Mr. Johnson's The Man

In a crowd of mountain bikers, everyone has an opinion about everything related to bikes. The guy I always listen to is Mr. Johnson.

Let’s say you’re choosing a new bike, and you’re wondering if it’s too large. Mr. Johnson won’t steer you wrong. If he says you want more top-tube clearance, he knows what he’s talking about. Get a smaller frame.

Or maybe Mr. Johnson tells you that your saddle needs to be adjusted. Maybe the nose is too high. Again, Mr. Johnson is always right. And he’s a sensitive guy. You don’t want to hurt Mr. Johnson, so make him happy and adjust that flippin’ saddle. You’ll be glad you did it, and so will Mr. Johnson.

So when Mr. Johnson told me the other day that it was time to shorten the steerer tube on my Pugsley’s fork, I trusted him. I know his only bike-related interest is enjoying many more happy rides together, and he’s trying to take care of me.

I cut the steerer a bit back when I first built the Pugs, but I left it fairly long to allow later adjustments. Then, procrastination set in. But when I was pulling myself off the ground after a minor crash the other day, Mr. Johnson said, “Dude, seriously! Chop that shit already!”

I thought about it, and decided that a few minutes of work in the garage was the least I could do for a guy like Mr. Johnson. Because—and I’m not at all embarrassed to say this—I love Mr. Johnson.

The next time he sees that steerer tube, I really hope Mr. Johnson will feel good about the changes I've made.

Digital Divas

Holy friggin' flip-offs, boys and girls, business is booming in the Fabulous Finger Gallery! With three great new photos in my inbox, I figured it's time for an All-finger Day here at Bicycles & Icicles. Before we begin, let's pause for a moment of silence in recognition of the woman who helped start it all nearly three years ago ... my good friend Heather.

Heather's so proud of her role in this fine use of the Internet that I think she lists it on her resume, as well she should. And with that formality behind us, let's get to the goodies:

Today's first shot comes from Miner's Rock in Lake Leatherwood, Arkansas, courtesy of my brother Matt and his Midwestern crew during their recent trip into the Ozarks. Their rides included places like Slaughter Pen Hollow. In other words, you might not want to ask too many questions.

And next we have the first of two pics from the White Rim Trail. This one's courtesy of Mountain Bike Anchorage author Rose Austin, who recently completed her usual fall tour of great riding destinations in the Southwest. Welcome back to the land of ice, Rose.

And last today—but far from least—we have the pleasure of a whole bevy of mountain-biking babes lettin' the birds fly during their White Rim ride. It's Anchorage's own Dirt Divas on tour. Divas, a desert sunset and Fat Tire ale ... damn good combination, if you ask me.

Well, it's a start

Jules cruises down icy Rover's Run on Sunday
while wearing a jacket she thoughtfully
coordinated with the colors on my new blog format.

Get the fat bikes out. It took until November 1, but there’s finally some snow on the ground. It’s wet crud mixed with rain but it’s here, it’s white and it’s covering the icy ruts and tire tracks that made Rover’s so dicey on Sunday.

The first snowfall of the season always snarls the morning car commute, but I’m lucky enough to be on vacation this week, so I slept late, ate a big breakfast and hit the Hillside on my Pugsley today. I got so many first tracks that I had trouble finding the trail a few times, and ended up taking wrong turns and riding sections I hadn’t expected—and that was part of the fun.

The sun even came out, but that’s not necessarily a good thing this early in the season. With temps in the mid-30s, it didn’t take long for the “rain shower” to start as snowmelt dripped off trees.

With more snow in the forecast, let’s hope the temperatures drop and help the trails set up.

Let the fat tires roll.

Cross-dressing scavengers

Fabulous Fingers from the costume finalists.

When you’re walking out of a gay bar to get back on your bike, and a large lesbian laughs and says, “You’ve got balls!” you know you’re having a hell of a Saturday night.

It’s also a sign that another Frigid Bits season is under way, and this year kicked off with the usual Halloween scavenger-hunt ride. Not that there’s anything “usual” about it, especially when the costume theme is drag, and you get sent to Mad Myrna’s for a drink. I was glad to leave after one round, because I was starting to notice some impressive cleavage and I wasn’t sure all of it was on women.

