Green Tunnels Return

Spring is sprung. Running in nekked woods will now have to be replaced by running nekked in the woods.

Our proximity to Great Smokies National Park is fabulous. I'm slowly carving out a sampling of the 900 trail miles the park has to offer. By the time I'm 105 I expect to have completely run all of it's trails. In the meantime, I'm trying to prioritize a few of the choicer one's to knock off this year.

I have to admit, I miss the winter runs but am happy to have the warmth of early morning runs return. Likewise, trying to work in the bike rides means trading off some running time. What to do!?

Los Tres Adventuros

The last three weekends have yielded some great weekend adventures.

Three weeks ago, the Madman family spent a week in Elijay, GA and managed to get in several hikes near the start of the Appalachian Trail. I was able to get in two trail runs and a mtb ride along Bear Creek Trail. Highly recommended by my Knoxville riding friends, I found it to be a sweet sample of north Georgia trails with their typical smooth (rock and root free) trails and flowing lines. Bear Creek requires several miles of climbing and some creek crossing before the drop back to the trail head along four miles of swoopy fast trails and occassional whoop-dee-doos.

Last weekend, I put in my first trail race of the season and ran a beautiful trail in Fall Creek Falls. The race took us 12.5 miles along Upper Creek--a very moderate bit of elevation gain and only a few hard climbs interrupted by a few stream crossings and much zig-zagging through hard wood forest. This trail is featured in a fall 6 hour mtb race that I'm going to give serious thoughts to entering. The race field was only 62 runners, but it was a fast group. I brought up the tail of the lead "peleton" and slowly worked my way up through the pack for the next 90 minutes. I found my groove on a good, fast pace with two female runners and we worked together over the first 6 miles to keep a cadence that rolled up a few male runners. As the trail turned up, I kept my goal of "no walking" and held a steady cadence up a couple sections of elevation gain, dropping my two companions in the process. The last few miles were tough technically as the course alternately went through a series of short climbs followed by very twisty though flat section of trail that weaved through the dense forest. I caught a glimpse and slowly reeled in, on the climbs, the lead female runner, but as we hit the 1 mile ashpalt road to the finish, she opened it up and finished a minute ahead of me. My time was 1:51:06. Good enough for 17th overall and 3rd in my age group. I took satisfaction in knowing my time was faster than either the 35-39 or 40-44 age group males and gave me a trail run mid-distance PR of sub 10minutes!

Finally, this weekend, I was able to finish the Little Bottom's loop in the GSNP. Another wet run with rain threatening at the outset but wholly satisfactory once again. My route required a river crossing through thigh deep and cold water that actually felt quite refreshing! The loop had only a few serious climbs and some seriously fund and steep descents. The flats weren't much of a picnic as they were the typical Tennessee mix of sharp blocks of rocks or toe-biting roots. Both conspire to slow the runner or --more preferably it seems-- send him to the ground. Running the GSNP is turning out to be a fabulous way to explore this beautiful park, however, and I'm enjoying every running opportunity. Although spring blossoms are abundent in the valley, up a few thousand feet the trees still are holding back. A few early blossoms and wildflowers are there and make for a great preview of what I hear is an awesome spring vista along these trails.

Running on Little Bottoms

Not often do you get to run along Little Bottoms, but this trail along Abram's Creek was as delightful as the name implies.

What was supposed to be a 8 mile loop turned into a 7.4 out-and-back when I discovered I had left my map in the car back at the trail head a few miles to the south of my tracks. Ah, the shriveling mind of the aging athlete.

No matter, rain threatening, a full water bladder, a rain jacket in my pack, and the backup plan was written on a trail head marker: Abram's Creek Trail that way.... So off I trotted.

Little Bottom Trail began with a wet crossing of a storm-laden creek followed by a steep ascent to the ridge overlooking the river. An equally short but sharp drop back down the water along a root and rock filled path slowed the pace but the main fight was keeping my eyes from being too distracted by the beautiful views of river, rhododendron, and hard wood trees.

Running in the Smokies during the winter is as equally beautiful and interesting as summer. Leaves are gone, laying bare the view of fascinating views of steep ridge lines, rock outcroppings, and curving topography. I wished to have seen bear, but seeing the woods bare wasn't bad either. That it was bare along the Little Bottoms wasn't too bad at all.

