Mom's Mom's Brownies

I grew up eating these brownies and I know that brownies are highly individual and everyone has their own opinion of what is good in a brownie and a lot of people really like really fudgey brownies, but these brownies are NOT fudgey and these brownies are my favorite of all time. Might even be my favorite treat of all time. It might be because for the past 30 years or so I have been searching for a brownie that would or could be a close approximation of what I remember having as a child. I never found it. Let me mention too that I really dislike fudgey brownies and rest assured, these brownies are not fudgey.

Since I mentioned these brownies, I have gotten some requests to share the recipe, so I figured I would do so here even though brownies have nothing to do with my cycling or improving my cycling performance. Brownies are probably something that I and other cyclists might do well to avoid. But, just like I have problems with moderation, I also have problems with self-discipline, especially when it comes to food. And so what. Let me set the stage.

These are CAKE brownies. They have a mouth feel like nothing I have ever consumed and they melt in your mouth in a special way that nothing else can. These are the only cake brownies I have ever eaten. I have tired, as I mentioned, for the last 30 years to find something similar, but every brownie I have put into my mouth is too fudgey for my tastebuds. I felt bad for my wife, who makes AWESOME treats, even brownies, but I have always been honest with her and let her know that her brownies, while fantastically good, were never quite what I was longing for.

This year on my birthday recently I went for a long hilly ride on a cold and windy day and when I returned, my wife surprised me with the brownies I had been searching and longing for for 30 years. She and the kids had prepared them for my birthday treat. I was floored. I also stand corrected, because when I dug up the old recipe card to note the recipe here, I saw that the recipe card was titled:

"Mom's Basic Brownies (For 13 X 9 Pan)"

The card was written in my Mom's younger handwriting. I can tell because as she aged her handwriting improved to the point of being perfect cursive. Judging from this handwriting, I would guess that she wrote on this old recipe card well before I was born. Since it was HER Mom's recipe, that means this old recipe could be almost 100 years old. I find that pretty cool. So here it is: my Mom's Mom's Brownies (and I quote)

Recipe: Mom's Basic Brownies (For 13 X 9 Pan)

Ingredients:

1 and 1/3 cup flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
2/3 cup butter
4 squares Baker's Unsweetened Chocolate
2 cups sugar
4 eggs well beaten
1 cup chopped walnuts
2 tsp vanilla

Process:

Set oven at 350 degrees - Bake for 25 minutes
Sift flour once. Measure, add baking powder and salt and sift again.
Melt chocolate and butter over hot water.
Add sugar gradually to eggs, beating well.
Add chocolate mixture and blend.
Add flour and mix well.
Stir in nuts and vanilla,
Pour in pan!

Awesome is all I can say. And, thanks to my wife for finding this old recipe card and making these for my birthday this year. Let me know if you enjoy this type of brownie as much as I do. Thanks.

Lagniappe

At the bridge, I take off my rain jacket. It has done it's job and kept me pretty warm on the cold windy descent down Utah Hill from checkpoint one. I zip, fold and stuff it in my right jersey pocket with my Mandarin Orange Gu and my teriyaki beef sticks that are permanently stuck in the u-fold shape. It looks like most of the riders behind me have made the u-turn left at the bottom of the hill that we were all warned about and now its time to make my way up Old Highway 91 past Gunlock Reservoir, through Gunlock, past the SLOW sign and up the hill to the deep dish chocolate chip cookie waiting for me at Veyo Pies, which is check point number two. Basically that's going to be about 18 more miles with only 1600 or so feet of elevation gain. I feel good, but I decide to leave my windstopper beanie on under my helmet because it's still pretty cold and the wind is whipping around pretty hard.

I know that good basketball players have to quickly forget the last missed shot, or they'll never make another one, so as I shed my rain jacket, I also try to mentally shed the disappointment I feel about my slower than I wanted to go 7.5 mile descent down Utah Hill and try to shake off that frustration in the cold wind. There are hills coming up and more descents as well, so I start looking forward to them and try to quickly forget about getting Jimmered by the wind for the last 15 or so minutes out of the how many ever I am going to spend getting through this Tri-States Gran Fondo.

I start pedaling in the wind again up this rolling and ramp filled Old Highway 91 as it wanders up this beautiful valley toward Gunlock Reservoir and realize that I'm really starting to look forward to my deep dish chocolate chip cookie that is waiting for me at Veyo Pies. It's the special treat provided by Planet Ultra, the Tri-States Gran Fondo's organizer. It's always amazing to me that it's the little things, like that, that are what make me happy. The small stuff - the small gestures of a little bit of extra. A few kind words or something more than is expected. That kind of stuff. Lagniappe.

On my last birthday my wife surprised me by making some from-scratch brownies from my Mom's old recipe, and I don't remember exactly, but it was probably 30 or more years since I have tasted them. There is not another brownie like them, and as they melted in my mouth, that little gesture from my wife was so appreciated - so unduplicable - so surprising - so a little bit of extra - and so wonderful. It made me feel as loved as I can feel loved. It was wonderful. It is something I will never forget. Lagniappe.

So I ride on up the rollers and ramps, getting whipped by the wind, thinking about other little things about my wife. How she accepts me for who I am and doesn't try to change me. How she lets me ride even when I know she would rather me be spending my time with her and the kids. I like how she always asks "how long are you going to be this time?" I like how she agreed to let me build this new(er) bike even though money was tighter than tight so that I could go on rides like this ride and I like when she tells me "you NEED to go for a ride today." Lagniappe.

I wonder how it is that she seems to be becoming more like me as we age together. Or like a puzzle, I wonder if maybe I'm becoming more like her as that would probably be the better deal. We are different in a lot of ways but as the years go by we are becoming a lot more the same. I think about how we have the same values, even if mine are rougher around the edges than hers. I remember the way she touched my hand as she gave me the parking validation that day at the University of Utah thirteen years ago. That day I became her Minute Maid Man and we haven't looked back since. Lagniappe for sure.

I remember the time she dressed up as Santa Claus for Christmas in New Mexico so I could take some staged "candid" pictures of Santa leaving my Sister's house after leaving presents on Christmas Eve. Then we staged some reindeer tracks and reindeer poop out on the snow in the yard so we could prove that Santa Claus is real for another year or two for our three older kids who, while wanting to, didn't quite believe anymore. Then we sat down and ate Santa's cookies and drank Santa's milk before going to bed for a few hours prior to the kids waking up surprised. That was a great Christmas. Lagniappe for the kids.

I remember the countdown calendar she made for the kids so they could countdown the days until Daddy came home from traveling all over the country for weeks at a time trying to make a descent living. I remember the gingerbread houses she makes with the kids, the crafts, the gifts and all the thoughtfulness. If I were a cup, my wife would be like pouring a full cup of water into a full cup of water. She gives so much and asks so little in return and I wonder if I am guilty of not even giving that little that she does ask. I wonder if I put enough or as much effort into being a good father, husband and friend as I do into being a better cyclist? Thank goodness my wife is not a dripping faucet. That is lagniappe for me.

How do I put the V-meter on that? How do I know if I'm pushing myself on that as hard as I can? There should be a power meter for my marriage and my family and my kids so I can train as hard at those things as I do on my bikes. Or harder maybe, because sometimes my mind can't push my body as hard as my mind knows that it needs to on the bike and I end a ride knowing that I have given it less than my best effort. There should be a way to measure my performance in my life away from cycling. Or maybe there is. Maybe the measurement is what I get back from them. That is certainly quantifiable as well as qualifiable and I'm thinking now that I get back much more than I deserve because I seem to get back much more than I feel I put into it, just like on the bike. A little bit of extra undeserved. Again, lagniappe.

