Man down

Last week I wrote that, come hell or high water, I'd be back on singletrack Wednesday night. Then hell and high water both arrived at the same time. I've been ridin' the recliner with a fistful of decongestants and box of Kleenex ever since.

The only good thing about being down with a head cold is that it gives a person time to kill. And there's no better way to kill time than to make a slideshow of pics from rides over the past year.

Enjoy.

Survival mode

I’ve got a bunch of crap going on this week and, unfortunately, very little of it involves riding. So far. With all this warm weather, commuting conditions suck, and I’ve needed my car every day this week anyway. Hell, I even broke down last night and put the road bike on the trainer and spent about an hour spinning on the hamster wheel as a DVD played on the big-ass TV.

Which reminds me, in case I haven’t mentioned it lately: Riding a trainer sucks.

Wednesday night, come hell or high water, the fat bike’s back on singletrack. In the meantime, I’m trying to find time to figure out the sweet new camera that should boost the quality of photos on the ol’ blog, and I’m making plans for a very cool trip with Jules and the Monkee.

This week has sucked ass so far, but there’s good stuff ahead.

Speaking of good stuff, the week hasn't sucked for Jules, who scored a free Camelbak at Saturday night's Frigid Bits event, and then won 10 free stickers for proposing "No Waxing Required" for the new Bicycles & Icicles frame stickers.

The readers have spoken, and the stickers have been ordered.

Fingers around the fire

You can always count on a Frigid Bits event to be great when the burn barrel is involved. After a fun two-hour ride with a bunch of tight singletrack, the beer and dead animals tasted damn good. After the crowd thinned a bit, the holdouts even sang Happy Birthday for me, and posed for a one-finger salute. I love winter mountain bikers.

The night also marked the inaugural ride of Scarlett—my friend Amber's new Fatback with a custom paint job. A skull on the head tube, lightning bolts, a flame-covered fork, and a purple-to-pink fade with her name on the chainstays. It's definitely one of a kind, and will keep a shit-eatin' grin on her face for a good long while. Speedway did its usual nice job on the build. (Click on the detail shot for a closer look.)

And speaking of shops, thanks to Speedway, Paramount, Chain Reaction and The Bicycle Shop for generously donating some nice swag for last night's ride, which was a fundraiser for Singletrack Advocates.

Don't forget to click on the right side of this page to vote for your favorite slogan to be placed on the frame stickers I plan to order this week. But don't give Jules any sympathy votes after her earlier comment that she never wins anything, because she won the finest piece of swag last night: a nice new Camelbak donated by Greg over at Speedway.

The polls are open

The Great Sticker Contest of 2010 has come down to two finalists, and I'm genuinely torn. I like the attitude behind my original concept of "One Less Skier," but I enjoy the wit and subtlety of "No Waxing Required," which was the brainchild of my friend Jules. It certainly works on more than one level.

Since announcing my little contest, I've heard from enough of you to learn that I'm certainly not alone in facing hostility from bike-hating Nordic skiers. So, based on your experiences, tell me what you think, folks. There's a poll on the right side of this post so that you can vote for your favorite sticker.

Regardless of which is chosen, Jules wins the amazing and breathtakingly generous prize of 10 stickers. (After all, I can't exactly give the prize to myself.) I expect to see at least one of them gracing the frame of her new Pugsley very soon.

The poll closes at 6:30 p.m. on Monday (Alaska time.)

After that, to paraphrase Neil Young, live music is better, and bumper stickers will be issued.

Contest time

It's time for the first Bicycles & Icicles reader contest, complete with a prize. For a year or two now, I've been meaning to print up some stickers such as those fine samples from Handlebar Sandwich.

Given my recent fed-upedness with the attitude fat bikers get from the tight-ass Nordic ski crowd, I'm looking for something with a little attitude. Something that carries a pro-fat-bike message, or at least a pro-bike message.

This is where you come in, dear reader. The leading candidate for my inspired stickery is shown above, but you may have a better idea. If so, click the e-mail link to send suggestions my way, or simply leave a comment with your idea. If your idea is chosen for the sticker order, you'll get 10 free stickers. (So make sure you don't cast your brilliance to an "anonymous" comment. I'll need a way to contact you.)

Let the brainstorms begin.

Here to stay

I decided to lay low last week and fight off a cold that was lurking around the edges and threatening to take me down. Fortunately, the strategy paid off and I never really got sick—just spent a few quiet evenings falling more out of shape.

So it felt good to hit the trails Saturday morning and be reminded that some things never change. I still get sluggish after a week of reduced activity. Fat biking is still fun anyway. I still frequently forget what I’m doing and say “hi” to Nordic skiers. And they—most of them, anyway—still scowl like selfish pricks whenever they see a bike.

