High Frigidity

Gentlemen, start your shivering.

We could use some banked turns, Carlos.
(Photo by Christopher)

It was 4F at the start of Saturday afternoon's Frigid Bits crit. The field included full-suspension mountain bikes, fixies with homemade skinny studs, and the usual assortment of cobbled-together winter/commuter bikes. Just to throw us a curve, Carlos switched directions and made us run the course clockwise instead of the usual counter-clockwise.The fixie crowd, and a couple of other guys.
(Photo by AkBubba)

Twenty five racers started and 21 finished, including Rob G., who didn't show up until the second lap. And no, I don't mean he started slow and found his legs on the second lap, I mean he didn't arrive at the lake until the second lap.

Handsome makes up for slow, right?
(Photo by Christopher)

Somebody won, of course, but I can't remember who it was because I'm never near the finish line when the fast guys get there. I'm always somewhere out on the course working my way through a tight turn while muttering, "Sh-sh-sh-shit! Whew! OK that wasn't too ba ... Doh! Damn it!"

(More photos at Christopher's site.)

Chick magnet

I've become a big fan of Anchorage's craigslist page in recent months. It helped me find a 4Runner, sell my Tacoma, and unload all sorts of stuff from an old Apple computer to my daughter's guinea pig. And it did all of that for free. But I never spent any time reading the Best of Craigslist until the past few days. There's some hilarious stuff in there, and some of it even involves bikes.

There's the rant from the guy who gives cyclists a bad name. There's the woman who rode a bike to a Subaru rendezvous with her lover. (That one's probably NSFW.)

And, best of all, there's the bottom bracket that's a chick magnet.

Speaking of chick magnets, there's nothing that turns on the babes like fools who ride bikes on frozen lakes in Alaska, so I'll see you locals at the Goose on Saturday afternoon for the first Frigid Bits race of the season.

C'mon, you know you want it.

Frigid Bits Season II: Elmo's Revenge

It was 8 degrees with a 30 mph wind out of the north during this morning's ride to work. Oh yeah, baby, winter's back.

And that means the ice is here. It's time to go back to Goose Lake for winter racing instead of subjecting yourself to the agony of da feet, which these poor guys suffered last Saturday night during the death ride down Rover's Run.

That guy in the red helmet? The dude waded through ice-cold water up to his knees in the early part of the race, then kept going. That's OK, though. The temperature was well up there in 15-degree range that night. Go ahead, take a closer look. Then tell your toes you love them and promise to never abuse them like that.

The first Frigid Bits criterium of the season is set for Saturday at 3 p.m. It's the usual drill: Show up a little early to register, then be ready to ride four, eight or 12 laps around a curvy course that was born in the twisted catacombs of Rio's mind.

Anyone with a head-to-toe costume gets a four-minute time bonus, so we can expect Rob G rolling around the course with a smile on his face while his wife, Amanda, stands nearby bandaging the fingers she wore to the bone sewing his latest pajamas while he watched "The Simpsons" and drank beer.

That damned Palmeranian will probably bag the time bonus and win again. But will Carlos take four minutes off my time for dressing like a slow, sloppy-riding fat bastard?

Noooooooooo!

And then my therapist said ...

Singlespeeders often make a big deal about the simplicity and purity of their bikes. No technology contaminates their riding experience, dammit.

Well, actually it does. I know this because I passed the same SS rider three times during one lap in this year's 24 Hours of Kincaid. He was younger, fitter and faster, but he was still riding a device susceptible to mechanical malfunction. And that day, my 9-speed derailleur was working a hell of a lot better than his one gear. Every time he got ahead of me and then had to stop and fix his bike, I felt like my XTR deserved a little tongue action.

But I digress. In a disturbing way. The point is, lately I'm seeing a lot more singlespeeds with disc brakes and suspension forks. Isn't that a bit of a contradiction?

OK, I can understand the brake thing because discs are easier to maintain once they're installed and set up. But suspension forks? They require maintenance. And they make it easier to ride technical terrain, just like gears do. So why is a Rock Shox acceptable, but a shifter isn't?

Seems to me, a true purist and lover of simplicity would ride rigid. Anyone who has a suspension fork and only one gear, well, they're just working too hard to ride up hills.

I don't pretend to be a purist. I'm a technology slut. (Why else would I think of a derailleur and tongue action?)

I give myself to the granny gear and beg for hot, sweaty mercy.

