Fog

Leonard pedals up Thompson Pass
just before midnight.

Of all the bizarre memories that come from crewing for a rider in the Fireweed 400 solo division, it was the fog in this year’s race that is going to haunt me the longest.

Any ultra-distance bike race contains moments of despair, humor, exhaustion, boredom and sometimes even a little excitement, but you hope danger will be kept to a minimum.

As we crept into the late evening hours Friday night, a photographer who was driving up and down the course warned me and crew partner Sarah that visibility was going to diminish as Leonard — the racer we were supporting — approached Worthington Glacier and began the climb up Thompson Pass. Daylight was fading, and the pass was covered in thick fog.

This was already going to be one of the worst parts of a very long race. Leonard was facing a hard climb, and from midnight to 5 a.m., race rules required us to keep him in our headlights as we drove directly behind him to shield him from traffic and help him see the road. Instead of regularly sprinting three or four miles ahead to set up for giving him food, supplements and fluids, we would have to drive slowly in dim light for at least five hours, trying to stay alert while pacing him at close range.

When we arrived near the base of the glacier, Leonard rode into fog and the visibility began dropping. Sarah and I decided to start pacing an hour early because if exhaustion or poor pavement conditions forced him off the shoulder and directly onto the highway, he would be invisible to fast-moving vehicles until they were within feet of his wheel.

Conditions already seemed bad. But shit was about to get real.

As Leonard crested Thompson Pass about midnight, visibility dropped to only a few feet as he steered into the descent. When we were close enough to see him, he was signaling that he wanted us closer for more light, but we were already dangerously close. If we dropped back as little as two or three feet, we would completely lose sight of the tiny red light on the back of his bike.

Sarah was driving and struggling to find a position behind Leonard that would allow us to see him without getting so close that we might hit his wheel. Each time he opened a slight gap and disappeared, I would be urgently nagging the ever-patient Sarah to “Move up! Move up! Move up!” until we could again see a red dot in the fog. We could only hope that he wouldn’t tap his brakes as she closed the gap.

We were intensely focused on maintaining some sort of visual contact with Leonard, so there was little time or mental capacity for consciously considering the risk of running over him, but we both knew it was a possibility. Meanwhile, as if we needed an extra dose of anxiety, the amber lights of a large semi came appeared in our mirrors.

Despite all the complaints cyclists have about impatient motorists on the road, I will be forever grateful that within a minute or two, the truck driver appeared to figure out what was happening in front of him and he backed off until we descended far enough to reach better conditions. He could have made our situation drastically more dangerous, but he gave us the space we needed to continue our mostly blind chase down the mountain. 



Hours later, on the way back toward Glenallen, Leonard was stopped for a food break when he asked if we had taken any good photos of the descent. He was baffled when I replied that no, there weren't any pictures.

“We were a little busy trying not to kill you,” I told him.

“Really?” he asked. “Was it that bad?”

All we could do was say, “Yes, it was,” then get him rolling, throw everything back in the car, and head up the road to our next stop. I was consciously trying to forget the pass. Sarah and I still had work to do, and Leonard had a lot of pedal strokes between him and the finish line.

The sun came out on Saturday morning, and with every mile we put behind us, I was happy to be farther away from darkness and fog.

Just before 6 that evening, after an amazing ride, Leonard finished his third straight Fireweed 400. It took 29 hours, 56 minutes and 10 seconds.

Going downhill fast

I’m putting 2012 down as the Year of Intense Descents.

First, there was the fog-shrouded puckerfest on Thompson Pass during the Fireweed 400. In October came the Furnace Creek 508, another bit of ultra-distance craziness for which I somehow got talked into being Leonard’s crew chief. 

The 508 is one of the world’s toughest ultra-distance bike races because it has more than 35,000 feet of elevation gain, crosses 10 mountain passes, and runs through the Mojave Desert and Death Valley on its way from the start line north of Los Angeles to the finish line in Twentynine Palms, Calif. 

It’s 508 miles long, with a cutoff time of 48 hours. 

Leonard at Valley Wells, before shit got real.

The best thing I can say about ultras is that they give you focus. Real life mostly disappears as crew members become consumed with taking care of their rider and meeting critical needs like eating, finding gasoline and ice, or finding the necessary facilities when the racer or a crew member badly needs to drop a load.

