Nope, I still don't get it

I'll confess: I have been tempted to take an old frame and build up a singlespeed just to see what all the excitement is about. But something keeps getting in the way.

My geared bikes work. Really well.

Besides, I remember riding one-geared bikes as a kid. I also remember walking up a lot of hills, just like I often see SS riders doing.

I keep reading articles about how singlespeed devotees swear by their simpler, easier-to-maintain machines. But on Friday my friend John and I rode over Johnson Pass and had to slog through several miles of mud. Our gears were packed with bear shit-flavored gumbo and wrapped with thick weeds.

At one point, I couldn't see any teeth on my middle ring—it was a solid disc of mud. The spaces between my rear cogs were a mass of brown and green. Same for the front and rear derailleurs, which were covered in inches of crud. The chain was covered, too, and had to pass through two enormous masses of sticky mud as it moved through the derailleurs. My bike was as filthy and mud-packed as it has ever been.

Then an amazing thing happened.

Everything kept working.

Not flawlessly, but pretty damned well. When I needed them, the derailleurs I've ridden for three seasons with only basic maintenance kept doing their jobs. I was able to access all the gear combinations I needed to finish a long, tiring ride. I shifted into the middle ring when we finally found good trail, and dropped back to the granny gear whenever I needed it for a short climb.

Same thing with the rear cogs. I ran out of legs before I ran out of gears, so I don't even know how many cogs I could have used beyond the four I needed.

And how much time have I spent this summer futzing with derailleurs? Well, let's see ... I remember shooting some lube on them once in awhile, and I might have turned a barrel adjuster once or twice.

Sorry, singlespeeders, but I still don't get the fascination with doing things the hard way. I'll take a reliable set of derailleurs and shifters every day of the week.

Throw your hands up and shout!

When I got off the trail yesterday and picked up a cell signal, I found a voicemail from a nice guy named Kevin, who said he had my missing camera.

His daughter had spotted it from the car as her mom was driving down a street near the trailhead where I left it on the roof of my 4Runner.

Now I have my camera and the photos I had taken right before I lost it, such as this one of my daughter doing her hands-free, standing-up gag. I also get to keep tormenting my friends by shooting pics during our rides.

Kevin declined the reward I had offered on Craigslist, so after I got home I mailed him a Kaladi Brothers gift card with a note telling him to go buy a few complicated coffees for himself, and a few hot chocolates for his sharp-eyed daughter.

Good people kick ass.

Heed the Call

The sick and twisted mind of Lucas Brunelle
has produced two new videos.

They might make you want to go play
in traffic, or they might give you nightmares.

Either way, you shouldn't miss them.

¡Ándale!

The dark post

No photo tonight. I went for a ride with my daughter.

We rolled through the woods, over pretty streams and through falling leaves. We even goofed around in a parking garage, where I took pictures of her standing up while riding with no hands. Then I took some great pictures of us together on a little bridge over a creek.

When we got back to Smokejumper Trailhead, I put my camera on top of the car while I racked the bikes.

And then I left it there.

While I drove home. I'm such an idiot.

Now my camera is lying somewhere beside a road, or in the hands of someone who picked it up and decided not to call the phone number that's on a sticker on the camera body.

Small digital cameras are one of the coolest accessories to have on a bike ride. I'm really gonna miss that thing.

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!"

Leading the way

Sometimes, the little guys kick ass and leave the big dogs eating their dust. I know, because I’m a big guy in a small guy’s sport.
One of the coolest little towns in Alaska is ahead of all the big cities in working to earn a “Bicycle Friendly Community” designation from the League of American Bicyclists. Sitka is a beautiful community on Baranof Island, and even though its road and trail systems are very limited, it’s a wonderful place to get around on a bicycle: relatively flat, little traffic, mild climate, friendly people and some of the best scenery anywhere.

I was there for a few days in the spring last year when I shot these pictures, and rented a bike instead of a car. With a good pair of gloves and a warm hat, I had way more fun that if I’d been trapped behind a steering wheel. I’ll be there again in a few days, and wish I could take a bike with me.

This past spring, several local groups held a health summit and identified four major projects that would help make Sitka a healthier place to live. One recommendation was to pursue the bicycle-friendly designation, which would make Sitka the first community in Alaska to do so. They’re pulling the whole thing together with help from a grant of nearly $10,000 from the SouthEast Alaska Regional Health Consortium's "Steps to a Healthier SE Alaska" program, and they plan to apply for the designation in March.

