Year-end Analysis of Racing in the MidAtlantic Bicycle Racing Association

Preface

I have a much nicer PDF of this analysis--ask for it in the comments section. And it has all the notes

1 Introduction

This report attempts to summarize the attendance trends over the past nine years of racing in the Mid-Atlantic Bicycle Racing Association–MABRA. I hope it is a useful resource for both racers and promoters. In drawing conclusions from these tables and graphs, you should be aware that the data sets are small, and that hidden variables almost certainly influence the trends. However, I believe that some data is better than
no data at all. I am always looking for ways to improve this document, and I consider all suggestions.
As always, this report is an incremental modification to the report of previous years. To keep the main body of the report to a manageable and readable length, the supporting information appears as a collection of endnotes that follows the last section.( just ask for the PDF version if you want this)

2 What is MABRA?

MABRA, the Mid Atlantic Bicycle Racing Association, is an association of event-promoting clubs, based loosely around the Washington, DC-Baltimore, Md area. The map in Figure 1 shows the traditional geographic outline of MABRA, and the approximate locations of its member clubs in late 2014. The diameter of the circle is proportional to the number of USAC-licensed members in the club. (see note 1)  

Figure 1: Map of the traditional geographic boundaries of MABRA. Circle position indicates the location of a member club in 2014. Circle diameter is proportional to the number of members.

Most clubs have many members who are unlicensed. In addition, most clubs have many members, mostly Category 5, who are listed as “unattached” but who have actually joined the club. Figure 2 shows a zip-code-by-zip-code map of MABRA in which the size and color of the plotted point indicate the number of licenses in that zip code. The ten most populated zip codes in MABRA are all in DC or the counties that border DC. For the US as a whole, 7 of the top 10 zip codes are Boulder or its surrounding towns. 

Figure 2 shows a zip-code-by-zip-code map of MABRA in which the size and

color of the plotted point indicate the number of licenses in that zip code. 

Figure 2: Zip-code map of MABRA racer residences. Color is proportional to the number of licensed racers in the zip code. Size of spot increases with increasing numbers. Zip codes with no licensed racers are show as gray dots.

Add caption

3 Demographics

Figure 3 plots the demographic data by age broken out by gender and racing category

for all MABRA riders in 2014. Figure 4 slices puts the data of Figure 3 into separate

panels by category.

Figure 3 Distribution of age of MABRA racers by gender and category.

Figure 4 Distribution of age of MABRA races by category and gender.

Figure 5 compares the age distribution of all USCF-licensed riders in 1989, (note 2) and

2005 to 2014. 3 In the 25 years since 1989, the median rider age has increased 14 years,

from 27 to 41 (computed for men, though Figure 5 shows both genders). Note also the asymmetry of the 1989 distribution towards a larger fraction of young riders is much larger than the corresponding asymmetry in 2005. Note also that from 2005 to 2014 the distribution broadens both to younger and

to older ages. In 2014, a significant hump appears for racers less than 20 years old. 

Historical USACycling membership demographics

Figure 6 shows that the median age of licensed racers, except for category 5 has steadily increased since 2005. Interestingly, the median Category 5 age is basically constant. MABRA is not adding younger racers. Note also that the median age for women is basically unchanging. 

Figure 6. Historical median racing age by category and gender. 

4 Historical USAC and MABRA data

Figure 7 plots historical data on USACycling membership through the years, as well as some formative events in American cycling history. (note 4) USCF membership skyrocketed during the 1980s before reaching a plateau in 1990 and then declining. It was not until 2005 that membership exceeded the 1992 peak. What caused the plateau? Why is membership increasing again after 2003? It’s hard not to argue that it’s the “Lance Armstrong effect.” But then, why does the membership continue to grow even after all the doping revelations of the past several years?

Figure 7. Historical USACycling membership data. 

 Figure 8 plots the analogous data for total MABRA memberships. After three years of stagnant growth, membership increased again in 2014.

Figure 8 Historical MABRA membership data.

Race Attendance–Who is actually racing?

Figure 9 shows the fraction of of the total number of races entered by everyone who competed in a MABRA or Virginia race I was able to locate.5 This data set includes every racer with an address in MABRA, and every racer, regardless of address, who appears in a result from 2013. Note that licensed racers who competed in zero, one, or two races comprise more than half of the total.

Figure 9 Histogram of the fraction (as percent) of races in MABRA/VA entered by each licensed racer

Figure 10 is a similar histogram but that only considers MABRA racers (i.e. licensed racers whose address is in the geographic boundaries of MABRA). Here, more than one quarter of all racers do not appear in any results. And half of the licenses racers competed in two or fewer events in 2013.

Histogram of the fraction (as percent) of of races in MABRA entered by each licensed MABRA racer.

Figure 11 takes that data and plots it as a cumulative distribution beginning with the racer, regardless of address, with the most races in 2013.6 The most interesting conclusion is that 10 % of licensed racers account for 40 % of the attendance. This result confirms the anecdotal evidence that you see the same people at races every week.

Figure 11. Cumulative distribution of race attendance. (Results do not reach unity because unknown licenses are not considered.)

Notes

forgot it--ask for the PDF version.

New England Museum road trip

Summary

I built this ten-day vacation around a single bicycle race, the Vermont Overland Grand Prix. After that it was driving, museums, and old friends for eight more days. 

Day-by-Day

Saturday: Driving, bridges, Killington

I was not excited about the 500 mile mostly I-95 and NYS Throughway drive up to the lodge I had booked at the Killington ski area, and knew that I would need something to break the drive up. The Walkway over the Hudson worked nicely. The foresight of the people who turned an abandoned railway bridge over the Hudson into a pedestrian destination is truly incredible. 

The cantilever bridge, built in 1886 and abandoned after fire in the early 1970s, reopened as a pedestrian walkway in 2009. It's over a mile long and 200 feet above the river. 

Sandra on the Walkway. In the background is the Mid-Hudson Bridge, which I rode across thirty one years earlier on my bike trip from Ithaca to Poughkeepsie.