Poached it

All last week, I was nagged by reports of nasty conditions on the Goober Smacked race route. By Saturday, I had talked myself into showing up just to ride with Rob G. and sip a little tequila. As soon as I filled the flask and set up my bike in the afternoon, Rob bailed out to take care of his son, whom he had already nicknamed "The Vomiteer."

Motivation failed me. Instead of the race, I opted for a solo evening ride that included the soon-to-open C Street extension between O'Malley and Dimond. I love riding new stretches of road before they open. It's the only time to enjoy them without menacing vehicles.

After a plate of nachos and a home screening of Blazing Saddles, I settled in with a glass of wine and checked in via a Gmail chat with Maura, who handled the Goober Smacked checkpoint at Goose Lake.

Is it possible to increase the enjoyment of my evening ride retroactively?

Maura's report from the checkpoint indicated frigid carnage. Frozen toes, pants soaked to the thigh, and racers dropping out.

I've been known to make the decision that leads to pain and suffering. Tonight I enjoyed a quiet solo ride and a few glasses of wine in a warm chair.

Sweet.

“Constantly Moving”

This video is a brief glimpse into the life of Nat and Rachel Lopes, the IMBA Trail Care Crew. They’re two very cool people who spend 10 months a year traveling North America to help build and protect singletrack, and help mountain bikers maintain access to public trails.

While they were in Anchorage last year, two other local riders and I spent several hours riding with Nat and Rachel while Nat recorded digital video with a helmet cam. It was some of the most fun riding I did all summer.

Unfortunately, they didn’t use any riding footage from Alaska, so I'm still waiting for my 1.5 seconds of fame.

Goober Smacked

Carlos is stirrin’ up trouble again. Goober Smacked, the first winter race of Soggy Bottom Productions’ winter season, is set for Saturday night at 8, starting at the Hillside Trailhead parking lot. The course runs to Goose Lake and back using a combination of Rover’s Run, the Tour of Anchorage trail, View Point and Moose Meadow.

As if cold and darkness weren’t enough, EndoRando—who shot this photo on the course last weekend and then posted it on the local forum—reports that there’s slushy overflow at one of the bridges on the Tour trail. This might be a race for the Pugsley crowd, so make a date with Large Marge and her buxom Endomorphs.

Oh, and one more thing. All entrants must bring one apple. Don't ask questions, just do it; you'll find out why at the appropriate moment. Sign-up is at 7:30, pre-race meeting for all racers at 7:45.

And I don’t mean to dredge up the whole iPod-on-a-bike debate again, but I couldn’t resist posting this little number I found on Gwadzilla’s blog.

Actually, that was a lie. I meant to dredge up the iPod thing again.

Wasilla divorce

This "Breaking News" banner on CNN's website means two things:

1. Journalism is in an unrecoverable, downward spiral.

2. Somebody's gonna lose a trailer.

Miscellaneous

A guy named Eric sent me an e-mail a couple of days ago saying that he's been checking out my blog and was wondering if I'd put up a link for him. He's in a bike club at the University of Alaska Anchorage.

A link for a bunch of local college students who love to ride? Hell yeah, I can do that. Go Seawolves! The club link also has a more permanent home under my "Alaska Stuff" links.

And Darron at Outer Sports Long Johns recently contacted me to ask if I'd be willing to try some of his product and add a link if I like the stuff.

Imagine that: Someone who has actually read my blog offering a product sample for me to review, instead of just asking me to pimp his stuff. Darron even read my Cheap Marketing 101 post, then sent me a full set of polypro long johns—including a pair of sock liners—to test this winter.

With these clear nights and single-digit temperatures, I'll be wearing them soon. Maybe even in this weekend's Goober Smacked race, the latest Frigid Bits production a la Carlos. I'll give more details in my next post, but the Debacle in the Dark will start at 8 p.m. Saturday.

Charge up your batteries, get your lights ready and stay tuned for the course description.

Go read it

"Evolution can go to hell as far as I am concerned. What a mistake we are. We have mortally wounded this sweet life-supporting planet—the only one in the Milky Way—with a century of transportation whoopee. Our government is conducting a war against drugs, is it? Let them go after petroleum. Talk about a destructive high! You put some of this stuff in your car and you can go a hundred miles an hour, run over the neighbor's dog, and tear the atmosphere to smithereens. Hey, as long as we are stuck in being homo sapiens, why mess around? Let's wreck the whole joint. Anybody got an atomic bomb?"

