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