For me, the real world completely disappeared at night. Soon after we met up in California, Leonard requested that I do all nighttime driving of the crew van. I’ve followed him down quite a few descents both on bikes and in cars, so I generally know what he’s about to do, and why he’s going to do it. 

Because I haven’t run over him yet, he seemed to feel reasonably confident that I could stay close and light up the pavement without turning him into a road biscuit.

But there’s a big difference between an autumn night in the 508 and a summer night in Alaska’s Fireweed 400. California gets really dark. And it stays that way for hours and hours. That makes for a very long shift of driving within a few feet of your racer’s wheel. But night is no piece of cake for the rest of the crew, either. Especially first-timers.

We were probably two-thirds of the way down a long mountain pass during the first overnight run when Randy, who was sitting in the passenger seat and had met me only 48 hours earlier, said the first words that had been spoken since we crossed the summit. I was keeping the van’s bumper about 12 feet from Leonard’s wheel, at speeds reaching 40 mph.

“You think you should back off a little bit?” Randy quietly asked.

“Nope,” I replied. “This is good.”

The van got quiet again, and stayed that way until the descent was over. 

Sometime about 24 hours later, I still hadn’t slept and was following Leonard as he dropped down a gentle, miles-long descent toward the last checkpoint town before the finish in Twentynine Palms. I slowly swerved from side to side in the highway lane, touching the shoulder on the right, then drifting left and putting the tires on the center line. 

I knew it must look strange, and the concentration required wasn’t as intense as the previous night, so I explained to Randy that I was trying to keep Leonard from riding into his own shadow, and trying to help him see the smoothest, safest line on a stretch of sketchy pavement. 

The race started at 6 a.m. Saturday. Sometime about 2 a.m. Monday, we rolled into the hotel parking lot that was the finish line. Once we got Leonard settled in his room, Randy and I shared one last surreal drive together: to an all-night drive-through selling big, shitty burritos.

They tasted incredibly good. They were like dessert after a main course of insanity.

Fancher's Furnace

Leonard pedals through Death Valley.
(Photos courtesy of Mike Morganson)

A 508-mile bike ride is beyond my comprehension. That’s why this post will be short. I can’t write much about what I don’t understand. (Although some readers of this blog would say I do so on a regular basis.)

But congratulations to Leonard Fancher. The dude just finished the Furnace Creek 508 in 40 hours, 59 minutes, 29 seconds. I mean, seriously. Holy shitballs. That’s a freakishly demented, long distance, and the race came about three months after Leonard took third in the Fireweed 400.

Good job, Leonard. And congrats to Leonard’s dad and Mike Morganson for serving as his crew. I learned last year that the job of crewing is a tough one, but a rider can’t go that far without solid support. All three of you earned some cold beer and deep sleep for the next few nights.

I’m curious to hear what kind of twisted idea Leonard will come up with for his race schedule next year.

Fireweed Dominance

Leonard "Steel is Real" Fancher flips a Fireweed finger.

Damn, I have to say something nice about this guy. It pains me, but he earned it. My friend Leonard Fancher, who I crewed for in last year's Fireweed 400, returned to the race this year and not only placed third in the solo division, but finished in 28 hours, 12 minutes, which is about 3 hours faster than last year's time.

Leave it to Leonard to make sure the crew got back in time for plenty of sleep in the year I wasn't available to help. Nice work, Fancher! I'd be pretty pissed right now if you hadn't made time for a new entry in the Fabulous Finger Gallery.

Leonard's strong finish (on his trusty steel Waterford, no less) secured the top three spots for Backcountry Bicycles, with Erik Christensen finishing first, and Kristin Wolf taking second. And that's not second in the women's division, that's just flat-out second place with no asterisks or qualifiers.

That also made it a happy day for Janice at Tower Coaching, who trained all three racers.

Erik, Kristin and Leonard, you're all crazy. But amazing. Congratulations.

First dirt

This is just a post about a bike ride. Friday’s post was actually important, so if you haven’t done so already, read it first. Buckwheat needs you more than I do.

Folks up in the Mad-Zoo Valley had their spring gear swap and mountain bike festival on Saturday, complete with an afternoon group ride guided by Fat Bikes builder Mark Gronewald. The trails were soupy, but we managed to pull off a mellow-but-fun little cruise on some durable double-track with a nice little section of dry singletrack.