—Kurt Vonnegut
A Man Without a Country

Oh, mama

I think I'm about to enter a new phase
of my cycling life: part-time roadie.

This baby just joined the family
of fat-tire bikes in my garage,
and I think it's faster than I am.

It's a Giant composite TCR Composite 1.
Full-carbon frame, Ksyrium Elite wheels
Ultegra and Dura Ace components,
Race Face cranks and BB.

And I got it in November.

It's going to be a long winter.

C'mon, it's not hard

Why don't more people know the difference between "peddle" and "pedal?" This kind of foolishness is especially irritating when displayed by professionals who get paid to know better.

Writers and editors who commit this vile error should have their typing fingers slapped with an old inner tube.

Maybe I should be more forgiving. Because as Steve Martin once said, "Let's face it. Some people have a way with words and others, well ... not have way."

The example above was found on Slate.com, which deserves at least a little credit for publishing a collection of cycling images.

Now that I think about it …

I once read that the average man thinks about sex every seven seconds. Then I found out the numbers were bullshit, which was a relief. I was afraid I wasn’t keeping up, despite my best efforts.

Turns out, the Kinsey Institute says the majority of men “think about sex every day or several times a day.” Although I haven't been keeping track, I'd probably qualify as an average guy on the Kinsey scale.

But I'm pretty damned sure I think about riding bikes more than “several times” a day. Could this mean that I think about riding bikes more than I think about sex?

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Necessarily.

I’m just saying.

(Thanks to Bicycle Diaries for today's picture.)

Wayward wankers

Damn, I love it when a wicked idea pays off. Thanks to my hot chicks post a few weeks ago, I’m still getting hits from desperate wankers looking for durty pitchers o’ naughty gurls. The poor schmo who did this Google search arrived here by looking for pictures of Lindsay Lohan in the bathtub.

Sorry, sucker. There's only one hottie on this site, and she doesn't have freckles.

It’s time to point out some new stuff for people who haven’t checked my links pile for a while. Race czar Carlos recently turned me on to the Captain’s Log, which is a treat for anyone who remembers Capt. Dondo’s old columns in Mountain Bike Magazine.

I’ve also been reading Facility Bike Club from time to time, and occasionally checking out Linda Morgi’s bike blog from Switzerland.

I’ve added Chico Gino back to the list after losing his link at some point when the Blogger site went batshit crazy and destroyed part of my template. Hey, it happens, ya know?

And BikePortland.org is always interesting, even for those of us who aren’t abandoning Alaska and moving to Oregon, like Sue.

Don't try this at home

Derailleur cables should not
be installed during
the consumption of beer.

(Note to impressionable minors: I wasn't
really drunk. I'm just a moron.
Or maybe I was drunk. I can't remember.)

Sue rides away

After 13 years in Alaska, Sue is running away to join the circus. The Lower 48 circus.

Sue is my longtime riding partner and the only rider I've ever seen use a mountain bike to assault a small mammal.

When she wasn't turning Stuart Little into a paraplegic, we shared several multiday rides and endured washboard gravel roads, mosquitoes, rain and the pistol-packin' weirdos that one tends to meet while riding from end to end on the Denali Highway, touring Prince of Wales Island or pedaling from Chitina to McCarthy and back.

Now she's trading the back roads of Alaska for big-city bike lanes and a life of dodging car doors and taxicabs.

Instead of eating greasy food in a dilapidated trailer in Coffman Cove, or sleeping among bears in the Wrangell mountains, she'll be pedaling to Ikea and then stopping at Starbucks for complicated coffee.

So long, Sue. I'll miss you.

Go easy on Portland's rodents.

Monkey Wash, Donkey Rinse

Yesterday I was reading the blog of a guy named Tuco, where I found this picture of a boy washing his bike in Afghanistan. It’s the kind of bike picture I enjoy posting.

It also reminded me of when I was a kid and my family would often travel to the Ozarks in southern Missouri, where my parents owned land in a rural area. During summers, we would occasionally see locals drive their pickups into the Meramec River, where they would park and wash them.

This was often done by women who would splash around and get their t-shirts very wet. Tragically, none of them looked like Elly May Clampett. Hell, you needed two or three of them just to have as many teeth as Elly May.

Their white t-shirts were usually size XXL and worn over enormous black bras that looked like something stolen from the clothesline of a very large and very old woman in Moscow. And not a yard of fabric was wasted—there was a lot of flesh to cover.

