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                          Pedal Pedal Peal Pedal Ped—Vomit

          Coast

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     Breathe Breathe Breathe

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Related posts:

1. Soft Pedal
2. Soft Pedal. Hard Lessons

Related posts:

1. Recovery (Photos)
2. Autumn. Fall. (Photos)
3. Slideshow (Photos)
4. Random Photos
5. Black and White (Photos)

In 1944 Ray and Eva Stewart opened a small ski resort in the shadow of Big Provo Cirque, and Timpanogos. 25 years later, the resort, and many of the adjacent acres, were bought by Robert Redford. He called the place Sundance.

I first remember visiting Sundance when I was 10 years old. I learned to ski in a Sundance-hosted after-school ski program. A few years later, I started riding my mountain bike during the summer on the fledgling trail network. Since then, I have spent as much time on the Sundance slopes during the summer, as I ever had during the winter. The trail network, like mountain biking, has matured. Sundance itself has matured as well. But it remains a fairly quiet and quaint place.

Above the resort Timpanogos is abrupt. The National Forest is dense and layered. Folded canyons and deep woods surround the mountain, providing a wilderness and recreational paradise. Trails, waterfalls, backcountry ski slopes, and the most scenic road in North America* highlight the Fork, and make it one of the most loved places in Utah. Of the area, Robert Redford said:

This place in the mountains, amid nature’s casualness toward death and birth, is the perfect host for the inspiration of ideas: harsh at times, life threatening in its winters of destruction, but tender in attention to the details of every petal of every wildflower resurrected in the spring. Nature and creativity obey the same laws,
to the same end: life.

Racing a bike at Sundance has primal associations. My first “real” mountain bike race was at Sundance, on July 4th, 2001. I knew nothing about racing. I didn’t know any other racers, either. What I did know, was that I had wanted to race my bike for a long time. That summer, I finally did, and my life has never been the same. I know a little bit more about racing now. And I know a few more bike racers. But every race continues to be an adventure, and a conduit to something new. New insight. New stories. New injuries, scars, and bruises.

Saturday I raced once again at Sundance. It had been 2 years since I last raced there. It occurred to me as I warmed up for the event how much I had been missing the trails, the views, and the hills of Sundance. Memories of ski days, bike rides, hiking trips, and family picnics flooded back to life as I turned my pedals through the trees. Returning to the singletrack at Sundance was an overdue homecoming. I gaped up at the snowy peaks and felt happy to simply be there, in that place and at that time; until I was forced to brush away the nostalgia. I was there to race, not to reminisce.

*Go ahead, just try to find a drive more scenic than the Alpine Loop.

There were—and I counted—2,872 switchbacks on course at the Sundance Spin. OK, I didn’t count them. But there were a lot. We climbed switchbacks, we descended switchbacks. Tight, shaded, technical, and steep. Indeed, one was steep enough that it needed to be held together with a boardwalk. Of course, it’s designed to be ridden down, and so we, being hearty mountain bike racers, rode up the boards during the race. The grade was steep enough that I actually scraped my chin on my handlebars. But the racing, and the singletrack, was good. Great, even.

The top riders in my flight rode away at the start. I watched them go while silently vowing to (one of these days) start training. Really training. With intervals, power meters, heart rate monitors, and phases: Build, peak, recover. But silent vows are worthless at 180 beats per minute. And so, I raced with the gas I had in the tank. There was enough there to redeem myself from the sins of Lambert Park, but not enough to chase down that elusive group of riders that vanished up the hill and into the trees when the race began. Afterward, there were more vows. More promises.

But then, I’ve never raced my bike without making promises about the future. Even when I do really well, I am caught committing myself to keep that fitness, or to improve my handling skills, or to stop daydreaming meaninglessly during the race. “Focus! Pedal! Go!”

There are always more and better things to achieve on a bike. There are always new hills to climb, technical descents to survive, and dark, despairing places to illuminate. That we propel ourselves forward using eternal and circular wheels, chains and pedal strokes, is an appropriate metaphorical motif. Sometimes the only way forward, or upward, is constant, abiding repetition. Even after we reach the top, our return descent still requires wheels to roll, chains to spin, and pedals to turn.

Aristotle put it more concisely: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, therefore, is not an act, but a habit.”

Going to the mountains has been a lifelong habit. And, whether on a bike, or not, that habit has created who I am. What I am. Being (and racing) at Sundance, a place where my love of the mountains was nurtured, reminded me of John Muir’s words, that “going to the mountains is going home.”

I’m already looking forward to returning to the mountains again, and making good on my promises to get fit, and to chase down the riders on the horizon, around the corner, and up the hill.

Image: Kendra Clark

Related posts:

1. The Sundance 12
2. More Sundance
3. Sundance
4. Spinning my Wheels
5. Sundance From Space

Maybe it happened when I started using clipless pedals. Or the first time I rode with a heart rate monitor. Or when I started shaving my legs more often than my wife. I once read (in Bicycling, if I remember correctly) that riding a century for the first time is a sort of signal flare, a way of telling your friends and family that all this bike riding is “more than a hobby, but a lifestyle.” I rode my first century at about the same time I started using clipless pedals, the heart rate monitor, and so forth. But the century was a symptom, rather than a disease. It was a natural, seamless continuation of a way of life that was becoming more and more enjoyable and important to me.

