Even if not many people read this, I had to re-live it just one more time, so here's the best I can come up with almost 6 months after the fact.
There are, in my opinion, two kinds of mountain bikers: those who think single speed mountain biking sounds ridiculous and/or awful and would never try it, and those who think it looks like a good time or are already hooked on it. The second group is what brought me to partake in the 2018 Single Speed World Championship, a legendary unsanctioned event which pokes fun at organized bicycle racing, while still having some fierce competition at the front of the pack, and inspiring camaraderie and also a little bit of competition among us "beer league" racers as well. The awards are simple: first place for men and women get a tattoo, and dead last gets some special prize determined by the race organizers.
While SSWC is widely thought of as just another excuse to party and drink ridiculous amounts of beer (let's face it, that is part of the thing), 2018's edition promised to be a bike experience that will not be soon forgotten. As soon as I heard that it would be held in Bend, Oregon, I made a note of it on my calendar and promised to get us both to the starting line. Bend is home to an incredible network of mountain bike trails, and a similarly large number of breweries, so I had an inclination that it was going to be an event of epic proportions.
Since Kit and I are usually the first ones to bail and go home to bed while attempting to "party," but we do both enjoy a cold beverage after a long bike ride, it sounded like an ideal combination: turned loose to pedal on a mystery race course crossing terrain that is rarely touched by mountain bikes, and meeting so many like-minded folks from around the nation and world. Also, having a pint or two with new friends after crushing the longest single speed ride of our lives...
The only part in question: when some vague details about the course were announced, it would be 40+ miles in length and consist of around 4,000 feet of climbing. Ack! That's a big ride even on a comfy, squishy bike with gears!! How would my neck hold up to such a long time on a bike, having just graduated from physical therapy in the spring? I knew one thing was for certain, and that's if I could finish this race, I could do just about anything else on a bike after that!
The extra-fun-added entry method was participating in a coloring contest to send in with the entry fee, and not only did I spend an inordinate amount of time letting my inner child have fun with it, I made Kit sit down with the colored pencil set and make his own rendition. Neither of us expected to see our artwork on display at the race headquarters, but we picked ours out on a big board behind the table upon arriving to pick up our numbers and goodie bags. Pretty neat!
Along with the artwork, an array of bicycles was strewn about the courtyard, from slick carbon fiber machines to fatbikes, custom steel frames, to something cobbled together from the late 1990's-early 2000's like Kits bike and mine. It's this diversity in attitudes that makes single speeds so much fun--not that mountain biking in general isn't fun--but it's become so serious with nearly everyone riding carbon full suspension wonder bikes and wearing the latest enduro-specific fanny packs while checking the Strava times on the last segment... SSWC is 99% not serious, and that's what makes it such a ridiculously good time!
We missed the pub crawl with Bend native and 2008 SSWC winner Carl Decker, but tagged along with another group ride that led us through Bend's rolling singletrack right out of town up to a dirt jump park and an impromptu hillclimb contest. The bike-ability of the town was one of the perks of the event, being within pedaling distance of just about all the fun. That night was the hosting competition to decide where next year's race would be held; it consisted of drinking games with all of the contestants, and then the two finalists building and paddling a raft from cardboard bike boxes and duct tape across the Deschutes river. Brrrrrr!! New York actually made it across the river so they beat out Durango for the win, but then awarded hosting privileges to Slovenia because they put in such a good effort and everyone wanted them to win anyway.
Hopefully you didn't get too intoxicated the night before, because the race started bright and early at 10AM the next day. Our lovely Bend host dropped us off in an industrial parking lot amid an enormous, milling crowd of bikers dressed in everything from spandex race kits to unicorn onesies, and we wandered around a bit until we found some friends from the previous day's ride. First, Carl Decker gave a quick talk about the course and the heinous torture we were in for, and then a "neutral roll-out" (aka chaotic stampede of close to 700 people) to the dirt road and actual race start ensued. Kit and I decided we'd see how we felt at the short course bailout point, but it seemed silly to come so far for the experience and then only ride half the distance.
The stampede thinned out as faster riders rode away from the pack and slower riders fell back. We were somewhere in the middle but too far back to hear the starter's gun as the leaders passed by. I was passed by a shark mashing on the pedals, tagged along behind a couple on a tandem for a few minutes and then passed a guy in a black and white houndstooth suit spinning out on a unicycle. It looked brutal, I wonder how he ended up feeling?