I know there's a bit of a ramp rolling up from the bottom of the dam to Gunlock Reservoir and I got faked out a few miles back in the wind and the cold, but now I see it up ahead and shift down a few cogs to stand and stretch my legs and back before the rise. As the road tips up, I sit back down and shift back up and settle into an easy cadence as I pedal up the hill. As I'm cresting the rise I see the lake and the Gunlock State Park sign and roll past admiring the scenery. Then I turn around and go back, thinking I better get a picture of something on this Gran Fondo and besides, I need to take off the windstopper beanie now because climb number two is just up the road a bit on the way to my lagniappe - my deep dish chocolate chip cookie waiting for me at Veyo Pies which is checkpoint number two.

I carefully park my bike against a rock near the sign, wary of another puff-of-wind mishap, and take a quick photo of my bike in repose by the lake with my Windows phone. While it's still very windy, it is warming up a little bit and the day is actually turning quite sunny right now. I'm about to stuff my windstopper beanie in my left jersey pocket with my spare tube and two chocolate chip granola bars, leaving room for my coffee shop covers that are now protecting my Speedplay cleats as I crunch around in the gravel and dirt. A little peloton of two cyclists wheel by and one asks if everything is OK. I answer "yes, just taking a picture" as he nods his head and they continue down the road.

Then he turns around and comes back and offers to take a picture of me with my bike by the lake and I take him up on that. Then I take a couple pictures of him and his bike with his camera. Little gestures that means a lot. More small stuff that really matters. A little bit of something extra. Here are two men with timing chips glued to the top of their helmets taking a moment out of the ride to do something kind for each other. It's slowing both of us down on this timed event that isn't a race, and we are both OK with that. How odd is that lagniappe? I'm thinking about that when another little peloton of four wheel up with the same idea, so I stay and take pictures of them as the other rider jets off to chase back on to his peloton of two with his buddy on the way to their deep dish chocolate chip cookies waiting for them at Veyo Pies.

I get everything packed back up into my jersey pockets and get underway in the wind again, making my way by the lake and eventually into the town of Gunlock. I come up a little riser, smelling the horses before I can see them and wonder what they think of all these cyclists riding by in the wind on their way through town. Gunlock is a nice little place and seems quite peaceful and quiet with the Autumn leaves blowing off the trees. I pass an old firetruck and glance at the flames on my top tube where the red turns to black and think that it would make a cool picture opportunity, but decide not to stop, and soon make my way past the town pond too. Before I get to the pond, I spot the road tipping up at what will be the start of climb number two out of three proper climbs on this Tri-States Gran Fondo, and I don't know it yet, but I'm about to encounter more lagniappe. I keep pedaling on in the wind heading up the road to my deep dish chocolate chip cookie waiting for me at Veyo Pies which is checkpoint number two. No, I don't know it yet, but I'm about to encounter the SLOW sign.

The Trouble With Tribbles

My chin is about an inch from my stem. I am well back on my seat with my feet at 3 and 9 o'clock on the pedals with my torso as flat as I can get it. My knees are tucked to within a centimeter of the top tube and my elbows are tucked in too as tight as I can get them while maintaining the perfect 90 degree or steeper bend. I can barely get my neck bent up far enough to see over my sunglasses as I watch for major road imperfections that I need to avoid and my eyes are watering like crazy. My rain jacket is noisily flapping a bit but it is doing it's job and keeping the cold wind from grinding at my core and arms so I can maintain some semblance of warmth as I blast this 7.5 mile downhill after the personal disaster for me that was checkpoint one.

I could stick my tongue out and lick my computer but decide instead to glance down at it quickly and check my speed. What the heck? 28 mph? I thought my blast felt slow. I normally judge a hill and how steep and hard it is to climb by how fast I can descend that same hill and while I haven't yet had a chance to ascend this hill that will eventually become climb number three of three proper climbs on this Tri-States Gran Fondo, when I see 28 mph in my full-on aero tuck suddenly I think I'm in store for a quite underwhelming ascent when I finally come back around to here and start this climb number three at mile 78.

But before I get to mile 78 and have to ascend this climb number three of roughly 1440 feet in roughly 7.5 miles, I first have to glide down it here at mile 28 and it is unfortunately going much slower than I had anticipated. The wind is whipping me like crazy and I can't really get a fix on from what specific direction it's really coming from, but it feels mostly like a brutally cold headwind. I was expecting a tailwind and I know the wind has picked up considerably from this morning's start but this is ridiculous.

The sun is climbing slowly and it has warmed up a little from the frosty breath cold of this morning's start, but still, it's a darn chilly day and now this wind is whipping like crazy. It is blasting at me in fierce cold gusts and pushing my bike and me all over the road on my way down this hill. Honestly, I was expecting to be gliding down easily around 35 to 40 mph or more based on the average 7% grade and not having to pedal at all, but rather, having the luxury of soft pedaling to keep my knees warmed up and loose. But no, it is not to be, so unfortunately I start pedaling on the 11 tooth cog and it is all I can do to hit a reasonable cadence in this wind and still my speed feels slow.

I love to descend. Even more, I love to descend fast. Way down deep inside of my quiet expectations for this Tri-States Gran Fondo, I was hoping to hit 50 or 55 mph on the downhills that I expected to encounter along the 112 miles and 7500 feet of descent that went along with the pain and suffering I felt I was going to endure with the 7500 feet of climbing. I glance down quickly again and instead suffer the fizzling disappointment of seeing 30ish mph on the computer.

This chilly wind is killing my fun. This wind is pushing me all over the road. This wind is strong and cold and gusting hard as I'm winding my way down the backside of Utah Hill on my way to the u-turn left at the bottom that we have all been warned not to miss. I look at the little clumps of bunch grass along the road's shoulder and it looks like it's bowing down to the road toward my bike and paying us homage. It reminds me of the Tribbles on Star Trek introduced to the crew on the Enterprise through Uhura who was given one by a galactic trader named Cyrano Jones. And  then the trouble with Tribbles ensued.

The bunch grass looks like Tribbles as the wind bows it over and it's everywhere along both sides of the road as I struggle downhill against this cold hammering wind. This wind reminds me of Captain Koloth and his First Officer Korax who were the Klingons causing all the trouble for the Enterprise crew along with the Tribbles. This Koloth/Korax Klingon wind is spoiling my downhill fun, forcing me to pedal and spend energy on what I thought was going to be a free ride and fun at a high rate of speed.

I feel like I'm Captain Kirk calling Scotty down in the engine room asking for more of something to reach a higher warp speed as I get blown over to the left then the right and then the left again. This wind is really fierce and hard and cold. I pass a number of riders coasting down the same hill, up on the hoods and taking it easy against the wind and the cold. "I'm giving it all she's got Captain" I say to myself in my best Scotty accent and I wonder how hard or easy or what it's going to be like when I get back here at mile 78 and work my way back up this hill full of Tribbles.

Will the wind die down? If it doesn't, it's going to be one heck of a headwind all the way back here from Veyo Pies and all the way back up this hill and all the way back to the finish in Mesquite. I get blown back to the left, the bottom of my wheels with their tiny one inch contact patches making the move first, tipping my bike precariously in the opposite direction that it is moving. Then the rest of my bike follows still tipped in the wrong direction as I try to carve precise corner apexes to aid my downhill slow high speed effort. I look down quickly at my computer again and realize that this downhill blast, this slow high speed effort has turned out a lot less blast and a lot less fast than I had hoped. That, I guess, is the trouble with Tribbles.

