A prisoner in my own body

     The onset of binding muscles creeps into my brain and forces me awake.  I immediately start to take inventory of the pain.  At the moment it's just a dull, annoying ache, but I'm still in the prone position.  I prep myself both physically and mentally for the start of the day.  Heating pad-check.  800mg Ibuprofen -check.  As the warmth flows into my angry muscles and nerves, I try to focus on my breathing and let the anti-inflammatory do its job.  Minutes go by that could be hours.  I really am not sure at this point, because for the last three weeks I have spent a majority of my time lying down.
     Essentially my body is pissed from being beat on for months on end.  I felt it creeping in around the end of June, four months ago.  I was driving the company F350 loaded down with a summers worth of gear and bikes up to beautiful Hailey, Idaho where we would be showing folks from all over the goods that the Sun Valley area has to offer.  The bench seat in the beast of a truck offered no support for my old back and the nine hour drive allowed plenty of time for the system to become aggravated.  Achy back muscles tugging on the gluteus requesting help from the hamstrings.  As I slid out of the front seat onto solid ground my frame was questioning this sudden change.  I could feel it looming as soon as I stood up.  A small jolt originating in my lower back and racing down the back of my leg reminded me of my old friend the sciatic nerve.
     We were well acquainted, me and that pesky nerve.  I had awakened it's angry power a few summers ago when I was running through an overgrown field to make a call from the only phone in tiny little Atlanta, Idaho.  Our plane was late and I had left the group to dash a mile into town to use the only payphone.  As luck would have it, as soon as I hung up with the gal from Salmon Air, I heard the drone of the planes engines pushing over the ridge top.  I knew how much time I had and how irate the group was getting as I began to dash toward the grass strip.  The strip was in sight and the planes were still taxiing as my left foot disappeared in a hole.  I rolled with it, jumped up, and dusted myself off feeling like I had just dodged a bullet.  The next day I found out the truth as a sharp lightning bolt shot down my leg.  My pain was evident as we started out next trip just two days later.  At lunch one of our guests came up to me and started firing questions about my condition.  He assured me that it most likely was not my IT band, but sciatica.  His recommendation was ibuprofen and stretching.  I managed to make it through the week and somehow recovered without too much damage.
     My current episode however, is far different than the minor discomfort I felt for a week or two during my initial introduction.  This time it took me down for the count.  I had finally asked too much from my body and it was in total rebellion mode.  It all came crashing down as I tried to wheel my bags downstairs to begin our ride from Salt Lake to Vegas.  I found myself unable to support any of the weight and before I knew what had happened I was crumpled in the doorway of the hotel room.  My back was now done.  I called my co-guide to help me bring my bags down and through tears I told him I couldn't work.  I had to surrender to my body.  My emotions were in a tailspin as I grappled not only with my injury, but the fact that I was leaving my already short-staffed team on day one of our trip. 
     After being rescued by a friend, we began one of the longest four hour drives I have ever experienced.  There was not a position I could find in the car to give me any relief.  After finally reaching Moab we went directly to the Urgent Care, where the doctor proceeded to tell me that I might be a bit old to be doing the amount of physical labor I was used too.  His eyes widened as I broke down my day to day duties at work.  It was no surprise to him that I was in my position.  He prescribed a litany of products - anti-inflammatory, pain killers and muscle relaxers - as well as rest and physical therapy as soon as I was able.
     In my mind I was prepared for a couple of uncomfortable weeks.  I am now in week four of this heinous attack of my body upon itself.  This case is obviously not like my previous incident.  The beating that I have given my body for months, years even, has finally caught up with me.   My sentence is six months and I am sure as hell counting the days.
     There is never a convenient time to get injured and this time it happened right at the beginning of fall, my favorite time to be outside.  It has been pure torture watching people head for the outdoors and hearing about the adventures.  Getting out right now is a walk around the neighborhood, which usually ends up with a frantic dash for the couch with some ice bags.  Walking is painful, sitting is far worse and riding is pretty much out of the question.
     When I can stand to be on my feet for any amount of time, it is spent in my workshop.  For some reason just being surrounded by my quiver of bicycles makes me feel a little better, and yet sometimes worse.  I walk around to each bike and let them know we will be back in the game.  I grip the bars, spin the wheels and try to remember what it's like.  It's seems like it's been so long.  An awesome season of riding brought to an abrupt halt.  Believe me bikes, this is hurting me more than you.
     Just a couple of months ago my buddy told me this is the fastest I've ever been, and probably the fastest I'll ever be.  Those words weigh heavy on me now as I grapple with the fact of whether I will be able to get it back.  Chronic pain is a terrible thing.  It gets inside your head and scrambles your brain.  I have been on an emotional roller-coaster for weeks.  Tears fill my eyes often with pain, fear and frustration.  Sometimes I just cry for no apparent reason.  And then I get pissed.  I cuss the pain, my body and anything I can find associated with this situation.  How much can one endure.
     It's no secret that suffering is part of the cycling culture that is somewhat embraced and after 27 years of pedaling I can say that I have done my share.  When you ride yourself into the pain cave you know that inevitably you will come out.  At this point I just want this ride to end. 
    
