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Punk Bike – The 20th Year

Each year, Justin and I drive 5 hours across the state to participate in Punk Bike, an event put on by Dirt Rag. And each year, it seems, we ride our bikes less and less. Why?

Because sometimes standing around the keg of Tröegs catching up with friends you haven’t seen since last year’s event is more enjoyable than…

Slogging across a muddy trail:


Or throwing elbows in a derby:


Or charging recklessly downhill:



This year we slogged, threw elbows and were generally reckless with the best of ‘em. But we spent the better part of the enduro catching up with old friends and making new ones. And then, just like that, it was over.

And my bike is 10 pounds heavier to prove it.

Riding in a Winter Wonderland

Though not technically winter, November is when my mountaineering gear gradually makes its way to the forefront of the garage. By now, we’ve typically ascended Mt. Washington’s snowy Lion’s Head trail, cross-country skied through a New England national forest and sunk our ice axes into the first freeze at Champney Falls.

Not this year.

In July, scientists announced the arrival of El Niño, and expected the climate phenomenon to last through winter 2009-10. It looks like they predicted right. Just three weeks shy of the first official day of winter and I can still mountain bike in shorts and a short-sleeved jersey.

Sure, the lack of wintry weather means my gaiters and crampons won’t come out for a while. But I’m not complaining.

My point of view on a sunny day at High Rocks.

Riding Wissahickon in late November in shorts and short sleeves.

Warm Night Air

Of course my last post was about not riding in the dark. Because this one is about riding in the dark. No, I didn’t change my mind. I had company.

It was a balmy 68 degrees yesterday afternoon when I received an offer to ride later that night with my favorite roadie-turned-backpacker (“It’s great off-season cross training!”) -turned-roadie friend.

We set off after the sun had set and rode into the darkness to meet Justin on his commute home. The 15-mile ride felt effortless as we filled up on the unseasonably warm night air. Lights blinked, pedals spun and conversation flowed.




It was beyond enjoyable, undeniably refreshing—and not nearly as terrifying as I had imagined.

The Darkness

My daily commute to meet Justin ended with Daylight Savings. Why? Because it is approaching pitch blackness when I would start my ride. And I’m scared of the dark.

In year’s past I’ve tried to continue the commute into winter, but it’s not enjoyable. In fact, I’m rather terrified to ride my bike alone at night. It’s not the cars that worry me. (The lights on my bike are plentiful and insanely bright.) It’s fear of the unknown: Who’s hiding in that 9-acre stretch of shadowy woods? What will emerge from behind that hedge?

Perhaps I am the only one who thinks about these things, save for my dad who likely passed on the paranoia to me. Really, I think he used to scare himself with his “ghost of Captain Benny” bedtime stories. But, I digress.

This year, my transition from starry sky to cellar is made a bit easier by a recent acquirement—a like-new CycleOps Club Pro 300PT with power tap.


It looks fairly appealing to ride, no? Certainly more appealing than my bike looks sitting in the trainer.

Let’s just hope these looks aren’t deceiving.

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.

King for a Day (or Three)

We came from all over, many of us cutting the work week short and driving through the night, to converge in a small mountain town nestled in the Green Mountains of Vermont.


For some of us, it was the third year in a row we hauled mountain bikes, massive amounts of gear and microbrews to East Burke. For others, it was the first time they would experience the best trail network in North America.

With more than 100 miles of rolling singletrack, Kingdom Trails is a mecca for mountain bikers—and a destination I’ve frequented yearly since discovering it. This year, ten or so of us met in the tiny town with aspirations of frolicking in the dirt and forgetting about life for a while.


We frolicked. We forgot. We bought a thee-day pass for $25—a small price to pay for first-rate trail maintenance, markings and mapping—and while there was no shortage of trails, we were on borrowed time. We made the most of our limited stay in the Northeast Kingdom by making it our job to hit the greats: Sidewinder, Webs, Kitchel, Pastore Point, Heaven’s Gate, Tody’s Tour…

The riding is phenomenal—hardpacked, fast and filled with pine forests, hairpin switchbacks and the occasional maple syrup tube.