My point?

I have no idea. This is just how my mind works.

Picture of a bike ... rainwater ... boy ... pickups in river ... large female hillbillies.

I don’t always read the map. Sometimes, I just take the ride.

And you get to come along.

But that's a really cool picture of a kid washing his bike.

Bikes with jobs

Abandoned bikes, downtown Juneau
April 2006

I ogle shiny new bikes on a regular basis, but I also pay attention to the less-glamorous—and equally interesting—characteristics of bikes that see a lot of hard use.

I try to keep my bikes looking at least somewhat “cool.” So I’m always impressed by the lack of pretension when someone buys a $4,000 mountain bike and then slaps 40 bucks worth of plastic fenders on it, or mounts a battered old pump to the frame with the same ancient, nylon straps he used on three previous bikes.

Function over style. It’s something to respect.

That’s why I also love what I like to call "bikes with jobs”— the utilitarian machines that regularly carry people to school, work and on errands. They’re the most noble bikes in existence and are usually the most interesting to stare at for long periods of time.

They can be entry-level rides or titanium racers retired to duty as workhorses, but they all share the scars: chipped paint, dented tubes, torn stickers. And when you look closely, you can recognize the ones that are valued and respected. They bear the scars of hard use, but not neglect. The cables are fresh. The brake pads aren’t worn out. The drivetrain is clean. The tires are properly inflated and still have plenty of tread.

When you see something that looks like a clunker from across the street, then you get closer and see that it has a new name-brand headset, you know something about the priorities of the person who rides it.

And you know the bike is more than just a plaything.

Can I get that in writing?

The Man With The Van rides Steve's Loop
outside Fruita, Colo., last year.

I was talking with my wife Wednesday night when she asked why I had just used a few vacation days and stayed at home catching up on chores. She was surprised I hadn't called my brother and arranged to meet somewhere for a week of mountain biking.

I pointed out that he and I met in Fruita last year, so I hadn't thought I should try to do another trip this fall.

"What, you went last year so you can't go this year?" she replied. She pointed toward our neighbor's house across the street and said, "Neal goes to Florida with his buddies to play golf for a week every year."

Hmm. A bike trip every year?

At this point I thought of that old episode of "Cheers" in which Lilith Sternin-Crane makes a reference to sex in the morning and her husband, Frasier, quickly raises his head in surprise and says, "We can have sex in the morning?"

Don't get me wrong. My non-cycling wife is quite tolerant of my bike addiction so it's not as if I fear raising the idea of an occasional bike trip. But with busy work schedules, a middle-school daughter and a high-school son, and two bathrooms long overdue for remodeling, yeah, I'm usually cautious about suggesting suggest that I should hop on a plane headed in the general direction of Moab.

Fortunately, I accumulate a fair amount of frequent-flier miles. As long as the flights are free and I wait until her workload lightens after teaching fall clinicals, my wife said, why not go log a few days of cycletherapy?

Suddenly, it seemed to be one of those days when bits of information arrive in a way that seems a little too good to be true.

Mere hours before the conversation with my wife, I had received an e-mail from my brother saying he just put down a deposit on a brand-new Lopes 55 that will be ready in early 2007.

Can you say "road trip?"

The Rider

It's Poetry Day
at Bicycles & Icicles.

There once was a man
from Nantucket ...

Naaah. I was
just kiddin'.

David Byrne on a bike

Martino's Bike Lane Diary recently posted this Transportation Alternatives interview with David Byrne on riding in New York. When the man behind the Talking Heads speaks, ya just gotta listen. I didn't even know he was a bike rider:

Since I've ridden a bike in NY for almost 20 years now as a means of transport I've learned some lessons.

1. New Jersey drivers have rarely seen pedestrians before. Bikes they've seen even less. They cannot see you, so if you see Jersey plates, be careful.

2. Limos and town cars think they rule the road. The only time I've ever gotten hit was by a limo.

3. Food delivery guys have been instructed by some malicious deity to always drive facing traffic, and to force other cyclists heading towards them into unseen traffic coming up from behind. It's unfair to judge immigrants based on their bicycle behavior, but ... since the Yuan is now no longer tied to the dollar I suspect things will be heating up in the near future.

4. No one has yet designed a helmet that is safe, light, aerodynamic,ventilated and most important of all—attractive. (admittedly this is subjective). A lady on 25th st was selling raccoon tails out of a shopping cart once (cheap too!)—so I tried tying one of those on to my helmet. But it didn't really help.

