Ride, interrupted

Five years ago today I geared up to ride to work on a chilly morning, yanked the commuter off the workstand and set it on the garage floor only to hear rim and flat rubber bang into concrete. I pulled off my jacket and gloves to avoid overheating as I fixed the flat and re-inflated the tire.

I popped the rear wheel back on the bike, put my outer layers back on and grumbled about my crappy luck putting me a few minutes behind schedule.

Then my wife stepped into the garage and said, "Something's happened in New York. I'm not sure what—some kind of attack. It's all over the radio. I'm turning on CNN. I thought you might want to come back in."

I went in to check the news, thinking I'd see what was up and then hop on the bike. Of course, it didn't work out that way. An hour or so later, I drove to work marveling at an Anchorage sky without a plane in it. The Anchorage sky is always filled with planes. But not that day: no 747s hauling cargo to Asia, no floatplanes heading south to the Kenai Peninsula, nothing.

I'm on vacation this week, so I'm going for a trail ride today. And, for once, I'll make a point of enjoying the sound of jets interrupting the silence of the woods.

The smallest bike messenger

Uh, Mommy, are we there yet?

(I'd credit the source of this photo
and provide a link, but then you'd
go there from your office computer, get fired,
and never read my blog again.
So just enjoy the shot
and go on about yer bidness.)

Addicted II

Things are still slow, so here's the second installment of the 54 Ways to Know if You're Addicted to Bicycling. And for those keeping track, I'm not really going to post all 54, because a few just weren't funny. So let's call it A Whole Damned Bunch o' Ways to Know if You're Addicted to Bicycling.
11. You see nothing wrong with discussing the connection between hydration and urine color at dinner with friends.

12. You find your Shimano touring shoes to be more comfortable and stylish than your sneakers.

13. You refuse to buy a couch because that patch of wall space is taken up by the bike.

14. You have more money invested in your bike clothes than in the rest of your combined wardrobe.

15. You see a fit, tanned, Lycra-clad young hottie ride by, and the first thing you check out is her (or his, for you women) bicycle.

16. You empathize with the roadkill.

17. Despite all that winter fat you put on, you'll skim weight by buying titanium components.

18. You use wax on your chain, but not on your car.

19. Your mud guards are made out of milk jugs.

20. When driving, you yell "On Your Left!" on passing another car.

Grrrrrr

I found this when I finished riding
Spencer Loop on Friday afternoon.

Why do I rarely notice these trailhead
warnings until a month after
they've been posted?

Hmm. Maybe I'm supposed to check
the message board occasionally.

It's hard to remember such details
when I'm distracted by funny songs
about Dubya running through my head.

(That link may be NSFW,
but the song is hilarious.)

Dyslexic workers of the world untie!

It's Labor Day, and it's sunny.

Crikey!

Go for a ride
in honor of all the welders
who put our fancy metal tubes together.

Sunset cruise

Tonight's evening ride
was short and sweet.
Only about 5 miles roundtrip,
right out of our driveway.

With a great riding partner.

And a nice sunset over Fire Island.

Addicted

A couple of weeks back, the fully shaved, rain-hating DaveIT sent me a list of 54 ways to know if you're addicted to bicycling. Aside from being amusing, this kind of shit comes in really handy when when a guy's trying to come up with something to post on a blog.

But 54? Nobody spends that much time reading my blog. I mean, really. If you took your laptop into the bathroom to read on the crapper, I'd be lucky if this was one of the dozen sites you'd surf before your moment of glory. You know I'm right.

Hey, don't feel bad. I don't take it personally. We can't all be voracious and deeply intellectual readers like our brilliant president.

So I've made it easy for ya by breaking the list down into chunks of 10 at a time. Besides, this way I have some more stuff to use the next time I'm completely out of stuff to write about.

1. Your surgeon tells you need a heart valve replacement and you ask if you have a choice between presta and schraeder.

2. You convert your car's brake and gas pedals to clipless.

3. A Power Bar starts tasting better than a Snickers.

4. The bra your significant other finds in your glove compartment belongs to your Trek and not the cute waitress at Denny's.

