Lozano's Loons

With another Frigid Bits race season retired
to the annals of history (or maybe infamy),
it's time for a salute to our race czar Carlos,
and some of the other folks
who helped make the race series possible,
helped make the season memorable, and helped build
a stronger community of fun-hog winter cyclists.

First of all, we should all raise a glass to Carlos,
tireless race organizer and keeper of the passion flame.
From scouting trails, to clearing race course,
to counting laps, to rallying the troops on sub-zero nights,
he's the man who puts together the events
that keep bike junkies sane through long Alaska winters.
Thank you, Carlos.

Maura. Her first winter in Alaska,

and she already owns a Snowcat bike and a Pugsley,
and loves the whole damn scene
enough to show up week after week
to help Carlos count everyone's laps
and to tip a couple back
after the riding's done.
I think she's meant to be here.

Greg, aka Thirstywork. The big engine of El Gato,
the Pugsley with a custom orange paint job.
With Greg aboard, that bike always seems
to reach the finish line way ahead of the pack.
Greg's real masterpiece, though, is the the altar
of Anchorage's winter-cycling cult:
the Frigid Bits Burn Barrel.

Tim K., aka The Grillmeister. Nice guy,
fast rider, lover of all things bike,
and cooker of tasty critters on the big-ass grill
he hauls to tailgate parties.
On Saturday night, he showed up with homemade salsa
and then proceeded to make grilled nachos.
Who else would grill nachos

to feed to his friends outdoors at 25F?

The FBBB. Sure, it's an inanimate object,
but it's also our holy grail. Our altar.
Our source of light and heat in the darkness.

Besides, as Carlos would say, that sucker is haaawt!

And last, but far from least, all the riders
who showed up for a race and stayed for a beer—and those
who only showed up for the beer (the latter
are my kind of people). Everyone who shows up
riding a bike on a cold Alaska night
helps cultivate winter-cycling community
and helps us all keep it together
in the dark depths of winter.

Calling in well

I needed some time away from work and stress,
so I took a "mental health" day today.
It was a good move.

The sun is shining, the temperature is up
to a balmy 32, and the Hillside trails
are fast and smooth. Not that I bothered to ride fast.
My goal was to disappear for a while.

"Real life" is overrated. Everyone should spend more time
riding bikes and goofing off.

Cold 'n' crusty

You know it's a sure sign of spring when Race Master Carlos retires the term “Frigid Bits” for the season.

That’s right, boys and girls, the spring/summer Crusty Bits series begins this Saturday on the snowy trails of the Anchorage Hillside. The course will follow a modified version of the Four-mile Loop, making laps about 3.5 miles long. Riders will have options of three or six laps. Given the recent trail conditions, you shouldn’t even need studs or fatties. Just roll out your knobbies and go.

Start time is 7 p.m. at the North Bivouac trailhead off Campbell Airstrip Road, but show up about 6:30 to sign up and attend the racers meeting. Bring your number if you have one leftover from a previous race.

There will be a pre-ride of the course Friday night at 6:30, so scoot on out to the trailhead and give it a go.

A post about, uh ... oh shit, I forgot

I don't mean to sound paranoid, but I might be in the early stages of dementia.

I'm developing the annoying habit of futzing around with one thing or another until I leave the house too late and always show up five minutes late when I'm meeting friends for rides. If I manage to meet them, that is.

Last week, I showed up at the wrong lake for the start of a Frigid Bits race. Today, I showed up at a trailhead a mile away from the one where the group ride was supposed to start.

It could be worse, I guess.

Near the end of today's ride, some guy stopped to chat with a rider that he recognized in our group. He and my friend spent a couple of minutes catching up before the stranger pedaled away and I said, "Who was that?"

My friend just smiled and replied, "I have no idea."

Maybe I'm OK after all.

For now.

Enough already

It has been a great winter. Good snow;
a lot of great rides; even a couple
of new bikes since the first snow fell.But it's late March and still snowing.
It's still cold. The winter trails
are still in wonderful shape—and it's
hard to complain about that—but it's time
to get on with spring.

