So long my friend....

"No heaven will not ever Heaven be. Unless my dogs are there to welcome me."-Anonymous

Buff lost his battle with bone cancer today. It has been a tough 8 weeks since his diagnosis, but the Labrador Retriever breed is as tough as they come. 

You were from a litter of eight, four boys and four girls. When she let the four boys out of the pen, three of them went their separate ways. But you came straight to me, put your front legs on mine and licked my face...the choice was made. But as I left the breeder's home, I put you in your travel cage. You started screaming. Not barking...screaming. I then put you in the front seat where you promptly fell asleep. Buff 1, Dean 0.

When we finally arrived to your new home, you prompt bolted into the house...and did a dookie in the living room. Buff 2, Dean 0.

When it was time for me to leave you at home for the first time, you promptly pooped in your cage (possibly many times) and proceeded to project this poop in many directions, also turning you into a chocolate Lab. Buff 3, Dean 0.

When I went to a Packer game in 2003, you proceeded to eat (not chew) my dining room table, kitchen dry wall and my patio door. Buff 6, Dean 0.

You cheated skin cancer in 2004. You cheated death in 2005, cutting your tongue while running with a large stick, narrowly missing a major artery. Buff 8, Dean 0.

Over the course of the Winter of 2008, you proceeded to pee away my central air unit into oblivion. Buff 9, Dean 0.

And over the course of almost eight years, you killed every shrub around the patio.

Buff 10,11,12,13, Dean.........fuck it, you win.

You were the real alpha dog, AKC Candlewood's Absolutely Buff. You were fiercely independent, but you always looked back to make sure I was always in sight, no matter how far you ranged in front of me.

So goodbye my friend. I will miss you more that you can imagine, but I take solace in the fact that you are somewhere playing with your brother, AKC Candlewood's Absolute Tsar.

I hope to see you again someday.

The End.

Well, not really THE end. Just the end of another chapter.

Chequamegon did not materialize the way I intended. Heavy rains in the days preceding may have signaled a slower pace, but I did not see that as a problem. I was going to lead out more aggressively than 2009 and was going to let the chips fall where they lay.

It was a strangely smooth start, accident-free. By the time we hit the dirt, I hit the gas and it was game on. The 1x9 gearing was dead-on and I was flying, but the Garmin was telling me a different story. At Cty OO, the story was over...I was a minute slower than 2009. Demoralized, it became a matter of survival and upon the exit from the muddy Martell, game over.

The next 18 miles were pain. Real pain. Even more pain crossing the line 15 minutes slower than last year. And I killed alot of that pain with alot of beer. Not the best fluid replenishment, but at that point I did not care if I ever got on a bike again.

Was it really that bad? Not really. My time may have sucked, but I only finished 2 places worst than 2009 with half the training. Conclusion: I should have never raced the 40--the shorter race is more suited to my age and my training opportunities.

But now, it is all over. No more racing a bike and I am not going to miss it.

Besides, I just bought a new pair of trail running shoes.....

Riding with the Big Boys

I am just too lazy to edit previous posts. Besides, I am carbo loading and tapering, so I have an excuse.

My ineptness to send a simple email has put me into a position that I must go the full 40. No matter...This is the end of my fat tire journey. Not even a walk on the Beech. It will be nice to finish at the party where the epic all started.

Do not get me wrong...I am going racing on the 18th. I just do not know for how long and/or how much blood I want to leave in the forest.

2011 is starting to develop. Other mountains to climb, just not on a bike.

No regrets, because it has been one hell of a ride.

Unapologetic and Narcissistic Rage-The Sequel

I get ugly this time of year.

Ride your Madone like a pussy in the Kettles and I squash you like a bug when we hit the hills. The look of horror on a man's face when he sees 29 X 2.1's ride by him like he is standing still should be a MasterCard commercial. The only reason you caught me on the down slope is because I spun out at 32 X 11. Hell, anyone can descend.

Today was Heaven (or Hell in my case). The music was cranking in the ears, but I do not remember a note. The focus was on the race and it was playing over and over in this simple mind. What does this mean?

It's back for 2010: Unapologetic and Narcissistic Rage.

And Now for Something Completely Different

A chapter comes to a close, a season to an end, the end of the book. The 2010 bike karma was over, even before it got started.

So, boys and girls, Chequamegon is my swan song.

2011 will be something different:

• Duathlons? Maybe..but yet another bike?
• Triathlons? Fuck water.
• Marathon? Possibly. Shoes are cheap, but surgery has many more costs.

