Extraction

Hello All!

I successfully completed the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) challenge earlier tonight, writing 50,000 words for a story in less than 30 days.  It was an incredible experience and left me eager to find out more about my characters, as their story is far, FAR from over.  More on my plans to make that a reality later.  As a final post for the novel this month, I felt it was only fitting to leave you as I approached you: with an action scene.  Enjoy, and thanks for all your support!

Scotty Mac

The violent part got its wish.  To my right, the remnants of a door swung open quickly, crashing against the stop.  Out of the dark, depthless portal poured Beloved by the dozens, their eyes directly on me.  I tried to think of a smartass comment to mark the occasion, but my mouth was suddenly dry as I looked at their faces, a unified mask of hunger and rage.  Instead, I pulled the flash bang off my vest, pulled the pin, muttered "Game on," threw it at the enemy and then looked away.

            The noise and sound was brilliant and sent the Beloved reeling, howling in pain.  I jumped on the pedals, sprinting further into the bowels of the downtown buildings, working to open a gap before the group regained its senses and charged after their dinner.

            I weaved through the abandoned cars, throwing the bike into turns, inside foot held out for balance, the breath running ragged in my throat.  I could hear their feet slapping the ground and their breath coming in grunts over my own wracked, dry sobs.  I was maxed out on the flat ground, legs spinning in a blur, the pace unsustainable.  I needed a plan, and I needed one fast.

            Swinging east, I could see the city's capitol building coming into view.  Risking a glance behind me, I saw I was being pursued by at least fifty Beloved.  Jesus, they were like cockroaches!  I couldn't make a stand out in the open, they'd just surround me and take me down.  Somehow, I needed to force them into a narrow area where they couldn't outflank me and I could make each round from my .40cal count.

            The capitol.  What about the capitol?  The underground entrance, Brandon.  Yeah, that was it, the staircase that led down to the entrance was pretty narrow.  Dad had shown me around there when I was younger while he was home from D.C.  If I could get down there, I could set up, force them to come at me two abreast at most, and plug the corridor with dead or dying bodies, giving me enough time to escape.  Yeah.  That might work.

            I turned north onto Capitol Boulevard and there it was, that miniature of the White House.  Putting my last energy reserves into a final sprint, I bolted headlong for the steps to the raised entrance.  I prayed the glass wasn't bulletproof.

            In one fluid motion, I jumped off the bike while still surging forward, landing on a dead run and hoisting the bike to my left shoulder.  I took the stairs three at a time, imagining Beloved hands tearing at my exposed neck the whole way.  They were closing on me.  Off the bike, I had switched from being a hare to a tortoise.  Seconds that felt like a year later, I made it up the last step.  Not stopping my run, I reached for my gun and fired into the glass doors.  The first round hit, causing a crack.  The second round sent those cracks racing around the glass, and the third finished the weakening process.  I crashed through the door, leading with my right shoulder, pivoting the bike on my shoulder so it wouldn't hang up on the door frame.

            Shards flew every which way and I skidded across the glass on the ground, nearly losing my balance.  Climbing back on my bike, I pushed off, the mass of Beloved hard on my heels.  I had to get to the back of the building.

Winter Games

The book written by the NaNoWriMo founder says that when in doubt, "just add ninjas."  I went one better and added some Irishmen.  Ladies and Gentlemen, meet the Flaherty brothers!

Three days is a long time to sit in that little death-cottage, waiting to unleash some mayhem.  To stave off boredom, we talked about all the real food we would eat when we got to the house, rigging the shower timer so we got more than two minutes of hot water, and the biggest game, what we would do when ‘it’ was all over.  That morning, it was more of the same.

            “I’ll tell you what, Brother.  I’m gonna head for the mountains, get one o’ those cabins, put a fookin’ rocking chair on the porch and just sit.  Hell, I may even rock in it after awhile,” Sean was saying to his twin brother Patrick.  The Flaherty brothers were, improbably enough, Irish college exchange students Mom had agreed to house for the year, the last year that something like higher education mattered.  When the outbreak started, she had convinced them with her typical, kindly forcefulness, that returning to Ireland was no longer in the cards.  The brothers had called their parents in County Cork, told them they were staying for another year, and hung up, sobbing.  They took to their roles well enough, and proved to be excellent shots with the big machine guns and assault rifles alike.  They wouldn’t stay silent long enough to get the twenty feet from the pillbox to the cot area though, so external work was out.  Fucking Irish, I thought.  They sing sad songs and fight happy wars.

            “That’s all well an’ good, Brother.  But what about ma’ and da’?” Patrick wanted to know.

            “Come off it, now!  You know well as me that they’re fookin’ zombies.  Ain’t nothin’ ta be done about it.”

            “What do you think, Brandon?  D’you think our ma’ and da’re fookin’ zombies?” Patrick asked me.

            “First off, how many times do I have to tell you guys, the Beloved are not zombies.  Zombies are animated corpses- a bullshit, supernatural figment of fiction.  The “undead.”  There’s nothing ‘dead’ about the Beloved except their ability to control their hunger,” I explained for the umpteenth time.

            The Flaherty boys looked at each other.  “Fine, fine.  So they’re alive Beloved zombies?  Is that any better than bein’ a dead fookin’ zombie?” Sean inquired.

            “For fuck’s sake, guys, it doesn’t matter what you call them, your parents are most likely lost!” I snapped angrily.

            “Well, why didn’t ya say tha’ in ta first place, boyo?” Patrcik chided.  Jesus, what a pair.

            “My mistake.  All right, back on track.  When this is all over, I’m going to read all the books I’ve been meaning to read in the biggest armchair I can find, and I’ll only leave to eat, go to the bathroom, and stand long enough to keep the blood from pooling in my legs.”

            “Ha!  Y’hear tha’ Paddy?  Brandon Archer, a fookin’ bookworm!” Sean slapped his knee, cackling.  I rubbed my temples which had started throbbing in the last couple minutes.  I increasingly felt like I was living in a poorly-acted movie.  “Give over, Archer.  What would ya really do?”

This was Me, Then

The latest.  In this section, we're getting a sense of why Brandon is the way he is.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the blanket Lindsey offered me.  “Trying to tell a story with chattering teeth would be counterproductive.”

            “I bet.”

            “Oh, you’ll find out.  Servant or not, I’m going to ask you one of these days for your story.  Fair’s fair.”

            “Fine.  Now, stop stalling and get on with it.”

