Tom Walton parks his bike and surveys the surrounding terrain. Where I see modest hills sheathed in uninspiring winter brown, he sees cycling gold. 鈥淭he return on investment that we鈥檝e had,鈥� says Walton, kicking at the Arkansas dirt with his mountain-biking shoe, 鈥減roves that building urban singletrack is a great model for rural America.鈥�

In case you鈥檙e wondering: yes, Tom is one of those Waltons, grandson of Sam, founder of Walmart. And the modestly contoured Arkansas hills he鈥檚 hyping鈥攎aximum elevation maybe 1,500 feet鈥攏eighbor聽Bentonville, headquarters of the $500 billion company. The 34-year-old and his brother, Steuart, 36, are both cycling nuts, and they鈥檙e trying to do for mountain biking what the family business did for retailing: change everything. Today they鈥檙e giving me a cycling tour of their progress toward that goal鈥攕pecifically, a portion of the 163 miles of in and around their hometown that they鈥檝e commissioned through the . All told, they鈥檝e helped pour some $74 million into cycling infrastructure for the region.

It鈥檚 an ambitious plan, and you have to admire what they鈥檝e created. Back on our bikes, I attempt to follow as the brothers effortlessly whip through local favorites聽like All-American and Rocking Horse. Every trail we ride is clearly marked, categorized (鈥済ateway,鈥� 鈥渇low,鈥� 鈥渢echnical鈥� ), and, like ski runs, graded for difficulty. The classifications describe the riding profile of every path. Some have jump lines, others have rock gardens, still others feature one perfectly smoothed berm after another. 鈥淲e talk about Bentonville as a ski town for bikes,鈥� Tom told me聽before our ride.聽

鈥淪teu, do we have time for Master Plan?鈥� says Tom as we reach a fork in the trail.

鈥淚t鈥檚 Friday, T Dubs,鈥� says Steuart. 鈥淕o.鈥�

There鈥檚 little question about how the brothers got their passion for bikes and being outside. The Waltons are a cycling-centric family who put a premium on outdoor experiences. When Tom and Steuart were boys, their parents didn鈥檛 keep a TV in the house. Their uncle Rob, a former Walmart chairman, is a veteran roadie. Their dad, Jim, chairman of the board of family-owned Arvest Bank, loves the dirt. Steu and T Dubs go both ways, and they always figure out a way to mix riding and travel鈥攅ven on a recent trip to Azerbaijan. True siblings, they try to crush one another on climbs.聽

Like a lot of rural America, Bentonville (population 47,000) remains small enough to enjoy close proximity to undeveloped land that鈥檚 ripe for trail use. And because the network is being built from scratch, trails can be situated minutes from downtown hotels, restaurants, and bike shops. Many of them might be beginner-friendly, but each is a blast and easy to access. 鈥淭he barriers to entry for our kind of riding are all lower,鈥� Tom tells me as we cruise a jumpy stretch of trail called Ozone. It runs right alongside Northwest A Street in town, an intentional move aimed at inspiring passing drivers to imagine themselves on a mountain bike.

All this investment has earned Bentonville a surprising amount of attention from the mountain-biking industry. In 2016, the town hosted the International Mountain Bicycling Association World Summit. This year it plays host to Outerbike, a massive demo event normally staged in fat-tire meccas like Crested Butte, Colorado, and Moab, Utah. It鈥檚 also attracting tourists. According to a , cycling generates $51 million annually for area businesses, including $27 million from out-of-state visitors. Both Tom and Steuart tell me repeatedly that their goal is to provide a model for other rural towns with similar access to green space. Their foundation shares its formula for measuring the economic impact of cycling investment with any interested community. Indeed, an 鈥淎rkansas effect鈥� has already been felt within the fledgling trail-building industry. Nowadays trail designers and their bulldozing employees can鈥檛 keep up with demand, installing singletrack everywhere from Alabama to New Mexico.

Neither brother has a day-to-day role at Walmart. Tom, a graduate of Northern Arizona University, runs Ropeswing, a local hospitality company. Steuart has a law degree from Georgetown and owns an aircraft-manufacturing startup. But you can鈥檛 help but think聽they鈥檙e keeping the family business in mind as they funnel money into Bentonville鈥檚 cycling infrastructure. Walmart is rapidly shifting to e-commerce, which means courting the brightest minds in technology. Bentonville still has some distance to go to compete with attractive startup locales like Denver, Seattle, and the Bay Area, but the younger Waltons seem bent on changing that. Tom has opened several upscale restaurants downtown, including Pressroom and Preacher鈥檚 Son. In 2012, the brothers donated nearly $300,000 each to Keep Dollars in Benton County, a political organization that successfully campaigned to change their home聽county from dry to wet.

What鈥檚 certain is that Tom and Steuart鈥檚 goal of making the region a cycling destination doesn鈥檛 end with tourism. They want Bentonville to be a magnet for the cycling industry, too. In February, the Runway Group, an organization the brothers created to develop quality-of-life initiatives in the region, hired Brendan Quirk as its cycling program director. Quirk cofounded , a successful e-commerce site that launched in Little Rock. According to the group鈥檚 press release, he鈥檒l be responsible for 鈥減ositioning Northwest Arkansas as a leading region nationwide for the incubation and recruitment of cycling-related brands.鈥�

The industry has responded, although the siblings鈥� strategy remains a little hazy. Right now the only other cycling-related company associated with Bentonville is tiny road-bike maker , which will relocate there from Little Rock in the fall and is partially owned by the Walton brothers鈥� firm RZC Investments. And last year, RZC spent a reported $225 million to purchase Rapha, the iconic London-based apparel company that has a cult following among affluent road cyclists鈥攁 curious match, given the brothers鈥� previous focus on mountain bikers. So far, Tom and Steuart aren鈥檛 planning to move Rapha鈥檚 U.S. headquarters from Portland, Oregon, to Bentonville.

In fact, the brothers were cagey when I asked about the thinking behind the purchase. 鈥淵ou know, we kept all the leaders in place, because we believe in what they鈥檝e done so far,鈥� Steuart told me ahead of our ride. 鈥淲e鈥檒l introduce them to northwest Arkansas and let them figure out what works best here.鈥� He may as well have said, 鈥淲ho knows?鈥�

For now, Tom and Steuart Walton seem to prefer being viewed simply as benevolent ambassadors for their favorite sports鈥攁nd to spend as much time as possible spreading the gospel about their ever expanding trail network. As we finish our ride on a mellow stretch of buffed-out Bentonville singletrack, we roll up on a group of school-aged kids on foot.聽

鈥淚鈥檝e got one question for you,鈥� Tom tells them. 鈥淲here are your mountain bikes?鈥�

The post The Walmart Heirs Putting Arkansas on the Fat-Tire Map appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

With the latest Apple Watch on his left wrist and bright yellow Asics on his feet, Ray Maker suspects that disappointment lies just around the bend.

鈥淚t鈥檒l probably take three minutes to find GPS,鈥� he says, shaking his head while swiping a finger across the watch鈥檚 tiny screen. We鈥檙e prepping for a run that will be both business and pleasure. Maker, like many modern-day exercise junkies, can tell you that GPS satellites are the key to getting workout stats such as route and pace. But because he also earns a living as the blogger behind the exhaustive gear-review site , where he鈥檚 established himself as the geeks鈥� geek of fitness gadgetry, Maker can short-circuit when the acquisition of such information is delayed. The guy is mild-mannered and process-minded until the gizmo on his wrist does not compute.

鈥淧lus you don鈥檛 even know when it鈥檚 still finding the satellites,鈥� he says, trading annoyed glances between his laptop and the Apple Watch Series 3, for which he paid the full $429 retail a month earlier. 鈥淚 mean, it鈥檒l just say it鈥檚 ready to go.鈥�

Such an electronic fib reveals the one thing that every manufacturer of fitness technology should know about Maker, who is both revered and feared for his influence: he hates unreliable data.

For Maker, who specializes in reviewing fitness electronics, including bike computers, activity trackers, and GPS watches, bad data is a waste of time鈥攆or both him and his millions of readers, who are big consumers of the equipment he covers and represent the kind of early adopters that brands crave. In Maker鈥檚 opinion, providing questionable analytics is more than simply misleading jocks with flawed engineering. Providing unreliable data is lying. Maker doesn鈥檛 easily tolerate such untruths, whether they come from the CEO of a fledgling gear startup or one of the largest brands on the planet.

鈥淚f a big tech company puts out a piece of crap, I鈥檒l call them on it,鈥� he says. 鈥淚鈥檒l save people some money.鈥�

Maker worked for Microsoft for 11 years. As a solution architect, he was entrusted with the dependable flow of information to hundreds of thousands of customers. DC Rainmaker, which he started in 2006, is a riff on the same theme. Maker often posts multiple product reviews per week, many of them running at 10,000 words and often featuring more than a hundred images and graphics. Each review has a table of contents. To the 35-year-old , who lives in Paris with his two daughters and wife, Bobbie, a professional baker, each day is about delivering the goods. The couple share a two-story workspace. The top floor is Bobbie鈥檚 bakery, the Cake Studio. The basement is Maker鈥檚 gear workshop, a windowless room he calls 鈥渢he Cave.鈥�

鈥淲e鈥檒l see the Apple Watch results on a map later,鈥� he says, pushing away from his laptop and starting toward the door. Maker is a long-limbed six foot two, although his frame, once Ironman-honed, has softened slightly, courtesy of the occasional croissant or pain Suisse. 鈥淭here鈥檒l be this big gap in the watch鈥檚 data,鈥� he adds.

