A.C. Race Series #2 - Sometimes, I think it's a sin...

By Scotty Mac

Far as I'm concerned, Gordon Lightfoot is the man. The. Man. I grew up on his music, an inherited love from my parents, and thirty-odd years later, it still speaks to me. Weird way to start a race report? Sure. But I've gone and done it anyway.

The reason the Canadian bard merits mention is because a lyric from his song "Sundown" kept rolling through my mind as the course official at the top of the Bear Creek Terrace race course hollered at us that the race was cancelled due to the driving rain and the stabbing lightning:

"Sometimes, I think it's a sin/When I feel like I'm winnin' when I'm losin' again."

Because, up until that point, I had been comprehensively crushing the race. Easily, without a doubt in my mind, it was far and away the best I had ever done with a number plate on the front of my bike. I was in second, maybe first place in my class and I had the gap to stay away. And then, *poof* Ma Nature appeared with a full dram of righteous wrath.

"Sometimes, I think it's a sin/When I feel like I'm winnin'..."

The race started as well as it possibly could, even as the rain picked up its sense of urgency. I got clipped into my pedals and kept tight to the initial leaders in my group. I had just pre-ridden the course and though I was eager to apply my lessons learned from the first Ascent Cycling race, I retained a little patience. There was a nice, wide climb after the first left and I thought that would be the place to make my move.

And sure enough, even as I thought it, it was real. The first guys to hammer out for my race sat up and I motored right by, kept the throttle down for the rest of the climb and stormed through the opening lap in good shape.

"Sometimes, I think it's a sin..."

The elements continued to punch well above their weight, as has been the case here through the months of May and June. During the first half of the second lap, the course transitioned from slightly damp, to really damp, to slime. Same old song, I know. Believe you me, I'd love to sing a different tune.

And then, on top of the ridge, still away and still feeling okay, the course marshal gave us the "shut 'er down" spiel, and that, as they say, was that. I cruised back to the start/finish, took a moment to look down sadly at my poor, mud-caked Kona Big Kahuna hardtail and then beat feet for the truck, thoughts of a warm dinner spinning 'round my head. But I was smiling. The race was cut short, but I had an absolute blast.

"Sometimes, I think..."

Mac out.

2015 Gunnison Original Half-Growler Pt. II: A Small Matter of Perspective

By Scotty Mac

I mean…

It was just…

Sweet baby Jesus, there was a lot of mud. I’m writing this with two weeks’ distance between me and it, and that’s the abiding memory.

Topping the Hill, it was slimy, brown stuff as far as the eye could see. I slithered and slid, taking my time on the next bit of fire road, eyes locked forward, teeth clenched to the point of grinding. I couldn’t relax. Pete rode by and I tried to ride with him, but I couldn’t hang and let him go. I had to recover a little bit before the singletrack, especially if it was going to be more of the same.

The first ribbon of trail came into view, Josho’s, and I sighed with relief. A couple more riders went by and then we were single file down a fun descent. The mud wasn’t incredibly bad there, and I allowed myself a small smile. The smile faded as we hit the next climb and I saw the grooves. The back tires of the bikes in front of me started to drift sideways as their pilots struggled to maintain direction and then I was in it, too.

Stuff blurs for me from that point to about an hour and a half later, and that’s just about all I want to write concerning the mud, anyway. I can hear you saying “We get it, Scotty. What else ya got?” I remember it started to hail somewhere on Josho’s and I regretted not wearing leg warmers for about five minutes. Marcus went by right before we turned onto the Skyline trail to start that silly climb. It’s a long race and I’m not fit enough to stay cognizant of each trail.

Oh yeah, the guy. I lead with this in Part 1. So this guy is standing in the middle of what used to be a fire road and now looks more like a hillbilly’s idea of a muddin’ good time and is yelling himself hoarse, cautioning us to consider dismounting. I had caught back up to Marcus and he dropped in right in front of me. The pitch was steep but doable, so I followed his line, dropper post one click down. I was sort of in control of the descent for about 2/3 of the way, right up until the front wheel decided to augur in. A quick dismount followed by a frantic, breakdancing handplant later, and I had just managed to make a Mac angel in the mud. I guess maybe the dude was right. I would have to walk the rest of the way.

The mud took on a peanut butter-like quality at that point and efficiently packed up every crevice between the wheels and frame. I tried to hoist the thing over my shoulder to discover that, yes, mud weighs a lot and why weren’t you lifting with your legs in the first place, Scotty?

