Show Off!

It’s been raining. Every weekend. Forcing us indoors to accomplish things we’d rather put off. When it looked like we were about to cross off even more tasks on our ‘to-do’ list yet again this past weekend, we made the call. We would ride—rain or shine.

Cabin fever shoved us outside on a thirty-or-so-mile road ride. Sure it was wet, but the rain cooled us down from the unseasonably warm temperatures. (In case you are unfamiliar, “warm” in Philadelphia and surrounding counties = HUMID.)

The ride was good. The company was even better. And the scenery was phenomenal. Mother Nature is such a show off this time of year.



Heck, I’d flaunt it too if I looked like that!

Leaving Las Vegas

A funny thing happened on my ride last night. I started to miss Las Vegas.

OK, funnier things have happened during my daily commute to meet Justin. Like the time we tried to stop a Possum from walking in circles. Or the time we bumped into Laura and Dan for the first time when my face was three times its normal size due to poison ivy—the only thing I took home from the Fair Hill race. Heck, even the time I ran over a dog was funnier than this. (I was on a bike and the dog escaped without injury.)

Perhaps the word I’m searching for then is “strange,” not “funny.” It was certainly strange for me to miss Las Vegas. In the past four years I’ve visited Vegas just as many times—for business and pleasure—and never once regretted coming home. Why was this time different?

Maybe it was because I was there for North America's largest bicycle trade event and show. Maybe it was because scantily-clad women and kitted-up cyclists mingled on casino floors. Or perhaps it was because after-hours parties consisted of the first-ever Interbike Tweetup and a bike polo tournament behind the Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino. Or because the biggest cyclocross race in America took place a few short blocks away from our swanky hotel.

Whatever the reason, during a crisp fall ride I found myself reminiscing about my recent foray into the seasonless, seedy city. And was kind of sad to be home.

Blood, Sweat and Beers

This is the second time I’ve returned from vacation and neglected my blog. I apologize, and offer an excuse (or three). I spent the last week playing catch up at work and at home, riding daily to meet Justin on his commute home before daylight savings strikes and “recovering” from what can only be described as the best event I’ve ever raced (and I use that word loosely) in.

On Sunday, September 20, Halloween came early in Durango, CO. Single Speed World Championships descended upon town and locals were treated to all sorts of costume-clad characters. SSWC custom dictates dressing up, and our crew (perhaps a little too) eagerly joined in.


At the crack of noon—or was it 11:00?— pros and novices alike assembled at the start line with more than 1,000 others, hung over and hankering to play in the dirt for 25 miles. To the townspeople lining the street we looked like a circus, I’m sure. But looks can be misleading. And in this case, looks are downright dishonest. Sure, Kelli Emmett may line up next to you in an ensemble straight outta Lieutenant Jim Dangle’s closet, but she’s here to race. Point proven by her third place finish.


Yeah, the course was hard, intensified by the extreme elevation gain, hike-a-bike sections and looming thunderstorm. But when 1,000 racers surge for the trail at once, we were assured plenty of “standing room only” occasions. I spent this time getting to know my neighbors and snapping photographs of the breathtaking scenery. (Harder than you might imagine while pushing a bike uphill.)


What seemed like a lifetime later, I made it to the top of the mountain where there was a party in full swing. A few people shoved plastic cups of beer in front of me as I pedaled by, and one friend I hadn’t seen in years begged me to dismount and drink up. After talking for a bit with the party-goers, other spectators shouted to keep going so as not to get caught in the storm. I heeded their advice and continued to roll my rigid 29er over the rocky crest. A look to my right assured I had made a smart (though unpopular) decision to ditch the party early. Dark clouds inched ever so close to the race. Additionally, one false move on the bike would’ve surely put me over the cliff.


By the time I reached the bottom, outside circumstances (such as the party stop) and my own meager skills got me cut off at the midway point. But I didn't care. I reconnected with Justin, who’d flatted in his purple unitard, and had one wacky conversation with Jacquie Phelan, who asked for my last name, then spelled it (correctly) and told me what it meant in Italian. Really.




The winners (guys: Ross Schnell; girls: Heather Irminger) didn’t get a cash-prize, or any prize, for that matter. They got a tattoo, once again, as SSWC custom dictates.


**Our good friend Justin Steiner took this charming shot of Heather Irminger receiving her winning tattoo.