Memorable moments of 2007

Building the Pugsley***

The fun of riding it
***
Early spring rides on my new road bike.
***
Making one bad joke
about dancing in my arm warmers,
and never hearing the end of it
***
The cold rain during the Fireweed 100
***
Making sure I remembered
a really foul joke all summer,
so that I'd be ready when I finally
ran into Leonard
***
Heather actually showing up
for a couple of rides
***
64 piles of bear shit in 22 miles
on Russian Lakes Trail
***
The beauty of Lost Lake Trail
***
My 13-year-old daughter
dropping me on a hill
for the first time
***
The thick, slimy mud
of Johnson Pass Trail
***
The young worker at the Kansas City airport
who rolled my bike case into the baggage-claim area
and asked, "Is this a gun?"
***
The sound of a bike flying
off my brother's roof rack at 70 mph
***
The guilty relief of realizing it wasn't mine
***
Octaginta
***
Riding en masse through Spenard,
in the dark, after a rainy game
of bike polo
***
Beer and movies at Speedway
***
Drinking beer around
the Frigid Bits Burn Barrel
***
Watching my daughter ride ice and snow
on her first pair of Nokians
***
The Face Plant
***
Everyone who let me share a ride
with them.
This is the coolest cult
on the planet.
***
Happy New Year, and thanks
for reading this little pile
of bike-related stuff.

See ya out there.

Cookin' the Goose

I've heard the rest of the nation spent the night watching some freakin' football game, but for anyone into the Anchorage winter riding scene, the last Saturday of the month can mean only one thing: Frigid Bits Tailgater.

Bikes, beer and beef, baby. To hell with televised spectator sports!

This time it was back to the roots of the Frigid Bits series—racing criterium laps on Goose Lake—and Tim "The Grillmeister" Kelly's trusty NRS was the star of this show with 1,000 watts of face-melting, skin-tanning, little-ol'-lady-scaring halogen brilliance. He cooked up this contraption in his home shop a couple of weeks ago, and it was so cool, it just had to be part of a Frigid Bits event.

Tim provided the legs and lights, and I provided the 50-pound Honda generator for him to drag around the lake for five laps while he looked like a 737 on final approach to The Ted.

Along about my fourth lap, I found myself staring down The Grillmeister's twin 500-watt lamps as we went head-to-head on adjacent turns. Those suckers were so bright that, for a second there, I thought my overworked heart had finally exploded and I was "moving toward the light."

After the race, it was time for beer and bullshit by the burn barrel. This is the good stuff.

Sports on TV is for suckers.

Rebooted

I started riding on snow and ice during the winter of 1996-97, my first in Alaska. That first year, I went riding one afternoon at -5F, and froze my toes so badly that I spent 20 minutes face-down on the carpet of a crappy little apartment, groaning and sweating from the pain as warm blood returned to my feet. I was afraid to pull off my socks and look at my toes for another half-hour.

I've been trying—and usually failing—to keep my toes warm ever since. It was only in recent years that I started thinking of myself as a winter rider, after having marginal success at keeping my toes from freezing. I've tried neoprene shoe covers, chemical warmers, multiple sock combinations, riding in pac boots rated to -93, and wrapping my toes in everything from aluminum foil to plastic bags.

But I think I've found my Holy Grail—the one piece of footwear that can keep my toes happy. The Neos Navigator 5. Holy shitballs, do these things feel good.

I first heard about Neos overboots about three winters ago, but was reluctant to blow the cash on something that didn't look substantial enough to overcome my poor circulation. Meanwhile, I threw away three times as much money on various failures.

I finally broke down and bought a pair a couple of weeks ago and, from what I can tell so far, I have finally found the solution. They're insulated, waterproof, lightweight, rated to -20, and they'll work with my snowshoes on those rare occasions when I venture outside without a bike. I don't even have to put on cold shoes when I get back to my car: I wear regular shoes inside the Neos, so when I kick off the boots, I'm already in walking shoes.

I’m almost looking forward to a sub-zero ride so I can see how they do in real cold instead of this relatively balmy 15-degree stuff.

