bike racers attending consistently the past few weeks. Best of all, being from the Midwest and all, it seems 26 inch machines have become the minority as big wheels have prevalently dominated. The ride is becoming known as a weekly ceremonial slugfest. Many participants have commented to me that it is the highlight of their week. I’ve received several messages the following work days after the ride from participants sitting in their cubicles dreaming about bombing down double tracks at 28mph guided by nothing but the glow of their high intensity lights and the shadows of storming riders all around them. These sentiments really alleviate any of those fleeting thoughts of resentment that resonate with me and recharge my velo batteries.

Just because we grow up doesn’t mean we have to leave behind that childlike enthusiasm to go fast for no other reason than the rush and elation it brings. Thanks to any rider that has showed up to this MTB territorial pissing contest…you have made my late season and delivered me from the banes of resenting my bike.

See you in November...Viva Le Iceman Cometh!

Where? Never heard of it?

One day prior to 24 hour worlds this summer a mandatory rider press conference was held to review rules and regulations, introduce the racers, as well as announce the location of the 2010 World Championship.

I was amazed at how many Australian racers represented the overall field. After a few days in Canmore I was actually beginning to feel like a minority being from America and being on big wheels.

Stuart Dorland, race director, saved the 2010 location announcement for the end of the meeting. With great pride, he finally announced that next year’s race was not only going to be void of North American Soil, but also not even in this hemisphere! As he started to announce “Australia”, before he could even finish the room erupted with a choir of surly Australians screaming “Aussie, Aussie, AUSSIE…OI…OI!” for about the next ten minutes.

Eventually the loudness settled down and Alan Smith turned to me and in a sarcastic tone belted out a boisterous, “WHERE?...Neva heard of it!!!”.

It’s that time of year again…

It’s a special yet mentally tormenting time. I have no training objectives other than trying to run over as many leafs as I can. I’m not monitoring my diet, and I’m not too worried about getting a set amount of saddle hours in each week.

The impending Iceman Cometh lurks just around the corner.

What are you doing to prepare for this years celebratory slugfest?


I’m simply ensuring my seasonal beard will be full, rich, and compelling come November 7th.

Stay tuned…

Critical Rediscovery

There I sat in a state of delirium. I was tired, confused, and medically fragile caused by an intense state of exhaustion and an overconsumption of dense electrolyte based sports drinks which led to a state of intoxication. My legs were past the point of lactic pain and moving quickly into a dead detached feeling. My triceps were on fire from railing technical descents. My nerves were non-existent, my gumption stripped from my being. I felt as if I was imprisoned by my own ambition to do something great. But worst of all I was sad. I was sad because I knew that from this point on I was going to have to move forward. I was going to have to accept my failed expectations and live with them. I was going to have to learn to live in the present rather than the future, and although it may not be true today…at the time, the present sucked! This was all my choice; I brought it all upon myself.

One of my most fond cycling memories comes from a few seasons back at the Superweek Pro Tour in Wisconsin. Fellow teammate Scott Kroske had a bad day on the bike. He was struggling with keeping the rubber side down all season, as he is notorious for. This day he found his carcass once again meeting the pavement in the Cat. 3 road race. As he circled around the course into the pits for some bodily/equipment inspection, colorful cuss words rolled off his tongue like a sailor. He was desperately trying to regain composure to enter back in the race while the SRAM neutral support mechanics quickly worked on his machine and got it back in race-worthy order. Scott continued to holler and complain about his misfortune. Jose Acala, SRAM mechanic and former WSC member, looked as Scott as he gave him his bike back and muttered some great words that will always resonate with me. He told Scott, “You know Mr. Kroske; there are easier, more safe sports you can try”. A few simple words managed to quickly put everything into perspective for him and he rolled onward to finish the race.

As I sat defeated in the Mountains of Canmore, embarrassed by my showing, Stuart Dorland of 24hrs of Adrenalin approached me. We spoke at great length as he assessed whether or not I was mentally and physically OK. I can’t really tell you too much of what we talked about that day but I do remember one thing. He suggested that the next 24hr race I do, I try it on a team rather than solo. His suggestion was not based on his doubt that I was not cut out for 24hr solo racing, after all I had qualified for the World Championships, he was merely suggesting that I reacquaint myself with how fun this form of racing can be when the pressure to perform is alleviated a bit. To be honest, I really didn’t think too much at the time about what he said, I was way too preoccupied with reveling in my sorrow and disappointment.

You are only as good as your next race.

As the conclusion of this season neared I found I was struggling to keep a sharp focus on my objectives. In fact, I really didn’t have any objectives anymore. Two weeks ago, I decided to try my hand at Crit racing once again only to find that I served as nothing more than a financial donation to the race, as well as colorful scenery to help increase the numbers of the pack. But alas, I raced anyway…because after all that’s what I do, I race bikes. It’s what I know and it’s what’s comfortable.