Mountain bike tires actually rolling on dirt in April, in Alaska. Not bad. I don’t usually touch a trail until late May.

It was a fun crowd of new faces, and a few familiar ones. Adam showed up with his wife, Jo-Ann. Alan was there. DaveIT shared the ride up in my 4Runner, and Leonard was there being ... well, Leonard. Sticking his face in my photos, sharing his stash of chocolate, trying to mess with my shifters and teaching me all sorts of names for disturbingly unmentionable sexual practices.

Some people read serious articles in The New Yorker and grab a dictionary when they come across words they don’t recognize. I ride with Leonard and then go home and use Google to look up the names of acts that are probably illegal in most states, and probably not recommended in most relationships that last more than one night.

OK, so Leonard's no Malcolm Gladwell. At least he has better hair.

And the bike-blogging world got a tiny bit smaller Saturday when I got to meet Michelle from Chain Driven. She’s still recovering from shoulder surgery, but finally got some slop on that sweet new Santa Cruz Juliana she had built this winter.

Shiny stuff with a splash of mud.

That’s a good combination.

Leonardo

Despite knowing it was named after my goofball friend Leonard, I’ve always had respect for the Soggy Bottom’s Leonardo Award and the riders who receive it.

Each year, Carlos—the Soggiest event organizer I know—gives the Leonardo to someone who guts out a tough ride, overcomes obstacles, or shows admirable determination in pursuit of his or her goal.

The award was inspired by Leonard's infamous ride in the early days of the Soggy Bottom, when he suffered immensely and passed out beside the trail a few times, but refused to quit. He finished despite taking more than 24 hours to do so.

During last weekend’s post-Soggy Bottom party at the Snow Goose Restaurant, Leonard himself presented the 2011 Leonardo award to Oscar The Grouch and me for voluntarily pedaling into hellish conditions for our drenched, bear-infested, course-sweeping ride.

Carlos had flasks engraved for the occasion, which was very classy. Thanks, Carlos.

Given the caliber of riders who line up at the start every year, it’s a humbling thing to be given any award related to the Soggy Bottom. Others rode farther and suffered more. Oscar and I just went out and did the job we promised to do. The same kind of job others have done for us.

Any mountain biker who has benefited from the efforts of volunteers should take a turn pitching in from time to time. You don’t do that kind of stuff because you expect recognition for it. Hearing the word “thanks” and maybe being handed a cold beer at the end of the day is about all you expect, and that’s the way it should be.

But when people think you’ve given a lot, and choose to recognize you for it, that feels pretty good. And it says something about them, too.

Bottoms up.

Franco Finger

I don't know if it's the wind or a digestive problem from that strange cuisine, but the French sure like to know their outhouses aren't going to lift off when the countdown reaches zero.

My man Leonard stopped at this heavily fortified privy in France for a flip-off photo last fall. At least I think that's why he stopped—I don't know what he had for breakfast.

While we're on the subject of thoughts that could cost you some sleep, I'm going to crew for Leonard as he solos the Fireweed 400 in about three weeks. Team Muschi Schmerzen is taking the year off after two campaigns in the 200 relay event, so I decided to get a front-row seat and watch what the real maniacs endure.

It should make every ride I do this year seem like a Sunday cruise. Who knows? Maybe I'll get flipped off a few times when Leonard gets irritable in the wee hours of what could be a 28- to 30-hour effort. Not that I'll still have the fine motor skills to operate a camera ...

Sarah

At the finish line.

One of the secrets to finishing an ultra-distance bicycle race is to have a good crew in the support car. A natural place for a rider to look for such people is among his or her friends who ride bikes, because they’re likely to be supportive of such a crazy idea and, hopefully, will have some understanding of what’s required to reach the finish line.

But not necessarily.

Part of the reason I agreed to crew in the Fireweed 400 for the second time this year is that I had a good partner who agreed months in advance to help get the job done.

And she doesn’t even own a bicycle, much less race one.

Two years ago, Sarah Alban was a magazine intern spending her first summer in Alaska. She made two mistakes: 1) seeming to be up for new adventures, and 2) having a supervisor who was desperate to find the second half of a two person crew.

I felt a little guilty about conning Sarah into the job, but every time I tried to recruit one of my bike-riding friends, they would start mumbling and develop a sudden need to stare at their shoes.