While mighty Apple doesn鈥檛 worry about annoying Maker (and vice versa; he accepts no advertising from the companies he covers), smaller brands, like the dozen or so whose wares currently hang off his body, certainly do. Three years ago, Runner鈥檚 World called Maker one of the . He鈥檚 even more prominent now. Each month, millions of readers pore over DC Rainmaker鈥檚 detailed product-comparison charts. His reviews often generate more than a thousand reader comments and are scrutinized by manufacturers, editors, and other gear bloggers. Pro cycling teams contact him for technical support, and the blog鈥檚 fans make pilgrimages to see the Cave鈥檚 overstuffed drawers and shelves.

Maker鈥檚 ability to make or break a product launch doesn鈥檛 come easy. He regularly works 60 hours a week. He has no staff or assistants. But stretched as he is, Maker can鈥檛 help himself. He鈥檚 as drawn to a food scale as to a new DJI drone, and the blog that began as a hobby now represents Maker鈥檚 career. He does what he loves.

We leave the workshop, which is in the Latin Quarter, and immediately cross Quai de la Tournelle. The Seine is right beside us. Notre Dame Cathedral is just to our west. But Maker is too preoccupied to absorb the beauty of the place, or even to wait for the Apple Watch to do its GPS thing. Wearing data-capturing shoe pods and insoles from four different manufacturers, a chest-strap heart monitor from a fifth, another brand鈥檚 sensor on his waistband, a GPS watch from Epson on his right wrist, carrying a third watch in one hand and an action camera in the other, Maker starts to run.

Maker was born with a huge internal hard drive. Growing up in a family of four in the Seattle suburb of Mukilteo, he liked to know how things worked. He paged through product reviews in Consumer Reports and Cook鈥檚 Illustrated. He played soccer and baseball and was a ski racer.

From a young age, Maker also wrestled with computer code. By the time he was 15, he鈥檇 written and sold software to KIRO-TV, the Seattle CBS affiliate where his dad worked as an editor and engineer. At 17, he passed a test to become a Microsoft Certified Professional. Ahead of his high school graduation in the spring of 2000, Maker asked his parents if he could skip college and enter the workforce. They said OK鈥攕o long as their son鈥檚 starting salary topped $100,000. Maker received more than 50 such offers.

In 2004, Microsoft hired Maker to design IT infrastructure, basing him in Washington, D.C. He built and implemented sprawling computer networks. He also worked on a micro level, teaching executives how to use software and writing detailed reports. Maker鈥檚 bosses demanded that he document his sophisticated work in simple language.

鈥淩ay had patience,鈥� says Joel Yoker, who spent years working with Maker at Microsoft. 鈥淗e could easily switch from troubleshooting large system problems to focusing on a single person and saying, How can I help you? Not a lot of people have that capability.鈥�

By 2006, Maker was 50 pounds overweight, and he decided to enter his first endurance event, the Marine Corps Marathon in Arlington, Virginia. He finished in 4 hours 24 minutes and followed it up with a half-Ironman triathlon ten months later. That same year, Maker started a blog to celebrate his fitness turnaround. As a play on both his name and his then home base, he called it DC Rainmaker.

Early on, the blog resembled the happy and somewhat mundane diary of a twentysomething endurance obsessive. A snapshot of an indoor lap pool one day, recollections of triathlon transitions another. But in late 2007, Maker posted watch. Back then the 305鈥檚 GPS capabilities were cutting-edge. Maker鈥檚 first analysis contained the seeds of his current write-ups: the story was critical of the 305鈥檚 inferior competition, and it was wonky, with a chart of his pedaling cadence. It was also granular (explaining numerous button functions) and dutiful (a dull picture of the watch鈥檚 heart-rate chest strap).

鈥淥ne neat feature is the USB charger plugs into the wall charger, which means that you can also use that wall charger for charging basically any USB device,鈥� Maker wrote in his now characteristic folksy prose. 鈥淛ust a minor little benefit.鈥�

The review was also dramatically longer than the standard, short-and-breezy gear reviews of the era. By early 2008, after his story went somewhat viral in the online running community, Maker鈥檚 write-up topped all the other Forerunner 305 reviews in . At the time, however, Maker was still busy working long hours for Microsoft. He continued to focus his blog on his newfound fitness lifestyle. It wasn鈥檛 until 2010, he says, that he tapped deeper into his 鈥渋nner geek,鈥� and DC Rainmaker began to evolve into the review site it is today. Eighty percent of what he now writes is gear-related.

While Maker has no background in journalism, he鈥檚 always approached the work with rigid ethical standards. Maker returns every piece of equipment sent to him for review. (No companies decline his requests for product.) Once he鈥檚 sent a device back, he then frequently turns around鈥攅ither to satisfy his gear lust or for purposes of reference鈥攁nd buys the same thing at retail. He refuses to accept paid travel from the manufacturers he covers. He never hesitates to write a negative review.

鈥淚 feel like I鈥檓 applying consumer common sense,鈥� Maker told the business publication a few years back. 鈥淔or me the idea that an advertiser or a company under review pays for your trip is weird.鈥�

Maker also ignores website-performance apps like Google Analytics, which tell him that if his articles were shorter, or contained more keywords or catchphrases, he鈥檇 likely have more readers. 鈥淚鈥檓 pretty much the worst SEO expert out there. I violate all the rules,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 make up for that by just having posts that thousands of people want to tell their friends about.鈥�

The fitness-tech industry is enjoying a moment. Since 2000, technology-focused sports-hardware companies like Garmin, GoPro, and Fitbit have gone public. Strava, a social network for endurance athletes that highlights workout details including route and intensity, launched in 2009 and has millions of users. Apple released its first watch in 2015. Last year, the wearables industry was worth an estimated $31 billion.

That boom has coincided with the rise in affiliate marketing, a phenomenon that allowed Maker to quit Microsoft in 2015 and make a living off DC Rainmaker. With affiliate programs, a cut of every sale goes to the website that successfully directs a visitor to make a purchase with a partnered retailer. The Amazon Associates affiliate-颅marketing program, which started 22 years ago, helped popularize the concept, which initially found its way into niche fashion blogs and price-comparison sites. More recently, affiliate marketing has gone mainstream. In 2016, The New York Times purchased , a gear-review site which had a business model built on affiliate marketing, for an estimated $30 million. (翱耻迟蝉颈诲别鈥�s website also participates in affiliate marketing.) Today the overall affiliate business is reportedly worth $5 billion in the U.S. alone.

Maker got into affiliate back in December 2009. He now makes money through (a big seller of fitness tech, with U.S. and European markets) and Amazon. Like other Amazon Associates, Maker gets a cut of any sale, whether the shopper ultimately buys a GPS watch championed by his blog or just a case of toilet paper, as long as the buyer was directed from his site. (Maker won鈥檛 say how much he earns off of affiliate marketing annually, but he told me that when he quit Microsoft, his finances 鈥渄idn鈥檛 change appreciably.鈥�)

Generating revenues through affiliate programs requires an audience, and Maker鈥檚 is immense considering the size of his operation. His blog enjoys four million monthly visits, three million of which are unique visitors. DC Rainmaker鈥檚 has nearly 80,000 followers, and there are around 50,000 followers each on and . Maker understands that catering to such audiences is as important as churning out long-winded reviews. He spends hours each day responding to the hundreds鈥攁nd sometimes thousands鈥攐f comments on his posts, helping readers troubleshoot issues like software glitches and compatibility problems. Even established gear manufacturers admit that Maker often acts as additional tech support.

鈥淥ur products are so sophisticated that there鈥檚 always going to be a question we haven鈥檛 thought of,鈥� says Joe Schrick, vice president of fitness for Garmin. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 have a problem with someone helping us out in terms of explanation, and for Ray, answering questions gets him a lot of hits.鈥�

Maker is also brutally honest, a rarity among gadget reviewers who are often wary of angering advertisers. In 2015, he came upon the Scottish startup Limits, which was developing new cycling power meters. Limits claimed to be on the verge of releasing an impressively affordable ($250), pedal-axle-mounted technology. But after his inquiries to the company went largely unanswered, Maker sensed fraud. He had researched power-meter technology for years, Limits鈥� prototypes were nowhere to be seen, and the company鈥檚 production schedule seemed dubious. In November 2015, Maker called out Limits in a blog post for duping its nearly 2,000 crowdfunders who, through an Indie颅gogo campaign, had backed the company with nearly $425,000.

鈥淭o Limits鈥� credit, their status updates were frequent and full of all sorts of excitement,鈥� wrote Maker. 鈥淛ust like those e-mails from folks claiming that you鈥檙e the next prince of an African country you鈥檝e never heard of.鈥�

Limits chairman Barrie Lawson subsequently e-mailed Maker with claims of defamation. Maker shot back with a blog entry titled 鈥淟imits Responds: Says they aren鈥檛 a scam (but still lie).鈥� All told, his Limits posts received almost 700 comments and a 颅quarter-million visitors.

鈥淎nd to think I almost went in on this,鈥� wrote one reader. (Limits did not respond to 翱耻迟蝉颈诲别鈥�s requests for comment.)