5. I'm thinking those masochistic looking skinny seats might be more comfortable in the long run than the big soft cushy ones.

6. The landlord and the city building code people let me install a shower in my office because I ride a bike to work. Really.

7. I can gallery hop or hit the clubs at night or in the afternoon cheaply and efficiently. It beats cabbing, and the subway is sporadic at night.

8. There's a man near me who usually dresses in white and pink and rides a teeny pink child's bike—decorated with aluminum streamers.

9. I once got a ticket for running a red light on my bike. Fair enough. I hope that if I obey the traffic rules then I will in turn be given the space and rights any other vehicle would receive. I decided to contest the ticket downtown, and got another ticket for the exact same thing on theway to court. I usually stop at red lights, like cyclists do in Europe, though sometimes I do feel ridiculous stopping for nothing.

10. Avoid bombs, package searches, fear of public transport, or claustrophobia—ride a bike.

Senior moment

A couple of guys from my office went to one of those after-hours networking things a few days ago. While there, they started chatting with a guy I probably shouldn’t identify here, but his name sounded a lot like Rob German.

Anyway, my co-workers came back and told me how they and this guy who even looked a lot like Rob German discovered, during the course of conversation, that this friendly stranger knows me. He has ridden with me. As a matter of fact, he has raced with me, just like Rob German.

And being a friendly stranger, he told my co-workers that, “Tim’s a pretty good rider for a guy his age.”

For a guy his age. Man, if I ever run into that dude I’m gonna hit him with a cane.

And I can do it.

I own a cane.

Damn whippersnapper.

Kodiak Moment

Spotted on Kodiak Island
last week.

Listen up

I try to start most days by reading Frazz. Even when it has nothing to do with bicycles, it’s one of the most entertaining and clever comic strips around. This one was one of my recent favorites.

To listen to music, or not listen to music while on the bike. It’s a question that ensures—no matter what your answer is—you’re gonna piss somebody off.

Personally, I think anyone who gets bored bicycling without music is probably in the wrong sport. Besides, stuffing earbuds in your head and then climbing on a bike is a dangerous thing to do unless you happen to be fighting sleep deprivation during an endurance race in the middle of nowhere and have no chance of encountering traffic. Why compromise one of the senses that can keep you alive?

Hell, you might as well smear globs of Vaseline over your sunglasses, too. Go ahead, order the big plate of glaucoma with a side order of deafness. That way, you won’t be distracted by the sight of the ground rushing toward you as you wonder what that hot, roaring, metallic thing is that just attached itself to your ass.

Cyclists who ride with headphones or earbuds remind me of people who decorate their cars and pickups with little money-wasters like brake light covers. I mean, think about it: Do you really think the words “brake light” and “cover” should ever be combined? They’re brake lights, dammit. Visibility is the whole point. If I’m about to rear-end your pickup in the foggy darkness of winter, I’m not going to be comforted by the soft glow of a Dodge Ram logo in the final microsecond before impact.

When I ride, I’ll tune in to the Inhale and Exhale show. And I'll listen to all that other good stuff—like my tires humming on the ground, the wind in the trees, the gurgling creek, the birds singing, and that mud-splattered pickup that's rolling up behind me with a table dancer-silhouette sticker in the rear window and a half-dozen Budweiser cans rolling around in the floorboard.

My iPod will be waiting at home.

And the point is ...

I was riding home from work a couple of weeks ago when I caught up to a young guy who had been delayed by a red light. He rolled through the green just as I edged up behind him, so he didn't know I was 10 feet off his wheel.

He was riding a couple of miles an hour slower than my pace, but with only a block to go before my next left turn, there was no point in passing. I settled in behind him and watched him catch a little air at curb cuts as he put a little twist on each jump.

After a short distance, he looked over his shoulder and saw me. Maybe it was the gray beard or my ugly face, but he clearly didn't want me hanging.

He accelerated like somebody had shoved a bottle rocket up his ass. And everyone who has been in such a situation knows what he did next.

Yeah. He started looking back to make sure he was dropping me.

"Sorry, kid," I thought to myself, "but I've only had a mile-and-a-half warm-up from my office, and I'm in a middle-ring mood. I'm lettin' you go."

Besides, Dimond Boulevard at 5:30 p.m. on a Friday is a lousy place for a testosterone-fueled bike race. I really don't need to get hip-checked in front of a Cadillac driven by some blue-hair who's struggling to see over the steering wheel while a psychotic Chihuaha bounces on her lap.