5. You wear your heart monitor to bed to make sure you stay within your target zone during any extracurricular activities.

6. The funeral director tells you no, you can't ride your Cannondale in the funeral procession, even if you keep your headlight on.

7. You experience an unreasonable envy over someone who has bar end extenders longer than yours.

8. You're too tired for hanky-panky on a Friday night but pump out a five-hour century on Saturday.

9. You no longer require a hankie to blow your nose.

10. You have stopped even trying to explain to your spouse why you need two bikes ... you just go buy another one and figure it will all work out in the divorce settlement.

Woof!

I used to want one of those dog tags they sometimes advertise in the back of bike magazines. Seemed like a good idea to have my name and my wife's phone number so that paramedics would know who to call if I ran into a tree or got taken out by some dumbass in a Hummer.

Unlike my son, my daughter's still young enough to listen when I speak, so she paid attention when I casually mentioned a time or two that, one of these days, I should order a dog tag.

So she bought me one.

She went to the grocery store with her mom and noticed one of those vending machines that will engrave a little metal plate with your pet's information. Dad wants a dog tag, Dad gets a dog tag.

Not exactly what I had in mind, but it works.

Fortunately, it's not shaped like a bone.

It's still up there

I was beginning to doubt its existence,
but it's really there.

You know, the sun.
That big, bright thing
we used to see fairly often.

Maura

Sunday was the first
beautiful day we've had in weeks.

The trail to Powerline Pass
was wet with runoff,
but rocky and solid enough to ride.

Heather

Wet, sloppy and a little tired.
Sweet.
I sorta feel like a bicyclist again.

Worst URLs

I'm running a little short of bike-related stuff because of this stinkin' rainy weather. I got this from a friend last week and I've been meaning to throw it on the blog:

The top 10 unintentionally worst company URLs

1. A site called ‘Who Represents‘ where you can find the name of the agent that represents a celebrity. Their domain name … wait for it … is www.whorepresents.com

2. Experts Exchange, a knowledge base where programmers can exchange advice and views at www.expertsexchange.com

3. Looking for a pen? Look no further than Pen Island at www.penisland.net

4. Need a therapist? Try Therapist Finder at www.therapistfinder.com

5. Then of course, there’s the Italian Power Generator company … www.powergenitalia.com

6. And now, we have the Mole Station Native Nursery, based in New South Wales: www.molestationnursery.com

7. If you’re looking for computer software, there’s always www.ipanywhere.com

8. Welcome to the First Cumming Methodist Church. Their website is www.cummingfirst.com

9. Then, of course, there’s these brainless art designers, and their whacky website: www.speedofart.com

10. Want to holiday in Lake Tahoe? Try their brochure website at www.gotahoe.com

Welcome home

Our man Buckwheat arrived home
in Skagway this morning.

Seven thousand miles.
Eleven months.
Miami Beach to the Bering Sea.
Walking, pedaling and paddling
every inch of the route.

A hundred kids left school
to escort him through town
and he received the kind of welcome
that only a cool small town
can provide.

Sleep well tonight, 'Wheat.
You've earned it.

(Thanks to Jeff Brady for the photos.)

Crappy day

Things can always get worse.

Monday felt like a shitty day. The prototype for bad days. The mother of all bad days. The day by which bad days are measured. The kind of day that little annoying days hope to be when they grow up and become serial-killer days.

It was the kind of day that starts with wading through cold, knee-deep floodwaters on the way to work. The kind of day that ends with a bike commuter driving to the office at 7 p.m. to retrieve the bike and gear that had to be abandoned at noon because of unforeseen emergencies that led to hours of expensive and fruitless frustration.

Yes, brother and sisters, it was the kind of day that leads to an evening on which you want to do nothing but pull the car in the garage, lock the doors and pour the wine.

But you’re a bicyclist and you own a roof rack. Your day can get worse.