We went to celebrate the long weekend, waning summer weather, endless miles of singletrack and more.

I recommend you make the trip too—even if you have nothing to celebrate.

Mud…and a Marriage Proposal

Last weekend the skies opened, the trail flooded and the bikes got dirty at the 24 Hours of Allamuchy. The precipitation was predictable—it rains at Allamuchy. Every year. Yet we’re back on the starting line. Every year. A good course, good brew and good friends make the race easy to come back to and hard to forget.

Despite the weather.

I went into this race a little less enthusiastic than Justin—who was still flying high from his French Creek finish. We planned on racing coed duo, and Justin planned on winning. (I even got a lecture about riding in the rain.) I decided we’d double up on laps so we could have more time to rest and refuel in between. Justin started the race with two back-to-back 10-mile laps and I quickly followed.


Around 9:00 p.m. he came back from his fourth lap sopping wet and covered in mud. The monsoon had come…and it was my turn to pedal closer to the podium. I must not have hid my disdain well. Justin dropped a note into my back pocket and gave me a kiss before I went out.

“Read this at your lowest point,” he told me. It reminded me of the notes I packed him when he raced the Tour Divide earlier this year—waterproof and all.

I never read the note. Much to my surprise, my third lap turned out to be my favorite. Accompanied by new dad, Ryan, from Princeton Tec, I splashed through rotor-deep puddles, pedaled in place through peanut butter sludge and dodged toads with the best of them.


I rolled through the start/finish around 11:00 wide-eyed, wet and willing to play in the mud again. But I never got the chance. For the first time it its 16-year history, 24 Hours of Allamuchy was called off. And Justin was waiting for me at the timing table.

“Did you read the note?” he asked. And right then, I knew what it said. I pulled it out and read it anyway.

As racers came through, the sound of time chips being scanned reverberated, and I thought it ironic that they had just finished an incredible ride as I was just about to start one—with Justin by my side.

I have a feeling we’ll be at the starting line again next year.

Despite the weather.

P.S. We won.

Pearl Earrings

Pro mountain biker Katerina Nash wore pear earrings in the short track race at Mt. Snow. (I know because I stood 4 feet away from her at the start line!) She was also sporting cherry red sunglasses and banana yellow cycling shoes, but my eyes scarcely strayed from the studs that peeked out from under her helmet straps.


At Bruce Dickman’s countdown, the women pushed off the start line. And twenty minutes and a few laps later, Nash crossed the finish line first. Now that’s style!

The following weekend I packed for the MASS French Creek endurance race—bike, shoes, gloves, helmet, jersey, shorts, and variety of endurance food, pills and powders.

But this time I secured a pair of pearl earrings for good luck.

I pre-rode a bit of the course with Justin a day before the race until Steiner showed up to celebrate his first day of vacation with us. We threw around some Frisbees at the park’s disc golf course and then promptly headed to Slyfox for some food and local brew.

Seven o’clock Sunday morning came quick after a hot and horrible night’s sleep in the back of the truck. I lined up next to six other women at the start—once again, with less than a minute to spare. (Justin actually missed the start of his race as he was setting up our cooler under the tent!)

On my third lap (about 25 or so very rocky miles in), I was in pain. I made the decision that this lap would be my last. That kept me going. Seeing Justin over my shoulder (yep, he lapped me) helped too. But a quick good luck kiss—he was in 2nd place!—and he was gone. The pain stayed.


At 31.5 miles, I crossed the start/finish line and glanced at the time clock, hoping I’d surpassed the 6-hour mark. I hadn't. And 15 minutes was, unfortunately, plenty of time to start another lap. Shouts from the EWR tent boosted my confidence long enough for me to roll past my team and a few friends who had gathered under our EZ-Up. I began another 10.5-mile lap, uttering a few choice words once in the woods.


