Matanuska Thunder Struck

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

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

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

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

Against the Wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Limbo

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

I need dirt.

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

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

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

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

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

Point Blank

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

Well, as a licensed driver, you should.

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

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

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

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

“Have an awesome day!” she called out.

Too late.

Go (to hell) Speed Racer! Go!

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

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

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

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

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

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

VO2 FU

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

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

Turnagain fingers

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

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

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

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

Sounds like good advice.

Headin' home after a tasty lunch in Girdwood.

Watch out, Danny MacAskill ...

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

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

Will work for beer

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

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

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

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

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

Bike guy

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

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

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

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

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

Finger flash

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

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

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

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

Takin’ it up the icicle

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

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

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

Cracking up

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

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

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


Can suddenly look like this ...


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

Steer carefully, people.
And try to stay upright.

Boutique vs. basic

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't hurry, be happy

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

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

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

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

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

Frankly, I’d rather be slow.

Phat

They’re here, they’re real, and they’re spectacular. Surely destined to become the must-have fat-bike accessory for next season, the custom Bicycles & Icicles frame stickers have finally arrived, giving winter bikers a new way to figuratively thumb their nose (or flip the bird) at bike-hating Nordic ski snobs.

I slapped a couple on the Pugsley tonight before heading out on what was likely my final fat bike ride of the season. The afternoon sun is turning the trails into mush. The turns on Speedway are getting so rutted that even Endomorphs can barely hold on.

We’re entering the Dark Zone—that dreaded period between good snow trails and the dry dirt that won’t be available for another two months. I’d say we’ve entered road bike season, but that’s still a couple of weeks away for anyone who doesn’t want to go out for a ride and return home covered in wet road grime from all the snowmelt flowing in the streets.

This is also the period when the blog tends to slow down, because trainer rides and brooding impatience aren’t very inspiring. This time of year, all a person can do is put his head down and try to get through it.

And maybe put some shiny new stickers on the fatty.

Connect the Dots

Once upon a time, I hated this trail. Or maybe it was just one night.

Two or three winters back, a group of us turned on to Blue Dot in total darkness, only a few days after a snowstorm. Manny’s Hell Ride, I like to call it. To this day, there’s a statement from Oscar the Grouch that elicits chuckles from many, but is fully understood only by the handful of riders who were there that night: “It was a great ride, until it started to suck ass.”

That trail was six inches wide with 18-inch walls of powder on both sides. You couldn’t turn the pedals without hooking a foot in the snow. Oscar’s light was dying. My patience was fading. And Tony’s GPS, unfortunately, was working. He assured us we were almost at the end—repeatedly—because each time he said it, it felt like we were turning in some new direction.

These days, Blue Dot is one of my favorites. Especially in winter, when it’s buffed out and every twist and turn only adds to the fun. And in a winter like the one that is ending, it is heavenly on a fat bike.

In a couple of months, we’ll be wrestling with its gnarly, exposed roots, slipping on the water-soaked boards of its crumbling bridge, and donating blood to its hordes of mosquitoes—none of which will be as fun as its snowy singletrack.

Trails like this make me look forward to winter.

Issue #148

Steve R. and me on Speedway last spring.

Congrats to local rider Randy Armstrong, who managed to get the above photo published in Issue #148 of Dirt Rag magazine despite me being in it. And thanks to my brother Matt, who tipped me off about the pic being in the new issue. It'll likely be a few weeks before we see it on newsstands here in Alaska.

Randy routinely shoots some of the best local mountain biking images, so it's nice to have one of his photos seen by a wider audience. And it's always a treat to have Alaska represented in DR's "The Rider's Eye" section.

Spring slop

Spring in most of Anchorage is not a pretty time. The commuting conditions are the worst of the year (we hope), and every piece of litter and neglected dog turd pops out of the melting snow like some sort of hellish weed. The streets and bike paths deteriorate into a mix of afternoon slush and slop that turns into glare ice and gnarly, icy ruts by morning.