It could have been a violating some sort of workplace law regarding interns, but since I had hired her and hadn’t bother to look up any rules, I went for it. “How would you like to see some more of Alaska?” I asked. “Would you like to visit Valdez?”

Then I stared at my shoes and quietly mumbled, “… for a few minutes, in the dark, before turning around?”

She took the bait, and I was happy to just have a live person to fill the other seat and meet the race’s two-person-crew requirement. I didn’t know she’d throw herself into the job and work her ass off for my friend Leonard, a racer she had just met, expecting nothing in return but a long stretch of sleep-deprivation.

Four hundred miles later, we both had learned how hard, exhausting and gratifying it could be to do the behind-the-scenes work that helps a bike rider accomplish something most people could never do. And I had learned to not underestimate the tired young woman sitting next to me as we drove across the finish line at Sheep Mountain Lodge.

This year, Sarah flew 4,000 miles from the East Coast to do it all again. She made sandwiches, mixed energy drinks, took driving shifts, guzzled caffeine and graciously endured what other friends wouldn’t … 30 hours in a car with me.

And when it was all over, she pulled a bottle of rum from her backpack so we toast Leonard’s success.

I think the next time Leonard and I have time for a beer together, we should do a toast to Sarah. Because that poor girl is completely insane. And I’m pretty sure we’re both grateful for that.

Fireweed 400

Team Fancher at 30:54:02

Congratulations to all finishers of this weekend's Fireweed 400. My respect for the mental and physical hardness of such people could only grow from experiencing the race for my first time as a crew member.

Congratulations to Leonard Fancher, who overcame a difficult first day and rallied to actually gain speed over the final 200 miles and finish in 30 hours, 54 minutes, 2 seconds. Our team rolled out of the Valdez checkpoint at 4:20 a.m. full of worry about our ability to finish—but only because we had no way of knowing that Leonard would find new life on a rainy morning, and uncork a hell of a ride. Congrats, too, to my other friends among the elite group of survivors: Tony Berberich, Erik Christensen and "Broken Toe Joe" Pollock.

Thanks to Janice for her phone-and-text coaching consultations during the race, and to all the other crewing friends who made me smile when we saw each other on the road: Julie, Jill, Sean and, of course, Sarah, my partner on Team Fancher. With no bike-race experience of any kind, Sarah endured 39 sleepless hours with boundless energy and humor, and found ways to contribute that I had never imagined.

If Sarah's still available after she graduates from college next summer, I know a couple of racers who would be happy to put her to work.

Fresh Dirt

Leonard enjoys some fresh Kincaid singletrack
while training for this weekend's
Furnace Creek 508. Good luck, Leonard!

The new trails at Kincaid Park are opening bit by bit as the hand-finishing is wrapped up and sections become ready to ride. I've been checking them out over the past couple of weeks, and they're a hoot. I've never been a big fan of the trails at Kincaid Park, but that's changing. Finally, Kincaid isn't just the domain of Nordic skiers. Mountain bikers have a little slice, and it's sweet.

There's another work party from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. this Sunday, so go sling some dirt if you can. I haven't been very active in trail projects this year, but I've shown up for a couple of recent work parties, and it felt satisfying to know I helped at least a little bit. I hope to be there again this weekend.

To everyone who has worked on these trails—especially those of you who showed up regularly and picked up slack for the rest of us—thanks for your work. You've done a wonderful thing.

And a special thanks are due to the leaders of the project: Janice, the undisputed Queen Bee of Anchorage singletrack; Ryan, who saw lines where none existed, and worked hard to make them a reality; and Lee, the man for whom "L Train" is already named.

The world has long asked for a better mousetrap, but you guys found a way to build a better Toilet Bowl. And the rest of us are grateful.

He meant to do that

"I meant to do that."
—Pee Wee Herman, to the boys who saw him
wreck his bike in "Pee Wee's Big Adventure."

"Hey, get a shot of this," Leonard said as he eased his bike up to the edge of a steep drop into a snow-covered boulder field this afternoon. The only thing missing that would have made it a classic redneck disaster setup was, "Hold my beer."

I snapped a photo as he quickly put both feet on the pedals to complete the shot.

