Paging Ted Kaczynski

The friend of a friend recently brought this knife to a gunfight—aka the VaMoose 25—and found himself walking back to the parking lot before the ride on snowmachine trails really even started. It was completely the wrong bike for the conditions. Still, it was fun to see a such a relic.

For you youngsters, or people who have come to this sport in the past 16 or 17 years, what you’re seeing is a Stumpjumper Comp, circa 1989. And I’m pretty sure you’re looking at a whole pile of original parts. Early TIG-welded steel; toe clips; threaded headset; cantilever brakes; a metal frame pump; and, best of all ... Biopace chainrings. Seriously. They’re shark-toothed as shit, but still in action (sort of).

The guy who owns this thing seemed to still love it. Loyalty is a beautiful thing, But so is modern bike technology. I think this guy owes himself an upgrade.

Maybe after he buys a color TV and switches from vinyl to CDs ...

The revolution will not be motorized

I took a brief tour of the new downtown museum expansion the other day, and the architect said there will be bike racks and showers for employees. Those features are among several elements of the project that should improve the museum’s chances of getting LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) certification as a “green” building. I hope they help, and I’m happy to see project managers making an effort to accommodate bike commuters.

But while driving home, I wondered how many workers hear of the rare employers that offer such amenities, and then make the excuse that they can’t ride to work because their companies don’t offer showers or locker rooms. Let’s face it, Americans are masters at rationalizing laziness.

Since graduating from college 22 years ago, I’ve worked for five different companies, and only one provided exercise and shower facilities. That probably makes me lucky—I’d be willing to bet that the average working American has never had an employer provide any equipment or facilities to accommodate healthy lifestyles.

That’s no excuse for not riding to work.

And if you’re trying to use it as an excuse, you’re part of the problem.

Most companies aren’t proactive or imaginative enough to invest in long-term investments to encourage bike commuting where none exists. They look at a building full of people and see one or two bike commuters—if any—and wonder why they should spend money on a “nonexistent” issue.

American workers—including those who call themselves bicyclists but continue driving to work—need to suck it up and start a movement, one bike at a time. No more using excuses like, “Oh, I have to dress nice for my job,” or “what about my hair?” Toughen up, buttercup. Adapt a little bit, like the rest of us have done for years. And encourage others to do the same. It’s not that hard.

Tired of being ignored when you ask your employer for help? That’s because you’re numerically insignificant when the bean counters measure things like lower annual insurance claims and the reduced cost of providing employee parking.

You’re going to continue being rejected when groups of three or four people ask for new bike racks, indoor bike parking or showers.

You need a group of 20, or 40, or 60.

Get busy.

Far-flung Fingers

From Cold Bay, Alaska.

Usually, I require a bike
in these photos, but anyone
who lives in Cold Bay
deserves a break.
(Thanks, Amber, and all you loons in Cold Bay.)

A post about nothing

Foraker and Denali from Willow Swamp, 2/8/09

I've been spending my free time riding
instead of blogging.

But I'll come up with something soon. Probably.

The end.

Images from the VaMoose 25

At some point, I might have more to say
about the VaMoose event.
Tonight, I'm just tired.

Willow Swamp

Shelly. Somewhere out there.

Maura on the trail.

Klunkerz

One of the greatest things about the sport of mountain biking is how it got started: a bunch of people using old bikes to bomb down a mountain, just for fun. On the earliest competitive days, they might have done it for the beer, or the bag of weed, that awaited the first guy to reach the bottom of the hill.

It was simple, pure and unspoiled. It still is, when it’s done right. But mountain bikes—and mountain biking—have come a long way in three decades. People have made boatloads of money from the sport; it has been a medal event in the Olympics; and the bikes look nothing like those early pre-war Schwinns that first rolled down Mount Tam. Hell, when I stood at sales counter as the shop guy handed me the manuals for my full-suspension bike, my wife looked aghast and said, “I didn’t get that many manuals with my car!” So much for simplicity.