Cranky about Crank Brothers

I love Crank Brothers stuff. I run their pedals on three bikes, and own three or four of their pumps and at least as many of their multi-tools. They make high-quality, well-designed products.

But they deserve a major swat on the ass for the packaging of their Quattro SL pedals. I recently bought a pair for my new road bike and was appalled at the wasteful use of hard plastic. The shell they wrap around the box is intense. This is a big, thick chunk of plastic that serves no real purpose.

The thing isn't even marked with a recycling number so that I can figure out what to do with it. The life cycle of this thing is simple: Go home from the store; go into the trash; sit in a landfill for the next couple of hundred years.

I appreciate clever packaging as well as the next guy. Hell, I'm a bike geek, so I might appreciate it more than the next guy. We all get caught up in new doo-dads and whatzits that look good on our bikes, and a fancy item in a cool box can make us reach for our wallets. But a company can create a damn nice box with recycled paper and creative graphics.

I try not to to climb on a soap box often, and I spend more time bouncing off trees than I do hugging them. But I ride bikes for more than just fun and exercise.

I also believe bikes are good for the planet. They're even more so if the people who make bike-related products maintain some environmental sensitivity. Crank Brothers blew it on this one.

What's next? Well ...

The winter bike-racing scene here in Anchorage
is made up of some rather, uh ...
well, let's just call them passionate people.At a recent Frigid Bits race and tailgate party
up in the Mad-Zoo Valley, our man Thirstywork—
he of the orange El Gato Pugsley—unveiled
a beer (re)named for the venerable
Frigid Bits Burn Barrel.

The barrel is sort of a shrine
to warmth and fun. A Frigid Bits altar, if you will.
It's also what makes it possible for us
to stand around for hours at a time
drinking beer in 5-degree weather.

At last Saturday's race, we got another beer.
This one was called Carlos Lozano's Frigid Bits Ale,
paying homage to Carlos for organizing
all of these frigid events that help keep
all us bike geeks sane through the winter.

When my daughter saw a bottle on the table
at our house on Sunday morning, she shook her head
and said, "What's next? Jerseys?"

Hmm ...

Spring Break '07: Bikes Gone Wild

Saturday night's Frigid Bits race had all the elements
of a great bike event: A big turnout; a sunny evening;
a grumpy moose on the trail; lost/confused racers;
and a great post-race party full of bike geeks
gathered around the burn barrel.

I'm still recovering. And now I have voicemails
on my cell phone about another ride in two hours.

I'll hate myself, but I'll show up, dammit.The leaders round a turn on the first lap
of the lagoon portion of the race.Thirstywork approaches the skinny footbridge
in the woods as he strolls to another victory.The Grillmeister weaves through the trees
in the singletrack of Earthquake Park.The crowd you want to meet
in a dark alley.Heading home at the end of the night.

Bearbait in Bolivia

Our very own Eric Parsons—aka "Bearbait"
on the mtbr.com forum—will be telling
an amazing tale for the benefit
of Singletrack Advocates on April 5.

Clear your calendar and keep five bucks
in your pocket. If you're a bike rider
in Anchorage, there won't be a cooler event
for a better cause anywhere in town that night.

A hard drift is good to find

You might wonder why I would bother to photograph a dirt-stained snow drift.

But that would indicate that you don't know me very well. Because I have bothered to photograph things much stranger than a pile of dirty snow. But let's not go there.

I found this drift across the trail along C Street a week or two ago after several days of wind had sculpted beautiful, hard-packed drifts all over town. This baby was at least 18 inches deep—enough to make me hit the brakes when I rounded a corner and saw it blocking the trail.

Then I looked closer and saw that nice, ramp-shaped edge. It was irresistible. I unweighted the front wheel a bit and charged in, figuring I'd either enjoy a sweet little hint of negative Gs, or suffer a soft-but-embarrassing digger in full view of everyone driving down C Street on their way home to dinner.