Allow me to pause for a moment and mention at this juncture that I don’t want to see a single comment from anyone attempting to tell me that “most mountain bikers are skiers, too,” or that I should be nice and not write or say divisive things because we should all just get along and share the trails. I know all that shit. That’s why I’m annoyed.

I’ve been trying to play nice with XC skiers in this town for years. I stay off their “ski-only” trails. I’ve attended meetings between user groups. I’ve been vocal—even obnoxious—in encouraging other riders to practice good trail etiquette on a year-round basis. I’ve tried to remain friendly when encountering skiers, only to have 90 percent of them glare at me as if I were some sort of criminal. Countless other winter riders have spent years making the same efforts as me. And what has it gotten us?

Kicked in the nuts, that’s what it’s gotten us. Over and over and over.

Arrogant skiers still treat us like second-class citizens. They still accost us on the trails and question our right to be there. They still fight our efforts to gain access to public lands. And personally, I think they still believe that if they resist long enough, we’ll give up and go away.

Fuck ’em. I’m running out of patience with their attitude. I’m tired of playing nice and getting kicked in the nuts. And if they think winter mountain bikers are going away, they’re out of their narrow little minds.

I’ll continue to be a responsible trail user, but I own the public trails as much as anyone else. I’m gonna ride my bike. I’m not going to apologize. I’m not going to beg for acceptance. And I don’t care who doesn’t like it.

All You Haters

This video, found over at Girl on Bike,
is a great parody of hipster/messenger culture.

All You Haters (Suck My Balls)

Missing

Found on the Web

If you haven't seen this bike ...
uh, well, keep not looking.

Bird on Eagle River

It's been awhile since I last posted a Phabulous Phinger Photo on the blog, so it's good to see someone think fast and keep the movement alive.

Because of a misunderstanding on Friday's meeting spot, Carl and I missed each other at the start of our ride on Eagle River. When I finally got to the parking lot he had intended, he had an hour head start, and all I could do was follow his Endomorph tracks upriver while hoping he'd stop often to shoot photos.

When I finally rounded a bend in the river and saw him rolling toward me, he didn't miss a beat as I pulled out my camera, and voila, we have our first new addition to the Finger Gallery in months.

Strong work, Carl.

Cold juice

When is someone going to develop a battery that won't turn to crap every time it gets good and cold? I mean, seriously, with all the technological improvements we've seen in winter riding over the past couple of years, I think batteries are one of the main pieces of gear that still need improvement.

Tonight's ride was in temps of about 4F ... from what I could tell. I had to hold my digital thermometer at just the right angle to get a reading off the LED screen as the battery faded.

The NightRider light on my handlebar did it's job for more than two hours, and was still working when we got back to the cars, but the power indicator turned red less than an hour into the ride, even though the battery was fully charged for a three-hour burn.

But my camera presents one of my main frustrations in temps below 20F. Despite numerous attempts, I got a grand total of one image from the trail tonight—the one you see on this post—and I didn't know if I had it until I got home. As soon as I took the shot, the battery wheezed under the load of saving the digital image and the screen on my camera went dark except for the "change battery pack" message.

After wrapping my hand around the camera (while still inside my pocket) for a couple of minutes, I managed to get a couple of shots in the parking lot at the end of the ride, but just barely.

Battery companies of the world, get your shit together and give us better products. Much of the world is cold this time of year, and not everyone sits inside catatonically staring at new episodes of "Lost" every night.

Is it really too much to ask for a battery that can function for a couple of hours at 0F?

Burnin' it

What happens when you combine a few riders, a small fortune in fat bikes, open flames, flammable liquids a small pile of cheap beer? That's right, a good time around the ol' Frigid Bits Burn Barrel.

This shit never gets old.

My fellow Americans ...

I felt a twinge of guilt when I got home Wednesday night. All the online news sites were full of coverage of the State of the Union address. Millions of “serious” adults had, no doubt, devoted the evening to watching Obama’s speech.

I, on the other hand, did what I usually do. I went and played in the woods on a fat bike. Didn’t give the big speech a second thought, really.

It’s not that I don’t care. I just don’t need the dog-and-pony show of a constitutionally mandated annual address to know the state of the union—it’s fucked up. And I didn’t need to hear the Big Man say anything to feel reassured that we’re in better hands than we were for eight years. I still think he’ll steer us onto the right course. But I have my own course to steer.

The stuffed suits in D.C. can have the State of the Union address. I can read about it in the New York Times.

I felt it was my duty to confirm the State of Blue Dot. And I slept better knowing what a fine state that is.

akspokes.com

Notice to locals who are wondering what happened to the akspokes forum this week: There was a problem with excessive bandwidth usage, so the host site shut down the forum. The problem is being addressed, and the forum should be back online by this weekend.

Stalled

Some weeks, it’s barely worth pumping up the tires.