But between the landmark accomplishments and cultural integration, was something deeper and more nuanced happening in my life. I began to realize that riding a bicycle, itself a simple, common act, was changing the way that I saw the world. Riding a bike was causing me to think and see everything differently. Or, if not differently, at least more clearly. And I know that right now some of you who know (or think you know) how I see the world are rolling your eyes in amazed disbelief. “I know you,” you are thinking, “and there is nothing clear about your worldview!” Well. Imagine that view before I started bothering with the bike.

But I’m not defending my belief system. Not today. Rather, my point is that before I started riding regularly, that belief system was, at best passively dormant, and at worst, deliberately neglected. In other words, I never thought much about anything at all until I started to spend countless hours, usually alone and surrounded by beauty, on my bicycle. The only conversation available was internal. I had a choice: ride in silence, or talk to myself. I chose to talk. And to argue. Sometimes aloud. As if a cyclist in rural Utah isn’t already an anomaly, imagine one mumbling to himself, while riding alone on the west side of West Mountain.

Eventually, I started to reconcile what I wanted to believe, with what I knew was true. That process is (like fighting a dragon) ongoing, evolutionary, and at times, even revolutionary. I am a different person than I was 15 years ago. I suppose that would be true with or without the bike. But in my case, the bike was instrumental in my growth as an adult. That is, I grew up on a bicycle. And that’s probably why I see the world as a metaphor for cycling, instead of cycling as a metaphor for the world. I’m a cyclist; everything is a trail or a road to be pedaled. Everything is a hill to climb, a headwind to face, or a mechanical to fix.

The most important thing I’ve learned through all the hours, and among all the miles, is that cycling creates cyclists. Tautological? Clearly. But if other cyclists are anything like me, and there are a few of you that are, then I know that you are also arguing with yourselves while spinning across gravel roads in Iowa, climbing mountain passes in Colorado, or snaking over singletrack in Georgia. And that means that each of you are also growing up on bikes, and, regardless of the various and distinct conclusions that we each arrive at, that we can all be sure of one thing: the world needs more people on bikes.

Why? Because cyclists have learned that life is meant to be self-powered, spent with friends and family, and energetically cooperative. Cyclists understand that headwinds, while vexing, can be mitigated. Cyclists have realized that team time-trials and solo break-aways are not contradictory, or mutually exclusive. Indeed, they are symbiotic. That is, individual and cooperative accomplishments cannot exist without each other. Behind the solo victory is a team. And inside the team, are individuals. Too esoteric? Or too obvious?

Nevertheless, as cyclists we have learned that each of us have long, rocky, twisted miles in our legs. And that each of us have somehow found a way to ride those miles. Along the way, we learned. We argued. With ourselves, and with each other. But as we argued, we also pulled each other through the wind and up the hill.

And that’s why the world needs more cyclists.

Related posts:

1. We Are Cyclists

Mythology is rampant with dragons. Dragons occupy our collective stories, from ancient Greece, to China, India, and Europe, and even to current American and English pop-culture. The dragon is a universal symbol of evil, chaos, or struggle. Throughout mythology a dragon is always slain by a hero, often an unsuspecting, humble, reluctant everyman; a man who draws his power to defeat the beast, not from nobility or royalty, and not from magic or brute strength, but from righteous honor and the worthiness of his cause and character. The motif is common and inspiring, even today. Who among us does not have dragons to slay?

Our lives are rife with opposition. Everyday we must fight off the forces of apathy, discontent, and entropy. The dragons of disease, tragedy, and conflict are ever-present, circling high overhead, waiting and watching. Dragons are infinite and inevitable. They are eternal, and indefatigable. However, these dragons can be defeated. We can win. Indeed, what choice do we have, but to win? Our cause is just. Our swords are sharp. And our hearts are pure. If the battle is inevitable, victory is imminent. But fight, we must.

There is no better way to fight dragons, than bike racing.

In bike racing, as in dragon fighting, we are never really done. When one race is finished, there is another to prepare for. Another race, another day of uncertainty, fear, and darkness. But bike racing teaches us to see in the dark. Or rather, to see through the dark. In a bike race we do the impossible. We overcome. Our continual quest for fitness, for better results, and for eternal glory, is an ongoing ascension, a perpetual climb. The higher we climb, the stronger we become. But climbing higher increases our encounters with dragons. Dragons love mountain tops. Where there is glory, there is also opposition.

What to do?

Fight the dragon.

Or, in more concrete terms, turn the pedals, even when (especially when!) doing so seems pointless, futile, and impossible.

We are bike racers. We live for the impossible.

We live to slay the dragon.

Related posts:

1. Enter The Dragon

For the serious ‘crosser, there is no debate. Tubular wheels, without question, are the only real way to race cyclocross. Anything else is, not only offensive to the Tradition of Cyclocross, but also insanely ineffective. No self-respecting ‘cross racer would ever be seen on anything other than carbon tubulars. It’s Just the Way It is.

