Woke up Saturday morning to clear, blue, perfect skies in Salt Lake City … and drove into pea-soup thick fog in Heber.

The course was muddy, thick, sticky, peanut-butter mud, but not the kind of peanut butter that Marit would want to use to make cookies.

Of course, the conditions wouldn’t last, and by the time the A-race rolled around, a definite line of packed, tacky mud had formed that the faster riders could use to maintain speed … Ethan’s daddy and Bart dicing for 1st and 2nd (respectively) in the A race, with Reed Wycoff pulling closer and closer for third; the A-Train beat his sponsor (and series organizer) to the line to take 1st in the 35+ A race. Kathy Sherwin kicked butt in the women’s A race, and then followed that with a respectable showing in the men’s race immediately after.

No hitches today that I recall; from an organizational perspective, the race went flawlessly.

Then off to Mama T’s for lasagna, wine (less the two bottles which I had failed to fully secure in my backpack, that shattered on impact with the road as I pulled the bag from the back seat to head inside), good friends (Jennie and mom, Dayna, Reed, Darrell, Nancy, Art and Rachel, Chris and Kathy, amongst others), good conversation, and … ummm … wind. Lots of wind. Lots of loud wind. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a house that was that windy.

Especially not in mixed company.

Got home about 8:00-ish, and promptly fell asleep on the couch about 9:00. Got up at 10:30 and crawled into bed. Woke up about 4:30 this morning … got up an puttered about for about 30 minutes before saying “screw it, I’m not getting up at 4:30 on a Sunday morning” and going back to bed. Finally woke up for real about 12:30 or so.

I guess I was tired.

SHADWELL STAIR

I am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.
       Along the wharves by the water-house,
       And through the cavernous slaughter-house,
I am the shadow that walks there.

Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,
       And eyes tumultuous as the gems
       Of moons and lamps in the full Thames
When dusk sails wavering down the pool.

Shuddering the purple street-arc burns
       Where I watch always; from the banks
       Dolorously the shipping clanks
And after me a strange tide turns.

I walk till the stars of London wane
       And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.
       But when the crowing syrens blare
I with another ghost am lain.

BATS

Bats

unveil themselves in dark.
They hang, each a jagged,

silken sleeve, from moonlit rafters bright
as polished knives. They swim

the muddled air and keen
like supersonic babies, the sound

we imagine empty wombs might make
in women who can’t fill them up.

A clasp, a scratch, a sigh.
They drink fruit dry.

And wheel, against feverish light flung hard
upon their faces,

in circles that nauseate.
Imagine one at breast or neck,

Patterning a name in driblets of iodine
that spatter your skin stars.

They flutter, shake like mystics.
They materialize. Revelatory

as a stranger’s underthings found tossed
upon the marital bed, you tremble

even at the thought. Asleep,
you tear your fingers

and search the sheets all night.

Happy Halloween, everyone.

For race #2, the Utah Cyclocross Series returns to the Wasatch County Fairgrounds, in Heber City, Utah … home of mud (either dried, lumpy and hard, or soupy, sticky, and deep) and grass and horse poop!

Jon is promising that there will be a run-up this year, and twisty turns leading into the finish area … and remember, there are new starting times!

Categories/Times:

1:30 PM (60 Minutes)

• Men A (Pro, Semi-pro, Expert, Cat 1, Cat 2,)
• Masters Men A 35+ (Fast Old Guys [as opposed to Fat Old Guys, like Flahute]. You know who you are, and so do we. You have been racing your bike for years!)

12:30 PM (45 Minutes)

• Women A
• Masters Men B 35+
• Single Speed (do we need to explain?)

11:45 AM (20 minutes) - ONLY $8.00!!!

• Women C (First Season Cross Racers)
• Junior Men 10-14 *
• Junior Women 10-14 *
• Junior 9 & under

* We found that Junior riders aged 15-18 would rather try and beat up on Mom and Dad!!!

10:45 AM (45 Minutes)

• Men B
• Master Men 45+ Open

9:30 AM (40 Minutes)

• Men C (First Timers, Entry Level Racers, Cat 5, Beginner)
• Master 55+ Open
• Women B (Beginner, Cat 4, Cat 5)

Schedule

01:30 pm - A-flite - 60-minutes
12:00 pm - B-flite - 45 minutes

Guaranteed cash payout for both categories, additional prizes provided by Scott Bicycles.

Online registration opening soon at www.sportsbaseonline.com.

This is NOT a Utah Cyclocross Series event. Details TBA, but put it in your calendars!

Maybe there’ll be mud, maybe there won’t be … but there will be bikes, and I’ll be sitting on the finish line with a clipboard and a cowbell, which means that it’s time for the rest of y’all to get off your asses and start sniffin’ (tubular) glue!

