*Unlike Dug, I do not remember every scene and every bit of dialogue from every movie I’ve ever seen. In fact, I have to strain to recall the last movie I saw (Inception) and what it was even about.

At RMR last night, Shane from Ski Utah and Alex from Canyon went on a flyer from the gun. I didn’t think the two of them would stay away alone, but nobody was really chasing, either. If I was going to do the work to bring them back, I would rather bring one guy who could make the break stick than the entire field.

On lap three, I told Cody from Ski Utah to stay on my wheel while I tried to get some separation from the field and get in the break. We bridged, and shortly thereafter, Jon and Drew from Canyon, Chad from Bicycle Center, and Dave from RMCC also joined us. We worked together for about 30 minutes, nobody in the field was willing to chase, and we were away for good.

With eight guys in a break, you either have to like your chances in the sprint or make an early move. Cody made a move with three to go, which Jon and I covered. The other five brought us back, and then there wasn’t much activity until the final lap.

Coming around the last corner, Cody was on front, and I was on his wheel waiting for the first attack. We got closer to the finish and nobody went. My confidence grew as we drew closer to the line. With about 200 to go, I sprinted and had enough to keep Chad from coming around. Rachel, of course, was not there to watch. Or keep me from winning, depending on how you look at it.

When it comes to energy goo, gels, bars and such, have you considered Jelly Belly Sport Beans? No, they don’t have Tidy Bowl, buttered popcorn or jalapeno flavor, but they do have a palatable assortment of predictable flavors in nice and tidy re-sealable pouches. I’ve been using them this Summer and have quickly become a fan.

Jelly Belly Sport Beans Details:

• Uses natural flavors and ingredients
• Loaded with carbs, electrolytes and Vitamins B & C
• Flavors: Berry, Fruit Punch, Lemon Lime, Orange, Mixed, Extreme Cherry (w/caffeine) and Extreme Watermelon (w/caffeine)
• Usage: One packet 30 min before exercising and as needed on long workouts (approx every 45 min)
• Price: $1.50 per package

Jelly Belly Sport Beans Review

While a “review” of Sport Beans is more like a rundown of personal preferences, I still think it’s valid for those who enjoy these little power pellets. With the spectrum of goo, gels and bars out there, these stand out as being the most portable and pocket-friendly. I can’t really say that they provide improved performance over the competition (Clif Bloks, PowerBar Gel Blasts, Gu Chomps, etc.), but I can speak to their portability, which is by far the best.

I’ve used most of the above energy snacks and like them all, but the Sport Beans offer a less-messy and more portable alternative. They don’t get squishy in the heat and you can slip a few in a side pocket without turning the pocket into your 3-yr-old’s surprise gooey mess (been there, done that).

Triathletes like to “lick and stick” their energy blocks to the top-tube of their bikes, but that won’t work with Sport Beans. However, I can assure you they are more aerodynamic than a bunch of square-edged blocks on your TT bike.

Good Sport Beans

• Extremely portable
• Provide good energy
• Bite-sized and easy to disgest
• Re-sealable package encourages grazing instead of binging
• Real juice = real juice flavor
• Inexpensive

Bad Sport Beans

• Texture is a little gritty
• May not be as advanced as other energy products
• No “lick and stick” capability if that’s your thing

Bottom Line: Jelly Belly Sport Beans

Portable electrolytes and carbs in a convenient pouch or in your pocket… Jelly Belly Sports Beans are a great choice for mess-free carbs during your next adventure.

Buy Now: Search for Jelly Belly Sport Beans

Girls will hold it to the point of getting a kidney infection unless they can utilize an acceptable facility, which almost always means a spotless, shiny piece of porcelain in their own home and that smells strongly of recently applied disinfectant.

Lest you think this is a nature versus nurture argument, bear in mind that I’m using my two youngest children as case studies. Two children who have slept in the same bedroom, bathed in the same tub, and eaten at the same table most of their lives.

While hiking yesterday, my son had to be told three different times to move further still off of the trail before relieving himself. My daughter was asked three different times if she needed to go, answered “no” each time, and then peed her pants.

Aside from the pants peeing incident, it was mostly a good weekend.

“Eat.”

“No.”