I nearly quit right there. I plodded and squelched the 50 or so feet to firm(er? Ish?) ground, slammed the Kahuna down to try and shift some of the mud, gathered myself mentally and soldiered on.

Another fire road. This one led to the one bit of road on the course and as I came down it, I caught a whole lot of Ascent Cycling red, white and black out the corner of my eye. Clay, Tom and Lane were on the side of the road, clustered around Clay’s bike.

“Everything all right, fellas? What’s up?” I asked.

“Mechanical!” Clay called back, shaking his head. He was done.

I nearly quit again. It would have been so easy to give in right there. The road would take us back to the campground and the sheer amount of abuse my bike had taken, along with the daunting mileage left made me strongly consider calling it a day. That spot was the last, best place to do it, too. If I continued down the road to the next climb, I would be past the point of no return, if only in my mind.

I rode down the road a little, vacillated, turned around and headed back to my friends. Lane asked how far back Justine was. I responded that I hadn’t seen her since the start of the race. He said he was going to wait for her and ride and I nodded. It made sense. I and my bosom debated awhile more.

And right when I was ready to pack it in, one of the Growler course volunteers looked over. “Hey man, get going! It gets better from here on out!” He yelled at me, waving his arm forward. I would have been more inclined to believe there was a million dollars at the finish line with my name on it at that point, but the bitter result of the Castle Rock race poked back into my mind.

I nodded at my friends, wished them well, turned around and pedaled onward.

I wanted the finish line.

Mac out.

TO BE CONCLUDED…

Ascent Cycling Race Series #1 Report – Lesson(s) Learned

By Scotty Mac

I’m lined up at the 3 June Ascent Cycling race at Palmer Park. Category 3 (beginner), age group ‘None-ya.’ Marcus is on my right, and he’s dressed appropriately for the occasion: Ascent trail jersey, baggy shorts. I look like one of those red-white-blue popsicles that are such good fun right around the 4^th of July, but that’s how I roll and you shouldn’t be surprised: A.C.-flavored with a side of Mac n’ cheese.

The whistle blows and we’re off, chugging up a fire road to give a little bit of separation before we hit the singletrack. One poor bloke’s chain goes off the rails, prompting a headlong dive by the guys following him over to the left line, the good line, the line I was enjoying mostly unimpeded. Lesson learned: drop the hammer early and avoid the shenanigans.

I slot in behind a few riders, and Marcus moves into the clean air of the class leaders. I see him once more as we hit the first technical climb in the 3-mile course and then not again. He’s off to a good start, I thought as I surveyed good areas to try and affect a pass.

The Palmer Park course is not a smooth course, and it rewards decent bike-handling ability and punishes ham-fisted attempts to climb step-ups or rail step-downs. I become absorbed in negotiating each obstacle, keenly aware of the sheer number left turns. Those lefts come in all shapes, sizes and angles, like a boxer mixing up her punches: hard, tight lefts, lefts with rocks that necessitate a lift of the wheel, lefts that fall away. It’s a short course, but it’s a fun challenge.

The pack thins to nothing and I ride some of the second lap and all of the third alone. I clean every climb and nail every downhill line, my Specialized Stumpjumper FSR EVO most definitely the appropriate choice for the terrain and my comfort with it.

The start/finish comes into view and I see the USAC folks have packed in the lap counter, signaling the end of the race. I’m somewhat relieved, but still wound up enough to want more. Good thing too, as I’ll need that energy for the long, slow grind up and out of Palmer Park and back to my house.

I finish 5^th in class and have an amazing time doing it. The venue, course and Wednesday evening vibe was absolutely the perfect way to spend the end of Hump Day. I look forward to more.

Pics? Natch.

Mac out. 

We at A.C. and Ma Nature Come to Blows: The 2015 Original Half-Growler MTB Race

By Scotty Mac

“Hey guys, think about getting off the bike for this next section! A lot of riders have fallen here!” a well-meaning race course volunteer belted out as I rode by. I watched one of my fellow Ascent Cycling team mates, Marcus, drop in on his bike and I thought to myself ‘how much worse could it possibly be than what I’ve gone through already?’ I followed his line…

Hold that thought. Let me spin things back to the traditional shotgun blast that started the 2015 Original Half-Growler in Gunnison, Colorado at 9:00 a.m. on May 23^rd and- actually, let me spin it back even further, to about 7 hours before that.