Speaking of partial nudity, there was less of it around the post-ride fire this year, but not by a long shot. The guy who flashed the most skin with a corset and fishnet stockings scored the grand prize of a set of mountain bike wheels. And it was well-deserved, considering the temperature was below freezing.

Best of all, the soon-to-be-famous Frigid Bits Burn Barrel was glowing hot, and the post-ride beer was good and cold. It’s always good to see the winter biking crowd reunited around the shrine.

Keep the firewood ready, and let winter begin.

Just in time

Fat bikes and ice. Powerline Valley.

Sometimes, a good day comes along just when you need it. After a long spell of taking it easy while some stitches healed, I finally hit some dirt with friends. A fun ride, sunshine, and a tasty meal with cold beer at Midnight Sun afterward.

The memory just might be enough to keep me sane during the next few days of airports and conference rooms.

It's always good to remember there's a bike waiting at the end. Because I just wanna ride my bike and not be hassled by The Man.

Freakin' you baby

OK, maybe zip ties and duct tape aren't necessarily the best way to permanently attach accessories to a bicycle, but they usually work pretty damn well. Especially if you take the preventive measure of periodically replacing the zip ties before they become brittle from dry rot.

I don't always do that.

That's why I felt a little resistance and heard a buzzing sound coming from my rear wheel about a block and a half from my house this morning. My old Stumpjumper lacks fender mounts, so mine is, well ... let's just say "creatively" attached to the frame. A zip tie had gone tits-up on me, and I wasn't carrying a spare, so it was time to turn around and head back to the garage.

Times like this are when I love being the only person who services my bikes. There's nothing like building and caring for your own machine, because it means you know all its eccentricities and the funky shit you did to set it up. Well, that's if you did any funky shit to set it up. I don't cut corners on the road bike that does high-speed descents, or the mountain bike that carries me into the middle of nowhere, but my commuter is another matter.

The old Stumpy used to see some action. It's been on singletrack in multiple states from New Mexico to Alaska, but its current form is pure function. It's urban, ugly and utilitarian. I think it's fun to have at least one bike I don't have to be picky about. I can keep repairs quick and cheap, and still end up with a pretty reliable bike. And a simple one.

This morning, I rode back to the garage carefully to avoid destroying anything, then did some quick surgery with a zip tie, crescent wrench and wire cutters, and was rolling out the door about two minutes later. I couldn't have done that if someone else had rigged up my fenders, because I wouldn't have immediately understood where the fender mount had to be positioned, or why the fender was out of alignment after the new zip tie was installed, and how I could adjust the alignment with a wrench in just a few seconds.

That bike's a goofy lookin' freak, but it's my goofy lookin' freak.

Famous Fingers

Leave it to Janice to soften my pain of being stuck in Anchorage during freeze-up. Instead of flying south to ride in the desert like I did last October, I've been sitting at home with a mouthful of stitches and waiting for the first snowflakes of the year while friends jet off to Arizona, Colorado and Utah for some prime autumn riding.

But then Janice bags a damn fine addition to the Finger Gallery while riding with Selene Yeager—Bicycling magazine's "Fit Chick" columnist—during a coaching conference in Colorado Springs. Damn strong work, Queen Bee. And thanks to Selene for the celebrity flip-off.

I also want to offer big congratulations to Anchorage's hometown girl Petra Davis, a freshman racing for Montana State University-Bozeman, who placed seventh in today's Division 2 cross country event at the Collegiate Mountain Bike National Championships in Truckee, Calif.

It's nice to see her carry her streak of badassery into her college racing career. Nice job, Petra.

Lost bet

When I scheduled oral surgery for last Wednesday, I was betting on two things this weekend: 1) cold, and 2) rain falling sideways. It's early October, for shit's sake. It seemed like a decent gamble. I lost.

So while sun filled a brilliant blue sky on a perfect autumn weekend, I tramped around my house with a mouthful of stitches, eating soft food, watching movies and scanning Facebook for pictures of all the fun other people were having. I can't really complain, I guess. Everybody's got to miss a great weekend now and then. I'll make up for it later.

