Turning out the light

Anchorage had 5 minutes, 39 seconds less daylight today than it did yesterday. The temperature seems to fall a little more each day, too. The weeknight rides I started at 7 o'clock all summer are now starting at 6, and I get back to my car in the twilight after the sun drops below the horizon.

The evening light is beautiful, but there's less and less time to savor it. We're racing the annual slide into darkness ... and losing. I rode the new trail network tonight, knowing it would probably be my last chance to ride it without lights (and/or a snow bike) for months.

I'm looking forward to the night rides of winter—and moving through the woods in a bubble of artificial light—but damn, I hate saying goodbye to sunny evenings.

Summer of 2009, you kicked ass.

Goodbye, training wheels

This has to be one of the coolest things seen at this year's Interbike. Because what could be cooler than a better way to teach kids to ride bikes?

Bearly understandable

Biologists recently set up cameras near the community of Eagle River and found conclusive evidence that bears live in the woods. Therefore, it's a bad idea to build a greenbelt trail there, they say, because if you put a trail where bears live, animals and humans might happen to encounter each other. (Although they also said the bears carefully avoided times and places where humans were active.)

Anchorage mountain bikers have been encountering this same argument for months now. People who don't want new trails near the homes they built in bear habitat have suddenly become very "concerned about safety," so they lobby against building trails in bear habitat—especially when it's on the public land that serves as a really sweet extension to their backyards.

The problem is, all open, wooded land around here is bear habitat. Anchorage itself—the largest city in Alaska—is bear habitat. That would seem to limit the options, wouldn't it?

But the thing is, no one appears to be prohibited from building subdivisions or discount stores in bear habitat.

Doesn't it seem a little weird that it's OK to bulldoze bear habitat, but it's not OK to visit it?

Flat is where it’s at

The flat handlebar is one of the great victims of mountain biking’s fashion trends. All the swoopy riser bars with big sweep have pushed this venerable component so far to the margins that it’s hard to get one without placing a special order.


I was in Speedway a few months ago and mentioned to Greg that I needed a new bar and had three requirements: carbon fiber, 26 inches wide, and no more than 5 degrees of sweep. The poor guy had to dig deep just to find one in the parts catalog, but he came up with a sweet Salsa Pro Moto that was exactly what I wanted.

Then Chainlove.com had a cheap, aluminum flat bar on sale Monday and labeled it as being offered for “retro grouches and flat bar-tenders.” WTF?

I get grouchy when perfectly good gear gets relegated to “retro” without being replaced by something that’s truly better. But that’s OK. I yell at kids to stay off my lawn, and I remember when flat bars replaced riser bars along about 1989-90. My first mountain-biking partner—Cris—rode a Schwinn High Sierra with a bent bar and I thought it looked silly because my newer bike had a flat bar. I’ve used flats ever since, and have never seen any advantage to risers when I tried them on borrowed bikes.

Flat bars are light, functional, have clean lines, and make it easier to set up a lower riding position instead of sitting up and “air braking” all day. Want a slightly higher position for your hands? Put a couple of carbon spacer rings under your stem. That’ll get you to the same place, without all the bends that make it hard to mount lights, computers, etc.

The flat bar rocks. Long live the flat bar.

Fall color

Heather

Why do I always dread the arrival of fall,
but love it when it gets here?
Most of the biting bugs are gone, and the woods
have never been prettier.

Huber

So what if the leaves are already falling
in Alaska while riders in other places are still
enjoying the green of summer? That just
means we get to enjoy it earlier.

It also means it's time to tune up the fat bikes.

Morning wood

It’s the little things that make bike commuting so much fun. Slalom turns between goose turds on the trail. Zipping past the shopping carts under the covered entrance to Costco long before the store opens. And all the little things you’d miss if you were in a car.


This morning, I got strange enjoyment from these piles of smoldering wood chips. With cores of rotting wood generating heat, and the outside temperature near 40 degrees, these little babies were steaming out their summits like a couple of stratovolcanoes.

