The Goat Man Cometh

2011 race season is knocking on the door and I'm getting pretty amped. Which is pretty dope since I haven't been amped proper for a race season in a few years. I think it's a combination of a fresh scene, fresh scenery, new people and an excuse to keep racing sport class.

I am really relishing in the happenstance that has become my racing as of recent. It seems that living up high and riding only marginally is much better training for the 3/4 level than living down low and training hard. Breathing easy and never being out of contention of a top 10 when competing with all of the Phoenix crew has been great so I am very stoked to start racing seriously this season...err as seriously as Slater gets.

For those out of the loop the Fisher is long gone. It was my most loyal companion the last 4 years and served me very well. It proved that it could rail corners and blow freewheels with aplomb, it saw too many hard miles for any bike with such little maintenance given to it yet still refused to crack a downtube like the rest of her production run sisters.

AA at Big Poppi ordered me up a XTC 29er 1 to race on this season and I am beyond excited. The XT/SLX 30spd group will be beyond the nicest component group I have ever bought and the Fox fork felt beastly the last few times I have demoed one so I have very high hopes that this bike will blow me away and show me that piloting one of the first production design 29ers is not an ideal way to operate in 2011.

Murdered out

Back to the race season. Apparently the big race scene starts here in January in PHX and the series just continues down there til it gets hot and then snakes it's way back up into the mountains chasing the cooler temps til the summertime. So that's pretty cool, something like 11 races total. I've been laying down hard road miles since I ordered the Giant in an attempt to come back into form enough to justify this bike and a race entry fee.

It's working pretty well though. I went and rode mountain bikes for the first time in a month last weekend, it was mid 70s and sunny and everything went great. I borrowed Johnny G's old Cannondale hardtail for the ride. It was a sketchy bike down there to say the least. The front shock was blown, I haven't been on a little wheeled race bike since 2006 and I felt like I was falling over the front wheel the entire time. I rode with all of the local shop rats, a few of my fellow backcountry outfitters and the local big shot tri-coach and... I didn't get dropped, didn't hurt too bad, and was right there at the front on the pavement group sprint back to the cars (I have no idea what we were sprinting for but it was still fun to mix it up).

1996 called, it wants it's sketchy excuse for a mountain bike back

Everyone else was either on a 29er with a 100mm fork or a 5" fs beast, I looked very out of place on this bike trying to bomb sketch desert downhills with these guys. But I lived to tell the tale, rode some gnar brah super secret "locals only" trail and got to watch 12ish guys absolutely shred in the desert.

So here's to the race season, the desert, sketchy riding and borrowed bikes.

The Race Flyer

The Masses: "Slater, all of your stories are about climbing and we don't understand what you are talking about anymore."

Slater: "Hold on. I'll go race a bike, drink a bunch of cheap beer and recant my tales amongst the internets."

I've wanted to tell this story for a while, I've had a few chances that seemed fair enough. But this one seems the most opportune for myself. I want a cautionary warning, this is long. This is 10 years worth of tales wrapped into a blog post. It might be worth reading, it might not be. But if you've been reading the climbing non-sense leading up to this you can probably hang on for a minute.

Last weekend marked my 10th season racing cyclocross bikes. First off I would like a moment of recognition for my former neighbor Steve Songer for indelibly ruining this sport by handing his 12 year old neighbor a race flyer and teaching him how to dismount on the 2000 nationals cross course. He might have thought he was doing the sport good back then by distracting a 12 year old from building 6 foot tall dirt jumps behind his house (that were probably ruining his view of the park) and putting that kid in spandex, but little did he know that kid would turn into me.

This tale starts back farther than I care to admit for as slow as I am. But I was indoctrinated into the sport of cyclocross in September of 2000. I had been racing mountain bikes for a season and did well as a junior, I can remember climbing the ski hill at Snow Creek and getting lapped by Steve Tilford when he was still humble enough to race local mtb events. But I didn't really know what I wanted to do with the sport. I loved BMX racing, I loved the pain of MTB racing and I didn't know anything about road bikes besides the fact that the dude who lived 2 houses down had a dope Litespeed and Lance Armstrong had just finished dominating his 2nd tour.