I know I'm getting to the bottom of Utah Hill as the cold wind continues shoving and bullying me around the road so I start to keep an eye out for that u-turn left that we've all been warned not to miss. A little further down the hill, I decide to straighten up, getting back on the hoods. In spite of my best efforts, the knees have cooled down a bit and gotten a little stiff too along with the neck from straining to crane up and see down the road.

The salty tears from my watering eyes have dried on the side of my cheeks and I find the u-turn left and brake long and hard to make the turn. I wonder how many, if any, riders will miss this u-turn left that we all were warned not to miss as I gently glide slowly through the u-turn and begin the push to my deep dish chocolate chip cookie waiting for me at Veyo Pies and checkpoint number two about 18 or so more miles up the road.

I glance up the hill I just descended when I get around the u-turn left and balance what I see with the speed I was able to accomplish on the way down and measure that against the wind I felt pushing and shoving me all over the road and I wonder just how hard will climb number three out of three proper climbs on this Tri-States Gran Fondo really be once I push my way through the wind back here to mile 78 and begin this climb. I scroll through my computer - top speed of 37ish mph - not too fast going down a hill.

Of course the wind was a factor and I felt like it was fighting me the whole way down and I wonder how much of how slow was due to the wind and how much of how slow was due to the hill's not going to be much of an ascent when it turns into climb number three at mile 78. Still an average 7 percent grade for roughly 7.5 miles is a climb and I know how I am on most climbs and there's still climb number two about 18 miles up the road and the wind and the cold to push my way back through the whole way in, but you know what? I am feeling good right now. I am feeling strong.

I glance back up the hill again as it disappears from view wondering how hard climb number three is really going to be at mile 78 as I make my way toward the bridge crossing the creek just up ahead. I decide to stop after the bridge and remove my rain jacket and windstopper beanie before the road starts pushing uphill again.

I remember all the bunch grass all bent over and flailing around all over the hill coming down and feel the wind gusting around right now like it's trying to figure out which direction to blow from so that it can torment me even more and I think again about the trouble with Tribbles. But, so what, I'm feeling good right now. I'm feeling strong right now and as I wonder about climb number three of three proper climbs at mile 78 on this Tri-States Gran Fondo, I hear the words of Scotty in his best Scotty accent: and I'm thinking this hill "will be no tribble at all..."

Peloton Of One

The Tri-States Gran Fondo started inauspiciously enough with a simple warning about not missing the u-turn left at the bottom of Utah Hill on the other side of checkpoint one and a ready set go. I pushed forward at about mid-pack and clipped in quickly and started pedaling. It was very very cold and everyone started out at a pretty reasonable pace and stayed together for a while which caught me off guard. Since everyone on this big ride had a timing chip glued to the top of their helmet I thought many would take off at a blistering pace right away but instead everyone was on a pretty steady low-key chug that let the ramps and rollers sort out the riders in the cold.

I can't remember how many ramps and rollers there were before what I considered the first proper climb of this timed event that wasn't a race but there were enough that I remember thinking "boy these little ramps are going to be hell on the legs during the last eleven miles to the finish" and I wondered if it was going to warm up any because it was still really very cold. Normally I would have stood and powered up rollers like these in the big ring but I didn't know quite what to expect from climbing 7500 feet over 112 miles so I thought I would use the small ring like everybody else pedaling around me and save some gas for later.

The first ramp was only about a half mile from the start and it turned out to be a pretty good push uphill to start heading out of town. I was watching the riders around me through the clouds of everyones' breath and noticed that most everybody had a pretty smooth pedal stroke and seemed to be a pretty smooth bike handler. I also noticed that everyone on this ride was riding with someone else and over the course of the rollers and ramps into Beaver Dam little pelotons were forming up and down the road and some were passing me and I was passing some others. The fast riders were off the front in their smooth fast pacelines and all the little pelotons of friends and spouses and riding buddies were forming up from there.

I had noticed before the start that everyone had a road bike and all these road bike riders seemed to know someone else that was there. I didn't see any panniers or fenders or hybrids or flat bars or mountain bikes or recumbents or any other oddities that in my mind always seem out of place on a ride like a Gran Fondo but always seem to be there in number anyway. I didn't see anybody I knew either. Along with the nice road bikes everyone seemed to have grundles of nice riding gear too. I saw stuff that I didn't even know existed and was surprised at how bundled up everyone seemed to be. I was freezing cold and all goose fleshed in my Tour de Donut jersey waiting to get going, but I figured once underway it was almost all uphill for 27 miles to checkpoint one and the 3255 feet of climbing during those 27 miles was sure to warm me up.

Crossing under the highway into Beaver Dam I realize that I am and have been riding alone the entire way. I had had a few riders on my wheel here and there over the last ten miles but they had all either dropped off or moved ahead and dropped me and now I am and have been pedaling alone with the road and the cold. I pass the Dam Store and the Dam Deli and Dam Jam and cross the bridge heading up. The elevation at the start in Mesquite was 1662 feet above sea level which is the lowest elevation I have ever ridden my bike at and when I hit mile 11 I know that I have climbed almost 500 feet of the 3255 feet of climbing that ends at checkpoint one up on top of Utah Hill.

The road tips up from here for another 2779 feet of climbing over the next 16 miles and in this cold air I don't think that's such a bad thing. The sun has been working it's way up into the sky and I have been very pleasantly surprised by the lack of wind. It seems my pace is just enough to outrun any tailwind as I work my way up this grade that starts easy enough at 2% then quickly moves to 3% past the water-only stop that I skip then 4% before locking in at 5% for the last 10 miles up to my first planned break at checkpoint one. I feel like I'm riding out of a shallow cereal bowl and there is no relief on this climb from the upward push. It's what I call a long slog.

Not really too painful just one painful and fast enough that it really would be nice to have a few riding buddies here with me to help break the wind and grind the pace. But I'm a peloton of one chugging along up this 5% grade and now I wonder if the temperature is going to warm up much more as I slog my way up this seemingly never ending hill. It's still quite cold and the desert smells great like only a desert in winter can after a hard rain the night before. I can smell the sagebrush and the bunch grass and the Josuha trees and the dirt and the tumble weeds and with no one to talk to that crisp beautiful smell of the desert rushing in and out of my nostrils is bringing back a flood of memories.

It smells like Junior High again and that little field trip where my 7th grade science class walked down the road four blocks to an undeveloped plot of land by I-15 in North Las Vegas to look at desert plants. I remember my teacher, Mr. Gates, having us take some leaves off a plant that I don't remember the name of and rub them briskly in our palms. They smelled strong and pungent and he explained that the Indians who used to live here would crush up these leaves and put them under their armpits and on the soles of their feet for their "medicinal properties" and how they were then able to run super long distances and accomplish other super human feats without feeling any pain.

I can smell that plant right now as I am slogging up this 5% grade but I don't remember what it looked like and I can't remember the name. I can smell it though just as if I was rubbing it on my palms right now and I wonder if any of these other riders in their little pelotons know about the Indians. I notice the Josuha trees are getting thicker now and larger and closer to the road. None are in bloom as it's the wrong time of year and they will only bloom after a freeze. I wonder if they got their freeze last year or last night or whether that will come deeper into this coming winter? It's still very cold but the sun is crawling higher in it's low November arc and I try to determine whether it's the temperature or my metabolism that is reluctantly creeping up a little.

It smells like Junior High again and walking the half mile to Jim Bridger Junior High School in North Las Vegas because we lived in the Vegas Chalet Motel for six months while we waited for base housing. It smells like feeling alone and being the new kid and being different than everyone else with whiter skin and shorter hair and different clothes and bigger ears and a cleft lip. It smells like making the swim team and liking social studies. It smells like learning how to get beat up by the gangs in the school bathroom because I was the new kid and in there alone and different than everybody else.  It smells like Star Wars and Whataburger and Baskin Robbins and Bootlegger Pizza.