Knowing the blog鈥檚 power and the size of its audience, other gadget makers are understandably reluctant to say anything negative鈥攐r really much at all鈥攁bout Maker. But one industry insider, who asked to re颅main anonymous, said that Maker can be a prima donna, and griped that getting him the gear he wants, when he wants it鈥攊n France, no less鈥攃an be a pain. 鈥淵ou have to bend over backward to remind Ray how important he is,鈥� said the source. 鈥淗e always wants to see the product super early. If your finished piece doesn鈥檛 work as he thinks it should? He can take you down.鈥�

The morning after our run, Maker continues his assessment of Apple鈥檚 latest watch. He sits at the Cake Studio鈥檚 island counter, dressed blogger casual: jeans and a T-shirt. Large display windows are filled with sweets.

I look over Maker鈥檚 shoulder at his iPhone, which shows the Apple Watch鈥檚 captured data from our six-mile effort. 鈥淎pple likes to swoop everything,鈥� he says as we review our route. 鈥淭hey just make pretty lines.鈥� The Apple imagery does look neat, but it鈥檚 also inexact. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 run in the trees yesterday,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e didn鈥檛 jump over a 20-foot wall.鈥�

(Two weeks after I leave Paris, Maker doesn鈥檛 hold back. 鈥淸It] takes about two to three minutes to lock HR,鈥� he writes in the nearly 7,200-word review. 鈥淚 do want to be clear here: If this was any other company, people would crucify them for this.鈥�)

Soon we leave the bright confines of Bobbie鈥檚 kitchen and descend a winding staircase to Maker鈥檚 cluttered Cave, which looks like a mash-up of a 24 Hour Fitness and a Radio Shack. The room is filled with bikes, trainers, a treadmill, and drawers that can barely contain all of his GoPro accessories, as well as bike-computer mounts, batteries, heart-rate straps, and myriad other tech trinkets. Rows of watches and old race bibs line the walls. Tight as it is, the Cave represents an upgrade. Before leasing the workspace in 2014, Maker spent his first two years in Paris testing, storing, and blogging about gear from the family鈥檚 nearby apartment.

鈥淭his is the waterproofing station,鈥� says Maker, pointing to a glass cylinder that鈥檚 about the size of a roll of paper towels. 鈥淚 can put watches in there and test whether or not they meet waterproofing standards.鈥�

In terms of review protocol, we鈥檙e just getting started. Maker can spend more than two months field-testing a piece of gear. He鈥檒l examine every button and switch, explore all of its screens, ports, and functions, and study the owner鈥檚 manual. He evaluates accompanying software on his smartphone and laptop. He weighs products on gram scales, assesses them for packaging and fit, and lines them up against their competition, as well as earlier generations of the same device.

Maker also measures products head-to-head via custom-made software that compares things like heart rate, power, cadence, elevation, GPS, and distance. Upon finishing a workout in which he tests multiple devices, he鈥檒l fire up the app鈥攃alled DCR Analyzer 鈥攁nd process results.

Our Cave visit doesn鈥檛 end before Maker tends to a little business. He throws a leg over a 鈥攁 $2,000 smart stationary bike that communicates with VR cycling apps like Zwift and TrainerRoad. The Atom is so new that England-based Wattbike won鈥檛 offer it in the U.S. until this fall, but Maker has the ninth Atom to roll off the production line. However, the Atom has been out in Europe since September, and plenty of Maker鈥檚 rabid European readers (about 40 percent of his audience, with a similar percentage from North America), already own one. And they already have questions, which they鈥檝e posed on Maker鈥檚 post previewing his .

鈥淚t鈥檚 a little slow to respond,鈥� Maker says, pedaling in his jeans and sneakers while looking at the Atom鈥檚 controls through an iPad dashboard app. He pushes repeatedly on the Atom鈥檚 gearshift buttons. 鈥淚f I do like five shifts, it takes three to five seconds,鈥� he adds. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 actually a lot.鈥�

Later in the day, Maker e-mails Wattbike as well as app developers regarding Atom-related glitches. One stateside company founder responds at 3 A.M. Nobody wants to leave DC Rainmaker waiting.

Maker鈥檚 success stems largely from two simple facts: he created a niche in the 颅saturated gear-review market, and he invests immense amounts of sweat equity into his business.

Maker averages almost a post a day, writing about everything that could possibly be characterized as fitness tech. He鈥檒l write short or long based on product qualities like innovation and potential marketplace impact, and a couple weekly entries often measure in the thousands of words. He meticulously photographs the unboxing of new products so that potential buyers know exactly what comes with a purchase. He generates endless DC Rainmaker YouTube videos.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 know how he does it,鈥� Bobbie told me soon after I arrived in Paris. 鈥淚 want to have a CAT scan done of the guy. Let鈥檚 see if he鈥檚 a robot.鈥�

Indeed his unique skill set doesn鈥檛 bode well for DC Rainmaker鈥檚 future should he get burned out. 鈥淚n order to find a second Ray, I鈥檇 have to have someone that can photograph, video, and write well. And understand the history of the devices,鈥� he tells me on the last day of my visit. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 give a new watch to a good photographer who will take pretty pictures but not have the watch menus displayed a certain way.鈥�

Maker mostly enjoys being a one-man show. A trying day for him might involve a trip to La Poste, where, in his mediocre French, he鈥檒l have to convince an intolerant postal worker that he does have mail. (He receives at least a half-dozen boxes of gear each week.) Or Maker will have to swim laps with 20 other people in his lane at one of the city鈥檚 ridiculously overcrowded public pools. But the troubles are a small price for autonomy. Plus, Maker lives in Paris. The food is great. He earns a good living. And bike rides are part of the DC Rainmaker grind.

鈥淲e鈥檒l head west out of town,鈥� he says, opening the Cake Studio鈥檚 glass door and rolling his bicycle onto the sidewalk. Under a brightening sky, Maker watches the launch of three different bike computers, which of course are all mounted on his Giant bike in such a way that he can monitor the performance of three different power meters while he rides. Why would Maker ever waste a single mile鈥檚 worth of opportunity to test new products?

鈥淭here鈥檚 going to be a bit of traffic for a while,鈥� he adds, clicking a shoe into a pedal.

We reach the Paris suburb of Issy-les-Moulineaux, ride on quiet roads toward Versailles, and end up returning to a new smooth and traffic-free bike lane in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. Before heading back to the Cave, Maker leads us to the massive Arc de Triomphe and the roundabout that encircles it. Cars fly around the iconic monument, but for Maker the ride isn鈥檛 over until we take a quintessentially Parisian victory lap.

Maker cleanly enters the fray, and I dutifully follow. In the name of survival, I take my eye off him as we go around. When the traffic momentarily relents, I look up, and there鈥檚 Maker, riding through the scrum with one hand and holding an action camera with the other, recording everything he can.

Andrew Tilin () is an 国产吃瓜黑料 contributing editor. He wrote about the online cycling game Zwift In October 2016.

The post The Man Behind the DC Rainmaker Gear-Review Empire appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

After watching the parade of Olympic skiers come heartbreakingly close to medaling in Pyeongchang, South Korea, one would be forgiven for thinking that ski racing is a young person鈥檚 sport. After all, Lindsey Vonn just became the oldest woman to medal in an alpine Olympic event鈥攁t the ripe old age of 33.

But that would disregard the feats of 56-year-old Lisa Ballard. Last year, Ballard won the aging athlete鈥檚 version of the Olympics and World Cup鈥攖he FIS Masters Cup鈥攊n super-G. She鈥檚 the only American to win the category, earning her an oversized glass globe trophy that looks a lot like those won by current world-beaters such as Vonn and Mikaela Shiffrin.

鈥淲inning a globe had always been percolating in me,鈥� says Ballard, who now lives in Red Lodge, Montana. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 want there to always be that woulda, coulda, shoulda.鈥�

Ballard has really never wavered from a life on skis. In the quarter-century ahead of winning the Masters Cup, she trounced many of the 2,000 other American masters ski racers, winning a ridiculous 96 U.S. Alpine Masters national championships. She also spent several years on the , which came after a tour of duty on the U.S. Ski Team.

Ballard grew up in the Adirondacks, where she initially debated between a career on skis or ice skates. Her dad ski raced; her mother figure skated. For a while, Ballard did both. However, her parents grew tired of the two-sport schlep, and she had to choose a path. Ballard picked skiing, a sport whose hard truths she admired. 鈥淔igure skating is a judged sport,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut if I鈥檓 the fastest person on the hill, nobody can refute that.鈥�

Ballard attended Vermont鈥檚 ski-centric ahead of spending several years as an aspiring downhiller on the U.S. Ski Team. A hairline fracture in her leg one month before opening ceremonies ended all visions of Ballard racing at the 1980 Lake Placid Olympic Games. 鈥淗eartbreaker,鈥� says Ballard, who went on to ski for鈥攁nd graduate from鈥擠artmouth College.

