Rooted

Leonard gets skinny on Speedway.
8.1.10

I've always been a summer guy. I have friends who prefer winter biking to summer biking and, though I get their point, I still like warm days, long hours of sunlight, and the feel of dirt under my tires.

But there are moments when I miss snow. Like when I knock a little dust off my Pugsley by taking it out for a summertime ride.

Or when I ride Speedway singletrack when it's dry.

Those roots will open a can of whupass on a guy. They did it to me on Sunday. There's nothin' like a nasty knot of roots to make you appreciate the smoothing effects of a few inches of snow.

For now, I'll cling to summer as long as I can. And when the snow flies this fall, I'll cheer myself up by remembering how it's burying those wheel-grabbing buggers.

Soggy end to the dry spell

The blog has been in a coma lately. This wasn't helped by a multi-day, non-biking trip out of town. Come to think of it, I'm having a little trouble remembering the last time I went on a real ride. I think it was ... oh, yeah, a freakin' week ago. No wonder I'm gettin' grumpy. Good thing I plan to remedy that situation on Sunday morning.

I returned home the other day and found this photo from Jules, who has been ripping her legs off preparing for this year's Soggy Bottom 100. She felt like flipping the bird to the notorious Swan Lake section of the Resurrection Trail during last weekend's training ride. And I don't blame her.

The Soggy will be held next Saturday. It's one more reminder that summer is flying by. Time to get busy and ride.

Who knows? Maybe I'll start coming up with stuff to rant about on the blog. I hope so, because ranting about not riding just sucks.

Rovin' Rover's

The city is warning trail users—again—to avoid Rover’s Run because a remote camera captured images of a brown bear sow and her two-year-old triplets walking on the trail multiple times over the past week.

For about 30 years, people used Rover’s on a regular basis with no significant bear problems—just an occasional sighting. But since a bad summer two years ago, the municipality has treated Rover’s like a skid-row titty bar full of brawling biker gangs. Nevermind the fact that the bear responsible for a serious mauling was never seen or heard from again, and the most persistently troublesome bear was killed, bringing threatening bear encounters to a screeching halt before that notorious summer ended.

Between trail closures and frequent warnings, the city has terrified many runners and bike riders, thereby cutting human use of Rover’s Run during summer months to a small fraction of what it was prior to 2008. All along, critics of the city’s response have pointed out that if humans vacate the area, bears will feel free to move in, and become bolder about using the trail during daylight hours.

And now cameras are capturing daytime images of a virtual wagon train of brown bears cruising the trail as if they owned it. Coincidence? Maybe not.

Take another look at those three cubs in the picture. They’re two years old. For their entire lives, human use of Rover’s has been minimized. Now Mama’s teaching them they can cruise that area with impunity.

Think they’re going to go away?

Don’t bet on it.

Something’s Fishy

It was the usual Monday morning greeting at work. The receptionist asked about my weekend, and I said something about riding on the Kenai Peninsula. Her immediate response was, “Did you fish?”

This might be my biggest disconnect with many of my fellow Alaskans. For most of them—at least in this part of the state—the words “weekend” and “Kenai” mean fishing. To me, they mean mountain biking.

A similar exchange occurred one day last summer when I was out in the driveway getting the camper ready for a trip, and my next-door neighbor walked over and excitedly asked, “You going fishing?” And this is a neighbor who has watched me ride bicycles through all seasons for several years, but has never seen me carry a fishing rod to the car. Maybe she was just excited by the thought of me seeming normal, for a change.

I don’t mind a little fishing now and then, but it’s a low priority. It’s pretty sedentary. And it’s nowhere near as thrilling as zooming down a nice piece of singletrack.

Besides, I can buy salmon and halibut at the grocery store, if necessary.

But the grocery store doesn’t sell trail time.

The Bear

Resurrection Pass Trail, 7-17-10

With some rides, it's hard to determine what will be remembered the longest. Saturday's trip across Resurrection Pass was full of unusual elements like, heat; sun bright enough to burn our skin; unusually dry trail; a friend's severely disabled bike in the final quarter of the ride.

But, for me, the most memorable moment might be the bear. It crashed through the willows a few yards to my left, huffing and grunting as it—and I'm very happy to say this—found a way to run away from me instead of toward me. He was fast, brown and huge, and he did me a favor.

I'm often too quiet and complacent in serious bear country. I make too little noise and tend to forget about the risk of surprising a dangerous animal. A close encounter is a good reminder that I need to step it up a notch. Be louder. More aware.

Saturday's encounter happened so fast, it wasn't even very scary. It was later, in quieter moments, that it was easy to imagine what could have happened if the bear had chosen fight over flight.

And that wasn't much fun to think about.

Fireweed 400

Team Fancher at 30:54:02

Congratulations to all finishers of this weekend's Fireweed 400. My respect for the mental and physical hardness of such people could only grow from experiencing the race for my first time as a crew member.