I don't know if I'm gettin' wiser, or just older. I looked at the guy's jeans, day pack and too-low saddle and figured all I'd have to do is wait for a block or two, then pull ahead as he gasped for air after his pointless sprint.

But that seemed like way more trouble that it was worth.

Back from the edge of Earth

Steam rises from Shishaldin Volcano
at sunset Friday.

After several days on a ship in the wet,
windy Aleutians, I still feel
the floor moving, even though it's not.

I'm stealing glances at my bikes
while catching up on chores. Laundry, bills,
errands and unpacking
are a lot less fun than riding.

On the bright side, we docked in Dutch Harbor
on time yesterday and I boarded a plane
that slipped out of town during a tiny window
of less-shitty-than-it-could-have-been weather,
so a couple of people in my office are sure
to have lost bets on how long
I'd be trapped out there.

Don't forget to stop at the ATM, Luke.

And then there were nine

I'm splittin' town. Packing my seasickness medication, jumpin' on the Trusty Tusty and runnin' off to the Aleutian Islands for a few days. At least, I hope it's only for a few days. That'll be up to Mother Nature.

I leave you with a photo that I wish were real, and the final installment of the Whole Crapload of Ways to Know You're Addicted to Cycling:

41. You can tell your spouse, with a straight face, that it's too hot to mow the lawn and then bike off for a century.

42. You regard intergender discussion of genital pain as normal.

43. You know your cadence, but you have no idea what your speed is.

44. When driving your car you lean over the steering wheel, just like an aerobar.

45. Your car sits outside your garage because your garage is full of bikes and cycling gear.

46. You tailgate a semi-trailer to get the drafting effect.

47. You know your Bike Nashbar customer number by heart.

48. You hear someone had a crash and your first question is "How's the bike?"

49. You smile at your evening date, and she politely points out that you seem to have bugs in your teeth.

Lucky

Back in the day, I used to ride to work in Phoenix. It was a strange and hostile place to be a bike commuter. Motorists sometimes tried to run me off the road. During summer, the pavement was hot enough to cause third-degree burns, so my biggest fear wasn’t being hit by a car, it was being too badly injured to get up.

And the company where I worked wasn’t in the greatest part of town. A couple of times, I looked down in time to see discarded syringes—with needles still attached—in time to hop over or steer around them. Some neighborhoods along my route were covered with gang-related graffiti. I couldn’t fully decipher it, but the general message seemed to be, “This is our block, esse. Keep moving or we’ll fuck you up.”

The place had a hard, unfriendly edge that I actually managed to enjoy, in a strange way. For a while, at least. When the time came to move somewhere else, I was happy to go.

I was thinking about that experience this week when I came across this sign that was recently posted on a tree along the bike path I ride on my way to work. This is the same path where I watch salmon run upstream every summer and where I’ve locked up my brakes to avoid slamming into large moose.

At first, I was annoyed to see a bright yellow-and-orange sign nailed to a tree. Then I recognized it as a reminder of what a nice ride I enjoy every day I pedal to my office.

How many people live in their state's largest city, and still have the option of fishing for rainbows on their way to work?

Saturday gallery

Maura rides with her usual smile.

Carlos boldly goes where nobody else
was willing to go.

John zips through the woods
on his 29er.

Money shot

Even a mud wrestler sometimes enjoys a bubble bath and some gentle attention.

The Epic has been doing hard time lately. Poor thing’s been rode hard and put away wet too often. Caked in mud for weeks on end. And those old knobbies were worn down to a shadow of their former selves. So Sunday morning, I put on some new Roll X Pros and then went for another sloppy ride, which is pretty much the only kind we've had all season.

I couldn't bear to see a nice bike in that abused state any longer. Sure, I like it down and dirty but, I mean, damn. A couple of nights ago I broke out the bucket and brushes, and scrubbed my baby all over. Then we went out in the back yard for a little bike-porn photo shoot.

Some people might think it's weird, but I don't care. I really enjoy staring at good-looking bikes.

Another batch

It's time for the fourth installment of A Whole Crapload of Ways to Know You're Addicted to Cycling. Sit back. Enjoy it. And pace yourself, because we have one final episode coming up next ... well, whenever I feel the need to toss up a post and don't have much to say.