This sucker was like concrete. My 2-inch Nokians didn't even try to push through. The bike shot up the ramp, rolled across the top like it was on a table, and plopped down the other side so sweetly I had to turn around and ride back over it a couple of times just for grins.

It was like my own little fossilized sand dune. My own little slickrock. Several cubic yards of freeze-dried Moab.

That, or it's just been a long winter and I need to get out more.

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.)

Backcountry bike

While I was waiting for my Pugsley, Rick Shaw
sent me pictures from the ride he did last weekend
on his Vicious Thunderwing to Upper Russian Lake
on the Kenai Peninsula.Because I've been too busy with a number of things
—including building the new bike—to write up
any stuff for the blog, I'm posting Rick's shots.
Rides like this are part of the reason
I wanted a two-wheel dune buggy to begin with.

Something Pugsley This Way Comes

Stage One of my great 2007 Pugsley Project is under way. The frameset and all the new components I’ll need have been ordered. Rick at Ready To Race bike shop put together a nice package at a good price, and provided some helpful advice on ways I could save a few bucks. He’ll build the wheels and the rest is up to me.

With a trip to Santa Fe coming up, I probably won’t be able to get this sucker rolling until late March. I’ll be lucky to get in a snow ride or two before the season ends. On the other hand, I find myself in the unfamiliar—and exceptionally sweet—position of looking forward two new seasons and two new bikes. I’ll be soaking up springtime on the new Giant road bike I bought from Paramount last fall, yet I won’t have to dread the onset of winter because I’ll have a whole new season of fat-bike riding ahead of me. What an insanely good thing.

Speaking of insane, a couple of nights ago I had a dream in which I was part of a group of people settling some sort of debate at 3 a.m. by using two small airplanes mounted on skis, a rain-slicked asphalt bike trail, and a snow-making machine “borrowed” from a ski area.

I was really eager to see how things turned out, but my wife’s alarm went off and I had to get up and take a leak.

Damn it.

I'm pretty sure something really cool was about to happen.

All ice, all the time

For a few days each year,
the Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge
becomes a great place to ride.
When the wind does it's magic
and sweeps the coastal flats clean,
it's like our own strange brand of slickrock.

But not that sandpaper-like stuff they have in Moab
that lets even schmoes like me climb absurdly steep trails.
This stuff is actually slick. Right now, it's in the best shape I've ever seen.
Miles of ice. Smooth ice, crunchy ice, muddy ice,
and all of it perfect for studded tires. My friend Maura and I
spent several hours out there on Sunday.

The crunch of our studs was accompanied
by one of the best sounds in the bike world:
spontaneous I-can't-help-myself laughter.

Every once in awhile, Maura cracked up
and said, "This is so fun!"

Now that's a good ride.

Maybe they could use motorcycles

Some people just need an ass kickin'.

The story's been all over the Web for the past few days about the three Californians who poached the Grand Canyon on their mountain bikes. Of course, it's all over the Web because those dumbasses wrote about it online. (If criminals ever start growing brains, police work is going to get a lot harder.)

The three riders are pedaling from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego to promote environmentalism so, naturally, they thought it would be a good idea to illegally ride through the off-limits area of one of the most popular national parks in the United States. They got stuck with two days in jail, $500 fines and 5 years of probation, during which they have to stay out of all U.S. national parks.

They're lucky they didn't have their bikes confiscated like "The Sedona 5" did after they rode the canyon during a government shutdown back in the mid-1990s. (Note to anyone with a similar idea: Armed park rangers are considered "essential" federal employees, and they keep working when other people are sent home during federal budget crises.)

Hey, I understand the desire. I'd like to ride the Grand Canyon myself. And I'm pretty damned sure I could do it with a lot less trail damage than that caused by all the horses and pack mules that trudge up and down those steep canyon walls every day. I've hiked in the canyon and had to navigate through muddy switchbacks full of deep hoof prints holding pools of mule piss. You can't tell me that's better than the slight imprint of a knobby tire.