It smells like little league baseball and riding my bmx bike everywhere and bunny hopping and doing cross-ups and knocking over neighboors' garbage cans with berm-shots that would launch them out into the street spilling their trash everywhere. It smells like Webco Mag Wheels and Ashtabula forks and grease and ball bearings. It smells like learning how to spit right and how to do push ups and earning money from mowing neighboors' yards. It smells like air shows and the USAF Thunderbirds and learning how to skateboard. It smells like winter in the desert and throwing rocks at the frozen puddles of water while waiting for the school bus.

It smells like learning how to ride a road bike and how to shift gears and pedaling for miles out on the frontage road with my dad. It smells like learning about responsibility and figuring out that school might be important and it smells like getting my road bike stolen along with my sisters. It smells like a big dusty city with lots of neon and glass and metal and cement that has been heated up way too hot way too many times by the super hot and super dry desert air in the summer and it smells like having had enough and doing a good job of fighting back and finally being left alone.

I pass the one guy I've seen with the clunky pedal stroke riding with the guy on the Calfee with the frame pump mounted on the seat stay who's riding with the only guy with hairy legs, because he's the only guy that doesn't have his legs covered, who seems to be riding his wife's purple Specialized something or other and I keep passing riders that keep stopping and hopping off into the desert to find a ditch or a bush or a Joshua tree or a post or something that can give them a little tiny bit of privacy. I pass the guys in the Team Mort kits who always seem to struggle going uphill and I remember passing other Team Mort kits on many other long rides this year - always while going uphill and I wonder who is Team Mort, why Team Mort is even slower than I am going up hills and whether or not these are those same guys.

It's odd because I've climbed a lot of hills on my bike and this is probably the first time I've ever climbed a hill on my bike and don't look back or down to see how far and high up I have pedaled. I'm in a trance pedaling in smooth circles, elbows bent perfectly, sweat dripping off my nose looking up the hill waiting for checkpoint one to show up. This feels like a long never ending climb for 16 miles up a slip and slide, not because it's slippery even though things are still very cold and the road is damp in places, but because it's a constant grade with minimal curves and a mind numbing perceived lack of progress. For some reason I don't want to look back and down the hill so I keep looking up for the summit that never seems to materialize grinding away in my peloton of one at this steady 5% grade smelling the sagebrush and remembering Junior High.

At some point the Joshua trees start to thin out and the terrain starts to change even though the grade stays pretty constant at 5%. The road starts to curve a little bit more and the desert starts to smell different almost like it's a little bit colder and I notice that a little breeze is picking up. I pedal up past a cross on the left side of the road and wonder what the story is behind that. Somebody cares about what happened here because it looks well tended way out and up here in the middle of nowhere and I decide that now I do want to look back and get a different perspective on this climb so I glance over my left shoulder and look back down the 12 or so miles I have ridden up this hill so far.

I see riders behind me spread out in their little pelotons for miles pedalling up the cereal bowl climb on the slip and slide slope to the top of Utah Hill. I look back up wishing I could find the summit and only see more little pelotons stretched out in front of me looking up wishing they could find the summit too. The wind gets a little stronger and the road starts to curve more and it looks like the grade is changing pitch, almost like small downhills. I'm out of the cereal bowl now and the summit has to be close. I decide to stop pedaling for a moment and coast on one of the little downhills my mind is telling me I am seeing and I almost come to an immediate stop. Apparently the change in pitch isn't very downhill after all but only an optical illusion that finds me now looking more insistently and expectantly for checkpoint one and the summit of Utah Hill.

Check point one keeps not showing up as I look up the road around the corners and bends that are now winding through the scraggly hills here in the Beaver Dam Mountains. I can't see any little pelotons up in front of me any more and I'm running out of water. Even though it's still cold I'm now quite warm and sweaty and I can feel the wind getting colder and stronger still and efficiently evaporating away the moisture on my skin underneath my Tour de Donut jersey and off my face as it escapes from my windstopper beanie out from under my helmet. I pass some ruins and I can't tell if they are Indian ruins or cowboy ruins or what kind of ruins they might have been at one time or another or how long they've been ruined but they look lonely and weather beaten and I realize that that is exactly the same way that I feel right now getting whipped by the wind all by myself up here in this cold middle of nowhere in my peloton of one.

Off to my right I pass a hole in the rock wall by the roadside. It's a man made hole and I notice more man made residue of some things that look like they were important to somebody at some time in the past but I can't really tell what it all is. I imagine that the hole in the rock wall is THE pain cave - that dark and lonely place that every cyclist has heard about - and I imagine some Indians inside rubbing the leaves of the plant I can't remember the name of but I can still smell in the palms of their hands and applying their "medicinal properties" to the soles of their feet and rubbing it under their armpits before emerging to accomplish some super human feats of daring do in the middle of winter.

Startled, I hear a couple of rifle shots and quickly spot the camouflaged movement of two hunters skirting counterclockwise around a hill up ahead on the left above the road, one up high near the summit and one down lower about mid way up the hill. I hope they're not shooting at the little pelotons up the road and yelling "hurry up!" down at the cyclists sprinting helter-skelter up the hill to get out of the way of bullets. I wonder what they're hunting for out here in this cold middle of nowhere because I didn't think there was much wildlife up here with the exception of desert bighorn sheep and the threatened desert tortoise. I wonder what they are shooting at and I hope it's not me.

I pedal on in the now windy cold and I know I'm getting close to the summit of Utah hill and checkpoint one because it's sure starting to feel like I've ridden up 3255 feet of elevation gain already, pushing all my own wind bearing all my own cold and setting all my own pace in my peloton of one for all of those miles it should have taken to get here already. It certainly feels like I've done a really good job of working up at least 27 miles worth of restroom break and my water bottles are empty just as planned. I shift down the cassette three cogs and stand up again to pedal a bit and finally see the top of an E-Z-UP instant shelter peaking up over the top of the road where it goes up over the hill to where I can't see the road anymore. It feels good to know that I'm almost there to checkpoint one, up the road in the wind and cold about a half mile as the road starts to look like it is starting to level out again as it gets closer and closer to the summit.

I sit back down and shift back up the cassette and pedal quietly toward the summit as I take stock and decide that I feel pretty darn good and can certainly skip checking my blood glucose at this stop. I decide I'm just going to fill my water bottles, filling one with water and one with what ever Hammer electrolyte and carbohydrate concoction they have that sounds palatable and probably just eat a chocolate chip granola bar while taking my quick turn in the honey bucket and throw on my rain jacket and go. It's going to be a quick strike - in and out with military precision. No riding buddies to wait for and no idle chit chat to slow me down and no time for the cold and wind to sap the life out of my enthusiasm for going really fast downhill.

I decide to shift back onto the big ring because after this quick stop at checkpoint one it's all downhill for 7 miles to the u-turn left that we've all been warned not to miss and I think It'll be a smart move to just be able to clip in and start hammering down the hill in the big ring as I click down the cogs on the cassette. Besides I think it's embarrassing, for me and my bike, to be standing around at a stop with our chain slunk on the small ring. I'm already looking forward to the downhill as I'm chugging through the cold up the hill for the last quarter mile to checkpoint one as the road keeps slacking a bit more. I expect to make up some time on the downhill because I am a fast descender on a fast bike that loves to fly downhill using the whole lane.