But tubeless tires have come a long way. Tubeless is now standard on a mountain bike. Inner tubes? What are inner tubes? Oh right. Those folded strips of rubber that we carry in our jersey pockets for good luck. While tubeless is ubiquitous on the mountain, it’s hardly that way in ‘cross and on the road. But it’s becoming more prevalent. NoTubes builds a high-end series of tubeless road and ‘cross wheels. Hutchinson, among a few others, are selling tubeless road tires. It’s a very primitive trend, but it is growing. More and more narrow tires are neither tubular, nor inner-tubed. They’re tubeless.

Well. So what?

If tubular tires offer a better ride, what does it matter if another inferior design is catching on? It doesn’t. Unless of course, tubeless wheels can match, or surpass, the quality and comfort of tubular wheels. Can they?

Maybe.

I don’t have any experience with tubular tires. None. Unless you count watching other people suffer through numerous flat, rolled, and ripped tires at ‘cross races as experience? I’ve been told that nothing can match the soft, controlled ride of tubular tires. I’m sure this is true. I’ve thought seriously about investing into a pair of tubular wheels. But whenever that possibility arises, I balk. My mountain bike upbringing, and the ongoing success of (and faith in) various tubeless set-ups cause some of my skepticism. But the impractical learning curve is also partly to blame. I don’t know the first thing about gluing tires onto rims. Scratch that. I do know the first thing: hire someone else to do it. Which would work once or twice, but eventually I would need to learn the voodoo of the glue. Which might be fun. But I might get frustrated enough that instead of gluing tires, I’d just sniff the glue until I passed out.

Tubeless it is.

But tubeless cyclocross tires aren’t exactly trouble-free. Unlike the mountain bike world, which allows for an almost infinite choice of tire/rim combinations, tubeless ‘cross is fickle, picky, and unreliable. The known working tire/rim combinations are few and limited, which can cause great consternation among the Different-Tire-For-Every-Course contingency. Me? I’m not too picky. My riding skills are mediocre, as is my ability to decide which tires are better for different conditions. And anyway, a tire well suited to mud isn’t going to make me any better in the mud. Likewise, a fast rolling tire won’t actually help me roll any faster. I’ve been content to find a working tire (an “all-rounder”) and rim (inexpensive, durable) combo, and to ride it every day. Training, racing, dry, wet, what really is the difference?

But in the back of my mind a small, nagging thought has lingered…

“Am I missing something?”

Maybe tubular wheels really are the gold standard? And if so, are they worth the learning curve, the glue, the expense?

Yes, of course!

But only for the True ‘Cross Rider. I’m a hack, remember? A mid-pack hack. I secretly curse the rain. I’m terrible in corners. I can’t bunny hop. I’m a dirt bag in a sport made for smooth, clean-shaven, fashionable people from Rotterdam, Brussels, or Portland. Not from Utah. ‘Cross is a sport meant to reward skill and class. I have neither. My brutish approach to the game is crude and clumsy. Class? No, I don’t have class. But I can throw an elbow, and trip over barriers. I drink Diet Coke, instead of designer coffee. I use DZNuts embrocation cream, rather than something from Rapha or Mad Alchemy. I ride a crass, American branded bike made from Chinese carbon. I train and race on the same set of  inexpensive aluminum wheels with cheap, low-thread-count clinchers from mass-market, big-box manufactures like Bontrager or Specialized. I’m not worthy to use tires made by companies called Dugast, Tufo, or Vittoria. I don’t even use cantilever brakes! I’m unfit for the luxury of tubular wheels.

But maybe not for long.

I can change my ways. If Adam Myerson, tattooed and melodramatic, and can ride tubular wheels, maybe a mountain biker from Utah can as well? I can learn. About Belgium. About frites. I can learn who Sven Nys is, and how to say a few phrases in Dutch, or French, or New English. “Heeft u lijm uw eigen banden?” But until then, I’ll continue to get by with aluminum clinchers. Unsexy, but reliable. Like a good dog. Instead of rolling tires off my carbon rims, I’ll burp them off aluminum wheels; which is a rather telling metaphor for the tubeless/tubular debate. One rolls. The other belches.

But then, I’ve always enjoyed a hearty burp.

Image: John Shafer

Related posts:

1. DIY 29" Tubeless
2. Cross on Cross
3. ‘Cross Grade
4. June/July Review
5. My Crusher Bike

Being sick is miserable. Obviously.

There’s never a good time to be sick. But there are especially bad times. Like race day. As I warmed up for the first USCS race of the season, it was readily apparent that I should have been home. In bed. But, I had pre-registered. And the race was practically in my backyard. What choice did I have? And so, I lined up. I felt terrible. Truly terrible. I had chills, body aches, and a solid headache. However, I secretly hoped that I’d be able to race away the sick. That I’d be able to “dig below the sickness” and race as if I were healthy.

My first clue at how bad a day it was really going to be, was the electric energy coming from my fellow racers. Are mountain bikers always so hyper? And talkative? Racers rode their bikes up and down, round and round, this way and that way. And they talked. And talked. It was like being in a jar of buzzing mosquitos, everyone was zipping randomly in every direction, trying to escape into the wide, open air.

I sulked. I faked a few smiles and conversations, but it was useless. I was a man apart. I elbowed my way to the front of the pack and secured myself a good place to start anyway. I thought, “as long as I’m faking it…”

“How’s the cold?” asked Mark.