Congratulations to Leonard Fancher, who overcame a difficult first day and rallied to actually gain speed over the final 200 miles and finish in 30 hours, 54 minutes, 2 seconds. Our team rolled out of the Valdez checkpoint at 4:20 a.m. full of worry about our ability to finish—but only because we had no way of knowing that Leonard would find new life on a rainy morning, and uncork a hell of a ride. Congrats, too, to my other friends among the elite group of survivors: Tony Berberich, Erik Christensen and "Broken Toe Joe" Pollock.

Thanks to Janice for her phone-and-text coaching consultations during the race, and to all the other crewing friends who made me smile when we saw each other on the road: Julie, Jill, Sean and, of course, Sarah, my partner on Team Fancher. With no bike-race experience of any kind, Sarah endured 39 sleepless hours with boundless energy and humor, and found ways to contribute that I had never imagined.

If Sarah's still available after she graduates from college next summer, I know a couple of racers who would be happy to put her to work.

Summertime mania

A friend who works in a bike shop told me last year that being employed at a shop doesn't really make sense for someone who rides. The problem is that summer is when you want to be on trails, but instead you're stuck in the shop, working.

The way things have been lately, it almost feels like the same thing applies to people who write bike blogs. The difference is, we don't have to show up for work. Well, not blog work, anyway.

The blog gets push aside when friends and trails call. Or bike maintenance is necessary. Or any of the other demands of "real life" get in the way. But this is also when photos and stories pile up ... some of which I could probably write about without getting punched in the kidneys by the people with whom I ride.

Come to think of it, only one of them hits me, but I'd like to keep the number from growing so I gots to sort this shit out.

Big gears, little brain

The pre-race flip off.
(Photo by Maura)

Quitting was about the only smart thing I did at last weekend’s 12-hour race. My goal was to ride from noon to midnight and determine how my mind and body would hold up in such an event. But at 7:30 p.m., with my knees throbbing in pain, I rolled up to the timer’s tent and said, “Check me in. I’m think I’m done.”

I spent the rest of the night blaming my creaky, aging knees, but that probably wasn’t fair. My creaky brain played a big role in ending my race early.

Exhibit A: About a half-hour before the start, during a casual conversation with friends, I set a goal of riding eight laps on the 11-mile course. This was a dumb mistake. I wasn’t fully familiar with the terrain, and setting such a goal was in direct conflict with my original plan to simply ride smart and see how far I could go.

Exhibit B: I forgot the meaning of “riding smart.” I always warm up slowly, so I felt good about keeping my first-lap pace in check. Plenty of riders passed me as they warmed up, and I was proud of myself for resisting the temptation to chase. But then I got stupid. After one lap, I started doing math—never a good idea, in my case—and calculating what kind of split times I’d need to rack up eight laps before midnight. I ramped up my pace to turn a faster second lap. Bad move.

I achieved the pace I wanted, but not the one I could sustain for 12 hours. Shortly before 6 p.m., I finished my fourth lap but knew it was time to adjust my goal. During my next lap, the goal became simple—stop doing damage.

As The Grouch later pointed out, the 24 Hours of Matanuska course contains a lot of hills that are very steep, yet short enough to tempt riders into powering over them with gear combinations that are too high. That’s hard on knees, and I pedaled right into the trap. Gearing down would have cost me the eight-lap goal, but so what? If I’d used my head, there’s a good chance my body would have held up for two more laps, which would have put me at a respectable seven.

Ultimately, though, the race answered a bigger question that has lingered in my mind since the depths of last winter: whether I should enter this year’s Soggy Bottom 100. With 7 hours and more than 50 miles behind me, the thought of riding another 50—even with good knees—held zero appeal.

I love doing the rides most mountain bikers call all-day epics. But for me, the line ends somewhere around six hours and 50 miles, depending on the terrain.

After that, it’s burger-and-beer time. And I’m OK with that.

24 Hours

I'll be spending the next few days eating ibuprofen and drying out rain-soaked camping gear as I sort through all the mental detritus of the 24 Hours of Matanuska. Being a guy who abandoned in pain after seven and a half hours, one of the things that’ll stick with me is the tenacity of some really tough racers. There were many, and I got pics of only a few:

Team Davis. With no competition remaining in the race by Sunday morning, they had their victory in the bag, and could have gone home for hot showers and sleep. Instead, they kept going out for laps on a course so slippery that even the best racers were reduced to pushing up the slimy hills. Their husband and dad, Mark, had fought off cramps for hours to rack up 10 laps in the 12-hour solo division Saturday night.

(Photo by Jill V.)

Tony B., who rang up 18 laps in the 24-hour solo division. I watched him roll out in the rain at 7:30 a.m. with a 26-inch wheel that had just been thrown on the back of his 29er as an emergency repair just to keep the thing rolling.

Jenny H. wanted 10 laps in the 12-hour solo division. She got them by cruising by the timer’s tent at 11:30 p.m. and going out for a final two hours of suffering. When she finished seconds after this photo was taken, she couldn’t even drink a beer. That’s what I call giving until it hurts.