May your rides be merry and bright.

And all your new bike parts be light.

Bad Karma

My friend John called from the North Slope tonight with a simple piece of advice: Lose the new name!

You see, a couple of years ago when I set up a user account for the Alaska forum at mtbr.com, I just used my real name. So I recently decided to cool up and get a bitchin' screen name like all my friends. The best I could come up with was "Bad Karma," which I stole off a Warren Zevon CD. Being a big fan of the Z Man, I was already using Old Velvet Nose as my forum avatar, so one of his song titles just seemed to fit.

Shortly after the name change, I went out last weekend and took my chin-mangling, jaw-bruising, concussion-inducing faceplant. Then I went out for a ride today with John's wife, Maura, and my seatpost bolt exploded two or three miles from the trailhead, forcing me to pedal standing up for a fairly long stretch at the end of a four-hour ride.

John thinks bad karma has started following me around. He said I should punt the new name. Maybe he's right.

But I'm not convinced. As all my friends will tell you, I'm one of those optimistic, sunny-dispositioned, glass-is-half-full people. I'm always smiling, whistling show tunes and petting cute puppies.

OK, the crash sucked ass.

But today's ride was a hoot in spite of a tiring challenge at the end.

After a week of pain that slowly migrated around my jaw, neck and chin, and concussion-related spells in which I was alternatingly foggy-headed and irritable, I got to spend the day with a friend riding fat bikes on snow. We ran into several biking friends on the trails, and I even got to chat briefly with a couple of former co-workers I hadn't seen in a long time.

And the worst thing that happened was a little extra exercise because I broke an old component and then got to drive to Paramount and upgrade to a sweet Thomson Elite.

And come to think of it, maybe a little good karma was kicking in, because my store punch card was full and I got my new $100 post for only $70.

I think I'll go pop a painkiller and skip through a pretty meadow while tossing flower petals into the air.

Enough, already

I've ridden outside only once all week,
but I'm packin' the Pugs
for Friday morning's commute.

Resting sucks. It's time to get back out there.

CSI: Anchorage

Parts of my Saturday-night crash
were bothering me. I needed to know
the cause, and figure out why I couldn't
remember falling, or making my way
up a bluff and to a road.
So I decided to do my own little
Crash Scene Investigation.

I always dreamed of being a detective.
Let's take a look at the evidence, shall we?
First, I found what my post-crash
tread track (above), then
followed it back to the scene.
That's where I found a shallow
drainage channel (foreground)
that's difficult to see in low-light conditions
—especially if you happen to be looking
beyond it to a much larger channel
that's somewhat visible in background
of the photo below.
The smaller channel is where I found
my impact site. See that fat Endomorph
track in the foreground? See how it runs
smack into that freshly exposed
ledge of frozen, bike-stopping silt?
Just above the silt is where I
pulled myself to my feet and
staggered around while making
cell-phone calls and climbing back
on my bike.

That's where
the ol' memory switch somehow clicked
to the "off" position. The
next 15 minutes are pretty much gone.
Exhibit A: The silt ledge and the
icy imprint that my pant legs
left on the snow as I tried
to get up. (Sorry, ghouls, but my
droplets of blood seem to have
disappeared, so no photos for you sickos.)
Exhibit B: The snow-covered channel
from the opposite side.
See a pattern here? Yeah, I thought
you would. Other riders have
been going around it, but some dumbass
left that big, fat Endomorph track
leading right into it.

The obvious verdict: I screwed up
by riding too fast in bad light. The
coastal flats are full of hazards
not typically seen in other
parts of town, and I temporarily
forgot that. I got blissed-out
and started riding too fast.

I paid big, landing on my chin and jaw,
which my friend Heather
has since explained is a bad way
to fall if you want your
brain to have a shock absorber.

She happens to be an expert
on brain injuries and
called my memory lapse
"post-traumatic anterograde amnesia ...
one of the best indicators of concussion."

