Calm before the storm

My nephew Ry wheelies down the railroad ramp
in Laramie, while his wife, Gretchen (below),
rides her beer-equipped townie.

After a week in Wyoming and Colorado, where I alternated between bustin’ a helmet and gasping for air at 8,000 feet, I’m home with just enough time to prepare for this weekend’s Fireweed 200 relay to Valdez.

Should be fun. The weather forecast is a good one, and my teammates tell me I’ve been selected to ride the descent down Thompson Pass—not because I’m an especially skilled descender, but because they want no part of rolling down a mountain at more than 50 mph. In other words, I’m considered expendable.

It’s as big an honor as being the FNG made to walk point in a combat zone. Yeah, I’m feelin’ the love.

Keep your eyes open, Charlie. Team Muschi Schmerzen is goin’ on patrol.

Love the (new one) you're with

I was pedaling through downtown Steamboat this morning when I caught this bike out of the corner of my eye. It was stashed in a little side alley, and I recognized it instantly because it’s the same model as my first mountain bike: a 1989 Specialized Hard Rock Comp.

Because this battered old thing has most of its original components, seeing it was nostalgic. Mine had the same ugly colors, the same crappy triple setup (a cheap ripoff of Shimano’s Biopace rings), the same cantilever brakes, threaded headset and quill stem. It didn’t have a replaceable derailleur hanger, and the wheelset weighed a ton.

I took it home and stuck in the spare bedroom of the house we owned at the time. I’d poke my head in and admire the bike I thought was so cool and beautiful. For the time, it was a pretty decent entry-level bike, and riding it was the most fun I’d ever had on two wheels.

As I looked at this bike this morning, I briefly imagined what it would be like to ride on the same technology today.

I couldn't bear the thought.

Volunteer fingers

The Queen Bee just sent this phlip-off photo
taken last month on National Trails Day.

Volunteers hard at work—what could be better?

So now I'll find out ...

if all the dirt really was the only thing holding my old commuter together. Yup, it finally got washed on Sunday. And why not? I think a hard-working bike deserves a good washing once a year, whether it needs it or not.

Before

After

I'd like to offer a big congratulations to Yrjo, who—I'm told—turned in a badass effort and took third in this weekend's 24 Hours of Matanuska ... on a singlespeed. (A beautiful Moots that is now for sale, by the way.) Good work, Dutch.

And congrats, as well, to my friends Jules and Amber, who cranked out 72 miles each during the 12-hour race on Saturday. I'm sorry I missed the event, but I did the roadie thing on Saturday, then slept for 11 hours and felt good about it.

Speaking of rest, my daughter and I are hittin' the road for a family reunion down in Mootsville. If things go well, there'll be some trail time involved, and some bike pics poppin' up on the blog over the next few days.

Illegal Smiles

And you may see me tonight
With an illegal smile.
It don’t cost very much
But it lasts a long while.
Won’t you please tell the man I didn’t kill anyone?
I’m just tryin’ to have me some fun.
—John Prine

Earlier this week, a guy named Adam posted a comment, saying he had just found my blog and was jealous of where I get to ride bikes. Adam, my man, go back and read the winter posts, then see how you feel, OK?

I don’t set out to inspire envy, but I’ll happily admit that revel in it when it happens, because I’m one of the lucky people who get to live exactly where they want to be. Long ago, I decided to always try to reside in places where I would happily take vacations. That way, I get to look up from the trail at least a couple of times a month and just smile until I steer off into the weeds. It’s a good feeling, except for the crashy part.

So here are some fresh pics from the past week to fill the ol’ blog while I'm busy this weekend.

Guess what I'll be doing.

Heather on Johnson Pass Trail last Friday.

Jules and Heather on Devil's Pass Trail last Saturday.

Jules on Devil's Pass.

Crossing an avalanche path.

Maura on Kincaid singletrack Wednesday evening.

Maura meets a moose

One of many chance meetings
during tonight's trail ride at Kincaid.

Genetically coded for fun

Heather and Julie approach Devil's Pass.
Click here for Julie's side of the story.

One of my next-door neighbors is building a new deck. I drove home from the grocery store today and saw another guy unloading lumber from his minivan. A nearby neighbor is in his usual summer mode, working his little green thumbs off to grow flowers that’ll be dead in three months.

I never got the manly home-improvement gene. I’d rather work with cone wrenches than a power tool any day. Hell, last week I had a root canal and found it more enjoyable than any hour-long trip to a hardware store. (It helped that a cute endodontist is way hotter than some unhelpful guy in an orange vest full of ink pens and safety-training buttons.)