That was about when the rain started to hammer my tent. Hard. Rachel and I woke up, but blessedly, the kids stayed asleep. The rain turned to hail, the lightning flashed and the thunder boomed right behind it. Ma Nature, in all her petulant fury, held that storm over the Gunnison KOA campground for what felt like an age: Flash-boom, flash-BOOM, with a menacing, latent rumble that must have crashed and echoed in a boomerang shape from Crested Butte to Monarch Mountain. Already wound up with pre-race jitters, I didn’t really sleep much after that.

The jitters were eating me up. I had blown my first race of the season, DNFing at the Ridgeline Rampage endurance race in Castle Rock a month before the Growler, and I had put in a massive effort after the race to mentally rebound and fine tune a couple things with my nutrition and fitness. Despite assurances from my riding buddies that I was ready, everything was static. The only thing that mattered was completing the race. I had to roll over that finish line, head high, to erase the bad taste in my mouth from the April event.

So that was my mindset, and it’s critical to the rest of this tale: I had to finish. Everything blurred together from there- prepping my bike, eating, climbing into my kit, hugs from my family and all of us A.C.ers pedaling to the race start in downtown Gunnison. I know it happened, but it all ran together, like a sidewalk chalk painting hit by a hose.

Then the gun went off.

350 racers shuffled out of the chute gate and onto the road to start the rollout to the dirt, a dozen or so of us wearing the Ascent red (or purple. Or orange. Or green. Give it up, Scotty. ~Ed.) white and black. I caught sight of Clay just ahead of me and caught onto his rear wheel, ensuring I’d take care of Scotty Mac’s Half-Growler Goal (SMHGG for short. Not to be confused with ‘Shaking My Head Good God’) #1 of 4: stay in the draft all the way to the dirt and avoid having to expend a bunch of energy before my test truly began.

The road tilted upward to the Hartman Rocks trail network and I sat up, letting Clay go. I settled into a pace I knew I could sustain when I turned right onto the dirt for the run in to Kill Hill. There was a slight problem with that plan, though; the dirt was gone. Vanished.

Remember that thing about the rain storm? I guess I hadn’t, or maybe I naively hoped it hadn’t been that bad. It was that bad. In place of the vanished dirt was slippery, slimy mud; mud that oozed with an iridescent malevolence, mud that yanked hard on my drive to see this thing through. I had a split second to panic and then I was in the slop, pedaling like mad to stay upright, my bike’s rear tire canted off-center, hunting for grip. The race group dodged this way and that, searching in vain for a hard-packed line. Tom went by and I saw Lane working his way back to the left hand side of the fire road in preparation for what came next.

So, Kill Hill. Kill Hill is a punch in the mouth. It goes up at such a violent angle that it almost looks like you’re trying to ride up a wall. Add some mud to the equation and it’s a wonder that nobody turned around right then and there. I stayed hard-left on the road, Lane right behind and Tom and Clay a little ways ahead, and grimly set to the task of climbing that muddy monster. I rapidly clicked up through the gears on my Kona Big Kahuna hardtail, settling with an inevitable thud on my 1x11 setup’s granny gear. My legs felt good, but at that point it was all about luck. If anyone stopped in front of me, there was no way I could adjust my line in that much and I would be forced to walk the rest of the climb. People were losing momentum around me, hopping off their bikes and pushing for the top on foot. I watched a rider slipping back with every step forward and hoped as hard as I could for a clean summit.

The train of riders on the left line held true. I saw the end of the climb, grey sky replacing mud, and then I was over the top, spectators cheering us on, cowbells clanging. I allowed myself a moment of elation, realizing SMHGG #2 of 4: ride all of Kill Hill for the first time ever without having to get off the bike and walk.

Somehow we’re over 900 words into this story and I’ve only gotten us to the 5-mile mark of a 40-mile race. Get the feeling that the 2015 Half-Growler has the making of a full-blown, Scotty Mac, multi-part, epic race report? Thought so. Stay tuned for more!

Mac out.

TO BE CONTINUED…

On Hardtails

 By Scotty Mac

When did the hardtail stop being the go-to weapon of choice for the core mountain bike enthusiast?

That’s a great question. 

It’s a great question because up until the last 7-8 years or so, the hardtail was seen in certain circles as the first and only option. Granted, those circles had been rapidly reduced to go-fast, shaved leg, cross-country racers and decidedly retro-hip singlespeeders, but still. Their eyes would glaze as they looked at the exquisite simplicity of a double diamond, hardtail frame in the material of their choice, lost amid thoughts of dominating their local race series or whipping the geared riders up climbs… as my Ascent Cycling buddy Cups once said, “crushing souls.”