My fourth lap was desolate, sweltering and long. Rocks seemed pointier, obstacles more plentiful, hills insurmountable. Somehow I made it to the finish; most people had already headed to the registration building for the awards ceremony. And what a ceremony it was! Justin kept his lead (with a broken cleat in the last lap, no less) and took 2nd place in the men’s endurance category.

Maybe the pearl earrings were lucky after all!

Love. Pass It On.

The first mountain bike I ever rode was my boyfriend’s sister’s Bianchi. And I pedaled that beast like a pro. Lugged its awkward, overweight frame up the “steep” hills of the (possibly illegal) mountain bike trail system that diverged off a nearby dirt road. Rebounded its rigid fork off rocks, roots and, really, just about anything that got in my way. And muddied its metallic finish when I sloshed through creek crossings aplenty.

It was love at first chainring "tattoo." And ten years later, I’m still in love with the sport (and the boyfriend).

Last week I had the desire to introduce someone new to the dirt. Naturally, I chose my fixie-riding, punk rock-listening, vegan brother. He was all for it. He just had to lose the tight jeans first. (Love ya, bro!)

He pedaled his sister’s boyfriend’s bike. (Pictured below—minus the dirt and profusion of tail lights.) It was awkward, rigid and only fitting for his inaugural ride.


We did the left loop at High Rocks—technical, steep, rocky—and he only crashed once. I think he’s a natural.

We cruised home from the trails on some back country roads and I yelled over my shoulder, “Did you have fun?”

“I loved it,” he responded.

Girls, Girls, Girls!

While vacationing in Park City two weeks ago, I found myself without plans on a Tuesday evening. A stop in the local bike shop, White Pine Touring, earlier in the week left me with an option to ponder: the Tuesday night women’s ride.

I’ll admit I was hesitant to partake in this local ladies-only ride at first. My two neighborhood shops don’t offer weekly women’s mountain bike rides…or any weekly mountain bike rides for that matter. Plus, I’d never ridden with only women before.

Admittedly, fear of the unknown frightens me—even when (especially when) the unknown involves a group of girls. Would they give my Racer X rental the once-over and pass judgment? Fortunately, my fear faded the moment I hopped on my bike and pedaled towards the shop. Really, it was just a ride. Just for women. Just for fun.

When I rolled to a stop in front of the entrance, my jaw dropped. There must have been 50 people waiting to pedal off into the mountains—fifty WOMEN! On MOUNTAIN bikes! And this happens every Tuesday! I joined the Level II- Endurance group on a ride that took my breath away, and not just because we were at high altitude (but that was part of it).


Miles of emerald mountains, crystal water and auburn sky greeted us at the top of every climb. Ride leaders positioned themselves at switchbacks chirping cheerful pointers as we pushed past. And in the last few miles of the day, the trail dumped us into the parking lot of a garage where a few older men were holding band practice. To their delight, we stayed for a song as the sun set behind us.


“Only in Park City,” the girl next to me shouted above the music.

You got that right.

Because I Got High

I’ve been a bit lax in getting a new post up here. It’s not my fault. I was high. Really high. Seven-thousand-feet-above-sea-level high. Spend 10 days in Park City, UT, and you too will forget you have a job, car and, yes, blog.


Yeah, we all know it has “the greatest snow on earth” (which I’ve been fortunate enough to test and confirm), but Utah has some of the greatest mountain biking on earth too—at least in my book.

I’ve been to Moab. I’ve pedaled Porcupine Rim, Slickrock, Amasa Back and Sovereign. Each one was mind blowing and unique—yet poles apart from riding Park City. The mountain town boasts more than 325 miles of trails: Singletrack. Doubletrack. Bike trail. Lift-served. We rode them all—Mid Mountain, Powerline, Tour des Suds, The Crest, Spiro, Spin Cycle—and never took the lift. (“That’s cheating,” Justin told me.)

The views at the top were worth every pedal stroke, muscle cramp and bead of sweat it took to get there.



And “getting there” was equally as stunning. Surrounded by stark white Aspens, we rode through burmed, rocky, switchbacking singletrack.