4 miles ticked by and then we were on the dirt road and engulfed in a giant dust cloud. There was a pit of moondust that claimed many victims, but I stayed upright and pedaled onward chasing Kit's quickly disappearing back wheel. The first aid station had a line about a quarter mile long--apparently everyone was thirsty at this point and had their commemorative silicone pint glasses in hand to be filled from a keg. Probably destined for the short course, I guessed. I passed on the early race beer, squeezed by the crowd and pedaled onward and upward. And upward... I rejoined Kit after the aid station, following the relentlessly climbing fire road.
Finally hearing cowbells and rounding a bend, we stared incredulously at a line of people pushing or shouldering bikes up a steep slope of volcanic scree. We soon joined the line trudging slowly to the top of the hill, and within five minutes were nearing the top where the racket of cowbells and yelling grew louder and beers were handed out trailside at a convenient mountaintop aid station. A sign announced "Hospital Hill" which explained everything about the racket. Spectators love carnage... Many riders either chose to walk from the top, or decided partway down that it was a better idea (occasionally it was decided for them). Kit dove in on two wheels and I followed, cursing my bike's late-1990's geometry and very short travel fork. At least I had disc brakes, those help! Despite gravity's best efforts I avoided wrecking, dragging a foot now and then and reached the bottom of the steep pitch with great relief. Continuing onto singletrack and the occasional fire road, the descent continued at a much more relaxed pace, until we reached the point of decision. Turn right and head 10 miles to the finish, beers, and real food, or turn left into 30 more miles of the unknown.
Into the unknown it was. Absolutely the right decision, as well, following old school MTB legend Jacquie Phelan for a few minutes before passing her. We settled into another long grinding and very dusty fire road climb, sometimes having to get off and hike. There was so much walking that it probably gave the pedal pushing muscles a nice rest, for a change. Somewhere in there, Carl Decker's dad was playing jazz trombone with a drummer, absolutely out in the middle of nowhere. After another unknown number of miles we came upon a mountain top aid station, complete with freshly blended smoothies and margaritas, hot dogs on a grill, and a living room hookah lounge. Because mountain tops are the best places to snack, we spent a little more time here hanging out and enjoying the views and of course, watching the many colorful characters that rolled through.
Tired legs were thrown over bicycles again before they got too comfortable, and we descended into a solid chunk of motorcycle singletrack with some fun sections, miles of whoops, interspersed with spectacular volcanic views. Kit's front wheel found a random log in the trail and he endoed out of nowhere as we were chasing down a small group of riders up ahead. All was well and he continued on, maybe a slight bit more dusty than before. At last, and feeling ready to be done pretty soon, we rolled into the final aid station and gobbled down some gummy bears to get us to the finish, an indeterminate number of miles away but definitely closer than it had been before. Not knowing how far we still had to go, or how my legs were still turning the pedals, we were at least distracted by descending for a few miles through a gully that was an absolute hoot. Winding downhill while swooping back and forth got us grinning again through the tired haze. Then, I wrecked trying to get a little too sideways on a loose downhill and wound up with some tiny little rock souvenirs in my elbow, to be later removed by our gracious hosts as I tried my hardest to avoid looking at it and throwing up.
At long last a road appeared, with cars parked alongside. Shortly after, we were launching off some small rocks to cowbells and cheering, presumably close to the finish, but then the course tape went back uphill and through some tight switchbacks. So, not the finish yet... After the freshly-cut trail crossed through some manzanita, it dropped steeply into a box canyon. Easily the highlight of the entire course, this last tiny chunk of trail was a work of art: taking a roller coaster line back and forth across the canyon, under a tunnel of rock, and down some steep pitches and finally up a short climb and out to the finish.
As I rolled through the finish, there was still room for my name on the super official piece of plywood used to post results, and it was written on in Sharpie next to a time of 4:52. Yes, that's right, 4 hours and 52 minutes of pedaling. I did it! We did it!! Unfortunately, also as we crossed the finish the announcer says "you heard that right, folks... we're now officially out of beer..." Bummer. Oh well. Those short course bums had their priorities, I guess. At least there were still burrito fixings in abundance, so we made those, rolled them up into foil and stuffed into our packs to be eaten with a proper celebratory beverage. I didn't feel very hungry just yet, but the 6 miles of cool down ride back into town helped with that. While we were chowing down burritos back in town at the race headquarters, the women's race winner Rachel Lloyd sat down and chatted with us for a few minutes. That was rad!!