Well that dude who lived 2 houses down from me handed me a race flyer after I started hanging out in his driveway talking bikes with him. Come October I had somewhat learned about cyclocross through the internets and Steve. This is how my first race went...

12 year old me: I would like to enter the juniors race
Jeremy Haynes: Well I'm a pompous asshole, lemme give you shit for five minutes about how you don't have hair on your legs so you don't need to shave yet and then we can fill out an entry form
12 year old me: ok....
Jeremy: Holy shit you have a lot of hair on your legs (I still think Jer might be gay for commenting on a 12 year old's leg hair)

Needless to say that race got me hooked. It was 40 degrees out and I was wearing my only pair of cycling shorts coupled with a long sleeve KU cycling Tshirt. I finished right behind Theresa Jarsemkoski on her brand new white and red Redline. I could barely clip back into my Nashbar brand clipless pedals and my 30lb Fuji was agonizing to lift over the barriers. Jeremy Haynes screamed encouragement like I had never heard before from the sidelines, donned in his Bontrager sweater and goofy hat, "eye of the tiger baby."

Less than a month later I was registered for cx nationals, the first held in KC. It was a bust for me but the experience of the race was beyond good. It was cold, an ice-storm had left the course that I had ridden no less than 50 times un-rideable and it made 2008 nationals look like a cakewalk as far as I'm concerned.

That next season we transformed LBCR to the Museum Cycling Team, I had jerseys for both. I got to watch Steve and everything else I liked about that team disappear to different teams, they decided to go hit up KCBC and then form Team X/360. I watched it happen and as an aspiring junior I knew I wasn't going many places without a piggyback. I can still remember the next season. I assume teams were starting to talk about re-organization, and if not than certain people just did great things for me.

I can remember the phone ringing while I was at the kitchen table doing god knows what as a 13 year old and I can remember my mom asking me to come take the phone from her. But whatever happened after that I have no idea. Jeremy Haynes had called my house and wanted to know if I wanted to race for the new Boulevard/Midwest Cyclery Team. As a kid I felt about as pro as it could get. He wanted my kit sizes and commitments, and I was as down as it could get.

The next few years I sandbagged it out. I was a 5'11 14 year old and just kept entering junior races and taking the wins (as long as they started around the same time as the C race). I was pretty damn good at racing against the Men's C and collecting a prize wherever I ended up... not gonna lie it was normally pretty well.

But eventually Dean Parker showed up with a neighbor kid of his own... Chris Hall. And that kid started battling right quick. We all know how that story ends up. Cat 1 license v Cat 4 license...circa now.

I caught a case of the "fumes" pretty hard around the same time that he showed up. The car fumes of things that sprint faster than 28mph and the perfumes that are prettier than a new Cannondale. I still showed up for races once in a while, I never did well but I was always stoked to come out early and help pound stakes. That's what cross was built on, or what I always thought it was built on. Pound stakes, shake the homeless man off the bench, race before the cops show up.

10 years later and you get a founding father of god knows what kind of Bad Goat cross team that resembles the old Midwest/Boulevard crew but with an entire team less than 29 years old and enough CO2 generated kegs to power an atom bomb (is that what those run on...), race promoter, series organizer and general team of miscreants.

I always thought this story was worth sharing since there aren't that many kids who came up in the true hay day of KC cross racing. I could tell you about last weekend's race, but it wasn't more than another round of top tens, or the last 5.12 but this is better in my opinion.

So here's to the dudes who made the KC cross scene rain hard... at least for me. Cheers, Steve and Jeremy.

The Story of the Weekend

My weekend was overall un-eventful (continue reading if you will). But I have a story that makes me chuckle, bluegrass and wine. So let the tales regale your eye parts.

Sunday was my only day off from work last week so John, Matt and I went to the pit for a day of sport craggin. We had a pretty darn good day. I warmed up on a solid 5.10d, retrieved the leftover anchor via a 5.11C direct next to said previous route and then watched John Boy try and flail up the 5.9 pocket pull Popeye. John never got to the top and we had to lower him about 10 feet from the anchors. I told both Matt and John prior to the route that I had no desire to climb the damn thing again so one of them would have to finish it and get the gear back. Well Matt cleaned it up after John and came on back to the dirt.