But the bottom line is that bikes are banned from the canyon's trails. Anybody who wants to get that rule changed should go to the National Park Service and make a case for it. Anyone who ignores the rules, however, only hurts the rest of us.

You know what all those Sierra Club card-carrying, bike-hating hikers see when they read such stories in the newspaper? Their beady little eyes see that MOUNTAIN BIKERS poached the canyon! Then they use that against us in every policy debate for the next 20 years.

I'm really glad three Californians want to pedal across the Americas to raise environmental awareness. I just think these three stooges might be better suited for selling used cars. Next time we hear about them, I hope it's not because they've been caught with the carcass of a spotted owl hanging from a stick over their campfire.

A little respect

The Daily Snooze recently published a letter from some grouchy jackass (I thought that was my title) suggesting that cell phone users and cyclists should be banned from Anchorage's streets during the winter months. Not a big surprise. This whole stinkin' country's full of double-butted car junkies.

But on Wednesday, my munching of the morning Wheaties was pleasantly interrupted by the reading of the following letter from someone named Rob E. Earl:

"Considering the automobile's many negative impacts upon society (environmental damage, road fatalities, rising obesity, sprawling pavement, etc.), one would think biking would be more respected. Shouldn't those who brave the winter streets on two wheels be revered as persons leading the way toward a new, sustainable modus vivendi for society at large, rather than be harassed, mocked or otherwise denigrated as they so often are?"

Damn straight.

Stop breathing Pete's air, dammit

I said it before and I'll say it again: It's Pete's world. The rest of us are just riding through it.

He reached McGrath at 7:40 p.m., setting a new record for the course. Just a shade over three days to pedal 350 miles across the Alaska wilderness in February.

The suffering and accomplishment are hard to comprehend, but I'm sure celebrations are occurring on Pete's home planet. Wherever the hell it is.

Awesome job, Pete.

How do you feel about opera?

Somewhere out there along the Kuskokwim River west of Nikolai, Pete Basinger should be starting the final 50 miles of the Iditarod Trail Invitational along about now. He has been running like a machine for three days. If he reaches McGrath by about 8 p.m. Alaska time, he’ll not only win the race for the second time in a row, he’ll set a course record.

Hell, why not? After all, it’s been at least a week since he won the Susitna 100. It’s time for the boy to get off his ass, or we might think he’s slackin’.

As Dave Byers pointed out on his blog, the rest of us have spent the past three days sleeping in warm beds, going to work, buying groceries and eating hot meals. The racers, meanwhile, have been pounding the pedals and running on damn little sleep in temperatures reaching 30 below zero.

Pete called race headquarters from Nikolai just before 10 a.m. to report that he had reached the checkpoint after contending with cold temperatures, a bumpy trail and a few inches of new snow. He spent much of the night falling off his bike when he hit tussocks hidden by the powder. He caught about 40 minutes of sleep at Bison Camp, and planned to catch a little more sleep and eat some food before leaving Nikolai.

Those of us following the race now have to sit back and quietly root for him as we sit at our computers and hope for a new course record. His chasers have to follow his tracks and hope for something to happen that would put them back in contention. That’s not likely to happen.

The trail conditions ahead are unknown, and many things could stand in the way of a record, but with Pete’s Pugsley pointed toward McGrath, I'd say the fat lady’s warming up.

Time to get fat

My ancient winter bike needs to be taken out behind the barn and shot like a crippled old hog.

I spent four hours riding with Maura on her new Pugsley on Sunday afternoon. Four hours of watching her happily hum along on the snow-packed trail while other people ogled her bike. One stranger asked if she could try it, then dropped her skis in the middle of the trail, jumped on and pedaled around with a big smile on her face.

I can’t live with the lust any longer. I’m going to start shopping around for a frame, Large Marge wheels and that big-ass bottom bracket, then build that sucker up before over the summer. Hell, I have half the parts laying around in the garage.