That's a fancy way
for a mountain biker with
a PhD to say, "Dude, you're
brain-damaged and I am going
to have sooo much fun with this."

Milkshakes and Vicodin

I'm still not quite sure what happened Saturday night. One minute I was cruising fast across the South Anchorage coastal flats trying to catch up with the group after I had stopped to shoot a couple of photos, and the next thing I knew, my face was meeting snow and ice. My brain didn't register anything in between.

It's not a good feeling to combine blinding pain with total confusion. Confusion as in, "What the hell just happened?" and "How bad is this going to be?" I pulled myself onto my hands and knees as best I could with my feet tangled in the frame of my Pugsley, and started watching the snow to determine how much blood was dripping onto it, and whether there were any teeth involved.

The next few minutes are a bit of a blur, but they involved quick cell-phone calls to the guys up ahead, and to my wife and daughter as I asked them to grab my 4Runner and meet me at a nearby road. Somehow I also managed to be concerned about littering, so I pick up my busted helmet visor and stuffed it into my fanny pack before pushing my bike up a bluff that I knew would take me to the road.

A quick stop at a 24-hour clinic involved a doctor shoving one end of a wooden swab stick from the inside of my lip out through the front of my chin so that she could tell me, "You've got a through-and-through," before she looked at her young assistant and asked, "Are you OK?"

The girl who was holding a light on my face then explained that she's generally OK with seeing blood, but has a problem dealing with bloody faces.

Me, too, when it's my face. Especially when someone's putting a stick in my mouth and then telling me it's popping out through the beard on my chin. And oh, by the way, my jaw might be broken.

(I thought the hole meant a tooth had penetrated my lip, but my wife, who is a nurse, corrected me today by explaining the angle was all wrong -- something pierced me from the outside in. Probably ice, or a rock.)

A little later, I was in Providence ER being told my beard would be shaved off for stitches, and a big, musical machine that sounded like an arcade video game was rotating around my head to scan my jaw.

The result: No breaks, but a damn sore jaw. My teeth are all still there. And stitches wouldn't have helped much, so the beard stayed on. I went home with a tetanus shot, and prescriptions for penicillin and fresh supply of Vicodin. I'm swollen from my neck to the top of my nose.

But every cloud has a silver lining, as they say.

The Pugsley's OK, and I have a license to get high and drink milkshakes.

Tune in, turn on

Back in my New Mexico days, I once aimed the ol' Toyota pickup onto a forest road and headed up Pacheco Canyon for a solo ride. Scanning through the local radio stations, I came across one that had signed off on Friday in preparation for launching a new format on Monday. Just to keep the airwaves occupied, they had set each song to play 10 or 12 times in a row before switching to a new song.

I happened to tune in during Patsy Cline's version of the Willie Nelson classic, Crazy.

Don't ask me why, but couldn't stop listening to that thing play over and over as I drove through the forest with my windows down and the aspen breezes blowing through the truck cab. I cranked it up and even sang along a few times, undoubtedly scaring the shit out of any living thing within 200 yards of that gravel road.

These days, I often grab a CD as I head to the car to drive to a trailhead. It doesn't really matter what kind of music it is—Lyle Lovett, the Grateful Dead, A3, or anything else—it just sounds better on the way to a ride. It even sounds a little sweeter than normal on the way home after a ride.

I never listen to music during a ride, but I see other people pedaling along with their iPods cranking. I've heard them say that music helps them ride better.

Whatever.

As far as I'm concerned, it's the riding that makes music sound better.

Yeah, I've got a carol for ya

I'm not a morning person. As a matter of fact, morning pisses me off. I'm opposed to it on general principles.

The only thing that sours my morning mood more than waking up is ignoring my bikes and having to drive to work, or reading a lame newspaper story about how no one is having fun outdoors because the weather sucks.

I'm not mad that the weather sucks. I'm mad that another deskbound reporter didn't bother to get outside and find out what's really happening. Tuesday morning's Daily Snooze said the only people having fun right now are runners with studded shoes.

Excuse me?! Runners?