“I was twelve years old when I got in my first fight.  Wasn’t much of a fight.  I got my ass kicked.  Three boys in my class did the kicking.  They had it in for me, for a couple of reasons.  Telling them to fuck off when they asked me to do their homework for them was probably reason number one.  Anyway, I never had a chance.  I was scrawny back then, hadn’t yet hit my growth spurt, and knew more about dinosaurs and algebra than fighting techniques.  I loved to read.  Mom and Dad encouraged me to read whatever I wanted, and would ask me deep questions when I was done as an exercise to help me remember details.  It was kind of a game.”

            “So I got jumped at final recess one day.  They all had at least four inches and thirty pounds apiece on me.  I remember the first punch I took.  The kid’s knuckles bit into my cheek, laying the skin open.  My face was warm, but whether it was from the blood running down or the sting of the blow, I couldn’t tell.  Everything sped up beyond my reckoning then, and the next thing I remember I was waking up in the hospital.”

            “Most of the damage was superficial; they were kids after all and didn’t know how to hit to injure.  I had two black eyes, a broken nose, my cheek was cut, my lower lip swollen, and I was missing a tooth.  Luckily, sort of, it was a baby tooth and so wasn’t terribly missed.  I had bruised ribs and my stomach was tender.  The doctors figured I probably got kicked in the abdomen a few times, but there wasn’t any internal bleeding.  Small favors, right?”

            “The beating was over before any of the teachers noticed what was going on.  When I regained consciousness, they asked me if I remembered who had beaten me.  I saw each face clearly, their likenesses etched indelibly on my brain, but I played dumb.  I said I couldn’t remember.  The doctors chalked it up to the trauma of the attack and that was okay by me.  Twelve years old, and I finally understood that being smart would only get a person so far.  I needed force to back up my words.  A few weeks later, I started studies very much different from paleontology and math.”

            “Boxing was first.  There were plenty of weight classes, and I was just big enough to be a flyweight.  I would get up in the morning, before dawn, and go pound the pavement.  I would run the two miles to our gym, work out with a trainer Dad had hired at my insistence, run back home, and go to school.  Back at home, once Mom was satisfied I had accomplished my homework, I went to the basement and continued to change.  I jumped rope to work on my coordination, hammered the speed bag to improve how fast I could throw my hands, and finished off with five rounds on the heavy bag.  I did that for two years straight, and each time I hit the bag I imagined their faces deforming from one punch after another.”

Claiming My Kill

Hey All!  Here's a section from the latest chapter.

I smiled.  This was going to work.  With the same care as before, I brought the rifle to my shoulder and looked through the scope.  The low light properties of the scope gave me plenty of four legged options to choose from.  It was still dark enough that I wouldn't have to worry about the sun affecting the picture.  So many variables.

            The doubts faded, the potential repercussions of what I was about to do melted into the background.  My finger slipped over the trigger, and I took a deep breath, steadying the nerves.  I had my target.  Execute.

            The shot shattered the silence of the valley, the sonic signature reverberating off the sides of the foothills.  The buck went down.  At least I was fairly sure it went down, because as soon as I had fired, the time for stealth and caution was over.  The next part of my plan would achieve fruition only if I could move quickly enough.

            I slung the rifle and started down the hill at a half-run, half-slide.  The window was a minute, maybe two.  Maybe.  I had to get to the buck.  I hurled aside thoughts for personal safety, trusting my agility earned over the years to carry me down the hill, picking my spots for me as I leapt from one patch of ground to the next.  The herd was moving south away from the fallen comrade.  Their numbers and frantic running away from the valley masked my headlong scramble toward the kill.  The human eye would be attracted to the biggest scene.  I hoped.

            The slope ran out, leveling off as it neared the valley.  I took my eyes off my route for a quick glance at the town below.  Sure enough, I could see people moving inside the rundown houses.  They had heard the shot and would be up at my position in a matter of moments to investigate.  The fallen elk was just ahead of me.  I still had a chance.

            Still at a dead run, I slid down behind the elk, putting its mass between the town and my prone figure.  I gripped the rifle close to my chest lest a rattle should betray my position.  I was gasping from the effort, my heartbeat was playing percussion on my eardrums.  I inhaled through my nose and exhaled through my mouth, calming my wheezes as best I could.

            Voices from below carried to my position.  Less than a minute I figured, and they'd be on me.  I could pick out individual people from the different pitches in speech, and my mind raced as I heard that intelligent, slightly wry, supremely confident feminine voice that had branded itself in my mind.  She was coming.  Twenty seconds now, at the most.

            I moved my right hand off of the rifle to my chest.  I was definitely outnumbered, and movement into view would get me shot.  They would have weapons trained on the buck, ready to shoot if he was still alive.  I would have to tilt the field in my favor.

Harvesting Plans

Things are starting to take shape in this story.

The next day I started preparing for the hunt.  I took my time cleaning my rifle, honed the edge on my sword, and ran around gathering each piece of my protective gear.  I grabbed an MRE from the pantry, and filled up my hydration pack.  I picked out an extra layer of clothes, something warm and with muted tones.  It was critical that I blend in with my surroundings, and the foothills were predominantly sage green and a grey-brown from the soil and sand.  I made sure my fighting knife was as sharp as my long blade, and snapped the hollow-point rounds into my .40cal.  I was so focused that I didn't hear Grace at the door until she whispered "Hey."

            I jumped a little, almost guiltily.  "Hello.  Didn't hear you come up.  You're footsteps are getting quieter," I said lightly, trying to make her smile.  Her eyes were flat and her mouth held none of the flirtatious humor that drew people to her.  Then, just when I thought she might never smile again, her mouth twitched.

            "Well.  Recent events have lent weight to your insistence that I learn to move about more quietly," she said in her best impersonation of British understatement.

            "I can see that.  What's up?"

            "I was going to ask you the same thing.  Looks like you're rolling out."

            "Only for a couple days.  I'm going hunting."

            "Are you?"

            "What do you mean?"

            "I think you're going hunting.  But you're not bringing back an elk," Grace pronounced, her prescience rocking me back on my heels.

            I struggled to remain impassive.  "What makes you say that?"

            "Thanks for not denying it, lying right to my face.  Brandon, before we left on the sweep, Sheilah told me to keep an eye on you.  She said you were all broken up about that Bandit getting the drop on you.  You're going back there, aren't you.  You're going to get her."

            I sighed.  Ninety-nine problems... "Yes.  I'm going to get her.  And in doing so, maybe I'll get that piece of myself back that she stole away.  Don't worry, Grace.  I'm not going into this half-cocked, it's not a blind-rage vendetta.  It's more than repairing my pride.  We need her."

            "We need her?  Why do we need her?" Grace demanded.

            "We need her and her people on our side, simple as that.  We don't win the war against the Leaders and the Beloved without them."

            "Bullshit."