The Grouch—and unofficial race mascot—who survived the 12-hour race on a fully rigid bike, but had the good sense to bring a spare, so he could cannibalize a front wheel after destroying the one he started with. (As odd as this blog already was, publishing a picture of a guy who wears a hockey mask and cannibalizes things might be a new level of strangeness.)

Petra proved she's a certifiable badass just by being there. Racing like one was just a bonus.

Kudos to everyone who rode. (Including the drunk dude who did it in flip-flops in the middle of the night.)

Franco Finger

I don't know if it's the wind or a digestive problem from that strange cuisine, but the French sure like to know their outhouses aren't going to lift off when the countdown reaches zero.

My man Leonard stopped at this heavily fortified privy in France for a flip-off photo last fall. At least I think that's why he stopped—I don't know what he had for breakfast.

While we're on the subject of thoughts that could cost you some sleep, I'm going to crew for Leonard as he solos the Fireweed 400 in about three weeks. Team Muschi Schmerzen is taking the year off after two campaigns in the 200 relay event, so I decided to get a front-row seat and watch what the real maniacs endure.

It should make every ride I do this year seem like a Sunday cruise. Who knows? Maybe I'll get flipped off a few times when Leonard gets irritable in the wee hours of what could be a 28- to 30-hour effort. Not that I'll still have the fine motor skills to operate a camera ...

One tenth

I was talking with someone today about Rover’s Run, and the bear-related incidents that have occurred on or near that trail over the past two ... well, now three, summers. She mentioned the often-discussed idea of of building an alternative trail that would be farther away from Campbell Creek and it’s tasty, bear-attracting salmon, and said she thinks some people at the municipality seem to favor this option.

That’s when I started talkin’ crazy and mentioned that if the city wants the trail farther from the creek, the city should pony up some money and fund the project. That’s not how things work in Anchorage, of course. If you want or need a new trail here, you have to spend a few years in public meetings begging for permission. You have to make sure the bike-hating Nordic ski community is happy. You have to raise a bunch of money to pay for the trail. Then, if you’re lucky, the city that would benefit from the project will grant you permission ... and you get to pay for a permit. Yeah, the city charges you a fee to build it a free trail.

As I walked back to my office today, I thought about my recent trip to Canada. As my friends and I rode multiple trails with Anthony—a local in Whitehorse, Yukon—the conversation was sprinkled with his mentions of when the city built this trail or that one, and how the city crew was constructing that fancy new mountain-bike bridge at the bottom of the gully.

Whitehorse is roughly one-tenth the size of Anchorage.

One day, we rode to a little skills park tucked away in the woods at the base of Grey Mountain. There were log bridges and teeter-totters cut from the local timber. We asked, who did this? His answer: the city of Whitehorse.

Back in town, there’s a formal, fenced skills park full of jumps, wall rides, and all sorts of tricky challenges that most of us will never attempt, much less master. (Ever try riding on a steel chain over a shallow pit? Me neither. And I can still say that.) Where’d the park come from? The city. Public funds were spent on a public recreation facility—for mountain bikers.

This happened in a city of 26,000 people in the freakin’ Yukon territory. A place with only two bike shops.

And what happens when a town invests in such things? Its residents have a blast riding their asses off, for one thing. And people like us travel there to ride. We spend money in the town’s stores and restaurants. People start bike-related tourism businesses like Boreale Mountain Biking (and then let Alaskans hang out in their yurts to drink margaritas, but never mind that right now).

We know to go there because such places get noticed. Word gets around in the bike world. The media covers the town as a destination that people should put on their travel lists. Hell, people in the United Kingdom read about Whitehorse in British newspapers and bike magazines.

Anchorage—Did I mention that it’s roughly ten times the size of Whitehorse?—could never do such things, of course. It’s not as if we have a huge, stunning blank slate of mountains at the edge of town, just waiting for trails to be built if the city and state ever decided to work together. It’s not as if we have hundreds of thousands of tourists passing through every year, and surely, none of them would want to bring bikes and have some real fun and get a little exercise while their relatives buy shitty souvenirs or go fishing.

It’s not as if we could tell the grumpy NIMBYs to shove it. It’s not as if we have the marketing power to sell our world-class terrain to the world. It's not as if we have thousands of hotel rooms ready and waiting for the bike riders who could easily get here from major airport hubs like Seattle, Salt Lake City and Minneapolis.

And it’s certainly not as if most of our municipal leaders have one-tenth the vision of the people who run Whitehorse.

For Jenna, Obama stays abreast

How much attention did you get from the police the last time you reported a bike being stolen?

Well, if you were Jenna Bush, the police would be investigating the break-in, searching for your bikes, and reporting the theft to both the White House and the Secret Service.

And you probably would have paid nothing for the bikes in the first place, since they came from Trek, the company that provided Daddy’s mountain bikes for free.