I found this highly entertaining, and shot some pictures as motorists zoomed by without noticing this little display of nature's explosive fury. The photos elicited a slightly less enthusiastic response when I showed them to someone at my office.

I guess you just had to be there.

Dam it!

This was supposed to be one of my infamous rant posts. I was composing all the poison prose in my mind as I photographed this bandit trail project tonight. It is (or was) an effort to build a berm for a banked ride through a gentle turn on Queen Bee. But in reality, it was just a dam that would have created a mud bog. The unauthorized project understandably has people upset—the people who spent years making this trail a reality.

After I took this photo, I shredded the whole thing. Rolled those four-foot logs into the weeds, chucked the rotten end ramps as far as I could throw them, and kicked away dirt to restore drainage into the downhill channel. Then I moved down the trail a short distance to photograph the next modified corner.

That’s when I heard a rider coming down the hill. And heard him ride by his shredded project and loudly yell “FUCK!” A minute later, we got to have a chat.

It turns out, he was just a young guy with time on his hands, and a desire to “improve” the trail by making it faster and more fun. He didn’t mean to dump on the efforts of others. He didn’t have any idea how much work went into building this new trail network. He didn’t know how unsustainable his work was—rotten logs make a pitiful base for a banked turn. He didn’t realize he was building dams that ruined drainage from professionally designed trails. But that's what he did.

He didn’t know that his hours of work were doomed to be dismantled by volunteers later this month if he doesn’t remove his damaging modifications. He does now.

By the end of the conversation, I had a hard time being mad at the guy. He meant well, but he didn’t have a clue about how to build or properly modify trails.

Most young guys like him don’t read the blogs of old guys like me, so this message may be futile, but if anyone who reads this happens to be the kind of person who wants to do a little freelance trail work, please, don’t.

At least not until you learn what you’re doing. And not until you ask permission.

Two ways are better than one

The new Singletrack Advocates trail network is tight, twisty, fun as hell, and allows riders to choose a variety of trail combinations to complete the “Grand Tour” of the network. But not everyone can easily comprehend the trail design, which was intended to use vegetation, sharp turns and uneven terrain to make riders slow down and ride with some skill instead of just balls-to-the-wall speed.

All the low-visibility corners have prompted grumbling from some riders that the trails should be one-way routes for improved safety. The way I see it, one-way trails might cut the risk of collisions, but they would also cut everyone’s options in half.

This situation reminds me of when I once worked for a big company with no limit on employee sick days. A tiny group of people abused this benefit, calling in sick at least once during every two week pay period—in other words, they were screwing The Man out of an extra month every year. When the bosses told everyone to be more careful about the use of sick time, it was the abusers who panicked and demanded to be told exactly how much sick time they were supposed to use.

In a rare moment of brilliant clarity for a corporate drone, The Big Cheese looked at these people in an open meeting and said, “You have the luxury of unlimited sick time. Do you really want me to restrict that to a firm number?”

It’s the same way with trails. Do you really want to sacrifice half of your options and ride only one way? Wouldn’t it be more fun if everyone used their heads and kept riding both ways?

Unfortunately, some mountain bikers are abusers of privilege. It’s just too tempting for them to bomb down trails while barely in control, or with their loose, out-of-control dogs running along. A careless rider and his dog nearly hit me last Wednesday night, and plenty of folks have had similar experiences.

I don’t mind rules, but I hate restrictive laws forced by the inability of people to handle loose ones. So, instead of imposing new rules to solve a simple problem, I offer this easy solution: Let’s all slow down, be safe and keep our two-way options open.

Ride under control. Watch for your fellow riders. Call out to approaching riders, or ring a bell so everyone can keep track of each other. Leave your dog at home, or take him to a wider trail with plenty of room and better sight lines. It’s safer, more respectful of other trail users, and just might save you an expensive vet bill.

And for cryin’ out loud, stop skidding into turns. That just shows bad manners and poor riding skills.