In the mean time, I got two new Fabulous Finger Fotos this weekend:

The first is from from my roadie friend, Angela.
She gets points for the hands-free, double-finger approach.

The second is from the Bike Monkee, who had fun
trashing himself up in the high country
while I was riding the recliner.
(I also see he's rockin' a sweet new
carbon handlebar that I don't recognize.)

Here's to hoping the trails are frozen and firm next weekend, when the doctor's "don't break a sweat" orders will be expired.

Nothin' but a Hound, dawg

I’ve been bike shopping online for the past few days. Correction: I’ve been bike ogling online for the past few days, because that’s the closest thing to shopping I can afford right now.

Since a trip to New Zealand two years ago, I’ve been trying to figure how avoid being stuck without a bike on nonbiking vacations with my family, or short work-related trips. Everybody wins when I get to ride because, after a few days without pedaling, I get a tad difficult to live with. But hauling a big-ass bike crate isn’t always practical—especially when riding days will be rare, or cargo space is limited in a rental car.

Friends have encouraged me to preserve my dignity and manhood by getting a real bike with S&S couplers; something like a Surly Travelers Check. Folders, they say, are just too nerdy, and don’t handle as well as full-size bikes. I would agree, if not for the wonderful attraction of something that folds into a really small package.

I love the idea of a bike that will fit into a car trunk with a couple of suitcases, or be carried through a hotel lobby without attracting unwanted attention from The Man.

And therein lies my attraction to the Smooth Hound from Dahon. It's portable as hell, yet it actually has a frame that looks like a real bike, instead of just a single tube leading to the headset. It has a mustache bar and a Brooks saddle. In other words, it’s a geek bike with some style.

It’s no replacement for a full-on road or mountain bike, but when faced with the option of an evening of hotel-room cable TV, or a two-hour cruise through a strange city, I’d prefer to try being a bike geek with a little style.

In a New York State of mind

How could anyone have expected the words "New York" and "middle fingers" to appear in the same sentence? OK, pretty much everybody expected that.

But thanks, anyway, to the Saratoga Mountain Bike Association for today's addition to the Fabulous Finger Gallery, and a fine display of universal sign language from upstate New York.

SMBA kicks ass.

Digital Carnage

Recently, I’ve noticed more friends sharing ah-inspiring pictures from their mountain bike rides. And I do mean ah-inspiring. As in, “Ah, shit! Why did I have to see that?”

My friend Carrie in Wyoming recently got on Facebook and posted this picture of her boyfriend’s fresh stitches, and you can thank me for not posting the photo of the cut before it was sewn up. Seriously. It may not look that big, but I think you could have screamed into that deep crevasse and heard an echo. I mean, you could have dropped shit in there and lost it.

He went riding again the next weekend and did a faceplant, fracturing his orbital socket. Carrie got good pics of that, too, which bolstered my respect for her in a way that I found a little disturbing.

Earlier this summer, one of my nephews posted photos of a buddy’s forearm, which got slashed open so wide that it looked like the Grand Canyon of Gore. I couldn’t stand to look at it. So I went back to it several times and averted my eyes. When I showed the picture to my wife and one of her fellow nurses, they curiously moved their faces closer to the screen and calmly said, “Yup. That looks like bone all right.”

Not that many years ago, you could go on a group ride and there wouldn’t be a camera in anyone’s pack. Today, you get three or more riders and it’s likely that at least one will be carrying a digital point-and-shoot. (If I’m in the group, you can pretty much count on it.)

On the upside, you’ll sometimes end up with a photo that makes you look good. On the downside, your crashes—and the resulting carnage—might be shared with the world. Or at least your little social-network sliver of it.

Ride carefully. Try to keep your insides from showing.

But if they do make an appearance, could you turn toward the good light and hold still? This will take only a second ...

Mr. Skin

Every bike commuter knows the usual suspects along the daily route to work: the “racers” who don’t want to be passed; the people who insist on being halfway through each intersection before the light actually turns green; the people who ride for a week or two at the beginning of each summer and then are never seen again. There’s a variety of bike-commuter stereotypes.

Today, I pay tribute to Mr. Skin.