Best of Whitehorse: The Fingers

Last week's trip was another killer week of daily riding on new terrain with a fun group of friends. Of course, I can't shoot pics of friends without gettin' a few birds flipped my way. Here are the best of the week.

Jules sneaks in a last-second bird
before riding out of the frame.

Heather, the woman who started
this madness, lets me know how
she feels about efforts to photograph
her near-death experience on a bluff
above the Yukon River.

Ken, H and Anthony team up
for a late-night photo at our camp
in Whitehorse. The previous tenants
seem to have left a few beer bottles
laying around. We cleaned them up.

Next week, we'll have a previously unpublished
Finger Foto from the one and only akdeluxe,
standing next to France's most windproof outhouse.

Time for a sun dance

Jules kicks up a little dust in the Yukon.

“Man, I wish it would just open up and pour. This rain is just messin’ with us.”

I was talking to this guy on the phone Tuesday afternoon as a cold, depressing mist fell over Anchorage. He isn’t a mountain biker, so I knew it was pointless to explain why I hoped the weather wouldn’t get worse. We were on different frequencies: He wants his lawn to green up without the aid of a sprinkler, while I want the trails to stay dry.

Hell, the thirstier my lawn gets, the more time I can spend riding a bike instead of pushing a lawnmower. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a perfectly acceptable situation.

And the dry, interior climate of Whitehorse spoiled me last week. The trails were talcum-powder dry. I found myself riding too close behind the Bike Monkee one afternoon, and ended up hacking and coughing for 10 minutes. (And this time it was because of dust!)

When this week’s wet weather settled over Anchorage, my motivation took a dive. I couldn’t force myself out Tuesday evening, so I did what I detest—I rode a trainer in the garage.

Before any of my friends say it, I already know what that means: It’s time to toughen up, Buttercup.

Made in China

That young man on the left makes me proud to be an American ... and his uncle.

Yep, that incognito dude with the dark glasses actually shares some DNA with me, but he manages to overcome it. He also manages to come up with fine ideas like getting three friends to join him in a group flip-off on the city wall of Xi'an, China, during a recent trip I'm not allowed to describe in any detail, lest he end up in deep shit with educational authorities who may or may not have had anything to do his recent travel abroad—and who may lack the taste and humor to appreciate the beauty of the Finest Finger Gallery on the interwebs.

Maybe that's why he decided to dress like a G-Man on Secret Service Casual Friday. All the better to throw Mr. Hand off your trail if the excrement hits the air conditioning at Ridgemont High. And, just to make sure we keep it bike-related on this here bike blog, he threw in a photo of himself on the rig he rented for a ride around Xi'an.

The next time you find yourself on an ill-fitting rental, dear bike friends, just imagine what it feels like to be a six-foot-five dude on a bike built for the average Chinese commuter.

Stay tuned this week for the best flip-offs from a week in Whitehorse.

I scream, you scream ...

A week-long mountain bike trip at the start of the season serves two purposes. First, it builds some fitness and sharpens skills for the season that just arrived. Second, it reminds a guy of what he is, and what he isn't.

I'm an old XC guy. Give me some nice trail and a day to kill, and I can have a good time. Throw in a few moderate logs and small boulders to clean, and I can do something with it. Make the boulder piles the size of houses, and I tend to fade. Fast.

I have immense respect for riders who have the skills to pay the bills when the going gets tough, but I'm content with more modest challenges. Keep me close to the not-hideously-steep ground, and life is good.

I'll tell ya one thing, though. I never get tired of the frozen north, and the mountain bikers who ride it.

Same thing goes for the tasty ice cream in Carcross.

Wild times in Whitehorse

This is Anthony, Whitehorse's finest mountain bike ambassador, and his superdog, Starbuck. Two days into our five-day invasion of the Yukon, Anthony has led us on miles and miles of sweet Canadian singletrack—or about 10 hours' worth, at our speeds (he could cover it a bit faster).

Both rides started right behind his house. This guy knows the first rule of real estate: Location, location, location. This isn't his first appearance on this blog. And the way this week is going, it won't be his last.

So many trails, so many beers, so little time. This is turning into a shitty week for blogging, but an epic week for riding. Best of all, everyone's stayed out of the ER, so far.

FU BP

Here's a Fabulous Flip-off that might not be aimed at me. I think Rose might have another message in this photo, which was taken on the gas-free trip she's making through Wisconsin on her new Salsa Fargo.

Have a safe trip, Rose, and thanks for the pic!

Rockin' the North

Spotted today in downtown Whitehorse, Yukon.

Bicycles & Icicles is on the road for a little while. Last week was devoted to loading gear, gettin’ the house sitter safely ensconced in our abode with a big load of ammunition and dog food, and then gettin’ the hell outta Dodge.

Keep an eye on the blog for photos and updates over the next couple of weeks. For the first installment, we have photographic proof that, if you’re crafty enough, damn near anything you need can be fashioned from a roll of duct tape.