For the first time the terrain wasn’t the only thing that made the riding challenging. Altitude and heat made us East-Coasters take it easy. We learned the art of pacing, as I don’t think we ever truly adjusted to the altitude. And at the top of a steep climb on a triple-digit day, I blacked out. By myself. Summoning courage from my best friend, (for whom blacking out is a somewhat frequent pastime), I rehydrated, popped a few Honey Stinger chews and finished my ride.

Our stay in PC ended in a bar we frequented nightly to catch the last hour of the Tour and sip PBR pounders—Flanagans on Main St. On our last night in town, our newfound friend Tim (the manager with just three weeks on the job) was heartbroken when he found out his first “locals” were hopping a flight the next day. He shouted, “Last call” to a sparse crowd just as a group of unruly patrons walked in. But he let them stay, let us play Corey Hart from his iPod and laughed when an impromptu dance-off lasted until 2:30 in the morning.

We danced.

Luckily, I was having too much fun to take pictures.

Fair Hill 50-Miler

When I heard about the 50-mile endurance option at this past weekend’s MASS race, I didn’t hesitate to sign up. There are few things I’d rather do on a Sunday than ride my bike. All day long.

I even convinced Justin to join in some local race scene fun—no panniers necessary!

When race day rolled around, I rolled up to the start line with 17 seconds to spare—and four or so hours of shut-eye behind me. (Any sleep at all is thanks to Justin. He spent the night on the floor next to the 150-pound Newfoundland we were watching who was terrified of thunder!)

Our somewhat stormy start to the 2009 Fair Hill Classic turned into a sun-shining, warm-breeze-rustling enjoyable ride. The endurance racers pedaled through the woods by way of two large loops equal to 50 miles. The course was reminiscent of White Clay Creek—fast, windy singletrack—with a bit more roots and climbing.

2009 Fair Hill Classic MTB Expert Course at EveryTrail

Map created by EveryTrail: Share GPS Tracks

It was my first MASS race of the season and my second race for the EWR team. I took 4th in the Enduro Women category (averaging 8.6 mph on lap 1 and 7.6 mph on lap 2).


Justin took 12th in the Enduro Men category (10.7 mph on lap 1 and 9.9 mph on lap 2) and a friend we dragged down from State College for the weekend—who recently celebrated a birthday milestone—kicked our butts and took 7th in the Enduro Men category (11.4 mph on lap 1 and 10.2 mph on lap 2).

Maybe I should start turning laps to techno…

If You Haven’t Been to Raystown

Go. You'll love it. I promise.

We made the 4-hour drive last weekend, and after just a few miles on the trail knew we made the right decision.

Part pump track, part mountain bike trail, the new Allegrippis Trail System at Raystown Lake is thirty miles of machine-built merriment. We rolled, we swooped, we pumped. And the next day I couldn’t lift up my arms. Really.

Fun and (dangerously) fast, pictures really didn’t do the place justice, so we took some moving footage via the V.I.O.



…twice.



IMBA and the US Army Corps of Engineers did a darn fine job of creating a Mid-Atlantic mountain biker’s paradise. The place is likely everything you’ve heard, and more. We’re already planning a return trip in the fall (this time we’ll take advantage of the on-site camping with friends).

Just gotta build up some biceps first!

Rollin’ On Home

Now that Justin is home, we’re back to riding anywhere and everywhere. Last weekend we saddled up and set out on a bikepacking trek from Pipersville to Glenmoore.

Our 50-mile route (100-mile loop) took us through Hatfield, Collegeville, Phoenixville and beyond. We stopped pedaling a few miles past Marsh Creek State Park and spent the evening at a friend’s house to celebrate his visit from a far-away state. The next day we reversed our tracks, stopping in Phoenixville for an alfresco lunch.


View Larger Map

Fresh from racing the Tour Divide, Justin carried all our gear—which wasn't much. We traveled light and fast (OK, maybe just light...), sans sleeping bags, a tent or pads since we slept inside. We took with us minimal food, essentials to fix a flat and a change of clothes.