Sadly, a loud crunching sound above your head is a sign that you are not about to pull the car in the garage, lock the doors and pour the wine. You’re about to back the front end of your car out of the garage as you realize that if you needed a glass of wine a few minutes ago, you're about to need a couple of large Camelbaks full o’ that shit.

Suspension forks just aren’t meant to bend at that angle. Roof-rack crossbars aren’t supposed to be V-shaped.

As hard as it can be, one must remember all that crap you hear about silver linings. Ten-year-old Rock Shox forks are overdue for replacement anyway. Beloved, 10-year-old M2 Stumpjumper frames are as bombproof today as they were a decade ago (especially if they get a little energy-absorbing help from a dying fork and a collapsing cross bar).

When Jon at Paramount Cycles makes you a good deal on new fork, that helps, too.

And—maybe best of all—your favorite bike wasn’t on the roof rack that day.

No brainer

I took this picture a few weeks ago
while riding home from work.

Klatt Road near my house is usually
a road with fairly light traffic but
nearby construction has clogged it up
most of this summer.

The traffic slaves stagnate on the left.
I ride that blissfully free-flowing
bike path on the right.

It's enough to make a person wonder:
Why would anyone not ride a bike to work?*


*Besides week after week
of miserable, morale-killing rain.

Let's go for a ride

Be careful, kids

Unplanned pregnancy ruins
another young athlete's career.

Understatement of the week

CNN.com is reporting a story about Dubya pardoning Randall Leece Deal, who was convicted on moonshining charges in the 1960s. (Hey, it's not as if he's in charge of a war or anything. What else does the president have to do between readings of "My Pet Goat?")

Deal played a small role in the 1972 film "Deliverance," which CNN says was "about four Atlanta businessmen who have unpleasant encounters with locals during a North Georgia canoe trip."

Unpleasant encounters? Well, maybe for those good ol' Georgia boys at CNN in Atlanta.

Personally, I'd say gettin' ass-raped by a grimy, toothless hillbilly would be freakin' horrifying, not "unpleasant."

When I'm reminded of that movie, I often think of a ride I once did outside Los Alamos, N.M., when we encountered a pretty inbred-looking dude in a battered old truck on a remote forest road.

One of the guys in our group, T.J., started nervously yammering about how the guy probably had guns and could have raped all three of us.

Mountain bikers tend to talk about a lot of gross things—saddle sores, bowel movements, exposed bones—but no regular guy wants to pedal through the woods with another guy who won't shut up about the possibility of gettin' buggered during a bike ride.

Especially when the yammering guy is already known for being so homophobic that some of us thought he might be protesting a little too much, if ya know what I mean. After a while, Jeremy and I started thinking T.J. might actually be hoping to run into Scary Pickup Guy again.

I started finding excuses to not ride with T.J. after that. The dude was creeping me out.

Besides, he didn't take care of his bike.

His brakes squealed like a pig.

Anybody wanna buy my bikes?

I need the money for margaritas.

Help me doc, it hurts

And we all know how painful that can be.

Friends on the road

Finally, an update on our man Shelby, who's doing his thing in Kyrgyzstan where they have a little problem with, uh ... weeds. (Not to mention a severe shortage of vowels.)

If anyone's still under the illusion our folks in uniform don't make sacrifices, take a look at your fellow mountain biker. This dude moved to Alaska last fall, showed up at Frigid Bits races and froze his ass off with the rest of us last winter, then Uncle Sam shipped him out of here just in time to miss the summer riding season.

Those who remember Shelby from those dark nights on Goose Lake will be glad to hear that he should be back in Anchorage and riding his Kona by early September. That'll give us time to drag him out on a few rides and show him that we really do have trails you can't skate on.

Seriously, Shelby. We really have dirt. So hurry on back to the land of indoor pot production.

And there's good news from my friend Buckwheat, who has spent most of the past year crossing North America by foot, bike and canoe. People who have read this blog for a while will remember when his bike was stolen in British Columbia last spring.