No, not that Mr. Skin. (In case you missed the movie "Knocked Up," that link is NSFW.) I’m talking about those guys—and it’s pretty much always the male riders—who seem to think a bicycle can’t be ridden without exposed arms and legs. They’re the guys you see cruising to and from work looking underdressed after most of us have started wearing jackets, tights, ear warmers and full-fingered gloves.

When I’m wearing wool socks and have my jacket zipped up, and I’m cursing myself for having left my arm warmers at home, I have a hard time believing the guy in shorts and a T-shirt isn’t freezing his ass off.

Can these guys not afford decent clothing? Are they suffering from the same arrested development that makes high-school kids refuse to wear coats in 5-degree weather? Do these riders have some natural resistance to cold?

Not bloody likely. At 40 degrees, if you’re riding 15 mph, the wind chill makes it feel like 32 degrees. That’s the freezing point of water and, if I recall the details from biology class, water makes up some really freakin’ huge portion of the human body. That means 32 degrees feels cold on exposed skin.

But keep up the tough image, Mr. Skin. Keep flexin’ those exposed muscles as you pedal through the falling leaves in the autumn air. The rest of us will pretend not to see the goosebumps.

But I'm still gonna laugh a little after riding by going the other direction.

Autumnal Sunshine

"I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as
autumnal sunshine by staying in the house."
—Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Hangover

Isn't it strange how some of the hardest rides are the ones we remember as being some of the best? When Leonard and I got back to the car Wednesday evening more than eight hours after we left it, we had run out of tubes, patches and water, and the sky was growing dark.

Most everything—including my legs—was depleted. My back ached and my knees were sore. We needed a hot meal, and we were still facing a 125-mile drive back to Anchorage. Home felt far away. My office, where I needed to be in 12 hours, felt much too near.

Tonight, there’s a small pile of filthy clothes in my garage floor, right next to the Camelbak full of food wrappers and miscellaneous trash. Cleaning it up will, as usual, be simultaneously disgusting and fun. The aftermath of a good ride is like that of a good party. You might use a long stick to pick up a malodorous pair of pants, but you’ll smile at the memory of what happened to them.

Sometimes, it’s tempting to swear I’ll never return to a trail that ripped my legs off and beat me over the head with them, but that’s like crawling out of bed on Sunday morning and vowing to never drink again.

A few days later, the bottle will be opened again. That stuff just tastes too damn good.

The Best of Fall

Clear, sun-filled skies in the middle of September mean it’s time for a ride along the shore of Eklutna Lake. It’s a 26-mile roundtrip with about 30 feet of almost-a-little-technical terrain, and not a single hard climb.

But it’s a ideal spot for an mellow cruise in beautiful country just outside Anchorage, even if you happen to be riding with people who seem to take just a little too much pleasure in flipping you off every chance they get.

The forecast looks good for the second straight week.

Play hooky.

The Golden Rule

I try to not let irritating things stick in my craw and drive me nuts. Really, I do. But sometimes, jackassery haunts me.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve found myself in several conversations about riders in this year’s Soggy Bottom 100 who tossed their energy-gel wrappers on the trail. Not on a closed course with a cleanup crew, but in a freakin’ national forest.

There’s never a good reason for throwing your trash on the ground while passing over a trail on public land. Only a dick would do such a thing. So if the offending rider or riders—I’m really hoping it wasn’t more than one or two—happens to be reading this blog, yeah dude, I’m callin’ you a dick. Very specifically you. You make mountain bikers look bad.

Some riders take themselves way too seriously. I mean really, what did you think, you were in some sort of major event with a staff of people who would come along behind you and pick up your shit?

It ain’t the Tour de France. It’s a grassroots event on beautiful public land, against other local riders. I don’t care what kind of bike you ride, what kind of kit you wear, how elite you think you are, or whether you pay some coach to make you a few seconds faster so that you can occasionally beat the same friends you race every stinking week. Tossing your wrappers on the trail is a shitty and childish thing to do.

In the future, try to follow The Golden Rule: Don’t be a dick.

Sunshine and Glassholes

At last. After weeks—OK, months—of cloudy weather, a high-pressure system has finally parked its fat ass over Southcentral Alaska. That means the skies are nearly cloudless. Even the temperatures are unusually warm for September.

