Spring it

I was born one American spring
When love didn't matter and the birds didn't sing
Rolled from my cradle and picked up my drum
Crawled to the highway and stuck out my thumb

—Robert Hunter

Fat-bikers are living on borrowed time in Alaska. Every week, more stumps appear beside the trail. Every day, more slush forms on the surface. Every ride on my Fatback feels like it might be the last for a while.

Fortunately, the road bike is waiting. And there's a new frame that is sure to make me smile once it's built up and the singletrack dries out. I'm looking forward to summer and dirt-stained legs.

For now, I'm just happy to have a bike that makes me mourn the loss of winter.