After spending this summer floating the length of the Yukon River, Buckwheat has reached the Bering Sea and is on his way back to Whitehorse, where he will begin walking the final 110 miles home to Skagway. He's several weeks ahead of schedule and will get home with time to recover and adjust to normal life again before returning to work at the beginning of October.

He sent me an e-mail from Nome a couple of days ago and said he's living proof that a person can walk 4,000 miles, pedal 900 and paddle 2,200 without losing weight. So thanks to all the folks who gave him hot meals, warm beds and good conversation between Miami Beach and Nome.

Way to go, 'Wheat.

Groovy Gustavus

I was recently fortunate enough
to spend some time in Gustavus.

Just a couple of hundred years ago,
a glacier covered this place.
As it retreated, it left a flat plain that's
perfect for a town full of
singlespeed cruisers.

Traffic is almost nonexistent,
the drivers are friendly,
and the scenery is superb.

And Deb lets you pick the berries
that are close to the road.

Hamburglars

People are starting to post comments saying I've seemed angry lately, so I'm almost reluctant to rant about this newspaper ad.

I said almost.

This thing ran in Friday's "Play" section of the Daily News. I'm never fond of advertisers using images of mountain bikes to sell unhealthy products, but McDonald's pimping it's crappy burgers as "fuel" is a bit over the top.*

Hell, if you look closely enough, the bike that kid is riding is probably the same Magna P.O.S. I complained about a couple of days ago. I hope he got through the photo shoot with no broken bones.

I know they're not actually targeting a physically active demographic group with this stuff—they'll be happy if it lures in a bunch of chubby kids on BMX bikes—but it still rubs me the wrong way. This is one small step away from puttin' the Marlboro Man astride a mountain bike as he lights up while overlooking a scenic valley with a sweet singletrack running through it.

McDonald's is simply evil. That company will do anything for a buck. It'll use photos of people exercising one minute, and hand them toy Hummers the next.

You know why Ronald McDonald's orange hair is so big? It's to hide the devil horns just above his forehead.


* To be fair, they probably do make decent fuel if you happen to be in need a good source of flammable grease—with a couple of McDondald's cheeseburgers and a cell phone, you could probably blow a big hole in a Boeing 747 way more effectively than you could with a bottle of water and some hair gel. But you didn't hear that from me.

Big Jonny update

The original Drunk Cyclist has been released from the hospital, and damned if he isn't becoming a media darling in the interest of bicycle safety. Next thing you know, he'll go and get respectable on us. He might even get religion. Now that's scary.

That must have hurt

Somebody abandoned this Magna Piece Of Shit in the weeds just off the intersection of Brown Bear / Black Bear trails on the Hillside several days ago.

The bike is so new it still has a bar-code sticker on the head tube. Some sucker apparently bought it (or stole it) under the assumption it was a legitimate mountain bike and then decided to hit the trail. And I bet he did exactly that when the “downhill” fork—as the manufacturer proudly labeled it—folded like a wet potato chip.

I wonder if this bike’s rider still has his or her front teeth. Then again, considering that this was the kind of person who would leave trash for someone else to clean up, I wonder if the hillbilly had any front teeth before the crash.

Maybe this thing should be hung in a bike shop with a sign that says, “Why don’t we sell bikes for $85 like Sprawl-Mart? Because ours don’t do this.”

Bottoms up

I was talking to someone today about how I always lock up my main bike, even when it’s stored inside a locked garage.

She smiled and said, “Yeah, and I bet you leave your car unlocked.”

Well, duh.

Who cares if my car gets stolen? I mean, I really like my 4Runner, but I’m not emotionally invested in a car.

Jeez, waddya think I am, some sort of weirdo?

Speaking of weirdos, one of the finest is down. Big Jonny of drunkcyclist.com was hit by a car last Saturday as he was pedaling home from a group ride. He has multiple lumbar fractures and a whole mess of road rash, but his toes are still wigglin' and his sick sense of humor is intact.