Surprisingly, I don't remember being miserable for most of the race, despite my worst fears. It just goes to show that you never know until you try something for the first time. There were probably some riders who suffered a lot more, but our pace felt fine . I was immersed in a dust cloud quite often though--I suspect I inhaled more of it in that race than any other time in my entire mountain biking career. Sure wish I had somebody get a photo of Kit and I at the finish, but everybody was more or less similarly caked in a thick layer. SSWC I think is the essence of what mountain biking has always been from the beginning: sure, it gets a little competitive from time to time, but is mostly about sharing good times on two wheels with a bunch of rad people. And nobody cares what kind of bike you're riding.
Because I was too busy relishing the experience to take photos, here is an excellent gallery that gives a taste of how dusty and ridiculous the whole thing was:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/127091192@N03/sets/72157672657129317/
There are, in my opinion, two kinds of mountain bikers: those who think single speed mountain biking sounds ridiculous and/or awful and would never try it, and those who think it looks like a good time or are already hooked on it. The second group is what brought me to partake in the 2018 Single Speed World Championship, a legendary unsanctioned event which pokes fun at organized bicycle racing, while still having some fierce competition at the front of the pack, and inspiring camaraderie and also a little bit of competition among us "beer league" racers as well. The awards are simple: first place for men and women get a tattoo, and dead last gets some special prize determined by the race organizers.
 |
| Entry form art. |
Since Kit and I are usually the first ones to bail and go home to bed while attempting to "party," but we do both enjoy a cold beverage after a long bike ride, it sounded like an ideal combination: turned loose to pedal on a mystery race course crossing terrain that is rarely touched by mountain bikes, and meeting so many like-minded folks from around the nation and world. Also, having a pint or two with new friends after crushing the longest single speed ride of our lives...
The only part in question: when some vague details about the course were announced, it would be 40+ miles in length and consist of around 4,000 feet of climbing. Ack! That's a big ride even on a comfy, squishy bike with gears!! How would my neck hold up to such a long time on a bike, having just graduated from physical therapy in the spring? I knew one thing was for certain, and that's if I could finish this race, I could do just about anything else on a bike after that!
The extra-fun-added entry method was participating in a coloring contest to send in with the entry fee, and not only did I spend an inordinate amount of time letting my inner child have fun with it, I made Kit sit down with the colored pencil set and make his own rendition. Neither of us expected to see our artwork on display at the race headquarters, but we picked ours out on a big board behind the table upon arriving to pick up our numbers and goodie bags. Pretty neat!
Along with the artwork, an array of bicycles was strewn about the courtyard, from slick carbon fiber machines to fatbikes, custom steel frames, to something cobbled together from the late 1990's-early 2000's like Kits bike and mine. It's this diversity in attitudes that makes single speeds so much fun--not that mountain biking in general isn't fun--but it's become so serious with nearly everyone riding carbon full suspension wonder bikes and wearing the latest enduro-specific fanny packs while checking the Strava times on the last segment... SSWC is 99% not serious, and that's what makes it such a ridiculously good time!
 |
| Ready to roll. |
Hopefully you didn't get too intoxicated the night before, because the race started bright and early at 10AM the next day. Our lovely Bend host dropped us off in an industrial parking lot amid an enormous, milling crowd of bikers dressed in everything from spandex race kits to unicorn onesies, and we wandered around a bit until we found some friends from the previous day's ride. First, Carl Decker gave a quick talk about the course and the heinous torture we were in for, and then a "neutral roll-out" (aka chaotic stampede of close to 700 people) to the dirt road and actual race start ensued. Kit and I decided we'd see how we felt at the short course bailout point, but it seemed silly to come so far for the experience and then only ride half the distance.
The stampede thinned out as faster riders rode away from the pack and slower riders fell back. We were somewhere in the middle but too far back to hear the starter's gun as the leaders passed by. I was passed by a shark mashing on the pedals, tagged along behind a couple on a tandem for a few minutes and then passed a guy in a black and white houndstooth suit spinning out on a unicycle. It looked brutal, I wonder how he ended up feeling?
4 miles ticked by and then we were on the dirt road and engulfed in a giant dust cloud. There was a pit of moondust that claimed many victims, but I stayed upright and pedaled onward chasing Kit's quickly disappearing back wheel. The first aid station had a line about a quarter mile long--apparently everyone was thirsty at this point and had their commemorative silicone pint glasses in hand to be filled from a keg. Probably destined for the short course, I guessed. I passed on the early race beer, squeezed by the crowd and pedaled onward and upward. And upward... I rejoined Kit after the aid station, following the relentlessly climbing fire road.