Maybe that’s what did it. Maybe your average enthusiast saw what hardtail riders had become, decided they didn’t want to be mountain biking’s version of a “meathead” and went a different route. Maybe they never considered that with the right build, a hardtail could be pretty darn fun. Or maybe, I’m just deluding myself because you and I both know why hardtail sales have dropped off the map in that magic, $2500-$3500 range.

Full-suspension bikes are just flat-out better.

Spec for spec, a fully is one-and-a-half to two pounds heavier than a hardtail. Two pounds is nothing. Two pounds is an extra twenty minutes a week on the trainer in the offseason and one less slice of pizza at dinnertime. And what do you get with that extra two pounds? Brilliance. Full suspension is so good now, you guys. It keeps your wheel tracking true over the terrain even under hard braking, and most models have sneaky-good compression settings to keep the back end from making like a pogo stick while climbing. But we already established you knew all that.

Riding a hardtail these days when you could be on a full suspension bike is like being a Duke basketball fan in North Carolina Tarheels country (That comparison is going to go over like a lead balloon after March Madness is done. –Ed.). You could, but… man… would you really want to? One thing’s for certain, you are in for a bruising.

So, yeah. Looks like I dig me some black-n’-blue.

Here’s the thing: I’m willing to stipulate to all the points above, but I don’t know what it is, I just don’t care. I love hardtails. Always have, always will. I admire an uncompromised design and a hardtail is certainly that. Rear-end cushion? Sure. Whatever you say, Chief. You’ll stay out of the saddle on that rocky descent and like it. You’ll feel the back end of your bike dancing this way and that seemingly of its own accord, like a twenty-something on Day Three at Burning Man. No easy days, no easy rides. You can see the appeal. What’s that? You can’t? Okay, maybe you don’t see it yet, but stick with me here.

We’re in an era where the vaunted, venerable hardtail has wised up to the game, and figured out its angle for staying at the big kid, enthusiast rider table; if you can’t beat ‘em, be such a hoot and a holler that ol’ boy or ol’ girl piloting your trick titanium tubes won’t care. Slack the geometry out, tuck in those seatstays so cornering is right now, rock a big-travel fork, embrace thru-axles, do it all. Swallow those 2.3” tires with clearance for days. Be the wisecracking kid everyone loves because she keeps it real. Appeal to those times ‘back then’ when it didn’t matter what brand you rode, just that you rode.

Bikes like Kona’s Honzo and Specialized’s Rockhopper EVO are exactly all about that. You still have your carbon fiber, fighter jet race bikes, but these models I just mentioned are designed to be simple, stinkin’ fun. Yeah, you can’t pancake a landing and, okay, you’ll need to be smart when picking a line down a particularly nasty, technical section, but you’ll monster it just the same.

I continue to have skin in the hardtail game. In addition to my Kona Unit singlespeed, I just finished building a 2013 Kona Big Kahuna frame I’ve had in its box in my basement for the last two years. It’s a bike that’s aimed predominantly at the XC-racer-on-a-budget crowd, but I decided to go a different way. A 120mm Rock Shox Revelation fork, Roval Fattie wheelset, 180/160mm Shimano SLX brakeset, SRAM X1 gruppo and Specialized Gravity Dropper post later, I had exactly what I was looking for; a hardtail that didn’t take itself too seriously. Its eyebrow is cocked, it has an impish smile on its face, and it’s begging me to be in on the joke. Its level of jocularity is an 11 out of 10.

In short, it fits me perfectly.

Mac out.

Sedition Cuts: Ch. 4 - Let's Just Make it Out of Town

I cracked open the throttle on the big Beemer, doing a buck-ten down the dotted center line.  I figured it would take another three minutes at that speed to reach the bridge.  I had brought a handheld radio that was supposed to have twenty mile range, but one never knew with those things.  I had a pistol strapped to one leg and my long knife strapped to the other, but was otherwise unarmed.  I wanted to get eyes-on the bridge, make sure it was sound, and then get back to the group.