It also means that everyone's scrambling for some fun in the sun, so every convertible has its top down, every patch of grass seems to have people relaxing on it, and bike junkies are rushing to squeeze in their final rides of the year in shorts and fingerless gloves.

I spent four hours riding today, then gulped down some food and took a quick shower so I could head back outside with my daughter. There's just no gettin' enough of this stuff when you know that freezing rain is only a few weeks away.

Unfortunately, I've noticed that the glassholes have been busy the past couple of weeks. Today's pic is from my friend Amber, who had yesterday's road ride interrupted by a debris field of broken glass.

I'd like to take every drunk dumbass who breaks bottles on bike paths, strip 'em naked and make them roll around in that shit until the pavement is shiny and red.

Stuff that works

I don’t usually “review” gear on this blog, but I've been in one of those spells when solid products have really impressed me.

For my commuter tires, I’ve actually been impressed for about three summers now. I can't find it on the manufacturer's website, so I assume the Bontrager Satellite Plus is out of production, and that sucks the big one because these tires are The Shit.

Seriously, I don’t know if I’ve ever had a flat with these suckers, but if I have, I can’t remember when it was. That’s amazing for a commuter tire that rolls over glass, sharp rocks and other roadside debris just about every damned day. This is as close to bombproof as any tire I’ve ever seen.

Last spring, I spruced up my mountain bike with several new parts/components, and then spent the summer smiling every time I rode it. Here’s the stuff that kept me happy despite a summer of mediocre weather ...

Race Face Deus crankset: I picked up the 2009 model at a huge savings last winter, and my only regret is that I didn’t install it before last fall’s trip to Moab and Fruita. I spent that week listening to a creaky bottom bracket, but since installing the new components, the bike has been running as smooth as butter.

WTB Weirwolf tires: I’ve run WTB tires in the past, but had been loyal to Specialized Roll-X Pros for about five years. The Weirwolf is just as easy to put on and take off the rim, but it sheds mud like an oiled-up stripper, and corners like a dream. I haven’t leaned into turns like this in years.

Ergon GX1 grips: The most comfortable grips I’ve ever used. I bought the full-size model, then hack-sawed it down to match the width of my hand and provide easy access to my Gripshifts. Perfect match.

Avid BB7 brakes: You’ll never get three or more mountain bikers to agree on the “best” anything, but the BB7 comes close, at least in the category of mechanical disc brakes. It might be the most beloved brake among Alaska riders who love it for its simplicity and year-round reliability. It installs and sets up easier than anything out there, and works flawlessly under terrible conditions. I’ve run this brake on my Pugsley for about four years, and I don’t know why I didn’t switch to it on my Specialized Epic much earlier.

My six-year-old Shimano hydraulics always dealt me fits when I tried to eliminate rotor rub, and hydraulics always present the risk of having to space out the pads if you accidentally squeeze the brake lever when a wheel is off the bike. I installed BB7s in July, and have loved them every time I’ve grabbed the levers. They give me all the stopping power and modulation I need, with none of the hassles of hydraulics. My only complaint is that newer models of the Speed Dial 7 levers look and feel pretty cheesy. Fortunately, I had an earlier model of the same levers on my commuter, so I moved them to the Epic and put the new levers on the V-brake-equipped beater bike.

The latest upgrade to my Epic is a new wheelset built with Hadley hubs and Industry Nine rims. I’m still getting used to them, but the wheels feel sweet and I’m told the hubs are super easy to overhaul, so next summer will be the real test.

And that’s just one more little thought to carry me through the coming winter.

Waggin' 'em in Wyoming

Today's addition to the Phabulous Phinger Gallery comes from my brother Matt, left, and Tim Kelly, aka the Frigid Bits Grill Meister. They met up for a ride a few days ago in Curt Gowdy State Park outside, Laramie, Wyoming.

Yeah, that's right. There's really is a state park named after the famous sportscaster. And it has some damn nice singletrack. I sampled a little of it last July, and hope to ride some more next time I'm in that area.

Thanks to Matt and Tim for keeping the finger drive alive.

Only in Anchorage

Where else could a bike trail end before it starts?

(Brought to you by the traffic engineers
who gave us the C Street roundabout.)