Our big population centers of Anchorage, Juneau and Fairbanks should be watching and learning. In a state full of big-ass, four-wheel-drive trucks, we need more towns with leaders thinking about healthier lifestyles and better communities. This little out-of-the-way place is leading the charge.

Raven Radio recently did a story on the project and posted streaming audio online, and there’s a website with a forum for suggestions on how to get things done.

Thanks to Charles Bingham at SEARHC for reading the ol' blog and letting me know about the project.

Yowza

Bike commuting isn't for wimps. It's fraught with peril. Danger lurks around every corner and you never know what's coming at you next. You have to be aware and vigilant at all times.

I keep street clothes hanging on the back of my office door, which is usually wide open. I closed it for a few minutes this morning because I had to make a sensitive phone call.

As I was dialing, I turned my head slightly and my peripheral vision picked up a tall, human form standing at my door wearing a black shirt.

Damn thing scared the crap out of me.

If I'd had a bike helmet hanging on the top hook, that dude would have looked six and a half feet tall.

Raising the white flag

I looked at my bike collection a couple of days ago and decided that something must be done.

When a person owns seven bicycles and three are in pieces—and two of those three have been disassembled for ... well years, if you really must know—that's not too far from being the biking equivalent of a guy who has a couple of old pickups in the front yard with weeds growing up through the engine compartments.

So I'm conceding defeat. These two old classics—a 1963 Schwinn Typhoon and a '70s-era English 3-speed—have been posted for sale on craigslist along with the frame from my old Trek commuter bike. Despite all my dreams and good intentions, I'd probably never get around to finishing both of the restoration projects.

It's not about the money, it's about the storage space. Well, OK, it's a little bit about the money: My wife keeps talking about calling contractors to get estimates on adding an extra room onto the house to give me a shop and bike-storage space. She's serious, too.

Do you have any idea how much a project like that would cost, or how many bikes and bike trips I'd have to sacrifice to pay it off? Gives me the willies just thinkin' about it. The way I figure it, if she sees fewer dismembered bike carcasses layin' around, maybe she'll forget all this crazy talk about construction projects.

Besides, yesterday I caught myself thinking that the ol' Typhoon might look sort of good as a lawn ornament, and I thought that might be a red flag.

I'll sort of miss these old things.

But not as much as I'd miss the money I'd pay in contractors' fees.

Rush hour

South Anchorage, 5 p.m. Friday

A few times each year, I find myself looking
out my office window on a beautiful afternoon
and wondering why I'm sitting at a desk when
I'm caught up on my work
and the sun is calling.

On those days, I try to slip away a bit early
to enjoy a little extra time riding home.
I like to stop at this scenic spot, which is only
300 yards out of my way and a couple
of miles from my house.

I like to stand here looking at the mountains
and listening to the breeze, and feel good
about living a place where I can enjoy
this kind of scenery on a regular basis,
even while commuting home from an office.

Occasionally, I hear someone call
this city "Los Anchorage," because that's their
way of equating it to major urban centers
in the Lower 48, which is absurd.

I think such people
need to get a grip.

I need a girl

I've spent a fair amount of time riding in the rain this week, and it has renewed my appreciation for the old fenders I recently put on the commuter bike. I had forgotten how much they can make wet rides reasonably enjoyable.

OK, part of me still feels like I should have my glasses taped together over the bridge of my nose when I ride with those things on my bike but, hell, they're just so damned practical that I don't care.

Still, I'd like to be a macho bike geek and bond with my brothers on the road. You know, real men, like truck drivers. Those guys with big belt buckles and even bigger bellies. The kind of guys who eat a lot of cholesterol and have old Army tattoos. The kind of guys who drink beer from cans and proudly have Dale Earnhardt's "3" carved into the hair on their backs.

This is my dream. Don't judge me. I want a mudflap girl.

See, my fenders actually have little rubber mudflaps, yet I lack the manly accoutrement of a chrome-plated babe with bodacious ta-tas to decorate my steed as I cruise the open roads of this Great Land.

The problem is, she can't be more than a couple of inches wide. I've always liked short women, but this is ridiculous. Someone, somewhere must know where I can find a tiny metal babe to place on the back of my manly mudflaps. Help me, fine readers. If you know where this treasured item can be acquired, you must tell me of such a place. Money is no object, as long as it's cheap.

