How Not to Prepare for a Stage Race

How not to prepare for a stage race

               Step one, become a sponsored professional athlete and have all your needs and worries taken care of. Since this isn’t the most easily attainable goal for most of us, here’s one privateer’s take on some pre-race preparations… specifically the preparations NOT to do.

               As everyone know, the key to a quality performance is preparation. Preparations through course-specific training, adequate rest, having the bike dialed, and race logistics all thought out. For this year’s Missoula ProXCT I had… well I had none of those boxes checked. Actually I was probably on the complete opposite end of the spectrum. I had just come from New Zealand (basically sea level), was sleeping an average of 4-5 hours a night, completely changes my entire bike setup the morning before stage one, and essentially only had a one-way plane ticket. Race prep can be summed up in one word: dialed.

               Let’s back up a bit. Missoula has always been one of my favorite cities, and the ProXCT that takes place there every year is an event I always try and make it to. It combines everything I love about this sport: good friends, beautiful tracks, heaps of elevation gain with grin-inducing descents, and highly unstable weather. Best of all the post-race celebrations always include ice cream or beer… or both. As an added cherry on top this year the event had become a four-day stage race, consisting of a marathon event, individual mtb time trial, xco event, and short track. So, with my being back in the US this past June, it was a necessity to get to this one.

               By the time race week rolled around I had a few Midwestern WORS races under my belt, so the second part of my 2019 season was at a good time for a good size training block. As the general fitness was still recovering from the post-NZ break, I wasn’t expecting any spectacular results, but four solid days of racing in the Montana Rockies was just what the doctor ordered. With that mindset I jumped online and found the cheapest ticket to Missoula… arriving midnight the morning of stage one. Here’s a quick rundown of what my travel day schedule consisted of:

·        Wake up at 4:30

·        Put a brand new groupset on my bike

·        Put my bike in a box (big shoutout to Orucase on this one… best bike bag in the world)

·        Go to work at 5:30

·        Caffeinate my way through work

·        Drive straight from work to the airport

·        Get on a plane to Denver

·        Get on a plane to Missoula

·        Arrive in Missoula around midnight

·        Go to the Westenfelder’s house (you guys are absolutely incredible)

·        Build my bike

·        Set alarm for 5 am

·        Go to bed

Ideal, right? Long story short, when that five am alarm sounded I was far from fresh, and after guzzling a few cups of coffee, forcing down some oatmeal and eggs, and blinking the sleep from my eyes really nothing changed. Luckily I have the best friends in the world, and was able to use Karl’s spare car to meander to the start line that morning. Waiting for me that day was forty miles and ten thousand feet of climbing. Exactly what you want on no sleep, travel-fatigued legs, and basically a brand new bike. Putting the task ahead out of my mind I started warming up. With ten minutes to race start I had one more sprint interval; I got out of the saddle, jumped on the pedals, and SNAP! Here’s another pro tip: one way to get your heartrate up right before a race is to break your chain with less-than-optimal-time to replace it. Lady luck decided to be a bit nicer to me for once, and someone next to me happened to have a spare masterlink in their toolbox. Promising a beer on me I hopped on and lined up. This race was never destined to result in much of anything, but man did the legs not want to show up. At least the whole Missoula cycling scene showed up to cheer, and somehow I still counted as the “local guy.” Even though I was nowhere near the sharp end of the race, every time through the start/finish I got a huge cheer and personal callout from Shaun, the race announcer. This was just enough to help fuel me through the inevitable bonk and resulting explosion. By the time I crossed the finish line there was absolutely nothing left in the tank. But… I was getting exactly what I asked for: a nice hard training block. Just wish the block wasn’t made of lead… and hit me in the face, repeatedly.

        Thankfully the rest of the week was relatively uneventful in the way of mishaps. The time trial was essentially a twentyish minute climb up the dreaded Marshall Mountain ski hill, where after actually sleeping a respectable amount I was able to put down a decent time, landing me closer to the top of the overall. The next day brought about the regular XCO event; a classic mountain bike course which goes straight up, then straight down. Six laps of this was enough to bring even the most masochistic climber to tears. In classic Montana fashion, the skies decided to open up and someone turned the thermostat way down. Freezing on the start line was quickly replaced by sweating up the climb, then proceeding to re-freeze on the way down. Even with the adverse weather conditions, the local Missoula crew all showed up and yet again provided this “local” with heaps of much welcome support. Finding a second wind with two laps to go I was able to pull back a couple places, and came across the finish line somewhere in the top half. Feeling like an exhausted icicle I sat in front of the heater eating another bowl of pesto pasta at eleven at night, attempting to force all the caffeine out of my system.