     

valdez - glen allen

     The rate of heat exchange between me and the surface I was sleeping on suddenly went to the negative side.   The cold slab of concrete I had rolled onto forced my hand at holding off my bladder for a little more sleep.  I had spotted a bathroom across the way behind the giant rotting pile of snow.  Much to our delight it had running water and a flusher.  The pissing rain had lifted leaving misty clouds floating against the hillside as we packed up and made our way to breakfast.  We went back to the same place we had dinner at the night before and guzzled coffee while destroying platefuls of calories.  Not really sure when our next meal was going to be, we hit the convenience store for one last stash of snickers and cokes.
     Valdez delivered in great Alaska style with a sweet bike path ushering us out of town.  It was a nice way to ease into the day as we had some climbing ahead of us.  The stacks of snow-covered peaks gave a clue of what was to come.  We were headed across Thompson Pass, a popular heli and back-country skiing hotspot, put on the map by a bunch of badass snow ninjas.
     Our first hurdle of the trip came when we hit Keystone Canyon.  Jason was looking forward to riding through and had me all psyched up by the time we rolled up to the road construction stop.  After making no headway convincing them to let us ride through, we heaved our bikes onto the back of the flatbed pilot truck and climbed in with a skinny meth-head chick.  She was quite entertaining to talk to in a creepy yet harmless kind of way.  As we said our goodbyes to the shuttle gal, she piped out to Jason and asked if he thought I looked like Richard Branson.  That alone gave away to a bunch of miles as we started pedaling because we were laughing our asses off.  Richard Branson, seriously meth lady!
     The incline of the approach to Thompson was pretty mellow and the traffic was pleasingly light.  Jay motored away for a bit as I was geeking out and snapping photos.  Peaks and ridges smashed up against each other as if trying to be corraled.    I was definitely working up a sweat which was battling the cool wind whipping across the snowfields. There was no cheering tifosi when we hit the summit, merely a well stickered sign and a bunch of dirty snow.   After a nature break and a few quick photos, we were off.  It was chilly enough we didn't really want to hang around and after that long climb we were beginning to think about lunch.