Here's where the gettin' gets good. It was a well known fact from the minute that we got into the car that I would be laying down a fatty onsight attempt on True Value, which is a stellar 5.11a that is very overhung and not my kind of climbing style at the moment. But for some reason after John Boy got lowered off his 5.9 bail he thought that he should just walk back to the car.... with all of my quickdraws hanging off of him. Matt and I thought that he was taking a piss or petting a skink or whatever the hell he does in the woods. So we continued to flake the rope and tie in, sure that he would show back up.

Well he did show back up, around bolt number 5 of this 9 bolt route. I have 6 draws to start the climb, it required 9. I decided that I could just make 2 alpine draws out of the webbing and lockers in my pack and run out the last bolt to the top.

Here's why it sucks (but is still funny) while I was building this draw out of lockers, I only remembered to construct said lockers but not unlock them. The crux move on this route is about 10 feet above the last bolt, and if you count the roof as vertical feet it would have been a solid 15 feet to the last bolt (30 foot fall before rope stretch). So I hit the crux and am hanging on a 3 finger sidepull with maybe one toe solid on the roof bottom, I pull the rope to clip and when I go to clip absolutely nothing happens because the gate will not come undone. I am at my limit and I start screaming at Matt "TAKE, TAKE, TAKE!" as I start running down the wall in what I am sure will be an ankle breaker.

I live through the ordeal and have to pull the crux 3 times. Once as the original clip, once to retrieve the original and once to place a new unlocked draw. All the while John Boy shows up smiling halfway through the crux and offers to "throw my draws up to me." It was by far the most strenuous .11a of my life and I am beyond frustrated that I didn't onsight, but it will still fall clean. Hopefully in the next week.

So here's to your weekly wine rant, walking off with my g*darn gear and making due with whatever is left in the pack.

The Mountain Life Proper

I've been waiting a while for a week like the past, one that really embodies the spirit of the mountain. A stellar realization of what one can truly accomplish and be at elevation if you will, and I think the last week finally made the good stuff rain hard. Not to downplay the epic tales of mountaindom that have precluded this, but they really can't touch what has been happening these last 7 days. So sit back, crack a cold one and enjoy the yarns that I intend to spin.

So I went to work at Babbitt's Backcountry last week. It's the "Sunflower" of Flagstaff minus the bikes. I'm back to doing what I love and working with like minded pirates. Mind you it's no career but careers seldom come with this many accounts to pro-deal. So I can deal for now.

Over the weekend I worked the three day long Flagstaff bluegrass festival "Pickin' in the Pines" at my coffee shops vendor booth. It was a solid 12 hour day everyday. And by solid 12 hour day I mean I hung out, sold food, drank a lot on the job, and got to party down in the outdoor amphitheatre proper when the good music was playing. I raged to Nolan McKelvey with my white boy dancing and led a charge up to the stage for some dancing with the Seldom Scene. Every night that I left the amphitheatre I wandered back downtown to find out what band was playing a side gig where and explore the bluegrass bar scene. Not a lot of sleep but soooo good.


Regardless of the whole sleep situation I took Monday and Tuesday off to go climbing in Paradise Forks. I got hooked up with this old school trad climber named Stan and I was beyond stoked to start trad-climbing again. Paradise Forks is one of the most gorgeous places I have ever seen and the whole canyon was empty except for some Europeans who had traveled specifically to climb the stellar hand-cracks. Nobody around Flagstaff trad-climbs and it's kind of an anomile. This town is surrounded by old school trad areas that are beyond amazing, but all the kids my age want nothing to do with anything that isn't 5.13 sport climbing or V8 bouldering... or approaches longer than 5 minutes.

I'm not much of a crack climber, and by not much I mean I have no crack climbing form. I was desperate for a micro-crimp or an edge to pull on but all these cracks had to offer was jams upon jams. It was described by everyone as "Indian Creek without proper ratings." You see back in the day the rating system stopped at 5.9. So anything that was hard was just called 5.9+... and we climbed a lot of 5.9+. I spent a solid two days after that excursion not being able to lift my hands above shoulder height, my feet were bloody from attempting to jam my tiny sport shoes sideways into cracks and I was mentally exhausted. But G-Dang I had more fun craggin' at the Forks than I have had since I started climbing. I know where my future in this sport is and it lies in tiny finger cracks and TCU's.

