Maura meets a moose

One of many chance meetings
during tonight's trail ride at Kincaid.

A big load of bull

Every summer, I post at least one shot
of a moose blocking the trail.

This well-fed bull was in no hurry
to get out of our way on Sunday, but
he was tolerant enough to let me pass
so I could get a shot of him
with part of our group.

(At least, I think that was his reason
for letting me get by.)

A pissed-off moose can easily
stomp a mountain biker into little more
than a big stain in the dirt.

But the nice thing about moose is that,
if you don't piss 'em off, they'll eventually
get bored with you and move aside.

Then, you can just carefully slip by.

And you can go on with your ride
and enjoy some incredible scenery.

I sometimes miss long summers,
but I can't imagine ever again living
and riding full-time in the Lower 48.

Routine standoffs with 1,500-pound
critters might sometimes be a hassle,
but life without them wouldn't
be as interesting.

What, he couldn't make two trips?

"I want it. But I can only take a haunch.
I got only a small knife and a bicycle."

—Response to an Anchorage Craigslist ad
offering the free body of a moose
that died in someone's yard

Getting there

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
'til its gone
—"Big Yellow Taxi," by Joni Mitchell

I'm in a bad spell for bike commuting. Schedules and obligations at home have been forcing me to drive to work, and that'll be the case for much of this winter.

I really shouldn't complain. My drive to work is only a little over three miles (the fun way—by bike—is longer) and I can get there in less than 10 minutes. But I hate driving to the office. Evening and weekend rides are great, but getting to work on a bike feels like doing the right thing and cheating the system all at the same time.

I was able to ride Tuesday for the first time in two or three weeks, and damn, it felt good.

There I was, pedaling along, dreaming up blog posts that will piss off hockey fans (just kidding, Luke) and cruising through the darkness on damp streets and trails. I watched the sky grow light over the Chugach Range and felt my legs spin easily as my slicks quietly hummed along.

I was feeling so good that I couldn't even get annoyed by this young bull moose that declined my gentle invitation to clear the trail. He was just another reminder of the cool route I ride to work. I snapped a few pics before he decided to slowly push me backward. He stared me down and kept approaching, so I stashed the camera and went a couple of blocks out of my way rather than attempt to ride around him at close range.

After all, it's rutting season, and he was a sexually frustrated yearling hoping to get a little action in a tough market. Big, bad-ass bulls are having all the fun while this poor dude is struggling to grow some stubby antlers—it's the ungulate equivalent of a horny high-school freshman trying to grow a second sideburn to impress that chick that almost made the cheerleading squad.

After I turned around, I detoured through a skateboard park, rounded the corner by a porn shop and cruised up Dimond Boulevard as the noisy parade of headlights and taillights carried all the automotive inmates to another day at work.

Maybe having my bike commutes cut back for a little while is a good way to remind me just how sweet every trip on a bike really is.

Never take your daily ride for granted.

One, two, three ...

How many misadventures in mountain biking have started with the words, "You think you could ride up that?"

Maura asked that question this afternoon, and John got into the idea of testing the limits of traction. Then a bunch of synapses in my brain stopped firing and the idea started to sound sort of cool. Next thing I knew, I was flopping and rolling down a hill with my legs wrapped around the frame of my bike.

Ride up it? Hell, I couldn't ride down it.

Ah, hell, summer's on the way out and the door's hittin' it on the ass. What good is a Labor Day weekend if you can't bag a ride and score a few new bruises before the temperatures start falling?

Fortunately, we also survived an encounter with the moose pictured above. Sometimes, the big critters just don't want to cooperate and get well off the trail. After several minutes of "nudging" our patience was running out and John squeaked by, leaving an increasingly nervous moose still in our way.

Finally, a narrow window of opportunity arose and Maura and I made our move by counting to three and gettin' the hell outta Dodge.

Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure a few misadventures have also started with the words, "One, two, three, GO!"

Sharin' the trail

Although I always enjoy seeing them, I don't usually bother to stop and view our local moose, much less photograph them. Typically, I just take a second to appreciate seeing wildlife as I keep moving. But these young twins caught my attention during a ride Monday afternoon.

For one thing, I don't usually see four moose at the same time, but these twins were right beside the Coastal Trail, and their mom was only a few yards away. Another mature moose was about 50 yards away on the other side of the trail. I have visitors in town and, like most tourists, they want to see moose. So I stopped to snap a few pics for them, and left when the twins crossed the paved trail and the cow started glaring at me.

I framed the shots through the main triangle of my road bike because A) I thought doing so would make a nice composition and provide some indication of how close the moose were, and B) it was a chance to get my bike in the shot, and I'm sort of a geek when it comes to shit like that.

My sister-in-law looked at these shots and thought I was crazy enough to try hiding behind my bike. I told her that if there were any hiding to be done, I would have hidden my bike behind me, to shield it with my body in the event of a charge.

That thing wasn't cheap, you know.

How crazy does she think I am?