The story of Caveman occurs over time, although the lore was locked in at one single event. Ever since I joined my race team, NRC/Pedalmasher, back in 2005, I developed a reputation for camping and roughing it all the races. For me, Mountain Biking is about getting back to the wild, experiencing nature in all her glory. It’s not about fancy dinners and comfy hotel rooms. That stuff is for roadies. I would usually have a campfire, and use it to cook with. I always slept on the ground in a tent no matter how hot or cold it was outside. I would wake up and have a hearty breakfast (bacon egg cheese tacos were the best!) race hard, and cap the finish with a cold brew, almost always a Shiner Bock or Lonestar. I tried not to let the weather dictate when or how I would ride (there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing!) I didn’t own a cell phone (and still don’t). I was notorious (and still am) for breaking bike parts but always finding a way to fix them, even if it meant using a rock to bend something back in place.

At one particular race at Warda, a friend brought along some cornish game hens. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with them, but I was:

That there was the single most defining moment to my origins as Caveman. To this day, I continue live by my philososhpy and uphold the high

est standards of a caveman.