Fat Bike, the film

Carl Battreall, right, introduces "Fat Bike" at Chain Reaction.

Carl Battreall’s documentary Fat Bike is finally finished, and a small crowd was lucky enough to see it at a private screening tonight. It is, without a doubt, the finest documentary on Alaska winter mountain biking ever made.

OK, so that's a really short list. That just puts Fat Bike in elite company.

But seriously, it’s a very nicely done piece of work from a talented photographer moving into the realm of video. With Carl’s eye for imagery and sharp editing, and a fine soundtrack from local singer and songwriter Melissa Mitchell, it’s the kind of project I’m proud to see coming out of Alaska.

Fat Bike is already a finalist for the Boston Bike Film Festival coming up next month, and is being submitted to several other festivals across North America, including the International Bike Film Festival. It deserves to do well even if, as Carl said, part of the appeal will be for people to think Alaska winter riders are crazy.

The film, which was held to 26 minutes in length to have a chance on the festival circuit, touches on the history and evolution of fat bikes, and the passion and commitment behind winter riding.

Fat Bike will be available for download from Amazon.com in the next few weeks. Check it out. Trust me, it’ll be affordably priced. And for local riders eager to see it in a crowd, hang in there. A public screening now would disqualify the documentary from the Anchorage International Film Festival in December, so you’ll have to be patient. If it is screened during the festival—and it better be, in my opinion—Carl hopes winter riders will pedal to the screening en masse.

Sounds perfect.

International Incident

Jeff in Carson City was the first to round up a crowd for The Great Bicycle & Icicle Finger Series, and Anthony from Whitehorse, Yukon, was the first to take it international. But the Anchorage crew riding in Europe this month has raised the bar with a record number of people and nationalities represented.

From Refugio Monte Bianco we have a crowd of 23—count ’em 23—people flyin’ the bird high and proud. Brits, Welsh, Italians, Americans and French. And knowing the French, those guys probably meant it.

The Alaskans are there in the back row, encouraging the global community to personally insult me. Today’s post has a bonus picture of the Anchorage riders in the same area. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about them spending so much of their vacation flipping me off. There’s a disturbing amount of enthusiasm on display here, folks. (By the way, for those keeping track, Sunday's shot was from Mont Blanc.)

Meanwhile, those of us stuck spending Labor Day here at home were left to ride local trails instead of the Swiss Alps, so The Grouch, The Monkee and I spent the holiday afternoon goofing around on the new Singletrack Advocates trail network. And da Monkee seems to be ready for Moab. He was catching air all over the place, and he didn’t even break any bike parts. It was like he knew what he was doin’ or something.

I can’t wait to see him do this shit on the Snow Ho this winter:

Guess the location, win a prize*

In celebration of Labor Day, we have
a Fresh Fingers Shot from two riders
who put the "hard" in "hardly working."

*Smug satisfaction is a prize, right?

Confused

I’ve noticed an odd behavior among Anchorage cyclists. This comes a shock, I’m sure.

Each spring, everyone’s bouncing off the walls and trying to ride as soon as the outside temperature hits 40 degrees. They’ll risk gravel, flowing snowmelt and icy patches on the road just to get a cycling fix. They’ll drool over every false rumor of a dry trail. They’ll wear ear warmers, neoprene booties and three layers of clothing just to get out there on two wheels in poor conditions. I know, because I’m out there with them.

Then the first week of September arrives. The trails are firm and fast. The roads are the cleanest they’ll be all year. The temperature edges down toward 50—perfectly comfortable in tights and a light jacket—but the second the weather turns cloudy and looks like a few raindrops might fall, huge numbers of riders whither away and disappear into their houses. I know, because I suddenly have the trails mostly to myself on such weeknights.

So 50 degrees in early spring is cause for celebration, and 50 degrees in early fall is too cold?

I look at it this way: In two or three months, it'll be 50 degrees colder than it is right now.

So ride. Now.

Say “Swiss Cheese!”