Sometimes, it’s good to be reminded of how it all started and what the soul of the sport was—and still is, in my opinion. That’s why I recently watched Klunkerz after Billy Savage, the producer and director, asked me if I wanted to have a look at his labor-of-love film about the rise and evolution of mountain biking. It’s full of old 8 mm footage of guys like Charlie Kelly, Joe Breeze, Gary Fisher and recent interviews with them, their friends, and other Marin County bike crews—such as the Morrow Dirt Club and Larkspur Canyon Gang, two groups whose contributions to early mountain biking are commonly overlooked—as they tell the stories in their own words.

Klunkerz is the best documentary I’ve ever seen on the birth of mountain biking. So much has been made over the years of guys like Fisher, Breeze and Tom Ritchey (and the debate over which of them “invented” the mountain bike) that it’s good to see a comprehensive account of the other key people who were part of the Marin County scene. Not to mention how much fun it is to watch those guys blasting down Mount Tam at warp speed, with minimal safety gear, on ancient bikes with bad brakes.

If you get your hands on a copy of this DVD—and I recommend clicking over to Klunkerz.com and ordering one—make a point of watching the bonus features on the disc, especially the short piece on John Finley Scott. Never heard of him? Most people haven’t, but he was traveling on his own homemade mountain bike 20 years before those guys in Marin, and later helped bankroll the first efforts to manufacture mountain bikes.

Do yourself a favor and check out this film.

Afternoon delight

One of the oldest debates in bicycling is the issue of waving or saying hello when you meet oncoming riders, and whether it’s rude to brush someone off. I usually acknowledge other riders if they’re looking my way but, most of the time, I don’t take it personally if they stare ahead like a lobotomized goat.

However, there are certain times when it’s piss-poor form to give me the silent treatment. Like when I voluntarily give up the sweet spot in the middle of the trail, and take my fat bike into the soft powder so you can keep your skinny tires on the firm crown. As I churn through a few inches of new snow and say “how ya doin?’” it wouldn’t freakin’ kill ya to give me a nod, say “hi,” “thanks,” or even a simple grunt, if you happen to be miles into the House of Pain.

So that dumbass I met on my way home last night had better be ready to return my act of kindness, because the next time we meet, I’m holding my line. If he wants to play chicken he should bring his A game, because the Pugsley is Large and In Charge. That dude's goin’ down.

Speaking of going down, one of the new curiosities along my commuting route is a couple of people who seem to be meeting for morning and afternoon trysts near my office. Every day, there they are—their cars squeezed together in the darkest corner of a small parking lot, his vehicle temporarily abandoned, her engine running (and I’m not just talking about her SUV with the conveniently tinted windows if ya get my drift) to keep them toasty warm in the steamy glow of their love.

But seriously people, a parking lot? Every day? Often twice? Could you make it any more obvious that this is Lust on the Lam, and there’s probably a wife and/or husband who aren’t supposed to know?

Hey, I like to live and let live, but this is a tough economy and a guy can’t pass up a promising business opportunity. So all I need now is someone who's wondering why the ol’ ball and chain has been leaving early and coming home late on a regular basis for the past couple of weeks.

Sound like anyone you know?

Do they need to know where this promiscuous pair have made their little automotive love nest?

Well, I need a new set of 29er wheels for the Pugsley.

You do the math.

Warm, steamy fun on a frosty night

Fat bikes 'n' beer, a great combination

Saturday’s Frigid Bits ride was a lesson in optimism. After weeks of crappy conditions brought on by our mid-January thaw, winter returned on Friday with several inches of new snow. It was easy to think the trails would squirrelly with all that new powder.

But the beauty of a snowy Friday followed by a sunny Saturday is that tons of people got out and pack the trails for us. The temps were cold, the trails were firm, and the Frigid Bits Burn Barrel was glowing hot when we got back to the parking lot. The ride was fat-bike heaven, but still pretty good, even for the riders on skinnies.

The good ol’ Grill Meister was with us while he’s back in town for the Susitna 100, and there were several new faces in the crowd. A few of the regulars who couldn’t make the ride still managed to show up and look homeless with the rest of us as we stood around the barrel drinking beer until the bitter end. All was right with the world. OK, I guess not, but at least all was right with our tiny slice of it.

If you're a local rider, don’t let fresh snow glue you to the couch the next time it falls right before a Frigid Bits ride. Chances are, the trails will be fine (if not, you can sit on the back and let the fat bikes pave the way) and even if the trail conditions are rough, a hard ride and some beers by the fire are always better than a night in front of the tube.