Where else but the Yukon will you find a duct-tape handlebar mount for an iPod and speakers?

The Yukon rocks.

C'mon baby, make it hurt so good

Like most people, I love a harmless fantasy now and then. A little daydream can provide much of the pleasure without any of the risk, devastation and pain. I often stare of into space with a smile on my face this time of year as my mind conjures up a multitude of decadent pleasures.

This is the period when I can imagine the ecstasy of slipping in and out of a warm, damp forest on a slinky little ribbon of singletrack while every inch of my body vibrates with excitement.

By July, of course, the fantasy will be over, as it always is. It’s the same every year—a joint aches for weeks or months after a crash. Or a thumb gets tweaked and reminds me every damn time I click up or down a gear. There always seems to be a scab healing (and itching) somewhere. Usually, the injuries are nothing major. Just nagging little things that grow a bit frustrating as the weeks go by.

After last fall’s trip to Moab and Fruita, my left elbow hurt on nearly every ride until the end of February. It’s only May, and the pain in my left hand is mostly gone, but I’ve already spent a month with two swollen fingers, and I’m just now regaining the ability to form a tight fist after taking a spill on the road bike.

Being a clumsy hack on a mountain bike means that May is about as pain-free as life is going to get. Shit’s gonna happen, and some of it’s gonna hurt.

And with a solo attempt in a 12-hour race coming up, that may be more true this year than ever before.

Casual Friday

Friday is officially Bike to Work Day. Hopefully, the streets and bike paths will be busy with loads of new bike commuters. It’s the one day when you can count on seeing a wide variety of people riding to work on all manner of bikes. Personally, I hope there's a lot of smooth-running beater bikes out there with smiling riders on them.

I changed my approach to bike commuting several years ago after reading a post by Patrick O’Grady over at Mad Dog Media. I can’t remember all the details, but Patrick basically suggested that everyone would be better off if we chucked the lycra and fancy jerseys, and started riding to work in casual shorts and Hawaiian shirts.

Bike commuters should set a good example, he wrote, by making the ride to work look like something anyone could enjoy. Dressing up like a bunch of wannabe racers and zipping around on exotic-looking bikes only serves to make bike commuting look alien to an outsider, so we should strive to look like average people doing a normal thing.

His logic was brilliant, and I adopted his philosophy as a daily habit. The bike I ride to work is old, dirty and practical, complete with fenders. My pants are cotton cargo shorts from Cabela’s—unfashionable, but loose and comfortable enough for short rides—paired with a common T-shirt when the weather allows. I’m also fond of coasting while casually carving big, slow slalom turns, because it’s fun. And looks it.

This whole approach is a win-win for me because, frankly, I’d look pretty stupid all gussied up in lycra shorts while pedaling a muddy old bike with fenders, slicks and a rack trunk. But I also like thinking that maybe—just maybe—a few drivers will see enough casual schlubs like me riding to work and one day think to themselves, “Hell, I could do that. ... Hmm.”

Have a great Bike to Work Day. I hope you’ll make it a casual Friday.

Mooseberry Madness

It’s always a good thing to run into EndoRando on the trail. It’s also good to run into him in a trailhead parking lot and hear him announce that he just shot a new Finger Photo.

Rando and a couple of his buddies were out soaking up Palmer’s powder-dry singletrack last Saturday when they created this fine piece of work at the entrance to Mooseberry Mesa.

Three happy guys, three nice bikes, and three flying fingers on dry trail in May—that’s some good stuff right there. Nice work, guys.

Random Commuting Tip

In recognition of Bike to Work Week, I’d like to offer helpful information: Hershey’s Special Dark Nuggets with almonds can be used as stabilizers to prevent shifting of cargo in transit, if you happen to be carrying a can of Progresso soup in an old Tupperware bowl.

You just can’t make this shit up.

It’s the little things, people.

Matanuska Thunder Struck

The myth is busted. For several years, I’ve scoffed at friends who said positive things about the riding at Kepler-Bradley State Park in Palmer. I’d tried it twice and found little more than voracious mosquitoes and wide, boring trails. I refused to believe the stories were true.

That changed on Saturday when I drove north with Jules and the Monkee after staying up until 1 a.m. the previous night as we built her new Salsa Dos Niner. They knew where the good stuff is, and damn, it was fun.

Finding dry Alaska singletrack in May is about as easy as finding a virgin in Vegas, so to get my mountain bike dirty a full two weeks early was sweet. And those nasty mosquitoes weren’t out yet.

EndoRando was in the parking lot after wrapping up his ride, which included the shooting of a fabulous new piece of fine art for the Fabulous Finger Gallery. I hooked him up with some stickers for his fat bikes, and his pic will show up on the blog later this week, so stay tuned, boys and girls, 'cause it’s dirt season!

Against the Wind

I have no idea what the guy said. The headwind was roaring in my ears, and my light jacket was flapping like a flag in a hurricane when I passed him on the C Street bike path.