One day soon, people will observe me riding to work in my flourescent yellow jacket and funny pants, and then they will see my mudflaps and know what kind of rough character they're dealing with.

Leave It To ...

Today I'm proud to present another shot of the ... well, you know.

I don't dare repeat the words from that earlier post. I'm trying to work my way down the list of responses for Google searches for "b**ver shots," ya know what I'm sayin'?

I half expect to turn on my computer each morning and find hate mail from frustrated pervs who are mad at me for wasting their time.

Still, I couldn't resist stopping for a photo of this little critter during my ride to work this morning. I tried to get a tighter shot, but as with so many beavers I've encountered in the past, I wasn't allowed to get very close.

Riding through the light rain this morning and seeing a little wildlife in the lake was a nice way to wrap up my "summer" commuting season. Tomorrow is the first day of school, so the traffic will be a little heavier and have a larger number of yellow buses and oversize SUVs driven by irritable parents with a cell phone one ear and noisy kids in the other.

Stay alert, fellow commuters. And keep your eyes peeled for furry wet things.

Hammer time

After four days of life on boats and small planes last week, I was looking forward to an easy Saturday. Sleeping late, catching up on some laundry and generally lounging around. Then I opened an e-mail from Ken about a little road ride downtown and back with a couple of his co-workers ... in an hour.

I took the bait, so I quickly slammed some breakfast and changed clothes. Two blocks from my house, the guy leading out stood up and started hammering while we were going downhill. Some days you just know it's going to hurt a little. And you're right.

Next time Ken brings new guys, I'm gonna ask for names and background checks.

I finally got caught up on that laundry while the rain fell on Sunday. Well, when I remembered to check the washer and drier, that is. I was also busy playing with the new Command Central for Bicycles & Icicles—my new MacBook.

It's sweet. And full of powerful, productive tools. Which I'll find as soon as I get over the thrill of playing with Photo Booth.

Now all I have to do is figure out how to get a full-size bike in front of this little camera that Apple put in my laptop ...

Digging deep

Like most of us who have been in this sport
for many years, I've ridden bikes with a lot of people.
Some people are there only once or twice.
Some for a few weeks, others for years.Sometimes I've wondered how well I really knew
some of those people. I mean, what does a bike ride
tell you about a person, other than
how much stamina they have, or how they deal with pain?
Or how their sense of humor holds up
when the ride gets rougher than expected
and the weather turns to shit?Sure, all that character stuff is good to know,
but if you really want to delve deeply
into their personalities, there's only one thing to do.
Start drinkin' with 'em.

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign

I've gone legit. After a couple of years of occasionally using the Hillside tank trails on the sly, I finally got one of the Army's recreational-use permits. Along with a bunch of friends who also recently obtained their slips of paper, I took off from the Hilltop Ski Area today to ride the Fort Richardson trails (and gravel roads) up to Alpenglow Ski Area in Arctic Valley.

I always enjoy the signs in the woods on Fort Rich. You just don't see stuff like this on most rides:

Shoothouse? Now that sounds fun.
Gimme one of those laser-tag rifles
and a fake hostage, and let's

get down to business!Shit. Does this mean I can't keep this

big shell thingie and use it

it as a doorstop?This is a really sick thing to post

where people will see it after
more than 4,000 feet of climbing.
Retain this, dammit!

I'm outta here for a few days. My job is taking me out of the mainstream for a little while. Ride hard, stay right-side up, and I'll see ya soon.

Joke Day at B&I

A woman's dog develops a rash that makes its skin very sensitive and requires the application of an ointment to make the problem go away, so the veterinarian sends the woman to a pharmacy with instructions to buy a hair-removal solution.

As the pharmacist rings up the purchase, he cautions the woman: "This might cause some irritation, so I recommend avoiding pantyhose for 24 hours."

"Oh, it's not for my legs," she replies.

"In that case," the pharmacist tells her, "I would stay away from wool sweaters for three or four days, because your underarms might be a tad uncomfortable."

"I won't be using it on my underarms," she says, growing impatient.

The pharmacist pauses, looking a bit confused.

"Look," she says, "if you really must know, I'm buying this for my schnauzer."

"Aaaah," the pharmacist says with a look of understanding. "In that case, you shouldn't ride a bicycle for at least a week!"