Slippery? I have my Redoubts, missy.

Redoubt Volcano, 4/21/90
Photo by R. Clucas

Everyone in Anchorage this week is stocking up on respirators and whatever else you’re supposed to buy before a volcano erupts, because those smart-ashes over at AVO are telling us Redoubt is about to blow. This could be sort of cool if it waits until the weather clears, because we can easily see this sucker from right here in town.

Of course, it could also be a major pain in the ass, because volcanic ash is not very nice to things like computers, cars and airplanes. So as news of the impending eruption started spreading across the nation, one of my brothers sent me an e-mail asking what volcanic ash does to bicycles.

From what I understand, it’s so abrasive that it pretty much eats any moving parts it gets into, but I figure a couple of drivetrain components are cheaper than a new Toyota engine, so as long as it doesn’t get too bad, why not keep riding if I have to go somewhere (providing I can keep it out of my eyes and lungs)?

But my wife’s co-workers who were here for the last ashfall in Anchorage have warned her that the ash is also slippery, so the hospital where they all work should expect to see more victims of falls.

Slippery? Really? The stuff is sort of like sand, isn’t it? The whole thing leaves me scratching my head.

What does one ride to an eruption? Studs, or Endomorphs?

Wish list in an economic wasteland

I recently returned from vacation determined to never again travel without an easily transportable bike. I already own a hard-shell case, but it’s not always practical to schlep a huge bike box, and there’s always the threat of nasty airline baggage fees.

A folding bike seemed like a possible sanity-saving solution for quick trips, but the very idea brought an onslaught of criticism from two riding buddies who insisted that a folder would obligate me to commit acts rarely performed by a straight man who's not incarcerated.

That led me back to the more-expensive idea of a Surly Travelers Check with its ingenious S&S couplers. But like most everyone else, I’ve spent the past three months watching my already-laughable financial portfolio waste away like a bulemic bimbo with a nose full of blow.

On top of that, I have a bad habit of reading the news every day, which hasn’t exactly been a confidence builder lately. Dropping a thousand bucks on a frame that would then soak up more money in the form of tasty components just doesn’t seem prudent right now. It’s enough to make a guy want to kick the teeth out of all the sub-prime lenders and derivative-selling financial con artists who put us in this swirling toilet bowl of an economy.

It’s unreasonable to whine about delaying a bike purchase. Unlike some people, I still have a job, and the value of the bikes in my house could feed a Third World family for a few years.

Still, it’s no fun being a responsible adult and delaying gratification.

Hasta la vista, baby

The Monkee gives Dubya the boot.

Mush, mon!

These are bleak days for winter bikers in Anchorage. Sure, the weather has finally turned cold again, but we’re still stuck with rotten ice and a shortage of snow left by those damned Pineapple Express winds.

The commuting conditions are fast—unless you have a deep pool of meltwater between home and your office—but most of the trails are in rough shape, and will stay that way until we get some new snow. The whole mess has reduced local riders to arguing online. The local forum has a long-running thread about whether the design of Chain Reaction’s new 9:ZERO:7 borrows too liberally from Speedway’s Fatback, with the counter-argument being that it’s pretty hard to build a bike that doesn’t look like another bike.

Of course, that argument keeps being interrupted by debates over things like PBR—which some people consider fit for human consumption (OK, that’s really just Dutch)—online censorship and whether the whole thing is too gay to begin with. It’s enough to drive a person batshit crazy, if he wasn’t already there from too much time on a stationary trainer.

So it was a refreshing distraction this afternoon when I read about Newton Marshall, the Jamaican dog-sled racer who plans to race in the Yukon Quest and is sponsored by Jimmy Buffett.

As I read about Marshall, I thought how strange it seemed that a guy from a Caribbean island would come to Alaska to race dogs. “Dang,” I said to myself. “That’d be like taking a bike to ride … uh … well, in Alaska. In the winter. I guess.”

I mean, seriously, where else could you ride a bike—which most of the world views as summertime transportation—that would be as weird as here? Winter cyclists should totally understand this guy.