“I dunno. I guess I’m about to find out.” I answered.

“Good. I need you weak.”

Which is exactly what I was.

This race was unique. The lap was short—just a few miles—and fast. A couple of doubletrack climbs broke up the narrow singletrack, but mostly the race was a twisted, rocky, and compacted version of its longer, more breathable cousin—the XC race. It wasn’t quite XC, and it wasn’t really short-track. It was someplace in between, a ‘cross/XC hybrid. Fast, short, technical. It would all last just an hour… or maybe a little bit more. But not much more. I figured that if I were really sick, that I could fake my way through the race, secure a few series points, and go back to bed. Anything can be faked for an hour, right?

Anything, except mountain bike racing.

It took no more than 30 seconds for the entire flight to utterly and completely leave me. They all rode away immediately and definitively. I gasped for breath, and more gears, as I soft-pedaled (at 175 bpm) up the opening climb. A climb that seemed especially long and steep, but in reality, was not at all long or steep. I knew then, that it was going to be a very, very long day. And in the end, it was.

I finished. Dead last. Indeed, I think it was the first time I had ever finished absolutely last in any race. I once finished something like 235th in a high school cross country race. But there were two or three kids behind me that day. It once took me over 12 hours to finish the Brianhead Epic 100. But it took a few others even longer. Somehow, no matter how badly I have raced, there have always been someone whose day was worse. Or, if not worse, at least, longer. But not this day. No, on this day I finished with the distinguished honor of the Red Lantern.

But I was sick. Really sick.

In fact, the rest of the day, and into the next week (and lingering still), this long-overdue physical correction caused me to hobble around the house like an old man. I’ve shivered and moaned, complained, and coughed. And all the while, I lamented my result. Dead last.

But I was sick! Somehow the words never brought any comfort. Yes, I was sick. But I lined up, anyway. And lining up at a race comes with certain unwritten declarations. Among them: “I am here to race, and to win. I am here to compete. I will do everything in my power to beat you. Right now, we are friends, but when the race starts, we are enemies, rivals, competitors.” And so, being sick, while a legitimate reason to skip a race, is not a legitimate excuse for a poor performance during a race. I lined up. I knew what I was getting myself into. Being destroyed by my competitors was the only possible outcome. It was just and inevitable.

I thought, erroneously, that I could fool my body. In fact, isn’t that what bike racers do every day? Fool our bodies into performing heroic acts of 2-wheeled supremacy? Actually, no. Instead, we fool, not our bodies, but our minds. Our bodies are well-trained. Finely tuned. Or, at the very least, tuned adequately. It’s our internal, mental governors that need fooling. Perhaps that’s why I never really considered skipping the race. I’ve become too adept at self-deception. I tricked my brain into thinking that I was ready to race. Which, of course, is nothing new. I would have done the same thing, had I been healthy. Only, instead of tricking the the mind into thinking I were healthy, I’d have tricked it into believing some other delusional stupor involving trophies, oversized checks, and podium girls. Alas, there were no podium girls. None at all.

As I pedaled around the course, others must have wondered if I were actually racing. “He has a race number,” I imagined them thinking, “but nothing else suggests he is racing at all.” No. I was racing. Nominally. I reminded myself over and over that “this is an amateur event. There is no shame in completely sucking.” Indeed, that is true. But that I had no pride whatsoever is indicative of how awful I really was feeling. There are two kinds of suffering: Good suffering. And bad suffering. And there was nothing good about how I was feeling.

And yet, racing is racing. And riding a bike is better than not. I tried to fake my way into fitness. I failed. I pretended not to be ill. But I was ill. The alternative, however, was far more undesirable. I could have stayed home in bed, but I would have been just as miserable. And so, given a choice of miseries, I’ll choose bike-misery over regular-misery every time.

It’s been said that “there are no bad days on bikes”. It’s an awfully presumptuous idea. But it’s also the Gospel Truth.

Indeed, suffering on a bike, is always good suffering.

No related posts.

Airplane windows are poorly designed. They are too small. And too low. For an adult to peer out he must slouch or strain. It’s uncomfortable and laborious. Nevertheless, a window seat on a cross-country flight offers an interesting topographical experience. I don’t fly often. But when I do, my love for maps and for looking out of windows is combined into an arial perspective that, even as an adult, is thrilling.

Recently, I flew home from Pennsylvania on a crowded flight full of exhausted, restless people. The flight was, in every conceivable way, uncomfortable. The plane was old and cramped. The temperature in the cabin fluctuated randomly. And my row-mates slept fitfully and without regard to personal spaces. And so, I huddled meagerly against the window, hunched and sore, and watched as the United States passed below.

From Philadelphia, we rose abruptly into a cloudy sky. Quickly the tall buildings of the city became toy-like and distant. The suburban neighborhoods faded into country farms and ranches. The river-lands of the Ohio sprawled out below us in fertile vastness. I tried to guess which river or lake I was staring at. I have no doubt that my guesses, while perhaps regionally accurate, were never actually correct. The sheer number of rivers, lakes,  and streams made the game futile. Even with the wide-angled birds-eye view of the airplane’s GPS, it was impossible to know exactly where we were. But I ventured silent guesses anyway.