Some guys love all that hardware/home-improvement stuff. Give 'em some tools, a project and some beer, and they’ll pound away all day. Then there are guys like me; the ones who think college was invented to make us employable enough that we can occasionally afford to pay a contractor's bill.

As this past Sunday wound down, many families were enjoying the results of weekend projects: new decks, freshly painted kitchens and beautiful gardens.

I had a garage full of wet camping gear, a trashed mountain bike, a pile of stinky-ass clothes, and a happy smile.

I love being unskilled.

3
brown bears.

2
stellar trail rides.

1
great weekend serving as a reminder

of why fun riding partners

should never be taken for granted.

I'll sort the rest out later.

Break time

It's time to go riding. Blog updates
will return next week.

We now return you
to your regularly scheduled life.

Metriculated

A sure sign of a good summer weekend in Alaska is to find yourself yawning a lot on Monday morning. If you happen to be a bicyclist, and you combine the yawns with spent legs, you know you used your time well.

My weekend was spent riding trails on Saturday and roads on Sunday. The problem was what to call the Sunday ride. Looking for a fairly long course, Heather went online and grabbed the map for a 100-kilometer brevet recently held by the Alaska Randonneurs. Those guys use a lot of funny measurements and European terminology but, hey, it's their route, so we called it 100K.

I’ve been known to razz people for using the term “metric century,” which has always struck me as a questionable way for an American to claim a “century” ride. So when I mentioned via Facebook that I was going to ride a 100K with friends, my brother and The Grouch both jumped on it.

Normally, the closest I get to the metric system is frequent use of the term “metric assload.” You just can’t win with this liter/kilometer/centimeter shit. Refuse to use the metric system, and you’re a stubborn American. Use it, and people accuse you of trying to make your ride sound bigger by saying 100 kilometers instead of 62 miles.

I’ll try to be more consistent with my units of measurement in the future so that it won’t look like I’m using the metric system to my advantage. For the record, I rode exactly 60.00 American miles yesterday. On a course with 4,260 feet of climbing.

Those hills would ordinarily be hard on a fat-ass like me. Fortunately, I now weigh only 95 kilograms.

Snobs suck

The latest issue of Outside—the official magazine of yuppies concerned with which overpriced brand of outerwear is fashionable for the rigorous adventure of driving a BMW to Starbucks—contains an essay from a writer lamenting the loss of bike-shop snobs. Modern competition, he argues, has made shops friendly and welcoming, thereby robbing cyclists of the valuable initiation process of feeling inferior and having to earn knowledge and acceptance.

Bullshit.

First of all, bike-shop snobs haven’t completely disappeared. Even here in little ol’ Anchorage I hear frequent complaints from less-experienced riders about their encounters with one particular shop, and there’s another place I virtually never go into because it employs an arrogant prick.

But if snobbery is generally on the wane, I say good riddance. I still remember the conceited jackasses I encountered while shopping for my first mountain bike back in the '80s. Those dudes all seemed to think they were the next Greg LeMond.

I endured them because I was dying to get a bike, but not everyone is committed to making a purchase. Snobs intimidate the casual shoppers who would just like to give biking a try. And that's not just bad for business, it's bad for the sport.

Treating customers badly isn’t cool. It’s stupid. In any kind of business. Why drive a customer away just because you think you know more about wine, car parts, widgets or bicycles than he/she does? Why turn them off on bicycling—or scare them off to Sprawl-Mart where they’ll buy the kind of junk that will convince them we’re all crazy for riding bikes?

Do that, and the next thing you know, they’ll decide it's easier to read Outside than it is to ride outside.

Ridin’ with the Roadrunner

Bike commuters can become a bit evangelical about the advantages of getting around town without a car, and with good reason. The advantages are nearly endless. One advantage that is often overlooked: Better lunch hours.

Some people bag quick trail rides or road rides during lunch. Many of us just spin down to a local lake or park and brown-bag it on the grass, or pedal to a nearby restaurant for a bite. I’m lucky enough to work two blocks from a paved bike trail, and 15 minutes from Arctic Roadrunner, a 45-year-old hamburger institution on the northern bank of Campbell Creek.

Each summer, the owner—Dick Sanchis—is nice enough to drag a couple of old, roughed-up bike racks into high-visibility parking spaces right next to one of his dining areas. A few years ago, he saw a co-worker and I locking up our bikes, and he walked over to ask if we liked the racks. “You know, people spend a lot of money on some of these bikes,” Sanchis said. “They need a good place to lock ’em up.”

To this day, he’s the only local business owner I know of who devotes prominent parking space to customers’ bicycles. I make a point of thanking him for it every summer.