        One more race, my personal nemesis… the short track. Thirty minutes of vomit-inducing effort doing everything I can to hold whatever wheel happens to be in front of me. Well I wasn’t pulled, and that was basically the main goal regarding the caliber of racers. ‘Holding off’ the fastest in the country was my own personal victory; by holding off I mean somehow struggling to finish each two-minute lap within 80% of the leader’s time. Crossing the line completely and utterly spent it was straight to Sweet Peaks ice cream, where the success of non-disaster was celebrated wholeheartedly.

        Now it was time for a twenty-hour car ride back to Wisconsin and work the next morning. Yeah… poor planning from beginning to end. Just my style.

Catch-Up Time

               Ok, so where’d we leave off? Right; little island in the middle of the lower Pacific Ocean, riding bikes and loving life in Aotearoa. Last race I had up here was the skinny-tire event up in Clevedon, pretending I knew what I was doing… which I most decidedly did not. Well after that event, things continued as normal; work, train, enjoy small-town Ohakune. We’ll keep the bullet point thing going with a recap and catch-up-to-speed.

·        Did more race things in NZ.

·        Won a few

·        Came second in a few

·        Lost a few

·        Completely blew up in a few

·        Trained a lot

·        Ate a lot of food

·        Ate a lot of ice cream

·        It started to get cold…

·        Visa ran out, went back to Wisconsin

·        Til next time NZ. I’ll be back

Alright, so now we reach my time back in the good ol’ US of A, the home of Costco, and where the average population doesn’t know where New Zealand is. Semi-broke and without much more than the contents of a backpack to my name, it was back to living with grandparents again. Lazy days at the lake were soon cut short by the inevitability of getting back to work. Hurrah for six a.m. starts and a general feeling of exhaustion everyday.

I’m sure the whole lack of sleep thing wasn’t doing wonders for training, but nonetheless it was right back to summer, and racing in 100% humidity was in full swing. When living in Wisconsin, attending a few WORS events is mandatory, and it was real good to get back to the series which got me into this sport. Mixed results ensued, with me dancing around the podium steps and feeling the steady progression of 2019 season-part two. Somewhere around the middle of June I made the annual trek out to Montana, but this time it wasn’t to go back to university (phew), but for the four-day Missoula XC stage race.  (Full report on the stories from this trip to come… there are some gems which came out of this one. Stay tuned.)

 Don’t get me wrong… I absolutely love my grandparents as well as time at the lakehouse, but being twenty-three years old in a town where the majority of the population has their AARP card… well needless to say I was going a bit crazy within a few weeks. Feeling antsy and ready for a change of scenery, I restarted the US job hunt, scouring Indeed and LinkedIn for anything where my obscure major may be an advantage. After yet another bout of un-answered applications it was back to putting off real life for a bit. Got a job offer wrenching for a bike shop in Bellingham, and following a quick Google search of the world-class trails, beautiful scenery, and easy-access to the ocean it was an easy choice. Finishing out my time in the Midwest with a great visit, and one final WORS race weekend, it was time to pack everything up in the back of the VW Golf and head west. You know you’re doing something right when almost everything you own (including two bicycles, a longboard, and more peanut butter than one should rightfully have) can fit snugly into the back of a two-door hatchback.

Following a characteristically hectic departure, it was off to the open road. The plan was to take four days to make it to Bellingham, staying with friends along the way and eventually meeting my mom in Seattle for the final leg. The next part is pretty boring, filled with lots of podcasts, many albums, one runaway skid plate, countless snacks, and two lost water bottles. After thirty-ish hours of driving and two-thousand miles we pulled into Bellingham, a university-town with a northwest hippy vibe and a large population of flannel shirts. Well, this was home… even if I had nowhere to live, knew absolutely no one, and was still recovering from time-zone shock. I had a couple bikes, a whole new world to explore, and even some peanut butter left.