Her Olympic dreams never materialized鈥攂ut her national and world championship dreams did. Eleven years after the Lake Placid Games, Ballard entered her first and soon became the athlete to beat. She owns multiple national titles in every discipline: slalom, giant slalom, super-G, and downhill. 鈥淎s long as I can remember, Lisa鈥檚 been the 鈥榝ast lady,鈥欌�� says Deb Lewis, another fixture of the U.S. Alpine Masters scene. 鈥淚f you鈥檙e close to her, you feel good about your day.鈥�

Yet Ballard longed for a chance to race the international FIS Masters events. At many of the 40 annual Masters Cup competitions, Ballard estimates that the fields are more than 300 strong, and the caliber of competition is superior to the U.S. comps. 鈥淎 lot of those Austrians who show up at Masters Cup competitions? They never played basketball or anything else,鈥� says Bill Skinner, national masters manager for . 鈥淪kiing is their life.鈥�

For Ballard, winning a 2017 FIS Masters globe started with strategizing. The competitions are Eurocentric聽in terms of both the athletes and the venues. She mapped out 15 races. (The best nine finishes count toward qualification, starting with September competitions in 12,000-foot Andean ski resorts that sit above Santiago, Chile.) The early events, held far away from western Europe, tended to have smaller fields. 鈥淚 wanted four quick wins,鈥� Ballard says.

On the day of her first race, Ballard caught an edge while warming up and cartwheeled down the better part of a 500-foot headwall. Yet Ballard kept what would become a crippling hematoma at bay for a couple days in Chile, winning three races that week on ibuprofen and grit. She won another four golds鈥攖wo super-Gs, a giant slalom, and a slalom鈥攚hen the Masters Cup made its annual trek to North America (Park City, Utah, in February 2017).

Between racing and ski coaching, Ballard spends 100 days annually on skis. But she confesses to 鈥渉ating the gym鈥� and instead prepares for ski runs, which can last more than a minute and average upwards of 70 miles per hour, by cycling, paddling, hiking, slacklining, and playing tennis. Ballard also has a lifelong dedication to flexibility and core work. She鈥檒l exercise accordingly almost daily, if only for ten minutes at a stretch.

鈥淚n ski racing, you鈥檙e so often performing in extended and odd positions,鈥� Ballard says. 鈥淪o many masters athletes don鈥檛 pay attention to flexibility and agility. They only think 鈥榓erobic.鈥� Let me tell you, in my years of masters racing, I鈥檝e seen some really ugly tucks.鈥�

Yet ski racing is still what Ballard calls her 鈥減ersonal time.鈥� When she鈥檚 not on the mountain, she hustles as a professional photographer, freelance writer, and ski coach. Whereas some masters skiers have been known to spend $20,000 in pursuit of a globe, Ballard cobbled together her run at a world championship title. For months, she shopped flights鈥攖he round-trip to South America聽and two more to Europe鈥攚ith her frequent-flyer miles. She stayed with friends in Park City.

Coming into last April鈥檚 finals in Abetone, Italy, Ballard was tied with three Europeans for the 55-to-59 age group title. She finished 0.2 seconds out of first in the giant slalom and 0.5 seconds off the lead in the slalom. But over the entire season, nobody had accumulated more super-G victories. Ballard became the first American woman ever to win an FIS Masters oversized globe for the discipline.

She still wants that age-group title. Ballard will compete when the kaleidoscope of FIS racers soon comes to , on March 20. 鈥淚 know that hill well,鈥� says Ballard, who lives only three hours away. 鈥淚鈥檝e won national championships on it.鈥�

But this year, she鈥檒l only race for more Big Sky bragging rights. Pursuit of another globe will have to wait for Ballard to accumulate more savings鈥攁nd frequent-flyer miles. Fortunately, time seems to be on her side. 鈥淚 hope to try again in another year or two,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 have a job that remains unfinished.鈥�

Shortly after Andrew Tilin, our Masters Athlete columnist and longtime contributor, wrote this story, he was killed in a traffic-related accident in Austin, Texas. He was 52.

The post The World’s Best Skier Isn’t Named Lindsey Vonn appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

As a runner, aging marathoner seemingly does a lot wrong. She doesn鈥檛 put much thought into her diet. She never stretches. Hates speed work. Can鈥檛 train much on hills or in crystalline air. Owns a bunch of foam rollers, all of which go unused. And yet, back in late 2016 and probably between handfuls of Doritos, Friel told her coach that in 2017 and at 50 years old, she wanted to qualify for the 2020 U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials.

Then she did something very right. On December 3, Friel became the second-oldest woman ever to land a spot at a trials marathon. She finished Sacramento鈥檚 in a swift 2:43:57, well under the qualifying time of 2:45 and far faster than the time then-54-year-old Sister Marion Irvine ran (2:51:01) to qualify for the 1984 U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials. Friel ran virtually each of the flat CIM鈥檚 26.2 miles in 6.25聽minutes.

But Friel is not exactly the freewheeling John Daly of masters marathoning. She鈥檚 consistent. Friel also qualified for the trials in 2004 and 2016. She鈥檚 workwomanlike, logging 100-mile weeks in an era when many of her peers opt for less. She鈥檚 also unfettered. Friel trains and competes as she does only to please herself. 鈥淚鈥檓 not sure that these stupid-crazy finishing times get me anything,鈥� she says, 鈥渆xcept self-satisfaction.鈥�

Well, such 鈥渟tupid-crazy鈥� results also gain Friel entry into America鈥檚 most selective women鈥檚 marathon. In the trials, Friel will no doubt lose to athletes who are a fraction of her age. But don鈥檛 lose sight of the cool truth that Friel, who was running high school track before a lot of her competition were born, gets the honor of being in the mix. You don鈥檛 see 50-year-olds playing Wimbledon or racing in the Tour de France. Older athletes generally have lost more than their world-class abilities. They鈥檝e lost the desire to push themselves ridiculously hard.

鈥淚鈥檝e never met this woman, but clearly she loves to run,鈥� says Robert Andrews, founder of the , a Houston-based organization that focuses on mental performance and works with myriad pro athletes and Olympians. 鈥淗er authentic self seems to mesh with her natural talents.鈥�

Friel鈥檚 age isn鈥檛 the only quality that distinguishes her from her competition. Take her approach to traditional speed work: Friel has always disliked the track sessions that are often part of a marathoner鈥檚 training mashup. In the buildup to Friel鈥檚 CIM race, her coach devised workarounds. Ian Torrence, who heads up the Flagstaff, Arizona鈥揵ased coaching company , often forced his athlete to dig deep during, for example, a 17-miler. Friel would run a few miles at a 6:10 pace, and then a few more at 6:20. Then she would repeat and repeat. She says she suffered plenty.

鈥淥n paper, you鈥檇 think Molly would be able to run a fast 5K,鈥� says Torrence, who has coached Friel for five years. 鈥淣ot her thing.鈥�

For her age, Friel also logs a lot of distance. She believes her peers don鈥檛 approach her mileage, and guidelines indeed exist for 鈥渙lder鈥� marathoners to log as little as one-third of Friel鈥檚 biggest weeks. On and off, she鈥檚 been running a lot since she was a kid growing up in Great Falls, Montana. 鈥淚鈥檒l see a lot of women saying quality, not quantity. But some people鈥檚 bodies can鈥檛 hold up to more stress,鈥� says Friel. 鈥淚鈥檓 a mileage junkie. I鈥檓 on the odd end.鈥�

What鈥檚 even weirder is where such a prolific runner lives. Friel, who works part-time as a legal secretary, resides and trains in Fresno. The hot, flat, and smoggy central California farming hub has been home to Friel and her husband for 14 years. In prepping for CIM, she deepened her groove in the Lewis S. Eaton Trail inside Woodward Park. Friel pounded up and down the mosquito bite of a climb that is Hospital Hill. 鈥淵ou make do with what you鈥檝e got,鈥� says Friel, who sometimes trains alone and sometimes with her Dalmatians, Buster and Flynn. 鈥淭hat little bit of extra particulate matter in the air is my form of altitude training.鈥�

As her A-race approached, Friel did some push-ups, snacked on Doritos, and never stretched. 鈥淭hough sometimes I pretended,鈥� she says.

Then, on a mild Sacramento day last December, Friel had a great race. She set out with a pace group purposed to finish in 2:45. Friel knew the pacesetter, and when she fell back at mile 11 and again at mile 15, Friel said to herself, 鈥淚 know I can run with him.鈥�

Torrence hadn鈥檛 given his client a backup strategy. 鈥淭he goal was to qualify,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f she blew up, she blew up.鈥�

Somewhere after mile 15, however, Friel found a rhythm. While she downplays her competitiveness and her connection to running, it鈥檚 highly likely that the athlete who seemingly does so much wrong enjoyed what gets her out there every day. Before mile 20, Friel dropped her pacesetter pal and his group.

鈥淟ove and passion for what you do are their own kind of fuel,鈥� says mental performance coach Andrews. 鈥淚n some cases, that can be better than the right diet or whatever was your target number of training reps.鈥�

Now Friel waits for which of four cities, come the winter of 2020, will host the Olympic Trials. Torrence says that even without the help of a foam roller or a better diet, the 50-year-old Friel will show that she belongs. 鈥淪he鈥檚 going to do better than what people think,鈥� he says. 鈥淪he won鈥檛 be bringing up the rear.鈥�

Shortly after Andrew Tilin, our Masters Athlete columnist and longtime contributor, wrote this story, he was killed in a traffic-related accident in Austin, Texas. He was 52.

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Cycling coach and world-class rider Gary Hoffman, 66, knows exactly why older athletes often lack explosive power. They tell themselves to plod toward the horizon, convinced that the days of sprints, leaps, launches, and dynos are gone.

But Hoffman鈥攁nd recent science鈥攕ays聽don't listen to foot-dragging naysayers. 鈥淔or years people told me I wasn鈥檛 a sprinter,鈥� says Hoffman, who last summer won silver in the match sprint at USA Cycling鈥檚 2017 Masters Track National Championships.