A juicy burger and an outdoor table beside the creek are good enough reasons to pedal over for lunch a few times every year. The fact that Sanchis takes an interest in his two-wheeled customers almost makes eating at Arctic Roadrunner obligatory for Anchorage bicyclists. I highly recommend stopping in for a cheeseburger and/or some onion rings.

Ask for Dick, and tell him his bike racks sent you.

Taint misbehavin’

Every sport is made better when it inspires improved technology and brilliant accessories that make participation more fun. Cyclists are the fortunate recipients of one of the oddest products out there—crotch cream.

I don’t know who first walked into work one morning and said, “Hey guys, let’s market a lubricant that bike riders will buy to squirt in their pants!” but I’m glad it happened. Anyone who has ever ridden a hundred miles on a dry chamois appreciates the euphoric comfort of a crotch full of slippery comfort cream, butt butter or whatever else you’d like to call it. It’s nirvana for the nether regions.

A couple of years ago, friends who were still somewhat new to biking thought I was a weirdo for espousing the wonders of this stuff. They were squeamish about the very subject, and repulsed by the idea of shooting a load of chilly goo into their shorts before pulling them up. Every time I mentioned chamois cream, the Queen of the Middle Finger looked at me as if I were giddily describing the details of a prostate exam.

These days, not only is she convinced, but her husband waxes poetic about his favorite menthol variety. And when I recently became a “fan” of Chamois Butt’r on Facebook, she posted a comment saying, “I will never again minimize or ignore the sheer genius of this product.”

So today, Bicycles & Icicles salutes chamois creams and all who make them. To all the workers who toil in factories producing these slippery gels of joy, we say thank you from the hearts of our bottoms.

Tune in, turn off and drop in

Mountain biking isn’t an activity made easier by deep thought. That’s one of the reasons people love it: Singletrack clears our minds of all the crap that’s usually so hard to escape. It’s almost meditative in the way it focuses our vision and forces us to live in the moment. Excessive thought is rarely rewarded. Instinct and muscle memory usually are.

Many of us think far too much while riding our bikes. I do it all the time. The eyes see an obstacle, and the mind registers signals of pain and doubt. Next thing I know, I’ve gone all chickenshit and I’m walking over a log or rock that I should have ridden.

That’s why I drove home happy Wednesday night after my first seriously rooty trail ride of the season. Somehow, I had managed to turn off part of my brain and let my body take over. I was riding with a group, most of whom I’d never met before, so when I found myself at the front, I felt a self-imposed pressure to hold the pace and keep the flow going. Call it ego, male pride or the threat of swarming mosquitoes. Whatever.

I rode over root balls that normally would have sent doubt through my mind, and a foot toward the ground. I easily cleaned four or five technical features on Brown Bear that I’d never been able to ride before. I was hooting and hollering in spots where I normally grumble profanities. Not all my moves were pretty, but they kept me upright and pedaling.

Years ago, I read an interview with some downhill racers talking about danger and speed. One of them said something along the lines of, “Some days you just leave your brain at home and have a really good run.”

I’ve got to capture the magic that visited me Wednesday night, and try to hold onto it all summer. My brain can be a shitty riding partner. I need to leave it at home more often.

Russian (River) Fingers

Photo by Sean

Is this any way to treat one of the top 50 cycling blogs in the world? I think not.

But it’s what came out of last weekend’s mass assault on Russian Lakes Trail after our group of 10 riders split into two end-to-end trios who did a car-key swap in the middle of the route, and these four clowns who did an out-and-back ride from the Russian River end.

When they weren’t flailing themselves on rocks and logs at all the technical sections that I safely (i.e., sheepishly) stepped over, these guys obviously had time to practice their sign-language slang and create the newest entry in the esteemed Bicycles & Icicles Finger Hall of Fame.

Speaking of fame, London Cyclist has named this pimple on the ass of the Internet one of the top 50 cycling blogs in da world.

No. 36, to be exact, thanks to “a number of elements such as Google Pagerank, Twitter Rank, Alexa Rank, number of comments and Technorati Authority.” I don’t even know what all that means, but it sure sounds important.

Something tells me that if they analyzed blogs written by people whose friends like to flip them off, I could move up about 35 spots in the rankings.

Huber's rolling sofa

Huber makes the approach ...

inflates his cheeks to 35 psi ...

and cleans it.

I swear, that bike gets more travel action
than a slutty stewardess.

Hunk o' gunk

“Do you make your bike ugly so no one will want to steal it?”

A woman asked me this question at the bike rack a couple of weeks ago as I was unlocking my commuter. She went on to explain that when she had first noticed my dirty ride—with its fenders secured by mud-splattered zip ties and duct tape—she dismissed the thought that it could be mine, because she knows I’m picky about my bikes.

I couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or insulted. Sure, the old Stumpjumper is looking a bit abused these days, but I’ve always had a soft spot for roughed-up bikes with a utilitarian look. They’re the noblest of the noble. More than just high-zoot toys owned for speed and adventure, hard-ridden townies carry us to work, school, and on important errands like beer runs. Instead of being carried around town on roof racks, these are the bikes that keep cars sitting in driveways.

Besides, there’s something lovely about a machine that looks trashy to the untrained eye but rides like a dream, revealing its beauty only to the cognoscenti.

Many years ago, I met Cosmic Ray when he spoke at an REI store in Arizona. When someone commented on his dirty mountain bike, Ray explained that he believed a mountain bike looked best with a “fine patina” of use. Ray knew what he was talking about.

To paraphrase Gordon Gecko: Grunge is good. Grunge is right. Grunge works.

Till it’s over

The ultimate cycling fantasy is a debatable subject, but it’s hard to beat this scenario: Quit your job, hop a flight to someplace far away, and ride as long as your legs and wallet will take you.

That’s what Neils and Caroline, who live near Cologne, Germany, are doing this summer. They rolled into our little campground on the banks of the Brushkana River last weekend and accepted an invitation set up their tent beside Rio’s van for a couple of nights, giving everyone plenty of time to hang out and get acquainted.

When I asked Neils how long they planned to tour, he explained that they were making their way toward Whitehorse, Yukon. I explained that I wasn’t asking how far, but how long. Like most wage slaves, I think in terms of the vacation days allotted by employers each year. Neils hasn’t had that problem since he and Caroline quit their jobs for the trip.

In fractured English he answered my question with a simple reply: “Until the money’s over.”

That’s what I call a great vacation plan.

Fingers for Liberty

The local crew that rides the Smithville Lake trails near Liberty, Missouri, are damned fine citizens. They build and maintain trails, they provide employment opportunities for illiterate sign makers who would otherwise be rendered unemployable by their inability to correctly spell “smokin’,” and they are keeping the Finger Movement alive here at Bicycles and Icicles with 15 participants in the Great Spring Flipoff of 2009. This is a number exceeded only by the entire lineup at the start line of last year's Soggy Bottom 100.

It’s a stunning display, indeed. Fortunately, it was kept somewhat family friendly because the photo was taken shortly before that wee lad in the middle got his kilt high enough to show us his Smokin’ Davey.

Bikes, beers and fingers. It’s a beautiful thing.

Speaking of which, keep an eye on the blog this week for some tales and photos from the Denali Classic. As soon as I get my tired ass back in gear and sort through the memory banks and the memory card, there’s bound to be some shit worth posting.

Breaking stuff, breaking out

There are certain sounds you never want to hear on a bike: car horns and screeching tires coming up from behind; the hissing of air; growling dogs; and sudden, loud cracking sounds between your legs.

So I wasn’t a happy guy Tuesday night when a loud bang was immediately followed by the horn of my saddle slamming into my crotch and a sharp piece of seatpost scraping my inner thigh.

Neither is a pleasant sensation. Nor is pulling out the cell phone to call home and ask for a lift when you’re only 15 miles into a 35-mile ride that was feeling really good. I’ve busted a few seatpost bolts on mountain bikes over the years and have spent plenty of time pedaling home without a saddle, and it sucks—so I called for a rescue. Until now, though, I’d never managed to break a seatpost clamp, especially on a road bike.

And this one snapped like a dry stick. I mean, I know I’m a big guy but damn, I’m not that big. Thanks to Jon at Paramount for setting me up with a quick replacement, even though the roadie will be parked for the next few days anyway.

It’s time to break out the mountain bike and head north to kick off a new season with the Denali Classic. A long weekend of campfires, bikes and beer. The blog is always slow this time of year when all my time is spent on the road bike, but if things go well, I’ll be back next week with some new stories and a big batch of photos.

Summer is at hand, folks. Let’s set the knobbies free.

Don't mess with perfection

It ain't as pretty as Meligrosa's ride (below),
but it gets me where I need to go.

Anchorage has been enjoying a spell of freakishly beautiful spring weather. The only crappy day in the past week was—of course—on Bike to Work Day. I took pride in riding in the cold rain, because I keep a filthy, fender-equipped commuter bike in the garage. When the weather turns foul, there’s nothing that keeps you riding like a 13-year-old bike that’s been retired to beater status.

Of course, Friday was also when I made one of my regular visits to Meligrosa’s photo-driven Bikes and the City blog, which always has entertaining photos of bike life in one of the great American cities—San Francisco, birthplace of the Grateful Dead. Whenever Meligrosa uses a close-up shot of her bike, it’s clean enough to make my commuter look like a piece of battered farm equipment.