He’s a good man with a passion for bikes and a beautiful baby girl at home. I’m glad she still has her dad around and he's expected to fully recover. Take some advice from his friends and tip a couple of drinks in his honor. It’ll make him proud.

And he'd do it for you.

Flash 'em, baby!

Damn. I've gotta get me a pair o' these babies.

These things are so cool,
I wish they made 'em for butt cheeks.

Then I could ride in a thong.

Just kidding. That'd mean I'd have to wax my ass.

Speaking of getting my ass waxed, Carlos has
cooked up another Crusty Bits race for this
Saturday.

The exact course is classified, but he
promises water crossings, a rock garden, a "nice" climb,
fast doubletrack, a drinking challenge, and
a mandatory front-tube change on every lap.

Sounds like fun, doesn't it?

But remember, Carlos is involved,
so some carnage is probably
part of the plan.

Enough

I've had all I can take.

I skipped town just as the Floyd Landis story was breaking, but eight days away from newspapers and the Internet didn't make the bad dream go away.

Pro bike racing is in the toilet. They should just turn out the lights and close the doors until somebody with a spine comes along and shows they can clean up the sport, if that's still possible.

I already punted cable service several years ago and didn't even watch coverage of Armstrong's last couple of Tour victories. Now I've lost the stomach for following the sport in print and online.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Maybe the tests were bad. Maybe the samples were tampered with. Maybe Floyd was framed. Would you believe it if he were one of the Europeans?

To hell with the whole damned lot of 'em. Who knows what's real anymore when we watch an athlete do something amazing?

Coppi did it. Anquetil did it. Why shouldn't a Mennonite kid from Pennsylvania take the juice?

Out there ... somewhere

Thanks to Martino's Bike Lane diary for the cartoon.

Work is taking me to the boondocks
for a few days. Then a family
trip will take me back
to the boondocks for a few more.

Besides, this is a good time
to get away from all news
about pro cycling.

Ya'll come back now, ya hear?

No, your OTHER left!

Exactly how does a person handle skills requiring coordination—walking, riding a bike, etc.—when they don’t understand fundamental physical concepts such as left and right?

I swear, when I call out, “On your left” while riding Anchorage’s paved trails, 40 to 50 percent of the people I encounter respond by immediately moving to their left! When you factor in the 10 to 15 percent who don’t respond at all because they’ve rendered themselves deaf to the world with earbuds or headphones, that leaves a piss-poor chance of actually opening up passing space on the left side of the trail.

Maybe I should adopt a habit of calling out, “Passing on whatever side your fat ass ain’t blocking!”

But that might be interpreted as rude.

And we all know what a congenial guy I am.

Going nowhere fast

Some days simply have more than their fair share of strange bicycle news. Like some dude in the Bavarian town of Ingolstadt, wherever the hell that is, deciding to steal a bike.

From a cop.

Right after being released from custody.

As if that's not weird enough, some nuns opened a can of whup-ass on a bike thief in Amsterdam. (Thanks to Blue Collar Mountain Biking for that link.)

And in Boulder, Colo., a bicyclist (well, a triathlete, anyway) slammed into a bear.

And other cyclists in Boulder have been feelin' the need for speed, which is pissing off people who live near a certain big, fun hill.

That story reminded me of my own speed record, humble though it may be. It involved a steep old highway dropping out of Truchas, N.M., toward the village of Cundiyo; my old rigid mountain bike; loudly buzzing knobbies; and some hick in a pickup staying on my tail because he wanted to gauge my speed.

I guess he didn't know I had a bike computer, because once I slowed down and the road straightened out, he pulled up beside me with a big grin on his face and yelled, "Fifty-five, man!"

It was sort of a dirt-bag version of that scene in Breaking Away when Dave drafts the semi.

It still felt pretty cool.

Ma and Pa Landis

You think Floyd's mom and dad
spent the weekend glued to the TV
watching their son kick ass in France?

Nah. They don't own a TV.
But they did ride their bikes to church in Farmerville.