Two miles out from the bridge, I spotted the first car.  It was a mid-‘00’s sedan, and it was halfway off the right lane and onto the shoulder, canted inward.  I released the throttle a little, and the motorbike instantly responded, slowing down.  110 became 95 became 80.  There was another car behind the first one, arrayed in the same position, and one on the left lane, also pointed inw-…

I got hard on the brakes then, back end skidding lightly as I brought the bike to a halt.  One of those cars like that was explainable; somebody abandoned it, maybe ran out of gas, maybe someone was infected in the car and snapped, something like that.  Three though?  That was an ambush.  Memories of the sweep night came back full bore and I was on instant alert.  I slowly swung around until I was parallel to the interstate, and looked for movement from the dead cars, occasionally giving the A rock came from behind the cars, hurled with enough force that I heard it whistle through my helmet as it went by.  Four throttle a twist.  Between revs, I drew my pistol.

Beloved came charging at me, hurling rocks.  One of the rocks was on target and I lifted my arm to block it, the stone glancing off the crash guards sewn into my riding jacket.  The padding saved me from a shattered arm, but the force still caused my arm to go instantly numb, and I dropped my pistol.  Shit!  My fingers wouldn’t work, and I couldn’t grip the throttle.  I would have to fight four Beloved one-armed.

I got off the bike and put it between them and me as I drew my long knife, cursing myself for not bringing my katana with me.  I thought I could handle four with two good arms, but I wasn’t so sure with the way things stood.  Damn, I was barely outside of Boise.  D.C. was a million miles away now.

I gripped my long knife in my left hand as I banged my right with futility on my side, trying to get feeling back in my digits.  They were closing fast as they always did, and I couldn’t hit them from distance like I always did.  But I still had to win.

The first one came leaping over the motorcycle, arms outstretched, teeth bared.  I went with his momentum, gripping him by his shirt and slamming him down.  A boot to the skull stopped his threat.  The remaining three came on.  I backed up, giving ground and trying to make them rush me one at a time.  It worked.  Sort of.  One of them charged, and the other two approached behind her slowly.  Okay, then.  Baby steps.

Sedition Cuts: Ch. 1 - It's Real Now

“Brandon, she is bitten.  She will turn.  We will not be able to control her and she will kill someone here that much is certain.  There is not enough food here or at your mother’s to satisfy her.  You’ll see her change.  Her eyes will go hollow, she’ll complain of her hunger, her temper will fray to the breaking point, and then she will be unredeemable.  I’ve seen it happen, witnessed the metamorphosis first hand while I was East,” Jacob calmly explained, though a small catch in his throat betrayed his scholarly diagnosis.  He turned and walked toward the hallway.

I slumped down in a bullet-riddled couch, hammered there by his words.  My little sister would be gone in a matter of weeks.  I couldn’t believe it.  There was something my dad had said that didn’t stack up.  “Wait a second.”

My dad paused in the hallway, and looked back at me.

“Wait a second, Dad.  What you said before, when you were back East, you watched this happen?”

My dad pulled his glasses from his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger and sighed.  “Yes Brandon.  I witnessed the early clinical trials of the XS-044 serum on the first human participants.  The transformation averaged four weeks.  At the end, we realized the… untenable nature of the serum and the study was terminated.”

“So if the trial ended, how come we’re still in this doozy of an apocalypse?”

“The XS-044 trials ended, Brandon.  The studies continued.  Unfortunately, the XS-045, -046, and -047 trials yielded very similar results.  The issue was rooted around the connection of the human metabolism to the human ability to make high-order decisions while stressed.  The increase of the metabolism by an order of magnitude had equal and opposite effects on the neurological process.”

“What happened to the test subjects?”

“Terminated.  Quietly.  Medals of valor were sent home to the families, informing them of their loved one’s ultimate sacrifice in service of our country.”

“You sick sons of bitches.  And the program kept rolling, even with the failures?”

“Yes.  The need for a super-capable breed of warfighter was too great.  The talks between our research facility, the Pentagon, and the White House took a disturbing turn.  The Pentagon believed that there was enough variance in our research to suggest that the transformation our subjects had undergone would be controllable in a real world environment.”

“You’re shitting me.  A one hundred percent failure rate was explained by variance in a controlled, precise science lab?” I yelled.  I wanted to pull my hair out or strangle my father or eat a bullet, I couldn’t decide.  I realized the safety was still off on my handgun, and clicked it back on to at least slow down my decision to do something that rash and useless.

“That was their conclusion.  I excused myself from the test at that point, citing my belief that I could not approach and create the test with the fidelity they required of me.  After I signed the standard round of non-disclosure agreements, I returned home, and we began preparing…” his voice trailed off, no doubt thinking of the messed up decision tree that had lead us here.