Now, I know the weather is a bit milder down by The Bay, but this woman must show her bike a lot of love. Meanwhile, my crusty old Stumpjumper—which has reliably carried me over trails from Santa Fe to Moab to Anchorage, and even survived a near-tragic encounter with the top of the entrance to my garage—gets rode hard and put away wet far too frequently. These days, it might get washed a couple of times a year.

I’d like to pull out the bucket and brushes and put a shine back on that pretty blue frame, only ... well, I’m not really superstitious ... but, you know how it always seems to rain the day after you wash your car?

When you’re on a roll with Alaska weather, you don’t screw with it.

Happy Bike to Work Day

Call it a social experiment. Call it a statement.
Call it alternative transportation. I don't care.

I just wanna ride my bike
and not be hassled by The Man.

Slow day baiku

A crosswind wobble
at forty miles per hour
keeps a mere mortal humble

(And makes me wish
I could descend like these guys.)

Cheeseburger in Paradise

I was talking with a neighbor Sunday morning when we agreed that—in terms of sunny days—the Summer of 2009 has already surpassed the Non-summer of 2008.

That we decided this on May 10 is a good indicator of how much last year sucked. We can only hope the recent trend bodes well for the next four months.

Thanks to Saturday’s 82-mile ride from Anchorage to Hope, I already have as much of a biker’s tan as I ever got last summer. There’s nothing as sweet as a blue-sky Saturday spent riding. Cruising along Turnagain Arm with water on our right and mountains on the left. Snow-covered peaks all around, and four riders pacing through headwinds and then enjoying the quiet hum of rubber on pavement in the downwind stretches. And, of course, there was the grind of climbing to the snow on Turnagain Pass.

When Oscar the Grouch saw my mention of the ride on Facebook, he harassed me with the derisive, one-word response of, “Roadie.” I told him I could live with that.

I spent an evening last week getting my Epic ready for the trails. But until they dry out, I’ll be savoring every mile (and all the miles per hour) on the road rocket.

And I wouldn't mind riding back for another cheeseburger at Tito's in Hope.

Get to work

A couple of days ago, I noticed a bicycle in the office of a co-worker who has always driven to work, so I asked what was up. She had dropped her car at the shop that morning and then ridden the rest of the way to work. It was great, she said, because she realized that on a bike, she could smell what was around her. That morning’s ride had inspired her and she was thinking about taking the old bike for a tune-up.

I love hearing about the little epiphanies that are so common among people who ride to work one day and find themselves enjoying the benefits, whether they come in the form of fresh air, reduced stress, or the smells of spring. It’s a great thing to watch and listen to someone who just realized that riding to work is actually fun. (Check out the video.)

This is Bike to Work Month, and next Friday is Bike to Work Day. Companies all over town have dozens—in some cases hundreds—of employees signed up to ride. Most of them probably won’t do again until next year, if at all. Knowing this is a one-time thing for so many participants usually bothers me, and I sometimes find myself resenting the people who ride to work only on one designated day each year.

When that happens, I remind myself that if 95 percent of Bike to Work Day participants never rode to work again, it would still be a worthwhile event, because that would mean that the other five percent decided to keep trying it. That’s progress.

Everyone who knows the fun of riding to work on a regular basis should encourage co-workers to try it. Grab a map and a high-lighter and help someone plan a safe, enjoyable route. Give ’em an old pump if you have a spare that’s collecting dust. Offer them a decent used saddle when they complain that their ass hurts and you see that they’re riding a piece of junk. It’s all about making people believe, and getting them to drink the Kool-Aid.

They don’t have to gulp it.

Sips will do just fine.

(Thanks to Gwadzilla for today's picture, and the video link.)

Procrastination

Buying a road bike was one of the greatest things I could ever do for my springtime sanity. I no longer spend six weeks being irritable between the end of winter riding and the end of the spring trail-drying cycle. But there’s a downside to this seasonal distraction: All that time on the road means less time in the garage getting the full-suspension rig ready for summer.

My Epic’s pedals need a rebuild, and the rear suspension hasn’t been properly reassembled since I tore it apart back in January. What’s the rush, ya know? In February and March, the beginning of June looks a long way off. But then early May arrives and those early ride invitations begin; a climbing workout on Arctic Valley Road (not that I really mind missing that kind of pain) or a quick ride on the Crev-Mo trails, which dry out earlier than the terrain in Anchorage.

All of a sudden, I’m missing rides because the bike they require is sitting in its corner, neglected as a red-headed stepchild because I’ve been too lazy to spend an hour or two turning wrenches. It’s pathetic.