…To be continued…

Curvy Bars, Skinny Tires, and the Departure of Lady Luck

               There’s a fine line between personal growth and sheer stupidity. Nowhere is this more apparent than in athletics. For example, I’m writing this the night before the SRAM Tour de Ranges road race which I’m entered to compete in… and naturally I’ve chosen to start in the fastest wave. Let’s stress two words in particular from that last sentence: road race. True I spend quite a large amount of my training time on the road, but that doesn’t mean I have any knowledge pertaining to road race tactics, race style, or really even how to draft properly. No worries, I’ll definitely be fine in a 110-kilometer race with about 400 other people, right? 

               Training leading up to the event has gone well. My coach Matthew Parks and I worked on a block-style plan which focused on one particular metric at a time, while always keeping up on the necessary skills. The general idea is to form a kind of pyramid with efforts, starting with the infamous base miles and elevation gain. Slowly building time in the saddle and meters climbed, the weeks passed with some encouraging results. My times up the local climbs began to decrease, I could go harder for longer, and the hard things began to feel much more doable. Between riding, gym time, a bit of running, quite a lot of stretching, and focused recovery time both the body and mind began to show signs of progress. A priority this year is to concentrate on the balance between going hard and going easy: the hard efforts should be really hard, and the recovery should be absolute recovery. Sure, there’d be heaps of time spent in zone two, but in the past I’ve let the training get the better of me, and fallen quite deep into overtraining syndrome, which in turn had extensive negative effects on performance, health, and life in general. But… what’s life without some mistakes to learn from? This year, it’s all about the recovery. So bring on the nerdy HRV sleep devices, compression recovery tights, meditation, and forced couch time. 

               In any case, the training was working. Stress and recovery were well matched, and coming into the new year I was feeling great with the next goal looming on the horizon: the SRAM Tour de Ranges. As mentioned before, my road experience was extremely limited (read, none whatsoever), and the prospect of anyone deciding to ride a road bike here is completely out of the question, so any attempt to learn the finer points of drafting or group riding would involve chasing cars… people tend to get upset when you do that. Therefore, I was going into this event twice as blind as normal; not only would I be riding the course for the first time, my technical ability and general understanding of tactics were quite sub-par. Guess it was time to rely on skills gained from excessive hours on the road bike and the watts stored up in my legs. 

               After loading up the car with the skinny-tire bike, a four-hour drive up to Clevedon awaited me. This time I’d learned one lesson and wouldn’t be sleeping in the back of a car and huddling over a camping stove, but rather sleeping on a floor mattress and staring into a microwave… progress. My little Airbnb place was little more than a spare room set up for people traveling through on a budget, but what it lacked in amenities it made up for with scenery. Set on top of a hill (foreshadowing) overlooking the Hunua National Park, the view took my breath away multiple times. The ocean peeked out in the background, and clouds danced in patters of all sorts across the sky, highlighting the red-orange rays of the setting sun. Well, if things went to shit during the race at least I’d have one hell of a new phone background. 

               During packet pickup, the usual nagging thoughts of I’m not good enough and seriously Payson… what are you doing here began to creep in. Pushing all negative thoughts out of my head I did my best to focus on the happy clouds floating lazily across the sky. Paired with a bit of meditation before bed and dinner overlooking the ocean, the negative thoughts slowly began to disperse. Disperse, but not leave for good. Although I’m not sure going into an event without any fear is healthy either, confidence is key but overconfidence has its own fair share of negative effects as well. Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself to pretend everything’s ok, and everybody stares at the ceiling bombarded with negative thoughts the night before a big event. Well, nothing to do at this point but roll over and attempt to force my body to sleep at 8:30 in broad daylight. 

               Race day morning brought the usual combination of nerves and excitement. After an early morning breakfast it was time to get kitted up. I lathered sunscreen on my arms, legs, and neck and stuffed my pockets with more bananas than one rightfully should. From my accommodation it was all downhill to the event startline (more foreshadowing) and I reached the expo area far earlier than I had planned. Now I had 40 minutes to kill after getting adequately warmed up, so naturally I spun up and down the same road again and again, slowly joined by progressively more riders, all of which whom were much better judges of time than I. Guess I’d rather be early than late…

               Here’s a striking difference between cross-country and road racing: the starts. In every mountain bike race the start gun sets off absolute madness filled with pounding hearts, sprinting legs, and rubbing elbows. Sheer lunacy. In contrast, when the gun goes off to start a road race, people slowly clip in and begin rolling out at a normal pace behind the lead car. Sure, there’s a little bit of urgency present for people to get near (ish) to the front but everyone’s heart rate is far below threshold. Incredibly thankful for the ‘relaxed’ start I slotted into the peloton and began the charade of pretending to know how to draft. Just stay a few centimeters behind the wheel in front of you… couldn’t be easier, right? 