My wife’s OK with the idea. She figures that once I have a Pugsley, I’ll have my “perfect four” combination: summer trail bike; road bike; dual purpose (winter/summer) commuter; and a winter trail bike. After that, she says, what else could I ask for?

I genuinely think I could be done buying bikes at that point.

Well, for a while anyway.

Back to Tennessee, Jed

A 1997 bike race?!

This columnist got a few of the facts wrong, but point taken.

Movin' on

OK, I don't know how anyone else feels, but this has been one weird week. After that Daily News story appeared on the front page yesterday, about 500 people checked out this little blog, most of them never to return. Now I can get back to the kind of odd material that means little to anyone who doesn't know a QR skewer from a star nut, and interests only a few of those who do.

It's time to dive into weekend chores and hope there'll be enough time left for a ride.

It's also time for the annual Tour de Surreal, aka the Iditarod Trail Invitational. This one's for the true hardcore crowd. The kind of people who like to hallucinate without the benefit of drugs. The guys who like all that finding-what-they're-made-of, testing-themselves-against-the-elements shit.

Me? I'll be at home trying not to cut my finger on that little aluminum thing they wrap around the top of the bottle of cabernet.

Go, Pete, go!

Oops

"Using that photo obviously was a mistake on our part and we regret that."

—Phyllis Qualls-Brooks, Tennessee Department of Tourism

Finally, somebody admits they made a mistake.

All it took was a long day of reading things like this. And this. And this. And ... oh, forget it.

Update

My wife says that if we decide to vacation in Tennessee anytime soon, we're ordering the tourism brochure under a fake name. Since the Tennessean published this story on the contents of yesterday's post, the little photo scandal has hit blogs, forums, websites and news outlets in the viral fashion that only the Internet can create. When I start getting calls from reporters, you know something weird is happening.

Bicycles & Icicles is getting its 15 minutes.

Stay tuned. We will soon return to our regularly scheduled, bike-related silliness.

Y'all wanna go fer a ride?

I was flipping through the latest issue of Outside magazine today when I came across this ad inviting mountain bikers (and their money) to visit Tennessee. Sorta makes you want to hop on your bike and hit the trails, huh? Them there southern trails is real purty.Well, not so fast. I happened to recognize the photo at the top of the ad, and it ain't from Tennessee. After work, I zipped home and pulled out an old copy of National Geographic to confirm that—for once—my memory wasn't letting me down.

The photo is from right here in good ol' Alaska's Lake Clark National Park. It was published in the May 1997 of National Geographic with an article by Roman Dial about traversing the Alaska Range by mountain bike.

So go riding in Tennessee if you're into that sort of thing.
You won't even have to worry about grizzlies.

Just don't expect it to look as good as Alaska.

Catchin' rays

The first day of riding home without turning on a headlight is always a nice sign of spring. Even if spring is still weeks away.

Sure, the temperature was zero when I pedaled out of the driveway this morning, and the first half-mile from my house was still covered with Friday's loose snow. But by the time I left my office a little after 5 p.m., it was a pleasant 15 degrees and sunny.

Yes, sunny. It was awesome. My hope was restored.

We've almost made it through another winter.

My feet, and other odd thoughts

It has been a long, bloody week here at Camp Bicycles & Icicles but we're going to stay the course, call in more troops and refuse to consider the possibility that we shouldn't have invaded the blogosphere in the first place.

At least our feet our warm, thanks to some new swag from Darron at The Sock Site. (Don't you love that "we" stuff? I sometimes like to pretend I have a staff. I even talk to them. Sometimes, they talk to me. Really. I don't care what the doctors say.) Ya gotta love a guy who hooks up bloggers with free mountain-biking socks. Good stuff. Check it out.

Now, if only he could call somebody at Surly and say, "Hey, you should send my man Tim a Pugsley frame."