This week's list includes a couple of items that struck home for me, such as No. 31. A couple of years ago, I stumbled across a really nice Toyota pickup and got serious about buying it. Fortunately, the used-car dealer was cool with it when I asked if I could take it for an hour or two to drive it home to see how well my mountain bikes fit inside the cap over the bed.

Even my son rolled his eyes when he went out in the driveway and I explained why I was rolling one of my bikes into the bed of a strange vehicle. But not the guy who sold me the truck. He didn't bat an eye when I told him what I needed to do.

And away we go ...

31. You take your bike along when you shop for a car—just to make sure the bike will fit inside.

32. You start yelling at cars to "hold your line."

33. You're comfortable bumping elbows with step vans.

34. You view crashes as an opportunity to upgrade components.

35. You clean your bike(s) more often than your car.

36. You're on the board of directors for a bike club.

37. You spend weeks during the summer spraying arrows on the sides of roads.

38. You and your significant other have and wear identical riding clothes.

39. You mount a $600 cap on a $1,000 pickup so your $3,000 bike doesn't get wet.

40. You can't seem to get to work by 8:30 a.m., even for important meetings, but you don't have any problems at all meeting your buddies at 5:30 a.m. for a hammerfest.

Uh, like, groovy

It's a funny thing. Tight, wet, root-covered singletrack is a whole new experience when ridden with a head full of antihistamines after several days of a bad cold. It's sort of surreal.

But my suspension felt great today. So either I was more buzzed than I thought, or my bike is more dialed in than ever.

Four of us rode a bunch of skinny Hillside trails, including the one pictured here as it was ridden by Heather and Jordan back in, I don't know, July? I was also too daffy today to remember my camera. So just look at this picture and imagine yellow leaves instead.

It was really pretty.

I think.

Too many?

Stephen, who reads this blog in Scotland
and stays in touch via e-mail,
recently sent me this photo of his garage
and a list of the bikes in it. The pile o’ bikes reminded me
of the picture I took last spring (below)

when I had my family’s bikes stashed in the house
during my wife’s garage sale.

At the end of his e-mail, Stephen wrote,
“You can't have too many, can you?”

That started me thinking.
How many bikes is too many?

Then I came up with an answer.My solution, henceforth known as
Tim’s Universal Law of Bicycle Quantification,
is as follows: A responsible bike owner
has exceeded his/her maximum capacity
only when the number of units exceeds his/her ability
to maintain all units in working order.

Units undergoing assembly will be classified
only as parts—not actual bicycles—
until both wheels and a stem/handlebar
have been securely affixed to the frame,
at which point spouses and cohabitants
may legally move such assemblies
to the “bike” category for the purpose of debate.

Shut up and build it

The Anchorage Daily News published a story this week about the Campbell Creek Trail and how the state has excluded it from its plan for revamping the Seward Highway.

This trail is already popular with recreational bike riders, walkers, commuters, etc. Unfortunately, it’s full potential is unrealized because it dead-ends on both sides of the Seward Highway (for you non-Alaskans, the Seward is the closest thing we have to a freeway).

This trail rolls for miles beside a trout- and salmon-filled creek, through woods and quiet neighborhoods and then slams into big damn obstacle. No matter which side of the trail you’re using, the only route past the highway is an uneven, boulder-strewn path that requires you to push/carry your bike and bounce your head off the steel girders supporting the road above. Not exactly a desirable option for kids, older folks, stroller pushers, or anyone else for whom such a route poses too much physical challenge. Hell, most users don’t even know how to find the path under because it's an unofficial trail that starts behind a bunch of brush on the west side of the highway.

Now the city and state are in a pissing match over who should pay to extend the bike path when the road gets a Queer Eye for the Highway makeover. The city wants the path rolled into the state’s project. The state says the city should pay for the 950 feet of trail. This asphalt boob job is gonna cost about $125 million, while the trail under the flippin’ thing is expected to cost only $200,000.

That’s only .0016 percent of the project. When we build a new high school in this town, we spend more than that filling the bathrooms with art to enrich our kids’ minds while they sit on the toilet.

It’s 950 feet of trail, dammit! That’s one-fifth of a mile that would be one of the finishing touches on 28-mile trail loop through the city.

And that’s a loop that would carry students to several city schools and two universities. A loop that would help bike commuters reach two hospitals and countless other employers.

If you’re in Anchorage and give a damn, get more information at the project website, then e-mail everyone you can think of at the involved city and state agencies, as well as your legislative representative. They’re all public employees who work for us.