Time’s a wastin’. Gotta get to work.

Cleansed

I've been sleeping on the couch for nearly a week, and I'm not even in trouble with my wife. Actually, it's probably more accurate to say I've been sleeping (sort of) in a chair. That's what a desperate person does when a head cold hits, and sinus drainage makes horizontal rest impossible.

A head cold really isn't anything to whine about, but when it knocks you flat during the first week of irresistibly sexy spring weather, it just seems like an injustice. Seriously, the past few days of warm days and clear, sunny skies have been the meteorological equivalent of Miss April and Miss May combined, and all I've been doing is occasionally limping to work on the commuter bike and then spending my evenings staring out the living-room window and answering text messages with, "No, I'm still too sick to ride."

Even on a perfect Saturday, I was tempted to bag it and just lay low, but my mind needed something I wasn't sure my body could deliver—and that's not something a guy usually likes to say. I hit the road hoping to knock off 20 miles nice and easy, and Huber mercifully let me set the pace as I coughed up crud. A couple of hours later we closed the loop with 33 miles behind us, and I spent the evening feeling better than I had in 10 days.

People always say laughter is the best medicine. That's for civilians. The rest of us know what the best medicine really is.

(OK, we all know that sometimes it's Vicodin, but work with me on this. I'm tryin' to make a point.)

Body bags

A benefit of Anchorage’s typical weather is that the daily newspaper is delivered in a plastic bag every day, not just when the forecast calls for rain. That’s a lot of plastic going to the landfill every year, but it’s also a lot of plastic that thrifty people can use in secondary ways. Dog owners, for example, carry pocketfuls of bags for cleaning up poop. Fortunately, I’m not into the idea of walking around on chilly mornings and picking up smelly piles of steamy dog doo.

But I love these things for protecting my cold-sensitive digits from the wind. In the spring and fall, when I’m riding without over boots, I’ll pull a bag over each set of toes before I put on my shoes. On frosty days when I expect to ride my mountain bike through creeks, I’ll pull a bag over each foot to keep it dry inside my wet Sidis.

This spring, I discovered a new use for newspaper bags when I grew tired of cold hands and dry skin on my knuckles after switching to lighter gloves. I cut off the bottom section of a bag, snip five openings in the plastic, and shove my hand in—viola, fully functional, cheap-ass glove liners. These little babies make a pair of light, full-fingered cycling gloves far more comfortable when temps are in the 40s. If I don’t rip them off too fast at the end of a ride, I can usually get a couple of rides out of each pair.

Best of all, when I wear the plastic liners after taking off my gloves for a snack, it makes Huber extra-embarrassed to be seen with me. What the hell does he expect from a guy who stands around a burn barrel drinking beer in the winter?

Oops

H celebrates the return of spring road riding,
or what passes for it here.

Saturday was the first time this season that I used a car to get to the start of a road-bike ride. That's an event that's always marked by a few little reminders of how important it is to have a pre-ride routine that helps you be sure you have everything you need before you drive away from the house. Food, water, tools, whatever.

Helmets are nice, too, especially when riding with H, the queen of traumatic brain injury prevention. Or Kathy, who remembers all too well that she was teased on the blog last month after riding without a brain bucket. So mea culpa, I blew it and showed up without a lid.

It's funny how naked it feels to ride without a helmet. It seems like every rider you meet is looking and you and thinking to himself, "Freakin' idiot."

Or maybe that was just Heather ...

The rides you need

It hasn't been an easy week at work. Definitely more stress than usual—the kind that goes home with you at the end of the day. The kind you need to escape, sooner or later.

A couple of evenings out on the road bike have cleared my head and helped me get things in perspective. They've reminded me that, sometimes, a ride is more than just a ride, and can save your sanity. Especially on those nights when it would be easy to bail.

We've all seen those great bumper stickers such as, "Friends don't let friends vote Republican," or "Friends don't let friends drink white zinfandel."

Maybe there should be one that says, "Friends don't let friends skip rides."

Not in the mood

The next step

Greg Matyas has unveiled his latest Fatback at Sea Otter. I got to check out this titanium frame in the back room of his shop a couple of weeks ago, and it looked like possibly the coolest and most interesting fat bike yet.

It's a bit spendy for those of us in the budget-minded Pugsley crowd, but if money were no object for a winter bike, I'd be putting in an order for one of these new Fatbacks.

This another step in the evolution of fat bikes, and a reminder of how much fun it is to have a front-row seat for all the action. Alaska may be far from the rest of the country, but it's the leader in fat-bike design, and seems to have the most riders figuring how what they can do on these bikes.