The biological truth is you鈥檙e never too old to train at intensity, or聽to wield it. Intensity training聽commands relatively little workout time, makes you faster, and pretty much lassoes the aging process. 鈥淵ou鈥檒l get slower more slowly,鈥� says Hoffman.

Here鈥檚 the proof: last year, researchers at Minnesota鈥檚 Mayo Clinic put 60 subjects鈥攎any of them between 65 and 80 years of age鈥攖hrough a 12-week program that included high-intensity aerobic interval training (HIIT). The regimen, which featured four four-minute cycling intervals three times per week, as well as treadmill work and resistance training, improved lean body mass, aerobic capacity, and mitochondrial function. Mitochondria are cell organelles that contribute to the making of new proteins, and their improved operation delivers greater energy and more musculature.

鈥淥ur data suggest [sic] that exercise training in older humans can induce a strong upregulation of mitochondrial proteins,鈥� wrote the study鈥檚 eight authors in . 鈥淗IIT appears to be an effective recommendation to improve cardio metabolic health鈥n aging adults.鈥�

Hoffman is the track-cycling manifestation of such a finding. The category 2 racer, USA Cycling coach, and member of the is a one-time elite road racer who backed off competitive riding in early middle age to raise a family and build a business in Charlottesville, Virginia. Now, over 40 years after competing in the 1976 Team USA Olympic Trials road race, Hoffman is again hammering on two wheels. He credits much of his 2017 success, which includes a bronze medal in the team pursuit at the 2017 UCI Masters Track World Championships, to power-related work. 鈥淚鈥檝e discovered a lot through my high-intensity training,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a holy grail. It鈥檚 also legal.鈥�

Year-round, Hoffman does a sprint workout on his bike at least once a week. The workout will include 10 to 15, 12- to 20-second efforts, which begin from a standstill. Hoffman then launches himself from a gear so big that even one revolution of the pedals is a challenge. He鈥檒l rest three minutes or more between intervals, and yet often finish the entire workout in under an hour. 鈥淵ou do need specificity of movement so that you鈥檙e teaching your body to recruit exactly the right muscles,鈥� he says. 鈥淣o matter what your sport.鈥�

Hoffman聽sends his older athletes to grunt through intensity work at the gym. He says that the right kind of resistance training can diminish the effects of sarcopenia, or the age-related loss of lean muscle mass, which can snowball聽once we reach our 40s. Hoffman, who estimates that he totes around less than 10 percent body fat, is partial to kettlebell work, which he says strengthens his core, back, and upper body. Plus, dynamic kettlebell work鈥攈e can swing聽鈥攃an burn the equivalent of聽20 calories per minute.

Introducing intensity work to your exercise routine, however, should be gradual. With age, muscles often shorten, and connective tissue can stiffen. Your range of motion likely isn鈥檛 what it once was. Doing your best Lindsey Vonn or Usain Bolt imitation too soon or too often can lead to injury. Hoffman, who estimates that he鈥檚 completed 15,000 sprint workouts over the last 30 years, might point his athletes to the gym for as little as 20 minutes per session. The kettlebell work in particular requires proper technique in order to avoid injury.聽鈥淵our muscles have to stabilize you while they also move the weight,鈥� he says. 鈥淒o it under the guidance of a professional.鈥�

But whatever you do, don鈥檛 shy away from the high-intensity work. over whether or not we can, at any age, reconfigure our muscle composition in a way that makes us ever faster and more explosive. But there鈥檚 no doubt that the vast majority of aging athletes don鈥檛 harness the fast-twitch muscle fibers they already have.

鈥淕iven the chance, your body will do a lot,鈥� says Hoffman. 鈥淭here鈥檚 no reason that an older athlete has to lose a bunch of muscle or mojo.鈥�

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Figure it one way, and the news that Rob Kelman, who鈥檚 been climbing half his life, Wyoming鈥檚 iconic Devils Tower is unspectacular. Lots of experienced climbers bag the basalt-like, 900-foot monolith. But Kelman started climbing in 1971, at age 41.

Do the math. Kelman is now 87, and officially the oldest climber ever to bag Devils Tower. He鈥檚 a retired mathematician who worked in the Eisenhower Administration鈥檚 White House, in the 1950s. Kelman tore up his left knee and lost his entire meniscus before the invention of arthroscopic surgery. He lost his ACL in that same knee while bouldering in the 1970s. He had his first heart surgery 20 years ago. He had his second in 2015, and at age 85, Kelman emerged from that procedure with resolve. 鈥淚 thought it would be nice to have a goal,鈥� he says. 鈥淒evils Tower kind of popped up.鈥�

Huh? What does the bright-eyed and articulate Kelman drink, swallow, inject?聽What鈥檚 his brand of mattress? His secret?

To which Kelman replies: Climbing and exercise.

鈥淎ll this attention is a bit unexpected,鈥� says Kelman, a Loveland, Colorado, local whose achievement quickly became a feature on Denver TV news. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 realize how things spread around the Internet.鈥�

When it comes to aging and athleticism, Kelman has long practiced what researchers and doctors now preach: always keep moving. No matter your age, continue running, skiing, kayaking, downward-dogging鈥verything. As best as you can, and at different speeds, angles, and intensities.

鈥淭he main thing with these older athletes? They鈥檝e stayed with it,鈥� says Michael Joyner, a physician and faculty member focused on human performance at the Mayo Clinic. 鈥淭hey鈥檝e kept their muscle mass up, they鈥檙e not overweight. They go at their sports just about every day.鈥�

Research has proven that athletic tenacity begets athleticism. An ambitious, , published in 2011 by the American Journal of Preventive Medicine, found that performance during physical challenges like 鈥渃hair rises鈥� and 鈥渟tanding balance鈥� was superior among 53-year-old subjects who characterized themselves as moderately active or most active. The study鈥檚 3,000 subjects had been tested with the same challenges years before, at ages 36 and 43. The research also indicated that those who were active earlier in life tended to remain active in middle age, too.

鈥淚鈥檓 always preaching lifestyle activities as lifetime activities,鈥� says Kelly Rice, an associate professor of Activity and Health at Eastern Oregon University in La Grande. 鈥淲e鈥檒l decline with age, but we can slow that decline.鈥�

Enter the 87-year-old, 5-foot-6 Kelman, who鈥檚 a lifelong gym rat. Often thrice weekly, you鈥檒l find him in his 425-square-foot weight room at home. Kelman performs presses, squats, power cleans, and the like. 鈥淚 do chin-ups, palms both forward and reversed,鈥� he says. 鈥淚鈥檒l do ten with no weight. I鈥檒l do some with 30 pounds on my back.鈥澛�

Over the decades, Kelman has climbed in various corners of North America. He wrote a , a granite outcropping in southeast Wyoming. But as time passed, Kelman increasingly found himself to be his tribe鈥檚 consummate graybeard. 鈥淚鈥檝e lived long enough for four of my climbing partners to die of cancer,鈥� he says. 鈥淎nother one died of a heart attack. But these are just life鈥檚 exigencies.鈥�

Kelman does have DNA on his side. His mother lived to 99 and he had aunts who lived into their 100s. The experts, however, say not to make too much of biological inheritance. 鈥淕enetics may tell us something about potential,鈥� says Rice. 鈥淏ut behavior and lifestyle decide if we鈥檒l ever reach our potential.鈥�

Kelman set his mind on Devils Tower, which is less than a day鈥檚 drive from his home and has an easy approach, several months after his 2015 aortic valve replacement. He also liked that the landmark is widely revered鈥攁nd that he might set a record. 鈥淚 did want to break it,鈥� he says. The Mayo Clinic鈥檚 Joyner finds swagger in a lot of truly old but dedicated athletes. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e pleasantly aggressive,鈥� he says. 鈥淚n a sort of crazy, paradoxical way, they have the attitudes of 16-year-olds.鈥�

The valve replacement, however, initially left Kelman feeling puny. After the surgery, he spent months lifting virtually nothing. He wouldn鈥檛 let himself return to the rock before meeting self-imposed goals: complete 12 chin-ups; perform six somersaults. 鈥淭he body needed to be sturdy enough,鈥� he says.

Kelman returned to the rock in spring 2016. His high-stepping was weak. His endurance lacked. He went to Devils Tower, which he鈥檇 last climbed in the 1990s. While Kelman is an experienced crack climber who once climbed 5.11, the 5.7, crack-filled wall turned him back. 鈥淚 remembered clearly how to do every move,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut I鈥檇 put my hand there and my foot here, and pull鈥攁nd nothing would happen.鈥�

So he went back to the gym.聽

Last month, when Kelman again stood at the base of Devils Tower, alongside hired climbing guide Taylor Lais, he was a vastly improved athlete.聽Yet Lais had concerns. In the walkup and pre-climb prep, Kelman had moved slowly. In a way, he acted his age. 鈥淚 just thought, if the shit hits the fan, what would that be? How am I going to deal?鈥� Lais later told me. He鈥檚 previously guided upwards of 40 trips up Devils Tower. Obviously, Kelman was his oldest client.