ALL THOSE SHIPS THAT NEVER SAILED

All those ships that never sailed
The ones with their seacocks open
That were scuttled in their stalls …
Today I bring them back
Huge and transitory
And let them sail
Forever.

All those flowers that you never grew—
that you wanted to grow
The ones that were plowed under
ground in the mud—
Today I bring them back
And let you grow them
Forever.

All those wars and truces
Dancing down these years—
All in three flag swept days
Rejected meaning of God—

My body once covered with beauty
Is now a museum of betrayal.
This part remembered because of that one’s touch
This part remembered for that one’s kiss—
Today I bring it back
And let you live forever.

I breath a breathless I love you
And move you
Forever.

Remove the snake from Moses’ arm …
And someday the Jewish queen will dance
Down the street with the dogs
And make every Jew
Her lover.

  — Bob Kaufman (1925 - 1986), Beat poet.

After learning of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Kaufman took a Buddhist vow of silence. He withdrew from society and did not speak again until 1975, on the day the Vietnam War ended, when he walked into a coffee shop and recited this poem.

VeloNews | Andy Hampsten and the 1988 Pink Jersey

How do you define an epic? It’s a noun grossly over-used by sportswriters, particularly those who write about cycling. Through the years, European journalists have described heroic deeds by brave athletes on bicycles with gushing prose that was rarely deserved. They even titled road racing’s formative years The Heroic Era.

Admittedly, in the long decades before live radio and television commentary brought reality to the grand tours and classics, cycling fans only learned about races through the written word. And journalists depended on selling newspapers to make a living. The better the story, the higher the sales. It’s no wonder they turned ordinary performances into extraordinary feats.

On reflection, were the daylong slogs through blinding rainstorms on muddy roads any more heroic than what miners did in their everyday jobs at the coalface? How meaningful was, say, Tour de France contender Eugène Christophe’s carrying his heavy steel bike down the Col du Tourmalet and repairing the forks at a blacksmith’s forge? Or did the survivors of “epic” editions in Paris-Roubaix really deserve the lavish praise heaped upon them by an adoring media?

That’s not to say that the riders who excelled in harsh conditions were not deserving of their recognition as exceptional individuals. But a true sports epic is one in which, besides having to battle the elements, the contestants go to the limit of their physical and mental capacities while still competing for the victory in a major competition. All of those ingredients came together on June 5, 1988 on stage 14 of the 1988 Giro d’Italia.

Over the past couple of weeks, there has been an excellent series of articles celebrating the 20th anniversary of Andy Hampsten’s win in the 1988 Giro d’Italia, starting with the grueling stage over the Passo Gavia, in which Hampsten finished second on the day (behind the Netherlands’ Erik Breukink), but with the maglia rosa of the overall leader, which he held until the conclusion of the Giro several days later.

I’m actually surprised the Reverend Big Ring hasn’t posted a sermon about this yet … but he has been busy finishing the new chapel and preparing to move his wisdom from the Hells to the Golden ones, if all goes well … so I find myself in the position of leading the prayer service.

Let us pray:

I believe in Hampsten, the Climber Almighty,
    the Creator of heavenly tours,
    and in the Landshark of steel, on which he rode:

Amen.

Now head on over to Velonews.com to read the entire series: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Then go to Cyclingnews.com to read Cold comfort: Hampsten’s day on the Gavia.

“A Paris-Roubaix without rain is not a true Paris-Roubaix. Throw in a little snow as well, it’s not serious.” — Sean Kelly

In just a few short hours, the 106th edition of Paris-Roubaix will depart the streets of Compiègne, heading north some 260 kilometers to the industrial town of Roubaix; along the way, encountering 28 sections of pavé (or cobblestones) covering about 53 kilometers of the overall course.

While the race itself is in France, Belgian riders have won 51 of the 105 editions run thus far; truly a race for the hard-men, the Flahutes.

Eddy Merckx won this race 3 times, as did Belgians Rik Van Looy and Johan Museeuw; and Roger de Vlaeminck won the race 4 times. Collectively, these 4 riders have accounted for fully one-quarter of Belgium’s wins in Roubaix.

Is it any wonder that the Vlaamse Leeuw flies as much along this course in France as it does the week before at the Ronde van Vlaanderen each year?

Oddly, to me anyway, the best quote I have ever heard about the race came not from a Belgian or a Frenchman, but from the Dutchman Theo de Rooy, after the 1985 edition:

“It’s a pile of shit, this race, it’s a whole pile of shit … you’re working like an animal, you don’t have the time to piss and you wet your pants … you’re riding in mud like this and you’re slipping and … it’s a pile of shit, you must clean yourself otherwise you will go mad …”

When asked by John Tesh, who was covering the race for ABC, if he’ll ever ride it again, de Rooy responds:

“Sure, it’s the most beautiful race in the world!”

Tesh, his crew and de Rooy then all burst out in laughter.

Thankfully, the forecast is for rain …