Feeding the beast

I can order a Goodyear Eagle Ultra Grip GW-3 winter tire online for $143. With my driving habits, it would probably last eight to 10 years on a car.

Last week, I paid $150 for a 45NRTH Husker Du tire for my fat bike. If I’m lucky, I’ll ride it for two years before the sidewalls start falling apart, as they just did on my Surly Larry.

I accept that we torture fat tires. They have huge sidewalls, and we run them in extreme temperatures and at low pressures. So, even though they generally live a life free of jagged rocks, they’re big dogs. And big dogs die sooner than little dogs.

But I really hope that this niche market keeps growing, and attracts another player to the fat-tire manufacturing business. We need better tires, and we certainly need lower prices to help us junkies feed our nasty habits. Competition is always good for consumers, and fat-bikers consume a lot of tires. 

 

Addictions aren’t cheap.

Bikes on film

One of the first rules of parenting is that you should always teach your kid to never sign the ransom note. Especially when he's playin' hardball with the Baby Jesus. That's one of the lessons in the bicycle short posted above.

Or maybe the main message is that a little boy should never trust a priest. But I think we all learned that one years ago.

In any case, If You Want Your Mother Back is one of 20 finalists for the VELOBerlin Film Award. and Josefine from Berlin has been asking me to tell you about the competition. After watching a few of the shorts, I decided I should listen to her. The films are fun, and unlike those snooty Academy Awards they do in La-La Land, you don't have to be a Hollywood insider to vote for the winner.

Just pour a drink, click over to the VELOBerlin site, spend your evening watching and rating all the flicks.

Then sober up and go ride your bike.

Rollin’ fat ones in Homer

Fat bikes on Kachemak Bay.

Fat is where it’s at in Homer, especially during the Big Fat Bike Festival. And we can now call it the “annual” BFBF, because the Homer Cycling Club has pulled off two events in a row. Both were a hoot.

BFBF 2013: Pure fat-bike fun.

Beaches, bonfires and fat-bikers is a pretty tough combination to beat. Especially when you throw an impromptu helicopter beer drop into the middle of the ride. (Even though my group missed it because we had already left the fire to roll back toward Homer.)

I also got a taste of what it feels like to win a free bike frame. Unfortunately, I got the taste because I had custody of raffle tickets for the absentee winner during Saturday night’s burger ‘n’ beer dinner. Oh, well. At least it felt like mine for a second.

Thanks to all the Homer riders who worked hard to put together another fun event, and for listening to everyone’s input from last year to make BFBF 2013 as successful as possible. The post-ride bike-wash station at Cycle Logical was a huge help for those of us who had to haul piles of fatties back to Anchorage.

See you on the Spit again next year.

Spot Check Billy

Spotcheck Billy got down on his hands and knees  

He said "Hey mama, hey let me check your oil all right?"  

She said "No, no honey, not tonight.  

Come back Monday, come back Tuesday, and then I might."

- Fat Man in the Bathtub, Little Feat

Billy K's ride.

Billy Koitzsch of Arctic Cycles is taking a little trip. A 2,000-mile winter trip via fat bike, to be exact.

He's checking in frequently via Spot checks, so I'm tracking his progress and cheering him on. Personally, I think he's gonna rock it this year.

After all, he's traveling light after leaving a toe behind last time. Ride strong, Billy.

Patina

I’ve been looking at new bikes recently. It’s time to replace my tired old ride, and all the new stuff is shiny, pretty and clean. It’s awesome. And a little unnatural.

As gorgeous as a new bike can be sitting in the shop, it looks far better when it’s wearing some splattered mud, hard-earned scratches and a mishmash of old and new parts.

Some red dirt from the Southwest is a nice touch, too. Especially if it clings to the bike for a few weeks or months after a bike vacation. The alien-looking soil is a nice reminder of fun times on faraway trails.