Let's see, how many runners have I run into on the Hillside trails lately? Hmm, let me think now ... oh, yeah, I remember ... ZIP! Nada! Zero! Big zilch, baby! It's mountain bikers I've been seeing, usually with big, shit-eatin' grins on their faces.

Sure, there might be some runners out there, but from where I sit, it's the people on bikes who have been having all the fun while most of the cross-country skiers sit inside stroking their waxes because they don't want to go up to Powerline (where the snow is) and ski in the dark.

The Snooze offered some tips they called "15 things to do when it's dark and dreary." They suggested, among other things:

"Light candles."

"Have an eggnog latte."

"Go caroling."

"Visit a tanning booth."

"Paint a room."

I have to stop now, because the suggestions are so stimulating they start to make me hot. I mean, really. Painting a room? Mmmmm, baby, what a rush! And I'm sorry—really, I am—but if you go caroling, you need an ass-kickin' and that's all there is to it.

Here's a tip for ya. I call it "Tim's list of things to do when it's dark and dreary."

1. Man up, Nancy. Quit whinin' about the weather, and get out there.

2. There is no Number 2

When the going gets weird ...

Sometimes, you just feel like a ride shouldn't even happen. Friday night's insane, warm wind ruined Goose Lake for Saturday night's Frigid Bits race, and it put a new glaze on the Hillside trails, making them slicker'n snot—and they were already slippery to start with.

To top it off, I was up most of Friday night with a sick kid. By the time I dragged my groggy ass out of bed at noon, I had no intention of touching a bike for the rest of the day. But late in the afternoon my wife suggested I get out for a ride, so I decided to head out with the social-ride crew during the trail race.

Funny how a bike a six-pack of Alaskan Amber in the back of my 4Runner can perk me up.

The trails are an icy mess. You can't ski on 'em. You can barely walk on 'em. But you can still clatter over 'em on studded tires. It's good to be a mountain biker in a winter like this.

Sure, I'd rather have some snow. Sure, I miss riding the Pugs. But hey, we're still riding, and Mother Nature's keeping the post-ride beer cold for us.

One more in a sea of morons

Further proof that most elected officials—past and present—are lazy dipshits.

Keep passing the open windows

It's gotta happen, sooner or later.

Large and in charge

We all know how annoying some people can get when they see pictures of themselves, or hear their recorded voices played back.

"Is that what I look like," they'll gasp. "Omygawd, do I really sound like that?"

Irritating as hell.

So I almost feel bad about saying ... Damn! Do I look like Chewbacca on a bicycle, or what?

Maybe I should make sure I'm photographed only when riding the fat Pugsley. It might make me look a beer or two thinner.

Maura sent me an e-mail last night asking if I intended to do the Frosty Bottom 50. I told her I was tempted. A little while later, I stepped on a scale and found out I've already gained six pounds this winter. And it's only the first week of December.

I think I'll do the 50-mile race, even if it turns into a death march for me (and it probably will). It's time to start suffering for my sins of consumption.

As soon as I finish this bottle of wine, I'm cracking down and gettin' back in shape.

I mean it this time.

Oh, shut the hell up.

CTC: The only church I need

I was trapped in my car Saturday, running errands and keepin' my spirit alive by listening to sweet, country acid-house gospel music from the Rev. D. Wayne Love and the First Presleyterian Church of Elvis the Devine. By the time I got home, I'd seen four people out riding.

On road bikes. In December. In Anchorage.

It just wasn't natural.

Fortunately, I'd read a promising trail report the previous evening on the Speedway website, so I knew it was time to attend Sunday services at the Church of the Triple Chainring. So on Sunday, five other members of the congregation joined me in salvation from the howling, hellish depths of this evil, snowless winter.

The coastal ice was hard, the frozen silt was like velvet and the company was good.

Let's go back to church. Any day now, any way, any how.

Glory Be!

Sunday services at the Church of the Triple Chainring will be held at noon in the tabernacle of the South Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge, where we will witness the miracle of ice and frozen silt.