I push my lever over with my full fingered gloves and hold it there briefly waiting for the chain to catch the pins and ramps and jump up on the big dog and jump it does - right off the chain ring. I've Schlecked my chain right off and suddenly gravity ceases to exist in the little space of the world right around my feet and pedals as resistance evaporates and the chain entangles around the crank arm trying to find a way back onto the the ring where the laws of physics can reign supreme again.

"No problem, I'll just work it back on there" I think as I work the pedal forward and back and forward trying to help the chain figure out a way to find purchase back on the ring but it won't make the jump and what I thought was the slackest part of the hill so far here about a quarter mile from checkpoint one doesn't turn out to be slack enough to allow inertia to sustain my momentum and 8 mph evaporates in a couple clumsy jerks from the pedals on my crank arms and there I go toppling over gracefully on the drive side of my bike still clipped into my Speedplays and landing hard on the shoulder of the road.

I don't think there's anything more embarrassing than toppling over on your sleek road bike still clipped into your pedals in view of other cyclists. It's bad enough when you're alone and worse still when witnessed by non-cyclists but when observed engaging in this ultimate display of cycling awkwardness by other cyclist you have achieved the highest level of shame and embarrassment possible on a road bike. I struggle to bounce right back up quickly and immediately but find I can't because my Speedplays simply won't let go of either of my cleats so I slow down to go faster and finally get unclipped and work my way up off the shoulder of the road.

Immediately I look behind me down the hill and am relived that no one is in sight. I quickly look up the less than a quarter mile of road to checkpoint one at the summit of Utah Hill and thankfully it seems that no one has noticed my acrobatics or if they have they're being kind and pretending that they didn't. I take a few seconds to turn my chain back on the ring in the wind and cold and re-Velcro one of the straps on the seatbag that jarred loose and swing my leg over the top tube as I check myself out. My right wrist hurts so now it matches my left wrist both in the pain I'm feeling and the reason for it.

I hit my right hip pretty good so I'm sure that will turn tender and I'll have a big raspberry there tomorrow but there are no rips stains or tears so I'm glad I'm a robust and healthy 175 pounds instead of the 155 pound mountain goat I was going to try to get to before this Tri-States Gran Fondo. If had been able to become one of those gaunt twiggy little cyclists that I was trying to become for this ride I would probably have to abandon right now with a broken collar bone and a fractured wrist.

I clip back in and stand to pedal up the hill for my quarter mile ride of shame in the big ring to checkpoint one at the summit of Utah Hill. I am so humiliated by my clumsy display of cycling inability that I want to vomit and I notice that I took a little chunk out of my handlebar tape right where it folds into the inside of the bar at the end cap. It's a little tiny piece about the size of a grain of rice and that hurts worse than laying on the side of the road in the cold still clipped in and hoping nothing broke and that no one noticed. I get to the checkpoint and stop and unclip and dismount and lean my bike carefully along with other bikes against one of the trucks that are there to block the wind and the cold for the volunteers working the checkpoint.

I pull out my water bottles and get one filled with water and am standing there in the windy cold relieved that no one is saying anything to me about laying on the side of the road or how stupid I looked trying to hop up immediately while still clipped in. I'm trying to figure out which Hammer electrolyte and carbohydrate mix sounds like it might help me make it to my deep dish chocolate chip cookie that's waiting for me at Veyo Pies which is checkpoint number two another 27 miles or so down the road and another 1600 feet of elevation gain or so after the u-turn left that we've all been warned to not miss.

I notice that it's getting really windy and it's still very cold and I start eating my chocolate chip granola bar to save time while I decide on the second bidon and I realize how grateful I am that today I am riding alone in this wind and cold. I am grateful that I am a peloton of one. I am so happy that I don't have any riding buddies here today that got to witness what just happened. I am happy that my lack of skill on the bike will not have to live in their minds for the rest of time. I am glad I am alone pushing my own wind and pacing my own pace and climbing my own climbs on this 112 miles with 7500 feet of elevation gain that is the Tri-State Gran Fondo. I am glad I am a peloton of one right as I catch a glimpse of motion out of the corner of my eye and turn in time to watch my bike fall over in slow motion on the non-drive side because it just caught a little puff of wind just right in the cold.

Deuces Wild

I woke up early after one snooze so I could walk over to the Chuckwagon Restaurant and have the Deuces Wild Special breakfast. I wanted to start the day right and $3.99 sounded like an awesome good deal for two eggs my way, two sausage patties, two strips of bacon and two buttermilk pancakes. Since breakfast is the most important meal of the day I thought the Deuces Wild Special breakfast would be an awesome good way to start the big day before the big ride.

I had about two hours and five minutes before I had to start climbing the 3255 feet of elevation gain to checkpoint one at mile 27 as I headed out of the motel room into the dark of the predawn at 5:25 a.m. and right away the dry crisp cold of the morning slapped me in the face. Pow! I could see my breath. I pondered Rule 9 and wondered how many of the 150 or so registered riders might actually show up for this Tri-States Gran Fondo. It felt like winter had come to the desert.

Wow it was cold. I decided to drive instead of walk and was surprised to find the perfect closest to the door front row parking spot through the van's frosted up windshield behind the casino. The clouds of my breath just kind of hung around in the cold desert air that felt void of humidity even though it had rained hard for hours the night before. As I walked through these lingering clouds of my breath that were struggling to dissipate, my eyes fogged up from the shock of humidity and temperature difference.

Inside the casino the air still smelled of stale cigarettes from years and years and years of tar and nicotine staining the air filters that struggle mightily night and day in the losing effort to clean the air in this cigarette smokers' mecca of beer and gambling and cigarette smoke. I wonder what is the equivalent amount of cigarettes I had unfortunately been forced to enjoy since arriving here from the stale and putrid second hand smoke that is pervasively invading my lungs every moment I am inside or near an exit to this casino and I wonder how that's going to affect my riding today.

The Chuckwagon Restaurant is pretty much empty, just like the still noisy casino, and I am served my Deuces Wild Special breakfast right away - so fast in fact that I suspect it had been prepared for me the night before and then set to wait patiently under the salamander all night for me to arrive. I am however impressed because for once I have a breakfast special that looks bigger in person than it did in the point-of-sale material.

I had checked my blood glucose at 5:19 a.m. and my reading had been 115 mg/dL which I thought was an amazingly outstanding result after I spent two and a half hours with my family at dinner the evening before on Seafood Friday Night in the Sierra Buffet eating BBQ ribs, split crab legs, slabs of prime rib, sweet corn on the cob, plates of salad, cooked peas, baked rolls, various cheeses, sweet chili mussels, beer battered cod, crispy fried shrimp, slow roasted turkey breast, crab stuffed mushrooms, ice cream, oysters Rockefeller, chocolate sauce sundaes, California rolls, chocolate brownie volcanoes, smoked rope sausage, chocolate chip cookies, southern fried chicken, German chocolate cake, seafood something or other that I think was spicy newberg, pickled cucumbers, cheesy deep dish pepperoni pizza, more California rolls, Diet Coke and decaf coffee from the all day coffee pot.

Last night I kept looking for other cyclists, figuring they should be easy to spot in the casino or at Seafood Friday Night in the Sierra Buffet or eating the $5.99 prime rib dinner special in the Chuckwagon Restaurant with their funny tan lines, gaunt, healthy physiques and event t-shirts from valiant past conquests but all I saw were slow moving weather-beaten wrinkled dried up cigarette smokers swilling a Bud Light that had been nursed for far too long and was now mostly room temperature backwash and a few well-tanned overweight golfers that needed neck trims talking way too loud about how the cold and wind had affected their golf game and chugging their ice cold Michelob Ultras much too fast.