Finally hearing cowbells and rounding a bend, we stared incredulously at a line of people pushing or shouldering bikes up a steep slope of volcanic scree. We soon joined the line trudging slowly to the top of the hill, and within five minutes were nearing the top where the racket of cowbells and yelling grew louder and beers were handed out trailside at a convenient mountaintop aid station. A sign announced "Hospital Hill" which explained everything about the racket. Spectators love carnage... Many riders either chose to walk from the top, or decided partway down that it was a better idea (occasionally it was decided for them). Kit dove in on two wheels and I followed, cursing my bike's late-1990's geometry and very short travel fork. At least I had disc brakes, those help! Despite gravity's best efforts I avoided wrecking, dragging a foot now and then and reached the bottom of the steep pitch with great relief. Continuing onto singletrack and the occasional fire road, the descent continued at a much more relaxed pace, until we reached the point of decision. Turn right and head 10 miles to the finish, beers, and real food, or turn left into 30 more miles of the unknown.
Into the unknown it was. Absolutely the right decision, as well, following old school MTB legend Jacquie Phelan for a few minutes before passing her. We settled into another long grinding and very dusty fire road climb, sometimes having to get off and hike. There was so much walking that it probably gave the pedal pushing muscles a nice rest, for a change. Somewhere in there, Carl Decker's dad was playing jazz trombone with a drummer, absolutely out in the middle of nowhere. After another unknown number of miles we came upon a mountain top aid station, complete with freshly blended smoothies and margaritas, hot dogs on a grill, and a living room hookah lounge. Because mountain tops are the best places to snack, we spent a little more time here hanging out and enjoying the views and of course, watching the many colorful characters that rolled through.
 |
| A course profile. |
Tired legs were thrown over bicycles again before they got too comfortable, and we descended into a solid chunk of motorcycle singletrack with some fun sections, miles of whoops, interspersed with spectacular volcanic views. Kit's front wheel found a random log in the trail and he endoed out of nowhere as we were chasing down a small group of riders up ahead. All was well and he continued on, maybe a slight bit more dusty than before. At last, and feeling ready to be done pretty soon, we rolled into the final aid station and gobbled down some gummy bears to get us to the finish, an indeterminate number of miles away but definitely closer than it had been before. Not knowing how far we still had to go, or how my legs were still turning the pedals, we were at least distracted by descending for a few miles through a gully that was an absolute hoot. Winding downhill while swooping back and forth got us grinning again through the tired haze. Then, I wrecked trying to get a little too sideways on a loose downhill and wound up with some tiny little rock souvenirs in my elbow, to be later removed by our gracious hosts as I tried my hardest to avoid looking at it and throwing up.
At long last a road appeared, with cars parked alongside. Shortly after, we were launching off some small rocks to cowbells and cheering, presumably close to the finish, but then the course tape went back uphill and through some tight switchbacks. So, not the finish yet... After the freshly-cut trail crossed through some manzanita, it dropped steeply into a box canyon. Easily the highlight of the entire course, this last tiny chunk of trail was a work of art: taking a roller coaster line back and forth across the canyon, under a tunnel of rock, and down some steep pitches and finally up a short climb and out to the finish.
As I rolled through the finish, there was still room for my name on the super official piece of plywood used to post results, and it was written on in Sharpie next to a time of 4:52. Yes, that's right, 4 hours and 52 minutes of pedaling. I did it! We did it!! Unfortunately, also as we crossed the finish the announcer says "you heard that right, folks... we're now officially out of beer..." Bummer. Oh well. Those short course bums had their priorities, I guess. At least there were still burrito fixings in abundance, so we made those, rolled them up into foil and stuffed into our packs to be eaten with a proper celebratory beverage. I didn't feel very hungry just yet, but the 6 miles of cool down ride back into town helped with that. While we were chowing down burritos back in town at the race headquarters, the women's race winner Rachel Lloyd sat down and chatted with us for a few minutes. That was rad!!Surprisingly, I don't remember being miserable for most of the race, despite my worst fears. It just goes to show that you never know until you try something for the first time. There were probably some riders who suffered a lot more, but our pace felt fine . I was immersed in a dust cloud quite often though--I suspect I inhaled more of it in that race than any other time in my entire mountain biking career. Sure wish I had somebody get a photo of Kit and I at the finish, but everybody was more or less similarly caked in a thick layer. SSWC I think is the essence of what mountain biking has always been from the beginning: sure, it gets a little competitive from time to time, but is mostly about sharing good times on two wheels with a bunch of rad people. And nobody cares what kind of bike you're riding.
Because I was too busy relishing the experience to take photos, here is an excellent gallery that gives a taste of how dusty and ridiculous the whole thing was:
https://www.flickr.com/photos/127091192@N03/sets/72157672657129317/