From the air, the variation of the land was muted. Canyons and mountains looked like wrinkles and goosebumps. Green and brown and yellow passed by indefinitely and constantly. Small towns pocked the landscape, seemingly solitary in their existence. Close to nothing. Far from everywhere. And still, more rivers. More lakes. More fields of wheat, barley, and corn.

The man next to me slept. His face was smashed against the seat-back in front of him. He snored gently. A flight attendent reached over him to hand me a small, pointless, worthless bag of pretzels. Inside there were 3, maybe 4, miniature pretzels. I ate them begrudgingly, remembering that I had not yet had a proper meal that day, and that it would be hours until I would. When it cames to comfort Delta Airlines spared no expense. Minutes later, the man startled awake and looked around in bewilderment. But the pretzels were gone. He sat still, and looked annoyed.

Below, there was nothing. Empty, brown, featureless nothing. The plane was speeding over the Nebraska/South Dakota border. The landscape was bleak and featureless. Not exactly flat, but not rolling either. Bumpy, uneven, inhospitable. There were no visible rivers or lakes anymore. No fertile fields, no lonely towns. Only emptiness. It’s an emptiness that extended southward as far as I could see. Occasionally a dirt road wound and meandered through the maze below. I followed them with my eyes unti I couldn’t anymore. Some of the roads dead-ended on a rocky ridge or a canyon overlook, and others, at points unseen and unknown. My brain told me that the plane was moving, but the unchanging landscape below defied the idea. The occasional passage through, or near, clouds offered the only proof of forward progression.

The hours dripped away in complete boredom.

But then, there they were.

Far to the south, exploding from the rural monotony of the Nebraska badlands, interrupting the bleak horizon, were the Colorado Rockies. I stared in awe and wonder. Other ranges soon followed. The Laramie Range, The Medicine Bow Mountains, the Wind River, and Uinta ranges. In between the mountain peaks were open sage-laden valleys; the high desert plateaus of Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah.

In the distance I could see the Wasatch Range as its familiar peaks started to materialize. Timpanogos, Cascade, Provo, The Salt Lake Twins. We flew north of the Uintas, and over Cache Valley before plunging into the Salt Lake Valley.

At last, I was home.

Related posts:

1. Home Again
2. The Long Way Home
3. Home from Bike Camp
4. If You Can’t Beat ‘Em… Upgrade

The 2012 Crusher in the Tushars

Last summer I became entirely obsessed with the inaugural Crusher in the Tushars. The race consumed my cycling energies like little else ever has. After a lot of recon, gear testing, and map-gazing, race day arrived. I had a good day. A really good day. However, since then something has nagged at the back of my mind. That is, I’m not sure I learned anything on race day. Which is to say, I’m starting to plot and plan and scheme all over again. After all, the 2012 Crusher is right around the corner.

Bike racing can bring out the best in each of us. But I think too, that it can expose the mind-bending oddities in each of us as well. Or maybe only in me. After all, a sane person would do one of two things for the 2012 Crusher:

1) Exactly what he did last year, when he had a “really good day.”

2) Set up his ‘cross bike with reliable tires, and race.

Neither option requires much thought or effort. And neither option calls for any navel-gazing or second-guessing. Pick the bike. Ride the bike. Easy.

But where’s the fun in that?

The primary reason that the 2011 race failed to answer the “best bike”, and more specifically the “best tire”, question is because so many people successfully rode so many different bikes and tires. I was certain that 35c cyclocross tires would be torn to pieces. They weren’t. I was certain anyone riding tubulars would end up walking roadside with a flat tire. They didn’t. And I was really certain that the two riders on road bikes were two imminent drop-outs. I was only half-right. But the rider who did finish the race on his road bike, finished in the top 20. People who rode mountain bikes stood on podiums. So did people on ‘cross bikes. And so did people on ‘tweener bikes. As long as it rolled, any bike was the right bike.

The separating factor was (obviously!) the legs.

And those will be exactly the same ones that I used last year. Damn.

But, perhaps I did learn something in 2011: There is no “best” bike or tire for the Crusher. But that reality doesn’t make choosing a bike or tire any easier. Indeed, the wide variety of possibilites only adds to the indecision. However, I am a lot more confident about what my bike will look like on July 14th than I was a year ago. But if you are at all like me (kinda sucks, eh?), and you are planning to race the 2012 Crusher, then undoubtedly you are already thinking about tire choices, training rides, and course recon, even if you had a successful race last year. With that in mind, I give you my guide to the 2012 Crusher in the Tushars.

Disclaimer: Everything written in this guide reflects my own opinions and experiences. Nothing is meant to be definitive. This guide assumes that the 2012 conditions will be similar to 2011. Any weather events, USFS work, or other unforeseen circumstances could obviously change the course. I’ve tried to make sure everything is as accurate as possible. This is not an official Crusher in the Tushar guide, although I have consulted with race creator Burke Swindlehurst on a few points. Be sure to monitor www.tusharcrusher.com for official race-day updates and changes. I will try to keep this post updated with any such news.