Then he started rolling, and there was no turning back. My first thought was of broken bones or shattered teeth, and how we'd deal with that at Eklutna Lake, where we were several miles from the parking lot, and very alone. We hadn't seen anyone on the trail for hours.

When he hit the narrow beach, my thoughts shifted to the very strong possibility he was going swimming—at 20 degrees Fahrenheit—and how we'd warm him up in the middle of nowhere.

Just as I yelled, "BAIL! BAIL!" he skillfully stopped at the water's edge. When he got back to the trail, Leonard swore he did it all on purpose.

All I know is that it was either a ballsy stunt, one hell of a survival ride. Whatever. I declined his invation to try it.

Mighty Ride

Going over Resurrection Pass from Hope to Cooper Landing on a sunny day is always a great ride. On Sunday, it was spectacular. The weather was warm, the sky never even hinted at rain, and we rode in a solid group of nearly 20 people all the way.

I was crashing the party put on by Mighty Bikes, a local group that helps kids build mountain-biking skills. Leonard, the master of dirty jokes, invited me to tag along and I showed up expecting a slow out-and-back ride from Hope with lots of rest stops. Some of the younger kids did the out and back, but I ended up with the up-and-over gang and they were incredible.

Pete B. led the group on his singlespeed and I fell in with several adults generally patrolling the rear of the group. The pace was high early and I was wondering if this was the kids’ usual speed until Queen Bee asked Pete to dial it back a bit.

It seemed to generally creep back up to a brisk pace and everyone held it tight all the way. By my bike computer, we rode nearly 39 miles of trail in less than five hours—that’s from sea level up and over the pass above treeline, and back down into Cooper Landing on the Kenai River—with no stragglers.

No whiners, no brats. Just cool kids with great legs, nice bikes and the skills to handle them. The smallest kid was only 10 years old.

Yeah. I said 10 years old.

The weirdest part was Leonard behaving around all the kids. I didn't learn a single new dirty joke all day.

After the ride, I saw a teenage girl bouncing up and down while she proudly showed two friends that she was getting a tan line around her bike gloves.

Next time I get pissed off and grumpy about teenagers, I’m going to try to remember that girl.

Badasses All

This was the weekend of the Susitna 100, which meant I went to a fun party, took a little trail ride, and frequently went online to look for updates on my much tougher friends.

I’m not sure what makes someone want to endure that many hard hours on a bike, but I admire the endurance of those who can do it. So here’s to all the finishers, especially those with whom I’ve shared rides over the past year or so, resulting their pictures residing in my laptop. They're all tough buggers.

Carl Battreall: 16 hours, 9 minutes

Sean Grady: 17 hours, 6 minutes

Next Saturday, Sean will start riding to Nome
in the Iditarod Trail Invitational.

Leonard Fancher: 21 hours, 8 minutes

Mike Morganson: 25 hours, 7 minutes

This was Mike's 14th Susitna 100 finish.

Julie Perilla: 28 hours, 7 minutes

Julie Malingowski: 34 hours, 29 minutes

They've all earned a cold beer and a good night's sleep.

Fatback Revolution

Check out this new trailer for a film starring my friend Greg's Fatback bicycles. They're amazing, and they'll go damned near anywhere, as you'll see in the flick. Hell, if you look closely enough, you'll even catch a glimpse of Greg's mug in the trailer.

Speaking of Fatbacks going anywhere, I'm starting to feel half-tempted to take mine to the Kenai Peninsula this weekend for the Soggy Bottom 100. I'm on a team riding sweep on the final leg of the event, from Devil's Pass trailhead to the Seaview Bar in Hope. A week of rain pretty much guarantees the trail will be what we all like to call a "bucket of suckage."

It ain't gonna be pretty, folks. There will be suffering. Wet, muddy, painful suffering. And that'll just be me! Imagine what the soloists will endure while riding the whole insane enchilada.

Me, Oscar the Grouch and Leonard—and maybe Pam—will leave the trailhead about 6:30 p.m. and head up into the high country before working our way back down to the seaside Seaview while making sure no stragglers get left in the wilderness all night. If the bears, rain and mud don't get us, I know for sure what will—the cold beer I plan to drink to help me warm back up.

The entire thing makes no sense to me, except for one thing: There's nothing like a weekend in the little village of Hope when it's full of most of my favorite mountain bikers.

See ya in hell, everybody!