Saving souls, one ride at a time

I always find it a little disturbing to ride by a church and see the parking lot full on a beautiful Sunday morning. Especially when the church has a really dumb sign out front.

Of course, I've never been a big fan of people behaving so much like sheep that they actually refer to themselves as flocks.

The world is out there waiting to be enjoyed, but church people sit indoors on uncomfortable benches and let clergy spoonfeed them religious propaganda.

I like to think I have my own religion—it's something of a cult, really—and I have no need for ministers, pedophile priests or prudish peers.

I call it the Church of the Triple Chainring.

Services are held every Sunday (weather permitting) with as many bible study sessions as time allows the rest of the week. Sermons consist of whatever is running through your head. All services are held in the world's largest church, which I like to call ... uh ... well, I call it the world. Seating is unlimited, so feel free to arrive a few minutes late. (Just don't complain if we start without you and you have to ride hard to catch up.)

Come on, join us. Take a sip from our vat of Kool-Aid. You'll feel better. We might even save your soul. If not, we'll have a hell of a good time trying.

You can even call me Reverend Tim, if you want to.

Back in the blog biz (for now)

Five days without bikes
is not an easy thing to endure.
But at least I caught some pretty fish.

I'm still coping with re-entry into civilization.

I see the world's still full of weirdness.
The Middle East is a powder keg
of crazy shit, as always.
But now there's a little bike race
in France that has suspense again.

Cold nights and long days on the river
have beaten my sinuses and energy to a pulp.
I need a quick recovery.
I need to feel knobbies on dirt. Quickly.

Because I have another trip in a week.

Rerun season

This show's got to go "on hiatus"
as they say in the land of Tony Danza.

Time to spend a few days
where there are no phones,
no computers and,
unfortunately, no bikes.

I'll be out on the Bering Sea coast
all week. Also known
as the middle of nowhere.

But I should be back
before Landis gets to Paris.

Ride it like you stole it, Floyd!

Break free

"Emancipate yourself from mental slavery,
none but ourselves can free our minds."
—Bob Marley

My wife was listening to the radio a few days ago when I heard the station run a promo encouraging drive-time listeners to keep tuning in.

The basic message was something along the lines of, "Stuck at another traffic light? Well, there's nothin' you can do about it, so sit back and enjoy the blah, blah, blah."

I found myself wishing I could run my own ad.

Stuck at a traffic light? Nothing you can do about it?

Bullshit.

I'll tell ya what to do about it. Turn off that crap they try to pass off as music, park your car and hoist your flabby leg over a bike.

You don't need that brainless drivel they spew over the airwaves. Listen to the hum of your tires on the ground and the wind in your ears. Splash through a puddle. Fix a flat in the rain and feel good about it. Swerve around a sluggish moose. Check out that hottie you meet riding the other direction on a sunny afternoon.

Summer's short. Don't waste it.

It's bear season

Heads up on the Hillside, folks. Here's the latest from folks at the muni:

"Tuesday, July 11th at 9am, a jogger was charged by a brown bear on the Tour of Anchorage Trail (Old Rondy) between the Campbell Creek Science Center parking area and the wooden bridge (South Fork Campbell Creek) downstream towards Tudor Rd.

"The bear was just off the side of the trail in the grass and did not notice the jogger until he was approximately 20 feet away. The bear raised his head startled and charged the jogger. The jogger stopped, raised his arms and yelled at the bear. The charge stopped at approximately 6 feet, the bear looped back and charged again stopping at the same distance. After the second charge the bear ran into the woods and crossed Campbell Creek."

Salmon are running and berries are ripe, which means the big scary guys are hanging around. Be noisy.

Mmm, chunky

There are certain things you don't view before certain activities. For example, I try not to watch plane-crash movies when I know I'll be getting on an airplane within a few weeks.

If you're going riding this weekend, think twice before clicking on this link.

Then go ahead and click on it anyway. You know you will.