Over the past couple of weeks, I entered my usual springtime funk and lost most of my desire to ride my bike to work each day. Fortunately, inspiration returned this week, and I owe it all to that guy I saw last Saturday—the guy riding through slush with all the wrong clothing and a marginally suitable bike. He reminded me to suck it up and get back in the game.

The street riding may be a mess, but the fat-bike riding is still sweet. The trails are firm, the evening temps are warm, and there’s plenty of sunlight. It’s a good combination when the studded bike is dirty from commuting, and the Pugsley is still getting trail action.

But I’m startin’ to get ideas when I look at my road bike ...

Off the charts

I was about to post a picture from today's ride with the non-news that I had nothing to write about. then I saw this amazing photo. It doesn't look like much. In fact, it's a pretty crappy photograph all the way around.

Except that it's a web-cam picture of Mike Curiak in Nome. 21 days, 4 hours and 31 minutes after he started riding the Iditarod Trail on a fat bike, fully self-supported. His policy was to carry all his food and fuel, accept no outside assistance, and never set foot inside a building.

And he made it.

That means this photo will probably be the most amazing bike-related image you see this week.

Gettin' there

We're finally on the cusp of spring, folks. It ain't really here yet, but we can see it on the horizon. The snow from our last storm is getting packed, and the warm daytime temperatures are combining with cold night air to put just enough ice on the trails that if a clown like me doesn't pay attention, there might be a smackdown.

This is also the time of year when every fat-bike ride takes on a little extra meaning, because it's hard to know how many we have left. For now, I'd say we're good until at least the end of this month. Then it's up to Mother Nature.

Speaking of fat-bike rides, good luck to The Bike Monkee, Jules, Janice, and anyone else heading north for this weekend's White Mountains 100. Safe travels, everybody.

In memory of the fallen

Found on Speedway singletrack, Sunday afternoon

The Hillside has something in common with the moon this week: impact craters. The only difference is that the local craters aren't round. They're shaped like bikes. And bodies.

It seems to be taking a little longer than usual to get last week's powder packed down into fast singletrack, but the snow beside many trails bears the proof that fat-bikers are trying.

It can be frustrating to ride trails after a snowstorm. But just remember, the landings are a lot softer than they'll be three months from now.

March on

This should be declared the official Month of Delusion in Alaska, because March is the time of year when otherwise rational people start believing in meteorological fantasies.

As snow flurries fell from the gray sky on Monday, and powder snakes blew across streets, at least three people I know were staring out windows and feeling exasperated. They’ve had enough of winter.

Then we woke up this morning to blowing snow, drifts in our driveways and a “winter weather advisory.” And the only surprising thing about it was that so many people were surprised.

A big snowstorm in March is as normal as darkness in December. Just because some people want spring to come doesn’t mean winter isn’t alive and kicking. After May 1, you can call a snowstorm a surprise—though even then it might be a stretch—but in March, a person has to just accept the fact that winter won't be over for several more weeks.

I used to fall victim to cabin fever this time of year. I, too, would go temporarily insane and start to believe that spring might come early. Now, I look forward to March all year. The average temperatures are a bit milder, the sun is out longer each day, the trails are usually in the best shape of the season, and the bears and mosquitoes haven’t shown up yet.

The cure for cabin fever is simple: Get your ass outside. Especially if you own a fat bike, because if don't enjoy the riding in March, you might as well be a roadie.

Good vs. great

It has long been a standard part of mountain biking to pedal up to the trailhead at the end of the day and say to your partners, "Thanks. That was a great ride."

And we always mean it, but it's really a throwaway line because, more often than not, we don't give a moment's thought to the question of where a good ride ends and a great one begins. The line between good and great can be vague, and the deciding factors are varied.

One good sign is when you expected to ride trails for a couple of hours, but ended up riding for four—not because you got lost or suffered a mechanical, but because it was a beautiful day, you had the right partners and nobody was under pressure to be anywhere else. Another good sign is when the ride ends and you're spent, but happy. Happy because you just had a blast, but also because you're glad to be done.

