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.

Bike lust

"This is the most fun you can have on a bike, unless someone invents a way to f*&@ it," said a friend of mine during last week's rainy bike polo game in Spenard.

I replied: "What makes you think I haven't?!"

This might be a good time to mention that I was kidding.

Because apparently, someone is out to prove that he can have more fun than those of us who ride with clothes on.

Kick ass, Mr. Mayor

I never thought I'd have a reason post anything about the mayor of Ogden, Utah. I've always considered the metropolis around Salt Lake City to be a hellhole full of bad beer and too many Mormons (is that redundant?)—just a place to drive through between the airport and Moab.

But when little politician opens a can of whoopass on a bike thief, that's pretty damned cool. When I first read the story, I thought to myself, "I'd like to buy that little dude a beer. Just not in Utah."

Then another thought occurred to me. What kind of butthead would exile something as important as a bicycle to a backyard shed?

New Speedway Boogie

Reading the news is just getting too stressful lately. Take today, for example. I didn't know whether to be more freaked out because Dumbledore is gay, or because Tanya Tucker's ENTIRE STAGE WARDROBE is in the path of a Southern California wildfire!

I decided to calm myself by sitting back and pondering meaningful things like, "Tanya Tucker is still alive?" And bikes. I always think about bikes

Speaking of bikes—and we should, because this really isn't a blog about washed-up singers of agricultural music—there's a cool new stage of evolution brewing in the world of snow bikes. Unless you're reading this on a public-school computer in Kansas, in which case there's a new intelligent design. (Come to think of it, that actually seems to apply, in this case.)

The guys at Speedway Cycles are building up a new machine of their own. They call it the Fatback. It features a titanium frame with plenty of clearance for Endomorphs, and still manages to weigh in at less than 26 pounds as shown above with a carbon fork and some carefully chosen components. This sucker attracted a drooling crowd of bike pervs last Friday evening during a party at the shop.

With a 100 mm bottom-bracket shell and a 165 mm rear hub, they've managed to come up with a bike that not only accommodates a triple up front and a 9-speed in the back with no chain-alignment issues, but it also handles rims at least 80 mm wide (that's 15 mm wider than Surly's Large Marge). They say the rear triangle should be able to handle a 100 mm rim, but they haven't yet gotten their hands on one to test the fit.

Yeah, I said 100 mm wide. I've been hearing for months that such wheels are coming. Large Marges could eventually start to look small, if that's possible.

One of the best features of the Fatback, in my opinion, is the sloping top tube—something I really wish Surly would adopt for the Pugsley. With limited frame options on the Pugs, many of us can't get a perfect fit. When you don't have adequate crotch clearance over the top tube, it's a little unnerving to bail off the saddle and put both feet on soft snow.

The just-built bike shown in these photos will go for $3,500 to $4,000, and they've already sold a few of them. That's not small change, but considering how long the winters last around here, a good snow bike is a solid investment.

I'm cheap, so I'll be sticking with my Pugsley for the foreseeable future, but it's a kick to see what other builders are creating. Between stuff like this and the always cool and attractive FatBikes from Wildfire, winter riding is just going to keep getting more fun. And it's good to see Alaskans pushing the technology forward.

Game time

(Photo by BigLaker)

Rain. Forty-degree weather. A puddle-filled,
asphalt hockey rink behind a middle school in Spenard
on a Friday night. Sounds like a good scene
for scoring a bag of crack, if it weren't for
17 or 18 bike nuts riding around in mad loops
while swinging plastic bats at a Wiffle ball.

(Photo by Rio)

This was zany bike behavior at its best. Skidding tires,
laughter, the grunts of frustration that follow
a swing and a miss as somebody fails to hit a rolling ball
with a skinny round bat carried on a rolling bicycle.
Could there be a better combination of sounds?

Of course there could be, but this ain't a porn site
so we'll stick with bike polo and call it good.

Big thanks to Greg at Speedway Cycles
for the post-game food, beer and winter racing flick
on the showroom TV.

Jolly good carnage

(Photo by Rio)

I say, old chap, I believe I'll give
this polo thing a go.

Beckon my stable boy Nigel
and tell him to groom Pugsley
in preparation for the match.

Speak up

It seems I can't pick up a magazine these days without being bombarded with headlines about my "carbon footprint." Everyone's trying to tell me how to reduce my impact on the environment.