He was spinning a small gear into the maw of Monday night’s wind tunnel, and I caught up to him only because I was mashing the shit out of my 36x16 and wondering what had ever possessed me to turn my commuter bike into a singlespeed.

We smiled at one another and I yelled something like, “This is insane!” He probably couldn’t hear me, despite us being only three feet apart. He smiled and yelled something back, so I nodded as if I understood, then kept inching ahead, slowly.

After getting home, I posted a comment about the headwind on Facebook, prompting my old friend Helen to reply: “There are things for situations like this. They're called cars.” In the ensuing exchange of comments, she pointed out that drivers can communicate easily in all situations—with their middle fingers.

I suddenly felt much better about fighting that bugger of a headwind, because Helen had reminded me of one of the greatest things about riding a bike.

When motorists are stuck in rush-hour gridlock, tempers flare and everyone gets angry. But when bike commuters find themselves in adverse conditions, they support each other with friendly waves and knowing smiles. Their shared suffering creates an unspoken bond.

Try finding something that cool the next time you’re on a freeway.

Limbo

The blog has been slow for the past week. Hell, it’s been in a coma. It’s not that bike things aren’t happening, they just haven’t been blog-friendly. It’s road-riding season while we wait for the trails to dry, and pavement’s just not the same.

I need dirt.

On dirt, riders scatter enough for me to get photos. On pavement, they tend to stay in tighter groups.

On dirt, riders get to laugh at each other’s falls. On pavement, falls always hurt, and laughing can get your ass kicked.

On dirt, you tend to swap stories when everyone stops to regroup. People talk about how they cleaned a boulder or slipped on a wet root. On the road, there’s not that much to talk about. “Did you pedal for the past half-hour? Hmm. Yeah, me too.” Fascinating stuff.

My mountain bike is spruced up and ready to go. New tires, bottom bracket, chain, cassette and crankset. It needs to be set free.

An escape is being planned. I just need to go over the wall before the guards toss my cell and discover the map.

Point Blank

Shut the fuck up.
Learn to buck up.
Shut the fuck up.
—“Nugget,” by Cake

Motorized vehicles tend to make little people feel larger and stronger than they really are. And I’m not just talking about those enormous pickups driven by frustrated men who are shorter than the average eighth-grader. Even a little SUV can make a soccer mom feel invincible, especially when she’s near a bicycle instead of a monster truck driven by a dwarf.

That’s why I always like watching a motorist’s gonads shrivel when his (or her) anonymity disappears as an angry bicyclist appears at his door after he parks. I’ve seen teenage boys and angry old men suddenly grow sheepish when confronted at point-blank range after they’ve harassed me on the road.

This morning, I heard the hostile voice of a woman as I pedaled north on an industrial side street: “THERE’S A BIKE PATH ON THE OTHER SIDE!” I looked back and saw a car—with the driver’s window rolled down—pulling onto a side street. Yeah, that’s ballsy. Yell at me as you’re turning off the road to disappear, you abomidable bitch.

The greatest thing about industrial areas is light early morning traffic. It allows quick U-turns. Let’s dance, baby.

I followed her into the parking lot where she works, rolled up to her window and asked what her problem was. “There’s a bike path right over there!” she angrily said.

No, I replied, that’s a small sidewalk on the wrong side of the road, and oh, by the way, do you know what Alaska law says about bicycles on streets?

“No.”

Well, as a licensed driver, you should.

“Look, I ride a bike too,” she said, growing timid. “I was just trying to be helpful. I get nervous when I see a bike on the street.” (There goes the right ovary.)

Well, maybe you shouldn’t be driving then, because what I was doing was safe and legal, and I really don’t appreciate people copping an attitude and yelling at me from their cars. I know what I’m doing, fuck you very much.

“Look, I just thought you should know there’s a bike path,” she replied while nervously starting to close her door and raise her window. “I thought maybe you hadn’t seen it. I didn’t have an ‘attitude’ and I didn’t mean to upset you.” (Aaaaaand there goes the left ovary.)

After I spouted a few more angry words and started to roll away, her boldness began to return as the distance between us increased.

“Have an awesome day!” she called out.

Too late.

Go (to hell) Speed Racer! Go!

My friend said a couple of co-workers were going to join us for a road ride. He didn’t say they were hammerheads. Hell, I don’t think he knew. But the pace was fast from the start, and I got caught up in the fun of speed, and the testosterone-induced insanity that makes a guy hang on to the front instead of using his head and dropping back.

By the time we reached the Coastal Trail, I had stopped thinking much about the speed, but the hammerheads still had the afterburners lit up and I was staying with them. Traffic was fairly light, and we scorched it from Kincaid Park all the way to downtown Anchorage. When we took a break at a coffee shop, I realized what I had become, for about half an hour, anyway: a roadie douchebag. We had no business riding that fast on a recreational trail, and we looked like assholes to everyone we passed. I felt embarrassed for days. Now that I think about it, I still feel bad, and that ride was two or three summers ago.