But soon Lais was relieved and impressed. The rock had a Midas effect on Kelman: he touched it and was transformed. 鈥淚 could immediately tell that Rob has been doing this for a long time,鈥� says Lais. 鈥淩eally it was like, holy cow. He has his technique down.鈥�

In the spirit of added rest and greater oversight, the pair agreed to break up the ascent into a numerous eight pitches. The temperature climbed, the rock heated to the point of feeling less sticky, and more chalk was sought for sweaty hands. The climbers kept climbing. 鈥淚 took a couple falls, but the protection was good,鈥� says Kelman. 鈥淚 was mostly annoyed with myself.鈥�

Halfway up, though, Kelman felt his strength ebb. He drank from the water that Lais had hauled up the wall, and ate an energy bar meant for kids. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e not going to stop now,鈥� he told himself.聽Lais said the turning point came at the end of the sixth pitch. He truly believed that his 87-year-old client still had enough left to finish the Tower, and rightfully claim that he did it all on his own. 鈥淚 told him, it鈥檚 going to happen, Rob. You鈥檒l make it,鈥� says Lais.

About five hours after he started out, Kelman reached the top and posed next to the summit post.聽The whitish-gray beard and slightly stooped stance said old man. The orange helmet, sunglasses, and long-sleeve T-shirt with a huge Superman logo said kid.聽

鈥淎t the top, I said a little prayer of thanksgiving,鈥� says Kelman. 鈥淚鈥檓 here. That鈥檚 good.鈥�

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You might ask what the world鈥檚 most intrepid paddler does for 110 days while kayaking聽across the Atlantic Ocean solo. He gets naked.

The logic is obvious to 71-year-old : no chafing, no laundry, and no one to judge you.聽

Last month, the perpetually upbeat and determined Polish athlete, who had ignored all sorts of common sense and caution, finished his successful crossing of the Atlantic in a one-man, human-powered boat. Only three other kayakers聽have ever achieved the accomplishment (Franz Romer in 1928; Hannes Lindemann in 1956; and Peter Bray in 2001, ), and Doba is the only one to have done it three times. Again: The man is in his eighth decade. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not like he鈥檚 an older guy who set out to climb a hill,鈥� says Piotr Chmielinski, a supporter and the expedition鈥檚 publicist, who himself once kayaked the Amazon River. 鈥淥lek decided to cross an ocean.鈥�

, Doba pushed his 23-foot long, 39-inch wide, reinforced fiberglass kayak, named Olo, off the New Jersey seaboard and toward Lisbon, Portugal. The mishaps started almost immediately. First,聽Olo nearly ran aground close to the Sandy Hook coastline. Man and vessel were towed away from the land, and in the process, Olo鈥攚hich weighs 1,600 pounds full and has a tiny compartment for sleeping鈥攏early capsized. Over the next four days, Doba advanced about 60 miles east under his own power before retreating to the Jersey coast ahead of an approaching storm. Onshore, he grabbed a steak dinner and some new compasses. He then re-started the journey on May 16.聽

The seasoned adventure kayaker, who over the last 37 years has logged 62,000 water-going miles, including circumnavigations of Lake Baikal (1,200 miles) and the Baltic Sea (2,600 miles), didn鈥檛聽anticipate an easy float trip. On his聽first trans-Atlantic journey鈥攁 99-day trip in 2011 from聽Dakar, Senegal, to Acala, Brazil鈥攈e endured weeks of stormy weather. During his聽second attempt鈥�167 days at sea, from聽Lisbon to New Smyrna Beach, Florida, in 2014鈥攈e paddled in circles inside the Bermuda Triangle,聽then had to stop on an聽island聽for boat repair.聽

Yet Doba, a retired chemical engineer who skydived, flew gliders, and sailed before he started kayaking, never lost enthusiasm for crossing the Atlantic. 鈥淥n the water, I never think about dying or that I could die,鈥� Doba later told me through an interpreter. 鈥淭he kayak is very safe.鈥�

Doba鈥檚 team didn鈥檛 agree. Polish yacht builder Andrzej Arminski, who overbuilt Olo with a keel and superstructure, worried that the kayak might come apart in rough northern seas. He characterized Doba鈥檚 third trans-Atlantic attempt as 鈥渟uicidal.鈥� Doba鈥檚 navigation advisor, noting that tricky trade winds can blow west across the ocean, didn鈥檛 expect the paddler to finish. Yet none of those concerns fazed Doba.聽鈥淢y assumption,鈥� says Chmielinski, 鈥渋s that Olek would prefer to finish somewhere with the sharks than not to attempt his dream.鈥�

Sponsors, including聽Chmielinski, have supported all聽three of Doba's聽trans-Atlantic expeditions. Over the course of his adventuring, these patrons have stepped in with a $20,000 kayak fix here, a $75,000 transport cost there.聽Doba聽seems to attract sympathy and goodwill precisely because he looks less like Odysseus and more like a down-and-out Santa Claus. 鈥淚f you鈥檙e 30-something and stuck in the middle of the ocean, that seems to be your problem,鈥� says聽Chmielinski. 鈥淏ut at 70,聽Olek聽is an聽.鈥�

Doba first tried his third trans-Atlantic crossing in 2016. That May, he paddled past the shadow of the Statue of Liberty with media and a documentary crew in tow, only to encounter unkind conditions almost immediately. Within two days, he鈥檇 washed up at Sandy Hook Park. Breaking waves had left the kayak鈥檚 key electronics equipment waterlogged and useless. A cop鈥攁nd the owner of a Bobcat-type loader鈥攁nd聽Chmielinski helped with the rescue Olo and Doba. Thus his 2017 attempt across the Atlantic was all about redemption. He skipped the Big Apple. Media wasn鈥檛 invited to the sendoff. 鈥淥n this trip, I would paddle seven to 12 hours a day,鈥� Doba says.

But even after his successful, mid-May reboot, Doba encountered imposing hurdles. One night in early June, Doba tried to sleep through a weather spasm of 40-knot winds and two-story waves. Unfortunately, his airtight, cramped sleeping compartment, nicknamed 鈥渢he Casket,鈥� lacked proper ventilation. Doba was up every 15 minutes opening the hatch for air. By morning Olo鈥檚 anchor rigging had badly twisted some of the boat鈥檚 key rudder hardware. Doba jury-rigged the steering system to stay close to course, although he made inconsistent progress for three long weeks. On June 30, he remained over 2,000 miles from Lisbon.聽 聽

He needed help. Chmielinski looked at rescue efforts costing between $15,000 and $80,000 before the captain of a 600-foot cargo ship bound for Central America took pity on Doba. He plucked the paddler and his boat from the sea and set his crew to fixing Olo. The captain wanted no money. Instead, he tried to insist that the paddler was too fragile to finish the journey. Doba鈥檚 wife, Gabriela, and other friends聽agreed. But Doba was insistent.聽鈥淭he ship was sailing to Panama, and I was headed in a different direction,鈥� he says.聽

Several hours and a hot meal later, Doba and Olo were back in the Atlantic. The assist caused Doba to lose all hope of setting a Guinness World Record for the longest unassisted journey by kayak or canoe. But he remained positive, even when an early August storm punished him with 55-knot gusts and white seas. 鈥淚鈥檓 always a 150 percent optimist,鈥� he says. 鈥淥kay, in bad days, I鈥檓 100 percent.鈥�

Dining on rehydrated cabbage stew, chicken tikka masala, and pasta with Bolognese sauce (the Olo was armed with desalinators and solar panels), and paddling naked whenever the weather warmed, Doba was blown northeast. On September 3, after navigating a dicey stretch of the English Channel, Olo landed in the French port town of Le Conquet.

He didn鈥檛 get the Guinness record, but Chmielinski contends聽that Doba, who achieved his continent-to-continent goal, traveled over 25 percent farther than the 3,000-mile-route might indicate. 鈥淭here were days where he went 100 miles in the wrong direction,鈥� he says. 鈥淭wo steps forward, one step back.鈥�

Doba says that he now wants to spend time paddling with members of his local Polish kayaking association. He hopes to hang out with his three young grandchildren.

But Grandpa Olek鈥檚 big adventures may continue yet. 鈥淚 have 29 years to go before I turn 100,鈥� says Doba. 鈥淢y body looks a little old. But inside? My heart and mind are all young.鈥�

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鈥淎 little public-service announcement,鈥� declares off-road riding legend , also sometimes known as 鈥�the Queen of Pain.鈥� My childhood buddy Adam Willner and I lean in, along with perhaps 200 other cyclists. We鈥檝e each traveled many hundreds of miles鈥擨鈥檝e come from Texas, Adam from California鈥攊n the name of two-wheeled adventure and affirming 40 years of friendship on this September weekend. Tomorrow we鈥檒l ride an off-road challenge, which Rusch unabashedly calls (RPI). The particularly masochistic, century-length option that we鈥檝e chosen is appropriately branded the 鈥淏ig Potato.鈥�

Standing at the foot of a pretty Idaho meadow, Rusch faces a gathering of RPI participants who鈥檝e opted to attend the Saturday pre-ride. We鈥檙e taking a break halfway through the 20-mile, out-and-back workout, and Rusch is bent over a beast of a road bike, and giving welcome guidance. Adam and I, and no doubt many in the helmeted tribe all around us, may know plenty about cycling. But the two of us can talk a sliver of nothing about the form of riding known as gravel grinding, which we鈥檒l be doing, for many hot and dusty miles, within 24 hours. We鈥檙e grinder rookies, and we鈥檙e learning that, in the simplest of terms, gravel grinding is road riding on everything but road.

