The revolt of the slave in morals begins in the very principle of ressentiment becoming creative and giving birth to values—a ressentiment experienced by creatures who, deprived as they are of the proper outlet of action are forced to find their compensation in an imaginary revenge. …its action is fundamentally a reaction.

-Nietzsche; On the Genealogy of Morals

I am not happy with my Rim Ride. In summary: I felt like garbage for the first 2-3 hours, lamented dead legs and my choice of bike. I awoke on upper Soveriegn, climbed well up to Seven Mile Rim, got a big moral boost from catching and passing Ed, rocked across to the road (perhaps burning too many matches), met Fred, rocked up the pavement hating the wind not too much, felt the stepped-notched feeling on my non-drive crank loosening, tightening it with Fred’s wrench, continued, felt it loosening again climbing up near the top of Metal Masher, had no adequate tool, and dropped out.

I was 69% pissed at myself for not having an 8mm allen wrench, 29% pissed at myself for being weak and not pushing on anyway, and 2% pissed at the fates writ large. Driving to get gas, coffee and to work this morning, I got a bit more pissed at myself. As Adam said, “There’s no reason I can’t do this.” But I had a pretty good excuse handed to me, and took it in a moment of 60/40 weakness and rationality.

It would have sucked to roast a (cheap) crankarm up on Gold Bar and have to hike out. I had to stop plenty just soft pedaling out Gemini to finger tighten the bolt with the pliers on my Leatherman. (Wtf?! I had a Leatherman and not an 8mm wrench?!!) And yet……

Fred and I rolled onto Gemini a bit after noon. An hour later I was at the high point of Metal Masher, staring at my bike with disdain. I had the perfect amount of food and water left over. I had hiked a tremendous 100k the week before. Yes, I was overgeared and paying for it. But I’m pretty sure I could’ve tapped the tank fully, possibly caught Max (due to his wrong turns), and finished very close to, if not under, 12 hours. Mentally, I had already put that possibility in the bag before 313, and that was a mistake. The bike gods looked down on my presumption with displeasure, and punished me accordingly. They left me an opening to suffer more, on their terms, and I did not take it. It’s what I wanted, and getting what I wanted turned out to be more scary than I was up for that afternoon. Fuck.

Well. It sure isn’t going to make me slower in the next few months.

That said, it was still a weekend very well spent. Hanging with Beavis (Max) and Butthead (Chad) is always a pleasure, and seeing both of them lay down tremendous races was a priviledge. Ed and Dave Nice always impress with their dedication to their chosen (mechanical) burdens, Jeny is dangerously psyched, Fred is the MAN, and Chris is THE MAN! Tom and Adam are, perhaps even moreso. “Fun time” is a worthy measurement, and the uncertainty inherent in being out for so long, and so close to dark on Gold Bar, is intense.

I don’t have the words to list and enumerate all the awesome people with whom I got to spend time. The value of being near energy like this cannot be praised enough. It was the most important thing around, by far.

A fine dessert was riding Slickrock with the Pleskos and DN. Dave scared the shit out of me several times, riding fixed down things for which I got waaay behind the saddle. Amazing. It’s become high-school de riguer to dismiss Slickrock recently, but it’s just fun as hell. Especially now that I can (at least try) to ride all of it, instead of being awed and terrified like to many years ago. But we did have to leave, fighting a 20+ mph wind from Moab all the way to Flagstaff, which in concert with the three bikes on the roof dropped the Xterra’s fuel economy from 20-22 to 13-15.

I was amped enough that M had to shove me into bed, for my own good.

May there be many, many more.

And thank you all. This post is, more than most, essential demon-exorcising.