This glorious spectacle will enliven your spirit and renew your faith in Nokian, the patron saint of winter cyclists. Believe me when I say you will raise your hands in praise of Finnish friction!

Early arrivals may join us for Gu communion (and other last-minute adjustments) in the rectory of my garage before the holy caravan of enlightenment will begin—at 11:45 a.m.—to make a joyous noise as carbide meets ice. Those who may give into temptation to leave before services end should park their sin wagons at Oceanview Bluff Park, where we'll pick up their lost souls at noon.

Do not fail to attend services, for soon it may snow and the ice shall be lost.

Details shall be posted on the forum, or you can e-mail Rev. Tim for guidance.

How do you roll, mon?

(New York Times)

I think I need a new sound system
before the next Frigid Bits.

Your Sport Sucks

There’s a hilarious scene in A League of Their Own when Jon Lovitz—who plays a baseball scout—finds himself sitting next to a salesman on a train. The giddy salesman is talking excitedly about how he has sold 10 percent more widgets than he did last year. Lovitz listens for a while until he leans forward and smiles at the salesman.

“If I had your job,” he says as he slaps the guy’s knee, “I’d kill myself!”

I went out for lunch today and was hoping to read a few pages of a book while waiting for my food to arrive, but I kept getting distracted by a couple of guys at a nearby table. They were middle managers who handle some sort of contracting work, and one was a Southerner in town on business.

The chubby guy was talking about Alaska’s high cost of living, and how he’d someday like to move back to a place where he could afford a big piece of land where he could shoot his guns and put up a building in which he could rebuild old Chevrolets in his spare time.

“You’d love it where I come from,” bragged the Southerner. “I can shoot right off my back porch.”

“See, I really miss that,” said the chubby guy.

I got up to leave as their fried okra, onion rings and gravy-covered biscuits arrived. If they noticed me at all, they probably wondered why I was smiling.

I was imagining how much fun it would be to stop at their table and say …

“If I had your hobbies, I’d kill myself!”

Which one?

Sometimes in the building where I work, I run into people with whom I am only slightly acquainted, and they try to make small talk like normal, functional adults. Anyone who has ever attempted to chat with me for more than two minutes has figured out that I am saddled with a socially crippling addiction, so some of them just save time and take the shortcut.

This happened yesterday when a guy said, "How ya doin'? Still ridin' that bike?"

Most people—even incurable bike junkies—have the social acumen to simply reply with something like, "Yup. Sure am. How have you been?" But not me.

Now, I'm fully aware the guy really didn't give two shits whether I've been riding or not, but for a few milliseconds my brain raced through the conversational options.

Was he referring to my usual habit of bike commuting? I haven't been riding to work much lately, which is a source of frustration and uneasiness. Should I lapse into a defensive mode and start explaining myself to a guy who drives every day?

Or should I fixate on the singular nature of his inquiry? What did he mean by "that bike?" Perhaps I should lapse into full bike-dork mode and say ...

"That bike? What do you mean that bike?

"Damn it, man, which freaking one are you talking about?!"

That would certainly be one way to discourage idle chatter in the men's room.

Hot diggity dog

The headline in Saturday's Daily Snooze was bleak: "Winter recreation around town all but rained out"

After finally getting some decent snow that had put the trails in bomber condition, we got creamed last week with rain and warm winds that turned most of Anchorage into a depressing, slushy mess. By the time the weekend rolled around, I was wallowing in the funk and believing what I read in what's left of our local newspaper.

Fortunately, afternoon reports from the Frigid Bits "Loogie Boogie Woogie Foogie Or Whatever The Hell It Was Called" course sounded promising enough to get me off my ass. I loaded the rig with a studded-tire bike and a cooler full of beer and took off. And what a good move that was.

The singletrack was crusty and firm, the beer was cold, the burn barrel was hot and the company was great. I had almost forgotten how good it feels to stand around a fire drinking beer in the cold air. (I said almost.)