Ah, hell, if I had a Pugs, I might lose my mind and join all those crazy folks beating themselves against the Iditarod Trail this weekend during the Susitna 100. Better to stick with my plan of fleeing phones, mailboxes and my indoor trainer, and running off with my wife to a nice hotel. Where it's warm.

Good luck to all the competitors. Come back with good memories, and all the toes you left with.

We are not alone

They're out there.

(This here's what ya call the token picture
to fill a post when I'm too busy
to blog. Take my advice: Teach your children
how to properly microwave a potato
before you have to spend two nights
installing a new range-hood oven unit.)

You mean even the ... ?

We've all seen at least one
"you know you're a cyclist when" list, right?

Well, I'd like to add one item to the list.
You know you're a cyclist when you have
the following conversation:

Co-worker: So how many bikes do you have, anyway?

Me: Well, does ...

Co-worker (interrupting): Yes, they all count.

Back off. I'm a bad dude.

I love being a cyclist in Alaska. People from other states read my blog and think I'm tough. Or at least some of them do. People have even called me "extreme" because I sometimes ride to work in sub-zero weather. Co-workers question my sanity and, truth be told, I sort of enjoy that.

Hell, I frequently take part in the Frigid Bits race series, and the New York Times recently referred to us as the "subgenre of the subgenre" of winter bicyclists. I was flattered.

All this stuff could almost make a guy feel rugged.

Unless he knew other cyclists who ride in Alaska.

I could give one example after another of riders who make me look like some weasel who just pedals his nerdy bike to work a few times a week. Really, I could go on all day.

But for the past few days on the web forum where many of us stay in touch and swap information, endurance racer Pete Basinger has been seeking advice on a new sleeping bag and bivy sack for his ultra-long-distance winter races. He's not asking for much. He's used to freezing already, so if he "could figure out a set up that would allow 40 minutes to an hour of sleep at 20 or 30 below" he'd be "very happy."

I'd be psychotic from sleep deprivation, and running naked through the woods in the final stages of hypothermia.

Because Pete has a race coming up and he's short of time for field-testing bags, Mike Curiak recommended that Pete test a few by sleeping on his porch here in Anchorage. Even Pete's sane enough to admit that's pretty hard to do when there's a warm bed nearby.

Jeff Oatley chimed in that he doesn't use a particularly warm sleeping bag because he sleeps while wearing a mountaineering parka and pants. He said it works great and, "I've slept in my driveway at -20 with just the parka and pants, no sleeping bag."

Most people who find a neighbor asleep in a driveway can safely assume a large amount of alcohol was involved. But Oatley's neighbors—assuming he has any—have probably learned to simply shake their heads and mutter something along the lines of, "grumble, grumble, damn bike freak, blah blah blah."

Of course, it's hard to explain that such people exist when I'm talking to neighbors and co-workers who don't understand that I'm just out for a little jaunt when I ride to work or spend a couple of hours doing a trail ride while the weather's relatively nice.

So I'll just keep letting them think I'm a real tough guy.

Oh, shit ... pinkie cramp! Gotta stop typing now ...

(Note: Photo of Pete in last year's Iditarod Trail Invitational was shamelessly lifted from Sleepmonsters.com.)

Overheard in New York

"I could die at any time.
That's why my job is so great.
I clock in for doom."
—37th & Broadway

I don't know the details
of this overheard conversation,
but my guess is that somebody
was trying really hard
to impress a girl.

Maybe it worked.

Or maybe she just laughed
and said, "Did you, like,
get that from Barney Fife?"

El gato

Frigid Bits speed demon Greg, aka "Thirstywork,"
recently finished building this sweet new Pugsley.
Yeah, that's a Pugsley.
Greg apparently thinks outside the purple box.

Carbon-fiber fork, drilled-out Large Marges,
and a custom Evingson rack. Nice.

But, for me, it's that custom orange powder-coat treatment
that really makes the bike.

Akdeluxe described it well. (And how often
do I get the chance to quote Akdeluxe in mixed company?)