Even if we do look like a bunch of homeless people with expensive rides.

Can’t tax this

This train wreck of an economy is startin’ to get on my nerves. I mean, seriously, it’s an unmitigated disaster. It seems like anyone who hasn't been laid off has taken a pay cut, and the oil companies haven’t even started the annual legalized gang-rape of inflated summer gas prices, so money's gonna even tighter as soon as they remember everybody’s about to take a vacation. Oops, sorry, we're supposed to call it a staycation.

Just to make things even more fun, I just sent the IRS a check fat enough that it could have covered a truly sweet new bike, if Uncle Scam hadn’t taken it. (And if I didn’t have two more pressing—and dull—projects in the wings.)

Depressing news is hard to escape. Check out the line on this mountain bike rag that recently showed up in my mailbox: Bikes you can buy with your severance check.

Actually, there are plenty of dumber ways to blow the last paycheck you'll see for a while. At least the bike can carry you away from the world's bullshit—for a few hours at a time, anyway.

Last winter, I wrote on this blog about a guy who laughed at me for referring to one of my bikes a good “investment.” Well, when I compare the value of that bike and my 401k a year ago to the value of both investments today, there's no doubt about which one has paid the biggest return.

Who's laughin' now?

Spring, slowly

Every spring, the Big Weekend of Bike Work rolls around. That’s when I start getting ready for rides on pavement—and the more distant goal of dirt. Last Saturday, I put new tires on the road bike, and got everything lubed and adjusted. I worked on the rear shock of my trail bike, and cleaned up the drivetrain that was rode hard and put away wet last fall.

But I didn’t touch my commuter. The studded tires stayed on.

That was partially due to experience—I’ve been fooled plenty of times by “spring” conditions, and paid the price—and partially due to the fact I suffer a serious butt-pucker affliction when I hit morning glare ice without good studs. So I’m a wimp. Whatever. I hate pain.

A few other local riders swapped out their winter tires last week, and were thrilled to shed the weight and noise of studs, but until I ride at least one morning without any ice to contend with, my Nokians aren’t retiring for the off season.

I felt good about that decision when the flakes started to fall shortly after my family finished dinner with friends Sunday afternoon. I felt even better when I woke up to a couple of inches of snow that was still coming down this morning.

I’m as guilty as anyone of saying things like, “Man, I can’t wait to get out on the road bike.” But that’s just a figure of speech. I’m eager to get out on the road bike, but I can wait.

Especially if it means I get to stay upright.

Harry Belafonte knew

After one of my recent posts, a comment was left to ask why so many of the pictures on this blog are of the women I ride with, instead of the men.

One reason is that the women tend to share my riding style. I’m happy to ride a steady pace, occasionally wait for the riders behind me, and chat a lot along the way. With most guys I ride with, there’s a much more businesslike approach—mount up, ride fast, cover lots of ground. So, when I ride in a mixed group, I tend to get more opportunities to shoot photos of the women while the guys (usually their husbands and boyfriends) hammer away up front.

I like the fact that most of my group rides include a mixture of men and women. Women are good for mountain biking, partially because they remind men not to take everything so damned seriously.

A few summers back, I was down on the Kenai Peninsula for a ride with two other guys. We were doing a loop from Primrose, down the highway to the Lost Lake trailhead, then up over the mountains back to the car. To knock off the 15 miles of pavement at the start, we verbally agreed to form a pace line and save energy. I don’t think any of us had spent much time riding together, but I was pretty sure they were both faster than me, so I just tried to hang with ’em. And I suffered.

A little while later as we stood at the trailhead, gulping water and trying to catch our breath before starting what was supposed to be the hard part of the ride, one of the other guys looked around and said, “What the fuck was that?”

I looked at him and replied, “You mean you guys don’t always ride that fast?” The ensuing conversation revealed that each guy thought the other two were pushing the pace during their turns at the front. So everyone shared the blame—even me, the least-fit guy in the group.

That’s when one guy uttered some of the wisest words in the history of mountain biking: “That’s why you should always bring a woman.” He went on to explain his reasoning. Women, he said, are never afraid to tell the guys to pull their heads out of their asses and slow the hell down.

Don’t get me wrong. Some of the fastest and toughest riders I've ever known were women. It’s not about ability. It’s about mindset.

I’ve ridden with plenty of groups in which it was the women who put me in the House of Pain but, more often than not, we men can count on the female riders to relax, savor the fun, and save us from our own stupidity.

Stick it

I guess most people outgrow a fascination with stickers, but I never did. I still love the things, especially if they’re free. And with my addiction, bike-related stickers are always the best. Product logos, shop names, smart-ass phrases, they’re all good.