Can't top this

"It's almost like Colorado,
only better, because it's Alaska."
—Jeff Y., on the Resurrection Pass Trail

Sunday

Even in Alaska, you can win the weather jackpot
two weekends in a row. Sunday on the Eklutna Lake trail
was perfect. Blue skies, warm air and
the usual beautiful scenery. Great people to ride with,
and a cooler of icy Cokes back at the parking lot.

Heather and Jordan round the bend
beneath Serenity Falls.

A sleep-deprived Carlos keeps truckin'
after riding all night to train
for the Soggy Bottom 100.

We are not alone.

(Let's just hope the aliens
don't observe the Soggy
and conclude that our
entire species is insane.)

Cheap Marketing 101

I've been getting e-mails recently from people wanting me to mention their bike-related products in my posts. A few savvy companies have figured out creative ways to use blogs as a marketing tool, and a bunch of cheapskates are trying to get in on the action with minimal thought and effort.

Here's my short-and-sweet guide for people hoping to squeeze a little publicity out of blogs (well, this blog, anyway). If you really want some exposure, take a lesson from Banjo Brothers and follow some of these basic steps. Otherwise, stay the hell out of my inbox:

Rule No. 1: This is a blog, which means it's mine. Just like every other blogger, I do this for my own selfish reasons, not to help you sell stuff.

Rule No. 2: Grow the fuck up. Don't send me messages saying things like, "Hey, my company has a cool new product/website! Check it out! Maybe you'll want to write about it!" I don't want to write about your damned website. Ever. And I'm not going to write about a product I've never used. This is just a blog, but I have standards, no matter how hard that is to believe from reading this thing.

Rule No. 3: OK, so I have standards, but I'm still a swag whore like every other mountain biker. If you want me to mention your product, send me an e-mail asking if I'd like to test and review your bike-related stuff. You'll usually get a positive response because I like bike-related stuff—especially when I don't have to pay for it.

Rule No. 4: If you actually bother to follow rule No. 3, stay in touch via e-mail to see how things are going. Answer my questions. Let me know if I'm using a prototype or the production version, that kinda stuff.

Rule No. 5: The only favor you'll get is if I agree to try your product. If it sucks, I'm going to say so on this blog. If it's good stuff and makes me the envy of my friends, I'll write something nice about it.

See? Five easy steps. And you didn't even have to take a marketing class.

You can send me a tuition check if it'll make ya feel better.

Lock 'n' load

When will more dog owners wise up? John McCleary at Anchorage Parks and Rec has issued the following public notice in response to a bad incident this week in which two unleashed dogs caused a horse to throw it's rider, breaking the woman's leg:

"Last night two horse back riders came across a couple with a German Shepard-mix dog and a Labrador-mix dog on a Hilltop trail, off leash. (They were not in the off-leash area.) The dogs ran barking at the horses and did not respond to the owners voice commands at all. The horses were finally calmed down but the dogs persisted and finally one horse lost his nerve and dumped his rider, causing her to break her leg. The dog owners were not sympathetic to the situation and seemed unconcerned with the fact they were told there dogs should be leashed. In fact, they were somewhat indignant to the fact they were considered responsible for the situation, I was told. This happened on a trail near the Abbott Road/front Hilltop parking lot area and the horses had to be trailered home, while the rider was taken to the hospital.

"PLEASE urge trail users to remind people that they meet on the trail that their dogs should be on leash in most areas. The situation could have easily been turned around and one of the dogs kicked, causing a broken leg (which could happen quite easily with a loose dog nipping at a horse). Dogs on leash help promote safety for everyone using the trail system."

OK, I'm doin' my part. If you own a dog, please keep it on a leash. No, your beloved little pile of shit and fur is not an exception. Unless you're in an off-leash zone, keep your mutt on a leash.

At all times.

Period.

As someone who was attacked and bitten by an unleashed dog on the trails last fall, I'll go even further and encourage all dogless trail users to carry bear spray.

With all the brown bears in the area, and salmon preparing to swim up Campbell Creek, bear spray is a good idea on the Hillside anyway, and if an unleashed dog gives you attitude, you can defend yourself by nuking the bastard.