鈥淚t鈥檚 a lot more secure and safe to descend in your drops. You鈥檙e all tucked in,鈥� says Rusch, flexing her forged arms so that she can wedge her hands into the curves of road-bike style handlebars. The bike underneath her has, for a road-type bike anyway, supremely fat and knobby tires, as well as disc brakes. All standard gravel-grinding fare. 鈥淚f you鈥檙e descending up here on washboards and going super-fast?鈥� she says, tapping on the tops of the handlebars. 鈥淵ou have a lot more opportunities to come off.鈥�

Rusch says that the final, bumpy, 1,500-foot, dirt-and-dust descent ahead of the finish lacks a guardrail, and that the drop-off is sometimes 1,000聽feet.聽

鈥淵ou know, it鈥檚 narrow,鈥� she adds.聽

Welcome to the kind of stupid-great adventure that two young-thinking but old and nostalgic pals might embark on. RPI, which is in its fifth year and climbs over 5,000 feet across nearly 94 miles through south-central Idaho鈥檚 Pioneer Mountains, initially felt far more doable and digestible to a couple of bike-loving friends than, say, a weeklong . Adam and I figured that we鈥檇 frame a bro weekend in Idaho鈥檚 mountainous Ketchum and Sun Valley terrain around RPI. When we weren鈥檛 on our saddles, we鈥檇 kick back at the condo, or feed at some oft-Yelped, quaint eatery. On the continuum of BFF reunions, we thought that this one would lean closer to a spa weekend than to Deliverance.

But then the gravel reared its head.

A day earlier and on Adam鈥檚 and my first Idaho ride together, we鈥檇 loaded up on a Mexican lunch, pulled on spandex, and grabbed our bikes. We agreed to pedal at an easy pace on one of the many dirt roads leading from town and then鈥� we suffered. Our lungs, which live a lot closer to sea level than Ketchum鈥檚 6,000 feet, groped for oxygen. Our 52-year-old legs felt wooden on a climb that didn鈥檛 ease much over 10聽miles.

The worst, however, was yet to come. The last time I鈥檇 descended miles of dirt on a suspension-free bike, the Berlin Wall remained upright. Even in the 1980s, I was still riding dirt on a truly fat-tired mountain bike. In Idaho, on the other hand, I was on my new, rugged aluminum cyclocross bike, which I鈥檇 fitted with oversize tires and extra-low gearing, specifically for RPI. A mechanic at my local shop called my ride a 鈥淔rankenbike.鈥� It was expensive, too. But hey: Can you put a price on lifelong friendship?

Frankenbike, cyclocross bike, whatever鈥攖he dirt-road descent seized up my shoulder blades and hands. My ligaments and muscles shook like dice in a cup. Adam, on his new carbon-fiber gravel grinder, fared no better. By the time we reached pavement, I felt that a couple of aging athletes were about 20 years too late for the moment.

A day later, and with Adam and I still smarting, Rusch concluded her public service announcement by telling us and the rest of the pre-ride crowd to rest up ahead of tomorrow鈥檚 RPI. Rather matter-of-factly, she told us that if we wanted to be Big Potatoes by day鈥檚 end, we鈥檇 need to suck it up.

Persistent shoulder pain or no, I still felt overwhelmingly happy. The love and understanding of an old friend is one of life鈥檚 most glorious intangibles. You can鈥檛 put a metric on, say, the soothing feel of cool dew meeting bare feet on a crisp morning. Or how great it is to watch your dog go legs-up on a patch of grass, and zealously roll and roll on its back.聽

The same kind of joy comes from a friend gently laughing at you when you get frustrated鈥攁s you did in his company聽35 years ago while you were traveling abroad together, when聽he watched as you pushed back on a prickly inn-keeper over the money spent for a dumpy room in Brixton鈥攂ecause you鈥檙e burning through all the zip-ties while wrongly fastening your racing chip to your bike fork. Doesn鈥檛 really matter that you鈥檙e no longer a teenager.聽

鈥淒rew, it鈥檒l be OK,鈥� he says with a chuckle as I fume over a job poorly done. 鈥淲e鈥檒l get more zip-ties back at the packet pickup tables.鈥�

Adam is gray-haired but still ever cheerful, with a round, unlined face that defies the weight of life encountered by so many of us in middle age. Adam also looks about as lean and strong as he did when we met as freshmen at San Francisco University High School back in the fall of 1979. And where he once was an entrepreneurial restaurateur who only occasionally found time to ride, Adam and his wife, Marta, are now nearly empty nesters. Over the last decade he鈥檚 gone from cycling enthusiast to mileage monster while thriving as a father, chef, and host. In 2017 alone, my friend has ridden three organized 200-mile rides.聽

I鈥檝e been riding since I was 18, and my three oldest friends in the world have each been part of the journey. In my early 20s, I toured across Europe with Dave Rosenthal. I raced bikes all over the west with Peter Wood in my 30s and 40s. Now on a brisk Idaho morning in summer 2017, Adam and I were about to pile more stories onto a friendship that already included memories of high-school parties, weddings, births of children, and celebrations of families and careers. Adam and I fasten our helmet straps before walking out the condo door.

Glorious intangibles. Adam鈥檚 cleats click into place, and I watch as my longtime friend takes his first pedal strokes toward the RPI start line.

Soon, after almost 1,000 riders bow their heads in downtown Ketchum for “America the Beautiful,” I do what any compulsive, longtime, self-important bike racer does: I drop all the riders that I can, including my best friend. The four-mile聽dirt climb up Trail Creek Road near the start of RPI plays to my scrawny frame, and my often short but intense training. Adam, whose natural bulk steered him to play lacrosse in high school, still has 40 pounds on me.聽

鈥淗ey, Texas,鈥� Adam says as he comes up behind me, two-thirds of the way to Trail Creek鈥檚 7,800-foot summit. 鈥淣ice riding.鈥�

Even though we聽haven鈥檛聽hatched a genuine strategy for RPI, Adam and I both聽understand聽that the day鈥檚 priority聽is聽to take on the ride, and the bumps and dirt and heat, together. Sure, some participants race RPI. Former Tour de France rider Ted King聽is聽among RPI鈥檚 entrants. No doubt聽he鈥檚聽already many miles ahead of us.

The top of the climb brings several rewards. At the pass聽a huge and beautiful basin inside the Sawtooth National Forest, which includes聽broad peaks, open grassland, and clusters of evergreens, lays聽ahead of us. Maybe best of all, the endless bumps and ripples of the Trail Creek climb give聽way to extended stretches of smooth and fast dirt.

Adam聽looks聽over his shoulder as I聽push聽myself to stay on his wheel. Clearly聽he鈥檚 enjoying聽the flat and rolling terrain. 鈥淟ike pavement!鈥� he聽yells, and for maybe聽nine聽miles we often聽find聽ourselves grouped with other riders and riding roadie style. We聽draft,聽and聽take聽pulls leading others.

We also owe some gratitude to our tires, or more specifically our tire pressures. Gravel grinders obsess over tire firmness the way Taylor Swift sweats shades of red lipstick. Too much air in gravel grinder tires and you鈥檒l feel every pebble. Too little and you might flat, as the tire deforms on big hits and either pinches a hole in your tube or perhaps, on tubeless tires, causes a sidewall to tear. But get the air pressure just right and a fat gravel grinder tire provides a happy blend of speed, traction, and shock absorption. Adam and I had picked up some聽intel during the pre-ride: run our tires at 30 to 40 pounds per square inch (PSI), which represented a lot less air than we鈥檇 used for our first two days of Idaho riding.

RPI is聽going great鈥攐ur legs humming, our asses and hands retaining sensation鈥攚hen, about 35 miles into the ride and on the thick gravel of East Fork Road, the ride gets better. None other than Rusch latches onto our group of eight.

鈥淭hat a way, ladies, looking strong,鈥� says Rusch to the four women among us. She鈥檚 all smiles under her Red Bull helmet. 鈥淜eep rotating off the front.鈥�

Rusch聽is chatty, pulling out of the slipstream in order to ride alongside me. Only one of us fights for breath as we talk, and it鈥檚 not the woman who owns a first (female) ascent on Yosemite鈥檚 El Capitan, once raced for top international adventure-racing teams, and has won the MTB (100-mile) mountain-bike race four times during a career as an outdoor athlete that has spanned decades.

鈥淪everal years ago, one of my sponsors told me: you have to go do this event in Kansas,鈥� says Rusch, referring to gravel grinding鈥檚聽iconic race, the 200. 鈥淚 thought, that sounds heinous. I鈥檓 a mountain biker. That will be death by boredom.鈥�

But Rusch loved how the 200-mile race meshed the demands of riding on- and off-road. She鈥檚 now won the DK200 three times. 鈥淭he technical aspects of the uneven surfaces felt a lot more like mountain biking than road riding,鈥� she says as my bike steers nervously and only semi-straight through 50 yards of deep gravel. 鈥淪omeone couldn鈥檛 just ride in a pack and then outsprint you for a win.鈥�

Rusch brought RPI to her adopted hometown of Ketchum in 2013, and precisely because she鈥檚 the Queen of Pain, Rusch believes that she鈥檚 attracted a disproportionately large chunk of female riders (about 30 percent). It鈥檚 also no accident that gravel grinding in general and RPI specifically (average race age: 46) bring out many older athletes who are a lot like me and Adam: aging聽riders who聽don鈥檛 always want to tangle with traffic or with hard-charging pelotons in Gran Fondos or road races. Instead we鈥檙e finding fun riding squirrelly road bikes over dirt, while trying to win one more bout of rider-versus-the-elements.