The whole thing is long overdue, in my opinion, but I can't help wondering if it's too little, too late. The world's goin' to hell in a handlebar basket, from what I can tell. Then again, I'm probably just a cynical old fart. Not so cynical that I've given up, though: I haul a load of cardboard, glass, aluminum, plastics and paper to the recycling center every few weeks, and I'll never stop commuting by bike. Some part of me must think there's still a reason to try.

Many of us were riding bikes to work for years before we ever heard of a carbon footprint. We just did it because it felt like the right thing to do, and it was a hell of a lot more fun than stomping on a brake pedal for an hour or two each day.

Now, people in local, state and federal governments are showing a little more interest in alternative forms of transportation. Maybe it's just a public-sector fad, or maybe some of them are serious about making changes. I'll believe it when I see it. Nevertheless, bike commuters should speak up whenever they think someone will listen, and folks in Anchorage municipal government are asking for our input.

The city is preparing to start work on the Anchorage Bicycle Plan, which is the second part of the Non-Motorized Transportation Plan and designed to improve bike routes throughout the city. A couple of public workshops have been scheduled so that bike commuters can tell city staffers where we ride, where we want to ride and where we see problems with bike commuting in Anchorage.

The workshops will be held at the REI store on Northern Lights Boulevard on Oct. 24 from 3 p.m. to 6 p.m., and Oct. 25 from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. If you can't make it during those daytime hours, there will be another session on Tuesday the 23rd from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. at Title Wave Books.

If you ride to work in Anchorage, make plans to attend one of the sessions. Tell 'em what works, what doesn't, and what you'd like to see in the future.

For more info, check out the website, or e-mail the program coordinator, Lori Schanche.

It's time to speak up, folks.

(Note: Post was updated 10/16 to include workshop at Title Wave, thanks to the comment from Rose.)

Time to go

Wednesday's "recovery ride" turned out to be a leg ripper, so Thursday was devoted to a mellow spin on mountain bikes and sampling some trails my brother helped build.

Friday was for family visits and resting the legs so we can do one final spin on the road before heading to the airport on Saturday afternoon.

One final road ride for this vacation, and one final road ride for the season before flying back to the land of snow—which is expected to be falling in Anchorage by the time I wake up Sunday morning. Time to park the road bike on the trainer and dust off the Pugsley.

I'm not sure I'm quite ready for this, but winter, here I come.

The Road Goes On Forever

Anyone who thinks the Midwest is a flat wasteland needs to come ride here. Over the past four days, I've ridden 181 miles and climbed 10,596 feet. I've crested hill after hill only to see another hill waiting. Sometimes—just to make things more fun—there has been a second, taller hill waiting so that we could see two climbs directly ahead of us.

OK, so these hills aren't quite the Alps. But they can stack up one after the other like a quad-eating roller coaster from hell. After three or four hours in the saddle, all I want to do is raid my brother's beer fridge and sip a frosty one while I soak my cooked carcass in his hot tub.

Living in Alaska, I tend to forget how extensive the road systems are in the Lower 48, especially in the farm country of the Midwest. Old county and state highways seem to be everywhere, so there is a mind-boggling array of options for road cyclists when they start planning rides. Even though there's an extensive community of cyclists in the area, meeting other riders out on the road is fairly rare because they're scattered over so many miles of pavement.

Even the drivers here deserve some credit. I don't know if it's because they're not sure what to think of the crazy people who wear funny clothes and ride bikes in the middle of nowhere, or they've decided to be nice to cyclists here on the edge of the homeland of the Tour of Missouri, but motorists have been cooperative all week (so far).

Nobody has honked in anger. Nobody has yelled at us. Nobody has thrown anything at us.

To the UPS driver who followed us for half a mile at 20 mph and then gave us a friendly wave when you finally had room to pass, and to the drivers of pickups and cars who patiently waited to crest hills so you could move to the left and give us plenty of room as you passed us on roads without shoulders: Thank you.

I may take a shot now and then at Midwestern ways (I spent the first 18 years of in this part of the country, so I have some baggage) but this place ain't all bad.

It doesn't look flat to me.

West of Paradise

This week's Tour of Funky Places
to Stop During a Bike Ride continued
today with a 41-mile ride along some
nice rural highways leading
to the town of Dearborn, Missouri.