In 1983 I rode from Ithaca to Poughkeepsie to visit my then-girlfriend at her home. The trip was at the peak of my "planning is an admission of failure" style of bicycle touring. I had no idea where I was staying, how I was going to get across the Hudson, and I didn't have a tent. I rode 110 miles the first day, never out of the bailout gear, and camped at deserted campground on the Pepacton Reservoir that was straight out of a post-apocalyptic zombie film. The caretaker was raving babbling drunk, and I was the only guest in a sea of unused pop-up campers and pull-behind trailers. The trip across the Hudson was unnerving. I navigated the pedestrian (!) walkway, which was just expanded metal grid. Terrible vertigo as I stared down at the Hudson 300 feet below my wheels. The Walkway across the Hudson would have been very helpful then... I arrived in Poughkeepsie a day earlier than expected to find her parents still on vacation. After chatting up the neighbors and letting them in on my plan I bedded down on the Laurendeau's deck. Unfortunately, they also arrived home a day early. Maria's mother got the fright of her life when she came up on the deck at 1AM, and woke me up. Luckily for me they were not armed.
Three decades later in the present, after a stroll over the Hudson we were back on the road to Killington. The Snowed Inn was a completely serviceable ski lodge. I swapped tires in the room, and prepared for racing.

Hotel: Snowed Inn, Killington Vt

Food: Neptune Diner, Newburgh, NY, It was a NY Greek diner. They had gyros. Little Harry's, Rutland, Va. A little overpriced but basically OK.

Sunday: Racing, Randolph, Montpelier

Sunday was mostly given over the Vermont Overland Grand Prix, described elsewhere. Post-race we drove up to Montpelier through Randolph, where Sandra's grandfather had grown up. We ended up at a B&B in Montpelier, just a few blocks from downtown. Of course, as the smallest state capital in the US, almost everywhere is just a few blocks from downtown.

Food:  Melaza Caribbean Bistro, Woodstock, Vt, (pretty good Cubano sandwhich)  Sarducci's Montpelier, VT (Saute'd Kale salad and garlic bread--good value. Nice open porch overhanging the Winooski River)
Lodging: Betsy's B&B. Pleasant enough, if in need of a little airing out.

Monday: Shelburne Museum and Burlington

Sandra and I had been to the Shelburne Museum in 2003, when I raced (disastrously)  the Green Mountain Stage Race in 2003.  The museum is the personal obsession of descendants of a 19th-century robber baron (Vanderbilt) and a sugar baron, who  set out to document New England Americana much in the same way that Henry Mercer built up the the Bucks County Historical Society.

The centerpiece of the museum, or perhaps its greatest oddity, is the Ticonderoga, the last paddle wheel steamship on Lake Champlain, which is now on blocks 2 miles from the lake. 

While we were there, Sandra indulged me with this picture of an authentic Vermont smokehouse. I was obsessed with smokehouses as a child. Quoting from my "Adventure book" from June 28, 1969, when we lived outside DC "We went to Sotterly on a hot day... My favorite thing outside was the smokehouse. I love smokehouses." So here I am pointing at the smokehouse 46 years later. Even though they moved it, the smell remains. mmmmmmmmm

Indulging my childhood obsession with smokehouses and smoked meats. 

Dinner was at Farmhouse Tap and Grill, a combination brewpub and locavore venue in downtown Burlington, recommended by my friend Katherine. Two thumbs up. Made me wish I lived in Burlington. 

After dinner, I left Sandra behind at the B&B and met up with Katherine, who lives basically around the corner, where I got the full story of her fall from my bathroom window while I was in Germany in 1988. It's always great to catch up with old friends. 

Food: Farmhouse Tap and Grill, Burlington, VT One too many craft beers, olive plates, bratwursts. Whew...

Lodging: Richmond Victorian Inn, Richmond Vt; Awesome neighbor cat. 

Tuesday: More Montpelier

In my panic to get all the venues scheduled, I didn't realize that the Vermont Historical Society  was actually closed on Monday, so we were back in Montpelier. The historical society is a little glitzy for my tastes--not enough artifacts in glass cases. But its presentation of Vermont history is reasonably balanced. We learned that for all his calls for liberty, Ethan Allen's motives may not have been as pure as portrayed in fourth-grade history. Turns out that he had 200,000 acres of prime Vermont land with a disputed title. It was very much in his interest to have the colonies independent to secure his clear title to that land. Nothing is ever as it was portrayed in grade school.

Sandra points at the last catamount shot in Vermont, in the 1880s..

We also toured the Vermont state house. Apparently, until the mid 1970s, Vermont had one representative for each town--around 400 of them in a state that only had 400,000 people. Howard Dean has a very casual governor's portrait in his canoe with his flannel shirt and canoe.
After Montpelier we lunched in St. Johnsbury, and then continued on to Concord, Mass. We stayed for two days at Concord's Colonial Inn, in the same room that Queen Noor used. Brush with greatness.

Food: some forgettable place in St Johnsbury on the railroad Tracks.
Lodging: Concord's Colonial Inn, Concord, Ma

Wednesday: Concord, 19th century literature, old friends

The Concord agenda was to do everything that Sandra had missed doing when she worked weekdays in Lexington and that we hadn't done on our "Shot heard round the world" visit a few years ago. That meant we were mostly off technology and on literature.

Stop 1 was the Concord Museum. Very polished, and with the most youthful and attractive docents I've ever encountered.

Sandra points at a shoe  at the Concord Museum

From there, we were off to lunch with one of Sandra's former co-workers, and then to the Louisa May Alcott house. I've never read Little Women, but I remember the names of the books from endless card games of "Authors" as a kid. The other people on the tour were so excited about it. One women kept texting her daughter.

After Louisa May Alcott we hit The Old Manse, which overlooks the bridge from "The shot heard round the world" Ralph Waldo Emerson lived there while writing "Nature" and then rented the house to Nathaniel Hawthorne (also in "Authors, the card game") and his wife. They were later evicted for not paying the rent. And, wonderful tenants that they were, the commemorated their anniversary (?) by scratching a poem into the window glass with a diamond ring. 

Lodging: Concord's Colonial Inn

Food: Concord's Colonial Inn bacon-wrapped figs and cheese, Calimari

Thursday: Lowell, Industrialism and textiles

We went off the schedule for a day, and on a whim went to the Lowell National Historical Park. Initially, I thought it would be something to do for the morning, before heading down to New Bedford, but we spent the whole day.
Lowell was apotheosis of the early American industrial revolution. Industrialists dammed the Merrimack River for the water power to run weaving mills and built canals around the falls. The technology high point for me was the Boott Mills museum, which has an operating weaving mill room, using early 20th century looms. Even though only 10 of the 100+ looms were weaving, the noise was still astounding. I can't imagine being a 12 year tending for or five loops 12 hours a day.

