Sunday 26 November 2006

Dallas Morris





Other than possibly shaking hands once with George Hincapie, and a chance French Alps introduction to Kevin Livinstone, Dallas Morris is the highest horsepower cyclist I know. “Big engine” is a term often used in cycling speak, and to me Dallas defines the term. I’ve independently verified the story that he melted two budget oriented trainers at Bow Cycle’s off season spin sessions a year or two ago. To continue the spin sessions, they guilted him into purchasing a more sturdy model of his own. But along with his power comes a little bit of weight. On the provincial level this doesn’t interfere with his competitiveness, nor does it on obvious climbing events like the Revelstoke hill climb. Dallas makes an effort to maintain his, uhh, fuel stores by eating as much as I’ve ever seen anyone eat. Without much exaggeration, I’m sure that after TransRockies stages I’d witness that guy eating upwards of 8,000 calories. I have a sneaking feeling that at 160lbs this guy might do more than a little riding on the other side of the pond, and maybe at anything under 180lbs he’d have a few more wins around home, instead of chasing around Tim Heemskerk, our local ass-kicker extra-ordinaire.

When I first met Dallas, he was a guy who showed up to the Tuesday Nigh Hammer Rides occasionally, lacking the typical svelte cycling figure, and often… uhh… smelling like he didn’t know to throw the cycling clothes through the wash very often. He rode with zero sense of self preservation that a roadie usually employs on a group ride, every pull he took made me redline. If someone was wimping out on a pull, he’d pull out of the pace line, make his way up to the front, and turn on the jets, forcing everyone to pick up the pace. Mid-engine riders take “normal” pulls, leaving themselves painfully near near threshold when done, and while doing their best not to show any outward signs of exertion, secretly relish the sight of the next rider pulling through to give them some rest. Not Dallas. I recall one Tuesday Night Hammer Ride during the summer of 2006, where during the last 10k approaching Calgary’s outskirts, a moment of satisfaction crossed my mind that I was one of 3 riders left in the lead group. I was hanging on tooth and nail, evidenced by the fact that I was replaced within 10 seconds of assuming a pull by the other guys who’d hammer it out for a minute. Dallas was hell bent on training himself into the ground, and was pushing me near aneurysm stage. With his mass, flat or downhill riding is his place to shine, and this is exactly the terrain we were on. I’m riding tight on his wheel, milking the draft for all it’s worth. Eventually my sense of dignity engages, so I pull out to the left to attempt to demonstrate that I’m still worthy enough a rider to be in the group. I shift down a gear and accelerate, hoping I can generate at least a 30 second pull. Dallas of course pulls one of his subtle tricks, which we’ll chalk up to something less than but remotely akin to altruism: he’s just trying to make us as fit as he can. He accelerates with me. We’re drag racing for the right to pull. I try one more futile acceleration, but my body has much firmer plans of blowing up at that point. I coast off to the side, and use the 3 remaining pedal strokes of power left in me to jump back into the draft. There’s only three of us left, so if there’s going to be a roation, it’s gonna be Devin “6th gear” Erfle heading up to the front. Devin shifts over to the left and accelerates. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. Dallas appears hell bent on riding himself to the limit, and decides to drag race Devin too. To state a few obvious points here – a) Dallas has been pulling, b) Dallas just drag raced me (ok, not a huge challenge), and c) Devin has been drafting for a few minutes. This one works out in Dallas’ favour. We finish off the last 300m of straightaway and transition into the final roller that signifies the end of the ride. I’m drafting in 3rd, and have nothing left for a hill sprint, I’m just the closest spectator at this point. Devin’s a hill monster, so I’m just waiting for the showdown. Knowing a calculated hill attack was coming, some riders may chose to ease up and play it out track style, hoping to have legs for a jump. Dallas, not a practitioner of subtle tactics, prefers not to take an attack lying down. A third of the way up Dallas starts full on, big ring, hands in the drops sprinting, shouting “BRING IT ON MOTHERFUCKERS”. Devin puts it in 6th gear, and after a few seconds of acceleration, nips Dallas on the last few meters of the hill. I’m suffering serious anaerobic burn, but am grinning at the chance to have witnessed the showdown.

Tuesday Night Hammers are for suffer training, pure and simple. Collectively, our friends, family, wives, co-workers, etc. wonder why on earth we bolt at 5:30 sharp to make a 6pm to sundown in any weather every Tuesday night, coming home in varying combinations of bonked, sore and exhausted. It’s pure freedom, pure stress release, pure pain. It’s animalistic, no backing down alpha-male competition. They’re harder than any road race on the circuit. It’s like Fight Club, but on two wheels. In Dallas’ world, this means the more pain, the better.



Naturally, Dallas is too powerful a rider for me to keep up with for long, but as circumstance had it, we ended up doing TransRockies 2006 together. Through thick and thin it was a pretty good time, and although we didn't impress the world with our (my!) result, we survived.

Well, before this gets too long, here’s a few concluding thoughts. Just like dogs and their owners having similarities, Dallas and his Ford truck have a lot in common. Overpowered, overweight, and suited mainly for off road.

And I’ve discovered why at the end of it all I like the guy. He’s a true Norwegian at heart, going all the way back to Nels Nelson, a famous ski jumper. It’s the sport of choice for many a Norwegian, including the modern day Bill Bakke, who made a career of it. And as Dallas says, undoubtedly Nels prayed for the blessing of Ulls, as does he. I’d have to admit I do to in my own way, and I’m not the first of my family to do so… you see Bakke means hill, but back when immigration was the thing to do, the town in northern Wisconsin that some square headed Amundsen’s decided to call home already had an Amundsen family living there… so being practical they used their knowledge of the alphabet and picked a name starting with a B – Bakke, which is “hill” in the mother tongue.

Does anyone else know any other Amundsen’s who didn’t fear a little winter weather? Well if the name isn’t on the tip of your tongue, already, it’s Roald. Roald, armed with 2 years of rations and 97 greenland dogs, sort of spontaneously decided he’d head for the south pole, since someone else had just made it to the north pole. I don’t even know if there’s any direct lineage, but a little bit of the spirit keeps me going…

No comments:

Post a Comment