            "I thought so, too.  It's a losing game, Grace, don't you see it?  Casino's odds.  They have us outnumbered at every turn.  An alliance with the Bandits gives us a hell of a lot better chance of overcoming our fate.  I don't know about you, but if you told me that by getting the Bandits on our side I wouldn't have to kill another person ever again, I'd do anything to make that a reality."

            Grace remained silent, eyes searching mine for any trace of disbelief or a lie.  I gazed back steadily, not mad at her for questioning.  It was all of a sudden important to me that she understood what I was attempting to undertake.  She must have seen what she was looking for, because she nodded once, then came up to me and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  She turned and left.  From the doorway, she looked back at me with a grave smile, her eyes clear and her words simple.

            "So go get her," she said, leaving me to the task of claiming my kill.

Flight

Hello to All!

It's been a few days since I've debuted a new section on the blog, but I wanted to assure you that I have been busy, and the game has been moved along.  Here's an excerpt from a recent writing session:

Movement right.  I located it through my scope, and saw two Beloved crouched low at the corner of a house, ready to charge us.  Firing a gun now would be the equivalent of sending up a flare for all enemies in the area to use as a locator, but there was nothing for it.  I stepped toward the threat, clearing Grace out of any possible line of fire, and brought both down cleanly with bursts.  The rapid-fire explosions of the bullets out of the rifle sounded like the loudest detonation in the history of mankind in the stillness.

            "Okay, they probably know we're here now," Grace said sarcastically.

            "Yeah, probably.  Come on, follow me," I said, moving to where the Beloved I shot had been hiding.  We climbed onto the porch, and crouched down, waiting to see who the rifle blasts would bring.

            We didn't have to wait long.  The sound of a truck engine grew nearer, and headlights stretched the shadows on the lane, originating from the direction we were heading.  The truck crept forward, every occupant scanning the area for us, I knew.  I motioned to Grace to do as I did, laying down on the ground, and moving off the porch and into the bushes, overgrown from neglect.

            Grace dropped down beside me just as the truck came into view.  Through the scope I saw a driver and a passenger, calmly sweeping their heads for movement.  Four Beloved were in the truck bed, bobbing around eagerly for any sight of us, which for them meant a tasty treat.  It was an interesting pairing, I thought.  Leader and Beloved, cold calculation mixed with mindless strength and brutality.  With this partnership finally verified, I felt even less hope for human survival.  Then again, I reminded myself, if it were easy, then anyone could do it.

            We remained motionless, hardly breathing, faces pressed to the earth as the truck moved closer.  It was agony, waiting for the sound of brakes being applied and the headlong rush of predators that had spotted their prey, but it never came.  The truck moved past the dead bodies, unseen in the darkness where they lay, and the engine note picked up as the vehicle accelerated away.  We waited just a moment more to make sure the truck was out of sight, then slowly stood and continued our progress.

            The night wore on.  Our pace slowed even further, fatigue stealing over us from the late hour and the stress borne of moving so cautiously.  We didn't see any more Beloved on foot, and I bet they had found the bodies from the initial ambush and decided that staying in the vehicle would give them a better advantage.  At some point in the night, I took the strap off my rifle to rig a makeshift sling for Grace's arm, but other than a whispered "thank you," we remained silent, lost in our thoughts and our unspoken hope that we would survive the night.

            The first tentacles of light signifying Dawn's approach broke over the valley.  As much as we wished for the morning, we knew that the light worked to the advantage of our pursuers even more.  We came out of a suburb onto a main street, and I recognized it as one of the approach roads to Mom's house.  So close.  We looked for any sign of the enemy, but there was nothing to suggest any danger.  We moved along the road as fast as we could, trotting and stumbling as we desperately tried to reach safety.

            The sound of a car running fast on the road behind us burned through our elation as surely as a struck match through rice paper.  They were coming for us, we wouldn't escape them after all.  Summoning what energy reserves we had left, we dashed down the road.

The Opposite of 'Handling it Well'

Hello Faithful Followers!

This section of my story finds Brandon headed home after his furlough.  I offer a preemptive apology with regards to the length of this section as it's longer than my 500-word guideline I've been adhering to, but I hope you'll forgive me as you read the scene.  We pick up the action, quite literally, courtesy of his brother John...

John started in on me immediately, while Dad looked on, intent on the dynamics of our maladjusted confrontation I figured.  "Well, look who's here.  Brandon Archer, ex-soldier," he said with a sneer, putting heavy emphasis on the 'ex.'

            "All right, Brother.  I'll play along.  Why am I an 'ex-soldier'?" I asked, suspecting the answer.  We were a few feet away from each other.  I hung my head as if submitting to the taunting while shuffling my feet backward a half-step.  Distance was key.

            "Because only someone unfit for duty would give up their firearm," John delivered the punch line with obvious relish.

            "Ah.  Yes.  I had a feeling that's where you were going," I mumbled, still shuffling my feet, digging my left foot into the crushed gravel.  A good platform was crucial.

            "'I had a feeling that was where you were going'," John mimicked my voice in a high, whiny pitch.  "You're pathetic, Brandon, you always were." I bowed my head, still deeper, interlocking my fingers in acquiescence to his just proclamation.  I sneaked a peek at Dad.  He wasn't directly at me, but I caught his head move from right to left just the barest bit.  But he said nothing.  Surprise was critical.

            "And the best part?  You got beat by a Bandit half your size and surrendered without a fight!" John through back his head, eyes closed as he laughed, exulting in my humiliation.

            Now.  As soon as my mind thought it I was moving, pivoting on my left leg and throwing my right in a roundhouse kick aimed for the side of his head at the temple.  Had I connected, I would have killed him.  I had put all my rage into that kick and I knew it was one of the most lethal strikes I had ever attempted.  It wasn't fast enough, however.  John caught the movement from beneath his eyelids, and snapped his head back so that the toe of my boot brushed his chin.  The force of the kick combined with my foot not hitting where I had planned brought my body around, but I was prepared for that as well, and saw John charge out of the corner of my eye.

            I continued the spin, crouching slightly, and brought my interlocked hands up swiftly as my brother barreled into me, the uppercut solidly hitting him in the gut.  I winced as I connected, John wasn't a field man anymore but he kept himself in great shape and his stomach muscles were still rock solid.  I felt my a knuckle in my left hand break, which was excruciating as it sounds, but took grim satisfaction in hearing the breath leave John's body, the blow staggering him, throwing him off his rush.  With whip-crack speed, I pivoted into his body and threw him over my shoulder.  He landed on his back with a thud and groaned, struggling to get up like a turtle that had been flipped on its shell.

            "You need to choose your words better, Brother.  Seems I'm enough of a soldier to beat you, you fucking bastard!" I yelled at him.  The speed of my attack had undone his strength, the range of my strike had negated his prowess for in-close work.  He should have known better.