My bike didn’t go on my latest trip, so it’s sadly free of red dirt. My new frame will be even cleaner, and I’ll admit I’m looking forward to building it up and then admiring its shiny, pristine awesomeness from across the room for a few days.

But what I really want to do is take it out and get it dirty this summer, and then see it in all its glory, leaning tired and filthy against a tree.

Mountain bikes were meant to be dirty.

Things of beauty

Piles of fat bikes

Parties with live music

Finish-line booze

Visions of the future

 (Scenes from the first-annual Trio in Talkeetna)

A trip to the powder room

The ol’ Fatback was in need of a little bike love. New tubes and — best of all — a new carbon-fiber fork, because I have to keep up with friends who have been buying all the sweet shit recently.



But when it came time to add some talcum powder to the fat tires, I kept forgetting to buy any when I was at the store. I mean, why the hell would I buy talcum powder except for bike tires? And why would I think of bike tires when I was at Fred Meyer?

So when I started yanking out my old, tired tubes, I thought I was shit outta luck in the powder department. But then I remembered my trusty butt powder. For those who don’t know, Anti-Monkey Butt Powder is the next best thing to chamois cream, but a whole lot more comfortable to have wedged into your goodies on a night ride at 10 below zero.



And it happens to be a super-fine powder. Perfect for reducing friction in your butt and your Big Fat Larry. And I’m talkin’ about the tire, not your Johnson.



I always love finding unexpected uses for bike stuff, so I think I’ll smile when I’m rolling down the trail some afternoon and remember that my tubes are protected by my ass powder.

Drinkin' the Kool-Aid

Ridin' my (temporarily mine, anyway) 29er on Trail 100 in Phoenix.
(Photo by Julie)

OK, I’m convinced. Pass me the Kool-Aid, and I’ll drink it.

For years, I’ve read the articles comparing the pros and cons of 29ers, and the results were always the same: Whether you should be on 26- or 29-inch mountain bike wheels depends on the terrain you ride, and your riding style. There’s no answer that fits everyone.

 But I’ve also watched multiple friends become 29er converts. The trend started, unfortunately, right after I bought my beloved Specialized Epic with 26ers. So I happily stuck with it until I decided to try something new on my recent trip to Arizona.

Instead of crating up my Epic and taking it along as I always have, I rented a 29er from Slippery Pig Bike Shop in Phoenix. Within a day or two, I decided it’s time to make the switch. I was rolling through deep, endo-inducing compressions with ease. And I was pedaling over piles of rocks that I would have struggled with on my current bike.

I was reminded of what my friend Julie wrote a couple of years ago after riding big wheels during a trip back east ...

It’s like cheating.

So I’m shopping for a new bike frame. I'd like another Epic, but Specialized isn’t making it easy by not offering the new Epic 29ers in frame-only options, and I want to build my new bike myself, with hand-picked components. Buying a new bike and stripping off half the parts to sell them on Ebay is a hassle I’d like to avoid. And I love the Epic’s Brain valve rear suspension, so buying another Epic is, well ... a no-brainer. Or it would be, if they didn’t try to force me to buy a complete bike.

Fortunately, I have the rest of a long winter to figure this shit out and get a new bike together, regardless of which brand and model it turns out to be.

The Kool-Aid is frozen right now anyway.

Desert Finger

The woman who started it all is still keeping the Fabulous Finger Gallery alive. Nice job, H.

After five fun days of riding through my old stompin' grounds of Arizona, I think I'll need a day or three to sort it all out before sharing the stories. Meanwhile, I'll just thank the crazies who made it fun and memorable:

Julie. One of my regular

riding partners for years, 

and wife of ...

 The equipment-bashing Bike Monkee.

Harter, a recovering Midwesterner

and all-around good guy ...

despite being a recovering Midwesterner.

Huber, who makes great blowfish faces

and damn fine meals.

Heather, who bruises more easily

(and more frequently) than any other human on Earth.

Thanks, Arizona.

See you next time.

