Jeff Holt is an interesting character study, a large man with an even larger appreciation for Betty Page, Monkeys, Tattoos and pornography. How glad was I when he asked me to accompany him on the road this summer, co-piloting the Black Bomber, Tioga Factory Task Force Race Support truck? I thought, what better opportunity to begin and end my career as a quasi professional one speeder at the World Cup and National mountain bike races through the '00 season.

We started off with a leisurely drive form LA to Vermont, for the Mount Snow race. If I coulda slept the whole way, I woulda. Results of Race #1: I dropped out. Mount Snow is a muddy, muddy place. Besides not being in the kind of shape one needs to be in in order to excel here, my bike felt heavy and dull. However, I think I dropped out after the other single-speeder so perhaps I won by default.

Results for Race #2: Right around 15th overall, however, when I checked the results sheet, I'd been disqualified for an as of yet unclear infraction. "Is there a UCI rule against jumpsuits?" I asked the head Commissar and his response was "I don't remember." Canada 1, Steve 0. Two recent observations I'd like to share. Canadians love donuts, and I've eaten a million sunflower seeds.

The race in Canmore, Alberta has come and gone. There was no same-day registration for my race so I wasn't allowed to play, which was alright with me... I felt like shit anyway. The day we set up, there was a kid hanging around asking if we needed any help, if we had any stickers, just generally being a pest. The next day I saw his buddy sporting the 665 number plate and I called him over. "Hey," I said, "does your friend have the three sixes number plate?" "Yeah," he said. "Well tell him I'll give him a tire for it, after his race." "Do you want my number plate?" the kid asked. "No," I said. "Just your friends." "Why," he inquired. "You mean six-six-six...The Number of the Beast, Iron Maiden...I love that shit," I responded. The kid stood there and paused, staring at me. "You mean," he started in lowered tone "the devil?" "Yeah, you betcha," I said. See, I wanted the three sixes at Vermont but Micky from Spooky got it, which was completely appropriate, I thought. And then at Mt. Ste. Anne I got '333' which was still pretty cool, eerie really, but I wanted this plate, so the trade was made. The Kid got his tire and I got my plate. Our last night in town, I met Jeff and Boobar for beers which resulted in one assault of Kevin the Fisher Mechanic, one wrestling match in the back of a moving pickup, one pair of said mechanic's shoes getting thrown into the street, one broken jukebox, one stolen poolball, one girl getting a mouthful of beer spit on her, and three 911 calls.

We showed up in Boulder a few days before the Downhill World Cup in Vail, so we screwed around there for a bit. Besides not being able to breath here, I'm constantly feeling this unbearable melancholy. I was born and raised in a small town pretty much right in between Vail and Denver, nestled up in the hills of I-70. At least it used to be small. Now it appears to be part of the sprawl that is the Front Range. I thought I'd be happy to be here, but frankly it's kind of depressing. I bagged this race too because there's no air here. Boobar and I rode and though it was very fun, I missed the breathing part. Four laps would have very possibly killed me. So I've promised myself the next two races, and then I'm never looking at a bike again.

Deer Valley, Utah. The biggest one-speed class at any race yet, with all of seven of us registered and five of us racing. The temperature was around 95 degree or 100 degree and three of us duked it out for second until I blew up and fell back to fourth on the final descent. I'll be blowing dirt out of my nose for months after the 2 hours spent battling through the moondust covered construction zone that is Deer Valley. This particular race holds the infamous Mechanics Race at the end of the weekend, and the dust settled, Shimano's Dustin held top honours, with me in second and Jen Klish in third. The beer was thrown everywhere, the aging strippers had there asses smacked, and everyone had been offended. It was time to go to Seattle.

There was a one-speed class at Crystal Mountain too. In fact, the day before the race a guy on a single asked me about my bike. "Hey, who's is that?" "Um, mine," I offered. "Are you racing?" He was enthusiastic like a little dog. Closing my eyes and heaving a sigh, I said "uh, yeah." Silence. He looked at me as I loaded the back of the truck. "Are you fast?!" Oh, that hurt. He struck me as one of those fabled 'professional single-speeders.' I don't know why it bothered me exactly, except for the fact that I gave such little shit, that his eagerness was like a twisting knife. He went on to tell me of his victory in the one speed class at the CreamPuff Classic in Oregon, and how he likes to win.. My apathy was growing out of control. Not for him or his achievement in Oregon, exactly, but for this state of bicycle racing in general. It's never been about this for me. An eight hour ride with Stella and LoudAss, railing around Salmon Falls with Berg and Robert, getting my ass handed to me at a Crusty Cup by Norm, Rick, Cameron, Mike, or Matt. Yes, that's why I liked it. Whatever, it's neither here nor there. One man's ceiling is another man's floor, and after getting finished with this race, I wanted to find another floor altogether. Model building, pogo balling, anything, I'm burnt. I utterly appreciate the opportunity to travel and to have had this adventure, but driving from event to event, setting up, working the tech site, racing, then going back to work, etc, has been a fairly grueling tempo that has been difficult to handle. There's a specific level of seriousness surrounding all of this 'recreation' that confuses me.

Mammoth was the final race and luckily I had some time to kill between Crystal Mountain and this one. I spent about a third of it asleep so getting back to the grind was a piece of cake. Schwinn had their Stingray Race which turned out to be more of a beer toss. I was focused and was acting as Jeff's stand-in on his championship team from Sea Otter. (editor's note: dammit!) But at the halfway point of the competition I was purely focused on soaking as many of my competitors with the sudsy goodness as possible. The Risse team took the gold, and I offered them a lofted cup of beer as congratulations, which landed with deadly accuracy square in the middle of their celebration. I bowed out of the one-speed race partially due to altitude, but mostly because of a pathetically empty bank account. I was able, however, to offer more beer throwing to my brethren dumbspeeders as well as a feed or two. Eventually, I partook in some "Extreme Spectating" with Ron Ige and webboy in which I was sure a fight would break out with some of the more stressed out sport class riders and ourselves. Gosh bicycle racing is fun. I was trying to explain my absence in the race by telling folks I'd retired a week prior and was going to focus my energies to my new hobby of "pants wearing" as I'd forgotten to bring any and had to pick up a snappy new pair of Carhartts at Ace which I looked absolutely dashing in. I decided I wore pants a hell of a lot better than I ever raced a bike anyway. So now the dust has settled and the circus has packed up its tents and moved on to Sidney without me, and it all seems like a blur. I'm now looking forward, as strange as it would have seemed to me in June, to getting back to a routine, racing a little cyclocross, continuing to wear a groove in the road between my house and work. So much for my season as a quasi-professional one speeder, but at least I found my true calling. Maybe I'll send a few resumes around to see if I can get picked up for sponsorship for pant wearing competitions next season.