So what if I pedaled up ahead of the non-racing group only to realize—as I got ready to set up for some pics—that I had forgotten my camera? I got to ride with some new people. I got to watch Manny's singlespeed soar through the air when he chucked it into the woods after multiple chain derailments. And then I got to drink beer.

I didn't need the camera anyway. I'd never have been able to top Manny's shot of SkiMonkee's frozen weiner.

Winter recreation rained out? Only if you're one of those people who can't get beyond thinking that winter recreation means skis, skates or snowmachines. And that's narrow thinking.

Stud up. Get on a bike.

Cranksgiving with the CWC

(Photos by Manny)

I often say it, and I always mean it: Mountain bikers are the coolest people alive. In spite of warm winds and rain that have been turning the trails to slush, nine people showed up last night for the first-annual Cranksgiving ride. Several of us had even decorated our bikes or helmets with strings of holiday lights.

The ride was short, slow and slippery, but full of fun riders who would rather slip through some ice on two wheels than piss away a night in front of the TV. It was a good example for my 13-year-old daughter, who came along for her first winter ride, as well as her first full-darkness ride. She doubted anyone else would show up, so it was nice to have proof that the madness goes beyond her dad.

After I thanked my friends for helping me pull my kid deeper into the cult, Tim "Grillmeister" Kelly said, "I've always said that if you're going to get abducted by a cult, the CWC (Cult of Winter Cycling) is the best choice."

I couldn't agree more. Besides, this way we get to spend all our money on bikes instead of doomsday bunkers and stockpiles of guns.

Dip your ladle into the vat and take a sip of the Kool-Aid.

Trust me. You'll go to a better place.

Loop A Loogie

We are officially off and running, boys and girls. Winter riding is kickin' into high gear and gettin' ready to roll its fat ass over everyone's social agenda. Not only do we have our first purely social group ride Wednesday night—the first annual Cranksgiving event—but Saturday will bring the first Frigid Bits tailgate party of the season.

Saturday will kick off with the "Loop A Loogie 4 U" ride at 7 p.m. (Sign-up will be from 6:30 to 6:45 p.m. in the Goose Lake parking lot.) The ride will run south across the Tudor Road overpass and up the Tour of Anchorage Trail before turning onto some nebulous trail network that will be mapped before the event. All I understand at this point is that it'll include the Moose Track and Lore Road trails, and somehow include Rover's Run (I don't give a damn what the ski-jorers have renamed it, it'll always be Rover's Run to me) and back to the Goose.

Once people start showing up in the parking lot, it won't be long until the famous Frigid Bits Burn Barrel—a comforting piece of modern art from the hands of our man Thirstywork—is lit up and dead things get thrown on the grill. Bring some food, some beer and some bullshit to throw around over the fire.

And save a beer or two for when my slow carcass gets dragged in.

Cranksgiving

Thanks to all our recent snowfall, I think we should kick off the holiday season with a nighttime social ride. No rules, no stopwatches, no excuses.

If you're in the Anchorage area, show up at Westchester Lagoon on Wednesday evening. The ride will start at 7 p.m. in front of the Trail Watch building (the former police substation) at the northwestern edge of the lagoon. Bring a flask if ya want. Decorate your bike. Wear a tutu. Whatever gets your motor runnin'.

Maybe we'll even get Miss Yellow Pogies to show up on her Pugsley.

We'll ride the Coastal Trail to the Kincaid Chalet and back, with the option of a side trip to downtown or Goose Lake for anyone who wants to ride longer. If ya want more information, post a comment or send me an e-mail from the link I put somewhere on this here blog.

Powder day

As much as I hate riding near ATVs during summer, I'm learning to like them in winter. I really wish a few more had passed over the Eklutna Lake trail before a bunch of us rode there today. They might make noise and stink up the air, but those fat-tired buggers also pack snow, and that's a valuable service for winter cyclists.

Still, I learned a few things. First, my new Camelback HAWG carries a ton o' stuff—too bad we couldn't make it to the cabin so I could have made use of the camp stove and fuel I was carrying. I could have used some carbs in a tasty, hot dish.