"In the glare of an HID light at night,
it sparkles like a half-sucked
orange Jolly Rancher with 24k gold flake!"

I'm here for you

One of the fun things about writing a blog is seeing the search subjects that lead people here. I always take a certain perverse pride in the oddball things that cause people to stop here for a few seconds before grunting, “huh,” and clicking merrily along to the icicle pictures or granny porn they’re really after.

“Canadian girl strip while doing bike track stands,” for example.

I can assure you that I have never posted pictures or video of a Canadian girl stripping while doing a track stand. But I would. And proudly, too, for that would be an inspiring demonstration of bike-handling ability. Hell, she wouldn’t even have to be Canadian.

So if you know of a track-racing stripper—or you just have a digital camera and a less-than-busy weekend—Bicycles & Icicles happily offers itself as the venue in which you may unveil your skills to the world.

Some lonely soul in London is waiting.

One more step

Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge
(Sometimes, it has wildlife in it.)

I'm not among the millions who watched the Super Bowl yesterday. I meant to, but when I hooked up the TV antenna that I disconnected last summer, my wife and I discovered it wasn't aimed in the right direction to pick up the channel we needed. Rather than become the star of an evening news report about the dumbass who fell off his icy roof 20 minutes before kickoff, I decided to skip the game and spend the afternoon finishing some chores and errands.

No big deal. I haven't watched a football game all season anyway. Besides, the best part of the Super Bowl is knowing it's over. See, football season brings summer to an end. It lasts through fall and much of the winter. Its finale is a milestone on the route to spring.

I like seeing winter's big events pass. Christmas, New Year's Eve, the Super Bowl, the Iditarod. I don't give a rat's ass about dog mushing, but I cheer those little shit factories all the way to Nome because I know that, by the time they get there, the snow will be melting off my roof and the coastal refuge pictured above should be firm enough for a few rides.

And soon after than, the snow-covered trails will deteriorate and winter riding will fade.

Fine by me. I ride on ice because it's better than not riding at all.

But I live for dirt.

Saturday in the sun

Carlos rolls a fatty
through "The Swamp of Doom."

Mr. New York Times climbs out
after taking a snaux sample.

What is this, some sort of bizarre paceline?

Frigid Bits in the New York Times

Our humble little race series hits the Big Time, even if the Minnesotans did get more attention.

Way to go, Carlos!

Value

“Men's mountain bike for sale. It's a used Magna Pulse with an aluminum frame. Only 8 of the 21 gears work, but if you know more about bikes than I do, you could probably make the rest work.”
—posting on Anchorage craigslist

Hmm. Do ya think someone who knows how to get those shifters and derailleurs working is going to be the kind of person who would buy a Magna bicycle?

I saw this ad a few days ago, shortly before I walked through Costco and saw a shelf full of Schwinns—which was depressing enough for anyone who remembers when Schwinn made bikes that were actually worth buying.

Anyway, it all got me thinking about all the times I've seen people happily standing in line to buy POS bikes at Costco or The Big Blue Hell, and then watched them walk out to the parking lot and load those recycling projects into nice cars.

I don't mean to be a bike snob. I know that the very cheapest bikes are all some people can afford. One of the best bike articles I read last year was Dan Koeppel's piece in Bicycling magazine about migrant workers and other people who live on the economic fringe in L.A., and depend on their department-store bikes to get to work. I know that such people don’t have the option of going to a bike shop and dropping $300 or $400.

I respect that such cheap bikes fill a need for some folks. But I’m not talkin’ about those people. I’m talkin’ about people who wouldn’t drive a Hyundai or live without cable TV, but who buy disposable bikes.

That’s just weird. I don’t understand those people.

The original energy bar

When I was a kid during the Apollo space program (just typing those words makes me feel old), companies that made toys and candy could sell damned near anything as long as they used a marketing strategy that linked the product to astronauts or rockets.