Zipped

I love zip ties. These things are right up there with duct tape, red wine and polio vaccine on my list of Shit I'm Glad Someone Invented.

After getting sloppy wet a week or so ago while riding home in the rain, I was really missing the fenders I used on my old commuter bike, which is now a stripped frame in a corner of the backyard shed. Problem was, my old '96 Stumpjumper was designed as a race bike, so the frame is devoid of braze-ons and threaded eyelets for stuff like racks and fenders. That was cool in 1996 but now that the beloved Stumpy has been put out to pasture as a commuter and errand bike, its streamlined frame is more of a liability.

That's where the zip ties come in. I decided to try mounting the fenders with nothing but plastic, and it worked like a charm. I stripped all unnecessary bolts from the fenders, zipped everything to frame and fork in approximately the appropriate places, and voila, the Stumpy is a nerdy but utilitarian machine.

The zip ties were a cheap, efficient solution—especially since I'll be yanking the fenders in a couple of months when the rainy season gives way to the sleety, snowy season and I have to ditch the slicks for studs.

I have mixed feelings about fenders. They're great on rainy days, but I still feel a little self-conscious about riding around with them. I feel a little better when I remind myself that I don't exactly look like Lance on a bike anyway, so what do I have to lose, other than muddy legs?

At least I'm not on a recumbent. Right?

Up and over

A tree blew down across one of my favorite little pieces of singletrack this summer, and when nobody cleared it with a chain saw, some freeride types built a ramp stunt over it. On one hand, this pisses me off because I'm not a fan of unnecessary structures on trails. On the other hand, it was fun to watch Pete B. and a couple of other young guys riding over it on their singlespeeds one night last week.

The whole "North Shore" style of riding doesn't appeal to me. I like my trails as natural as possible (although I do enjoy the ramp on Brown Bear) and scrap lumber is an affront to the beauty of natural forms.

I also like staying close to the ground. I can fall hard enough from saddle height, thank you very much.

Several years ago in his Mountain Bike magazine column, Dan Koeppel wrote about some formula he uses for catching air. I don't remember exactly what the formula was, but it somehow involved one's age having an inverse relationship to the number of inches their tires should be above the ground.

It seemed clever at the time. It seems wiser with every passing year.

Let’s face it

A little carnage is what makes mountain biking so exciting. It's not as if we want to crash, but knowing we might adds spice to tricky moves or high-speed turns and descents. And when we really think about it, most of us have to admit we secretly enjoy knowing people think we’re either brave or crazy for riding singletrack that they wouldn’t hike.

And, like the guy in today’s photo, let’s face it: Once we know our friends are OK, we usually get a laugh out of their falls. Hell, it’s probably because we know they’re OK. Laughter is often a sign of the hysterical relief one feels after nearly getting creamed.

If we manage to get a photo of the crash and our friend comes out … well, less than permanently crippled, then everyone wins. That’s why I’m sometimes accused of setting up to shoot a picture in a spot where someone could easily take a header. The way I see it, if you’re gonna fall, you might as well do it when we have a chance to save the evidence, ya know? You’d think friends would understand and try to cooperate once in awhile. But noooooooo.

My friend Ken crashed and burned a few days ago. Separated his shoulder, destroyed his helmet, the whole bit. But not on the trail. He did it a block from my house while riding over so we could carpool to the trailhead.

Now he’s out a helmet and a fat ER bill, he's facing surgery, and he doesn’t even have a gnarly photo or a wild story to tell. Well, OK, he can make up a good story.

“Yeah, uh, I was shooting down this steep descent when I bunny-hopped a big log and this moose … no, uh, this bear ran right in front of me …”

Heal up, Ken. The season is short.

Beaver shots

One of the greatest things about bike commuting in Anchorage is the daily opportunity to see wildlife. For the past three weeks, I’ve been making regular morning stops to check out this beaver. I finally decided to shoot a couple of photos and post them on the blog, because a friend once told me that he thinks it’s the duty of everyone who owns a digital camera to take some nice beaver shots and post them on the Internet for him to enjoy.

I had no idea he was so into animals, but you know men—we’re always trying to conceal our sensitive side.

This particular beaver is usually in a creek that’s close to my office, but this morning I found it in a nearby lake after a fellow bike commuter with a big smile on his face saw me looking in the usual spot and said, “Man, the beaver’s really out this morning!”