               Somehow my patchwork drafting skills helped me to stay with what quickly became the lead group. A slightly sketchy gravel descent found a large number of roadies grabbing at their brakes and creating a large split in the main group. Luckily my flat-bar skills came in handy and I was able to stay with the leaders. As our group of about 100 flew through the beautiful New Zealand day a few of the strategists began launching attacks in the attempt to break the elastic and create a gap. Everyone who tried to go off the front, however, was quickly caught. 30 kilometers in seemed far too early for a solo break to stay alive for the full 110. Status quo remained with a decently large lead group leading the way.

               About 60 kilometers into the course there were three sections of road construction due to crazy weather throughout the area around Christmas time. The sections were mundane, and simply just added a few bumps and potholes to avoid. My luck, however, saw me go straight into one of the potholes and come out the other side with a rear tire making the dreaded hissing sound. Moving to the side of the road I went into full panic mode and started the practiced dance of fixing a flat: bike upside down, wheel out, tire off, used tube frantically tossed aside, new tube put in (no time to line up valve stem and words), tire back on, CO2 on valve, engage CO2 canister, watch tire inflate. Apart from the panicked circumstances, I was quite proud of how quickly I got rolling again… wasn’t exactly timing it but it’s probably a record. After a cross-style mount I was back to pedaling, and pedaling hard. Knowing the stragglers of the lead group weren’t too far ahead I threw caution to the wind and buried myself to catch up. (Geek side-note: I don’t have a power meter on my bike but the Strava estimated power put me at 450 average for this effort.) Luckily, I had a bit of a tailwind and the road began to pitch upwards, giving me all the best conditions for catching back up to the group.

               Around a sweeping bend I finally saw what I’d been looking for: the tail end of the lead group. Granted these were the people getting dropped off the back, but nonetheless I was over the moon to have a bit of a draft and basically a springboard up to the rest of the pack. Moving through the ranks I did my best to recover from the chase while still gaining on where I really wanted to be; and against all odds it was somehow working. Whether it was just an on day for me or there were some hidden watts in my legs I was moving quickly from rider to rider, feeling strong and once again well in control of my effort level. All that was left was a final uphill effort between a bit of a gap to the lead group. Putting my head down I dug a little deeper and lit another match, sprinting out of the saddle towards the welcome draft of the wheel 20 meters in front of me. Pushing hard I gained meter after meter, but we were getting awfully close to the top of the hill and I knew for a fact there’d be no way I could keep the pace of a large group on my own on a downhill. Finding another gear I got back out of the saddle and lit another few matches. But it worked. Ever so slowly I reached the furthest back rider and thankfully jumped straight onto his back wheel, feeling the welcome pull of the riders in front. I was ecstatic that I had made it work, made it back to the lead group in a relatively short time, and did so under relatively my own power. The mental game was strong at that point, and we were fast approaching the KOM climb where I intended to make my move and hopefully form a bit of a break from the main group, ideally taking a few strong riders with me all the way to the finish. 

               But lady luck was not on my side this day. Throughout the whole chase effort I had been so focused on catching the riders in front of me I hadn’t noticed my rear tire slowly becoming more and more squishy. So on the final gravel section I felt a bump straight onto my rim and heard yet again the sickening sound of air rushing from the tire. With language enough to make a sailor blush I meandered back to the side of the road once again… only this time I didn’t have another tube. Even though lady luck decided to ruin my chances at a decent placement, she did allow me to finish the event. Because of the spur-of-the-moment gravel patches, race organizers had set up a flat station to help out the unfortunate riders to fall victim to the potholes. Where I flatted the second time was only about 2 kilometers short of the station, so it was just a bit of sketchy rim-riding and even some running (yep, I pulled a Chris Froome… and I like to believe I was just a little faster) to get to the oasis of new rubber. Once there, the volunteers played team mechanic, and swiftly changed out my lifeless tube for a new one while I smashed my last banana and gel: it was going to be a hard chase back. 