It's also a good sign when there's not a crumb of food left anywhere on your bike, and when you start driving home and try to get a drink, you find that you can't pull another drop from the tube because your last sip on the trail drained the final fraction of an ounce from your Camelbak.

Great rides rock. Long live great rides.

Built to last

A guy I know—who isn’t a rider—forwarded this video to me and a couple of other mountain-biker friends, and asked, “What are these guys thinking?”

I couldn’t come up with much of a reply. Because while there’s a shit-ton of bold riding on display, there isn’t much evidence that these guys are doing a lot of thinking. Not the long-term kind, anyway.

We’ve all played the game of comparing wounds and scars over a couple of post-ride beers, but most of us strive to limit injuries to the category of cuts, scrapes and bruises. (OK, maybe a concussion here and there, but I’m trying to quit.) When guys in their teens and 20s rack up long lists of the bones they’ve broken, they’re really making an inventory of the orthopedic nightmare that awaits them later in life.

Ever meet a 50-year-old who fractured multiple bones and wrecked both knees in his 20s? It ain’t pretty. If you don't believe me, do a few Google searches and read about all the retired NFL players who are permanently disabled. A lot of freeriders are going to end up in the same boat, and by middle age, their mountain-biking days will be behind him. And that’s a shame because, if you do it right, bicycling is a sport most people can do well into old age.

Like anyone else, I get a kick out of watching videos of young dudes hucking off cliffs and landing huge jumps, but I cringe a bit when I think about little kids seeing such footage and thinking they’d like to be like those guys when they grow up.

I got my inspiration 18 years ago, on the only day I ever rode up a ski lift just to ride my bike back down. “Lift-served” riding was a new idea, and far from polished, so when my buddy and I reached the top of Sandia Peak, we had to wait a few minutes for our bikes to join us.

As we waited, a guy who must have been 68 or 70 years old jump off the chairlift wearing a T-shirt and denim shorts. When his bike arrived, he got a huge, shit-eatin’ grin on his face, then spryly jumped on and steered it down the hill.

When I grow up, I want to be that guy.

Wet 'n' wild

Contributions to the venerable Bicycles & Icicles Finger Gallery have come from many places, but this one boldly goes where no one has gone before: under water. Gina spends a lot of time submerged because she’s one of those odd people who thinks bikes are fun to use in triathlons. When she sent this shot, she asked if it counted even though she’s not wearing cycling clothes.

Of course it counts. It counts because A) I’m a liberal guy who doesn’t discriminate (well, not openly anyway) against people who swim and run, and B) she’s flipping me the bird under water, which just doesn’t happen every day.

This isn’t Gina’s first appearance in the Famous Finger Gallery. She was part of the international incident last September when a gaggle of Brits, Welsh, Italians and Frenchmen were hijacked into flashing their phalanges.

I’m proud that Gina was able to take it to a new depth. Because, after all, that’s really what this blog is all about.

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.

Glacial facials

It’s January in Alaska, which means that 1.) it’s colder than a well-digger’s ass, and 2.) the temperature’s about to drop. Any day now, we’ll hit another one of those -20F spells that are good only because when the temperature rises 40 degrees, we all feel great at 20 above zero.

It also means this is beardcicle season. OK pretty much all winter is beardcicle season, but when you ride a bike, colder air = bigger glacial facials.

That shot at the top of this post was taken by my friend Steve a couple of winters ago on one of those sub-zero nights that can make you momentarily wonder if the couch potatoes have a point when they call us nuts. My face got so iced up that night, I had trouble sticking food in my mouth. Hell, I had to find a gap just to get a drinking tube in there.

Riding in air that cold can hurt. There’s brain freeze to deal with, and your eyes water like crazy if the wind hits them. Exposed skin gets so cold it can feel like it’s burning.

Some people would think the last thing you need on top of all that is a mass of ice hanging off your face, right? But I don’t mind it, partially because I get a kick out of the weird looks it brings from other people on the trail.

But mainly, I don't mind it because it's a small price to pay for not being a slave to razors in the morning, or TV on cold nights.