      The first place that we came to, Tsaina Lodge, looked pretty inviting yet was unfortunately closed.  Their main focus being a hub for Valdez Heli Ski operations in the winter.  Everything had really just melted out at this point and folks were taking some much earned time off from a banner snow year.  The more we considered this fact, the more worried we became about our food options.  We were in the bush now and there weren't going to be many choices, coupled with the fact that it was still early for the tourist traffic, we were becoming a bit antsy.  We had enough food with us for a couple of days, but our big pick-up was in Fairbanks, some 300-400 miles away.
     Luckily the scenery as well as the weather were fantastic, so the miles clicked off rapidly.  The road undulated through meadow and thick forests while skirting endless lakes.  Signs of life were few on the Richardson Hwy, so when we spotted the next bit of civilization resembling a store, we stopped.  Jason ran in to check it out and came back out with a bummed look on his face.  In the bush it's kind of common courtesy to spend money in someone's place of business once you have darkened their doorway.  I felt the same way when I stepped in, but knew we could find something to eat.  The choices were few everywhere and the couple running the joint seemed out of place for Alaska folk.  We guessed they were witness relocate people from Boston.  Crime family, we reckoned.  So we best sit our asses down and buy something from them.  We chose the her "special" sandwich, which consisted of - cheap ass bread/crappy salami/crappy ham/mystery meat/cheezy american cheese- all grilled to perfection. It came with a side of chips and some "special" dip she created.  Yeah, it was ranch dressing and sour cream, real freaking special all right. We ate the crappy food and got the hell out of there as soon as possible.  Lucky for us, some Euros popped in and made our exit less awkward.
     Now we were pedaling with gnarly food knotting up our bellies. It just increased our motivation however, because we just wanted to get as far away from that place as possible.  More miles of perfect pavement a sparse vehicles lulled us along.  We were breaking no records, yet still making good time.  Our goal for the evening, Glenn-Allen, was around 40-50 miles out which would put us a little over 120 for the day.
     At about 25-30 miles out we spotted another roadhouse.  This was one J knew about and had been in so we decided to stop for a beverage.  It took a us downing a couple of beers before the local bush-people warmed up to us.  I could feel stares heating up the back of my neck for the first thirty minutes we were in there.  Some of the folks finally broke down and started inquiring as to what the hell we were doing.  Several beers went down easily as I was still trying to forget that awful sandwich.  That's when Jason suggested we eat there, because camp was before the next spot, which would be breakfast.  I conceded, not really hungry or feeling I needed to eat.  It was Russian food, however and I was a bit intrigued.  After the logger-sized plates showed up, I felt less intrigued and more overwhelmed.  I did what I could and took one of the Russian-meatpockets with me in some foil.
     Now piloting with a buzz and a double gut bomb, we weaved our way down the empty highway toward camp.  The small, barely noticeable turn-off held an awesome camp.  Just behind some pushed up dirt and downed trees high above a river, lie a perfectly level pine thicket with a nice clearing.  This would be our camp tonight after some good pedaling and questionable eating.

      
     

Alaska - the beginning

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     Prior to space being the last frontier, there was Alaska.  A land that is big, proud, beautiful and waiting to eat you.

     I arrived in Anchorage around 1:30a.m. amidst overcast skies spitting a little rain against the breaking daylight.  The light and the time confused me, which was compounded once I saw how tiny Adrienne’s car was.  I looked at the bike box, then the car, then Adrienne and scratched my head.  Miraculously we drove away, bike and gear inside as well as myself, wedged sideways in the front seat.

     I was on a new place/travel buzz and Jason works late, so I waited up .  He rolled in around 3a.m. and we immediately commenced to geeking out.  Both of us are huge bike geeks and it was fun to check out J’s garage.  Bikes and parts tucked neatly in every nook and cranny.  There were photos, flyers,. and race numbers pinned to the wall, much like my man-shed, but neater and cleaner.  We blabbered about bike nonsense well into the morning until finally conceding to a little sleep.

     A few hours later we were at it again, running errands and tying up loose ends before our departure.  Jason had to work later and I needed to put my rig together.  The plan was to shove off after he got home from work in the early hours of the morning.  Since both of my people were at work, I went for a shakedown spin of Anchorage.  The bike path system there is amazing and I took full advantage cruising around and taking in the sights.  The weather had broken and as blue sky began to peek through the clouds, more and more people appeared on the waterfront.  After taking a quick lap through the city I headed back to base to make sure I was dialed for departure.