I imagined that all the cyclists were tucked away in their rooms, getting a good nights rest after shaving their legs and sucking down a few energy gels or something and watching reruns of the Vuelta or Giro in low-def on Universal Sports while they debate with themselves about which chamois cream to use tomorrow morning. I liked my plan better.

Before my feast with my family on Seafood Friday Night at the Sierra Buffet I had checked my blood glucose and figured I had room for some real food with a reading of 99 mg/dL. Things were going just as planned except for the part about moderation and my family and I left the Sierra Buffet feeling very well fed like someone had stuffed a bowling ball up under my diaphragm which made my side hurt a little more whenever I breathed in. I figured fighting the Battle of Large Numbers with 12 units of insulin, injected six units at a time into the subcutaneous tissue on either side of my stomach should keep me on track for some real food at breakfast in the morning. After all I would need the energy for the big ride tomorrow.

Back in the motel room last night a hot shower felt great as it washed the stale cigarette smell out of my hair and off my skin. Every 28 seconds I had to chase my 11 month old away from my bike as it leaned on the wall between the bed and the bathroom. Everybody's clothes got piled up in the stinky stale cigarette smelly dirty clothes pile in the corner of the room and we all got ready for bed excited about the big day tomorrow for different reasons.

On the local Las Vegas news channel in between breaking news stories about someone getting shot or stabbed or dying in North Las Vegas every other news story seemed to be about how it is colder now than anyone can remember for this time of year with man-on-the-street videos of people amazed that they can see their breath or reports about the snow around Mt. Charleston or Red Rock Canyon or over excited weather casters not use to so much airtime stumbling over their words while finally getting to talk about something other than hot and dry.

Before getting into bed I had thought about reducing my injection of basal insulin to help my blood glucose balance up better against the effort I needed to put forth on tomorrow's big ride but I decided not to and injected the 15 units of Lantus into the tissue below my stomach. My daughter asked "daddy does that hurt?" like she always does "no" I lied because sometimes it does hurt and sometimes it stings like crazy "the needle's really small" and I hope that none of my kids will ever have to find out for themselves.

After a careful inspection of my Deuces Wild Special breakfast this morning I figure the buttermilk pancakes which are each about a half inch thick and the lukewarm hot maple syrup will equate to about 75 to 80 carbs or so. I think 5 units of insulin should do the trick that my pancreas can't as the well dressed wrinkled weather-beaten old lady sitting across from me pretends like she isn't watching me inject it into my stomach above the waistband of my jeans. I want to start the ride with my blood glucose above 120 but below 140 mg/dL and during the ride try to keep it up over 100 mg/dL.

The Deuces Wild Special breakfast is surprisingly quite good in spite of the telltale signs of the pale sausage patties and pale bacon strips being a precooked thaw-n-serve type product and everything is washed down perfectly with the lukewarm hot maple syrup and three big mugs of even hotter lukewarm coffee from the all night coffee pot that is quite good as well. I had read somewhere once that caffeine was supposed to enhance cycling performance so I figure three big mugs to be about right and then one to-go cup for back at the room.

I pay, tip well and leave, walking the gauntlet of stale cigarette smoke that is beating my lungs into submission through the mostly empty but still noisy casino back out to my van with my lukewarm to-go cup of coffee from the all night coffee pot and notice that there is snow on every mountain I can see in the pale light of sunrise that is starting to break on this cold and frosty morning. When I get back to the motel room and get out of my van, I meet up with another cyclist pedaling up from what looks to be a warm-up ride. I notice the multiple energy gels in multiple flavors taped to his top tube and he smells strongly of chamois cream.

We both stand there admiring our clouds of breath that never seem to quite dissipate in this crisp morning air and have a brief conversation about how glad we both are that the pounding rain from the night before has stopped, how surprised we both are to see all the snow on the mountains surrounding Mesquite and how hard it's going to be for us to figure out how warm or cold we really need to be when we start this Tri-States Gran Fondo so we don't have too much or too little with us and on us as we ride the 112 miles with the 7500 feet of climbing.

When I get back in my motel room my entire family is still asleep in the dark and it's time to get ready for this big ride, this Gran Fondo, with the help of the little sliver of pale light that is streaming softly from the cracked bathroom door. I find all my stuff, fill my bidons both with water because I forgot my Powerade Zero, pull on the wool blend knee-high Walmart socks, the Nashbar thermal leg warmers, the Giordana bibs no chamois cream, the Pearl Izumi thermal arm warmers and the Tour de Donut jersey.

I put some sunscreen on my nose and cheeks. I pick up my riding gloves, my windproof full fingered gloves, my The North Face Windstopper beanie and my helmet off the floor at the foot of the bed. I guess my getting ready has stirred the wife and she has moved, knocking them from their positions of readiness where they had been staged a little earlier.

I debate whether to bring an extra spare tube before deciding yes and stuff it in my left jersey pocket along with three chocolate chip granola bars after spending about seven minutes figuring out there is not a way to stuff it into my small seat bag with the other spare tube, two CO2 cartridges, the inflator, the tire levers, the dehydrated towel, the lens cleaner towelette, two Cliff Shots and the little package of Jelly Belly Energy Beans just in case I have a blood glucose emergency.

My seven minutes of reorganizing my seat bag did create some extra room so I fold up a fourth chocolate chip granola bar into a u-shape and stuff it in there too. I notice the charm hanging on my zipper next to the ichthus - "vis vires" - and I'm going to need some today I think as I strap it on my seat rails. I double check my test strips, my lancet and my meter, add two pen needles to the pouch and zip it up as I'm wishing it was smaller before stuffing it into a Ziploc bag with my windows phone, driver's license, debit card, course queue sheet and my Novolog Flexpen.

That goes in my middle jersey pocket along with a few lens cloth towelettes. I roll up my rain jacket as neatly and tightly as I can and stuff that into my right jersey pocket along with a mandarin orange energy gel and two teriyaki beef sticks that were folded in half the night before and have now permanently assumed the u-bend position in their wrappers ready to slow the absorption of any carbs I eat along the ride.

I check and double check everything again, stumbling around in the dark, trying not to make any noise and wake the family. I wheel my bike into the bathroom as quietly as I can and shut the door behind me and pump up my tires to 110 psi. I check and double check the bike over in the light of the bathroom and reset all the settings on my computer before wheeling the bike out of the light and into the dark room to lean it against the bed the kids are sleeping in.

I pull on my The North Face Windstopper beanie and remove the backing from the sticky side on the timing chip and number tag and check the instructions one more time in the little sliver of light from the bathroom door. I put the timing chip on the top of my helmet, carefully following the instructions for placement that were provided in my race packet. I am number 115 and the number 115 goes on the left side of the helmet and I hope that neither will leave any sticky residue that I won't be able to get off later.

I snap the helmet on top of my beanie turning the cam to readjust it quickly and straighten the windproof toe covers on my carbon soled LG ErgoAirs, slip them on and try to ratchet them down as quietly as I can and I'm glad I remembered to change out my Cool Stuff insoles for my Hot Stuff insoles before we left home. I pull off my wedding ring and put it in the top dresser drawer and feel bad for not wearing it but in the cold weather and with putting on and taking off of the windproof full fingered gloves I don't want to risk losing it. I pull on my cycling gloves and pull the full fingered windproof gloves over them and attach the Velcro to keep them tight.

I quietly clomp over to where my wife is sleeping and kick the Hot Wheels version of Lightening McQueen under the bed. I put my gloved hand on my sleeping wife's shoulder and she rolls instinctively toward me and whispers "be careful" before kissing me goodbye and I can't really tell if she is awake or not when we each say "love you." I open the motel room door and wheel the bike outside on the balcony and head to the elevator listening to the pawls clicking in the hub as if announcing the bikes readiness to tackle another ride, to reach another goal and to bring me home safely one more time to my sleeping family.