Let’s tell them to quit pinching each other and come to a fair and quiet compromise, or we’ll pull the car over and spank the shit out of all of ’em.

Slap shot

When I took this picture at Eklutna Lake last week, I knew that the chilly air already gripping the mountains would soon find its way into town. As I headed toward the door to ride to work Monday morning, I stopped at the phone and called 844 to get the temperature: 36 degrees.

After a trip back upstairs to grab the neoprene shoe covers and some glove liners, I hit the road thinking, "Oh, shit. It's almost time to pull the studs out of the shed." Any day now, I'll roll out of the garage and see frost shining in the beam of my headlight. And frost sucks without studs.

A couple of years ago, I was mounting up in front of my house when I noticed all the pretty ice crystals twinkling on the street. One of my neighbors was idling his big SUV to warm it up—which he feels the need to do whenever the temp drops below 50—and I felt smug as I rolled away. While his rig sucked gas in his driveway, I was about to ride to work in the pre-dawn twilight as millions of little lights danced in front of my wheel.

Such ignorant thoughts sometimes come to a brain numbed by several months of ice-free riding conditions. How quickly we (OK, I) forget.

Two blocks from my house, I leaned my commuter slicks into a left turn and instantly found myself slamming into the pavement and sliding across the street. Tim the Human Hockey Puck. My hip felt like I'd been branded. After pulling myself and my bike off the road in the headlights of a waiting car, my ego felt worse.

Ya just don't screw with icy stuff, no matter how thin it is. This weekend, I'm pulling the studs out of the shed and getting my winter bike ready. I'll fire up some tunes and open a beer to help me wrestle the Nokians onto the rims. I'll make the best of it, but it will be a little sad.

Sort of like a wake for summer.

Hot chicks and other bike stuff

Breaking news: Lonelygirl15 has been seen on a topless bike ride with Lindsay Lohan, who was totally nude. That's right, I said Lindsay Lohan nude!

OK, so I made all that up. But guess whose blog is about to become veeeery popular on Google searches.

Yeah, baby. Bicycles & Icicles is gonna soar.

And, best of all, the wankers who were lured here by fraudulent means can share with regular readers the joy of the third installment of A Whole Crapload of Ways to Know You're Addicted to Cycling. Or whatever I decided to call it last week. (Hey, who's really paying attention?)

21. You buy your crutches instead of renting.

22. You yell "Hole!" when you see a pothole while driving your car.

23. Your bike has more miles on its computer than your car's odometer.

24. You wear riding gloves when driving your car.

25. You use the Yakima or Thule "Fit Catalog" to pick your next new car instead of Consumer Reports.

26. You wear cycling event T-shirts all the time, including under dress shirts.

27. Your bikes are worth more than your car.

28. You buy a mini-van and immediately remove the rear seats to allow your bikes to fit.

29. When you move to a new area, the first thing you look for is a bike shop.

30. You have more bike jerseys than dress shirts.

Here it comes again

Autumn is here. The leaves are barely turning in Anchorage, but in the mountains they're going fast. It's a harsh reminder to squeeze in all the fun we can, because the whole dang thing could go to crap in a hurry.

That three-week rainy spell we had last month? If that stuff comes back, it could include sleet or snow next time.

Fortunately, Wednesday was one of those rare September days that can only be described as specdamntacular: Cool temperatures with barely a cloud in the sky, and no wind to disturb the surface of Eklutna Lake in Chugach State Park. It seemed like it took nearly all freakin' day to ride the 26-mile roundtrip up to the glacier, because I kept stopping to shoot pictures and soak up the beauty and solitude.

As I rode the final approach to the end of the trail, I passed into the shadow of a mountain and felt the temperature drop significantly. At the spot where I always enjoy a snack, the sun was still coming up.

At 1 o'clock in the afternoon.

Daylight is growing short. Enjoy it while you can.

Uncle Sam's singletrack

I spent Monday riding
the U.S. Army's turf.

Pam, shown here shootin'
down some skinny trail on her Turner,
led the way through the woods
near the Fort Richardson tank trail.

I hadn't been back in that area
for a couple of years,
and had never found
some of the singletrack she knows.

Eric, who I'd just met
at a trailhead on Sunday,
joined us on his Moots YBB.

The trails were good 'n' skinny,
rooty but fun,
and decorated with early fall colors.

I can't believe
I just typed "fall colors."
Wasn't it June just last week?