This area is full of reminders
that I'm not in Alaska anymore.Apparently, Bo and Luke Duke
have fallen on hard times and relocated
to Dearborn in a more economical
version of General Lee.We stopped at a "sports bar"
for a Coke, but they didn't have any.
They said the truck would be coming later
with a fresh supply. Therese settled
for a Sprite, while Matt and I
treated ourselves to biscuits and gravy.

Why not? A small order
cost only two bucks, and the
proprietor looked like a woman
who knew her gravy.Besides, we needed fuel for the ride home.

Just another shitty day in ...

My sister-in-law had to work today,
so my brother and I took off alone
to ride 54 miles of relentlessly
hilly county roads in the countryside
north of Kansas City.

And we arrived in Paradise.Paradise is a quiet place
where you can walk into a store
called Clyde's and buy a Snickers bar
and a bottle of Gatorade. Or if you're
brave, you can have a Philly Cheese Steak
that costs a mere $2.19. (Something tells me
there's a plastic wrapper and
a microwave involved.)

But you can't wear your cleats inside
on the painted wooden floor.
And while you sit outside on a cheap,
plastic chair, maybe a guy will step out
of his pickup and notice you're
drinking Gatorade with no shoes on.
Then he can look at your bike
and ask how your feet can hurt
when they don't even touch the ground.

I recommend giving him a little laugh
and a friendly wave.

It's easier than explaining the cleat thing.

One in a million

Sunday started with a bang. A 70-mph, blazing-down-the-Kansas-Turnpike bang. It was followed by the sound of my brother saying, "Shit!" as he looked in his rear-view mirror and saw a bike flying through the air after it came loose from his roof rack.

I have to admit feeling a guilty shot of relief when he said it was his.

OK, so I'm goin' to hell. I can live with that.

Through some freakish occurrence of luck and physics, his Cannondale hit the pavement, slid onto the shoulder against a concrete barricade, and suffered only superficial damage while managing to avoid being run over. After a few adjustments and a vow to be more careful when racking his bike in pre-dawn darkness, he was able to ride the Octoginta with no problems.

I think he had his bike-protection mojo working this morning.

Lining up for the mass start.

A Kansas-style aid station, complete
with a John Deere tractor.

My brother riding through the countryside
on his death-defying bicycle. (My sister-in-law,
shown in the group photo at the top of this post,
was pulling up from behind as I shot photos
with one hand and steered with the other.)

Mr. Retro and Mr. Can You Hear Me Now? share
a brief encounter at the second aid station.

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.

This one time, at goon camp

I was reading "News of the Weird" in a weekly rag while eating lunch one day last week, and I saw an item about a goon from the National Hockey League opening a special camp for aspiring thugs.

Parents who want the best for their young hooligans pay this guy and his brother to teach the little tykes how to assault their opponents just like their toothless heroes do it on TV.

Now, I've never been much of an entrepreneur, but if I were Tonya Harding I'd rent the adjacent sheet of ice and start a class for the figure-skating sisters of all those young hockey players. You know, teach them stuff like triple axels and how to win competitions by getting fat bodyguards to break the knees of better skaters.

There are plenty of parents eager to pay for anything that will give junior an advantage in this hyper-competive world, so why not make a little coin while helping kids pursue their dreams?

Of course, you'll never make a buck off some people. Don't waste your time trying to entice those lazy parents who take the cheap route. They buy their kids mountain bikes and then piss away their weekends riding trails, splashing in streams, eating snacks and having a bunch of pointless fun. These foolish hedonists deprive their children of educational trips to hospitals and deny them the dream of being among the .002 percent of people in their sport who will become rich and famous.

I mean, really. Those bike-riding freaks don't even like to fight! And forget about gettin' them to spit at other kids, or hit them with sticks. They see someone in distress, do they pop 'em upside the head with an elbow? Noooo. They ask them things like, "Got everything ya need?" Sometimes, actually stop and help people do things like changing flats!

They meet new kids on the trail and won't even call them names. They engage in all manner of unnatural behavior, like sharing trail information and going on bike rides together as if they want to be friends.

It's not really the kids' fault. It's those parents who buy them those silly bikes, spend time with them and take them out for post-ride hamburgers. Such people don't care enough to give their kids the benefit of some hand-to-hand combat skills. It's a shame, really.

It's a good thing we have hockey fighting camp, or next thing you know, everybody would be having fun.