Sandra points at a balance at the Boott Mills Museum.

Weaving mills in operation at the Boott Mill. Only 10 of the 110 mills were running, and the noise was still deafening.

As usual, the park rangers were super-engaged and interesting. We rounded out the trip with a short ride on a trolley car, and then a trip through the locks to the Merrimack.
Lodging in New Bedford was at the  Orchard Street Manor, a bed and breakfast run by a guy who had been adviser to the Moroccan finance minister. The house was built by a whaling captain, and the current owner has assembled a big collection of memorabilia of him, family, and his ship.

Food: some kind of "Mufungo" at a Puerto Rican restaurant, then seafood casserole at Freestone's City Grill in New Bedford Delicious.
Lodging: Orchard Street Manor, New Bedford, Ma

Friday: New Bedford, Whaling, On to Cape Cod

We really short-changed the New Bedford Whaling Museum, since we only had a little more than half a day. My feelings about visiting were a little mixed. The history of whaling is abhorrent, but I love everything about Moby-Dick. Plus we visited the Drake Well last year on our 19th Century Technology Road Trip. Oil pumped from the ground spelled the beginning of the end of commercial whaling, though not, of course, of the widespread slaughter of whales. 

It's easy to think about commercial whaling as a 19th century horror, or perhaps even one that ended in the early 20th century. One glass case of artifacts dispelled that notion: cans of gun oil and "Whale Meat in Curry paste."

We rushed the museum a little to fit in a visit to the Seamen's Bethel, which is featured in Chapters 7 to 9 of Moby-Dick  (and both excellent movie versions.) And then it was off to John and Rachelle's house on Cape Cod for the weekend. 

Sandra points at "Old Nemo" a fur seal purchased from PT Barnum. I'm unsure what he's doing in a whaling museum, though.

 

Scrimshaw display. The museum has an entire room of glass cases with stuff carved out of teeth and whalebone. Glass-case overload!

Saturday: Cape Cod, Beaches, Stand-up paddleboarding

Finally a day without driving. The day was given over to hanging out on the beach with John and Rachelle. While Sandra read her book and napped, I took Rachelle's board and John and I paddled (wind-aided) north on the inlet. I only fell off every time a boat passed. At the tip we paddled past a herd (flock?) of about forty seals. Amazing.

Sunday: Cape Cod, Telecommunications museums

Rachelle left in the morning for a college-reunion weekend, and we turned back to visiting museum. The history of Cape Cod is more than just whale oil and ocean fishing. It figures significantly in the history of telecommunications as well. 

The first stop was the Chatham Marconi Maritime Center, which was one in a series of transmitting and receiving stations that the Marconi Corporation built on Cape Cod to compete with the trans-Atlantic cables, one of which also came ashore on Cape Cod. After WWI, the station was used for Ship-to-shore communications until the 1990s. 

The docents were a creepily eager--like members some kind of techno-religious cult. 

Sandra pointing at some kind of vacuum tube from at the Chatham Marconi Maritime Center. 

 Museum #2 was a labor of love to memorialize the French undersea cable first laid in the 1870s, and put through to Orleans in 1891. The French Cable Station Museum is a musty collection of artifacts of the trans-atlantic cable technology in dire need of some new labels. Still--lots of period stuff on display. It seems to be run by the descendants of the original station master. The engineers in the group (i.e. us) had a fun discussion on how a wheatstone bridge might be used to detect the location of cable breaks, while the docent/owner declaimed a  technologically-not-very-correct explanation.

Sandra pointing at the only glass case we could find in the Orleans French Cable Station Museum.

Then it was back to John's for dinner.

John, Rachelle, and Sandra on the deck.

Monday: Mystic

We cleared out of Cape Cod around lunchtime on Monday, to try to avoid the inevitable backup, and stayed at our friends Betsy and Dan's vacation house in Mystic Connecticut. We arrived too late in the day to take in the Mystic seaport museum/compound, but we did have a nice walk through downtown Mystic on a lovely summer evening. 

Sandra watching the Mystic drawbridge rising.

Tuesday: Home!

One last stop on the drive home at my college friend Maria's house for lunch. She had spotted my post about the Walkway over the Hudson the week before. We had a quick lunch, played with her adorable Australian cattle dog puppies, and then hit the road again for home. 

Maria Laurendeau and me at her house in Campbell Hall, NY

Links

Museum and Venue Links

• Walkway over the Hudson, Highland, NY
• Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vt
• Vermont Historical Society, Montpelier, Vt
• Concord Museum, Concord, Mass.
• Louisa May Alcott House , Concord, Mass.
• The Old Manse , Concord, Mass.
• Lowell National Historical Park, Lowell, Mass
• New Bedford Whaling Museum, New Bedford, Mass
• Chatham Marconi Maritine Center, Chatham, Mass
• Orleans French Cable Station Museum, Orleans, Mass

Hotels

• Snowed Inn, Killington, Vt
• Betsy's B&B Montpelier, Vt
• Richmond's Victorian Inn, Richmond, Vt
• Concord's Colonial Inn, Concord, Ma
• Orchard Street Manor, New Bedford, Ma
• John and Rachelle's, Orleans, Ma
• Betsy and Dan's, Mystic, Ct

Vermont Overland Grand Prix

Executive Summary

A 51-mile gravel road race that uses five sections of Vermont's "Ancient Roads."  Based on my drive before and after, I'm sure it was achingly scenic, but I only looked at the road ahead of me. Flatted near the finish and lost 35 places, to finish  101st in 3:39:59. The winner took only 2:42:47. 

The Race

Maybe I'm getting blase about these gravel-road races.

The Vermont Overland Grand Prix was epic. The roads, ancient, hard-packed dirt, or modern paved, were all just tremendous. The event vibe was the best of any race I've been to in years.  But no one thing stands out as being mind-searingly memorable. Maybe that's good--no near-death experiences, no blinding rainstorms, no black depression of wanting to drop out and ride back to the car. Yeah, I'll go with that!