Riding with Cholla

Once it attaches to you, it doesn't let go.

chol·la
noun: any of several spiny treelike cacti belonging to the genus Opuntia, especially O. fulgida  of the southwestern U.S. and Mexico, having knobby outgrowths and yellow spines.

Dave rode up to our group as we prepared to roll out of Dreamy Draw Recreation Area in the Phoenix Mountains Preserve. He was riding alone and looking for partners, so he asked where we were headed and then said he’d ride along with us. Partnering up with strangers at at trailhead isn’t unusual, but I noticed that he didn’t ask if it was OK. He simply said said he’d tag along.

He was a middle-aged guy wearing body armor, and I’ve generally found body armor to be a bad sign. A lot of people seem to change when they put it on. And they don’t change for the better.

As the ride began, he asked where we were from, somewhat tactlessly questioned our route choice, and told us how we could have done it a “better” way. I did this ride regularly 20 years ago, and I didn’t really give a rat’s ass what he thought, but I tried to let it go.

As the miles passed, this hyperactive guy started wearing on my nerves. And I wasn’t the only one. During a brief stop, Heather informed me that the Bike Monkee had decided this guy’s nickname was “Cholla.” Monkee was naming him after the nasty “jumping cactus” that attaches itself to hapless victims and is difficult to remove.

A little while later, I tapped the brakes to give myself time to choose a line over a jagged section of exposed rock, and I heard Cholla’s wheels lock up close behind me. He obviously was following too closely, and was very close to slamming into me. Then he shot by on my right, a risky move on sketchy trail.



I was pissed. And I didn’t fly thousands of miles to be pissed off while riding with my friends. 

A short distance later, I stopped in a shady spot and told Jules and the Bike Monkee that I thought we should give Cholla the boot. That’s when I learned that he had buzzed Monkee with a risky move, too.



Cholla had ridden ahead, but quickly returned to find us. I told him we were going to let him ride on ahead without us.

 “Oh, you guys are doing great,” he replied.



So I explained that he wasn’t doing great, and that we weren’t going to ride with him anymore. It was time to leave, and we’d let him have a head start so we wouldn’t see him again.

It was the right move. The rest of the ride was relaxed and fun, and the usual dynamic of our group returned. I’ve long believed that the No. 1 rule to mountain biking (and life) is quite simple:



Life’s too short to ride with assholes.

Going downhill fast

I’m putting 2012 down as the Year of Intense Descents.

First, there was the fog-shrouded puckerfest on Thompson Pass during the Fireweed 400. In October came the Furnace Creek 508, another bit of ultra-distance craziness for which I somehow got talked into being Leonard’s crew chief. 

The 508 is one of the world’s toughest ultra-distance bike races because it has more than 35,000 feet of elevation gain, crosses 10 mountain passes, and runs through the Mojave Desert and Death Valley on its way from the start line north of Los Angeles to the finish line in Twentynine Palms, Calif. 

It’s 508 miles long, with a cutoff time of 48 hours. 

Leonard at Valley Wells, before shit got real.

The best thing I can say about ultras is that they give you focus. Real life mostly disappears as crew members become consumed with taking care of their rider and meeting critical needs like eating, finding gasoline and ice, or finding the necessary facilities when the racer or a crew member badly needs to drop a load.

For me, the real world completely disappeared at night. Soon after we met up in California, Leonard requested that I do all nighttime driving of the crew van. I’ve followed him down quite a few descents both on bikes and in cars, so I generally know what he’s about to do, and why he’s going to do it. 

Because I haven’t run over him yet, he seemed to feel reasonably confident that I could stay close and light up the pavement without turning him into a road biscuit.

But there’s a big difference between an autumn night in the 508 and a summer night in Alaska’s Fireweed 400. California gets really dark. And it stays that way for hours and hours. That makes for a very long shift of driving within a few feet of your racer’s wheel. But night is no piece of cake for the rest of the crew, either. Especially first-timers.

