After being postponed due to bad weather, flooding and reports of some snow, the first annual Texas Chainring Massacre went off without a hitch on May 8th, 2010. We gathered at the DFW Adventure Park, just east of I35 West near the Texas Motor Speedway, at 7am with temperatures surprisingly chilly at 55-60F. There was a mix of 700c trail bikes, road bikes, and CX bikes, with a few of the skinny-tire folk getting scared at their choice of equipment. Unlike TMBRA events, registration wasn’t crowded, and we were given a t-shirt and a 2009 DORBA pint glass filled with three sample packets of Hammer Endurolytes, a packet of HEED, and a 0.5 oz sample of That Butt Stuff chamois creme. I already had a few sample packets of Chamois Butt’r in my gear, but since I was already using TBS, the purple packets were quickly replaced with something known-good.

At about 8:00, the rider’s meeting was ended with “Well, I guess it’s
8:00, so I guess ya’ll can start.” The “neutral rollout” wasn’t, with
a bunch of skinny-tire folks racing to the front, and one gent flatting in the first mile; we had been told that the start/finish road was the worst on the course, which turned out to be completely true, as there were potholes from 10-24 inches in diameter and 4-12 inches deep scattered across the width of the hard-packed dirt road for just under two miles. As we left the dirt for a quick jaunt down the I-35W feeder, a group of about twenty riders put the hammer down, and put a good gap in effect (silly me, I rode super-neutral until we hit the pavement.) The chase began, and after a mile I caught Mr. Clean. As I did, we began to chat, with him telling me that he had been over-training, feeling dead and might take the mid-distance route. We kept up a conversation for a few more minutes, until he yelled that he couldn’t hear me; “go play!”. I took off again, getting a small pack of riders in my sights, and within a mile or two had reeled them in. At 6 miles in, I was in a pack of about six, with three riding fatties, and somehow ended up in front as we turned onto another stretch of pavement; the wind was a little bothersome, so I tucked down and set a steady pace, but every time I looked over my shoulder, there were five shadows. Aha! I sat up and slid to the side, and sure enough, they wanted to play ducks-in-a-row. We kept a good paceline for the next ten miles or so through Krum, TX, until we hit the first extended gravel section, where the line broke and turned into a wide pack of various paces. Int the beginning of this section, we encountered a bit of impromptu road construction, wherein a Peterbilt managed to lose his trailer sideways, spilling fist-sized chunks of granite across the road. Some inbred truckers saw us coming and feigned shock/concern, shouting warnings about a wrecked truck that we presumably couldn’t see. A couple miles later, the yellow/white kit (the gent who had flatted in the first mile) blew by as if he was late for tea.

Somewhere around mile 20, we were back on a farm to market road, and were passed by Mr. Spinistry, who yelled “First Left!”, which I took since I was in front….it was a vaguely country-residential area, but since yellow-white was ahead of us by a quarter mile, we shrugged it off….and then he turns around. It was a private road, so we back-tracked a mile to the FM road and they put the hammer down, dropping me at the 24mph point (why so serious? you’ve got 90 more miles!) They didn’t get far ahead, as yellow/white (looked like B.Fawley’s colors) had dropped my guys (hah!) Once again, I reeled them back in and we met up with a trio of Big Pigs at the world’s slowest FM road crossing. Since there were no breaks in traffic (it was like a funeral procession, but marginally faster), we casually walked into the road and the oncoming traffic paused to let the ten of us across. More hardpacked gravel. A mile more, and the Big Pigs are dropped. A few more miles and the fat-tires in the original group are dropped. There’s one guy on flat bars (Jones H-bars with pretty-pink ESI grips) left, but he’s riding 38s or 44s.

By mile 30, it was down to three of us, all riding CX bikes. After we
settled into a pace, a few miles passed with idle chit-chat, and realizing I was probably going to be riding with these guys all day, I introduced myself to tattooed Shawn from Irving and Mark from Grandview. Miles pass. Gravel, slow rollers and some mashing (unexpected!). More miles. Mark and I discuss the Mellow Classic (he
got 2nd Cat-2 45-49 in 2009). All of a sudden, we see a rider ahead — he’s moving slowly and looking dead…it’s some kid in a Mad Duck kit (James) who randomly said hello as I passed him on my way to the registration desk. Three become four.