            Then, right then, just as I thought the fight was mine, he got up.  Ah, fuck.  My older brother.  Too dumb to know that he was defeated, but as I watched him rise slowly, knowing he was conducting a mental "systems" check of his body for injuries as he did so, a part of me wondered if he knew something I didn't.  He looked at me, and the sneering, insulting older brother was gone.  In his place was someone who wanted me fucking dead.

            He leapt after me, and I turned and ran for the wall.  I had one chance.  I was quicker than him and faster, but his rage lent him wings.  I could feel him gaining, hear the explosive grunts as he strained to reach me.

            I made the wall.  Instead of trying to climb it as I hoped he thought I was about to attempt, I jumped into the stone, coiling like a compressed steel spring, then exploded back toward John, pivoting to my right, my left foot coming around in a mirror image of my first kick.  I was confident he hadn't expected the move, and maybe he hadn't.  One minor problem made itself quickly and readily apparent, however.  He was too close for my ranged attack.  My leg landed ineffectively in his side, and he quickly clamped his right arm around it, pivoting while his left hand grabbed my shirt at the chest, driving me down at the grou-

            Blackness.

Furlough, Kind of

All right, folks, here's some more on the still-untitled novel.  I'm not sure I'll have anything out over the next couple days, so enjoy this section and if you have any feedback, don't hesitate to let me know!

An hour later, or close enough that I was confident search parties hadn't been dispatched for us yet, we pulled into Mom's house.  She lived in our old house before we moved to the hills, a farmhouse, one of the last farmhouses with acreage that hadn't been turned into a suburb in fact, and she used every last one of those acres to great effect, growing the lion's share of fruits and grains for the families that were part of the cooperative.  Her part of our survival was so critical that every approach to the house was guarded around the clock.  The guard houses had been notified of our arrival and they lifted the gates as we approached, waving us on.  We turned down the crushed gravel driveway, and saw Mom waiting for us, waving her hand.

            Skidding to a stop, Sheilah leapt off her bike and was in Mom's arms in a flash.

            "Mom!  I've missed you so much!" she said, crying with happiness.

            "Darling, I've missed you too.  I'm so glad you made it safely," Mom said, including me in her gaze and her smile.  I came up and hugged her as well, basking in the moment.  Things would continue as they had been before, I would be sent out to kill or be killed again and again, but that was a lifetime away.

            "Yeah Mom, would you believe that I had to practically drag Sheilah kicking and screaming over here?  She sure does put on a good act," I teased.

            "Oh Brandon, you're such a liar.  You don't believe him, do you Mother?"

            "Of course not, sweetie," Mom said, and Sheilah stuck her tongue out at me.  I shied a hand at her.  "Sheilah, why don't you go get changed into something less martial.  Your cousin Samantha has been looking forward to catching up with you since we got the notice of your impending visit from your father."

            "All right Mother.  I'll help out wherever you need me to afterward.  See you later!  You too, jerk face," she said at me with a grin, running into the house.

            "Okay, don't worry, I'll just take care of your bike for you then," I yelled after her, turning to Mom in feigned disgust.  "Kids."

            "I remember you being a similar nuisance to John not too long ago," Mom said.

            "Well.  Some things never change," I said, picking up Sheilah's bike and wheeling both to the detached garage behind the house, Mom walking by my side.

            "I'm glad you wanted to come out, Brandon.  It's been ages since we talked."

            "Yes it has.  Darn Beloved apocalypse, always gets in the way."

            "You don't have to pretend to be lighthearted around me, Son.  I know you too well," Mom said seriously, those blue eyes Sheilah had inherited boring into mine.  "We need to talk about how things are.  I fear your father has been overly positive with how we fare against our enemies.  I was hoping to gain a clearer picture from your experiences of late."

            "I'll tell you what I can Mom, but I'm just a spear carrier.  I'm not privy to the grand strategy of Jacob Archer, I'm afraid."

            "That self deprecation won't work on me either, my boy.  I know how smart you are, how much you take in even if you don't know you've taken it in.  So let's talk.  Let's see if we can connect the dots."

            I knew what that meant.  We were going to figure out what was really going on even if it took all ten days of my furlough to get there.  Mom's strength was different than Dad's, but she was definitely not weaker.  I shook my head, but met her eyes, curiosity tugging at my mind.

            "Okay Mom.  Let's give it a shot."

A Fate Worse than Living and Love's Meaning

I'm making this a serial, it seems.  Here's Brandon, finding himself in a situation that is more than pleasurable but less than desirable...

She glanced over and saw the joint propped over the ash tray.  Without asking, she slid past me, picked it up and took a drag.  I watched her lips close over the cigarette, so full and promising.  This certainly wasn't her first time smoking up, I observed as she took a huge pull.  She released the smoke, watched it drift lazily toward the ceiling to intermingle with my puffs.  "Want to tell me about it?"

            "Not really."

            "I didn't really want to hear it anyway.  I think you knew that," she said as she climbed on the bed with me.  Almost effortlessly she undid the button of my jeans.  She slipped her hand beneath the denim, fingertips searching.  My resolve weakened, cracked, and just when it was about to shatter, a door slamming in the hall caused her to jump, to pull away.  I knew from the direction that it was John going to his room.  He moved with all the grace of an Abrams tank.  I hoped his wife Lauren was able to sleep through his attempt at being quiet, I knew if we still had neighbors they sure as hell would have had a tough time.

            Grace got up, shaking her head.  "Well that spoiled the mood."

            "Probably for the best.  She loves you, you know," I said, searching her face for a reaction.  She ducked her head, but I had caught a faint blush.  Was she embarrassed?  Angry that I called her out on her attempted infidelity?  I couldn't tell.

            "She's so delicate.  Soft and tender.  I see you, and it makes me want a rougher experience, something without a future.  You're dangerous, Brandon, volatile.  I sometimes get the feeling that if you lost whatever it is that keeps you wanting to live, you'd kill us all," she mused, eyes now on mine with no trace of guile.  "I want to feel that fire inside me.  Grace can't give that to me, she's too gentle."

            "Well, we can't all be hardened killers," I said, my high completely lost in the conversation.  "Stay with Sheilah.  She has a rare gift, and she wants to give it to you and you alone."

            "And what gift is that?"