We were probably two-thirds of the way down a long mountain pass during the first overnight run when Randy, who was sitting in the passenger seat and had met me only 48 hours earlier, said the first words that had been spoken since we crossed the summit. I was keeping the van’s bumper about 12 feet from Leonard’s wheel, at speeds reaching 40 mph.

“You think you should back off a little bit?” Randy quietly asked.

“Nope,” I replied. “This is good.”

The van got quiet again, and stayed that way until the descent was over. 

Sometime about 24 hours later, I still hadn’t slept and was following Leonard as he dropped down a gentle, miles-long descent toward the last checkpoint town before the finish in Twentynine Palms. I slowly swerved from side to side in the highway lane, touching the shoulder on the right, then drifting left and putting the tires on the center line. 

I knew it must look strange, and the concentration required wasn’t as intense as the previous night, so I explained to Randy that I was trying to keep Leonard from riding into his own shadow, and trying to help him see the smoothest, safest line on a stretch of sketchy pavement. 

The race started at 6 a.m. Saturday. Sometime about 2 a.m. Monday, we rolled into the hotel parking lot that was the finish line. Once we got Leonard settled in his room, Randy and I shared one last surreal drive together: to an all-night drive-through selling big, shitty burritos.

They tasted incredibly good. They were like dessert after a main course of insanity.

Deliver us from evil

Southcentral Alaska has become the place where fun goes to die.
 
I love this state. But Jesus Fiddle-playing Christ on a Pogo Stick, this winter is turning into a big, soggy shit sandwich. At one point this weekend, the National Weather Service forecast for Anchorage include an avalanche warning, a freezing-rain advisory, a flood watch, and a strong-winds advisory. All at the same freakin’ time.



Bike riders, skiers, ice skaters and even kids with sleds have been trying to salvage this nearly snow-free season and, as usual, fat bikers have generally been the ones managing to have a good time. But that pretty much came to an end at the moment captured in today’s photo.

I joined Julie for a ride on Saturday. With some caution, we were able to enjoy some singletrack, and I had even mentioned a couple of times how I enjoy riding in light, freezing rain. (I shit you not. I actually do.)

Then the light drizzle turned into full-on, balls-out rain. And it was landing on icy trails. Jules and I watched conditions deteriorate by the minute. We resorted to walking our bikes up slight inclines because the trail was like grease. We could barely find enough traction to stand up.

And the weather has only gotten worse since then.

Some riders are turning to the dreaded indoor trainer. Some of us have resorted to drinking more beer and watching our bellies grow. 

Fortunately a tiny, tiny few of us are waiting for the freedom bird. That big, beautiful jet that will soon carry us to warm, sunny Arizona singletrack.

Bring it on. I'd rather take my chances with rattlesnakes and cactus needles.

I reserve ... the right to swerve

Life's too short to color inside the lines.

For years, it has been fun to be an Alaskan out there on the fuzzy edge of a fringe sport. I mean, did any of us really expect fat bikes to catch on in a big way outside frozen places like Alaska and Minnesota?

But huge technological leaps have the masses wanting Fatbacks, Mukluks, Pugsleys and 9:ZERO:7 bikes. Alaska's shops are shipping their frames all over the freakin' place. If you walk into a shop and see a fat bike you like, you'd better buy it or it very well might be gone the next day.

But I was still surprised to learn that so many are people riding fat bikes, IMBA felt the need to come up with a list of "best practices." 

I know IMBA means well, but I'm not so sure I like this "legitimizing" of my beloved winter activity. And I definitely have some problems with rule No. 4: "You are able to safely control your bike and ride in a straight line."

When fresh snow and flask rides are outlawed, only outlaws will ride in fresh snow and carry flasks.

Keep it real

Professional road racing is a sport that should be taken out behind the barn and shot in the head. Liars, cheats and doping scandals have made it a sad, ugly joke.



