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!