2011 Crusher Photos by Chris See
Official Crusher in the Tushar Website

Part 1: The Course

Feed Stations:

• 1: Mile 18
• 2: Mile 38
• (Possible) Water Station: Mile 42
• 3: Mile 51
• 4: Mile 59

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Click to Enlarge

69 miles. 10,000 vertical.

In 2011, Utah, and most of the Rocky Mountain West, had record breaking snowfall. The snow just kept falling. And falling. And… falling. It was fantastic, for skiers. But not so fantastic for mountain bikers. Many of the normal trails that are open in June did not melt and dry until late July. The record snowfall had an enormous impact on the Crusher. It was uncertain whether or not the snow on Big John Flat Road, which tops out at 11,500 (the highest road in Utah) would be passable. We all watched the Snowtel numbers anxiously while pestering the USFS for updates. And just when it looked like the snow would give way to summer and the road would be rideable on race day, it was discovered that a massive avalanche, or several avalanches, had destroyed the road. Completely. The Crusher’s original route was a no-go. No problem. Race creator Burke Swindlehurst had a Plan B, and executed it perfectly. That Plan B is the 2012 Plan A, since the USFS is still re-building the damaged road.

Start to Feed 1: 18 miles.

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The race starts in downtown Beaver, Utah. We will roll out of town on gently rolling pavement and directly into Beaver Canyon (hey, this is a family blog!) where the climbing starts to get a little more apparent. Last year this moderate climbing was where a lot of riders decided to attack the various fields. Groups splintered quickly as the early pecking order was established. I suspect the same will happen this year. There will be nearly twice the number of riders in 2012 as 2011. So find a group of wheels, and hang on. The course stays paved for 11 miles. None of the climbing in these first 11 miles is very steep. But nonetheless, it’s still climbing. At mile 11 the route turns right, leaving the canyon highway and heading into the off-beat forest roads of the Tushar Mountains. Grades in the first 11 miles are within the 3-6% range.

After a brief stint on a little more pavement, and one of the steepest climbs so far, the asphalt ends and the dirt begins. You will be on dirt now almost all the way to Junction, Utah, mile 51. The end of the pavement does not mean the end of the climbing. No, the climbing continues consistently for the next 13 miles—and 3,000 vertical feet. However, much of the elevation gain from mile 11 to Feed Station 1, at mile 18, is graded mildly (7-9% in the first half, and 3-5% the second), and on a well-maintained road.  If you are the kind of rider that likes to settle into a consistent climbing rhythm, then this will be a strong section for you. There is an abundance of scenery—mountain lakes, meadows, and treeless peaks—to distract the eye, and to help the mind forget the task at hand. And this early in the race there ought to be groups of like-paced slipstreams to hang around in.

Feed station 1 arrives at Anderson Meadow Reservoir—mile 18—with a welcome reprise in the climbing. Refuel as needed, and take a deep breath. There’s more uphill ahead.

Feed 1 to Feed 2: 20 Miles.

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Feed 2 is 20 miles from Feed 1. This section is relatively fast. The climbing is mild, shaded, and enjoyable, if climbing can ever be called “enjoyable.” This segment of the race scrapes the top of the entire course, and contours through a series of rolling meadows, pine forests, and aspen groves. It’s scenic, but—and this is a challenge throughout the race—don’t get too caught up in the beauty! You are, after all, racing. After passing the Y-intersection (stay rigtht) the course trends downward until it plunges abruptly off the plateau and into the town of Junction, where Feed 2 is located.

The Plunge.

When you take the plunge, you’ll have spent 2 or 3 hours, and 23 miles, climbing. All the elevation you’ve gained is about to be lost. Almost instantly. The descent into Junction is the most hair-raising part of the entire race. The road is wide, washboarded, and at times has a thin layer of loose gravel sitting atop sun-hardened dirt. Toward the top, the switchbacks are steep and tight. But soon they give way to sweeping, high-speed turns. In 2011, even on the mountain bike, and with disc brakes, I felt uncomfortable on the Junction Plunge. I can’t see any reason to take any significant risks on this downhill. It’s not going to take anyone who stays upright very long to reach the bottom. On The Plunge, slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Oh, and when you’re hanging on for dear life speeding down the hill, try not to think about the fact that in about an hour, you’ll be climbing up this very same road.

Feed 2 to Feed 3: 14 miles.

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Ready for some pavement? You’d better be. After leaving Junction, it’s time to ride along the historic scenic byway, Highway 89. Unfortunately, the 6 miles from Junction to Circleville isn’t exactly the most scenic part of the road. The initial section of pavement features a small climb, a welcome descent, and then… it’s flat and straight all the way into town. Circleville is visible, but doesn’t seem to get any closer. In 2011 I rode this entire stretch of asphalt alone. And it was lonely. I tried to keep a good cadence while wolfing down food and drink. Above me to the right, I could see a massive cut in the hillside stretching up and up, and beyond the tops of the ridgeline—the road I had just descended, and would soon be climbing. A wheel or two to share the work with during this treadmill of pavement would have been most welcome. If you can grab a wheel or three, this section will roll by quickly. But even with more than 300 riders racing in 2012, don’t be surprised to spend a bit of time here alone. Between the harrowing downhill, and the feed station in Junction, groups may be hard to come by. A water station may be located in Circleville for 2012.