            "Her capacity to love.  She loves all of us, and I mean all of us.  Beloved, Leaders, and Bandits.  That's something that I could never do.  She believes that we will all be saved and the world will be rebuilt.  She loves her family when I would wish them all dead, and she loves me in spite of all my failings.  She loves you because you are her opposite and she finds you beautiful even as you flirt with me and the other men.  Sheilah values life in all its forms, no matter how irredeemable it may seem.  She is her Mother's daughter," I finished simply.  My lust had ebbed away as I thought about my infallible sister.  I would do anything she asked if I thought it would bring her eternal happiness.  While so many of us fought and died in vain, focusing on drawing breath for another minute, another day, another decade, she had all the love in the world.

            "She's too good for me," Grace said, the catch in her voice echoing the one in my mind.

            "Newsflash, Grace.  She's too good for all of us."

Home and the Hook

Hey All,

I cranked out a few more words, moved the game on a bit.  This section is from Chapter 2, and it finds Brandon back at home...

Two armed guards marched me down the hall to our shower complex.  We passed the bunkers that looked like smashed furniture, the murder holes only visible if one knew where to look, arranged by design to funnel an intruder to the center, making the only option for that bastard death by ballistic metal.  I could tell by the slight shuffling of the massive guard to my left that it was my cousin Robert- he had injured his leg in a motocross race when he was younger, and his gait made him a liability in the field.  The slender guard to my right strode confidently, footfalls ringing throughout the house.  That would be my sister Sheilah's friend, Grace.  No matter how many times I tried to tell her that she wouldn't be ready to go on external missions until she no longer walked like she was angry at the ground, she stubbornly kept to her masculine stride. 

            Without consciously meaning to, I thought about how I would escape if I found cause.  Dad was always telling us to analyze the situation we were in, understand what we needed to do to save ourselves.  Robert was set up on my left, and that was stupid, his bad leg was nearest to me.  I'd fake a stumble, falling off balance and forward, that'd do the trick.  When Robbie stepped forward to steady me, I'd strike the side of knee, felling him as surely as a lumberjack felled a tree with his last axe strike.  That was part one.

            For all her lack of tactical silence, Grace was a fucking technician with a rifle, and had incredibly fast and lethal reflexes.  I'd dive behind Rob, let him absorb the rounds in that fleshy, Kevlar vested body of his, and take Grace out with his assault rifle.  I estimated I would have 10 seconds maximum from the time Grace's gun went off to the moment guards would displace from their murder holes, move to the scene of the crime, and cut me down.  That was enough time to clear the house, I knew its hallways and portals intimately, but what to do when I made it outside?  The wall surrounding our house was ten feet tall and mortared brick, with a generator providing a high-amp charge on the wire ringing the top.  There was a five second lag from the time someone threw the switch to the point when some dumbass like yours truly trying to get in or make good his escape became a crispy critter.  I could set up a defensive position, but the guards were drilled incessantly in tactically responding to a crisis situation, and I knew they would quickly seize the advantage.  And then there was the whole moral problem of killing my family, which anyway I sliced it, was a deplorable idea.  We had plenty of enemies trying to kill us: Beloved, Leaders, and Bandits.  Jesus, the Bandits.  I had been so focused on escaping from the Beloved I had forgotten about those assholes.  As bad as the Beloved and the insidiously ruthless Leaders were, the Bandits were perhaps even worse.

            What a fucked up world we lived in.

Out of F*@king Bullets

Hello All!

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is in full effect and throughout the month I'll be dropping bits of my writing effort in here.  Hope you like it!  Here's an exerpt from Chapter 1- Out of Fucking Bullets:

I'm out of fucking bullets.  I heard the telltale 'click' of my rifle biting down on nothing but air, and felt that old fear that I had felt so many times before.  But for a split second, I stood on my pathetic, yet well-sighted, patch of land with a dumb "How did I get Here??" expression and that useless and very un-motivating, profane statement of fact clattered around my mind.  I'm out of fucking bullets.  I'm out of fuck- movement crossing my field of vision from left to right and back again snapped me out of my despair, or maybe it just put me into a new level of hell.  There were at least three of them left, and they were charging me as if I was the last tasty morsel on the planet.  I shuddered, even as I holstered my rifle, drew my baton with my right hand and my katana with my left hand, settling the curved blade with the diabolical underhand grip I knew and loved.  Jesus, they were fast, the Beloved.  I had been engaging them from over two hundred yards out, and I could see the littered corpses starched on the ground as evidence of my handy work.  Three of us from different families, always different families, had gone on this fact finding mission and we were arrayed in a triangle formation, backs to each other with room to operate.  Fuck, Dad, you said resistance in this sector of downtown was light...

            "Guys, I'm out of ammo!  Three Beloved left, switching to hand weapons!" I informed my companions, Rachel and Steve.

            "Damn, Brandon!  I've been out for a minute already.  Stop being so stingy with your shots!" Steve angrily retorted, the stress of the situation bleeding through his normally calm countenance.  "I've got two left, one male, one female... they've been laying low as long as the bullets have been flying.  Either they've fed recently, or-"

            "They've got a Leader with them," Rachel finished, grimly.  "Fuck," then, with greater emphasis as her pistol clicked empty, "Fuck!  I'm out!  Got three left.  Here they come.  Switching to close quarters," Rachel was focused in, not wasting her breath, keeping the observations coming without slowing down to change weapons, eyes never wavering from the enemy.  "They're not charging directly at me, either.  They're using cover.  All right, I'm calling it, there's a Leader coordinating their movements, I've never seen a Beloved move like this without one of those bastards calling the shots.  Be smart, guys.  Be.  Fucking.  Smart," Rachel said through clenched teeth.

            "Mine are a hundred (yards) out," I calculated.  "Do your part you two and we all go home.  Don't get cut, none of your blood drops here or-"

            "No shit, Brandon," Steve said and I could almost see his eye roll even though it was eleven at night.

            "Right, Chief," Rachel added, then with as cavalier attitude as she could muster "It's too bad, anyway, Mom promised we'd dip into the hot cocoa stores.  Madeline better not take my share if I don't make it back."

The Calm Before: NaNoWriMo Approaches

I've officially jumped the shark.

Throughout the years, of which I've had many though not as many as most, writing a novel has been an ever-present thought orbiting with a slight, drunken list about the convoluted pathways in my mind.  Then I heard about NaNoWriMo- National Novel Writing Month and thought, "Gee, that kind of takes away the excuses, now doesn't it?"  Here's the deal: you get 30 days to crank out 50,000 words, straight-up rough draft style.  You make the word count, you "win."  The beauty of this format is you write whatever comes to mind, and you've got a hard deadline.  No waffling, no proofreading, no anguished "Is this any good?  I suck, I suck, I suck!!" inner monologues.

It can be utter shit.  Frankly, I'm a little bit giddy with the prospect.