In the elevator I look at my computer and see that it's 6:55 a.m. I have thirty-five minutes before I have to start climbing the 3255 feet of elevation gain to checkpoint one at mile 27 and a short five minute ride to the starting line at the convention center that has been closed and dark for over ten years now. I poke my sunglasses into the vents in my helmet and wheel my bike out of the elevator. I remove my coffee shop covers from my Speedplay cleats and store them in my left jersey pocket with my extra spare tube and chocolate chip granola bars as I remember that I forgot to drink all of my lukewarm to-go cup of coffee from the all night coffee pot back in my room.

I pinch the charm hanging next to the ichthus on the zipper of my seat bag - "vis veris" - and I can feel the goose flesh forming on my skin under my Tour de Donut jersey. I swing my leg over the top tube and clip in and wheel off into the parking lot trying to avoid the puddles that are still there from the pounding rain the night before and right away the dry crisp cold of the morning slaps me in the face. Pow! I look at the snow on every mountain surrounding Mesquite. I can see my breath. I ponder Rule 9 and wonder again how many of the 150 or so registered riders might actually show up for this Tri-States Gran Fondo. It feels like winter has come to the desert.

The SLOW Sign

I didn't need a sign, or instruction. Or was this sign just mocking me? SLOW. Somehow that struck me as funny. It said SLOW. Was it because I had just caught a glimpse of the road ramping up about a half mile further ahead? I already knew what was coming and I already knew it was going to hurt and I already knew it was going to be slow. Did they have to put a sign right there? The SLOW sign.

SLOW. Any time I hit a grade that ramps up past the single digits I can think about it in any number of positive and self-affirming ways or use any cheesy metaphors I want but the bottom line is: I am going to be slow. I am turning out the weakness. I am finding out who I am. I am listening for hope.  I am reaching into my suitcase full of courage or something like that. How ever I want to spin it for myself, I know I am going to suffer and I know I am going to be slow. I didn't need a sign to tell me this but there it was. The SLOW sign.

This is what I would call the second climb of the three proper climbs for this Tri-States Gran Fondo and I wished I had brought a suitcase full of courage or a Barney bag or something. Here in a moment I was going to find out just who I was and turn out some weakness and find all the hope I ever needed and discover whatever I had in that suitcase whether I liked it or not.

Right here at mile 47 I knew that I was going to climb almost 800 feet in about six miles, which was about the same that I had climbed over the last twelve miles of ramps and rollers, and unfortunately that wasn't going to be the hard part. The hard part was going to be the two steep sections during these next six miles. The hard part was going to be the grades that would reach 16% and the average grade during these two steep sections that would hit 10%. Yes, I was going to find something in my suitcase and I didn't need the SLOW sign to announce it ahead of time.

Beyond the SLOW sign, the autumn colors are beautiful as the trees in the valley are announcing the late arrival of fall at the Eagle Mountain Ranch. Once across the bridge, the road tips up and I need the small ring and top of my cassette right away as I pedal slowly up and away from the horses munching grass by their white fence as they watch me with amusement from the valley floor. I've heard that climbing on a bicycle is more mental than physical and right now I find myself wishing that my legs were as strong as my mind as I alternate grinding out a steady painful tempo while seated and standing as I try to drop the hammer on the burning in my quads.

Up I go as the green grass and cottonwoods give way to the sagebrush, rocks and juniper and I'm struggling to find that magical climbing sweet spot of working hard enough without blowing myself up as I try to put this second of the three proper climbs for this big ride, this Gran Fondo, into perspective. Depending on who you get your information from there's between 7000 and 7500 feet of climbing over about 112 miles. Some of these climbing feet are little rollers and ramps and some of these climbing feet are large rollers and ramps, but almost 5000 of these climbing feet are basically three solid climbs in the small ring and this one is climb number two.

Climb number one ended at roughly mile 27 after slogging up 2779 feet of elevation gain over the course of 16 miles. This climb, climb number two, is not long at only just over six miles and is not tall at just around 800 feet, but this climb has the steeps. And the steeps have the pain-o-meter in my legs pegged as I think about whether or not I am going to have enough left over for climb number three still to come at mile 78. Climb number three is 1440 feet over 7.5 miles at a very steady 6-7% average grade and there's going to be a nice stiff headwind all the way there and all the way up and all the way back down the other side to the finish.

As I think about these three climbs and how they account for about 26% of the miles in this Gran Fondo and that these 26% of the miles account for about 72% of the climbing, I also start to catch my breath and ease off the pedals a bit as the grade slacks some before the final big grinder on this climb number two. I'm about a half mile past the SLOW sign and I've been watching the fluorescent green swatch of reflective wind and waterproof cloth on the shoe covers of the rider that's been about a half a mile in front of me for the last three miles or so and the hypnotic motion has lulled me into not really paying attention to the fact that he's been catching the rider in front of him as I've been slowly reeling him in as well.

I eyeball the hill trying to find the summit a few miles up the road and I eyeball the fluorescent shoe covers bobbing up and down about a half mile in front of me and my logarithmic calculations conspire against the SLOW sign and suddenly it is game on. I decide that I might be slow, but I am going to open up my suitcase full of courage and I am going to catch that rider in front of me with the fluorescent green hypnotic up and down shoe covers. I am going to burn a match. I am going to push a little harder and I am going to catch this guy.

I shift down two cogs as I stand smoothly rocking my bike under me as I gain speed going up this slack section of steep climb number two. A couple of miles roll by and I can't listen for hope anymore because my pulse is pounding so loudly in my ears and my lungs are burning and my legs are wondering who I am but I am going to catch this guy. By the time we get to the really steep part that switchbacks up and out of the valley onto the ridge above, I've captured back about three quarters of the distance I need to close.

My legs are on fire but I am going to catch this guy and knowing that helps me find that little tiny bit of something extra in my suitcase as I take a hard right and stand a bit to pump the pedals and rock the bike smoothly up the hill. I stand and pedal as long as I can stand and pedal until the pain in the top of my thighs demands that I just drop my legs on the pedals to the bottom of each pedal stroke and I do that until I can't stand and drop my legs anymore and the burning in my quads demands that I sit. So I sit and grind and grind and grind using every gear I have as I push and push and push and push and push until the pain in the back of my thighs demands that I stand again and get up this hill.

As the sweat and snot drips from my nose and splatters on my top tube I take a measure of the distance I need to close again. I am almost there. I have almost got him! I feel like I'm breathing glass shards and my legs are melting in the furnace of pain but I am going to catch this guy. I watch his fluorescent green hypnotic pedal strokes up down up down as he alternates sitting and standing and sitting again and I know he knows.

He knows I'm there. He knows I'm turning out the weakness. He knows I'm finding out who I am. He knows I'm going to catch him. I glance up the hill trying to find the summit to measure against the effort to balance against the distance I still need to close as I stand again because my legs are telling me I must and my wheel slips in some gravel and dirt as it tries to find some traction to spend my effort on.

I've got this guy! My legs are screaming so loudly with pain that I can't hear any hope and I know that I am going to catch him right here on this hill. I try to calm my breathing. I am going to catch this guy. I am at that point that I know I am going to pass him as my pulse is thumping loudly in my ears and I know he knows too.

My upper body is rocking slightly as I pull up on the bars to try to give my fading pedal strokes more leverage. My legs are smoldering coals and my heart is pounding in spasms and the sweat and snot is dripping off my nose and chin and splattering on my top tube and thighs. I stand up to give it one last push to reel him in as I shift down a cog and hope I have the breath to say "how's it going?" as I glide smoothly past.