The latest “big news” is that Lance Armstrong — one of the greatest athletes and biggest assholes to ever throw a leg over a bike — might overturn years of denials by admitting that he doped. He could even provide information that could help USADA with other investigations. 

Once upon a time, I marveled at the vision of “greats” like Marco Pantani and Armstrong as they flew up the classic climbs of Hautacam, Mont Ventoux and Alpe d’Huez. I can’t even enjoy watching that old footage on YouTube anymore. It’s tainted.  Fuck 'em all.

I choose to admire the people who ride for the sheer joy and beauty of moving through the world on a bicycle. The people who spend weeks or months touring with loaded panniers. The people who ride 100 miles and then eat hamburgers and drink beer with their riding buddies. Even the amateurs who know they’ll never win a dime, but who enter races just to test themselves and share the experience with other riders. 

And, most of all, the mountain bikers who know it’s all about the brotherhood and sisterhood of a ride, and who would never pass by a stranger standing beside a disabled bike without asking if he has everything he needs. 

As long as those people are out there turning the pedals, dopers can never steal the real beauty of bicycling.

I've been a slacker the past couple of years, and haven't done a recent end-of-the-year slideshow. But the memories dredged up by this one from 2010 still put a grin on my face.

Happy New Year.

Notsnot

It has come to my attention – painfully, I might add – that many civilians lack a thorough understanding of the beardsicle. Or, as my friend Rio likes to call it, the glacial facial.

I have often winced when people would see a fully developed beardsicle and refer to icy extensions of a mustache as “snotsicles.” I mean, seriously, do they think we ride around the woods lazily letting mucous pour  from our olfactory intakes? Most of us aren't that barbaric.

To comprehend the origin of the large icicles that form on a manly 'stache during winter rides, one must first understand the fundamentals of the beardsicle. You came to the right place, dear readers.

Whilst transporting oneself aboard a modern velocipede, physical exertion commonly results in a significant increase in exhalations from one’s mouth, containing a high content of moisture that rapidly cools as it passes through the air and freezes upon – or just prior to – contact with air-cooled surfaces such as hair and clothing.

As these frozen particles accumulate on cold surfaces, layers of frost are formed, thereby turning facial hair white in a fashion that has, on occasion, been compared to the appearance of a small, humanoid creature that is sometimes rendered in a painted plaster form to decorate a lawn or garden.

Alas, warm exhalations from the nose routinely cause a thermodynamic change in frost crystals located directly above the rider’s upper lip, thereby converting a solid to a liquid that is forced by the laws of gravity to flow downward until such time as the flow of cold air once again forces the liquid to return to a solid form known as ice.

This process occurs continuously during physical activity, providing a steady flow of water that adds to the mass of icicles that hang like stalactites from the mustache.

In other words, what some refer to as a snotsicle is simply an icicle. It contains the same water and ice crystals as the rest of the frost that covers a rider’s face, chest and shoulders, and should not be mistaken as nasal mucous.

After all, fat-biking is a sport not of ill-mannered brutes, but of ladies and gentlemen.

Elves

Bridge elves come in various forms. 

Sometimes they help you set fire to the bridges behind you, 

and other times they build new bridges on the trail ahead.

Whatever you celebrate, and wherever you're riding, have a happy holiday. 

And may you have good bridge elves in the year ahead.

Middle Fork, mofos!

Click on the pic for a better view.

Middle Fork Loop is one of the best winter rides in the Anchorage area. On a sunny day in late winter, when the trail conditions are prime, it has all the ingredients for an epic afternoon.

It's reached after a long, sustained climb into Chugach State Park, then runs across the mountains with great views of the Anchorage bowl, Cook Inlet and Mount Susitna. Even Denali, on a good day. And the descent will put a huge, shit-eatin' grin on your face.

The problem is that Chugach State Park's management plan doesn't address mountain biking, and certainly not winter mountain biking, so we're still treated as second-class citizens by park managers. We have to beg, borrow and steal to use some trails.