Upon the completion of the Labor Day Rock City Crit, one of Angela’s uncles who had come out to spectate, turned to me and said something no one has ever said to me after a bike race. He said, “Hey Tim, that was a good try”. I had turned myself inside out for 90 minutes, heart rate elevated and muscles quivering, only to do nothing more than roll in amidst the rest of the pack fodder and to donate $40 to the race promoters. “Good try?” it sounds like such a short coming. Good tries are for darts, or horse shoes, or something as simple as trying to toss a crumbled piece of paper into a garbage can. It seems to me that years of dedication, sweat, and tears culminated in 90 minutes of pain must be represented by something more than “good try”. I tried to explain to him that every rider in that Pro ½ field has dedicated more hours to their sport than the average professional baseball, football, or basketball player raking in 7 figure salaries. In the midst of my frustration, I realized that he was right, it doesn’t matter what the outcome was that day, and my performance was nothing more than a “good try”.

I can’t speak for all the other passionate people in the world, but I think I sometimes tend to put my craft on a pedestal simply because I feel it should be deservedly there due to the sheer amount of hours I put into it. My dedication should mean something, right? However, regardless of the numbers of my wins or losses, all of this really means nothing more than exactly what it is and what we personally perceive it to be.

As the season concluded I needed to shift my focus from ambitious and lofty goals to one simple thing: having fun.

So this past weekend, I decided to take Stuart Dorland’s advice and enter a 24hr race on a four man team with no other agenda in mind than having fun. On Friday, I quickly rushed home from school, as excited as a young boy on Christmas morning, threw all of my gear in a bag, and rushed to Grayling, MI to race the 24hrs of Hanson Hills.

My composite team consisted of three other talented riders from other teams. Ben Renkema of Kenda Pro Cycling/Spinergy, Nate Williams of the Bissell Elite Cycling Team, and Brian Bangma owner and racer of the Grand Rapids Bicycle Company.

Soon after the race started, the campfire was lit, the first moon lady was cracked, and the stories and jokes started flowing in between laps I realized that I had engaged in exactly what I needed at the time.

24 hours ended up passing faster than I ever knew it could and in the end the product was a team Victory in the 4-Man Elite Category as well as a wealth of fun. I didn’t take myself too seriously. I wasn’t too focused on lap times, I simply rode the trail to have fun and enjoy the atmosphere.

I rediscovered exactly why I love this sport at a very critical time. The race served as an optimal catalyst to erase any resonating failed expectations from this past season and recharge my battery for next season.

You are only as good as your next race. But for now, you may as well have fun. Even if it occasionally takes some reminding…that is what’s it’s all about…fun.

12 hours of Drummond Island

John Stamsted, a pioneer of 24hr solo racing, once said, “This form of racing is so hard that no one out there does it for the money, and if they did it would have to be extremely large sums of money before anyone would voluntarily make themselves suffer that long”.

I hadn’t been to Drummond Island in about 18 years. My memories of this land lie deep in tales of catching whopping perch and walleye with my father, and bears sneaking up on campers to help themselves to any of their food placed within a bear’s reach. Long before I ever swung my leg over a top tube and tried to beat another person to the line I formed my fond impressions of this island.

Years later…older, perhaps wiser, I decided to venture back up to Drummond, this time to race my bike in the Michigan Endurance Series 12 Hours of Drummond Island. I found it only fitting to invite my father and the rest of my family to help support me during the race as well as revisit the magic that I was exposed to so young.

There were other bigger races with more prestige and prize purse I could of choose this weekend, but this race meant something more than any cash prime or winning check could ever hold. This event was more of a family vacation that happened to have a race in it.

Race day brought about torrential rain and a bone chilling 52 degrees. As I kitted up in my warm protective car, Angela stared at me with a look of disbelief and doubting intrigue. “I’m just amazed at how excited and positive you can be to be racing in such terrible conditions”, she commented. The week prior to this race I had stayed with Ray D. up at the Buck-N-A cabin for a bit of a late season rest/training camp. In that time I realized that it’s a good thing to concede that “you can’t win em all” and that not everything works out according to plan. Mike Tyson once said, “Anyone can plan to win a fight until you get clocked in the jaw, it’s what you do after that, that matters”.

So I rolled to the line a few minutes before the start. I wasn’t too worried about any competition posing a threat. It was mostly a race against myself, the clock, and my ghosts of the past. The gun fired, I took the hole shot, and didn’t look back until about a mile in. John Cowan, Petoskey resident, fellow teacher, and all around great cyclist, stayed with my wheel and we began to trade pulls and converse at the same time. Unfortunately after a few miles of putting it down we realized we completely lost the course. We had to turn around and start from the back of the field! We ended up working our way back to the front by the end of the lap and wound up front running the rest of the race.