“And that’s it, then?  Your daughter’s a goner?  Dad, there has got to be some way to keep her alive,” I said, any hope I had stored drawing away even as I said it.

His eyes regained their focus, widened for a moment and then narrowed, thinking.  He had remembered something.  He shook his head.  “No.  It’s too much of a longshot.”

“Whoa, Dad.  Wait.  What longshot?  Come on, this is Sheilah’s life on the line.  What longshot?” I repeated.

“When I left, a separate group of researchers was working on a serum schedule to mitigate some of the effects we had seen with the first test cases.  The talk was that a balancing serum would be manufactured that would drop a soldier’s metabolism back to a normal range.  The idea was that a soldier would take the XS serum before deploying, then cycle off of it before the transitive effects were permanent while still retaining enough enhancement before his deployment ended.”

“Like steroids.”

“No Brandon, not exactly like- well, actually, yes, quite a bit like steroids.  But I have no idea if they actually developed the serum before the President enacted his Beloved mandate, or if it got developed too late.  I wasn’t there long enough to get a sense of its viability.”

Hope crept back in, though I tried to hold it down.  “But there’s a chance it was produced.  Right?”

Bullet and a Target: When Our Athletes Stay Too Long

Michael Phelps got smoked by Ryan Lochte and two other guys in the 400m Individual Medley swim final at the 2012 London Olympic Games, completely missing a medal.  You saw it.  I saw it.  The whole world saw it.  Lochte put four seconds on him by the end, on the same guy who owns the world record in the event.  I didn’t get to see much of the Sydney Olympics, being a college kid without ready access to cable TV at the time, which was the last time Phelps failed to medal in an event.  Watching this Olympics, this Michael Phelps, I couldn’t help but think that the writing was there on the wall for all of us to see, but as usual, hindsight tripped my reckoning.  The bright comet we cheered for in 2004 and 2008 had vanished, trailing nothing more than the dust of a vaunted career.  That dust emerged from the pool the other night with the shocked look of a man who didn’t see it coming.  Silly, really, if you stop to think about it.  By his own admission, Phelps hadn’t trained nearly as much for this Olympics as he had for Games in the past, his motivation was a bit lacking, he wasn’t going full-bore on his swim schedule this time around, and Lochte had beaten him in the 400 IM up and down the pool ever since the Beijing Olympics.  Still, Phelps thought he had it in him to stand on the podium once more.

This is not an isolated occurrence among Sport’s elite.

There’s this Texan named Lance Armstrong who is a pretty good cyclist.  Good enough that Trek Bicycles probably owes him a lifetime annuity for the amount of revenue he’s generated for the company by riding its product offerings.  All he’s done is win 7 consecutive Tour de France overall titles, a feat unmatched by anyone else in history.  In 2005, he retired on top, securing his final title in the French grand tour, riding off into the sunset of unmatched, forever remembered as being at the pinnacle of road racing’s best… and then he came back.  Almost immediately, the acrimony between him and his team’s new hotshot, Spaniard Alberto Contador, flared up.  Leading up to the Tour de France, the speculation around the cycling world was Lance was going to take the fight to Alberto and ride for himself.  On a mountain stage in 2009, the type of stage Lance was famous for, he tried to do just that.  He set a pace intended to crush the soul of Contador and all the other hangers-on in the pack, the same thing he had done to the Jan Ullrichs and Ivan Bassos while in his prime.

Alberto rode away from him.  And then he did it to Lance again in 2010, riding for a different team.

How about Michael Jordan and his stint with the Washington Wizards?  Who else remembers that?  Truth be told, I really remember only three things about His Airness during those two seasons, and if I hadn’t watched him play in his prime- all those scoring titles, MVP’s, and championships- I would have wondered why this guy was such a big deal.  Recollection number 1- Watching him in a Wizards uniform for the first time, seeing the bags under his eyes, noticing he was a little thicker in the waist and thinking “When did he get old?”  Number 2- Hearing an ESPN announcer refer to him as “Floor Jordan” in reference to his diminished leaping ability.  Number 3- This really ties in with Number 2, but seeing Michael blow a wide open dunk because he had started his jump too far out, the ball clanging on the back iron and ricocheting back out to nearly half court.  I remember him smiling after the miss, but it seemed as if Jordan was flabbergasted the dunk didn’t go down unlike thousands of his dunks from seasons before.