At mile 50, we see some civilization and a store – “Hey, isn’t that where we’re supposed to stop and get a zip-tie?” “Yeah, that’s the chicken-fried-steak place!” We refill bottles, Mark orders a chicken-fried-stea, restroom break #1, and stretching. As we’re lollygagging, a rider appears and we talk. He doesn’t refill, but joins us as we roll-out (sans brunchtime Mark). This new guy, Jeremy (I think) rides a recent-year CX/Sport touring frame with both threaded fork/quill stem and STI levers….interesting. More miles, and Jeremy asks if Hammerhead sponsors Tender Gooch Racing. “Not really, but they let us drink there.” He claims to know the owner, Cody, his name might be, from the framebuilding world. Miles. Gravel, rolling hills, cluster of a pack, and the Mad Duck never sets a pace, just sucks wheel. I’m the slowest descender as usual. Somewhere around mile 65, we’re on a stretch of pristine county road with some larger than usual rollers, and Mad Duck decides he’s going to attack each hill (finally). In doing so, he pops, an after a mile of gravel, he’s off the back. Jeremy and I talk about whisky, and how he drank too much the night before. I admit that I had three beers and a wee dram of Glenfiddich, but he dismisses it as child’s play…hmm.. By mile 74 or so, we cross under a highway (I think, now, that it was TX-380) and into some town….ah, we’re in Decatur. Signage routes us through a residential area and down some manner of “main-drag” FM road through town. There’s lots of flourescant paint on the road, and I see an arrow and follow it, then we’re into a construction zone and coming down to…a highway? Discussion ensues, and Jeremey isn’t there….so Shawn and I backtrack, then spot his bike at the convenience store at the top of the hill. He’s getting a Mexican Coke, a bottle of Propel and a (GIGANTIC) bag of Chex-mix. Handfuls
of the carbohydrate/salt concotion are dispersed, and we wait….and stretch….and wait….Mr. Spinistry is called for route clarification — go down 287 to a petrified gas station –…I fill my water while J. keeps nursing his coke…and wait….Shawn’s rear tire is low, so he adds some pressure….and finally we leave. Almost back to the point of our turn, and Shawn’s tire is dead. Wheel out. Shoulder the bike while he dumps his sealant and gets his gloves covered in latex. Tube + CO2 + pop + pop + into the dropouts. Pedal, click click, done. Back to the errant turn and go left (what was straight.) After a half mile, my directions are questioned (since I led the wrong turn), and calls Mr. Spinistry again (”yeah, just keep going on 287 like you were doing”). As we’re on the phone ascertaining our position, Mark rolls up (”The chicken-fried-steak was awesome!”), and we inquire as to the state of young Mad Duck (”Haven’t seen him!”); it is surmised that he somehow found some energy and got ahead of us while we were exploring. OK, so Mr. S says we’re on course, but we wonder what Mr. S is smoking, since a “petrified gas station” doesn’t make any sense, so we ride pensively down 287 for a quarter mile and see an arrow, and then we see it….an old gas station that has been given a facade of petrified wood…and is now “The Petrified Wood Station (no gas).” Sure enough, just after this odd building we find an arrow sending us over the tracks into the gravel again. Painted upon the pavement are the words “HAMMER TIME.” Yippie-Skippy-Hooray??

The next 16 miles were absolute hell. We were riding south/southeast from Decatur, and the wind, coming from the southeast had picked-up (now on the order of 25-30 mph gusts.) To add insult to injury, Decatur is one of the areas on the course that had *actual* *hills* and large trucks that put up a quarter mile of dust….go watch “A Sunday in Hell” to get the idea of the cloud we were riding through….cars magically appeared from the cloud, heading our way. Pain. Hungry. Mashing hills like mad. The groups splits, with my original two comrades staying close. Legs running out of juice. Dust. Hot. Another car comes by, we escape the dust, and then spot and pass some redneck kid’s lemonade stand. (WTF? Why would you put a lemonade stand out here? I don’t even see the kid’s house!) BRAKE. Turn around. It’s the “26 miles to go” aid station, well-stocked with water, gels, HEED, pita bread, peanutbutter crackers, peanut butter, and other crap people think you’ll eat when your mind wants lemonade….Restroom break #2 is more yellow, so chug some water, down a gel (ooh, has caffine!), take a second, take some ibuprofen, double-up on the Endurolytes, all bottles filled. The group made whole (and fed), I lock “26″ and my present milage (90) into my brain and we take off. Within a mile or so, the roads level out, and we’re on pavement for a bit, then back to gravel with slow shallow rollers, then back to pavement, gravel, pavement and by 105, it’s mostly paved county roads. The paceline reforms and the four of us who take pulls do so at 21, 20, 19, and 15; 15-guy must be saving something or be dead…Sure enough, after pass behind the Texas Motor Speedway and cross I35W, he turns it up to about 22mph, just getting past everyone’s threshold for pain (in the last two miles). Now we’re back to the road upon which we started, looking twice as bombed-out as at the start…rumble..rumble…rumble….and we’re done. No finish line, no placement, just an instruction over the loudspeakers that we’re not done with the race until we pour a beer from the keg. Something fills my cup and is consumed quickly (IPA probably). I put the bike up, change, chat with Mr. Clean for a moment and head back for a second pint, then inhale two hotdogs, finish my beer, and am on the road to Grizzly-Adams’ for an evening of drinking beer, eating grilled mammal flesh, and learning how to watch rugby on TV.

While I absolutely hate driving anywhere near I35, I’ll be back to another Spinistry endurance event just as soon as I can. They’re just simple and fun.

Edit #1: I fully intended to take photos, but between the wind and the constant turning of the pedals, I didn’t think about removing the camera from its case. I did take some photos of the bike dressed-up in it’s new framebag, though.