I don’t usually follow mushing. I know people who do it, and it’s a sport with a work-to-fun ratio that’s freakishly out of balance. But this year I’ll be cheering for the Jamaican because he seems like a funhog, and he's got to be one tough dude to have made it this far.

After the Quest, maybe he’ll stick around and try some fat-bike rides. Who knows? Maybe if we showed him how much fun he could have without shoveling dog shit all week, he’d decide to stick around and train for next year's Invitational.

Technical difficulties

Thanks to the incompetent boobs at ACS—who can't upgrade a DSL account without hosing it up for 24 hours—and the non-English-speaking residents of Bangalore who provide router tech "support" for Linksys, I was offline for more than 24 hours.

Bicycles & Icicles will return will my anger calms.

1.20.09

Finger Festival

The Fingers are back but, for the first time ever, today's post has two photos without bikes in them. Why? Well, for one thing, the weather in Anchorage sucks ass. Seriously. I actually miss the subzero cold of two weeks ago, when at least we had good riding surfaces. This mid-winter thaw has reduced everything to rotten snow and crummy ice.

I set up the trainer today for the first time all winter. The results weren't pretty. I've gotta start suckin' up some pain now, or I'll suck worse this summer than I did last year.

On the way to the Beer & Barleywine Festival on Friday night, Notorious H tried to downplay her role in starting the Flip-off phenomenon that is almost a year old now. But what'd she do when the camera came out? She led the charge, baby.

And from Colorado, where he's enjoying riding temps in the 50s and 60s while training for the Susitna 100, the one and only Grill Meister sends a shot of his wife and a friend during one of those walks people do outside when they don't have bikes handy. I think they call them "hikes." It's always good to hear from The Man. In a couple more weeks, I hope to be riding with him again while he's in town for the race.

Hopefully, winter will return before he does.

Slippery when wet

Rush hour on the C Street bike path, 5:25 p.m.
Traffic congestion is for suckers.

My office was still dark, and I was changing clothes when my phone rang Wednesday morning. Instead of saying “hello,” the caller simply opened the conversation with, “Did you ride your bike this morning?” It was a staff member calling in to report that she didn't know when she would get to work after a night of freezing rain had coated the Glenn Highway with a sheet of ice.

It was 32 degrees outside, and the rain was still coming down. All over town, cars were stuck and/or colliding with one another on the icy roads. Schools were closed. The university was shutting down. The city was suspending public bus service. A major local freight company was sending drivers home canceling all deliveries for the day.

A few minutes later, after I’d opened my door and window blinds, another woman arrived at work and poked her head in before going to her desk. “Did you ride your bike today?!” she asked.

Other riders were facing the same bewilderment among co-workers all over town. I started a “roll call” thread in the commuter forum at akspokes.com to ask who had ridden to work, and then watched the responses come in:

Amber—“I had to laugh at the people attempting to drive. I felt MUCH safer on my bike.”

Jordy—“I was glad I rode, traffic looked like hell. Everyone @ work was just shaking their heads.”

Ajofatbike—“I think I was going straighter and faster than most of the cars.”

BikeMonkee—“I felt much safer on the bike than trying to negotiate all the traffic hazards.”

What were drivers talking about when they arrived (many of them late) to work? Stress, sliding through intersections and how many cars they saw in the ditch.

And how “insane” bike riders must be.

Turn off, tune in, and drive

I read a news story a few days ago about how car manufacturers are planning to incorporate computers with Internet access into future car models. They say that today's consumer expects to be connected all the time.

I’m having a hard time feeling good about this. I’ve already dodged drivers who were eating breakfast burritos, applying makeup, and organizing the paperwork and other shit that was sitting on the empty passenger seat.

Pedaling around Anchorage in the dark this winter, I’ve noticed a lot more screens glowing on the dashboards of cars. Whatever they’re used for, one thing is for certain: Drivers have to look at them to use them. That means they aren’t watching out for bicyclists. Or kids on their way to school. Or anything else that could be flattened by their vehicle/entertainment center.

Like a lot of bike riders, I’ve sometimes wondered if the sound of a car horn will be the last thing I ever hear. The way things are going, if a car ever takes me out, I wonder if the driver will even notice in time to honk.

Walk on the wild side

A week into my singlespeed experiment, I was staring at the minimalist drivetrain on my Stumpjumper while removing my shoes a couple of days ago. How would I explain this behavior when confronted with the question my wife had already asked: “Why would you take the gears off your bike?”