Thanks to the modern miracle of the iPhone,
the Fabulous Finger Series has returned!
This shot was taken this very morning in Geneva,
where Queen Bee and AKdeluxe are improving
the image of all fine Americans by
flipping the bird in their vacation photos before
launching their mountain-bike assault on the Continent.

Strong work, you guys. Enjoy your rides.

Anticipation

I’ve always been best at getting things done under a looming deadline. Pressure sharpens my focus. That’s probably why a long list of bike maintenance chores have suddenly seemed important over the past few days. With Moab and Fruita only weeks away, my motivation has spiked.

I spent last Saturday afternoon repacking a rear hub, and installing brake pads and a new rear derailleur—with fresh cable housings, of course—on my trail bike. This came after a week of suddenly experimenting with the pressures and rebound settings on my shocks. I’m also developing a neurotic tendency to stare at the box holding my new front derailleur as I wrestle with the decision of whether to install it now, or stick with the old one that’s working just fine.

Weeklong trips in one of mountain biking’s meccas don’t happen every year, so I always want my bike to fit and work perfectly when I arrive in a place like Moab. That’s one of the reasons I always take my own ride, instead of renting. The weeks of obsessive tweaking as I fine-tune it are just part of the anticipation that makes a biking vacation fun.

Sometime in the next couple of weeks, I’ll throw on some new brake rotors and maybe a new bottom bracket, because now that I’m running out of time, that clicking sound I’ve ignored all summer is suddenly driving me batshit crazy.

The Verdict

My singlespeed trial is now several months old, and the jury (of me) has returned a verdict.

Last winter, I converted my ’96 Stumpjumper to a singlespeed because its old drivetrain was pretty much worn out and I figured it was a good time to find out what the SS believers were all excited about. And it has been nice having a one-gear in the mix.

So am I a convert? Hell no. My commute is short and pretty flat, so it’s suited to a single gear. And there’s a certain attraction to a bike that requires not even the slightest adjustment for weeks at a time. A little chain lube from now and then, and some air in the tires, and you’re golden.

But my defense of multi-geared bikes remains as strong as it has always been: As soon as hilly terrain comes into the picture, good derailleurs make life better, boys and girls, and they aren’t hard to maintain. There’s nothing so reassuring as dropping into the granny gear when things get steep. Technology can be our friend.

In the end, the SS vs. Gears debate comes down to the old truth that any well-built bike is a good bike. Which one is best depends on how and where you use it. Sticking exclusively with a rigid bike, or a suspended bike, or a geared bike or a singlespeed is just silly.

My singlespeed will stay. It has a future. But only as a commuter and town bike.

When rubber meets dirt, I’ll be twisting the Grip Shifts every time.

Rose to the occasion

I love the eccentric touches that make each bike an odd or unique extension of its owner. Sometimes it’s a goofy paint job. Or it can be weird accessories or unusual combinations of components.

Kathy, a somewhat recent convert to the fat-tire cult, likes girly touches, such as lots of pink. She had the frame bag on her Fatback custom made so she could have a pink one. Last weekend, she showed up for a ride on her summer trail bike with its front wheel festooned with little pink roses.

I thought that was cool. Because she’s the only person I know who goes to that much trouble to decorate spokes. And because it gave me an excuse to use the word “festooned.” With the week I’ve had, it’s the little thrills that count.

Up and Over

The target. Saturday's early morning view as the ride began.

Like most mountain bikers, I drive to trailheads more often than I pedal to them. So on Saturday, I decided to start my ride from home instead of a parking lot. The added bonus was that our group was riding over Powerline Pass, which meant I could look at the Chugach Range as I pedaled away from my house, and have the satisfaction of knowing I would be riding all the way over the horizon on the east side of town.

Sean and Chris head toward the pass as they
close in on a woman
who wasn't feeling gravity's love.

Think about that. To look at a mountain and know you’re going to ride up and over it—all of it—without driving up through the foothills or to some high-elevation trailhead. Riding across town, aiming uphill, then pedaling until you can drop down the other side and return to sea level somewhere else. No lifts, no cars. Just your legs and a grudge against gravity. Most of us should try it more often.