Fortunately, we have winter access to Middle Fork again with special-use permits issued to fat-bikers this season. (Last year, after two or three seasons of permits, we got the shaft and were shut out of Middle Fork.)

Yes, you have to own a fat bike for this ride. Although trail conditions are sometimes suitable for regular mountain bikes, the special-permit rules specifically require fatties. According to the rules, "A Fat Tire Bike is defined as a self-propelled bicycle created for cycling on soft, unstable surfaces. The tire width is 3.5” or greater and tire pressure is less than 20 pounds per square inch ground pressure."

Get a permit and treat yourself to a ride on this trail. Or get a permit just to show state park people that we're here, we're not going away and we want fair access, regardless of how many Nordic skiers don't like to share.

Send an email to csp@alaska.gov. Give them your name, mailing address and email address, and tell them you're requesting a fat-bike permit for Middle Fork Trail.

That's it. That's all you have to do.

Within a few days, they'll email you a permit that you can print and attach to your bike when riding Middle Fork.

Be nice. Follow their rules and don't shred the trail. Try not to be a dick, no matter how many grumpy skiers scowl at you.

Then maybe, just maybe, Chugach State Park officials will someday learn to accept us as legitimate trail users who don't need a "special permit" to use our park.

Worldwide

 Congratulation for the success!

While I was screwing around and not writing a blog over the past few months, a fresh flip-off photo would still arrive from time to time. My friend Debbie stepped up her latest addition to the Fabulous Finger Gallery by going international with the semi-infamous Bicycles & Icicles "No Waxing Required" sticker.

This sticker has turned up in a lot of places. It has gone to Ho Chi Minh City, and is affixed to the famous summit sign atop Col du Galibier, thanks to my roadie-freak friend Gina. And this past summer, Debbie took a sticker along on her mountain bike tour of Nepal, and made sure it found a home on a store window. Probably in what most of us would call the middle of nowhere.

I like knowing that the silly little sticker I made to subtly flip off bike-hating Nordic snobs is slowly working it's way to odd little corners of the world, and staying there to occasionally make a confused traveler scratch his head and wonder what it means.

Because when you think about it, that's pretty much what this blog does to careless surfers of the Internet.

Let the people ride!

This is a flip-off with feeling.

They see Jules ridin’, they be hatin’.

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with people who are offended by the site of a bicycle? My friend Jules and her hubby the Bike Monkee found this note on their car Saturday after they finished a ride on Eagle River. 

Yes, I said ON Eagle River. They were riding on ice and snow. You couldn’t even make an argument that they were causing trail erosion or damage because, come spring, the “trail” will cease to exist when it melts and flows downstream. And they were riding fat bikes, not Kawasakis, so they weren’t making noise.

Some grumpy bastard just didn’t like the sight of two people on bicycles. So he had to try to piss on their good time by arrogantly leaving a note to say the trail isn’t open to bikes until snowmachines are allowed to run on it. Yeah, snowmachines. Much of the winter, the river is open to screaming, exhaust-belching machines. And this bastard is worried a couple of bicycles.

I haven’t bothered to look up the law cited in the note, nor do I plan to do so. But I’d be willing to bet that the logic behind the rule – if there is any – would be related to safety. When public officials determine the ice is thick enough to support snowmachines, it’s obviously strong enough to support bicycles. So that’s an easy, no-risk time to say, “Yep, you can ride your bike on the river now.”

But people routinely spend time on frozen lakes and rivers before the ice gets super thick. The grouch who scribbled his note was probably doing the same thing. My guess is that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about whether Julie and Monkee were in danger. I think he just wanted the place to himself. Maybe he even saw his method of travel, whether it was on foot, skis or snowshoes, to be more “pure.”

Screw that guy.

A fat bike on snow is about as close as you can get to a zero-impact vehicle. And anybody you see riding one is probably going to be one of the nicest people you’ll meet on the trail.

To hell with the haters. You could never please them anyway.

Go ride your bikes and be happy.