Besides, I have a kick ass fishing boat that has not seen water in 2.5 years and I am long overdue to my friends for weekends of nothing but fish guts, fermented/distilled beverages and Phipps's memories that can last a lifetime.

Conclusion: Time for new life challenges. It has been a great fucking ride.

Gallus Gallus Domesticus Do Do, Part II

One and done.

Half way through my Saturday AM death ride, the decision was made. It's the kiddy race. Gary got the email 15 minutes after I dismounted my bike.

Other life endeavours require more of my time and properly training for a 40 mile Bataan Death March no longer works into the schedule. The big boy's race demand a minimum of 12 bike hours a week and I have other murders to commit priorities.

Chicken Shit

Indecision. It defines me. It is a fault. It is who I am. It is my life.

I pounded out the hills today, all 1745ft of them, but it is becoming painfully clear that I am not ready for the Marathon. It might be time to go back to the Kiddy race and wreck it like I did two years ago. I am driven by the fact that a week ago, I ran a foot race FASTER than I did 2 years ago. One of the many voices in my head keep telling me at race time, at age 46 (yes...46!), I am top 20. Not a bad way to spend your birthday...

But the other side tells me that I have unfinished business in the big boy's race. Only 30 days to pull the trigger.

Then 18 days to mind-fuck myself into a competitive rage. This is easy for me.

Do I Still Have 'It'?

I may be 45, but I can still run with the best of them. 69th overall.

But the last mile was the slowest...something that I am not happy with. In my ENTIRE racing career, this has NEVER happened. What's even worse, I missed 1st in my age by five seconds.

I need to find that competitive mindset that I know has been missing for a long time. And find it soon, before it is lost forever.

Holiday in Heaven, Future in Hell.

I had to get away. It was not planned (not to my standards). Pack up the dog, the 29r, the jamba, and plenty of libations to pollute the rest of the cerebral matter that I have left. No work or TV. Just me and the only living animal on this planet that does not suck the bone marrow out of me on a daily basis.


Like father, like son. When I was young, I could never understand why my Dad loved the serenity of blissful peace of the Northern woods. But now I realize what makes me happy…what makes me not give a shit. Thanks Don.

Do I have a point? Not really. It is just good to realize that when I decide to make that 30mph right turn in a Northern Pine, Cerberus--a dog, will waiting for me at the entrance.

Heaven: Day #3 Yummy

Heaven: Day #2 Telemark Trash

Why did the Garmin have to take a dump on an epic? Only to spite.

And Ojibwa hell. Sooooooo many downed trees...

Heaven: Day #1

Deep Thoughts for this week....

1. My dog likes to pee everywhere outdoors. Humans do the same...only they do it indoors, on each other.
2. If daytime television represents the intellect of this country, we are f*cked. OH, MAN, ARE WE FUCKED!

El Sucko

Purpose.

Damn...I just love my second home. I love sitting on my dock, having a beer while my buddy chases his duck, snake, frog, fox, and skunk friends through the water and grass. The serenity of fly fishing the Namekagon is my cathedral, my church. Only a few people that REALLY know me, realizes that this part of Wisconsin defines me. It is my family. It is my home.

But this place also brings out the sadistic side of me. Musky fishing in the 30-40 degree with rain and snow. Making continuous $20 contributions to questionable and immoral charities. All three cantinas of Dante's Divine Comedy on display.

But it also means so, so much more. It is my second birthplace...it is why I bike. Gary says I get to come back for Round #4. No begging this time, but a inconspicuous, well-place bribe might have done the trick.

Now starts 6 months of the torture, the transformation, the trip fantastic. The building of a monster and a chariot. And rage. Unadulterated and unapologetic rage.

But more importantly....a purpose.

Where did I put those Happy Pills?

Winter (otherwise know as the biking off-season) does not serve me well. I causes me to think too much about the things that I hate and bother me. If you are one of the four people on this planet that read my blog, you see a pattern in my posting dates and topics. So the clinical diagnosis is in...I am a unprincipled narcissistic introvert.

But all that changes on 03/06/2010, because remember......it's all about the bike.

The bike is my psychotropic happy pill, my Single-Barrel JD...my orgasm. It makes me forget about all of the horrible shit that happens in this world. I need nothing else, nor do I want anything else. I will never forget what Dr. Mark once told me: Biking gives a Zen-like feeling. I might argue a Tao-like fuzzy, but the Szy is a PhD.

So, tommorrow, I am morphing into the just an introvert...a happy introvert on a bike. See ya down the road.