So what does that mean for you guys?  It means that November is probably going to be my highest post count ever, as I'll be sharing excerpts of my craptacular attempt at 50K words throughout the month.  Understand that I do this for your enjoyment, and not in an attempt to see if I'll lose any followers.  Though I might.  And that would be unfortunate, but completely understandable.

Onward to November!  For good or ill, it will be here before we know it.

~Scotty Mac

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Pinky?" The Brain, Pinky and the Brain

For Every Ride There is a Reason: Why the Wrong Bike Simply is not an Option

Look, I'm no Steve Peat.  Though I did meet him Sunday last, and he's at least as funny as me.  Probably.  He's definitely less uptight than I am, and he's way taller, so he has that going for him.  I've got better teeth, but he's British so it was never a fair fight to begin with.  He also happens to be a World Champion downhill mountain bike racer, and that's where peer-to-peer comparison pretty much ends.  For all you non gear-heads out there- and I won't hold it against you, nobody's perfect- getting to talk with Steve Peat, and ride the same trails as him, would be like a guy who plays touch football with his beer buddies on Sunday mornings exchanging pleasantries with Peyton Manning, right before they both went out on the same football field and played catch.  In other words, and in a nod to Steve's decidedly English penchant for understatement, it's a bit of an event.

The event's location was Winter Park, Colorado and the occasion for my trip was simple; I had a day off during what normal 9-to-5ers call a weekend, and my friends and I decided to head to the hill for some lift-access mountain bike riding.  I had been up only one time that summer about a month before this trip, and I had had a good time.  Ski resort riding (as an aside, Mountain Bike Action used to call it velo-schussing, no idea why THAT didn't stick) forces the average bike hobbyist to reset their definition of speed, ground-to-air proportionality, and comfort envelope.  Things happen faster on a ski hill, and from Run One, there's no time to come to grips with it.  You either give in to it and flow with the trail, or you get wide-eyed, stiff-armed, and brake-happy.  On Winter Park Trip Number One, care to guess which one I was?  We hadn't even gotten on the actual trail yet, just a little piece of access-singletrack and already I was tense.  I tightened up on the first rock step-down ledge I came upon and consequently damn-near started my day off with a pile-driver into a rock garden.  A last-second, desperate repositioning of my body kept the skin covering my body intact, and I bounced down to where everyone else was waiting.  Isaac glanced in my direction, and even though he was wearing tinted goggles, face completely obscured by his moto-inspired helmet, I could feel the bemused/worried eyebrow raise.  I shook my head, but wasn't sure if the shake meant "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine," or "Oh crap-oh crap-oh crap!"  Not much of a complainer, at least not while I'm in the moment, I took a breath, sucked down some water, and soldiered on.

The day got better.  Oh yes it did.  I relaxed my grip on the handlebars, remembered that riding a bike was something I had actually done before, on dirt even, and settled in.  I was still loath to allow my tires to leave the ground, only doing so when the alternative was becoming a semi-permanent stain on the surrounding flora.  I stayed away from the wooden bridges, drops, and jumps for the most part, and took the huge, g-force inducing berms with my brakes feathered, checking my speed at all points.  But I had fun watching the other guys hit jumps and rail turns, and I enjoyed clearing the obstacles I decided to tackle.  A mid-afternoon thunderstorm added to the epic nature of the day while we were on the chairlift, and after waiting out the storm in the lodge once we were free of the primarily metal, and slow-moving contraption (Scared?  ME???), the moisture-infused dirt gave increased pleasure to our pursuits.  Wet dirt- not mud- boosts the grip of that surface, allowing for bigger lean angles, stronger braking, and a more predictable medium for taking off and landing.  What that meant for me, and to a greater extent my comrades, was that I was more confident, and on the last run of the day, pushed myself a little outside my comfort zone and was thrilled with the resultant adrenaline hit that caused my hands to shake and raised my spirits considerably.  Day on the hill done, we retired to the local pizza joint for some real scarfage and I found myself thinking that perhaps I liked downhill riding more than I had let on.

Before I get to Winter Park Trip Number Two, I have another story to relate.  Yes, it's relevant.  No, it's not boring.  Well, if you'd stop asking questions, I'd get to it already.  Okay, here I go.  I was putting laps in at the Air Force Academy's Falcon Trail, trying to approach something I remember as bike fitness on a trail that is decidedly cross-country.  Ups and downs, some serious versions of both, and a thirteen mile loop mean plenty of opportunity to discover likes and dislikes whilst on two wheels.  I had been riding The Ninja (which reminds me, I owe you guys an update on that bike, but it'll have to wait) and loving the way the 29er wheels plowed straight through chunder, seemingly at whim and gaining speed throughout each section.  All was well until the time I forgot to check the pivot bolts, which is all bollocks really- that's for you, Steve- as I had never checked the specific bolt that popped out as I was JRA (Just Riding Along, the excuse used since time immemorial by riders who break stuff and swear they weren't doing anything but...), and then all of a sudden the grinding noise emanating from the back of The Ninja meant I was no longer JRA.  Luckily, I had a backup bike, and a pretty fair one at that.  It was a conventional-wheeled Rocky Mountain ETS-X Team, a bike of similar capability to The Ninja, but with a 26" wheel size.  On my next two days at Falcon, I rode that bike as I waited for the right part to come in for the 29er.  In spite of their similarities, immediate contrasts were evident.  The rock gardens I was sailing through on The Ninja were grabbing and clutching my 26ers tires.  I wasn't cornering as fast, didn't feel as stable on the descents, had troubles on sections of the trail I normally don't reckon as difficult.  This wasn't imagined, my friends, it was real.  And even if I had thought it was all in my head, the stopwatch told the tail.  On back-to-back rides, under similar weather and trail conditions, my best time around the lap on my 26er was three minutes slower than my last recorded time on my 29er.  And before some wag suggests that my last recorded time on the 29er was months ago when I was training for races, let me shoot him (it's most likely a him) down by saying that it was in fact earlier that week.  Three minutes.  That's almost half a mile at my pace.  That's significant, and impossible to explain away as just something in my head.

So, to Winter Park Trip Number Two, also to be known as The Day I Met Steve Peat and Got the Idea for This Blog Post.  I decided not to bring the bike I used on the first trip, renting a Specialized SX Trail II from the resort bike rental shop instead.  A Specialized SX Whatever He Said is a bike that is made specifically for the purpose of having fun while going downhill.  It is heavy.  It is not meant for pedaling uphill.  Picture a dirt bike without an engine and you'll have the general idea.  This was a first for me, because in all my years of riding, and even riding at ski resorts, I had never ridden a purpose-built "gravity" bike.  I was nervous of the added heft, wondering if it would be like trying to stop an 80mph freight train the first time I came to a corner.  The guys had assured me I'd be fine, but it was still the fear of the unknown.  And then I threw a leg over it, rolled down the stairs and pedaled slowly over to the line for the ski lift.  A grin spread over my face as I decided I was going to be just fine.  Pat, Jeremy, and Isaac were with me, waiting in line, and each asked me what I thought.  I said, "I think this is gonna work."  And how.