Right when I do all that, I suddenly know that the guy in front of him is his riding buddy. I haven't quite caught him yet, but I'm almost right there as I hear him gasp to his riding buddy "hey! I want to stop and take a picture here" as those hypnotic fluorescent green pedal strokes come screeching to a stop and unclip. When I glide past, I do manage a horse, winded "how's it going?" when what I really want to say is "are you kidding? I was just about to drop you on this climb number two of almost 800 feet over roughly six miles with ramps as steep as 16% and 10% average grades! Why are you stopping???"

I look up again trying to spot the top of this hill as my heart is pounding in my throat so loudly that I can barely hear my legs screaming at me in pain. All that effort and suffering I pulled out of my suitcase and he stopped to take a picture! I burned a match and he stopped to take a picture! I look down at the valley floor to the road where this battle started almost four miles ago and try to catch my breath again as I ease up wishing that Jens was here to tell my legs to shut up. I can't see the SLOW sign. I can't believe he stopped!

I've got about a mile and a half or so to go to get to Veyo Pies and enjoy my deep dish chocolate chip cookie and get some more water and take a turn in the honey bucket, but first I've got to get up this last little bit of this climb number two out of three proper climbs on this Tri-States Gran Fondo. Just a little bit more of climb number two here at around mile 51. Just a little bit more pain. Just a little more suffering. I am turning out the weakness. I am finding out who I am. I am listening for hope. I can't believe he stopped! I can't see the SLOW sign, but I am going slow again.

Humble and Ready

I went out on the bike for 16 miles today. That's not very many miles, but it was pretty cold out there and windy after snowing yesterday for a little bit. It was what I call a skiff of snow. Nothing stayed on the ground and it was gone as soon as it came. Nothing major, just the first snow of the season, off and on all day long and into the evening. So while today looked warm with the bright sun shining, the cold front was here and when I got out there on the bike it was 40 degrees and windy.

I like to ride in the cold. Rule #9 you know. Also my windproof bib tights and jacket make me feel skinny on the bike. They hide my 175 pounds very well and in my mind, I feel like I weigh 150 and can climb like a mountain goat. In fact I was thinking about this the other day during the summer when I saw my reflection as I was walking into a convenience store wearing shorts. The only time I feel or look slim and elegant is on the bike. My knees don't stick out. I don't look bow-legged. My shoulders don't slump. I have a smooth pedal stroke and a nice elbow bend. I don't pass many other riders, but once I passed a guy pedalling up Emigration Canyon, and he said I made it look easy. Nice.

Well today the ride was easy, but it wasn't easy. It was a test ride of sorts, my last ride here in Riverton before I head to Mesquite this weekend to ride in the Tri-States Gran Fondo. I am looking forward to this Gran Fondo. I am looking forward to the 112 miles and the 7500 feet of elevation gain. It is a timed event. I've been looking forward to this ride ever since I didn't do this ride last November, and made up my mind that I would this November. I made up my mind that I would be ready. I made up my mind that I would be strong in November, ready for the distance and ready for the climbs. And now, I'm not sure if I am ready.

I feel like I might have gallstones. Or broken ribs. It hurts. That's why the easy ride today wasn't too easy. That's why it was a test ride. I'm not sure what's wrong, but a few days ago the upper right side of my torso started hurting about five inches under my armpit. It got worse over the last two days, so much so that it really hurts to breathe in deeply, or hiccup, snort or cough. It was very uncomfortable last night and I could only sleep on my left side because it hurt so bad. When I press on my ribs there, they feel like they are broken and when I breath deep the pain radiates into my shoulder blade and trapezius muscle. It feels like Spock is pinching my neck. So today was a test ride. Today was a ride to see if I could ride.

I can ride. I'm going on the ride, this big ride, this Gran Fondo. I will see a doctor after the ride if I still have the problem, if I still hurt. Things aren't perfect, but I feel like I can do the ride. I know my family has been looking forward to this trip for months, and everything is all set. They are going to have a great time playing in Mesquite, bowling, swimming, eating at the buffets, eating the $5.99 prime rib, playing the mini-golf, in the arcade and just generally hanging out, out of town with dad because he has a bike ride.

So I'm going on the ride and my goal is to not finish last. I don't know how many cyclists will be there. I don't know how hard the climbs will be. I don't know if it's going to rain or shine, be hot or cold, or windy. I just know that I'm going to ride. I'm going to finish. And, as I ride and finish, I am going to feel good and look smooth and graceful on the bike. I may hurt. My side may burn. My legs might ache and get worn out, my wrists may be stiff with my arms going numb and my side about five inches below my armpit might feel like someone is twisting a knife they stabbed me with every time I breath in, but I am going to feel good because I'm riding my bike.

I read Allen Smith's blog, Big Guy On A Bike over the last few days and again tonight. He was writing about setting a new personal best of 11.6 miles on his bike in Marietta, Georgia. Kudos to him, because he is a big guy on a bike and he's out there lapping everybody sitting on the couch, falling in his clipless pedals and sweating out a new personal best of 11.6 miles. I read his blog and am humbled. I read his blog and realize it's easy to forget how we got started, how we might have struggled and how far we may or may not have come as a cyclist.

It reminds me of my first false flat and being in the small ring and the 25 tooth cog and barely able to keep a descent cadence even if at that time I didn't know what cadence was. It reminds me of my first time trying to pedal up and over an overpass, using every gear I had and almost having to get off and walk the bike. It reminds me of the shame I felt during my first Tour de Riverton, when I had to get off the bike and walk it up the last quarter mile of the hill to the corner of the valley on the Bacchus Highway and having to admit that to my wife. It reminds me of my first long ride of 25 miles on the closed course of the Salt Lake City Marathon, and how I rode so ploddingly slow that the 5K winner passed me, then I passed him, then he passed me again, before I finally passed him again and beat him to the finish.

It reminds me of my first ride up Suncrest, and how I thought I was going to die as my heart exploded out of my chest and my legs went numb with pain. It reminds me of my first ride up Butterfield Canyon, and how many times I had to stop and recoup before I could plod on a little bit more before I had to stop and recoup before I could plod on a little bit more before I had to stop and recoup. It reminds me of my first race, riding up City Creek Canyon and being the last road bike up the hill to the top, my legs screaming for mercy. It reminds me of my first really long ride of 69 miles, and how I barely made it, how much pain my body was in, how bad my legs and knees hurt for days afterwards and how I could barely walk, talk or breathe when I finished.

And now I remember noticing a while back that I have calves for the first time in my life. I remember passing a few guys out on the road this season, up and down hills, in and out of canyons and around town. I remember climbing hills that I used to think were hard, thinking how easy they are now. I remember racing up to Minnetonka Cave in the big ring and passing quite a few riders slogging up the hill in their small ring. Racing up City Creek Canyon this year, I passed a few racers and held another off at the finish before drinking my soup and heading back down in the snow and rain before flatting on a sharp rock toward the bottom.

I have come a long long way, one pedal stroke at a time, from my very very humble beginnings as a cyclist, and I am ready for the Tri-States Gran Fondo this weekend. My hard easy 16 miles on the bike today showed me that I can ride through the pain in my side and back and the Spock pinch in my neck. The legs are good and I can breathe well enough to pedal 112 miles and climb 7500 feet of hills. The mind is ready and I am strong enough to ride this ride and see my family cheering me on at the finish. I am humble and I am ready. I can finish this Gran Fondo. It is a timed event and I just don't want to finish last.