Sean pushes his singlespeed Karate Monkey
up the final approach to the pass.

It’s a nice way to remember that mountain bikes were made for riding up mountains, despite whatever you may hear from those lazy-ass downhillers.

The reward for a big climb: beauty

There’s no better way to earn your post-ride beer.

Sean heads down the back side.
Down there by the sea, cold beer waits.

Word of the Day

glasshole (noun): person who breaks glass items on
public paths, trails and/or sidewalks.

(I just make up words when it seems we need new ones.)

Same as it ever was

A local rider recently posted a forum link to this story on Chris Boardman’s idea of what bicycles will look like someday. But after 20 years riding mountain bikes, I've stopped paying much attention to "concept" bikes and the designers who claim to see the future.

Remember Alex Pong and his radical-but-doomed design for Cannondale 10 or 15 years ago? That bike (shown here) actually got on the cover of a couple of major magazines, and Pong told interviewers that it was on the verge of going into mass production.

Instead, it went nowhere. I think it disappeared like Jimmy Hoffa the day they rolled the prototype through the back door and slipped out of town after Interbike.

There's a good reason the bicycle has gone pretty much unchanged for 100 years, other than a few modifications to accommodate suspension: The fundamental design of a modern bicycle is so simple, functional and strong that it’s damn hard for anyone to improve on it. You might as well try redesigning the opposable thumb.

I understand that someone has to push the boundaries and dream up ideas. That’s where innovation comes from. And I don’t know how bikes will be built in another 20 or 30 years, but I’d be willing to bet most of the changes will be in materials and components.

The bikes themselves? They’ll probably look about like the ones we ride now.

Feelin' the burn

Lower portion of Crescent Lake Trail.

I was doing a rare solo ride on the Kenai Peninsula a couple of weeks ago when I crossed a little stream flowing over Crescent Lake Trail, then chose a bad line and planted the front wheel against a boulder.

I should have immediately unclipped but, as usual, I held for a couple of seconds to the hope of somehow getting over the rock. Predictably, I fell to the left and landed in a bunch of damp vegetation. With my head downhill and my legs still around my bike, I started the awkward process of trying to get up.

The spongy ground gave way when I pushed on it for leverage. The bike wouldn't budge because the pedal and handlebar were tangled in the thick stalks I still wasn't recognizing. Just as I started to wonder how in the hell I was going to get up, the burning started in my left leg and arm. Instantly, not getting up ceased to be an option. Whatever it was going to take, I wanted the hell out of there.

It was that Alaska summer ritual: A nasty encounter with cow parsnip. Call it pushki, hogweed, or whatever else you like, it's the Weed from Hell. It's juices contain a phototoxin that reacts with ultraviolet light and causes painful, blistering sores that can keep flaring up for weeks whenever your skin is exposed to the sun.

I thrashed my way back onto the trail and hurried to the tiny stream, where I splashed my legs and arms with as much fresh water as I could scoop up. Not that it did any good. The juices were already working their way into my skin. For the next few hours, my left leg—which took the brunt of the crash into the weeds—felt like it was plugged into a wall socket. A thorough wash when I got back to camp helped, and a tube of Cortizone cream kept most of the pain at bay for the next few days.

They say that American Indians used to have many uses for cow parsnip. They'd eat it, make dye from the roots, and turn the blooms into a mosquito repellent.

Personally, the only use I have for this crap is to keep a weed-wacker busy.

Yeah, he accepts tips

"Leonard's Table Dance"
McKinley Trail Cabin, 8/4/09

The ol’ blog’s been a bit neglected of late. I blame it on riding my bike … and not riding my bike. Last week was devoted to a ride to Childs Glacier outside Cordova. It began with beautiful weather and ended with wind, cold rain and a fistful of decongestants. Now the lingering crud—and work obligations—are chewing into my ride plans for this week.