The first run, I was already faster than I was by my last run on the first trip.  By the second, I was getting air off the jumps at the top of the mountain.  By the third, I had cleared my first tabletop jump ever- a jump that has a takeoff, a flat middle- the "tabletop" and a sloped landing on the other side.  You go up the takeoff, over the tabletop, and down the landing, but you can't see the landing until you clear the table.  It's a leap of faith.  For you gamers out there, when I nailed my first table I felt like Al Tair.  The fourth run had me nailing every single tabletop in sequence, a succession of five ever-larger jumps one after the other, and going big on the jumps at the beginning of the track.  By the fifth run I was tweaking my air to get a little sideways, railing berms with the brakes off, and committing to and successfully conquering the wooden wall-ride that links a set of tabletops with another, bigger set.  I was so comfortable on the bike that even when my takeoff didn't go as planned, I stayed calm and trusted the suspension of the bike and my body positioning to bail me out.  This was never more evident when I messed up the takeoff on a tabletop and instead of panicking, nose-wheelied my front end across the top of the jump, the rear of the bike not touching until I rolled down the landing.  Completely by accident, but man it felt cool.  If I wasn't worried about splattering myself, I'd try to do it on purpose.  It all came together on the sixth and final run that day, as I hit every jump as big as I could go, tried to catch air off every wooden feature, rode the wall, and came to a screeching halt at the end with a smile so wide that it didn't fade until we were home again, four hours later.

I'm going to skip the rhetorical question, because I let the cat out of the bag with the title, the only difference is by now you know exactly where I was going with it.  The bike was the difference.  I wasn't all of a sudden blessed with a big dose of courage (I only have a brain), the bike gave me a level of confidence with its purpose-oriented design to try new things and not just go outside my comfort zone but completely re-write it.  Nothing feels like hitting a jump and landing it where you're supposed to land it, and on purpose to boot.  Nothing feels like screaming around a deeply bermed turn, feeling the suspension compress into the dirt, keeping your eyes constantly seeking the exit, going faster and faster, and then completing the slingshot maneuver down the straightaway, longing for the next corner.  The bike got me there, and the fun I was having as a result took me the rest of the way.

That shouldn't come as a big shock really, but I think it did for me because suddenly, between Falcon and Winter, everything about riding a bike and being a rider made sense.  You ride the bike that gives you the necessary mental and physical (and perhaps even spiritual, though some would argue spiritual doesn't need to be in parentheses) ability to enjoy yourself.  Nothing more, nothing less.  And it's different for everyone but generally it means something with enough margin of error to get you through the ride, bumps and all, with a big, dopey grin plastered in and around your dirty, sweaty mug.

There's a school of thought I've come across that says "Well, -clearing throat self-importantly-, you don't need a bike with more X, Y, and Z, you just need to ride what you have and get better on it before you get something else.  I know, because that's how I did it and it worked for me, and it'll work for you, too.  I'm also incontinent and disdain the use of hygiene products."  And it's in the face of such heavy-handed blanket statements that Steve Peat makes his triumphant return to this tale.  Steve's the man, he's proven it time and again with multiple world-class victories and championships.  "YouTube" the guy.  He's bloody fast on a bike, doesn't make mistakes, and has the drive to seek improvement no matter how good he gets.  That's awesome.  He could ride faster than me, all 6'and A Lot of him, on a kid's bike.  But what does he ride at Winter Park?  A 34lb, 8" travel front and rear, full carbon fiber, factory-prepped and supported downhill bike.  No, he wasn't racing, just riding with friends and people in the industry.  He could have any bike up there he wanted from his bike sponsor, Santa Cruz, but he chose the maximum-attack, downhill-specific machine.  Though the gulf between him and me as riders is Mexican in width, we choose the bikes we do for the exact same reason.

We ride the bikes that give us the best opportunity to have the most fun wherever we're at.

~Scotty Mac

"Ours not to reason why, ours but to whine and cry." Ben Krisler, Once an Eagle

Writing on Empty

I haven't been very good at this, of late.  "This," being sharing with you hilarious anecdotes, charming witticisms, and/or dubious pieces of advice.  Wish there was a good reason, but the only one I can come up with, the only reason I haven't written anything here, is because I haven't felt like it.

Yeah.

Haven't felt like it?  How weak is that?  Well, it's pretty weak, no question, but there it is.  Since I wrote in February, I've done two full-time stints with the Air Force Reserve, taken two trips, raced three mountain bike races, gotten a civilian job, finally, FINALLY started back up in school, and once again gone through the silly season known to me and my cycling brothers and sisters as "new model year bike buying time."  That's the whole tank of gas, folks, that's all I've got.  But here I am anyway.

This is me, writing on empty.

I got home from my job this morning, and realized that not writing is worse than writing badly.  At least I'm getting something Out There, staving off full literary atrophy.  That's something.  It's a start.  And then I realized that I gave myself a topic or two in the last main paragraph, which gives me something I can focus in on, and gives this spiel the glimmer of a purpose.  So let's take a look at some of the adventures that ran my tank dry.

VooDoo Fire Marathon Mtb Race, Pueblo Reservoir, CO- 35mi 1/2 Marathon Option- April, 2011

The name was perhaps truer for me than the race directors had planned it to be.  The night before the race, I had had a dream that one of my buddies, Lane, had a bike malfunction that would end his day prematurely.  So imagine my surprise and horror as, 14 miles into the race, I come around a corner with a pack of racers to find Lane, off to the side of the trail, bike upside down, resting on its seat and handlebars, in that familiar position us riders know all too well; something went wrong.  I couldn't believe it, and I wouldn't hold it against any of you who read this if you thought I was grandstanding for this blog entry, but my dream was laid bare, as real as any dream can be, and that's about as unsettling as it gets.  It turned out Lane had experienced numerous flat tires in a short distance, and was dejected that his high-in-the-standings finish had vanished in a cloud of dust and the hiss of an expiring tire.  I did the only thing I could think to do in a situation like that; I quickly popped out of the group, pulled up next to Lane and gave him a CO2 canister so he could fill up his last tube and try to get back in the race.  He thanked me for it and waved me on.