I pulled off my path and hid by a big, thick bush to snap a few photos. About that time, the beaver’s morning dip had reached its climax, so the furry little thing politely climbed out and prepared to leave. As it crossed the bike trail on its way home, I heard a voice saying, “Whut the hay-ull?!”

I turned around and saw a man on a bike. He had hit the brakes and was trying to decide what to do next. This poor guy sounded like he had just moved here from Dallas and had never seen a beaver. Especially one that was dripping wet early in the morning.

The beaver continued on its way. Knowing I had several good beaver shots stored in my camera, I mounted my bike and happily rode away.

Dang, that sure was a great beaver.

Caveat emptor

After my post last week about the ratty-ass bike from Sports Authority, another blogger accused me of being a bike snob. It seems that every time I write something about crappy bikes, someone calls me an elitist and points out that such bikes might teach their owners learn to love riding. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know.

Coors Light teaches a lot of people to love drinking beer, and I don't know a single beer-loving bicyclist who wouldn't make fun of somebody for drinking that piss in a can.

I'm not really that much of a snob. I'm more of a critic of shitty consumer products. I don't expect everyone to ride $2,000 bicycles, but I think it's pretty stupid for consumers to be unaware that they'll get much more for their money by spending $400 in a bike shop instead of $125 at Wal-Mart.

Most people wouldn't buy a $10 clock radio from a no-name brand when they could get a Sony or Sanyo for $20, because they know they'll probably end up being late for work when the crappy product breaks. Why should a bicycle purchase get less thought or attention?

I'm glad there are cheap bikes available for people who can't afford anything better. And I admire people who pull bikes out of Dumpsters or buy them at yard sales for a few bucks and then fix them up enough to make them functional and use them every day to get to work or to run errands. Whether they do it out of passion or necessity doesn't matter—it's a cool and noble thing to do.

But to go out and buy a piece of junk because you don't know any better, or because you think a modern bicycle shouldn't cost more than what your parents paid for a bike 25 years ago? That's just dumb.

Summer

This was the quintessential summer weekend.
It lasted three days, and the weather was spectacular.I rode a beautiful trail on Saturday, then

washed off the mud and sweat, and drank
a couple of cold beers by a campfire
before enjoying a cool, breezy night of sleep.Then I left the bike behind when my daughter

persuaded me to spend a few hours
doing that thing that's so popular
with people who don't have bikes. Let's see,
what do they call it again? Oh, yeah, hiking.

By the time we got home and unpacked our stuff,
and I mowed the neglected lawn, a friend
was sitting on our front porch telling me
to get in the shower and wash off the stink,
because we were taking the girls
to a Mexican restaurant for dinner.

I'll raise a margarita glass to that.

Gettin' what ya pay for

For the past few weeks, a new bike has been showing up at the rack in the building where I work. I'm glad to know there's another bike commuter in the place, but I feel a little bad for whoever owns this cheap thing, partially because of the stickers I noticed on it:There's this one just forward

of the bottom bracket shell,
and it's alarming enough.

Then there's this one affixed to the crank
on the, uh, left side of the bike.

Is it just me, or does this clearly translate to,
"This bike assembled by a minimum-wage
monkey we just hired away from McDonald's?"

Sack 'em all

I’m boycotting pro cycling. Haven’t watched a single minute of this year’s Tour de France coverage, and haven’t missed it.

Unfortunately, I check the New York Times and other news sites several times a day, so I can’t avoid the endless scandals associated with all the whores who ride bikes for a living.

Astana packed up and left the Tour yesterday. Today it was Cofidis, which didn’t even bother to request a second doping test for Cristian Moreni. Fans are now booing the yellow jersey because Rasmussen has a developed a shady drug-testing record recently.

Here’s my solution for fixing the problems in pro cycling: Shut down the sport for a year. No races at all. Send everybody home. Then plug all the alleged holes in the doping controls so that the system’s integrity can’t be questioned every time some cheater gets caught. When the sport resumes, ban for life any racer who dopes. No suspensions, no breaks, no second chances. Just let ’em go back to laying bricks, welding pipes or working the farm.

Yeah, everyone would lose a shitload of money. Sponsors and TV contracts will evaporate. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s greed that’s screwing up every major professional sport in the world, so let’s just eliminate the motive.

Of course, none of this will ever happen, so I’ll just stick with the one solution that’s guaranteed to work, at least for me: I’m turning my back on the whole damned mess.