Anyway, the first edition of the Vermont Overland Grand Prix ran over a 51-mile single loop, with five (?) sections of Vermont's "Ancient Roads."  Through a quirk in Vermont law, any public right-of-way that ever existed remains in the public until the town formally turns it back to property owners. Some of these roads, known only to the locals, date back to the 18th century. And they are not roads that you're taking your Subaru Forester down, by any stretch of the imagination. 

Amusingly, it turned out I knew the promoter, Peter Vollers, from my Cornell Cycling team days, twenty five years ago. 

Sandra and I drove up from Falls Church the day before, and stayed at a lodge in Killington, about 35 minutes from the start. She indulged my pre-race parking/navigating paranoia, and we pulled into the race parking lot more than two hours before the 9 AM start. 

For a first year event, the more than 300+ entries made for an impressive start line. Unlike Hilly Billy Roubaix and Iron Cross, almost no one was on a mountain bike. The race shut down the main street of Woodstock Vt.  for the entire day. After the national anthem we rolled out, and a mile later we left the pavement behind on a wide, hard-packed dirt road littered with wheel-eating potholes. I watched several guys endo into the ditch almost immediately. Ouch. As soon as the gradient turned up I found myself drifting backwards out of the front group. I may have made a mistake in not going harder early, but it wasn't like others were  impeding my progress, either. Five miles into the race we hit the first ancient road, and I was off the bike pushing. I was overgeared (34x28), and the recent rain made the rocks pretty slick. On the descent, despite the warning signs, a guy a mountain bike nearly creamed me, as I was held up briefly by even slower guys ahead of me. 

The next 40 miles were a blur--pass guys on the road downhills, and then lose ground on the ancient roads. As usual, my back got progressively worse. In the last hour I found my rhythm, and actually started to pass riders until I flatted in a stream crossing with about six miles left. The entire bike was coated with black smelly grit-encrusted mud, and I sprayed down the tire with Gu from my waterbottle to try to clean it. What a  mess. I was running latex tubes with Stans, left over from Hilly Billy Roubaix, but obviously I didn't have enough Stans, since the leak didn't seal. After the repair I was completely paranoid about flatting again.

Minutes later we descended through a hay field, onto the pavement, crossed a covered bridge, and then minutes later i was sprinting though downtown Woodstock. One last steep uphill and I was across the line. My flat cost me 12 minutes and forty places, only good enough for 101st place. I've flatted way too many times in these races recently.

Pissed off just after repairing the flat. The photo shows a rather tame section of an ancient road. Photo credit Ryan Dunn: http://www.rwdunn.com/

Heart rate and speed. The big notch at 190 minutes is the flat tire change.  Averaged about 165bpm 

Enjoying a recovery beverage brewed by the race sponsor at a restaurant on the finishing straightaway.

Equipment

• Continental cyclocross speed tires @ 65psi with Vittoria latex tubes and 1/2 a bottle of 2-month-old Stans. Less than ten miles of the course was paved, and even on the smooth hardpacked roads, the tires were not a liability. 
• 34x28 was not low enough. Some of the "ancient roads" would have been ridable with lower gearing.

Links

• The event page
• 2014 Results
• My performance on Strava  
• More photographs from Ryan Dunn, one of the moto escorts
• Information on Vermont's "Ancient Roads:" http://www.vtroads.com/index.htm and an article in Yankee magazine that explains some of the interesting legal issues about them

Hilly Billy Roubaix

2014 Summary

Executive Summary

Rain. And searing back pain

We kept hoping that the forecasted rain would hold off. Indeed, it seemed as if it might,  but a half hour before  the start we retreated to the Rob Campbell's van as the rain poured down. 

But the rain stopped in time to assemble for the rider meeting and rollout to the actual start line. 

Instead of a whistle or a cap-gun shot, the promoter signaled the race start with the squeal of an actual live  pig. After a "controlled" rollout to the the highway, where I was nearly crashed out for the second time in a week, we started with a mile-long steep road descent before hitting the first sector of single-lane gravel about 2 miles into the race. Interestingly I saw two chains unfurled in the first three miles. What is it with these single speed guys?

 In 2012 and 2013 I went too deep on the chaotic first gravel section,  trying to stay in the front group, and paid for it at the end of the race. This year I kept my heart rate in the 160s even though it seemed like way too many people were passing me. 

I went into the second sector of dirt, the infamous mud bog sector on Little Indian Creek Rd,  with all but one of the contenders in the women's race, including one  who made a disturbing continuous symphony of grunts and bellows. Monica Seles seems demure in comparison. After that sector I was basically alone for the next 60 miles, rolling up single-speeders on the pavement sections.

Miles 20 to 40 flew by as I picked off more riders. Although I have raced the course before, I was still astounded at how much I remembered. I would be descending some single-lane gravel road and remember, "ooh, back off, this is the decreasing radius turn coming up."  In general,  I rode much more conservatively than usual on the downhills. Perhaps I was afraid of flatting, or perhaps I was thinking too much about crashing out of Hagerstown last week.

I spent the minimal amount of time at the aid stations. Just enough to refill my bottles.  OK, maybe I spent 20 seconds too long at the second aid station while the woman in with the multi-colored mohawk,  tattoos, and bikini top helped me out, but dammit---she didn't have any chain lube, which is what I really needed! Note to self: spare gloves are much less important than extra chain lube in this event.

After aid station two,  rain came back with a fury. I wear glasses with prescription inserts, and even with antifog, they are useless in heavy rain. A hard choice faced me: 20:20 vision obscured 80%, or 20:100 vision at 100% clarity. I shoved my glasses into my jersey and rode the brakes hard on the downhills. A couple more sectors of gravel flew by, and then I was at the most surreal sector. After a long road section the course turns off onto the entrance into a combination strip mine and power plant. In the middle of nowhere is a giant steam-belching fog-shrouded industrial facility. At the turnoff into the gravel section where I crashed in 2011, I stopped for a pee, and a kindly spectator ( where did he come from!?!?) cleaned my glasses on his shirt. This act of kindness was easily worth five minutes to me. 

