Bird on Eagle River

It's been awhile since I last posted a Phabulous Phinger Photo on the blog, so it's good to see someone think fast and keep the movement alive.

Because of a misunderstanding on Friday's meeting spot, Carl and I missed each other at the start of our ride on Eagle River. When I finally got to the parking lot he had intended, he had an hour head start, and all I could do was follow his Endomorph tracks upriver while hoping he'd stop often to shoot photos.

When I finally rounded a bend in the river and saw him rolling toward me, he didn't miss a beat as I pulled out my camera, and voila, we have our first new addition to the Finger Gallery in months.

Strong work, Carl.

Cold juice

When is someone going to develop a battery that won't turn to crap every time it gets good and cold? I mean, seriously, with all the technological improvements we've seen in winter riding over the past couple of years, I think batteries are one of the main pieces of gear that still need improvement.

Tonight's ride was in temps of about 4F ... from what I could tell. I had to hold my digital thermometer at just the right angle to get a reading off the LED screen as the battery faded.

The NightRider light on my handlebar did it's job for more than two hours, and was still working when we got back to the cars, but the power indicator turned red less than an hour into the ride, even though the battery was fully charged for a three-hour burn.

But my camera presents one of my main frustrations in temps below 20F. Despite numerous attempts, I got a grand total of one image from the trail tonight—the one you see on this post—and I didn't know if I had it until I got home. As soon as I took the shot, the battery wheezed under the load of saving the digital image and the screen on my camera went dark except for the "change battery pack" message.

After wrapping my hand around the camera (while still inside my pocket) for a couple of minutes, I managed to get a couple of shots in the parking lot at the end of the ride, but just barely.

Battery companies of the world, get your shit together and give us better products. Much of the world is cold this time of year, and not everyone sits inside catatonically staring at new episodes of "Lost" every night.

Is it really too much to ask for a battery that can function for a couple of hours at 0F?

Burnin' it

What happens when you combine a few riders, a small fortune in fat bikes, open flames, flammable liquids a small pile of cheap beer? That's right, a good time around the ol' Frigid Bits Burn Barrel.

This shit never gets old.

My fellow Americans ...

I felt a twinge of guilt when I got home Wednesday night. All the online news sites were full of coverage of the State of the Union address. Millions of “serious” adults had, no doubt, devoted the evening to watching Obama’s speech.

I, on the other hand, did what I usually do. I went and played in the woods on a fat bike. Didn’t give the big speech a second thought, really.

It’s not that I don’t care. I just don’t need the dog-and-pony show of a constitutionally mandated annual address to know the state of the union—it’s fucked up. And I didn’t need to hear the Big Man say anything to feel reassured that we’re in better hands than we were for eight years. I still think he’ll steer us onto the right course. But I have my own course to steer.

The stuffed suits in D.C. can have the State of the Union address. I can read about it in the New York Times.

I felt it was my duty to confirm the State of Blue Dot. And I slept better knowing what a fine state that is.

akspokes.com

Notice to locals who are wondering what happened to the akspokes forum this week: There was a problem with excessive bandwidth usage, so the host site shut down the forum. The problem is being addressed, and the forum should be back online by this weekend.

Stalled

Some weeks, it’s barely worth pumping up the tires.

A scenic ride on the coastal flats didn’t last long in Sunday’s soft powder conditions, so we spent the second half of the ride drinking beer. At least I got this pretty picture.

And tonight’s eagerly anticipated trail ride lasted only long enough for my freehub to die, so I’m having a glass (or two) of wine.

I don’t think this training program is sustainable.

Bicycle Dreams

3051.7 miles, with a goal of 12 days.
110,000 of climbing.
A drop-out rate of nearly 50 percent.
It’s 30 percent longer than the Tour de France.
It’s finished in half the time.
With no rest days.
The winner typically pedals 375 miles per day,
and finishes in 8 or 9 days.

By any normal standard, the Race Across America is an utterly insane event. Why would anyone do it? After watching Stephen Auerbach’s documentary, Bicycle Dreams, I still don’t understand. But any soloist who finishes this madness is a certifiable Bad Ass on a Bike.

Riding from San Diego to Atlantic City in 12 days (or less) pushes riders into the deepest, darkest parts of their minds, while subjecting them to no small about of danger. There’s no big prize money at stake, and it costs a small fortune to train, field a support crew and race. Some racers save for years just to reach the start line.

They ride while sobbing. They hallucinate. Beyond the usual definition of exhaustion, they attempt to sleep, and fail. Then they get back on their bikes—often with assistance because their bodies are so trashed—and keep riding. It doesn’t make sense. But it makes for a great film.

Auerbach, who recently contacted me to ask if I’d review a copy of Bicycle Dreams, set out during the 2005 RAAM to document the race using 18 cameras and an around-the-clock schedule. The result is powerful. It’s no secret to anyone who follows the race, even from afar, that the 2005 race turned out to be a heartbreaking event when Bob Breedlove died in a fatal crash in Colorado, but even without such a tragedy this race dishes out enough hurt to move a spectator to tears, and Auerbach got it on film.

Interestingly, he went completely indie on this project. With no big stars or a marketing budget, Auerbach hit the festival circuit and released a DVD without waiting or a distribution deal. It’s a grassroots campaign that’s getting a boost from awards at the Red Rocks, Yosemite, Breckenridge and All Sports LA film festivals.

Hopefully, it will also benefit from dumbass bloggers like me, because this is some riveting stuff. The suffering of the racers is epic, but their hearts are even bigger. Whether it’s rookie Chris Hopkinson riding with a sore neck supported by a jury-rigged contraption of foam, duct tape and inner tubes, or Jure Robic wanting to surrender his lead and quit when he loses the ability to conjure a mental image of his wife and daughter, it’s inspirational to watch them push through the torture. (Not that I was inspired to attempt anything similar, but I’ll certainly whine less during my next century ride.)

Click on over and order a copy. It’ll cost about as much as a new pair of gloves, and you’ll remember it a hell of a lot longer.

(Anchorage riders will remember 2005 as the year that hometown boy Ben Couturier raced as an 18-year-old rookie and became the youngest solo finisher in RAAM history. Couturier appears on screen for only seconds during a blurry nighttime shot, so you locals might want to keep an eye out for a Kaladi jersey and a pair of hairy legs.)

Blue Dot paparazzi

The old footbridge over Campbell Creek on the Blue Dot trail could be described—if one were feeling generous—as sketchy.

It’s a rickety, collapsing wooden structure that’s in such bad shape it’s actually less slippery when it’s covered in ice and snow, because water and moss make it a real bitch to cross while wearing hard-sole cycling shoes in summer. When I posted this picture a couple of summers ago, it was, uh ... suggested that perhaps I should have been offering Maura and Heather a hand instead of snapping pics as they risked a cold bath.

And when Jules and I rode Blue Dot on Wednesday night, and I briefly forgot that it was her first time on the trail, it occurred to me to say, “Watch out for the bridge” just as she was about to roll onto it. She stopped right where you see her; next to a wheel-grabbing hole mostly hidden by darkness.

She immediately suspected, of course, that I was waiting with my camera to catch a gnarly crash photo.

I think my reputation among my riding partners might need a little polishing. I would never hurt one intentionally. After all, friends who will hit the trails in freezing fog at -2F don't grow on trees, you know.

Besides, I can always hide in bushes and get nasty crash shots when strangers ride by. And now that Julie mentioned it, that would be a pretty cool shot ...