     Their dog Rizzo, looked over my shoulder as I tinkered on my rig, checking all the bolts and nuts one more time.   As I tightened the last strap I looked at my watch.  Midnight.  My mind was still very confused about the fact that it was still light out.  I killed all the switches and Rizzo and I called it a night.

     Half asleep, my brain acknowledges that someone is speaking.  “Dude let’s do this.”  My eyelids flicker open and shut to a lycra clad figure beside the bed, before finally focusing on J, fully kitted and ready for action.  I drug myself from the stupor and got dressed, trying not to look outside.  But I had to, because I needed to know what to wear- I was in Alaska now and my second biggest fear was weather.  A peek out the window revealed a light grey veil that would envelope us as soon as we began.

     I followed Jason as we weaved through a maze of bike path and dirt connectors.  He was giving me shit about my panniers making noise when we rounded a corner and spotted a moose.  She was eyeing us over and not looking like she would relinquish any ground, so we detoured our route.  We were to meet Greg from Speedway Cycles, as he was going to pedal part of the day with us, so we didn’t waste too much time getting out of the city.  The weather was consistently grey and the traffic on the highway section was a bit distracting, but I soon tuned it all out to the mind-blowing scenery that was unfolding.  Bald eagles soared around snowy mountains and a big old, proud Dall sheep watched over the blacktop scar from high on a rocky perch.  As the last section of bike path came to an end Greg had to peel off.  We bid him adieu and made our way to the next little blip of civilization that might have some food. 

     The ham and cheese croissant caught my eye and soon became my nemesis when I saw how large and in charge it was.  We had both pointed in its direction, sitting there commandingly in the case of donuts and other delights, wondering what the hell it was.  Like a typical dude, I didn’t want to ask but simply ordered the ham and cheese croissant.  Much to my surprise, the foot long flaky pastry that we both giggled at earlier landed on my plate.  Jason got one as well, and we attacked the buttery gut-bombs.  Stomachs packed with dough, butter, meat, and cheese, we lumbered to the beginning of the tunnel. 

     To get through the tunnel to Wittier we had to hitch a ride.  The tunnel is one of the longest in the world, at 2.5 miles long.  It was constructed for a railway to bring in and hide munitions from the Japanese.  The gal at the tollbooth was super nice and told us to wait by the bathrooms and she would get us a ride.  Less than ten minutes went by before a Dad and a couple of kids pulled over in a big truck hauling a boat.  They told us to load up and we both had work to get our heavy ass bikes in the back of the truck.  Once in the tunnel, I was stoked to not be pedaling.  It was dark and horribly stinky in the tunnel and we probably would have died from the bad air.  We finally popped out into the marina town of Whittier as I was mentally fending off a headache from all the gas and diesel fumes. 

     We were psyched, eighty-something miles in our legs, and plenty of time before the ferry was to depart.  Ahead of us was a five-hour cruise through Prince William Sound so we changed out of our riding gear and grabbed a beverage. Jason had not slept the previous night, so he looking forward to going down for the count. 

     After we settled, I walked around the deck, taking in the sights and snapping some photos.  The sunshine and blue skies were a welcome addition after our damp morning pedal.  Mountains stretched for the sky in all directions.  Bays embraced remaining glaciers and floating chunks of eerie blue ice.  Fishing boats and little schools of kayakers skimmed across the water, both out searching, but for very different reasons. There was an abundance of wildlife:  a pod of Orcas, a group of seals hanging out on and around a buoy, eagles and a multitude of sea birds, and the fluke of a humpback which totally blew my mind.  

     Five hours seemed like a really long time to be on a ferry.  As we approached Valdez however, I was glad to have the time to warm up and dry out.  The clouds had moved in and it was pissing rain.  First order of business was food.  The choices were few so it wasn’t long before we were devouring big plates of food.  Bellies full, we ambled outside into still pissing rain.  We discussed camping options as we pedaled around town.  Much to our delight we found a town park with a nice big gazebo.  It was late at this point and we weren’t very concerned about being hassled by anyone.  It felt good to stretch out horizontally and let the dripping rain fade out with the first day of our adventure.