               Sometimes people say hardships are blessings in disguise. First of all, screw you guys. Second, there might be a shred of truth to that statement. See there were about 40 kilometers left in the course, and I was all on my lonesome, so that can only mean one thing: time for the hour of power. It was time to turn a once-race event to a VERY hard training day. I figured what better way to train for an extremely hard sustained effort at the end of an event than the actual thing? So, I put my head down and set the effort level right around all-out to see how far the legs would carry me. To make a long, pain filled hour go by quicker, the endgame was I held a power well above my FTP all the way to the finish line; where I then proceeded to lie on my back helplessly staring at the sky, trying to get some semblance of feeling in my aching legs.

At the end of the day I crossed the line in 70^th place out of about 500 riders. The more interesting thing to note is in the intermediate time splits. A closer look shows I was sitting in 7^th at the 30k check, 368^th at the 70k check, and 70^th at the finish at 110k. So, even though the final result isn’t really what I was after in the slightest, I am quite proud of the effort put in and the solid proof of what the legs are actually capable of.

Remember the whole foreshadowing of mentioning that my accommodation was situated at the top of a big hill? Well as I struggled up the hill at a snail’s pace with every muscle in my legs screaming, I truly hated past Payson for his prior decision. If you’d like a comparison, when we went up the hill during the event our average speed was 16 kph, but when I did it afterwards, I struggled to keep the pace of 6. The only plus side of the extended suffering: that was definitely worth adding another ice cream stop during the ride home.

A Long Ride in the Rain and Forgotten Socks

               I wouldn’t have changed a thing, but the Taupo Cycling Challenge was definitely a rude awakening out of the semi-offseason for this year. With 80-kilometer and approximately 2000 meters of elevation gain the race was nothing to scoff at. Looking back now, it was probably beneficial that I came in with absolutely no expectations, slightly undertrained, and possibly a touch overconfident in my own abilities. “Sure man, you’ve ridden this distance before… you’ve definitely got it in the legs again.” Note: the only times I’ve raced this distance at a competitive pace were the two Epic Rides events months earlier. Apparently I had forgotten how deep I buried myself for those and how completely exhausted I was afterwards. Memory was never a real forte of mine… undoubtedly beneficial in a sport such as xc mountain bike racing. Anyways, I was committed the minute the thought of competing entered my head. Had I skipped the event the regret would’ve definitely burned a hole for months. The whole mindset of ‘start saying yes’ may prove to bring about some type two fun. (Or with any luck… some of the mythical type two point five fun.)

               Race day rolled around after a restful night’s sleep crammed into the back of a car with a beg-hogging bike. A slight drizzle surrounded Great Lake Taupo, and the ominous pre-dawn clouds boded more rain to come. The entire town was filled to the brim with cyclists there for the event, each with their own level of accommodation: some rented flats, others had motorhomes and popups, a decent amount camped, and a few were lucky enough to stay with friends and family. Not exactly sure how many were to be found that morning bundled in down jackets, sitting cross-legged in the back of a car, while eating cookstove-heated oatmeal, hardboiled eggs, and instant coffee… but I’d expect I was one of a select few. In any case, I’m sure I was a sight to see, and hopefully the spectacle which was my morning routine brought at least a few people a smile. 

               Another skill of mine which could use quite a bit of fine-tuning is my packing ability, specifically not forgetting things which are relatively necessary. As I was pulling out the articles of clothing to be worn throughout the day, it soon became horrifyingly clear that I had forgotten socks. Shit. Not only would this prove to be four very uncomfortable hours, but the defined sock-tan line I’d acquired throughout this past year was going to be blatantly obvious to every person there. Mind racing, every possible solution I could think of flashed through my mind, most of which were quite stupid upon second consideration. Finally I decided to try my luck downtown and hope some shop would be open at 5:30 in the morning. Tossing my credit card in a back pocket alongside a few gels, I awkwardly made my way to the expo center in downtown Taupo, all the while feeling very self-conscious about my obvious lack of socks. Scanning storefronts for any movement I finally found what I was looking for: a half-asleep employee leaning against the door, obviously thinking they’d rather be in bed at the moment. Dashing into the store I quickly found the socks, and happily bought the only color in stock—bright blue. Now if anyone’s seen what my normal kit looks like… well blue doesn’t fit AT ALL, but now I couldn’t care less. With much happier feet and a lighter conscious I rolled towards the start line, with the majority of my allotted warm-up time spent sock hunting.