Cute bunny with a nice Heinie

A little perspective, please

My latest Dumb Sign of the Week
comes from the photo archive built up
during my vacation last month.
(OK, this is just a Strange Sign of the Week—
somebody's gettin' rich,
so they're smarter than me.)

I had to drive by this sign each time
I went to Bicycle Showcase in Scottsdale.

"Luxury villas from the low $2 millions."

Is there such a thing as low millions?
Especially when you're talking about dollars?

And who really wants to buy
the cheap $2 million model, anyway?

Wouldn't your neighbors
in the more expensive houses
look down their noses at you?

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.

Peloton on the Kenai Peninsula

Mud, dust, sunshine
and a virtual paceline
of nearly 20 young riders
(and some old coots like me)
who kept it tight
for nearly 39 miles
of Alaska singletrack.

It was an awesome ride,
but I'm too damned tired
to tell you about it.
I'm workin' on it, though.

Vive le Tour?

Some people said Lance Armstrong's retirement would bring excitement back to the Tour de France. They said we'd have a real race again instead of sitting back and yawning while Armstrong kicked the shit out of everyone over, and over, and over and ...

Personally, I was OK with the way things were the past seven years. Love him or hate him, Armstrong was a racer for the ages. We were all lucky to have been here to watch his era, just like we were lucky to watch Indurain's run, and people a bit older than me were lucky enough to watch all of Hinault's or Merckx's victories.

And it was a hell of a lot better than the debacle this race is turning into. Ullrich, Basso, Sevilla and Vinokourov all axed before the prologue? Holy shit, is there a race left worth watching?

The way I see it, this means several things:

#1: I'm really glad I don't bother to subscribe to cable TV.

#2: Pro cycling may be the most fucked-up of all professional sports when it comes to doping scandals. And that's a big statement. "This is worse than 1998," said Caisse d'Epargne sport director Eusebio Unzue. "Cycling is at the point of death."

#3: It's time for Landis and Hincapie to ride 'em like they stole 'em, because the race is ripe for the picking, and we might as well keep tweakin' the frogs by winning their favorite race.

#4: This is a really good time to be the owner of Jan Ullrich's favorite hangouts, because what else does he have to do in July besides go back to stuffing himself with schlachtplatte before hittin' the clubs, poppin' some Ecstasy and running his BMW over bicycle racks?

Avalanche of ignorance

My latest Dumb Sign of the Week
comes to us from the rear window
of a big ol' SUV.

Whoever made this sticker
is a idiot.

He apparently never read
an grammar book

(Sorry, Scott D., I couldn't
resist using your window sticker.)

Trapped

One of the things I always missed when I lived in Phoenix was a meaningful connection to nature.

The grass there grows on lawns and manicured golf courses, which shouldn't even exist in the Sonoran Desert. The birds are mostly skanky pigeons. Wildlife? You might see a rattlesnake or a coyote, but probably only if you live on the edge of a suburb. If you want to get out and stomp the terra, you'll be driving at least an hour just to get out of town. And unless you really work to find a remote spot, you'll be stepping in the tire tracks and footprints of thousands of other people.

I'm spoiled. I can pedal out of my driveway and, in a few minutes, be riding singletrack through quiet woods where I encounter bears, moose, eagles and all sorts of other critters. I don't think I could survive going back to living in an environment of asphalt and concrete.

That's why this image struck me as I pedaled along the bank of a canal running through the heart of urban Phoenix a couple of weeks ago.

A young guy was sitting in the early morning sun and trying to catch a fish. Out of a featureless, artificial stream. Beside the freeway that towered over him. No grass under his feet. No gentle waves lapping at the shore. No breeze blowing through trees.

He had his folding chair, his cooler, a tackle box. He even had a modicum of solitude as speeding motorists rumbled past behind their concrete wall, unable to see him. I sort of had to admire his quiet determination to enjoy tossing a line into water.

But mostly, I just felt bad for him.