Second, the price of carelessly releasing air from an Endomorph in a desperate search for better traction in new snow can be high. Riding on an almost-flat rear tire is like riding in loose sand. And that sucks.

Third, fighting my way through 12 miles of frustrating powder is enough to confirm that I have no interest in ever doing the Susitna 100, despite being tempted in the past. I didn't blow two large on a Pugsley so that I could walk beside the damned thing. I like the Pugsley for the terrain I can ride with it, not for the shit I can push it through.

And fourth, plowing through snow in the mountains with friends is still more fun that sitting at a desk. To paraphrase that old bumper sticker about fishing: The worst day riding is better than the best day working.

Bottoms up.

(Thanks for the flattering pic of me
slurping Leonard's hooch, Bubba!)

I'll show you mine if you show me yours

Porn: (Informal) noun
Television programs, books, etc., regarded as catering to a voyeuristic or obsessive interest in a specified subject.

A few days ago, my friend Leonard posted a “roll call” on MTBR’s Alaska Forum. Everyone was supposed to respond by giving their real name, listing the bikes they own, and telling anything they want to share about why they ride, how they started, etc.

As I was looking over some of the responses, it occurred to me that bicyclists really enjoy shooting—and showing off—pictures of their bikes. Manny photographed all the bikes in his garage; Adam posted a pic of his Surly Cross Check; and The Grill Meister used a shot of his Giant NRS. The only reason I didn’t put up a picture was that I’ve never taken a group shot of all four of my bikes together, and I couldn’t decide which one to show.

We even have a name for pictures of hot bikes: Velo Porn. Does this make us freaks? Do people in other sports have this habit? I’ve never heard of skiers shooting pictures of their skis, surfers their boards, or golfers their balls, but then, why would I? I don’t hang out with those people.

All I know is, if two bike riders are swapping e-mails and one asks the other what one of his bikes looks like, there’s a good chance that a digital picture will blast back at him like a ricocheting bullet. And the person who receives said photo goodness will ogle the other person’s bike, even if he already has his own harem of rides that give him all the satisfaction he can handle.

I don’t really understand it all, and I don’t really want to.

I just want to be left alone now. I’m going to go look at Adam’s Cross Check again.

Ya think my tractor's sexy?

The snow has finally arrived. After too much fun Saturday night, I was slow to get out on the Pugsley. I finally went out Sunday afternoon and tooled around the neighborhood for 90 minutes or so. I rode through the woods in John's Park, then down to Ocean View Bluff Park, where a somewhat androgynous kid who was sledding with his friends called my bike "really cute."

Ooookay.

After that strange encounter, I felt like I needed to do something manly, like go to a hardware store, so I pedaled over to Lowe's to return a part. Riding the Pugsley through fresh snow is such a hoot. It's like getting to drive a tractor without having to do all the shitty farm work.

As I rode past a couple of four-wheel-drive pickups that had slid off the road, I had to stifle a smile. I had the best—not to mention the cutest—vehicle out there.

A forkin' good deal

Ever since I built my Pugsley last March, I've had to deal with the hassles of transporting the thing. Because of its wide fork and super-fat tires, my only options were to put it on the hitch-mount rack—which usually isn't on my 4Runner—or stuff it inside. And stuffing it inside means lowering the rear seats and letting snow melt in the back of my rig.

I knew about the Fork Up adapter but, as far as I was concerned, the folks at Hurricane Components forked up when they welded two metal tabs to a tube, shoved a cheap QR skewer through it, and set the price at $60. I mean, come on. I'm a bike junkie and I'll happily spend money on stuff that would make a civilian's eyes roll, but sixty bucks? If you're going to try that, you'd better buy me dinner and drinks first.

Then last weekend, some nice Pugsley owner in Nebraska put a note on MTBR's Alaska Forum to let everyone know that Jenson USA had the Pugsley-specific Fork Up on sale for $20. I couldn't type in my credit card number fast enough.

The box was waiting for me when I got home tonight after a game of bike polo and a couple of beers at Speedway. The Pugs is movin' on up. Right up to the roof. All I need now is a strap for securing the rear wheel to the gutter of my roof rack and ... let's see, what was that other thing?