Besides the fact that I had VooDoo'd my friend, I had a fantastic time of it.  I made sure to keep my expectations low going into the race, and in turn finished so far ahead of my time goal that I felt as if I'd won the lottery on my birthday.  Okay, that's ridiculous, it wasn't nearly as cool as that would be, but the high I got from racing for three hours on an awesome course kept a smile plastered to my face for the rest of the day.  It's my favorite race that I've ever done.  Tough to beat that, even with an unwitting act of witchcraft thrown in for good measure.

Landing a Civilian Job- June, 2011

So it's June and my family and I are in my hometown of Boise, ID for a visit, and I'm a little on-edge.  It's been eight months since I left active duty, and as much as I've enjoyed the time off, I want to be back at work.  And no, it's not because the kids drive me batty (which they don't) or that it irks me to play Mr. Mom (which it does), but because I can feel the ideal I've worked hard to achieve slowly slip away.  I take pride in being a professional, and without a full-time job in a similar vein as I had as an officer in the Air Force, I'm in a purgatory I can't find a way out of.  Since Rachel and I put our college town in the rear-view mirror, I've known only the feeling of keeping bread on the table, the bill collectors at bay, and us in the style we've grown accustomed to.  I relish this challenge, it's my true job: Provider.  You take that away, and... well...

I put that troubling thought aside as I reached for my ringing phone.  I glance at the number and see it's local.  I excuse myself from my friends' lunch table and answer.

"Hello?"
"Hey Scotty, it's Tom."
"How's it going?"
"Well, it's looking pretty good from our end, that's for sure.  We got the contract.  You ready to come work for us?"
The thought that raced across my mind was both happy and profane.  I amended it slightly for my verbal response.
"Absolutely!  When do I start?"
See ya later, Purgatory.  I'd say it's been fun, but I don't like you and you don't like me, so what's the point?

Writing on empty is tough.  You've no idea if what you just put down on paper (or on screen) is any good, because your emotions are tapped, your outlook is distended, things are slightly off.  But maybe you get lucky, and you find a bit of juice still sloshing around in the tank, or you siphon some off one of your other pursuits.  That fuel is just enough to provide a spark, and that spark ignites your motor, and you're able to limp back to what you love.

You're still on fumes, sure.

But you're home again.

~Scotty Mac

"Walkin' down king's highway/ Black cat crossin' my path/ I know that's her tryin' to make me stay/ But I ain't lookin' back/ I ain't lookin' back." Kenny Wayne Shepherd, "King's Highway"

Project Ninja- My Rocky Mountain Altitude 29 SE Custom Build, Part 1

I feel compelled to offer you, the reader, a disclaimer.  This isn't going to be a short post.  In fact, this isn't going to get done in one post at all.  There's simply too much to share.

It can't be a short post because it's about bikes, more specifically, it's about a bike, more specifically than that, it's about my bike.  One of them.  The newest one, codename "The Ninja."  It's a 2011 Rocky Mountain Altitude 29 SE frame that I built up with custom components and it's totally wicked.  I want to take a shot at writing about it because I want to let all of you know why I went the route I did with my latest choice, why the frame, why the components, what the process was like, the whole bit.  And then I want to talk about the ride.  Because building a bike is awesome, no question about it, but riding it... well, that's the whole point, right?  A new bike, when done correctly, is a beautiful thing, but for all that beauty it's also flawed in its perfection.  It simply won't look right until there's a layer of dust on the paint and a few scratches from tumbles and close calls.

Then, and only then, is it mine.

The Idea

For me, 2010 was a year of "coming back."  I came back to Colorado Springs, came back to my core group of friends, came back to riding bikes.  Riding again, with purpose, was a fine thing.  I even tried a few multi-hour races on for size, the 12 Hours of Mesa Verde and the 24 Hours in the Sage at Gunnison, CO.  I competed with my friends on 4 person teams, and though we weren't out there to win anything, both races were excellent tests of fitness and will.  It's difficult to go out for a lap at 5 in the morning after you've been racing and cheering your teammates on for 17 hours.  But that's the whole point, you go out because you're on a team.  No way you can let them down.  So what does all this have to do with Project Ninja?  Glad you asked.

What I came to realize during these races was that I wanted (I can never say "need" even I won't blur that distinction in this case) a bike that would crunch the long miles for me, ride after ride and race after race.  It had to have enough travel to smooth out the continuous, rocky hits that are an inescapable feature of Colorado endurance racing, light enough that I didn't feel like I was dragging a grand piano around all day, and versatile enough to handle non-racing days on a variety of different trails throughout the state, which would be where the bike would get its lion's share of the work anyway.  Let's face it, no one is kicking down my door for me to teach them how to be an elite level bike racer.  No delusions of grandeur here, heck, I'd settle for delusions of adequacy.  Racing is simply nothing but fun for me.  Riding is fun.  The bike had to maximize the amount of fun I could have on the trail, with a number plate fixed to the handlebars or without.

Demo Days

This project was never going to be done on the cheap.  Knowing that, I wanted as much data on each of my possible options as I could gather before laying down my hard-earned cash.  I was fortunate enough to be out at one of my then-local riding haunts in Cheyenne, WY in June when Specialized came through with their 2010 models for the riding public to try out, or "demo."  I spent the day riding some of the Big Red S's best cross country offerings, but the one that stood out to me was the 29" wheeled version of their full suspension XC racer, the Epic.  I think the thing that most shocked me was how much faster I was on it than my current bike, a 2007 Rocky Mountain ETS-X Team, "Red."  Red was no slouch at the XC end of trail riding, and I had used it in every mountain bike race I had ridden in.  But out on a loop that I had dialled in, I was constantly over-shooting braking points as I found myself carrying more speed with the bigger-wheeled Epic 29.  Of all the laps I did that day on all the different Specialized bikes, I set my fastest lap on my last lap, with that Epic.  It wasn't my first time on a "29er," but they weren't old hat to me either.  It was faster in the technical sections than the 26" wheeled Epic, cornered better, and climbed better in everything but perfectly smooth trail conditions.  And for anyone who has ridden CO singletrack, "perfectly smooth" doesn't happen often.  I had found my bike.  The Epic 29 was going to be my next XC weapon.

Except it wasn't.

I know, I know, you're reading this right now asking yourself why I didn't go with the Specialized.  I obviously thought very highly of it.  I just said it was the fastest around a course even though it was a platform I wasn't familiar with.  And hey, the 2010 29er Epic looked pretty sweet, too.  So what gives?  Excellent question, but I'm afraid it's getting late.  I can feel my ability to convey my thoughts in a semi-intelligent manner ebbing away from me as my eyes stay shut a little longer with each blink I take.  Anyway, got to have something to write about next time, yeah?

~Scotty Mac

"They are the gatekeepers.  They are guarding all the doors and they are holding all the keys." ~Morpheus, The Matrix