I was partially motivated by the lure of increasing strength, and minimizing bike maintenance during the season of sloppy springtime commutes. But mainly, I felt like I should expand my horizons by sampling the singlespeed subculture. Mountain biking is the closest thing I have to a religion, and I’m interested in all of its various factions.

In the Church of Cycling, singlespeeders are the fundamentalists. You see, fundamentalism has been described as “strict maintenance of ancient of fundamental doctrines of any religion or ideology.” And what could be more ancient and fundamental than a bike with only one gear?

Most SS riders are devoted to the cause. They often hold their own races and festivals, separate from those of us in the multi-geared world. They proselytize. They are definitely a nonconformist sect. Heretics, if you will.

In the interest of solidarity and self-improvement, I have opted to dabble in their unorthodox practices. But I remain orthodox at heart.

Brains on ice

Wikipedia says it's known as brain freeze; shake ache; frigid face; a freezie; frozen-brain syndrome; and a cold-stimulus headache. The Mayo Clinic calls it a "headache attributed to ingestion or inhalation of a cold stimulus."

Most of us just call it an ice-cream headache. And those of us who ride in sub-zero weather know that it can hurt like a sonofabitch.

So far this week, I've ridden my new singlespeed conversion to work twice in morning temperatures in the neighborhood of -15F, give or take a couple of degrees, depending on whose thermometer you believe. In those temps, unless I remember to ride slowly at first, I tend to get about a third of a mile from my house before the front of my head feels like it's being crushed under a Chevy truck. For two or three minutes, I have to roll my head from side to side and blink my eyes while the throbbing pain makes me feel like I'm going to pass out and collapse into a snow bank.

Even if I do ride slowly, I still get a milder ice-cream headache for a minute or two. Once it passes, of course, the rest of the ride is generally enjoyable. But until then ... damn.

It's just one of the costs of riding in winter. And it could be worse, because there are things that hurt a lot more like ... oh, I don't know ... gunshot wounds, burns, gettin' kicked in the 'nads, that kind of stuff.

The staff at Mayo says that headaches caused by cold foods and drinks might be prevented if you "warm up cold foods in the front of your mouth before swallowing." Unfortunately, it's kind of hard to use that method with air when you're pedaling a bike.

I guess we just have to grin and bear it. And remind ourselves that when the temperature rises to 18 again, it's going to feel really, really good.

Medicinal purposes

Hobbit Land

One of the things I love about bike riders is that those of us who are addicted tend to understand each other—or at least a key part of each other—as soon as we meet. We share a craving that normal people can’t fathom.

My recent trip south was a non-biking family vacation. As much as I’d love to always see foreign countries at a slow, intimate pace from the saddle of a bike, my wife doesn’t share my fascination with pedaling for hours every day, so I spent two weeks moving around the north island of New Zealand behind a steering wheel. And that wasn’t such a bad thing; time off the bike can be good, now and then.

But I knew in advance that I’d need to ride at least a trail or two, so I made sure to have a jersey, shorts, shoes and pedals in my duffle bag. By the time we reached Wellington, I need either a two-wheel fix, or in-patient treatment for withdrawal symptoms.

I found the Bike Barn on Wakefield Street, and rented—or “hired,” as they say in those parts—a Kona Cinder Cone for the afternoon. I made a couple of comments about needing some ride time to get my personality back. As we were walking to the front counter, the shop guy said he understood, because he gets irritable if he can’t ride for a couple of days.

We talked that afternoon about how riding is a genuine mental and physical need that other people can’t comprehend. He told me that he shares a flat with five other people, and that it works because they’re all mountain bikers. When they reach a point where they’re getting on each others’ nerves, they grab the bikes and go for a group ride. After a couple of hours of laughing and crashing together, they all like each other again.

I stuffed a map in my pocket, clipped in and headed for the trails on Mount Victoria, right at the edge of downtown. There wasn’t a huge amount of terrain to ride on a rented hardtail, and not even a hint of the kind of wilderness I'm used to at home, but I reached the summit and enjoyed beautiful views of Wellington. I rode through an unusual forest with signs labeling spots where Lord of the Rings was filmed. I scratched up my leg on some brush, and listened to my tires rolling over dirt.