A scenic ride on the coastal flats didn’t last long in Sunday’s soft powder conditions, so we spent the second half of the ride drinking beer. At least I got this pretty picture.

And tonight’s eagerly anticipated trail ride lasted only long enough for my freehub to die, so I’m having a glass (or two) of wine.

I don’t think this training program is sustainable.

Bicycle Dreams

3051.7 miles, with a goal of 12 days.
110,000 of climbing.
A drop-out rate of nearly 50 percent.
It’s 30 percent longer than the Tour de France.
It’s finished in half the time.
With no rest days.
The winner typically pedals 375 miles per day,
and finishes in 8 or 9 days.

By any normal standard, the Race Across America is an utterly insane event. Why would anyone do it? After watching Stephen Auerbach’s documentary, Bicycle Dreams, I still don’t understand. But any soloist who finishes this madness is a certifiable Bad Ass on a Bike.

Riding from San Diego to Atlantic City in 12 days (or less) pushes riders into the deepest, darkest parts of their minds, while subjecting them to no small about of danger. There’s no big prize money at stake, and it costs a small fortune to train, field a support crew and race. Some racers save for years just to reach the start line.

They ride while sobbing. They hallucinate. Beyond the usual definition of exhaustion, they attempt to sleep, and fail. Then they get back on their bikes—often with assistance because their bodies are so trashed—and keep riding. It doesn’t make sense. But it makes for a great film.

Auerbach, who recently contacted me to ask if I’d review a copy of Bicycle Dreams, set out during the 2005 RAAM to document the race using 18 cameras and an around-the-clock schedule. The result is powerful. It’s no secret to anyone who follows the race, even from afar, that the 2005 race turned out to be a heartbreaking event when Bob Breedlove died in a fatal crash in Colorado, but even without such a tragedy this race dishes out enough hurt to move a spectator to tears, and Auerbach got it on film.

Interestingly, he went completely indie on this project. With no big stars or a marketing budget, Auerbach hit the festival circuit and released a DVD without waiting or a distribution deal. It’s a grassroots campaign that’s getting a boost from awards at the Red Rocks, Yosemite, Breckenridge and All Sports LA film festivals.

Hopefully, it will also benefit from dumbass bloggers like me, because this is some riveting stuff. The suffering of the racers is epic, but their hearts are even bigger. Whether it’s rookie Chris Hopkinson riding with a sore neck supported by a jury-rigged contraption of foam, duct tape and inner tubes, or Jure Robic wanting to surrender his lead and quit when he loses the ability to conjure a mental image of his wife and daughter, it’s inspirational to watch them push through the torture. (Not that I was inspired to attempt anything similar, but I’ll certainly whine less during my next century ride.)

Click on over and order a copy. It’ll cost about as much as a new pair of gloves, and you’ll remember it a hell of a lot longer.

(Anchorage riders will remember 2005 as the year that hometown boy Ben Couturier raced as an 18-year-old rookie and became the youngest solo finisher in RAAM history. Couturier appears on screen for only seconds during a blurry nighttime shot, so you locals might want to keep an eye out for a Kaladi jersey and a pair of hairy legs.)

Blue Dot paparazzi

The old footbridge over Campbell Creek on the Blue Dot trail could be described—if one were feeling generous—as sketchy.

It’s a rickety, collapsing wooden structure that’s in such bad shape it’s actually less slippery when it’s covered in ice and snow, because water and moss make it a real bitch to cross while wearing hard-sole cycling shoes in summer. When I posted this picture a couple of summers ago, it was, uh ... suggested that perhaps I should have been offering Maura and Heather a hand instead of snapping pics as they risked a cold bath.

And when Jules and I rode Blue Dot on Wednesday night, and I briefly forgot that it was her first time on the trail, it occurred to me to say, “Watch out for the bridge” just as she was about to roll onto it. She stopped right where you see her; next to a wheel-grabbing hole mostly hidden by darkness.

She immediately suspected, of course, that I was waiting with my camera to catch a gnarly crash photo.

I think my reputation among my riding partners might need a little polishing. I would never hurt one intentionally. After all, friends who will hit the trails in freezing fog at -2F don't grow on trees, you know.

Besides, I can always hide in bushes and get nasty crash shots when strangers ride by. And now that Julie mentioned it, that would be a pretty cool shot ...

Frosty

I’m a morning person.

As long as morning doesn’t start before 9 a.m., and nobody talks to me for the first hour after I wake up. Otherwise, I feel like setting fire to the world.

So I just couldn’t make myself face early wake-ups this weekend. Early this winter, I had every intention of doing this year’s Frosty Bottom race, which was held on Saturday. But that would have involved getting up by 7 a.m.