My turn-around point, I later found out, lay less than a quarter mile from the trail branch that would have allowed me to do the loop. Guess, I'll have to go check out the Little Bottoms again.

Racing in a blanket

Friday was hot and muggy. At 5:30pm, the thermometer read 88, but it was the 72% humidity that bumped the misery index up a quantum level. Still, that didn't stop 90 dedicated and insane runners from turning up at Haw Ridge fora 7 mile trail race.

I admit I was quite hesitant about entering this race: my training has lagged due to my relocation so my base was low, I prefer an AM run, and I knew the heat/humidity would be an ass kicker. I finally decided that I need to try and learn even if it meant a humiliating DNF. So, Friday was spent psyching up and downing a river of pre-race water. I counted at least 6 trips to the bathroom before 4pm so my inside was a soggy as I expected my outside to be.

I joined the mix of racers seeking shade while also going through pre-race rituals- a few quick jogs, stretches, and inwardly focused expressions-- all of which I shared in, as well. I exchanged some nods with other racers and spent a few minutes answering questions of a first-time trail racer about the course which I knew nothing about. "Do you need a map or do you think it's marked?", he asked. Oh assuredly its marked, I authoritatively said, having run across the remnants of a previous race while mountain biking a few weeks earlier along these trails. We discussed racing strategies: we both had concluded that our intent was to survive not place.

With little fanfare we began our run--one which I expected would take me 70+ minutes given the heat, humidity, and terrain. I latched on to one runner who carried a pace I wanted and began the process of tuning out the weak willed carrying-on of my unwilling partner: my brain. By 2 miles in I was completely soaked and well into my hydration bottle. Running under that forest canopy, I had expected it to be cooler. It wasn't. It was just muggier and more like running under a wet blanket. I silently plodded behind my pacer. By mile 4 the trail was beginning to turn up again and the heat misery was climbing. By mile 5, we reached a refreshment station where a cold cup of water gave momentary heat relief to my head and chest. My partner was beginning to fatigue as was I. By 5.5 I had assumed the lead and was working with my new friend to set marks where we would slow our pace while keeping up encouraging banter.

My brain which had so long fought me along the course now decided to take a "leadership role" and was now encouraging my tiring legs that this wasn't so hard, just keep on turning over at 90 paces per minute! It even had the gall to impel me to speak out to my pacing partner and offered up words of friendly advice! By mile 6, the trail had essentially topped out and I found myself turning up the pace as it now dropped down to the finish line. I let out the clutch and dropped the quarter mile to the flats below striving to keep up the pace for the final 3/4 mile. By now I had dropped my friend and overtaken several others. I crossed the line at 1:15:02, 38th overall, and 13th in the masters group. Satisfactory for a training run. Meanwhile, my brain thinks it is a stud.

State of Grace

Any parent will tell you that no moment is more perfect than the birth of their child. No lover will dispute the magical moment when attraction evolves into something deeper and more encompassing. All our lives, thereafter, we seek those moments that mimic but knowing they will never fully recapture that state of happiness. We relish those emotional glimpses.

Morning rides are my micro-fixes that rejuvenate, invigorate, and provide a state of grace. Add a warm but gentle Southern morning, green pastures dotted with painted horses, red roans, or lolling cattle, aging barns, and farmhouses, all nestled between dark green tree-filled hills, and the tonic goes even further. Throw in a soaring hawk, the “pretty-bird” call of the cardinal. Add a friend or riding companion, and well, you’re getting closer.

Green Ice

Deadly when wet. That’s what should be posted on TN trailheads.

I’ve posted three rides up on the Cumberland Plateau—Sewanee to be exact. One such train was an18 miler on Franklin Forest State Park’s sinewy, twisty, and oh so fun bluff edge trail. Time prevented me from doing the full loop, but the 9 mile segment I did hammer out was a fabulous mix of twists, swooping turns, quick climbs and speedy long descents. The trip back was a fine and complementary bookend to the ride out with easy climbs and a trail that seemed to go downhill both ways! Nature abhors a vacuum of course, so the greenbrier’s that edged the trail occasionally exacted its revenge with sharp punctures to exposed shins, forearms and hands.