This brings us to the crux of the matter; why do the best athletes not quit when they are so completely ahead?  Phelps has 14 Olympic gold medals in his hip pocket, Lance has his seven Tours, and Michael his six championships.  To a man, all of their returns signaled nothing more than getting old is inescapable and youth is fleeting.  So why do it?  The only thing I can figure is it’s a combination of a winner’s competitive ego and an extremely short memory.  Ego is obvious.  Each of my athlete examples possesses the drive to not only want to win, but to want to win big.  They’re used to it, they love the feeling of domination, and they don’t think it’ll ever end.  When they decide they’ve had enough, the short memory comes into play.  All three athletes basically took the same approach to making their comebacks: Shut it down for a couple seasons, work themselves back into shape, announce their return.  The problem is, being the best of the best in a profession is hard, and the game is always changing.  That's where the lack of memory comes in.

It takes an incalculable amount of work behind the scenes to perform above all others with millions watching throughout the world, and that level of stress is ultimately unsustainable.  It has to be.  If it wasn’t, Michael would have stayed with the Bulls and won a couple more championships after the lockout season, Lance could have made it eight, nine, or perhaps ten Tours in a row, and Phelps wouldn’t have got photographed smoking pot (no big deal in the grand scheme of things, other than it was an early indicator that he wasn’t in the right headspace to continue his ownage of his opponents) and done that whole Hamlet-esque “Is this really still for me?/ Should I or shouldn’t I?” routine.  Meanwhile, others were stepping up.  Kobe Bryant realized his potential.  Ryan Lochte buckled down so hard on his training that he looks like he could chew nails and shit steel.  And Contador?  Well, I told you about him.  And while these new superstars are putting the world on notice, the old guard is sitting in a gym, or on a trainer, or in the pool, convincing themselves that their natural talent and competitive drive will overcome gaps in their conditioning and rust from their sporting hibernation.  They’ve forgotten what freeride mountain biker Darren Barrecloth put so eloquently in the action sports movie Seasons: “It takes a little bit of talent and a whole lot of determination to get to where you want to be.”  That determination manifests itself in Lochte flipping 650lb truck tires, Contador flying up a hill, and Bryant working endlessly on both sides of the court, even as it fades in Phelps, Lance, and Michael.

Time waits for no man, but these three champions would swear it waits for them.  As fans, I think we fall into a similar trap by almost irrationally expecting generational superstars to remain at the top even as their prime wanes.  I’m probably guiltier than most.  I certainly couldn’t have foreseen Phelps missing the podium in a discipline he once owned, and I believed it was very possible Lance was going to put time into Contador as soon as a mountain stage came about in the Tour.  Ultimately, the signs of an athlete’s diminished greatness are always there, but we have to choose to read them.

Here’s hoping Phelps takes it to Lochte and the rest of the world one last time anyway.

Scotty Mac

"But what you've done here/ Is put yourself between a bullet and a target/ And it won't be long before/ You're pulling yourself away" ~Citizen Cope

Finding a Groove on Chaparral

It has been a while and a half since I posted last!  For the handful of you who follow this blog, I'm sorry.  Time slips before you notice it's gone.  Oh well, lament over, on to new stuff!

My riding buddies will know this feeling, but pretty much anyone who has played a sport or has a hobby can relate as well- sometimes you have a good ride that stays with you.  During and after the time spent on the dirt, it just feels different, and it's worth remembering.  That was my experience at Chaparral Open Space trail the other day.  It's not an epic trail by any means, but everything just sort of came together.  Below are my recollections of the ride, written the day after as that good feeling would not leave me alone.  Enjoy!

The best thing about riding at Chaparral Open Space on June 4^th, 2012?  The weather conditions.  There was only a slight breeze that morning and the temperature was comfortably in the low 70’s.  What I don’t get is why I would feel better there, where no shade can be had, than under the exact same conditions on Falcon Trail the previous Friday, where one rides beneath the trees for the majority of the lap.  I guess it’s true when they say the day makes the difference.  Or something to that effect.

I did 5 laps of the 2(ish) mile loop, and my times were as follows: Lap 1 – 10:57, Lap 2 – 10:53, Lap 3 – 10:10, Lap 4 – 10:02, Lap 5 – 9:40.  My goal on the first time out was to do around a 12 minute lap, in order to get the blood flowing.  Even though I felt like I was taking it easy, I still came in under 11 minutes, which I took as an indication that I was feeling good and the trail wasn’t as loose as it sometimes is (thanks to a quick rain shower the night before).  I decided on the fly to make each successive lap faster than the opener, and as stated above, I met my goal and then some by going “negative” on each lap.