Oh, yeah. I still need some freakin' snow.

Think snow

Cabin fever shouldn't happen in November. Then again, November in Anchorage shouldn't involve bare ground. I'm gettin' itchy for some time on the snow bike. Hell, I'm gettin' itchy for time on any bike.

I finally put the studs on my old Stumpjumper and bagged a rare (these days) commute to work this morning. Then I rode to Blockbuster tonight to return some DVDs. I had to get some ride time before I lost my mind. I caught myself glancing at the rifles in a sporting good store last weekend, and I've taken a strange interest in the rooftops of tall buildings.

(Note to the CIA and Homeland Security spooks who are scanning the Internet for references to rifles and rooftops: I was just kidding. Go spy on the foreigners, you dipshits.)

My winter bikes are ready and my light batteries are charged up. I'm ready to sneak out for some nocturnal trail time.

Let's start burning voodoo dolls, doing snow dances, whatever it takes.

Bring on the snow, dammit.

Holy rollin'

"This is a beautiful thing here," Pete said as the light turned green.

Fifteen or so rain-splattered mountain bikers rolled across Minnesota Boulevard in the dark and began pedaling east on a side street, moving in that way that only a group of bicycles can: first a large mass, then a morphing, flexing blob that stretches out and reshapes itself in response to the brake lights and headlights of cars. Pete was right. It was beautiful.

It was as if we were holding our own little Critical Mass ride. The drivers were stuck in their metal boxes watching the rain hit their windshields and wondering why a bunch of yahoos were out riding bikes in such cold, sloppy weather. But we were out there feeling the cold raindrops, the warm blood flowing through our legs and the beautiful sensation of rolling on two wheels.

An arrogant Christian, upon hearing that my beliefs differed from hers, once told me she felt sorry for me. Sorry, lady. I don't want or need your sympathy.

Bicycling is my religion.

You want to feel sorry for someone? Feel sorry for someone who doesn't ride.

Girl power

My 13-year-old daughter and I have changed our daily routines this fall. I'm not riding to work, and she's riding most every day, even if it is just a short, one-way trip.

School boundaries changed for this year and she would have had to move to a new middle school unless we got her a zone exemption, which means no bus transportation from our area. Mom leaves early, so I drive Hannah to a nearby neighborhood where she catches the bus each morning. We usually stash her bike in her best friend's garage so she can ride it home in the afternoon.

Now that the streets are icing up, she's talking about wanting studded tires so she won't have to endure walking home while Mom and Dad are still at work.

As we were driving across town one night last week, she told me that kids at school had pronounced her "weird." When I asked why, she explained that they were shocked to hear she was still using a bicycle for transportation weeks after their bikes started collecting dust in garages. I wasn't worried because I could tell the "weird" label had been applied in a fun way, but I asked how it made her feel.

"Kind of strange, I guess," she replied.

"But maybe a little proud, in an odd way?" I asked.

A big grin spread across her face as she said, "Yeah."

That's my girl.

They're real. And they're spectacular.

I did my first snow ride of the season on Saturday with John and Maura. We rode up the Powerline Pass Trail as far as we could until warm temperatures and light traffic left the trail too soft.

As we got back to the trailhead parking lot, several people stared at our bikes and commented on the size of our Endomorphs. Later, it occurred to me that riding a fat bike is sort of like getting a boob job. Nobody you meet on the trail looks at your face anymore, because they're all checking out your equipment. Fortunately, I enjoy this.

I never understood why anyone would have their yabbos enlarged and then get mad when people look at them. You'd think they'd be glad the investment was being noticed. Besides, it's a cosmetic change that people are supposed to notice. It's not like those things are going improve flotation on soft trail, ya know what I'm sayin'?

Maybe it's just that I'm a guy, but I like the enhanced size and performance I get with Endomorphs.

Go ahead, stare. Say things like, "Wow, those are big."

You can even give 'em a squeeze if ya want.