    

    

new title

Here we are in the dead of winter and I am left with no excuses for slacking on my blog posts.  Not that anyone would actually read my dribble or give a flying monkey-crap what I have to say, but it's my blog and I really don't care.  It's all about me here people.  I was recently asked why I have a blog in the first place and my response was to empty my brain of all the words crowding up space in my head.  After all, there is not a lot of extra space left because of all the useless information pertaining to bikes and the rides that I dream about dancing around in there.
So as I was going through my morning ritual of sipping delicious coffee and reading other blogs where people make money and actually have a dedicated readership, a light went off.  Well maybe no one cares about my blog because the name is (insert yawn), kinda boring.  Wheel Life- what does that mean anyway?  This could be a blog about cars, shopping carts, wheelchairs, baby joggers or roller skates with a name like that.  The name needs some oomph, magical power or some secret message.
With that said I would like to throw out some new names.

1.  Chain driven - because, well bikes can't go anywhere without a chain.  Duh!

2.  The Squeaky Drivetrain - like fingers on a chalkboard to bike geeks, nothing gains more attention than the audible screams of chain without proper lubrication.

3.  Vintage Toe-Baskets - why do people call them toe-clips anyway?  Baskets hold more than clips and throwing vintage in there make the name much more marketable.

4. Clipless - of course this is the antithesis of toe-baskets and could inevitably increase your power-ratio and efficiency.

5. Handlebars and Brake levers-  I like to hang on and go, and stop if the need arises.  Besides, I don't ride a fixie and my huge cycling legs won't fit into skinny jeans.

6.  The Grease is always Greener - I think there is a certain truth to the adage things look better from the other side of the fence.  It's human nature to suffer in some fashion.

7.  Just Riding Along - this is what happens the moment before the wheels come off.

8. L' Arriere du Peloton - because I am always off the back.

9. Amor Bicicletta - ahh bike love, and it has a nice European flair which gives it much more credibility.

10. The Well-lubed Chamois - I bought stock in Assos chamois butter this year 'cause it literally has saved my ass.

11. Chamois without Panties - please do not wear your undies whilst in bike shorts.  It hurts me on a deep level.  I see those lines on your butt and if you think it's gross to go underpantsless, well buy a freakin' washing machine.

As you can see I took it to eleven, because these days top tens are all the rage and far be it from me to jump on the bandwagon.  I would like to ask of the six of my readers to vote on their favorite.  And remember, your choice should be influenced by what would look good on a cycling kit. 

Obsession

As I am sure my amazing significant other can testify, the pump track project has definitely been my obsession for the past two weeks.  My mornings I spend drinking coffee and waiting for the sun to warm up the frozen ground so I can start shaping.  The giant pile of dirt at the Mulberry Grove subdivision has seen my truck and shovel no less than 15 times and I'm quite sure the neighbors think I'm bat-shit crazy.  I even snagged a couple of loads of dirt on Christmas day -  the pump track was my gift by the way. 
It is now in it's 3rd edition since I started and I feel like I can finally put the shovel down and actually do some riding.  My initial design was a bit ambitious and I had to admit defeat by lack of momentum, although it looked mighty cool.  Let's just chalk the early design as a learning experience.   And even though I haven't exactly become an expert on flow yet, I have gotten pretty good with a shovel. 