That’s why it stung this week when a local rider posted an open apology in an online forum. He regretted losing his temper and berating a road cyclist for going too fast and scaring the shit out of him on a recreational trail used by everyone from toddlers to senior citizens. He felt bad because he continued to yell after the other rider had apologized. He’s right to recognize that he could have chilled out faster, but I don’t think his anger was inappropriate.

This kind of thing comes up every spring when the fast bikes come out and riders get drunk on sunshine and speed, because this is also the time of year when more people walk on paved trails, or push strollers, or pedal their rarely used beach cruisers—the kind of uses for which paved trails are built. Riders who terrorize people by treating them like slalom gates deserve a nasty ass-chewing now and then. High-speed riders should stick to streets and highways.

If you’re a rider who likes going fast on paved trails, try this simple experiment: Go for a walk on one of those trails, and take a small kid, if you have one laying around the house. Or take an elderly neighbor or grandparent. When a bike whizzes by, you’ll probably realize just how narrow a six-foot-wide strip of asphalt can feel.

And maybe you’ll think that, on your next ride, you should slow the hell down.

VO2 FU

What I love most about the Phabulous Phinger Gallery is that I never know where the next picture will come from, or how weird it will be. They've been done in snow, sunshine, various states, foreign countries and even under water, but this is the first one from the torture chamber of a VO2 max test.

Erik's a rider from Palmer, and is, no doubt, a shitload faster than me if he's this concerned about his VO2 max. I'm just glad he was still able to express himself, and that he reads my blog. Thanks, Erik, and welcome to the rogue's gallery.

Turnagain fingers

Road season has begun. For me, this is the time of purgatory between snow biking and mountain biking. My road bike is mainly just a sanity saver for the times when I can’t ride trails. Still, even a road ride can be damn fun.

Saturday’s first ride of the season was the Arctic Bicycle Club’s annual Turnagain Arm Metric Century, a 66-mile ride from Anchorage to Girdwood, and back. The weather was perfect: Clear skies, little to no wind, and nice spring temps. It’s a shame that only 10 riders got in on the fun. (Though, even in a small crowd, I got The Finger a few times.)

The shoulders of the highway were amazingly clear for this time of year. Well, except for two-wheeled obstacles, one of which left me with a mangled front brake and two swollen fingers that guarantee this post will remain short.

But all’s well that ends well, and in the future I will follow my new rules of the road. I have been advised by both my attorney and my neuropsychologist that I am to keep my upper body out of the lane of traffic on the Seward Highway.

Sounds like good advice.

Headin' home after a tasty lunch in Girdwood.

Watch out, Danny MacAskill ...

... because Chris Akrigg is coming up behind you, and he's good.
Best of all, he rides singletrack. And has a dance move or two.

My brother sent me the link to this video last week,
but it took me a few days to get around to watching it.
I'm still not sure if these things make me happy
by entertaining me, or depress me
by reminding me how much I suck.

Will work for beer

Most years, I think of the spring bike swap as the official kickoff of the summer riding season. Unfortunately, I had a work-related obligation a couple of Saturdays ago and missed this year’s event. Luckily for me, Bicycle Commuters of Anchorage—a group that has never gotten its due credit on this blog—hosted a celebration and volunteer recruitment party tonight at Midnight Sun Brewing Company. It felt like a nice season opener.

These folks have led the charge for Anchorage commuters over the past two or three years, promoting bikes as a mode of transportation and working with elected officials to get a new bike plan passed by the Anchorage Assembly. An organized group to speak up for the rights and needs of bike commuters has been needed for a long time, so we’re lucky to have BCA getting the job done.

A bribe here and there can be an effective way to accomplish things, and BCA knows how to grease palms with just the right incentive. One little coupon for a free Oosik Amber Ale was enough to get me to sign on the dotted line as a volunteer for an upcoming event. (Who knows what I would have agreed to if I'd had the Panty Peeler.) I’ll be a valet parking bikes May 1 at the Bike to Work Fashion Show and Festival at the University Center.

I didn’t tell them my role models are the parking garage attendants who took Daddy’s rare sports car for a joy ride in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I’ll be hoping for someone to put a nice new Pinarello in my hands before wandering off to check out attractions.

Trust me, everything will be fine. What? That little scratch? Uh, I’m pretty sure that was there when you gave us the bike, sir.

Bike guy

After years of simply being a bike geek, it’s nice to know that riding to work year-round can buy a guy a little athletic credibility, even if it’s undeserved.

People in the building where I work have been organizing a summer softball team. After sending a mass e-mail to everyone in the joint, one of the women behind this project called me personally to ask if I planned to play. I politely declined, while withholding my low opinion of a game that progresses at a glacial pace, is excruciatingly boring to watch, and often involves people wearing funny pants. (As a mountain biker, the last thing I need is another sport that’s boring to watch and involves people wearing funny pants.)