The Sewanee Perimeter trail, however, dolled out a heaping portion of humility. I discovered that short climbs, twisty turns, and generally kind elevation changes that the map promised delivered the pop and sizzle that any mountain biker relishes. Tennessee’s forested country also assured me that like most of it’s trails, it would be filled with tight turns negotiated with encroaching saplings and mature hardwoods. And, of course that means roots and the stretches of battlefields where they tangle and fight limestone rock and boulder for trail dominance.

Sewanee added in a new wrinkle. It’s heavily forested canopy, frequent rains, and sun-sheltered coves produced the toughest challenge I’ve faced yet: green ice. This insidious natural villain turns exposed roots and rock faces along with wooden bridges into murderous inanimate objects. They seduce the rider to believe they can pass uncontested and then to instantly betray what appears to be an easy cut or track line . One minute you’re on a great tear, and then, you’re on your ass. Or elbow. Or, off the trail and wrapped up in the surrounding brush.

I have yet to figure out the right speed, positioning, or loading to get through these things. And, I fear them. I know those bastards will drop me on my ass. They appear innocuous, simple roots. These nearly symmetric rocks that in dry countries, such as Moab, would surely attract riders, here spell misery. Water, humidity, the ever present moisture, the angle of the sun, the cover of trees, all of these invites green and black algae to thinly glaze these objects and imbue them with a disguised malevolence. Those roots, those rocks, they want you to think that your line is tight, your angle perfect, your loading exact. Then they throw you on your mortgage-paying butt and lay innocently while you gather up your baggage, your wits, and scraps of flesh.

I hate green ice. It reduces me to a pedestrian pushing my bike across sections that were they dry would be workable if not fun. But, they reveal me to be just a hack; a poser who can’t manage a root or rock garden because of their deadly skin.

But, as Charlton Heston said in Planet of the Apes, “I swear to you , I will not be bowed!” Of course, he also said, as he came across the remains of NYC, “My God what have they done?!”

Los perros mexicanos

They like their Tennessee brethren also joyously give chase to itinerant fools that bike or run their way. This time I was on foot and running along the coastal highway with a steep drop to the Pacific below me and the autopista cuota (coastal toll road) above me. I was the original taco al carbon con gringo for these guys. Soft white meat encased in a nylon tortilla. Delicioso!

Fortunately, Mexican dogs are staked out on 50 lb test line or nylon braid-which ever is handiest-- and I got off with only a scare and a pant load of guacamole.

Not bad running though mostly out and backs. On one run I found a trail that dumped me down below on the beach. A low tide enabled some decent beach running and although I usually detest that venue (too monotonous), the experience was a worthy memory.

Maddog 3: Bitches 0

Two weekend rides. Crank burning rides. Dogs chase. Dogs lose. Bitches.

So dogs in Tennessee love to give chase. It's rather predictable, actually. Zoning laws in TN are rather arbitrary: in one locale, you can go from high end to trailer skirts in about 5 pedal strokes. But when you see a cluster of manufactured housing, you know there's a good chance a dog chase is imminent. One trailer cluster usually means dog tied to a rope to a tree. A cluster of trailers and the odds of at least 3 dogs off leash in one yard are pretty high.

The game works this way: at about 200 yards they pick up the whine of your chain or tires on the road. The littlest one's yap first. This gets the chaser dog's attention and they snub their smoke out and figure their angles to intercept. Now, fortunately, I've hit most of these cluster on a flat or slight downhill--the tension rises as the terrain climbs, but for some odd reason, uphill climbs have God's mercy. Downhill or flats is where the game is played.

If you spot a cluster of mobiles, there's only one thing to do: gear up, hammer down. If you can get at least 20mph 100 yards out the odds are even. Stroke it up to 23-25 and the god's begin to favor you. 50 yards is the usual site line for the bitches. They are prepped and ready, but need visual confirmation to classify chain whine before they can legally (dog coda) start the pursuit. They are fast, so by 49 yards out, they've snuffed out their cigarette and they engage the lycra clad prey.

25 yards out, they are a couple miles per hour slower, but are trying to figure the angle against yard debris, forever-parked-cars, and assorted outside storage detritus. For some unexplained reason, however, front yards are rather more pristine than expected and provide some favor-ability for the canine sprint.