               I was set to be in the second wave, a full minute behind everyone up front. So from the gun it would be a game of catch-up, and I’d have to burn a few matches to catch up with the leaders… given I could catch them at all. I rechecked my supplies for the umpteenth time to make sure everything was in place: tube and CO₂ strapped to the seatpost, bananas in the left pocket, gels in the right, and spare bottle in the middle. My pedal was tilted at the correct angle for a swift start and shoes were tightened evenly. There was a light mist in the morning air and the dark grey sky threatened more rain to come, promising my bright blue socks would soon be a dull brown, along with the rest of my kit and any exposed skin. A final swig of water as the start clock dropped below a minute to go.

               The announcer sent of the first wave and they blasted across the dew-soaked field and onto the course. With a heart rate well into the triple digits I stood motionless, primed for action. “Anytime within the next thirty seconds…. fifteen… ten……. GO!!”  We were off. Even though this was set to be a four-plus hour race it seemed people were still willing to burn a few matches right away at the beginning. Understanding it would undoubtedly be an advantage to get into the singletrack ahead of the majority of riders, I kicked my effort up a notch and took back some positions and placed myself near the front of the wave.

               Now comes the time where the majority of people reading this begin to zone out, so I’m going back to the whole bullet-point-list thing to explain the next four hours… rather than imagining peoples’ eyes slowly glaze over and switch to some other, much more important activity.

·        My short XC racing mindset kicked in and I burned a few matches to catch the wave in front.

·        Caught the group in front, looked at my computer and realized we were only 20 kilometers in.

·        Had a mini panic attack that I’d bonk.

·        Dialed back the effort and conserved energy.

·        Raced smart… primarily by sitting on the chase groups’ wheel and trying to keep my heart rate low.

·        Did my best to enjoy the incredible trails we were riding.

·        Began to understand why pre-riding a track is VITAL.

·        Decided to throw smart racing out the window and attack the group I was in.

·        Broke away from the group around the 30 km mark.

·        Rode alone (in the rain) for about 90 minutes.

·        Caught one of the riders who also broke from the group.

·        Was glad to have a riding partner for the moment (thanks for the conversation + laughs Sean)

·        Broke away from Sean in an effort to catch the leader.

·        Caught the leader.

·        Felt the inevitable bonk coming on (we’re around kilometer 70 of 80 now)

·        Watched in despair as the leader started to ride me off his wheel.

·        Watched my heart rate drop significantly.

·        Ate the remainder of my food in a last-ditch effort to not tip over from exhaustion.

·        Forced my screaming legs towards the finish line downtown.

·        Drank the last of my water.

·        Suffered up the last hill (not without a few mumbled swear words)

·        Limped to the finish line, still in second place by the way.

·        Got passed by a 13-year-old girl on the finishing straight.

o   Not joking on this one; she flew past me before I had a chance to react… not as if I could’ve.

·        Crossed the line caked in mud, completely spent, and thoroughly happy.

·        Fell off my bike and laid in the grass for far too long.

So, what did I learn from this flash trip? Well for starters, make sure you’re prepared for an event by thoroughly pre-riding the track, setting up proper housing arrangements, being confident in athletic abilities, and remembering socks. But on the other hand sometimes it’s good to throw caution to the wind and say ‘screw it.’ I came into this event having no expectations, no prior knowledge, and honestly was flying by the seat of my pants at times (actually most of the time). And while coming so close to first then watching it slip away stings a little, a second place finish in an extremely challenging event is something I can be proud of. This then brings up the question of what if… what if my preparation had been better? What if I had put a little more effort into planning and making sure everything was perfect? Maybe then could I have had the legs or knowledge to cross the line first, or would something have not gone to plan and caused everything to come off the rails? Guess we’ll never know, but it’s something to think about for next time. But next time is a long way off and right now it’s back to the half-offseason thing I was originally in… basically still training but with WAY more ice cream. 

Footnote: no pictures because my phone died as I was sleeping in the car, and I'm not about to pay $20 for a digital download... if you're really keen on seeing me crossing the finish line drenched, completely shattered, and in the wrong color socks; the pictures exist somewhere on the interwebs. Good hunting! In the meantime, here's a shot haphazardly taken out the car window on my drive home.