It felt good. And when I got back to my wife and daughter at the end of the day, I was a little easier to live with.

I'm back ... sort of

When my plane landed tonight, the temperature in Anchorage was -8F. And from what I hear, that almost constitutes a heat wave when compared to recent days.

The winter bikes await, but how will my brain and body adjust to sub-arctic riding after more than two weeks in the southern hemisphere?

Faa'a, Tahiti
12/19/08

Downtown Auckland, New Zealand
12/22/08

Wellington, New Zealand
12/29/08

Memories of 2008

The cold-as-hell, way-too-fast-but-still-fun
New Year’s Day ride.

***

The Frosty Bottom 50.

***

The pain of spring road rides, and that
damned late snow that brought the fun to a halt.

***

Riding Whitehorse with my daughter.

***

The heartache of a ruined race, and the solidarity
that strengthened the local bike community afterward.

***

The Fireweed 200 with Team Uranus Titans:
My throbbing achilles, the mutant squirrel,
the brutal winds, and The Bike Monkee’s screams.

***

Construction of new singletrack
designed just for us.

***

My daughter’s smiles
at the end of her all-girl rides.

***

Seeing a lot of new bike commuters
when gas prices skyrocketed.

***

Fingers. Many, many fingers.

***

Clouds, rain and The Summer That Never Was.

***

Arriving at Devil's Pass trailhead to find
all our gear soaking wet because some dumbass
leaked water all over the back of my 4Runner.

***

Picking up my too-light Camelbak
and realizing the dumbass was me.

***

Petra Davis’ beautiful smile at the end of July.

***

The mud, blood and general carnage
of the Soggy Bottom.

***

Being ready for winter, because
summer’s weather sucked.

***

Happy New Year

Merry Christmas

Mesotony with your nose so bright ...

(Tell your kids they'd better behave,
or Santa might show up with this dude tonight.)

Winter break

It’s time for a little break from the blog. Other than a couple of posts I’ve already written and scheduled to automatically publish over the next couple of weeks, there won’t be any new stuff here until the first week of January.

Enjoy the holidays. Eat a lot. Ride a lot. Have fun.

Way better than marshmallows

The Frigid Bits Burn Barrel is more than just a source of heat. It’s a gathering place, a shrine, an altar for those who worship mountain biking.

We flock to it for salvation on dark winter nights when we gather for the fun and lunacy of riding through super cold air with only a small bubble of battery-powered light to guide us.

And on our coldest nights, we rely on the FBBB for one of its most important functions: Keeping the damned beer warm enough to drink. Where else are you gonna find people holding their brews directly over open flames between sips?

While bike riders in other parts of the nation and world are worrying about how to keep their beer cold, we worry about ours turning too slushy—or worse, freezing solid. And there’s nothing that disappoints a person like popping the cap off a bottle of brew and taking a great big swig o’ nuthin’ when you tip that sucker back.

Keep the beer fires burning.

Somebody stop me

"You may ask yourself, am I right? Am I wrong?
You may say to yourself, my god, what have I done?"
—Talking Heads, "Once In a Lifetime"

Holy shitballs, I must be out of my mind.

After years of calling singlespeeds a dumb fad, I've broken down and converted my old Stumpjumper so that I can see what all the excitement is about.

I'm not a convert, just an experimenter. Like most people, the first bikes I rode as a kid were singlespeeds. We didn't call them that, they just were. And I remember pushing a bike up a steep hill every hot summer afternoon on my way home from the town swimming pool.

That's why I place good derailleurs somewhere up there with vaccines and indoor plumbing. They make life better.

But I've known too many people who added a singlespeed to their collection and found that they loved it, so now I have to give it a try. They say this will make me stronger, and I like the sound of that. I'll have to wait and see how my knees like the extra work.

My goal is to make it through the sloppy mess of spring without worrying about gunked-up derailleurs, and then decide how I feel. For all I know, the new Surly Singleator and other bits will be in a spare-parts box by July, and I'll be pulling out my cable cutters and re-installing a drivetrain for sane people.

For now, well ... it does look kinda cool.