Lap 2 was hampered slightly by hikers, joggers, and their dogs, forcing me to slow down and/or move off the trail until they passed.  My rhythm was thrown off just enough that I was unable to clear the last switchback on the backside climb, the only time that happened, and I’ve got the nasty scratch on my left arm from a stubby branch on the inside of the turn to prove it.  That anomaly aside, I have to attribute my newfound ability to clear that switchback as having come from the time I recently put in to doing track stands at Gunnison last week.  Working on my balance by doing track stands makes tight turns like that seem less daunting.

Laps 3 through 5 were within 30 seconds of each other and would have been a bit closer had I not decided to go for broke on the final lap just to see what I could do.  I focused primarily on not coming into the corners too hot, and staying smooth so as not to have to push my single gear unnecessarily.  The Open Spaces lap rewards fluidity much more than it does violence in all mountain biking aspects: braking, cornering, accelerating, climbing, and descending.  In other words, your “tiger style” is good, but my “dragon style” is better. 

When I pulled off a 10:02 on Lap 4, I knew I would go harder on 5 to break the 10 minute barrier for my first time this year.  I was still relatively fresh, so I knew I was capable of going sub-10.  I attacked the opening climb section, since other than a couple corners that require some braking, it’s fairly straightforward.  Cresting the ridge, I added a little more speed than the first 4 laps, but not a lot because of the loose, off-camber turns.  Flowing down off the ridge, I stayed in control, and passed the marker on the back side where the switchback climb begins and is also where I take my time “hack.”  I was approximately 30 seconds ahead of my Lap 4 time at that point, and felt good going into the climb.  The climb itself is pretty short, but the switchbacks add an element of difficulty, exacerbated on a singlespeed.  The first redirection is pretty benign, but they grow increasingly tighter until the last one, a left which requires you to come to almost a dead stop before making the turn.  On a geared bike it’s not hard; you simply click to a gear you know you can spin up and out of the turn.  With only one gear though, the situation becomes a “grunt and gasp” sort of affair.  With two agonizingly slow pedal strokes, I left the switchback behind for the last time.  Topping the climb and crossing over to the front side descent, I was still 25 seconds ahead of my Lap 4 pace, so I settled into the run.  It’s a short one, with a hard, scrubby left robbing most of the momentum right before the bottom.  From there though, it’s a fun series of corners and kinks of varying arcs which really let you practice digging in, leaning over and understanding what your bike feels like when it takes a set.  It also serves the purpose of letting you recover from the backside climb.  The final 300-400 meters is a climb back up to the start point, but excepting one corner it’s wide open; you crank as hard as you want.  When I saw 9:40 on my stopwatch, as stoked as I was, I was also a little surprised.  I knew I was ahead of my Lap 4 time the whole way, but I had figured that my penultimate lap was about as clean as it was going to get.  In truth, it was cleaner than my 5^th lap, as I had to dab a foot on the 3^rd switchback due to an error in judgment. 

Knowing the shape (for the record, round is a shape) I’m in now, and knowing how blown out that trail can get, I’d say that was about as good as it’s gonna be for me until I improve my conditioning.  That being said, on a singlespeed at least, I think the ceiling for lap times for me is going to be somewhere around 8 minutes, though I’d love to prove myself wrong on that score.  Because of the sandy, off-cambered nature of some of the corners on the flats and downhills, there aren’t many spots I can go much faster, so time will have to come off the climbs.  As I get stronger, I’ll be able to hammer that one gear on my Kona much more effectively, and the time will fall away on the opening climb (Climb 1) and the finishing climb (Climb 3).  The switchback climb (Climb 2), however, will be the most difficult of the three to improve upon, as it requires hard, energy- and soul-sucking accelerations out of each switch to really do damage.

I was happy that I cleaned the last switchback on the backside climb more often than not that day.  The trick seems to be to stand up slightly and then let the front wheel clear the switch, which is probably not rocket science, but it finally clicked for me there that day.  After getting through the hairpin, I put the power down and got my singlespeed moving, back to the ridge.

Chaparral Open Space is most definitely a non-technical, fitness lap, but I think it’s also a much underrated “flow” lap.  So much of the 2 mile loop requires a deft touch that maintaining smooth inputs throughout is the key to being quick; less effective is going after a fast lap using a “hammerhead” approach.  If I can keep that frame of reference, this easily-accessible trail from my house and my bike shop will hold a ton of value for me in the years to come.

Scotty Mac

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.