About three hours into the race my hands and feet were numb and my bike could barely shift anymore due to the amount of mud it accumulated. I wasn’t having fun at this point. I rolled through the pits, completely changed my clothes, switched my bike and was off. From this point on, I began to have fun. Although I was leading the race, I was still in a great deal of pain and discomfort. Just as I started to ask myself, “Why do I do this”, I began to embrace this feeling of suffering and drew from it.

Some may label it a sick attraction…why do we voluntarily choose to suffer? I’ve found there is something about persevering from point A to point B that no prize money or notoriety can ever take precedence over.

I ended up winning the race without much contest, and I began to question again why I choose this event. As I looked in the faces of my family I quickly became comforted in my reasons.

So why do we do this? It’s not for the money…it’s for something far more.

Looking Onward: Are you an Athlete?

Sometimes when we look into the future for so long we fail to embrace the present. This is an extremely potent danger that is at stake when we allow our dreams and aspirations to define us over a prolonged period of time. John Coyle, fellow teammate of mine, best describes this idea here.

I’m finding it hard to live without the dream. Last season I put my entire soul into one event, which ultimately resulted in greatness. This season, I attempted the same with different results. However, the feelings I had post-events are turning out to be very similar. When your entire focus for a year funnels down to one moment in time it is extremely mentally difficult to move on once this time has come and gone, regardless of the result. It’s an indescribable feeling one can only be familiar with if you have lived through it. Again, I always have to remind myself I choose all of this; none of it was a product of any uncontrollable circumstances.

When I wake up in the morning, I have plenty to do these days to keep me busy, but I am left aimlessly wandering. I still hop on my bike everyday, but my intentions are foggy and unclear. I am simply riding because that’s what I know to do. When I roll out the door, I certainly don’t know what direction I’m heading in because I’ve temporarily lost the ability to focus on the present rather than the future. It’s a habitual thing that has been intensely acquired over a two-year period.

A good friend of mine Scott, who now resides in Austin, TX sent me a pretty enlightening message two days after Worlds this year, which aided in my ability to see the present clearly. Scott, being a former Nationally Elite level swimmer truly understands what sacrifice means as he describes in letter below.

Thanks again Scott!


Tim,

You have officially become an athlete.

Contrary to what most people believe, an athlete is not a person who was blessed with certain DNA.

An athlete takes his approach to his competition with a life and death seriousness.

An athlete puts every single item that enters his body in one category : Fuel. Nothing more, nothing less. The thought of "that might taste good" is irrelevant to him. Only how much this will build and or fuel his machine.

An athlete puts his rest and recovery first, knowing that tomorrow's daily test will require every bit of strength he thinks he has, and some he didn't know he had.

An athlete brings himself to the brink of exhaustion on a daily and sometimes hourly basis. Riding with the ghost of him from last year nipping at his heels, wanting to take him down. But he has made gains from the past. The pain, the recovery, the lifestyle has given him a physical and mental edge. The ghosts of years past cannot hold this pace, this intensity is too much. There is a deep sense of satisfaction knowing just how hard it was to be able to ride away from last years ghost. It is not arrogance, but a sense that you have arrived, and are now proud of yourself from the depths of your character.

This changes an athlete. Some for good, some for bad. An athlete will go toe to toe with anyone. They may win, they may lose, but one thing is certain: if wants a piece of him, they are going to get the whole nine yards and will have to earn it.

An athlete does his job every single day, day after day. Tired, sore, sick, injured. There is a job to be done, and he will be damned if anything dares to get in his way. The creature comforts and excuses that most enjoy are viewed as a weakness. This spartan lifestyle has become just that : his lifestyle.

As the pain mounts and most start to fade, an athlete has a sick sense of enjoyment. This is where he lives, and most don't like this neighborhood. He is comfortable, when the pain starts, he wants more. Not because he is narcissistic, but he knows this is where others are in pain, and if they hurt now, the next level they will crack. When a worthy adversary can rise to the occasion and truly challenge him, he has mixed emotions of admiration, fear and anger. He asks himself "Does this guy have any idea much I will suffer to win?" He has seen adversaries with better tools repeatedly become casualties of his private war.

It is this process that you have dedicated yourself to over a long period of time that has changed you. You will never be the same.

Most will try to relate to your quest. But only those who have been in your shoes for years at a time will ever come close to relating. Most don't realize just how mentally, emotionally and physically exhausting it his to finely tune the human body into everything it is capable of. The daily grind alone will decimate almost anyone's spirit after a period of weeks, a few can maintain it for months. Only those who have a singular focus can handle it for years.

You left no stone unturned. You have reached a level of dedication that is nothing short of impressive. Many take this journey for various reasons, but the goal is the same. An athlete truly wanted to see what he is made out of, what makes him tick, how much he could endure, what looks back at him in the abyss.

You have answered those questions, and that is why you are an athlete.

-Scott

Reflections from Canmore