Frosty Weekend

The Man.
Greg "Thirstywork" Matyas,
Frosty Bottom 50 Champ
and owner of Speedway Cycles

I don't even know where to start. The sub-zero cold in the Campbell Tract portion of the course? The fact that twice as many people showed up to race this year, compared with last year's inaugural Frosty Bottom 50/25? The frozen free hub that forced me off the bike to spin the pedals by hand three times in the first few miles, trying to get the pawls to engage?

Or maybe the frozen toes that forced some riders to stop at the halfway point? Or the frozen hydration tubes that deprived racers of critical fluids and made them look like zombies at the finish line?

After riding the 50 Saturday, working on the house all day Sunday and downing a couple of beers during the evening awards ceremony at Chain Reaction Cycles, I still can't figure out what to write about the race. In the end, it had all the elements of any good mountain bike ride: some suffering, some highs, some lows, some fun, some stories to tell.

Sometimes, a good day on a bike isn't measured in miles or hours. It's measured by the number of empty Clif Bar wrappers and shredded, sticky Gu packs in your pockets; the feel of cooked legs; the satisfied feeling that comes with overcoming any bullshit that got in your way, and still reaching the finish line in a respectable time.

Add it all up and you have a good day, because it was spent riding a bike with a bunch of cool people.

Thanks to Bill and Jamie from Chain Reaction, and all the volunteers who stood outside in the cold to help make it happen.

Sunday's post-race party

at Chain Reaction.

Frost your bottom

Last weekend when I posted an online notice for a New Year's Day ride, I told a friend it was a ride that would “thin the herd.” How many people were likely to show up at 11 a.m. on the morning after the biggest party night of the year?

I was guessing about five.

But one should never underestimate how much more fun it is to ride a bike than to stay up guzzling champagne on New Year’s Eve. Or how much cooler mountain bikers are than loud drunks. (Trust me. I’ve been both).

We left Kincaid Park with 13 people Tuesday morning to ride the Frosty Bottom 50 course in preparation for this Saturday's race. Along the way, we picked up riders who had opted to pedal from home and intercept us on the trails. We even absorbed two riders we’d never met—Marc and Gayle just saw us and decided to join the mob that was growing to 17 or 18 riders.

And for once, Nordic skiers instinctively got out of our way. Some of them even abandoned their usual disapproving scowls and stood back with smiles on their faces as they watched us roll by on more fat bikes than most people have ever seen at one time.

For several hours, it was a rolling, evolving fat-tire peloton as riders came and went.

It was a beautiful thing.

Large and in charge

We all know how annoying some people can get when they see pictures of themselves, or hear their recorded voices played back.

"Is that what I look like," they'll gasp. "Omygawd, do I really sound like that?"

Irritating as hell.

So I almost feel bad about saying ... Damn! Do I look like Chewbacca on a bicycle, or what?

Maybe I should make sure I'm photographed only when riding the fat Pugsley. It might make me look a beer or two thinner.

Maura sent me an e-mail last night asking if I intended to do the Frosty Bottom 50. I told her I was tempted. A little while later, I stepped on a scale and found out I've already gained six pounds this winter. And it's only the first week of December.

I think I'll do the 50-mile race, even if it turns into a death march for me (and it probably will). It's time to start suffering for my sins of consumption.

As soon as I finish this bottle of wine, I'm cracking down and gettin' back in shape.

I mean it this time.

Oh, shut the hell up.