All the news reports say the future of cycling is threatened. Screw that. I don’t care if no one ever makes another dime racing a bicycle. In fact, I’d sort of prefer that they didn’t.

The future of cycling isn’t skinny, logo-covered assholes with needles in their arms. It’s people like you and me, pedaling through life beside friends with big, shit-eatin’ grins on their faces.

Podium girls

A Podium Girl was driving in Le Caravane when her cell phone rang. It was her boss, urgently warning her, "I just heard on Race Radio that there's a car going the wrong way in the Caravane. Be careful!"

"It's not just one car!" said zee Podium Girl. "There's fucking hundreds of them, and bicycles, too!"


I was going to title this post “In honor of the Tour de France,” but then the news broke about Alexander Vinokourov and I was reminded that words like “honor” and “pro cycling” have little to do with one another.

That’s why I’m not even bothering to follow this year’s Tour. The Landis debacle was the last straw for me. I had already given up watching all other pro sports, and now I’ve given up watching cycling.

Maybe the only good thing left in pro bike racing is the Podium Girls, those lithe young things in modest skirts who hand successful racers their flowers and stuffed animals, then plant a few kisses on their cheeks.

Sure, the sport is in a Dumpster in the back lot of a Belgian hotel, lying atop a pile of discarded EPO vials, but hey, we’ll always have Paris. And the Podium Girls.

Trail freebie

One of the cool things about cycling is that you never know what you might find on the trail or in the bike lane at the side of the road. I love scavenging useful stuff that others have lost.

Over the years, I've picked up tires levers, wrenches, bungee cords and cash. My all-time greatest find was a Leatherman tool that was perfectly functional after a quick cleaning in my kitchen sink. I still keep it in my 4Runner for emergencies.

This has been a slow summer for trail scavenging, but I finally scored last week while riding home from work. I was only a couple of miles from the house when I rolled past a DVD box that was laying in an otherwise clean bike lane, so I decided to turn around and check it out.

Cha-ching! A virtually new copy of Basic Instinct 2. Not a single scratch on the disc.

So it didn't get great reviews. So maybe a few people actually made fun of it. So maybe it wasn't lost so much as it was intentionally tossed out the window of a moving car.

It was free, dammit. And it's the uncut, unrated version, so how bad could it be?

Don't answer that.

A first

I'm no mechanical genius, but I'm pretty sure the chainrings are on the right side of a bike.

So how did I manage to tattoo my left calf?

I don't want to talk about it.

The anonymous witnesses in their cars can have their laughs and take the details to their graves.

A bike and a dumbass. It's a painful combination.

Light up the night

On a four-day field mission, a U.S. soldier will often carry 20 to 40 pounds of batteries to power gear light night-vision goggles and GPS units.

So the Department of Defense is offering a $1 million prize to the company that can come up with a prototype battery that weighs less than nine pounds and can produce 20 watts of power for 96 hours.

According to CNN, "the military hopes these power packs may also have commercial use in camping, hiking and other outdoor activities."

Booyah!

I don't know about you, but I want to buy a new bike light in about six years.

Beat that, sucka!

I whacked Dangerous Dan

1,159.6 meters.
(And was excited
to an unhealthy degree.)

That's the most fun I've had
since I played the game
that let me whack
the falling penguin.

Thanks to Queen Bee
for sending the link.

Back on the bike

Last week was bad for biking. Between sketchy weather, recovering from the Fireweed 100, spending two nights at The Beartooth theater sipping beer and watching flicks (including The Flying Scotsman — great movie) and spending a very long day flying to a remote spot to shoot photos for a magazine story, I barely put in any miles.

That finally changed Sunday. Once the rainy weather moved through, we headed up high to ride the Powerline Pass trail, with a fun, muddy descent down Llama.

Damn, it was good stuff.

John climbs Powerline (just before

flipping me off for shooting his pic).

Maura rides above the upper lake.

The lower lake. This is the kind
of view that reminds me why
I live here.

That lake is so pretty,
it might look even better
than my sweet bike.

The little giant

A few days ago I was flattered to see a comment on this blog from framebuilder Dave Moulton. Since then I've exchanged e-mails with him, started reading his blog, and added it to my links list. His latest post on Jean Robic is a good example of why Dave's blog is worth visiting.

I'm headed out to the middle of nowhere for a day or two, so I'll leave you with Dave's post about a true hard guy of the old-school variety.