As soon as we arrive in Circleville, we leave Circleville. We turn right off of 89, and spend just a few hundred feet on pavement. After that, it’s dirt for 8 miles. This is probably the roughest section of dirt on course. After zipping over sunbaked farm roads and through fields of alfalfa, the course climbs stoutly into the scrubby stumps and cedars of the Tushar foothills. After the rocky, steady ascent, the terrain rolls along double-track jeep trail for a few miles. This segment was fast on the mountain bike, but may require a little more attention on a ‘cross bike with narrow tires. This was also where the heat of the day started to manifest itself. In 2011 the weather was mild, but riding along here during midday the heat felt stifling. An actual hot day will feel really, really terrible in this exposed, rolling terrain. The segment ends back at the foot of the Col de Crush and Feed 3. Time to climb. And climb.

Feed 3 to Feed 4: 8 Miles.

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I’ve done a few bike races in my life. Some of them were difficult. And some involved a lot of climbing. But I’ve never done anything quite like the Col de Crush. The climb is big. It is steep. There is no shade. And for much of it, the road above is visible, mocking, taunting. If there are bikes in hell, then this is the road we’ll be riding into eternal damnation. Eventually—40-80 minutes—the climbing ends. But before then, you will experience multiple come-to-Jesus moments as you churn the pedals up this relentless, merciless beast. At the top of the the climb the road rolls and contours through pleasant meadows and trees. I was too knackered in 2011 to enjoy the scenery. I was blown, and had a stark-raving-mad craving for Coke and Pringles. The 3 or 4 miles from the summit to the feed station felt much, much longer. When I finally did stagger into the feed zone I was greeted with smiling faces and the Coke and Pringles I so desperately wanted. After the hell of the climb, the salty chips and the cold, sugary soda were heaven on Earth.

The Col de Crush

What makes the Col de Crush so difficult? It isn’t any one thing. But the 50 miles already in the legs, the exposure, intimidating scope, and the relentless, steep, and perfectly cut grade conspire to create a most challenging endeavor. Narrow tires will struggle for traction on the dusty and steep road. Fatter tires will be sluggish and heavy—just like your legs. Your cassette will be too small, your compact crank, not compact enough. The Col de Crush is a climb worthy of any Grand Tour, although, it may be better suited for the fringe, ragged edges of bike racing. It is a hill far too outlandish, brash, and comically difficult for a professional peloton. In other words, it’s the perfect climax for the Crusher in the Tushars.

Feed 4 to the Finish: 11 miles.

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The final stretch of the Crusher is a series of rollers. The dirt road weaves through the high plateau beneath the 12,000 foot peaks of the Tushars. With 5 miles left to ride the road turns downward for about 2 miles, and consists of dirt switchbacks, blind corners, and fast straight-aways. The dirt ends for the last time at the bottom of the hill. But when the asphalt returns, it’s time to climb once again. The final 3 miles, all paved, include some of the steepest climbs of the day. A brutal ascent takes riders over the summit of the highway, at 10,000 feet above sea-level, which is followed by the final chance to rest before the days ultimate climb—the ultimate mile.

The final mile of the Crusher is a 400 foot vertical surge. Straight up. No switchbacks, not reprise in the grade, and nowhere to hide. But it’s too late to despair now. By this point the music and buzz of the finish line will be audible. The smell of food will have wafted down the hill. The finish line itself will remain maddeningly invisible until you’ve earned the right to cross it. But when you do see it, it will only be a few pedal strokes away.

It’s perfectly appropriate to feel utterly and completely wonderful when you cross this finish line. Behind you is 70 miles of challenging, shadeless, merciless dirt and pavement. Behind you are the countless training hours, tire debates, skipped desserts, and schematic planning. Behind you is the 2012 Crusher in the Tushars. Congratulations.

Go get a burger, sit down in the shade, and bask in the high-altitude glory of being a Crusher Crusher.

Part 2: The Bike

Which bike to ride? It doesn’t matter. Really, it doesn’t. Are there certain tactical advantages to a ‘cross bike? Probably. But those will be offset by the advantages of a mountain bike. A cyclocross bike will probably be lighter, which will be nice for all the climbing. A mountain bike will be more stable and predictable, which will work well for the descending. But riders on bikes of all shapes and sizes had good days in 2011. Pick a bike, ride the bike.

Which tires should I use?

Recommending tires to another rider is a little bit like recommending a girlfriend. That is, what I am attracted to may not interest you very much. However, in tires, as in dating, finding the right shoes can really complete the outfit. Or. Whatever. Pick out a set of tires that is lightweight, fast rolling, and that doesn’t have sidewalls made from wet paper. That said, picking the ideal tire for the Crusher is impossible. There isn’t one. But there are tires that are better than others. The trick is figuring out which is which.

On a mountain bike? Last year I ran the Bontrager Team XR1, 29 x 1.9.  The tires worked well. But there are other similar options: the Kenda Smallblock, Maxxis Crossmark, and NoTubes Crow or Raven (MTB), among many others. The best method for picking out a tire for the Crusher is to pick out a tire weeks before race day… and ride it. Ride it on pavement and dirt roads. If it works, then you’re golden. If not, try something else. Of course, if it “works” or not is subjective, and reliant on your own expectations.