On the quiet—and sometimes unpaved—roads we passed long-forgotten farms, trickling creeks, fields of dandelions and covered bridges. While the rolling hills of the Pennsylvania countryside are a far cry from the regal mountains along the Continental Divide trail, our ride was nothing short of spectacular. I'm sure Justin was happy to be riding on home turf. And I was happy to be riding alongside.


**Oh, in case you missed it, Justin talked about the Tour Divide in his own words when he got home.

Baby Got Back

…last week safe, swollen and sporting a spectacular jersey tan.

I wouldn’t have recognized my mustached man if he hadn’t waved at me from outside the airport terminal (though Chris Hansen would’ve likely spotted him from I-95). Dressed in a borrowed Pabst Blue Ribbon T-shirt, swim trunks and silver bike shoes, Justin was noticeably not the same as the Philly International characters flanking him.

I put the car in park and stared incredulously as he hobbled in, out of the humidity and hordes of tense travelers. He grinned. I kissed his cheek. And for the first time in a long time everything felt right.

Once home, we celebrated his return with music, merlot and many, many massages. As Justin iced his ankles (wait, where were his ankles?!), we made plans for the next few days: mountain biking at White Clay, bikepacking to a friend’s house, barbeques and parties.

Then Justin spoke and I listened. I learned that:

Banff—or more specifically, Canmore, Alberta—is the priciest place to live in North America. So, Justin ate most meals at McDonalds prior to the race.

The race “officially” started after Matthew Lee yelled to the group of riders, “Congratulations, guys!” and took off.

Some nights Justin rode until midnight, barely able to stay awake on the bike.

Justin had to scare away moose on the race route.

He had to push for 40 miles in 30+ mph winds to keep a seven mph pace.

Racers will eat or drink just about anything to keep their calorie count high.

Justin raced about 1,100 miles, averaged 130 miles per day and stopped just outside of Jackson, WY.

Above all, I learned that time stands still when you swap stories from 2,500 miles away.

A few Tour Divide photos:

This is What I Told Him

When Justin brought up the notion of not finishing, I gave him tough love.

I told him I wouldn't pick him up from the airport if he changed his flight. I reminded him that he called me the “first loser” when I won second place. I said his body was just in shock from riding over a thousand miles—and God knows how much elevation—in nine days. I said his leg swelling would subside, his Achilles would loosen up, his knee pain would dull down and his mouthful of sores would end after his sugar intake did. Above all, I told him he would regret abandoning the race because he was doing so well.

He countered by saying he regretted not stopping to enjoy the mountains he climbed, “the flowers he pissed on,” the friends who came out to cheer him on. He would regret racing away a whole year’s worth of vacation. “What’s the point if I’m not having fun?” he asked.

I had no answer. And, really, who was I to force him to finish? I watched his SPOT move from the comforts of home—detached from this year's extreme weather, sleep-deprived nights, pain and suffering, and physical exhaustion. Some people would be disappointed he didn’t finish, but most of us could never comprehend the magnitude of his journey. Who were we to judge someone’s valiant attempt at living their dream when most of us are still chasing ours?

He’d made up his mind. So, I changed mine and offered my support.

Justin went out not to challenge the masters of the divide, but rather himself, he’d said in his letter of intent. And he did. He went out to experience the grand tour of mountain biking. And he did.

I told him to spend this next week doing the one intention he never made good on in his letter: Take it all in. I hope he does.

Life's too short to not enjoy the ride.



Day 10 Race Briefs:
-Josh Ficke (8th place, 2007) drops out

-John Nobile (Current GDR border-to-border record holder) drops out

-Kevin Dean drops out

-Steve McGuire drops out

-The Italians are caught cheating

-Deanna Adams has a seizure

-Justin Kline decides to tour

What Would You Do?

If your knees were throbbing and Achilles was aching?

You rode 16 hours a day?

And averaged five hours of sleep a night?

If you scaled mountains, but couldn’t enjoy the views?

If you had to repeat the cycle for two more weeks?

I heard from Justin today: The pace is too fast. The days are too long. The nights are too short.

What would you tell him?