Up and Over

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reward for a big climb: beauty

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

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

Word of the Day

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

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

Same as it ever was

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feelin' the burn

Lower portion of Crescent Lake Trail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, he accepts tips

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

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

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

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

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

Weekend rides

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

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

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

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

My other ride ...

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

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

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

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

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

Soggy weekend

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

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

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

Unicorn Safari

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

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

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

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

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

Remembering Bobby Johnson

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

It's all relative

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

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

Fat Bike

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

It's gonna be fun.

Deadly efficient

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Satellite-free, and happy

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

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

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

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

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

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

From twisted minds ...

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

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

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

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

Fireweed Fingers

Huber sneaks a couple in.

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

Monkee's morning after.

Fireweed: The Good and the Tragic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One side of ribs, no sauce

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

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

Where's the fire?

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

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

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

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

Calm before the storm

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

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

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

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

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

Love the (new one) you're with

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

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

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

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

I couldn't bear the thought.

Volunteer fingers

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

Volunteers hard at work—what could be better?

So now I'll find out ...

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

Before

After

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

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

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

Illegal Smiles

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

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

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

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

Guess what I'll be doing.

Heather on Johnson Pass Trail last Friday.

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

Jules on Devil's Pass.

Crossing an avalanche path.

Maura on Kincaid singletrack Wednesday evening.

Maura meets a moose

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

Genetically coded for fun

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love being unskilled.

3
brown bears.

2
stellar trail rides.

1
great weekend serving as a reminder

of why fun riding partners

should never be taken for granted.

I'll sort the rest out later.

Break time

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

We now return you
to your regularly scheduled life.

Metriculated

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snobs suck

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

Bullshit.

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

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

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

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

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

Ridin’ with the Roadrunner

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taint misbehavin’

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

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

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

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

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

Tune in, turn off and drop in

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

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

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

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

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

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

Russian (River) Fingers

Photo by Sean

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huber's rolling sofa

Huber makes the approach ...

inflates his cheeks to 35 psi ...

and cleans it.

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