On the upside, my to-do list of rides for this summer is growing short just as summer’s end is starting to creep in around the edges: Anchorage schools open next week, and it’s starting to actually get dark at night. I still need to scratch Lost Lake off the list, and I never made it up to the Valley to sample some trails that my old co-worker Steven keeps telling me about. (Don’t give up on me Steven. Maybe I’ll still pull it off before the snow flies.)

Alaskans know the end of summer is always bittersweet. We hate to see it end, but we’re too damned tired to keep it up. This summer’s end will be especially sweet, and especially exhausting, because we’re only weeks away from the Big Finale: Four days of riding in Moab, and three days in Fruita.

By the end of this vacation, I might need a vacation.

Weekend rides

I'm busy this week, so it's a photo-dump day.

Crescent Lake Trail, solo ride last Friday.
I'm always a sucker for these sections
of trail: thick trees, ferns covering the
ground, and trail so soft with spruce needles
that it's almost as quiet as rolling across carpet.

Devil's Pass Trail, last Saturday.
After months of riding on snow, you've
gotta love stream crossings on warm,
sunny days in the mountains.

Descending Devil's Pass last Saturday.
I've never been big on photographing flowers,
but the fireweed is fantastic this year: rich
color, and patches of blooms all over the mountains.
Some credit the ash from Mount Redoubt's
recent eruption.
As for why, I don't know, and I don't care.
I just like riding through fields of the stuff
on a mountain bike.

My other ride ...

Knowing that I have a thing for stickers, Greg Matyas recently surprised me with a few when I stopped by Speedway Cycles. My favorite was this one from Handlebar Sandwich.

I thought it would look perfect on my black-and-white Epic, but my wife gave me one of those looks that said, "Uh ... bad idea."

Then my friend Heather came up with a bunch of B.S. about how a sticker like this isn't funny on a guy's bike, but how it would be hilarious on her bike. I'm still not quite sure how she talked me out of it, but I have to admit it does look pretty good on her Santa Cruz Blur.

While H's bike was hanging off the back of her car at a Soggy Bottom checkpoint last Saturday, a woman walked by with her kid, saw the sticker, and said she didn't much care for it.

Unfortunately, we never found out if her son thought it was funny.

Soggy weekend

Jules on the trail.
(Great photo from JQPublic at akspokes.com)

Congrats to Jules and Monkee for
strong performances in this weekend's
Soggy Bottom 100, and especially
for Monkee's sub-12-hour finish. I was
proud to crew for both of you.

And congrats to everyone who finished,
or quit with dignity and sanity intact.
And everyone who simply got out alive.

Unicorn Safari

After the little firestorm stirred up last week by my rant about a traffic roundabout on my commuting route—and the attention it got from a link on the Anchorage Daily News site—friends are starting to ask if it’s still safe to ride with me. I think my new rapper name should be Notorious T.

To anyone offended by the language or comments in that post, I offer a sincere and heartfelt “Boofuckinghoo.” The bike riders who regularly read this blog understood where I was coming from. The bike haters who posted comments such as “How can a bike be a vehicle if it doesn't have a motor?” well, they’ll probably never get it.

But to all who posted online comments of support—Jules, Jordy, Fish, Heather, Rose, Monkee and all the others—thank you. I was already scheduled to flee civilization, such as it is, for a couple of nights in the woods, but it was great to return home and catch up on comments (especially the intelligent and positive ones) on various sites.

Unfortunately, rain and strong winds meant my bike never rolled an inch during the camping trip, but that’s OK. I’ll be back down south in a few days to bag a couple of rides, support Monkee and Jules in their solo assaults on the Soggy Bottom 100, and to drink a beer or three down at the Seaview Bar.

Rainbows and unicorns, baby. It’s all rainbows and unicorns.

Remembering Bobby Johnson

The Dutch Harbor Fisherman newspaper has a nice story by Van Williams about Bobby Johnson, the rider who died in the Fireweed 100.