The Garmin showed that I only had 12 miles left, but that distance included a mudbog-filled sector on Smokey Drain Rd, an impossibly steep road climb, and finally the grim climb back to the finish. By this point my lower back was on fire. My friend Glenn refers to this situation as "the full set of steak knives in the back," and I felt like I might have a set from one of the other competitors  as well. When I made the turn into Mylan Park, a quick look over my shoulder showed that I had 20 seconds to the next group behind me. Apparently the had donated their steak knife collection to me, because the first one passed me on the grassy cyclocross section two minutes later.  And then another, and then two more. I waved several more through on the downhill, since my back was so locked up that I could barely steer. Unfortunately, I waved through another 50+ guy. No matter. I could not have gone any harder.

I ground up to the finish, passed under the finish arch,  collected my mug, and rolled over to Rob Campbell's van, where I collapsed into a rain water - filled puddle for the next 10 minutes.  I ended up second, 25 seconds behind the winner. First time I've been on the podium in eight years. 

Race notes

• Bring chain lube with you. 
• The top three 50+ guys  all finished  within a minute after 5 hours.
• Setup:  Carbon Crux with mechanical disk brakes, Conti Cyclocross speed tires. Even with mechanical disk brakes, the Crux was much better than the Fuji with cantilever brakes. I will never go back. The front end started to beat me up toward the end, though.  Possibly some more aggressive tires would have been an advantage in the muddy sections. 
• Drove up with Rob Campbell and Tom Snyder
• Link to  GPS Trace (strava)

Results

Year	Field	Time	Place	Overall	Winning Time	Notes
2014	50+	5:00:15	2	37th	4:19:35	Epic rain
2013	40+	DNF				Two flats, sheared rear derailleur off
2012	40+	5:01:21	8	30th	4:18:48
2011	40+	5:17:29	13	~32nd	4:19:25	Two front flats, one crash

 Links

Results

• 2014
• 2013
• 2012
• 2011

Video 

• 2014: Hilly Billy Roubaix from In The Crosshairs--a short documentary about the event
• 2013: on board video, where my ass is featured early on

Year-by-year highlights

2011

What even prompted us to do this race?  I can't remember.We drove up with a full crew,  including Rob Campbell, Pete Lindeman, and Chris Clarke.  What I do remember is that I rode all out, with disastrous results. I flatted after the descent after the "Secret Aid Station," where Peter caught me. Then just after the power plant, while descending recklessly, hit a brick-sized rock, explosively decompressed the front wheel,  and launched over the bars. I was really fortunate to not have broken anything.

2012

Drove up alone. Missed out on a podium finish after dawdling at the final aid station, but that cold towel was awesome.

2013

Disaster year. After missing the podium in 2012 by only a few minutes, I vowed to let it rip in 2013. My aggressive descending produced a flat before mile 20. I thought I had just pinch flatted, so I just stuck a new tube in. But I had cut the sidewall, and so I flatted again on the next gravel section. This time I changed the tube, stood up too quickly and had a complete whiteout. I staggered back and stepped on the rear derailleur. Five miles later I shifted into the big cog in the back near the secret aid station and ripped the dérailleur completely off. I had failed to replace it after damaging it on my spring gravel road tour.

2010 C&O towpath/GAP trail tour

2010 Pittsburgh Bike Trip

“Tour of the endless driveway”

Background

Tom Snyder and I had planned to do this trip since just after our 2009 C&O Towpath tour. We had worked out a plan to drive a rental car to the Allegheny Airport and ride back over three and half days. As the date came closer, work commitments erased his ability to go. Simultaneously, my uncle David announced that the Fall Luecke family reunion would take place in Pittsburgh. I hatched a plan to ride there.

Mental Preparations

It had been twenty four years since I toured solo and twenty two years since I had used my one person tent.
In the days that lead up to departure, I obsessed more and more about whether I could really stand being alone with myself for three and a half days. My mind tends to race when I am alone, and that time can be a painful rehash of everything that I've done wrong. My solution on my ninety minute commute is to go harder and harder until I can't think straight. That's clearly an untenable solution for a trip that includes riding eight hours a day.

A week before, I started to worry about the distance as well: 300+ miles on a dirt road. My back had really been bothering me, and I began to worry that my body might give out before my mind did.

The Bike

Last year I rode my titanium Litespeed cyclocross bike, but it was unavailable this year. I had lent it to a teammate, Monika Sattler, to use. Although I could have retrieved it, I felt like I should use a “real” touring bike, which meant using the Zeus, Reynolds 531 frame I bought from Andy Jordan in 1988. The bike is a true Frankenstein's monster, assembled from the remains of half a dozen bikes over the past twenty years. The parts ran all the way from the original Sugino Mighty bottom bracket that came with the bike to a new Deore rear derailleur that I bought two weeks before the trip. At the last minute, I had to swap out the headset for the Dura Ace sealed-bearing version I stole from the original Litespeed. I also opted for Speedplay pedals and my old Sidi shoes.

The Gear

I pared the gear down to the absolute minimum I thought I would need for the trip. I didn't even take a spare shirt. I did, however, take nearly 5 lbs of Clif Bars. I would be gassy, but I wouldn't starve.

Day 1 Tuesday October 5

I had arranged to leave my car at Tom's house, to avoid having the NIST SWAT team blow it up or impound it for illegal parking. I pulled up a few minutes late. Tom was already sitting in his driveway, dressed and ready to go in his mismatched Spokes jersey and blue shorts. “I wish I were going with you.” “I wish you were going too.” We didn't have the military precision departure we enjoyed in 2009. But we were still underway at 1:12—only 12 minutes behind schedule.

Twenty four years ago to the day I was already on day four of my eleven-day solo trip in Germany, riding into Frankfurt to visit Jon Brockopp. From the synopsis of my diary for that trip: “I think I was worried about the enormity of the whole ride, doing it solo in the possibly bad weather in a country where I only spoke half the language.” Not much has changed in a quarter century, but at least I speak the language in Western Maryland.