Our Austrian climbing associate sending hard on the stellar Paradise Forks hand cracks.

So that's how you live the mountain life. You shuck and jive as a North Face shill, sling the lattes at bluegrass festivals, party hard with the band whence the festival comes to a stop, and crag at the most scenic old school canyon in the southwest. Now you'll have to excuse me, I have to go sort gear for another day of redpointing 5.11 at Jack's Canyon.

So here's to livin' the life proper.

A Climbing Bum's Tales

Who wants to know about the last week of my life? Because I want to tell you about it.

So the last word from me was that I was jobless and restless. So I took my restless nature and went climbing. Here's the rundown (just of the fun things, not the endless job hunt).

I hit the pit headfirst on Wednesday with a climbing fervor reserved for the young and frustrated. I got a handful of onsights and killed a project of mine with aplomb. It was a good day. I won't go on since everyone has already heard about the pit.
Thursday and Friday I got out on the bike hard. Rode myself into the ground both on the road and mountain respectively but nothing too epic to report besides I rode fast and hard and all day.

View from the anchors at Slide Rock Canyon

Saturday: I heard tell of some bolted rock down in Sedona at Slide Rock state park. So I dragged Matt out to check it out. We had little info besides, "bolted rock, up on the hill, above the creek." But oh my goodness, once we found the rock it was good. The lines were bold, 90 foot sandstone overlooking a 400 foot drop into a canyon, spires coming out of the side of the desert floor and more exposure than I have seen in a while. It was a true day of onsight climbing. We literally had no idea what any of the climbs went at, they all felt 5.10ish (but everything feels 5.10ish to me since I could honestly care less what a rock goes at). All of the climbs went clean and all of them were absolutely gorgeous. It was my first visit south to Sedona and I can see why it is such a tourist trap, it is literally one of the most gorgeous towns I have ever seen in my life. Everyone should make a pilgrimage just to see this tiny mountain town, that good...

True onsights go without beta, I don't care what the rest of the sport climbers say.

Saturday night I raged too hard with John boy so I'll skip Sunday altogether. But Monday I met up with some kids from Phoenix down at Jack's Canyon to climb. Jack's is about 30 miles south of Winslow, of Eagles fame, and is a sport climber resort. Hundreds of bolted lines in a pretty small canyon to tear up. It just so happened that my partner for the day was just beginning to push into 5.13s, while I myself had never even seen anyone climb 5.13. We spent the morning with me projecting 5.12 and him cleaning up whatever wouldn't go for me. It was a damn hard day on the rock and it felt sooo good to start climbing at or beyond my limit again. We climbed for a total of 10 hours and 12 routes, all were good, most went clean, life was good.

Tuesday I got a call from that job that I thought I lost/quit. They wanted me to come work for the day. I'm broke so I said "sure why not." Well, 1 day turned into 2 days turned into me working their booth at the local bluegrass festival all weekend. Add onto that and the local downtown gear dispensery called to hire me this morning. So I went from jobless climbing bum to double job/52 hr a week working employed person in less than 24 hours. I guess it cuts into the freewheeling climbing bum life that I was so fond of but at least I can pay some bills this month.

So here's to the life, making the dollas rain when you need it and big money sendin'

Labor Day Bundy Wedding Weekend

Early wake up call Friday morning as I packed the rest of my belongings and headed the 1.5 miles to the Flagstaff airport to shuttle a rickety old jet to the Phoenix airport for a rather eventful wedding weekend back in the old KS. I'm a rather inept airport patron and was worried that I would get utterly lost once descending upon PHX. But everything went off without a hitch and I was ahead of schedule arriving at MCI. There was a lovely young Neta awaiting me at the gate who rushed me straight off to Topeka so I could obtain a tux and do some damage to ol' T-Town.

After the tux was obtained I donned my classy wedding rehearsal getup of jeans, flip-flops and polo only to become the most under dressed rehearsal attendee. Felt a bit awkward until we got to the dinner and began drinking copious amounts of Blind Tiger's delicious American Pale. From then on the party raged in preparation for the next days festivities.