Bontrager XR1

On a cyclocross bike? Cyclocross tires are an emerging fascination for me. I am not a tubular enthusiast. I just have not made that investment a priority—yet. However, I am quite interested in the ‘cross tubeless movement. I’ve had good luck with the Maxxis Raze (on Easton EA70 rims), and a couple of offerings from Continental, but by far the best tire I’ve set up tubeless is the NoTubes Raven (CX). I raced an entire ‘cross season on the Raven with no burps and no flats. And while the tire isn’t ideally suited for mud, it is a near perfect tire for the Crusher—indeed I spent a signifiant portion of the 2011 race staring at a Raven as I tried to hold Darrell Davis’ wheel. It’s light, rolls fast, and wants to be used without tubes. It is most likely the tire I will be using for the 2012 race.

The Raven? It’s too narrow!

Tire volume for the Crusher is an ongoing dilemma, but I don’t think it should be. Again, in 2011, plenty of riders were successful on standard cyclocross tires—tires that were 32-36c in width. A wider tire, 40-45c, will add traction for the steep roads, but will come with a weight penalty. Tire width, like tread pattern, is a matter of preference. Do you want a fast, narrow, tire? Or a comfortable fatter tire? A little bit of both? If you are going to set your bike up with tubeless cyclocross tires, volume is not as important as bead seal. A tire that seals, and stays sealed, is more valuable than a fatty that burps. Generally speaking, tires with higher thread counts—120tpi—are less likely to burp air because of the softer, more flexible sidewall. A stiffer—60tpi—tire will not “give” as much, and thus, is more likely to release air than its flexy cousin. Like mountain bike tires, pick out a ‘cross tire early and test, test, test.

The Crusher roads are well worn, and in many cases the dirt is nearly as smooth as the pavement. There are exceptions, of course, but our route is almost entirely passable in a 2-wheel drive car. Find a similar road in your area (Skyline Drive, Snake Creek Canyon, Guardsman Pass, Corner Canyon, etc. for you Salt Lake locals) and find out which tires and bikes work best for you. After last year’s race I said that the “the best bike for the Crusher is the bike that each rider was most confident and comfortable riding.” I still believe that. Nonetheless, gear testing and research is enjoyable. For some people. If you are not one of those people, then the tires that are on your bike right now will probably work just fine on race day.

And Finally…

The bike and the tires—so long as they work—will fade into the background of what should be one of the highlights of your bike racing experience. The Crusher, like the Tushar mountains themselves, is unique, inspiring and superlative. The oddball nature of the race creates an atmosphere of intrigue, mystery, and, when the day is done, triumphant accomplishment. You’ll never ride another race like the Crusher—there isn’t one.

Related posts:

1. The Crusher: Which Bike?
2. My Crusher Bike
3. Everything I Know About the Crusher
4. Secret Weapons for The Crusher
5. The Rev’s Crusher Recon (video)

But where do these numbers come from, and how were they devised? According to the SkiLink website they originated from an “Economic Impact Analysis performed by RCLCO - one of the nation’s most respected economic advisors.”

Except, not.

The touted economic impact analysis was indeed performed by RCLCO, a company whose mission “is to be the leading real estate knowledge and solutions provider”, and who is managed entirely by real estate developers and planners. I’m not Sherlock Holmes, but an analysis conducted by a real estate magnate on behalf of another real estate magnate strikes me as remarkably convenient. A positive review from RCLCO will, of course, mean future contracts when Talisker begins to build condos on the banks of Desolation Lake. This is not the first time that Talisker and RCLCO have partnered—they also teamed up on Talikser’s Tuhaye project—and it will not be the last time either.

But even more concerning is the fact that this analysis was not independent at all. Canyons created the projections themselves. RCLCO only “gauged the reasonableness” of them. The analysis admits that:

Forecasting skier visitation attributable to any single factor is challenging given the multitude of factors that come into play when examining historical visitation patterns. Therefore, the task of projecting skier visitation often becomes a relatively qualitative exercise that draws on experience, anecdotal evidence, and capacity estimates. Instead of producing our own skier visitation projections, then, we opted to gauge the reasonableness of The Canyons projections.

When SkiLink supporters claim that a gondola in Big Cottonwood Canyon will “create jobs”,  ”decrease traffic in the canyons” and “bring millions of dollars to the Utah economy”, it’s important to remember that such claims are based on wishful thinking. The numbers are a ruse. The numbers are dangled in front of gullible politicians and an indifferent public. That none of the claims will ever materialize is irrelevant. The goal is not economic growth, or traffic mitigation. Talisker’s goal is ever and always land acquisition. Talisker has enlisted the help of politicians because nobody is better at making ridiculous, impossible, and baseless claims appear to be viable and inevitable. But these numbers are not rooted in reality. Indeed the analysis acknowledges that its “opinions are not offered as predictions or assurances that a particular level of income or profit will be achieved, that particular events will occur, or that a particular price will be offered or accepted.”

SkiLink is a ruse. It is merely the first step in Talisker’s plan to turn the northern slopes of Big Cottonwood Canyon—watershed, recreational, and beautiful terrain—into another flock of expensive and gaudy homes.

Related posts:

1. Stop The SkiLink Gondola