“You’ve got to eat.”

“I’m not eating. I’m not finishing. I’m staying right here.”

“Eat. And then go finish the race.”

“You go finish the race.”

After a few minutes of pouting I found myself watching the riders coming and going from the aid station. It was 60 miles into the race, and at the conclusion of a long, demanding and remote—by race standards—section of technical, twisted, rooted, dusty, singeltrack. It’s the section of the Point 2 Point course that I have always called the crux of the entire route. Two climbs to 9,000 feet. 2 white-knucled descents. And almost 30 miles without resupply or any sort of mental reprieve. It’s a gauntlet of difficult riding, and emotional implosion.

But while I idled in the darkness, others—equally as blinkered and worn and distraught as I was—muscled through the black pain. They pointed their wheels upward and disappeared into the thick hillside and switchbacks of the Spiro trail. I resented them, but only momentarily.

“What do they know. I should have been here an hour ago. Why should I bother finishing, if I can’t finish as fast as I wanted?”

In an instant of realization and revelation, the absurdity of such thoughts dawned on me. I felt stupid. Embarrassed. And though I never voiced those thoughts at the time, having even thought them shamed me into a submission and acceptance of what was actually happening, rather than what I believed should have been taking place.

“Grow up. Man up. Pedal. Pedal dammit!”

And so begrudgingly, I got back on my bike. The darkness that had engulfed me somewhere up above, near Shadow Lake had been eclipsed—if only somewhat—by a shadowy optimism and determination to fight through the blackness and the overwrought sense of self-ordained importance. Nobody else cared about my expectations. Not when they were fighting off their own devils and demons and dark chasms of despair. And yet, none of them were pouting petulantly, or looking for pity and sympathy. And so up the switchbacks, and the point of no return I—we—went.

I knew there was significant risk in anchoring my entire summer on one, rather difficult event. And I knew that that risk increased exponentially with every hyperbolic ambition of heroic and jaw-dropping achievement. But I also knew that I needed those delusions of grandeur. I needed the extra motivation and determination to fuel my preparation and my training. In the end, I used every bit  I had. I dug deep—deeper than ever—though not in the context or toward the result I had hoped for. Just finishing became the victory. The end. The delusion. And indeed, there were hours of black contemplation wherein I saw no possible means to that end. I wanted nothing to do with finishing. I wanted nothing to do with anything.

But, and not surprisingly, the means to that end became my fellow riders. Hard men and women that I had seen suffer and struggle and dig in the past. But never like this. Never had so much pride been stripped from so many accomplished and stubborn bike riders. Myself included. And never had I seen so many of them ignore the cold stare of the devil with such brash impunity. One after the other huffed and puffed and pedaled by me as I stood trailside again and again—hoping in vain to somehow pull out of the nosedive I found myself in. Defiant, yet visibly teetering on the edge, they rattled by. And each of them offered words of reinforcment and encouragment.

“Come on Grizzly.”

“Get back on the bike.”

“Jump on my wheel, let’s get this done.”

Damn the shattered “what ifs” or “should have beens” that slipped away suddenly and abruptly. Damn the golden windows or the “race of my life.” None of that mattered. Although, admittedly, those things still persisted in the back of my mind. And still are. But they were never more than possibilities to begin with. And only remained so for a few hours on race day. In the end, crossing the finish line was the only possibility that carried any sort of meaning or tangible understanding.

And when that became an inevitability, especially after the ferocious argument I had with myself—an argument that lasted for hours—the thoughts of what might have been gave way to different, darker thoughts of what might have been had I stayed in that chair at mile 60. In other words, I’m proud of my result. I’m proud I was able to dig my way out of the blackness and fear and angry, bitter hostility that so quickly engulfed me during the race. And I am inspired that so many others were able to to do the same. That so many others found themselves conquering themselves. Going above and beyond what was thought possible.

So, yeah. I finished.*

In spite of myself.

*And just so Mark isn’t confused—I’m not whining. I’m bragging about how tough I am. And I’ll STFU when I damn well please.

Related posts:

1. The Karmatic Undulations of Racing
2. Registered for Moab
3. PCPP Highlights
4. Chasing Sub-Nine
5. Mount Ogden 50k