Don't be fooled

Johnson Pass Trail, 3-5-11

The skinnies are coming out, but I'm not buying into it.

When I pulled into the trailhead parking lot tonight, Leonard and I were armed with fat bikes. A guy I know was there with his SS mountain bike. Then his riding partners pedaled up on their studded rides. They said they've been loving the hard trails lately.

People all over town are loving the warm, sunny weather we've had for the past few days, but I keep scanning the weather forecast, hoping for three or four inches of snow to freshen things up. I'm in no hurry to switch bikes. I've got a new fat bike that I'm lovin', and I don't like getting suckered.

Sure, we're light on snow this year. The spring thaw could be quick. But it's March 9 in a place where I don't move my snowblower to the shed until May 1. April will be warm, muddy and ugly, as it always is. March, however, is dangerous. It wasn't too many years ago that I was clearing three feet of new snow off my driveway on St. Patrick's Day.

This is a false spring. Don't fall for it. Mark my words, March will roar back and kick us in the ass.

It's still winter, and I'm gonna keep riding like it as long as I can.

Psst, senor! Yo quiero Pugsley!

Several friends have told me they're waiting for an update on the new Pugsley. I've got three words for ya, people: Insanely Freakin' Fun.

I finished building the bike about 3:30 Sunday afternoon following some parts delays. I had to run to Paramount on Sunday for a rear brake adapter so I could mount an Avid BB7 caliper on the Surly fork, and I needed a new set of brake levers after pulling my head out of my ass and remembering that my beloved old Avids were designed for canti brakes, and mechanical discs require V-brake-compatible levers.

Leonard stopped by just after I finished the build, so we test-rode the bike by plowing through a small pile of snow in the cul-de-sac in front of the house. Then I headed out for a group ride on the Hillside. I spent most of the ride with Jon and Rose from Paramount as we cruised trails and I marveled at how fun it is to bomb downhill on Endomorphs. What a kick in the ass. I didn't even stop to take pictures, which is why I'm just slapping a logo on this post.

The ride also helped me find the kinks that needed to be worked out when I got home: lengthening the chain a bit and dialing in the low-limit screw on the rear derailleur. I rode it to work this morning and had a blast.

Pugsleys are simply more fun than humans should be allowed to have. I've had one in the back of my mind for a couple of years, but never took the thought very seriously until the past few weeks. The only reason I don't regret buying one sooner is that I'm having so much fun with a new one right now.

I haven't felt this much like a kid with a new bike since ... well, since I was a kid with a new bike.

The fever is catching. My friends Maura and John peeled off early from Sunday night's ride so they could head back to their car. On the way back, Maura turned over her Pugs to John so he could try it out. He described the ride in an e-mail this morning:

"Maura forced me to ride Porfirio down Moose Meadow on the way back last night. About halfway down the trail, I realized that I was giggling. You should quit writing about these things. Pretty soon you'll have to buy them through a shady Colombian, politicians of all ilk will declare war on them & kids will get tattoos that read 'Sex, Phat Tyres & Rock & Roll.'"

That pretty much sums it up. On the other hand, it begs the question:

Porfirio?


(Note: Pugsleys are incredible and Surly makes 'em solid and affordable. But let's not forget a pioneer who was leading the way long before Surly took it to the masses. If my pockets were a little deeper, I'd be buying a bike from Mark.)

Can I Still Pledge Delta?

The next time someone give you a hard time for going out on a winter ride at the expense of some trivial responsibility you’ve shoved to the back burner, just tell them you’re doing research for a class.

It's not such a crazy idea, because if you happened to be a student at the Kuskokwim campus of the University of Alaska Fairbanks, you would now be eligible to register for RECR 193, Winter Cycling. It’s a survey course put together by Martin Leonard III, who teaches at UAF when he’s not out riding his snow bike.

Course Description
RECR 193 is a survey of winter bicycling in Alaska. Topics covered include: Alaskan Winter Cycling Roots & History; Performance & Off-season Training; Bike Design, Performance & Construction; Expedition Readiness and Wheel Building. Practicum will include in-region day-rides and bike-building opportunities for all students. Upon completion, students will have a better understanding of the new levels of fitness and the safe enjoyment of the out-of-doors that this growing winter sport can provide.