I considered joining friends for a ride on the Herning Trail outside the town of Houston this morning. But that would have meant getting up about 6 a.m. When I was sipping a cold beer about 10:30 last night, I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Instead, I slept in a bit, then headed out to do my own version of the Frosty. My friend Kathy called when I was driving to the ride, and said she’d join me with her husky, Denali. We rode about 32 miles under sunny skies and perfect temps in the neighborhood of 20 degrees.

My legs felt strong all day. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt better while spending nearly four hours on a fat bike. But if I started feeling all bad-assy, all I had to do was look at Denali, who ran 32 miles, and loved it.

The New-shoe Haiku*

Old shoes shot to hell.
New ones finally arrive.
And silver's still cheap.


*aka: I’m tired and uninspired,
so I’m down to taking pictures
of my freakin’ shoes.
(Which almost could have
been the haiku.)

Goin’ to the powder room

Alaska is a chilly place, which means that, sometimes, chamois cream just isn’t a pleasant option—even in summer. Like when you camp out the night before a ride. Northern nights are cold. As in see-your-breath cold.

Unless you happen to sleep with a tube of Chamois Butt’r in your bag, the pre-ride application can get gruesome. Stuffing a big gob of ice-cold goo up the ol’ eerie canal first thing in the morning is enough to make you curse your own ancestors, not to mention the friends who are standing around telling you to hurry your ass up.

And on longer winter rides, anything moist will eventually feel cold and clammy against your skin. Fortunately, I recently happened upon a solution: Anti Monkey Butt powder. Shoot some of this shit in your shorts, and you’ll be warm and fuzzy for hours.

Besides being a warm, dry alternative to creams, this stuff is flat-out manly. They sell it in six-packs for cryin’ out loud! And they market it to macho dudes like fat-ass truck drivers (and those are guys with posteriors that spend a lot of time in sweaty, pressure-filled situations). Check out this info from the company web site: “Anti Monkey Butt Powder is specially formulated to absorb excess sweat and reduce frictional skin irritation. It is ideal for butt-busting activities such as truck driving, motorcycling, bicycling, horseback riding, and extreme sports.”

If you’re not manly, you can even buy a version for babies, or Lady Anti Monkey Butt, a “satiny smooth powder to minimize the frictional discomfort that women often experience when using exercise equipment, running, driving, cycling or just walking.” They say it reduces friction on your inner thighs, but if those babies are rubbin’ up against each other when you try to walk, I don’t really want to know.

Either way, this stuff is cheap and easy to find. Apparently, it’s even sold in hardware stores—which is especially nice if you’re shy about buying butt products and want to discreetly slip some into a big pile of tools, drywall anchors and electrical tape when you go to the cash register.

This is good stuff. But you don’t have to take my word for it. You can read testimonials on the company web site. For example, there’s a woman who picked up a canister at Walmart and was thrilled to find that it “stops that awful sweaty feeling that comes along with living here in S.E. Texas.”

When you need an expert on assholes, you can always count on someone who lives in Texas.

If I may butt in …

Infantry soldiers and backpackers can get obsessive about foot care. Whether you’re grunt on the battlefield or a gorp-munchin’ hiker in the mountains, your feet are your primary mode of transportation. A painful blister or a nasty fungus can ruin your whole day.

Bicyclists are picky about ass care for the same reason. Our butts are a primary connection to our bikes, and a festering saddle sore or other nether-region unpleasantness can turn a long ride into a sufferfest. Think about it: What other sport involves ergonomically designed saddles, pants with crotch padding, and all manner of creams and powders created specifically for keeping your crack dry and happy?

One of my sisters-in-law—not a regular cyclist—has agreed to do a 60-mile ride with friends, so she e-mailed to ask me one simple question: Is it a good idea to buy a pair of bike shorts?

Instead of simply replying “yes,” I sent back a treatise on shorts, seams, saddle height, losing underwear, and embracing chamois cream. I haven’t heard from her since. I’m unrepentant, though. A short answer simply wasn’t enough for a subject so near to my heart … and other parts.

Those of us who have traveled the path of enlightenment to butt bliss always hate to hear newbies complain about posterior pain or the “sadists” they blame for the modern bike saddle so, naturally, we want to share with them all the secrets that ensure comfort so they can learn to love riding as we do.

I believe that the combination of bad saddles and inappropriate clothing keeps countless adults from enjoying bicycles. We all know someone who decided to go on their first ride in years, only to swear they’ll never do it again because they returned home with a sore posterior. And most of them don’t know enough to realize the problem was a piece-of-junk saddle on a department-store bike, mated with a pair of cotton underwear and pants covered with cruelly folded and stitched seams.

One ride with a proper saddle and a good pair of shorts could open up a whole new world to them. I think those of us who ride all the time have a responsibility to stand up for the world’s butt cheeks and spread the word.

But I’m not sure my sister-in-law agrees at the moment.