At a time when scandals have left me with no desire to watch this year's Tour de France, I found it refreshing to read about a little man with a big heart.

You know a trail is great
when it gives you a ...(The owner of this little gem
has requested anonymity.
But I'll give you a hint: She's
a woman who rides a blue Trance.)

Recovering

The Fireweed 100 is still a blur of memories passing through my mind.

The pain of riding alone most of the race after fooling myself into believing I could catch that small group ahead of me.

The pleasure of the brief spells when I found other back-of-the-pack riders to work with for a few miles, and the mixed feelings when I left them behind.

The cold rain, and hands numb from rough roads and wind chill. The words "chamber of Hell" repeatedly going through my mind during the climb to Eureka Summit in the fog of road spray from RVs and pickups passing 5 feet from my shoulder at 55 mph.

The guy who stood in the rain by a highway in the middle of nowhere playing bagpipes for every rider, no matter how isolated and alone they were as they suffered in No Man's Land.

The woman who stood in the rain at Mile 76 just to hold my bike while I gulped food and Cytomax, and dashed into the Rent-A-Can. All the real racers were already back at their cars changing into dry clothes, but she held that bike ready for me as if it was the most important thing she had to do all day.

Racers earn free water bottles and T-shirts.

Volunteers deserve medals.

Ride dawg, ride!

I was riding home from work the other day when I caught up with one of those macho young thugs who feel that their manhood is threatened if someone passes them while they’re riding a bicycle.

This guy was a textbook case: Dressed like an Eminem wannabe; no helmet; cheap, squeaky, ill-fitting bike with a rear wheel that wobbled like an epileptic trout; and horrified by the thought of looking gay if he allowed someone to pass him—especially some pansy-ass old man with a nerdy commuter bike and too much gray in his beard.

I didn’t mean to bother him. Seriously. I just couldn’t help catching up to him, because I don’t smoke three packs a day and I don’t ride a piece of shit that’s way past its Costco prime.

So he glanced over his shoulder and saw me gaining on him. His jeans-covered legs and oversized sneakers starting spinning like a cartoon character who has just run off a cliff and is trying to run back to it before gravity kicks in.

I couldn’t help myself. I held the gap steady for a few hundred yards before letting him get away a little bit. Then I closed it until he resumed acting like a meth-crazed ferret.

Then I did it all over again.

Four times.

Maybe I need professional help or something. It was too freakin’ fun to describe.

It was like teasing a really stupid cat with a piece of yarn.

Gentlemen, start your ... tire pumps

We’re down to four days before this year’s Fireweed. My friend Maura and I are signed up for the 100-mile race, and I’ve done all of two rides this year in the 60- to 65-mile range.

The forecast calls for partly cloudy skies and an 85% chance of pain.

Maura asked me during Sunday night’s ride if I had a plan for the race. I said yeah, I’ve got a plan: a big breakfast, a fistful of ibuprofen, and a steady pace. The people who own heart monitors can have a race. I’ll be doing the Fireweed 100 tour.

So I guess I’m “tapering,” as the serious trainers call it. Taking it easy. Thinking about cleaning my bike, or at least the drive train. Trying to figure out if it’s best to go up to the start at Sheep Mountain Lodge and camp out Friday night, or haul my ass out of bed to drive up at 6 a.m. with friends.

Right now, a tent and a couple of Friday-night beers sound pretty good. Maybe I should find that four-person team I’ve been hearing about.

I have it on good authority that the 50-mile event will be run by a team on a four-wheeled quad bike—two riders in front, two in the back. And from what I hear, they’re trying to figure out how to mount a keg on that sucker.

If those dudes need any zip ties or duct tape, I’m willing to share if they are.

Dirt Girl

My 13-year-old daughter decided last week that she was ready to try some trail rides. I planned the first one carefully to avoid a bad experience: short, not too technical, relatively flat.

Every time we arrived at an intersection and I'd point to the trail that led back to the car, she'd point in another direction and say, "Where does that go? Can we try it?"

She rode over rocks and roots, cleaned a bunch of singletrack, chuckled about her mistake when she overcooked a turn, and laughed out loud as she juked around trees on tight corners. As we climbed a hill on Viewpoint Trail, I asked over my shoulder if she wanted to go out front.

"Yeah," she said with a little laugh. "I'm right on your wheel."

Funny. Getting dropped on a hill never made me happy before.