When my daughter’s new Crank Bros. pedals arrived yesterday with two free stickers in the box, the selfish kid in me was momentarily tempted to snatch one for myself. Fortunately, the bike-junkie dad in me—the part that likes spreading seeds for an obsession—knew that a kid who was already excited about her first clipless pedals would like the freebies even more than I would. I handed them over, and soon found myself voluntarily raiding my personal sticker stash and watching her decorate a new school binder with a mountain-bike theme.

Within a few minutes a standard, boring binder had become a display of velo coolness that was way better than any rock-band logos or vinyl expressions of teenage angst.

Maybe I’m just a dreamer, but seeing an IMBA sticker on a high-school kid’s notebook gives me hope.

Kitty

One of the great things about a trail ride is that even if you’re lacking motivation, you’ll rarely regret it if you push yourself off your ass and get out on your bike. Another great thing is that you never know when something truly incredible is going to happen.

Sunday wasn’t looking good. My wrist and thumb were aching from some mysterious injury. Minor muscle spasms were threatening to wreck my back if they got worse. I didn’t know of anyone headed out for a ride, and the trails were melting fast. Fortunately, Heather—yes, the one who’s always flipping me off—was ready for a ride while The Huber recovered from a day of that funny game in which people chase a little black disc all over a big sheet of ice.

It was a gloriously beautiful, sunny day. And then, as we rolled down Speedway singletrack, a big lynx calmly walked across the trail, right in front of me. This is a rare and thrilling thing.

I stopped to alert Heather as she rolled up from behind.

Then two more lynx (or lynxes, if you prefer) stepped out of the forest and onto the trail, following the first one through an area with plenty of snowshoe hare tracks dotting the snow. In the 13 years I’ve lived in Alaska, I’d seen a total of two lynx, and one of those was just a furry rump diving into the brush. Now I had three of them just a few yards away.

And then a fourth one stepped into view. It turned left and walked 10 or 15 feet on the trail right in front of us, then stepped off and followed its friends. We ditched our bikes and moved forward on foot, managing to get a couple of brief sightings as the foursome walked through spruce trees, making their way southward.

I don’t know what the odds are for for something like this, but I’d put them in the “damn unlikely” category. When she learned of this encounter, my friend Bev replied that during 31 years in Alaska, she’d never managed to spot a single lynx. And I’ve never heard of anyone seeing two or more at one time. I never even bothered to pull out my camera, because I thought each lynx I saw was going to be the last.

My wrist still hurts. The ride probably didn’t do it any good, but there's always ibuprofen.

It was worth the pain. Because I could have skipped that ride. And, chances are, I’ll spend the rest of my life in Alaska and never see something like that again.

A spring evening on the Hillside

I've got nothin' tonight

but some pictures and advice.

The Hillside trails will soon melt away.

Go put some miles on those fat bikes
while you still can.

See SPOT run

There’s been a lot of grumbling and debate about the use of satellite tracking devices in this year’s Iditarod Trail Invitational. A few racers carried SPOT units, and they caused all sorts of heartburn for race organizers who had to deal with conflicting signals sent by struggling competitors, and phone calls from families who were worried about what they were seeing on their computer screens.

Bill and Kathi Merchant, who organize the race each year, have decided to ban such devices from next year’s event, and everyone seems to have an opinion on whether that’s appropriate. Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass what the rules will be next year, because I have no intention of ever entering that 350-mile, sadomasochistic sufferfest.

But I doubt it’s possible to truly ban such popular and easily transportable technology from the trail. Sure, you can make it illegal and DQ anyone caught using it, but you can’t keep SPOT units out of a wilderness race anymore than you can keep cell phones out of movie theaters.

A rule against them would prevent attention whores from publicizing their data feeds for friends and “fans” on Internet sites, but you’d still be fighting an uphill battle against wives and husbands who shove GPS tracking devices at their loved ones and say, “If you’re going to do that crazy race, you’re taking this!” Next thing you know, those things are going to be hidden in backpacks and frame bags regardless of the rules.

Racers who carry the devices covertly might not send “OK” signals every couple of hours, but you can bet that when the shit hits the fan and they need help, they’ll happily accept a DQ from the race if they can pull a gadget out of their frame bag and push a button that launches a rescue. And who could blame them? (As long as they really are in trouble, that is.)

It’s hard to stop the forward creep of technology. Hell, it’s already changed the Invitational. If you doubt that, just look at some old pictures and compare the bikes ridden in the early days of the race with today’s titanium frames, 100mm rims, and carbon-fiber components.

In the long run, I suspect organizers of events like the Invitational will have to write rules that are less about if tracking devices can be used, and more about how they can be used.