I won the game of "who knows Bundy and Kristen the best." Partly from my own knowledge
and partly because Kelsey screamed out all of her answers.

Wedding day: I awoke and scrambled downstairs only to find a car full of waiting groomsmen and their groom who apparently rebounded faster than me... or were just more used to an early wake up call than me. Regardless they wanted to get hiking and I volunteered to be the guide for the morning at the Topeka Governer's Mansion Trails. I might add that I volunteered my services as guide the night before while imbibing copiously only because the proposed morning destination of Perry Lake sounded utterly miserable to drive out to. I have no business guiding at or even riding this clusterfrag of trails by myself seeing as I have only ridden there twice. But as a verbose young outdoorsman will tell anyone after a few, "sure I can get us there and back." Regardless, we got back somehow and all was good.

That afternoon was a blur of business. I showed up to meet everyone for pictures missing my studs and suspenders and wearing the wrong shoes. Fixed the aforementioned problems and started bombing through wedding procedures. Once I stepped onto the stage (or whatever they call the thing at the front of a church...alter?) the proceeding was a blur. Kristen and Bundy were there and I could look out into the crowd and see every one of my best friends placed in the back where those damn miscreants belong. The whole thing went off without a hitch, Kristen looked absolutely enamored with her groom and although I couldn't see Mr. Bundy's face from my top-step I'm sure the emotion was the same. Kelsey Miller Fink was an amazing better half of my march out of the church and then things got wild.

We had fun and looked damn good.

Reception: My boat of flatland pirates were ready to rage. I got announced like royalty to the reception hall and took my place at the head table. After nabbing a quick scotch and heading back to the table with beer in hand (making a quick stop to adorn Neta with girly red booze) the feast was presented upon us. I leaned over to the dj and said "classy, jazz, Dean Martin, make it rain" and so was done. After dinner was done I made quick rounds and went to meet my table of fellow friends. We quickly turned the 8 person table into a 20 person, and mind you they happened to pick the table closest to the open bar. After things got wild and we danced and partied and danced some more we somehow ended up just being a large group of people standing next to the open bar for the rest of the night. We don't need a full bar, just a man with a stand and we can pretend.

Sunday: I somehow managed to make it downstairs in time to hand my tux off to Kristen's parents, gave the new Bundy family a quick hug and started shoving everything I owned into a bag so Neta and I could check out in time.

As I was driving home that morning I received a text from my boss at the coffee shop. It said "Your schedule has changed, call me as soon as you can." I procrastinated a while since I had to go see my parents and still was in no shape to talk to an employer of mine. Eventually I called him back and received some pretty lame news. Apparently the coffeeshop/restaurant was no longer serving dinner and they were cutting hours. By the time I called him back he had already laid off two cooks, a barista and slashed everyone's hours in half. He sounded frazzled and mystified how they were losing money and obviously felt bad. Half of me was prepared for it, but the other half wanted to scream and yell at him for his poor business model of serving lobster tail in a coffee shop but only between the hours of 4pm and 8pm... you didn't realize you were bleeding money sooner? Because we all did.

Regardless I had been thinking about this moment a lot lately, and wasn't really heartbroken and almost felt relieved. When he told me that he could probably work me 10-15 hours that week I chuckled over the phone, thanked him and then told him that I would only be coming into work that week to be collecting my check. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was foolishness, maybe it was just plain naivety but I didn't feel the need to work for a business who didn't have the foresight to give employees more than 12 hours notice that they would lose their income.

Regardless I went in today to collect my check and ex boss-man started talking at me just as much as he normally did. I listened for a minute but didn't let him finish his ramblings for once, just politely cut him off and said "Thank you for the job. I have a college degree and this awesome resume to go pass around." Shook his hand and went home and hit the job trail. I'm rather resolute to not get back in the coffee business right now, I'm rather sure I could land another coffee shop gig tomorrow but I have also been thinking a lot lately that working in a coffee shop after graduating college with nothing but coffee shop experience out of my 20s is only going to pigeon hole me into a field that has no income or long term stability.