The Frozen Chosen

At -12F, my front wheel looked like it was steaming. In the soft, ambient light reflected off the trail, thousands of sugary snow crystals were briefly sticking to the tire and then blowing away in a delicate shroud that wrapped itself around four inches of spinning rubber as Tony, Steve and I rolled up Rover’s Run.

I turned and steered down Moose Meadow, then picked up speed, ducking under snow-laden branches and carving through turns on the packed, sticky surface of the trail. The moon shined bright enough to light up the forest. We had already seen skiers materializing out of the darkness, running without headlamps to enjoy the natural light, but the trails were mostly empty. Only the truly devoted had ventured out.

Tony rolled up behind me when we reached Viewpoint Trail, where we saw the lights of another rider rolling toward us—it was Oscar, riding from home to pick up the crew and join us back at the burn barrel. A short distance later, we found Jeff, a new transplant from Fairbanks who had four cans of beer strapped to his rear rack because he knew about our ride and figured he’d find us sooner or later. And if he hadn’t, at least he’d have something to drink.

We aimed our fat bikes north on the Tour trail, gaining speed and eventually catching Steve, who had turned back earlier. The front of my jacket covered in frost from my breath, the moon still glowing, our tires crunching on the trail, bottles of beer clinking in Oscar’s panniers—it was a fine winter biking moment that brought out the biggest smile my face could manage while encased in an icy beard.

As we rolled up to the roaring fire back at the parking lot, Rio put a big bottle of Panty Peeler ale in my gloved hand. And it was good.

Winter riding isn’t easy. All the extra gear, the brutal brain-freeze headaches, the frozen drinking water. As a matter of fact, sometimes it’s damned hard.

But it's beautiful.

Shiddy, version 2.0

A couple of years ago, I compared a shitty commute
to a giddy commute. It’s time for another installment.

Shitty commute.

Potentially really shitty.

Giddy commute.

I mean, seriously, why would anyone
drive unless it was absolutely necessary?

Time for a break

Be it hereby resolved that the individual who designed slotted chainring nuts, and is therefore to be held responsible for the existence of the accompanying shitty chainring nut tool, is to be: caned; stretched on a rack; burned at the stake; boiled in the urine of a yak; fed live to rabid ferrets; subjected to no less than 900 consecutive hours of high-volume Barry Manilow recordings; dragged through cactus; ordered to imitate live pork during a Georgia canoe trip; administered high doses of salt through open wounds; and, last but not least, sentenced to a mandatory sentence of life with slotted nuts.

That is all. Carry on about your business.

I'll be in the garage.

Spring skiing?

OK, so we’re a long damned way from spring, but it was freakishly warm Friday when I saw this girl hauling her skis up a hill near Westchester Lagoon. It’s always cool to see a teenager using a bike for transportation, but it’s especially cool to see a kid hauling gear on a bike and keeping a pretty smile on her face.

I shot the photo on my way back to downtown Anchorage after a ride with a new friend named Aidan, who recently flew over from the U.K. to spend a few days training for this year’s Iditarod Trail Invitational. Aidan and I split up near REI so he could stop to buy more gear, and I pedaled on to my car. By the time I loaded up my slush-covered bike and peeled off some sweaty layers, I had ridden a little more than 21 miles in a little less than four hours.

Yeah, I’m slow anyway but damn, it’s soft out there with these warm temps. All you can do in these crappy conditions is let some air out of the tires and accept the fact you won’t be making good time.

Thursday night’s ride was nasty. Hoping to show Aidan some great winter singletrack, EndoRando and I took him on a tour of some Hillside trails that hadn’t seen any real traffic since the last snow fell. For someone with Rando’s bike-handling skills, it wasn’t so bad. For a slob like me, it was a constant challenge to stay on the trail. There was a good bit of bike pushing involved, but it was only a tiny taste of what Aidan and the other Invitational racers will face later this winter.

It’s unusual when someone flies to Alaska just to ride a bike this time of year. I wanted the guy to see that we have some fun terrain, so I was bummed about the crappy trail conditions, and frustrated because I was struggling to ride decently. I was grumbling and cussing, but Aidan seemed to be having a relatively good time.

We may both be bike junkies but, given the event he’s planning to do, his idea of fun surely covers a much broader spectrum.