It's all relative

"Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving."
—Albert Einstein

"Well, unless you're really good at track stands."
—Me

Fat Bike

The long-awaited Fat Bike documentary from Carl Battreall is done, and will soon be available for downloading. In the mean time, check out the trailer to get a taste.

It's gonna be fun.

Deadly efficient

I start most days thinking that the engineers behind the C Street/O’Malley roundabout deserve a beating. Maybe two.

And before all the pro-roundabout people spout off, yeah, I’ve heard how wonderful they are in Europe, blah, blah, blah. They work great—for cars. But every morning I ride through this thing, and every morning I mutter evil things under my breath as I sigh with relief after crossing the eastbound lane.

I’ve talked to several road designers in recent years, and they’ve all said they strive to accommodate non-motorized transportation. But I’ve never met one who was a bike commuter, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never met one who wasn’t full of shit when talking to bicyclists. They design these things to move cars and trucks efficiently, and that’s all.

There are two ways to pass through a roundabout on a bike. First, you can merge with cars and pass through on the street. Not a bad option if you can sustain the speed. On my 36x16 singlespeed commuter, it seems marginally safer to use the second option (intended by the traffic engineers), which is to ride on the adjacent sidewalk and cross roads like a pedestrian—especially since this roundabout gets a lot of large trucks bouncing across the truck apron and spilling rocks.

Of course, traffic engineers—when they weren’t in the bathroom jerking off to Car and Driver magazine—decided roundabouts should route cyclists and pedestrians away from intersections, virtually blinding us to all approaching cars because they’re behind us as we set up to make a hard left across traffic after we’ve lost all momentum. Northbound riders crossing O’Malley have it worse, because a grove of trees makes it extra difficult to look over your right shoulder and see motorists dropping downhill on C Street (which was on your left until two seconds ago) and zooming into the chute that will carry them east—the same chute you have to cross.

Focus one second too long on those cars turning east at high speed, and you can miss other eastbound vehicles coming all the way through the roundabout from other angles. It’s a good way to get mashed into the grill of a sedan, as I almost did (again) this morning. I consider it extremely dangerous, and I practice the crossing every day.

This October, a new Target store is opening several hundred yards north of this intersection. Other big development along C Street is coming in the next few years. Motor vehicle traffic will be increasing. More kids from South Anchorage will start riding to the new stores for game cartridges, fast food, and whatever else comes along.

I’ll make my prediction now: Sometime in the next few years, a bicyclist is going to be maimed or killed while riding north along C Street and trying to cross the eastbound lane of O’Malley Road.

I don’t care how many traffic engineers tell me that roundabouts are safer for cyclists. This one is a disaster waiting to happen.

Satellite-free, and happy

My interest in GPS gizmos has come to an end. When I received this Garmin unit as a gift two or three years ago, it was a fun gadget. It put cool lines on a Google Earth map to show where I'd been. When I added a road bike to the mix, it allowed me to use one computer on two bikes, saving me some money in the process.

But that was about it. One advantage of Alaska's limited trail system is that a basic map does the job just fine. The Garmin was just a too-complicated way of tracking speed and mileage: Its battery always had to be charged, and every time I turned it on I had to wait a couple of minutes for it to start communicating with satellites.

Recently, the damned thing started turning itself off during rides. A firmware update helped, but only a little. It was still unreliable, and other Garmin owners told me they were experiencing the same problem.

So before today's trail ride, I pulled an old Cateye bike computer out of the pile of crap on my workbench, where it had been buried for two seasons during my flirtation with the high-tech toy. I mounted it on the bike, took it for a ride, and it performed flawlessly for five hours.

No muss, no fuss. Reliable as hell. I don't even have to turn it on—it wakes up when the wheel rolls. I'd already put a wireless Cateye on my road bike 10 days ago, and I love it.

Somewhere around here, I've got a box full of computer cables and other miscellaneous electronic junk. Soon as I find it, I'm throwing the Garmin in there, too.