The first hour and a half of day on were on the roads to the Monacacy aqueduct, where I planned to join the C&O towpath. Tom accompanied me until the towpath itself, and then turned back. As he rode back across the aqueduct, I sadly wondered, “What have I gotten myself in to?” Just like last year, the towpath to Brunswick, Md was very muddy. Several times I had to stop and clear the mud out of the fenders with a stick. Progress seemed slower than I remember from our 2009 team time trial to the Huckleberry campsite outside of Harpers Ferry. As planned, I detoured into Shepherdstown to look for food. Back and forth, up and down through Shepherdstown I went until I found the FoodLion. Dinner would be several pre-made subs, and some cookies. I had the presence of mind to grab some flammable AutoTrader newspapers to use for kindling later. Once back on the towpath, I began to really kill it for fear of arriving at the campsite after dark. I planned to camp at Killian's Cave, but it was already occupied, and I thought it prudent to get as far as possible.

Tom turns back. I'm on my own now. 

After arriving at Horseshoe Bend I had just enough time to put up the tent, and blunder through the woods gathering downed limbs before it got dark. I even had time to call Sandra and let her know I had made it. The night was restless, with a cacophony of insect noise, some owls, and a brief spot of rain. But I had exceeded my goal for the day, and drifted off thinking that I would really be able to finish the trip.

Day 2 October 6, 2010

Goal one for day two was to get to the Desert Rose Cafe in Williamsport Md, where I knew I could get a coffee and something to eat. The cafe, and its vivacious owner, is the highpoint of Williamsport, a town whose better days are long ago. After properly caffeinating myself , I began seriously considering riding all the way to Cumberland. To make that goal more achievable, I avoided the mud and skipped the C&O west of Williamsport by taking Md 68 and MD 56 to the eastern end of the Western Maryland rail trail. That excellent detour decision turned forty miles of dirt into forty miles of pavement.

Anyone who has ridden with me for any time knows that I cannot resist the lure of found objects on the road. Over the years I have found several wallets, a phone, about fifty bungy cords, and and what amounts to nearly an entire toolbox worth of tools. In my quest to pare every surplus gram from the touring rig, I had left home with only two tools: a Crank Bros multitool and a 10 mm open-end wrench that I thought I might need to adjust the cantilever brakes. The multitool has a 10-mm wrench on it, but it seemed difficult to use. Imagine my surprise, on Md 68, on a little rise west of Williamsport,when I found another 10 mm open-end wrench on the shoulder of the road. Why did I bring the original one?

The Western Maryland Rail Trail, which begins east of Hancock, is twenty five miles of smooth-as-glass paved trail. Weirdly, for nearly its entire length, you can see the C&O towpath about 100 feet away. Is this really the best use of funds for rail-to-trail conversions? The view is nicer, though. I made great time on the rail trail, but when I dropped back on to the towpath about ten miles from the Paw Paw tunnel, I realized that I still had 50 miles to go.

On the Western Maryland Rail Trail. That's the C&O towpath just past the trees.

The Paw Paw tunnel was as I remembered it from last year: an awesomely cool engineering feature from 160 years ago. And just like last year, I got to go through it totally alone. I stopped for lunch at the western portal to eat the last of the FoodLion subs from the day before. It began to rain. My goal was still Cumberland, but first I needed to refuel. The convenience store in Paw Paw had been a disappointment on last year's trip. If anything, it eclipsed itself in 2010. The only Gatorade as the low-calorie version. I settled for a coke, and a slim jim. If I didn't make it to Cumberland, dinner would be Clif Bars. The woman behind the counter was surly, and the stench from the deep fryer was overpowering. Outside the rain picked up, and then abated. I suited up in all my foul weather gear and headed back to the towpath.

West of Paw Paw the towpath was thick with bike tourists. Sadly, if the subset I saw represents the cycle-touring population, bicycle touring will soon be extinct. Except for one four-member family group, everyone I met was over 60. Then again, I'm nearly 50. One group in particular stood out. Their leader was wearing reflective yellow from head to toe, and called out a warning that I was ahead. Each member down the line repeated it at full volume, though they could not have been going more than 6 mph and were no more than a bike-length apart each.

Eastern portal to the Paw Paw Tunnel

The closer I got to Cumberland the more my back hurt. Even if I had wanted to camp, a spooky homeless guy had already staked out the last campsite on the towpath. The sun even came out as I rolled into Cumberland. I was so excited that I overshot the end of the towpath and started riding on the railroad tracks. Clearly you're supposed to start in Cumberland and not end there.

Approaching the end of the towpath in Cumberland, Md.

But I still needed a place to stay. At the entrance to the towpath I met a father-son combo who had been riding from Washington since Sunday. The son was on the phone to someone in Delaware trying to find a hotel cheaper than the Holiday Inn. While we were discussing bike touring, a woman I had passed on the towpath walked up and told us that the Fairfield Inn offered a good rate. I made my decision immediately and booked a room. I chatted up the father-son duo some more in the portico. They had an almost unbelievable amount of gear (65 lbs for the son), and the father had his saddle tipped down at a 20 degree angle. They typified the people I saw on the trail. By and large they seemed to be people who were making the trip not because they enjoyed bicycle touring, but rather because the Towpath/GAP trail offered some sort of epic adventure.

I got cleaned up, headed out for dinner, called my dad to wish him Happy Birthday. The pedestrian mall in Cumberland looked very well maintained, but hardly anything was open. Dinner was an overcooked chicken breast and wild rice at City Lights. The owner and I chatted about Cumberland, its past and future. As I got up to leave, I noticed that the woman from the towpath was sitting behind me. I introduced myself to Helen and ended up chatting with her for an hour about middle school principals and the future of the Yellow Pages, for whom she sold advertising in Cumberland. The long-term prospects for the Yellow Pages don't look good.

Roughing it at the Fairfield Inn

Day 3 October 7, 2010

Finally, a sunny day. Leaving Cumberland, I could smell coal smoke. My dinner companion Helen says it's from people who still burn coal for heat. The Great Allegheny Passage trail is awesome. The surface is finely crushed stone. You could ride it with a racing bike on 23s. The first twenty five miles from Cumberland are all uphill. At the built-up turn at La Vale, about eight miles into the ride, I stopped for the first of many seat post interventions. This one was to lower the post. After this one, it started slipping constantly.