One of the products I’ve never forgotten was Space Food Sticks, the “nutritional energy food” that was—according to the package—developed for the guys we were shooting into orbit.

Who knows? Maybe NASA actually fed them this junk, but I doubt it.

Anyway, every year or two I’m reminded of Space Food Sticks when I catch a whiff of something that smells like them and triggers something deep in the memory chip of my brain.

This happened a week or two ago when I was carrying some kind of plastic to the trash—it smelled just like Space Food Sticks, which probably doesn't say much about how those things actually tasted. All I remember is some sort of chocolate flavor.

Just for the hell of it, I Googled “Space Food Sticks” and found a photo of a package of those suckers. I was stunned and amazed, for right there on the box was a space-age kid catching air on his bike!

I ate Space Food Sticks. I ride bikes.

Memories, marketing and shitty food come full circle!

Bikes and beer

I don't seem to be getting any faster these days, but the Frigid Bits crowd sure does. These events are starting to look like horse races. Carlos yells "Go!" and, BAM, the pack takes off like it's bein' chased by a bunch of homosexual hillbillies with shotguns.

Chubby old slow dudes (well, OK, maybe I shouldn't be using the plural since I'm really just talking about me) get spit out the back so fast we barely get a look at the leaders' blinking tail lights until they lap us.

At least we all eat about the same speed, and Saturday was tailgate party night. We had a fire barrel, beer, chili, brats, beer, burgers, elk steak, beer, cookies, and reindeer sausage.

Did I mention beer?

What could look better than a bunch of mountain bikes parked in the snow next to a circle of people drinking beer around a fire?

One-way ticket to Margaritaville

I was checking in on the Wheel Revolution blog when I read that Griffin just got herself a B3 bike-powered blender. Bloody hell, people, why didn't somebody tell me these things are available?

B3 stands for Byerley Bicycle Blender. It's made by one of those save-the-world, reduce-our-impact companies that's marketing it as a great way to make fruit smoothies.

I'm all for that stuff about protecting the environment, but smoothies? Are you freaking kiddin' me? Have you ever seen a bunch of bike riders standing in a circle, laughing hysterically and having the time of their lives while sipping smoothies?

Damn right you haven't.

This thing is a bike-riding margarita lover's dream. I want to put one of these suckers on a mountain bike and load up my BOB trailer with all the ingredients and a cooler full of ice.

Laissez les bons temps rouler, baby!

Prisoners

I’m a lucky guy. One reason is that I have some nice bikes I can ride to work.

Another reason is that I live so close to my office in South Anchorage that, if I can’t ride, I have to drive only a couple of miles. Hell, I live so close to work that I pedal well out of my way just to stretch the round-trip commute to 13 miles.

Several of my co-workers live in places like Eagle River and the Mad-Zoo Valley. And they suffer for it. Every time it snows three inches, or some cell-phone using, makeup-applying, McMuffin-eating moron flips an SUV into the ditch, the Glenn Highway becomes a hardened artery with a rubber-necking obstruction.

People arrive at work talking about commutes of 90 minutes or longer. And this is routine. Some days, there’s not even an accident; traffic just clogs up because of some mysterious dynamic in the fire-breathing organism that is born when thousands of cars attempt to move in the same direction on the same road at the same time.

It’s the same in offices all across Anchorage. Countless people stand at coffee pots every morning, telling co-workers things like, “I left Chugiak at 7:15! At 8:00, I was still in Eagle River!” Yet the Victims of the Glenn still flood into Anchorage every morning and pour out every afternoon.

I can’t claim full credit for living two miles from work. Like I said, I’m lucky: My office relocated a few years ago and the change cut miles off my cross-town commute. But I can claim credit for moving to Anchorage and immediately recognizing I wanted nothing to do with driving the Glenn every day. A major reason my wife and I chose to buy a house in town is that she wanted a short drive to work, and I wanted to be able to ride a bike to work.

Life’s short. Why spend it in traffic?

Merry poppings

Supercallipygousiswhatmakeshersobodacious.