Regardless I had an awesome weekend seeing two of the greatest people I have ever known get hitched. Followed by a hard realization that I am on the hunt for a real career and a life. Not just a job and a lot of playing. I foresee a lot of PBR and grilled cheese in this future job hunt...

So here's to celebrating two of my favorite people, my other favorite people who celebrated with me, cheap beer and hard roads.

Holes, Ska and Summits

It was a clear and sunny Wednesday morning and I had made big plans to summit Arizona's roof with Senor Giles. I awoke with a dry mouth and a dull ache from the Tuesday night fiesta that comes with the college kids moving back into town only to find a sketchy roommate who bailed on an epic to go play bikes with some new roadie companion... can't hate on a man for wanting new friends but give a fool some warning.

Regardless I hit Matt's phone and said "Pit, today is the day 5.12 onsight." He said cool, packed his gear and called me back 15 minutes later. "Uhh, my truck has a broken out window. I can't climb." I didn't understand the correlation between the two. I climb when I'm frustrated, ecstatic or ambivalent... but he needed to console his truck or something so he bailed and left me with my day off to ponder what the bejeezus I can do with my day off work flying solo.

As I was driving aimlessly around town I came across the city limits. There was a sign that said "Grand Canyon: North Rim 124 miles." I took a quick inventory of the party wagon (gas, water, phone, boots, ipod). Cranked the Johnny Cash and blazed a trail down old Route 66 to witness the grandness of this hole for myself. I blew past the national park (by accident not purpose) and continued to the north rim proper, what awaited me was a giant desert filled with nothing and a big hole in the middle. Not a soul was in sight and as I parked my car and wandered off through the dust. I realized that not many people have the opportunity to see the Canyon proper, alone, surrounded by absolutely nobody. I spent a good hour and a half wandering around until I found a good boulder overlooking the canyon that looked like a proper sittin' spot. From there I watched the sun slowly fade behind the sandstone towers that surround the hole and let the dust of the desert settle into my bones before returning to town feeling fulfilled and refreshed.

Stolen pic but it looked like this, minus the rainbow, plus my presence.

Thursday and Friday were pretty much a wash, I'm sure I did some drinkin' or something but nothing worth bragging about.

Saturday night however... I slung the lattes until close and booked it out of the shop at the speed of sound. One of my favorite bands of my youth was playing a free show on campus and be damned if I missed it. I've seen Less Than Jake no less than 3 times as memory serves and every show has been memorable to say the least (that's where that story stops). Regardless this washed up late 90s ska band played a set that was almost identical to the last time I saw them at 15 years old, right down to their two encore songs. Classic and made me feel right back in jr. high, even though I was surrounded by 18 year olds who were solely at the show because they hadn't found enough friends at freshman orientation to know where the booze is at.

This dude has literally looked like this since I saw him at Warped Tour 2000. Something about my childhood likes that.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday: I once again made plans with John boy to hit the roof of Arizona and be damned if I was going to let him bail again. I was awake at 8 and ready to go. The weather was gusty and abnormally cool to say the least. I started texting John at 9 telling him to get up and get to the mt. Fast forward 2 hours and somehow John managed to get out of bed and I harassed, threatened to do the hike solo and lied long enough about the 70% chance of t-storms that we were bound for the trailhead. Finally got to hiking around 11:15, with my stomach churning with excitement and fear knowing that we might break treeline in the middle of a wicked storm.

Broke treeline around 1:45. Not many people were summiting Humphrey's that day which I thought seemed odd as it's a pretty moderate, albeit time consuming, 10 mile hike and we somehow managed to stay out of the wet. Figured it out once we got up there though. It seemed that with every 100 feet of elevation and exposure we gained above treeline the wind would crank it up another 10mph. We went from steady 60mph hurt on the first false summit, to steady 75mph on the second and finally got stuck with 95mph gusts making the final steep 100 meter push vertical to the summit. It was cold and miserable up there but the experience was soooo worth it. Most guide books warn that any weekend you will be battling up to 100 other people getting to the top, we had the summit to ourselves the entire 30 minutes we were there. Not too shabby at all.

So here's to great holes, great heights and washed up musicians who still make me smile.