I made the right decision in Frostburg, where I left the trail and rode up into town for coffee and muffin at the Mountain City Creamery. The girl behind the counter was also surly, but the coffee was good. The complete lack of brakes on the on the Zeus made the descent back to the path a bit unnerving.
The views as I left Cumberland were spectacular, but the tunnels were not as exciting as I hoped they would be. After the Paw Paw Tunnel this year, and the Pennsylvania turnpike tunnels a few years ago, a 100 m tunnel just really isn't that thrilling.

As I rolled up the trail enjoying the solitude, I noticed a guy sitting off to the side. I asked if he had everything he needed, and to my dismay, he jumped up and invited himself to ride along with me. I tried to amp up the pace to see if I could just drop him, but did not succeed. Larry the former Cumberland Scrap dealer turned out to be fairly interesting, and we rapidly reached the Eastern Continental Divide and the Big Savage Tunnel. From the overlook, you could see all the way back to the Narrows outside of Cumberland. We took turns photographing each other, and then Larry the scrap dealer turned to conducting business on the phone, and I rolled on through the Big Savage tunnel.

Eastern portal to the Big Savage Tunnel. Highest point on the ride.

As soon as I came through the tunnel, which is the longest, but is also lit, the sun disappeared and the wind hit me in the face. I see why the ridge is lined with power-generating turbines. I stopped again for another seat post intervention and pleasant chat in Meyersdale, and then rode over the Salisbury aqueduct. Again, objectively it was cool, but not as cool as I had hoped it would be.

Entrance to the Big Savage tunnel.

My lunch in Rockwood, after searching for an open store, was rather disappointing, and the rest of the trail into Confluence was not very memorable.

Camping arrangements at the Youghiogheny Dam Outflow in Confluence were difficult to figure out. Apparently it was closed for the season. I pitched the tent, and headed over to the Lucky Dog Cafe for Sierra Nevadas and a burger. While I sat on the patio, the house dogs, two chihuahuas, sat on my lap.. It's so funny how they tremble when they're excited. The Lucky Dog reminded me of eating in the Gastatte at the campgrounds in Germany: sitting at the bar, drinking beer.

After dinner, I walked around Confluence, since it was still early—it had only been sixty miles. I tried to call Sandra, but even though I could see the mobile tower, I couldn't connect. Interestingly, Gmail worked. The night was cold, but I was comfortable on the pad in the bag.
Commentary from the Germany Trip: “Again the oppressive silence” but day three was the chattiest day for the 2010 trip.

Day 4 October 8, 2010

Day four started the way most of the Germany trip days started: socked in cold and fog: 42 F at 9:00. Just like in Germany, I got all wet and cold taking down the tent. This time, though I had proper cycling gloves, and not leather gardening gloves like in 1986. After packing up, I headed over to Confluence to find some coffee, and kill some time to see if the fog would burn off. I reasoned that trip through Ohiopyle park would be scenic, and it would be advantageous to be able to see more than 30 m.

Amazingly, the Turkeyfoot Valley Historical Society opens at 8:00AM on Fridays. The TVHS is my favorite kind of local historical society: cases of stuff rescued from the attics of the locals. One fascinating exhibit was a display of photographs of the villages that were submerged by the Youghiogheny dam in 1947. Confluence was spared, not because its size, but because it would have cost too much to relocate the railroad. I breakfasted at Sisters Cafe. They make the same coffee as the Silver Diner: insanely hot and devoid of flavor.

The fog refused to lift, so I gave up and rolled out. After all the expectation, Ohiopyle park disappointed. It was just a two-track path through the woods. You could rarely see the river. I should have left earlier; the effect of fog was minimal. I did see a bald eagle gliding down the river.

Meanwhile the seatpost kept sinking. The more it sank, the more my paranoia rose that the binder bolt housing was cracked. Why else would it have let go after two days? The farther I went, the less the bike looked like a touring bike, and the more like a clown bike.

Seatpost intervention in Connellsville, PA.

I stopped for another seatpost intervention in Connellsville, and then twice more in quick succession to get the height right. But it finally held. My paranoia dissipated. North of Connellsville, the track is less wooded, but no more memorable. I passed through town after town, each one more run-down than the one before. I stopped for for an excellent lunch at the Trailside in West Newton. In no time I reached Boston, which was the end of the GAP trail for me. By cutting off the trail, I could save ten miles of a loop of the Mononghela For the first time in 250 miles I went up a hill. And it was a serious one. I ground along for a mile in the 38x32. Two map checks later I was bombing down the other side. My complete lack of confidence in my anemic brakes and the poor handling of the heavily loaded front end ruined the downhill. I knew the road ended in a T intersection at the bottom, and I had a vision of foot dragging right into the river. Glassport Rd, which took me to the bridge over the river was busy and super-industrial, with a depressing view of the Clairton coke plant. I felt like I was barely moving.

The tiny towns on the GAP trail had been depressing, but Clairton made them look happy and prosperous. Half of the buildings on the River road were abandoned. I managed to completely miss the entrance to the Montour trail while looking at the coke plant. To my credit, the sign for the trail was about 3x6inches. Instead of turning back, I consulted the map and the GPS and continued up St. Clair Avenue, thinking it would intersect the trail a few miles up the the road. As I rode through downtown Clairton I felt nervous for the first time on the trip. The main street looked pretty sketchy, and unlike the river front, was full of people. I wondered if I could outsprint any of them. I passed out of the downtown, certain that I was nearing the intersection with the trail. Unfortunately, I soon found myself riding out onto a bridge. Dismayed, I looked down and realized that the trail ran along the streamside, 150 feet below me. I continued on in denial across the bridge, certain that a footpath would lead down to the stream. No such luck. Resigned, I roared down Walnut Street with my anemic brakes back to the river, and the spot I had been 20 minutes before. This time I found the trail, though.

My frustration continued, however, and I found myself uncharitably cursing the Mountour Trail Association. Three miles later I was standing at a busy intersection comparing my bike GPS, my phone GPS, and the low-resolution laminated map I had made. I took another wrong turn about a mile later. The signs for the trail were seemingly randomly placed, and mostly in useless places—like when it was obvious you were on the trail. They did provide some nice directions around two of the road sections. After a few more wrong turns, I ended up on the last section of the Montour trail, which then became paved and slightly downhill. I was really motoring. I kept thinking, “If I go through the tunnel, I've gone too far. But I'll hit the street I want before that.”