From twisted minds ...

come twisted events, and twisted posters promoting them. Thus, Bicycles & Icicles proudly presents the work of bizarro mountain biker (and my former teammate in the 24 Hours of Kincaid) Rob G.

Calling the Soggy Bottom a 100-mile event is all part of Rio's diabolical plot, because it's at least 12 miles longer than that. It breaks hearts, minds, bodies and souls, and spits the survivors out of the mountains and deposits them at a tiny bar in a tiny town beside the sea. Unfortunately, some of them arrive after the bar has closed for the night. But that's OK, because many can't lift a beer by that point anyway.

Two weeks from today, I'm going down for this year's race, but will likely restrict my involvement to the sane act of providing support for Jules and the Monkee, who are both riding solo.

If they're lucky, they'll punch through the wall and see rainbows and unicorns on the other side.

Fireweed Fingers

Huber sneaks a couple in.

Yeah, you've gotta look closely to see 'em.

Monkee's morning after.

Fireweed: The Good and the Tragic

Team Muschi Schmerzen had a great day in this year’s Fireweed race. With all four members returning from last year’s race, we actually bothered to read the rules and give strategy some thought, so we shaved about half an hour off our previous time in the mixed four-person relay division of the 200-mile event, and placed 5th among 44 teams.

The weather was good, we had no serious mechanicals, and our driver—my wife, Jacque—always managed to get us to the next exchange on time while dodging sluggish RVs and indecisive team drivers. My cool teammates even staggered their rides to set me up for the final stretch up to Thompson Pass, and the long descent down the other side. If it hadn’t been for that damned headwind, I might have been able to cook up some real downhill speed like Huber did last year.

Spending nearly 10 hours jumping in and out of a car, shuffling a rack full of bikes, and hammering through multiple five- to 10-mile relay legs has a way of creating all sorts of laughs, confusion and general mayhem I’ll remember all year. And that’s a very good thing. So thank you H, Monkee, Huber and Jacque.

Unfortunately, when I checked my voicemail after arriving in Valdez, we learned that the 100-mile race—which had started a few hours after we left Sheep Mountain Lodge—had been marred by a bad crash. Robert Johnson was descending from Eureka Summit when he fell, went under a guardrail and struck his head on a steel post. He was pronounced dead several hours later after a medevac flight to Anchorage.

A friend who rode up on the scene said that several riders went down, so a number of things could have happened. News reports so far have been pretty thin, probably because organizers are referring all media questions to the state troopers, who don’t seem to know much. The rest of us are left to wonder what went wrong. From what I remember, that stretch of the course was among the better sections of pavement, so the troopers’ “no apparent reason” story doesn’t exactly sound like the result of a thorough investigation.

Given that it occurred on an open highway during the state’s highest-profile bike race, the cause should be determined. Hopefully, everyone involved will figure out what happened, and then openly share the information. Because maybe it’s just me, but right now, it feels like race organizers are covering their asses with silence, and troopers sound only marginally interested in why a cyclist died.

I never met Robert Johnson, but I think he deserves better.

One side of ribs, no sauce

Back from the Fireweed and still
sorting out all the events in my mind.

Gotta say one thing about the Alaska boonies, though.
It's a great place to find a 100% natural bike rack.

Where's the fire?

"Where's the fire?" is the wrong question for a cop to ask if you get pulled over for speeding in Anchorage this week. The real question is, "Where isn't there fire?"

Wildfire season is in full swing, and the city's blanketed with smoke so thick we can't see the Chugach Range on the east side of town. The smell of smoke was so strong this afternoon that I half expected to see ash raining down.

And what could be better to do in a cloud of smoke than to hold a bike race and make everyone breathe hard? It's Fireweed time, bitchez. I've got fresh lube on the chain, a bucket of food ready for the team car, and a whole pile of shit I'm sure I'm forgetting to do before heading up to Sheep Mountain for the start.

I just hope I remember to pack the Chamois Butt'r, and that the folks in Valdez ice down the beer.

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?