At 5 yards, you're taking stock: is this going to end in a tie-goes-to-the-animal-with-the-most-teeth? Minor course and cadence corrections are needed. At one yard, you know you've won. So does the dog, but courtesy calls for at least 25 more yards of chase before the bitch throttles down and turns back for a well deserved smoke. I coast, savor the victory, but the barks alert the next pack of mongrels to my course.

D'em bitches! (By the way: I highly recommend "Raging Bitches"-- a great blend of belgian style and IPA beer.

Interstate Outlaw

Three rides, three days, and a mild case of illicitness.

After work mud ride at Haw Ridge. I'm getting used to de-ticking during and after a ride; I think it comes with TN riding. While one set of bugs were trying to eat me, I was ingesting about 5 lbs of flying protein-- the downside of being a mouth-breather during aerobic activities. So far, I haven't found the bugs here to be too un-tasty.

The trails on the other hand are some nice riding candy. Not a ton of work, but lot's of good pedal to fun ratio. The roots took a little getting used to and adjustments to tire pressure (learned quickly after the first few shock rebounds). Lots of twisty, rooty cuts where handlebars pass within inches of the trees. Occasional signs of poorly negotiated turns by others and--I would almost swear--face plants in scarred tree trunks.

Lunchtime ride. Within about a mile, I can be on back-country two lane roads where roll-y hills weave through dense forests or stretch along open pasture land. The strong sweet smell of honey-dew flowers perfume the ride. Dogs however, love a good bike chase which will benefit my sprinting skills and drills. So far, I'm still ahead.

Saturday morning. Ventured out along a potential work commute ride that was surprisingly not bad. A wide shoulder separated me from the busy 4 lane. Noise is the only downer here. Once downtown, I picked up the greenways that are growing within the city. They are pretty as they weave through forested sections of town; it's hard to even realize your in a busy area. They aren't fast though as they weave too much to allow you to open up. Still a good alternative to narrow surface streets that lack shoulders or bike lanes. I think the commute is feasable.

This ride took me to Harper's Bike Shop, where I hooked up with "Scapegoat" for a riding tour. He graciously (and briskly) took me on some stunning back roads along the Tennessee River that were virtually car free. The road swooped and climbed, twisted and rolled through some pretty country. Two good out-of-the saddle climbs--one lung burster and then we dropped in for the real test-- 3 miles down the Interstate (I-640)necessary for us to cross the river.

"Honestly, officer, it's the only way to get across" and "I'm new here, I had NO IDEA that riding on the interstate was illegal! " were my prepared responses. Fortunately, both are in storage for a future crossing (one I might add of necessity as the number of places to cross the river are really limited here). I have to say, though, interstate shoulders are wide, smooth, and fast while the road noise is quite low.

Now that I'm an interstate outlaw I feel somewhat... liberated. But, is this a slipper slope that may soon send me down a path of riding with other bicyclists wearing only a leather jacket? (ooo...wait, no. That sounds really uncomfortable. ) I don't know, but I fear for those poor auto-ists.

Something to Harper on

Bike shops are like hardware stores: eye candy everywhere, useful and useless accessories and tools hung from hooks or inside glass cases, wicked cool bikes, fat ass cycle seats, gizmos for every bike geek.

But, what makes them even more awesome is the pulsing blood beneath the surface. It's the mechanics and the clerks who know their shit, that bleed mineral oil, and wipe away tri-flo from their brow. They can tell a customer has a dragging brake--no matter how loose-- at 50 meters (and they know what that is), or that one missing chain link on your train is gonna bind up a big-high combo and do some damage even at big-mid range if you aren't careful. They know that the Turkey Warbble can be cured and that your caliper is a red hair off from scoring spokes. They can listen sympathetically while you lament your poor shifting problem and fix it with some lube better than a needless tuneup just by looking at your chain. They know if you suck or if you are prick just by your ride, but will still hear you out.

They are the vibe that makes the eye candy ring louder and makes you come back even if the shop is in a shit hole or out of your way.

I found one of those today. In 2 minutes, I knew I had a wrench that knew his shit and could educate me without making me to be the turd bowl. I finally get Mike.

Bike shops rocks. Harper's rules.