I saw one possibility to Angela's house off to the left, Linwood Ave, but it was a dirt road with a 15 +% grade that looked like it might be a struggle to get up. Just up the trail I reached the tunnel. I stopped for some photos, and again, in denial, continued on through. I asked a couple on the bridge, who were enjoying the sunset, to confirm that Hidden Valley Rd was on top of the tunnel. Why, I ask, should “Hidden Valley Rd” run along the ridge line? Someone in Pittsburgh needs to vet these names more carefully.
I backtracked, and turned up Linwood Ave. It was incredibly torn up, and it was hard to keep the bike going in a straight line, even though I was in the bail-out gear. At 3.2mph from my back pocket, I heard the chime announcing a new text message. I knew it was from Sandra, and that she had beaten me to the house, but I was not going to stop and read it. After all I was only about a half mile away. A few minutes later, after winning a drag race against a four-year-old on an electric cart, I pulled up in front of Angela's house and a very welcome cold beer.

Recap

Three and a half days alone with my thoughts did not create the mental melt-down I had feared. My back held out, after all the seat-post interventions. I am, however, done with the C&O towpath as a bike-touring destination.

2013 Iron Cross Recap

“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.”
― Marcel Proust

OK, I've never read Proust, but he aptly describes the Iron Cross experience.

I've raced Iron Cross (billed as North America's first ultracross race) in 2008, 2012, and this year. The passage of a year dulls the pain, and leaves only the memories of the epic race.  Two of three times I have been reduced to thoughts of just lying down off the track and giving up. Somehow that experience doesn't keep me from coming back.

The course is mostly gravel fire roads with two (2-3) km long sections of mountain-bike single track. And of course, the signature section of the course is the Wigwam Runup: a 100-m-high goat path beneath a high-voltage power line. My GPS said that the gradient averaged 48%. New  this year was the inclusion of about 10 km of rocky, rutted ATV trail at the end, and the deletion of a long segment of single track that formerly came at the end..

Race Summary

Unlike 2012, I was pretty stoked about the event. Conditions were perfect: shorts, Paceline embro , long gloves and arm warmers. 

I don't like to criticize the course, (too much) but the rollout proceeded immediately into a 2m-wide shale-strewn path. I'm sure that within the first 5km, the leaders were already five minutes ahead.  A longer open section to shake things out would have been fairer. 

The modified course meant that we hit the first single-track section (Lippincote) only about 20km in to the 110-km race. It felt shorter to me this year, and seemed to beat me up less. After a short, fast descent on US30, we hit the base of Wigwam. Like every year, it was one long line of guys, bikes on the shoulders, rear wheel of the guy in front of you threatening to hit you in the face. Step. Plant the toe spikes. Step. Plant. Repeat. And once again using those running muscles just torched my legs. 

From the top of Wigwam the distance just flew by, and suddenly I was back at the start/finish and nearly halfway through the race. I pitted for two minutes at the back of Rob's van to refill my camelback and ditch my vest, gloves, and armwarmers. More flowing, fast, gravel downhill followed. 

I caught Tom Snyder, after buzzing his tire by accident, at the start of the Hogshead Climb. "Hey, Tom." "What are you doing here?!" and then back to grinding. 

I had been a little crampy up to that point, despite eating a Gu every 50 minutes and seemingly having the spigot of my camelback in my mouth the entire way. But I came completely unglued with 20km to go. It was all going well, until almost immediately it was not going well at all. I was forced to ride the (anemic) brakes on one downhill, as I was so bleary that I feared that I would not be able to ride out of a bad situation. I started counting the kilometers to the finish, which is never a good sign.  I rode the next uphill section under reduced power for fear of cramping. My lower back was on fire, and my arms hurt from the combined braking and pounding. 

The finish line was going to involve quite a bit of vertical, and I started praying it was going to be the road climb that we descended at the start. Every downhill seemed to be followed by another little wall of an uphill.Would that final climb never come?  Instead of the road, the finish climb was an ATV trail. I realized that if the finish didn't come at 110 km, I might just get off the bike and lie down.  Finally I could see the inflatable Red Bull finishing arch through the trees, but the climb was too steep. Only 150 m from the end, and I was pushing the bike.  I remounted with 50 m to go, and rolled through.  At least 10 guys passed me in the final 3 km.

Setup

I rode the Fuji with what should have been Conti Cyclocross Speed 35mm tires. Unfortunately, while setting up the bike on Saturday I saw that the sidewall on one was slashed,  probably from my second flat at Hilly Billy Roubaix this year. I replaced it with a Panaracer 35mm that I had used in '12. It probably didn't make too much difference. The Fuji has a 46x34 with and 11x28 in the rear. That setup did accomplish some of my course recommendations from 2012, but did not address the one in all caps: NEED.MORE.BRAKES. The TRP cantilevers are just not sufficient for this course.

I had gone back and forth about riding my mountain bike this year, but the course change that eliminated the long single-track section, which convinced me that the road sections would be more efficient on a 'cross bike.  The downhill sections would have been slightly faster, and the lower gearing would have been an advantage with the mountain bike.

The Panache shorts from the '13 NCVC kit are the nicest club shorts I've ever worn. Not quite Assos, but close.

Comparison with 2012

I was faster on every segment I examined. 

2012  2013 Segment
11:39   09:28   Lippincote
07:43   06:49   Wigwam runup
09:02   08:50   Thompson Hollow Descent
14:55   13:46   "Iron Pavement"
17:44   16:15   Hogshead climb

Overall
2008: 100 km in 5:14:59 @1:17:39 : 44th/93 starters in the 40+
2012: 100 km in 5:03:17 @1:14:23 : 27th/79 starters in the 40+
2013: 109 km in 5:24:10 @1:12:37 : 38th/94 starters in the 40+ (going backwards...)

Links

• Iron Cross main page: http://ironcrossrace.com/
• 2013 Results
• Iron Cross 2012 Recap https://www.facebook.com/notes/william-luecke/iron-cross-2012-recap/10152155469880099
• Link to 2013 Strava data

Notes

• Drove up in Rob Campbell's van with Tom Snyder. Left from the Exit 11 park and ride. Took just  about 1.5 hours to get to the parking area. Plenty of time.
• My heart rate trace (no power data) was pretty consistent after the first 20 minutes: 158 bpm average.