RPI remains fun even after Rusch is long gone, and Adam and I are a little more than halfway done. Then I get a flat.

What does a real friend do when you鈥檙e hot, dirty, thirsty, and watching聽your new, $55, tubeless front tire that had been filled to exactly the right PSI continue to seep goopy sealant, and air, courtesy of a sidewall tear? He pumps. He pumps like a madman.

鈥淒rew, maybe we can keep it filled long enough to reach the next rest stop,鈥� says Adam, his whole body moving like a piston in time with the hand pump that鈥檚 breathing a little life into my tire. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think we鈥檙e terribly far away.鈥�

My shoulder blades had already been tingling for a while, and my hands were tired. An uncomplaining, salt-stained Adam can't be feeling much better. I don鈥檛聽know how he鈥檚 able to pump so furiously.聽

鈥淥K, bud. Thank you,鈥� I say, lifting my leg over my bike鈥檚 frame. 鈥淟et鈥檚 try it.鈥�

Slowly and now literally feeling every seam in the dirt, Adam and I creep for miles before we reach the aid station. When we leave, my mortally wounded front tire is now armed with a tube, with an empty energy-gel wrapper acting as a liner at the place of the tear. In the hopes of reaching the finish line, the tire now has the qualities of a taut balloon: it鈥檚 extra-firm in order to best avoid flatting again.

For several miles of riding over washboard road and sloppy gravel, the Frankenbike resembles a jackhammer. Nerves in my neck and upper back feel like they鈥檙e aflame. I quietly throw myself a pity party. This is the dumbest fucking sport ever, I say to myself. What fool rides 100 off-road miles on a bike that鈥檚 as stiff as an I-beam?

A short while later, I notice that Adam is slowing. He keeps changing gears, which likely means聽he's聽searching for a pedaling cadence that will deliver聽less pain to his legs. He drinks聽a lot from his bottles.

Now my friend聽needs聽a friend, and that notion thoroughly聽invigorates聽me.聽I聽catch聽Adam鈥檚 eye and聽point聽to my rear wheel. As instructed, he聽lines聽up his bike behind mine.聽

The road聽rolls聽up and down. The gravel聽goes聽from soupy to nonexistent to soupy again. Bumps聽come and go, pickup trucks pulling fifth wheels聽cover聽us with more Idaho dust, and two聽exceptionally聽large deer鈥攎aybe聽they鈥檙e聽elk, honestly聽we're聽too tired to tell鈥攕print聽across the road just ahead of us. The final, 1,500-foot, dirt plummet back to the outskirts of Ketchum聽is聽insultingly painful, a true violation of my body鈥檚 connective tissue best handled by鈥攜es, Rebecca Rusch鈥攕taying low in my handlebars. Adam聽regains聽strength and聽takes聽the lead, and after seven taxing hours, we聽finish聽what we鈥檇 started. We聽are聽“Big Potatoes,”聽and only two-and-a-half hours behind winner Ted King.

In Ketchum, Adam and I聽unfold聽our bodies off our bikes, and soon thereafter,聽drink聽beer and聽eat聽grilled cheese-and-bacon sandwiches. Then we聽eat聽hamburgers and fries. Then we聽buy聽two pints of ice cream.

鈥淵ou know, I thought about Advil a lot,鈥� Adam聽says聽back at the condo, between spoonfuls of our cold and creamy, salted-caramel reward. 鈥淚 mean, that descent was not comfortable, or fun. It wasn鈥檛 scary so much as something to just endure.鈥�

He聽swallows聽one more bite of ice cream. 鈥淏ut weren鈥檛 those some great views?鈥� he聽asks.聽

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Last month, 52-year-old mountaineer Vanessa O鈥橞rien聽found the snow so deep on her K2 summit attempt that she forgot about her aching knee, recent shoulder surgery, and stress fracture in her sacrum. She didn鈥檛 think about becoming the oldest woman鈥攁nd first American one鈥攖o ever summit the treacherous, 28,000-foot Pakistani peak, known as the 鈥淪avage Mountain.鈥� Instead, O鈥橞rien, a prolific mountaineer who also holds a British passport and was once a Morgan Stanley executive, thought about math not adding up.

鈥淚t was one step forward, slide down,鈥� she remembers while navigating K2鈥檚 crazy-steep Bottleneck couloir. 鈥淎nd then another step to get back in place. Two steps for every one step.鈥�

But on July 28, as part of a dozen-person summit party guided by outfitter , O鈥橞rien defied all the creaks, pains, and numbers to summit K2鈥攁 mountain that, , historically takes about one climber鈥檚 life for every four that successfully summit. No other K2 climbing team reached the peak in 2017.聽

Really, an argument can be made that O鈥橞rien summited because she鈥檚 52. 鈥淪ome mountaineers feel they get better with age,鈥� says Peter Hackett, a physician and longtime altitude expert serving as the director of Telluride, Colorado鈥檚 . 鈥淭he belief has less to do with any physiological effects of aging and more to do with behavioral effects. Older climbers might pace themselves better, or perhaps have better hydration regimens, or better ability to sleep. They have wisdom.鈥�

O鈥橞rien, who in the last six years has summited five 8,000-meter peaks and completed the “Explorers Grand Slam”鈥攕ummiting the highest mountains on each of the seven continents and reaching both North and South poles鈥攁grees that experience and patience had plenty to do with the success of her third attempt at climbing K2.

鈥淲ith mountaineering, there鈥檚 a lot of waiting. More and more young climbers have a hard time quieting their minds. They want constant stimulus and entertainment,鈥� says O鈥橞rien, who started mountaineering soon after the 2009 global financial collapse left her thinking there was more to life than the Type A work required to build banking empires. 鈥淕o into an expedition鈥檚 communication鈥檚 tent. It鈥檚 hilarious. All the millennial Sherpas and climbers are in there, on their screens.鈥�

O鈥橞rien, on the other hand, reaches a camp and chills out. Instead of unnecessarily tiring herself with excess high-altitude activities or acclimatization hikes, she鈥檒l read books, drink tea, or do laundry. 鈥淚鈥檓 good at rearranging a tent,鈥� she says.

She needed all her mental toughness ahead of her 2017 campaign up K2. A 2016 fall while climbing in Ecuador resulted in a damaged right rotator cuff that required two surgeries and extensive physical rehab. Recovery slowed O鈥橞rien鈥檚 2017 fitness plans, which included April鈥檚 Boston Marathon. She finished the race in聽slightly over five hours, despite a training-induced stress fracture to her sacrum that left her questioning whether she should even start. Her modified plan had been only to complete the marathon鈥檚 first mile, “but I just kept running and running,鈥� says O鈥橞rien. 鈥淯ltimately it wasn鈥檛 a time thing. It was a completion thing.鈥�

This summer鈥檚 successful climb up K2 was another exercise in persistence, and mind and body control. The team, which was the last remaining on the mountain, left for the summit at a relatively late 11 p.m. under the false assumption that the lack of crowding and waits for fixed ropes would boost team speed. Instead, weather dragged out the attempt. Snow dumped on the 12 climbers, and wind heightened the threat of avalanche. The group consistently and laboriously broke trail, while often looking up at the accumulating snowpack.

O鈥橞rien, who was climbing on a left knee that had been sore since the marathon, gave herself plenty of pep talks. Having been to Camp 3 in a previous expedition, she knew the difficulty of the terrain. She鈥檇 become a student of K2 climbing history, and had reminded herself that this was her group鈥檚 time: statistically, 58 percent of all K2 summits have occurred between July 20 and August 1.聽

Until the situation seemed utterly dire, she decided to stay quiet about the threat of avalanche from above. 鈥淲e were all experienced, and thinking the same thing,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he waiting game became, can we keep closing in on the summit before the snow really piles up?鈥�

There were other mountaineering metrics left unspoken. Like how research has shown that the probability of death among Everest mountaineers climbs dramatically by their mid-50s or so, and how an 85-year-old climber died in Everest base camp this past spring. VO2 max, which represents the highest amount of oxygen that a body can process, often begins a continuous taper after an adult reaches the age of 25 or 30. Even with O鈥橞rien鈥檚 training, which in addition to聽the Boston Marathon included聽regularly ascending 1,210 stairs inside a 55-floor Manhattan skyscraper, she wasn鈥檛 as physically capable as younger members of her team.

鈥淭here鈥檚 no question she has incredible drive,鈥� says Hackett, of the Institute for Altitude Medicine. 鈥淪he had a strong team with her, and that improved her chances. Nobody, however, carries you up K2.鈥� A very long 16 hours after they began, all 12 team members, including the oldest woman ever to summit K2, stood atop the peak.

Yet O鈥橞rien knew she was only partway through the day鈥檚 journey. The exhausted team鈥檚 descent finished, seven hours later, in the dark. Reflecting on the effort, she believes that her team made mature decisions. She鈥檚 also old and humble enough to believe that prayers were answered, and that the group enjoyed some luck.

鈥淣o loss of life, no frostbite, no accidents,鈥� says O鈥橞rien. 鈥淏ut we definitely took additional risk, and that was personal choice. Terms like 鈥榯hreading the needle鈥� and 鈥榦nce in a lifetime鈥� come to mind.鈥澛�

Next up for O鈥橞rien, if she has her way? A trip to explore the Pacific Ocean鈥檚 ridiculously deep Marianas Trench.

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