Course Goals
* Exposure to some of the unique bicycling history in Alaska
* Understand the roots of Snow Biking and the Development of 'Fat Bikes' in Alaska
* Develop a broader knowledge base regarding ultralight camping and self-propelled travel
* Understand critical design and construction components for winter bicycles
* Develop basic mechanic skills and confidence through hands-on bike shop experience
* Review off-season training tools and performance
* Recognize and practice safe wilderness travel etiquette

Sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than trigonometry.

The Hangover

Isn't it strange how some of the hardest rides are the ones we remember as being some of the best? When Leonard and I got back to the car Wednesday evening more than eight hours after we left it, we had run out of tubes, patches and water, and the sky was growing dark.

Most everything—including my legs—was depleted. My back ached and my knees were sore. We needed a hot meal, and we were still facing a 125-mile drive back to Anchorage. Home felt far away. My office, where I needed to be in 12 hours, felt much too near.

Tonight, there’s a small pile of filthy clothes in my garage floor, right next to the Camelbak full of food wrappers and miscellaneous trash. Cleaning it up will, as usual, be simultaneously disgusting and fun. The aftermath of a good ride is like that of a good party. You might use a long stick to pick up a malodorous pair of pants, but you’ll smile at the memory of what happened to them.

Sometimes, it’s tempting to swear I’ll never return to a trail that ripped my legs off and beat me over the head with them, but that’s like crawling out of bed on Sunday morning and vowing to never drink again.

A few days later, the bottle will be opened again. That stuff just tastes too damn good.

Memorable moments of 2007

Building the Pugsley***

The fun of riding it
***
Early spring rides on my new road bike.
***
Making one bad joke
about dancing in my arm warmers,
and never hearing the end of it
***
The cold rain during the Fireweed 100
***
Making sure I remembered
a really foul joke all summer,
so that I'd be ready when I finally
ran into Leonard
***
Heather actually showing up
for a couple of rides
***
64 piles of bear shit in 22 miles
on Russian Lakes Trail
***
The beauty of Lost Lake Trail
***
My 13-year-old daughter
dropping me on a hill
for the first time
***
The thick, slimy mud
of Johnson Pass Trail
***
The young worker at the Kansas City airport
who rolled my bike case into the baggage-claim area
and asked, "Is this a gun?"
***
The sound of a bike flying
off my brother's roof rack at 70 mph
***
The guilty relief of realizing it wasn't mine
***
Octaginta
***
Riding en masse through Spenard,
in the dark, after a rainy game
of bike polo
***
Beer and movies at Speedway
***
Drinking beer around
the Frigid Bits Burn Barrel
***
Watching my daughter ride ice and snow
on her first pair of Nokians
***
The Face Plant
***
Everyone who let me share a ride
with them.
This is the coolest cult
on the planet.
***
Happy New Year, and thanks
for reading this little pile
of bike-related stuff.

See ya out there.

Passion, or status symbol?

I’ve gotta tell ya, it’s been feeling lately like fat bikes have jumped the shark. They’re selling like crazy, but there are only so many hardcore winter riders. I have to wonder if a big-tire bike hasn’t become just a status symbol for many new owners.

Why do I say this? Because this is the kind of winter for which fat bikes were made. Anchorage averages 63 inches of snow per year. Right now, we’re a shade over 90 inches, and it’s only mid-January. Snowstorms have been coming back to back, leaving almost no time for bike traffic to pack the trails into prime condition.

But when conditions are marginal, only a small handful of people are usually seen hitting the trails. And, in most cases, they’re the same devoted riders who have been riding in tough conditions for years. Others seem to be waiting until the singletrack is “groomed” by other riders.

And then there’s the cold. I admit it can be hard to feel motivated when the temps drop below zero, but only the truly addicted know the joy of a frigid, bluebird day like today. Leonard and I rode for a couple of hours in the sunshine today, and passed by Smokejumper trailhead when the temperature was about -15F.

Only two cars were in the parking lot. And it was a beautiful day.

I think owners sometimes need to be reminded that Alaska fat bikes were inspired by cold air and soft trails. They exist so we can ride on days when a lesser bike just won’t cut it. But the full benefit of such bikes is revealed only to those who are willing to work for it.

Jimmy Doogan said it well in the movie A League of Their Own:

“If it was easy, everyone would do it.”

(Photo credit: Today's shot of me was taken by my daughter, Hannah.)