I was chatting with this same woman a few days ago when she laughed and informed me that a number of people on the floor below mine had been asking “if the bike guy is going to play.” Given they don’t know my name, and therefore couldn’t be interested in my charming personality, I suspect they believe that someone who rides so much is sufficiently athletic to get past first base. (Which, come to think of it, is sort of the same lie I told myself in high school.)

Unfortunately, I’m about as skilled at any form of baseball as I am at open-heart surgery. Which is to say that if I end up on a team, things are going to get ugly and people are going to regret letting me be involved.

I appreciate the invitation, but I’ll let everyone else spend the summer playing with their balls. We'll all be better off if I simply remain “the bike guy.”

Finger flash

The thing I love about these shots of big groups flipping the bird is that there always seems to be a couple of people who aren’t really sure what the hell is going on.

See those three women on the far left? They had no idea why they were being rounded up in a dark parking lot to flip off some strange guy with a camera. Kudos to their bold friend for diving—finger first—right into the madness.

And thanks to the Smithville crew for letting me hang out and share a couple of beers after their Wednesday evening ride on a meteoric night.

Considering how many kilts were in this crowd, I'm just glad the meteor was the only big flash that occurred.

Takin’ it up the icicle

I’d like to apologize to the person from France who Googled “icicle in her ass” and ended up on my “If I may butt in …” post. Something tells me I failed to provide what the Googler was seeking. Winter bikers are a hardy lot, but there are some things up with which we will not put.

I don’t know what kind of kinky stuff those cheese-eatin’ surrender monkeys are into, but frozen rectal probes are not likely to appear here unless one of my friends accidentally gets impaled in the posterior—in which case, I confess, photographs might be taken from a zone beyond punching distance while we’re waiting for the ambulance to arrive.

At that point I might have to change the name of this here blog to Bicycles & Assicles. Which is probably what it’s called in Alabama already.

Cracking up

Ah, spring commuting in Anchorage.
Gravel everywhere, snowmelt coating
bike frames with muddy slop,
and the sound of studs clattering
on dry pavement.

Studded tires are slow and heavy,
and grinding hundred-dollar studs
against the pavement is annoying,
but I've learned to resist the
temptation to remove them early.

Because a path that looks like
this for several days ...


Can suddenly look like this ...


Then, of course, we have
those pesky little cracks that open up
in thin pavement of bike paths.
And by "little," I mean
freakin' huge.

Steer carefully, people.
And try to stay upright.

Boutique vs. basic

Not having the coolest components on your bike can feel a little like being a teenager who spends the weekend with a glue gun and science-fair project while the guys from school are winning football games and making out with cheerleaders. At least that’s what I think it feels like. I never actually had the brains or motivation to compete in a science fair.

I often feel twinges of lust when I catch a glimpse of someone else’s fancy bike bling, especially if it’s a shiny bit that I’ve coveted for years. Chris King’s components fall into that category. I’ve never experienced the rite of passage that involves pressing those boutique-brand headset cups into a bike frame.

Some friends would never lower themselves to using a lesser brand. They’d accuse me of being a cheap bastard—after all, a fancy headset costs something like $125. Not that much in the big picture, considering that most of us own a few thousand dollars worth of bike gear. But that’s still a lot of bucks for a basic part. I blame my perspective on a sound sense of frugality.

Even with my meager math skills, I can figure out that for the price of a Chris King headset, I could buy two from Cane Creek and still have enough money left over to buy a case of decent beer. When you’re building up a new bike, that price difference covers another component or two. And when you really get down to it, how good does a headset have to be? All it has to do is turn a little left, then a little right, then a little left … over and over. With decent construction, proper adjustment and sealed bearings, most of my cheaper headsets work flawlessly for years without requiring any attention.

Over the past 20 years, I think the only headset I ever managed to “wear out” was the one on my old Stumpjumper when the bike was clamped to my roof rack as I drove into the garage and damn near ripped the steerer tube clean out of the fork crown. The bearings got pressed into the races like bite marks. I doubt that a Chris King model would have fared any better—it just would have cost more to replace.

I still want one, but don’t expect to see one on any of my bikes any time soon.

Don't hurry, be happy

I love slow rides. Many of my friends are lighter and faster than me, so even our “mellow” rides are still at what I think of as a brisk pace, and I love those, too. Sometimes, I end up with a group that that makes me work hard just to stay on the back. I even like those rides.

But there’s nothing like going out alone with the sole purpose of riding easy to rest weary legs, or to do some deep thinking, or just to take long breaks and enjoy the woods.

That’s what I did one day about a week ago. I had both tired legs and some thinking to do, so I took two and a half hours to do what could have easily been a 90-minute ride. I ate some snacks, took a bunch of pictures, and stared into a hole in the ice as a creek gurgled past beneath my feet.

At one point, I stopped in the woods to shoot a few pictures, and a local racer cranked by wearing his team kit. He looked a little baffled to see me just hanging out in the forest.

I’ve known people who focused so much on “training” that they forgot to ride for fun.

Frankly, I’d rather be slow.