Who would you get into cycling

     Now that guiding season is over and winter has officially set in, it's time to start writing again.  I'm sure I could conjure up a whole boatload of reasons why I don't blog during my busy season, but excuses can be applied to the same old adage as opinions.  Opinions are like assholes - everyone has them and they all stink.
     Lately I have been spending my free time (when not riding of course) devouring magazines, blogs and whatever other literature I can find on cycling.  I like having time to read because the more I read the more inspired I am to write.
     This morning I was pouring through my normal list of bookmarked pages and came across a post from Patrick over at Red Kite Prayer.  He posed the question - If you could bring anyone into the sport, who would it be?
     While a majority of the comments were targeted as the "significant other" would be the obvious choice, I have learned over the years that you can share your passion for something with someone, but that doesn't mean they will embrace it as you do.  I have offered the experience of cycling to virtually every relationship I have had, but never pushed the issue.  If they embraced it, wonderful.  If not, life will go on.
     In all honesty, the thought of trying to persuade Lisa (my amazing other half) to become a cyclist never even crossed my mind.  She enjoys pedaling, but rock climbing is her passion.  And we are both alright with that.  We both dabble in each others sports, but realize where our passions lie.
     That being said, the obvious answer to the question was -  my Dad.  Unfortunately it would require a time machine to make this happen at this point.   He is still alive and kicking, but is in his eighties now.   As bad as I hate to say it, it's a little late in the game for him to take up cycling.  I know he can ride a bike, but for as long as I can remember, I can't recollect ever seeing him ride.
     I found that I was oddly affected by my immediate reaction to this question.  Emotions welled up inside as I thought back to the time my Dad and I spent together in my youth.  I played both baseball and football like most red-blooded American boys were supposed to do back then.  At the time I loved baseball and had the luxury of my Dad being one of the coaches.  We spent many hours together not only at practice and games, but also in the backyard; practicing throwing, fielding and hitting.  I knew that this was something special we shared, even as a kid, as I can remember the day he spent a hundred bucks on a glove for me at Pee Dee Sporting Goods.  Don't tell your Mom how much this was he told me.  It was our little secret and being the 70's a hundred dollars was a lot of money.  Money I knew our family really didn't have.   I kept my mouth shut and cherished that glove more than anything I owned.  I wish I still had it.
     These days I could give a flying crap about baseball or football.  My world revolves around the bicycle.  I'm not sure if Dad understands my love for the sport, but I know for sure that he believes in everything that I do and stands behind me one hundred percent.  That's what makes me wish I could take him along on my rides.  To share the experiences that define me,  places I've been and relationships that have been forged from my perch on the saddle.
     When I wrote my response on Red Kite Prayer tears began to fill my eyes.  Writing this piece also gives me the same emotional response.  I'm not really sure why.  Maybe it's because I feel like it's something my Dad and I are missing out on or the fact that two thousand miles separate us these days.  I don't really have an answer other than my Dad is an amazing individual who has made a huge impact on my life, even though we don't share a love for cycling.  

taking the gloves off

Since I'm getting up there in my years, I find it hard to embrace certain forms of change.  Most of those incur in my world of pedaling a bicycle.  Habits get ingrained over years of repetition.  Miles and miles and miles of rolling along comfortably in my bubble of what works for me.  Merckx would measure his saddle and stem positions fanatically.  He also won a boatload of races.  There are many others out there with the "princess and the pea" haunting their riding position and gear choices. 
I've ridden with glove since I can remember.  The boss at the my first bike shop job pounded in our heads that gloves can save your hands in a crash and clean debris off of your tires.  When I graduated to mountain riding I began to wear long-fingered gloves for protection.  Then I started riding in long-fingered gloves all the time, no matter which discipline. 
This winter I sprung for some Brooks leather handlebar wrap.  It is an elegant touch to a road/touring/cross bike.  I spent a great deal of time this winter in the saddle of the cross bike.  The Brooks wrap looked sassy on my ride, but grip was a bit on the sketchy side with winter gloves.  Meanwhile a friend and I were having a debate on what the best glove for leather wrap would be.  He was also unnerved in the drops for lack of gription.  I continued to run full fingered gloves and recently re-wrapped my bars so the lower half is a grippy cork tape wrapped over the Brooks.  It feels good and looks kinda cool being all two colored and what-not. 
So the other day I decided to pedal on the road on a day off and for some reason I didn't need gloves.  Partly because it was getting hot and also because I just was curious how it would feel.  I'll have to say I was still comfy riding and had plenty of grip, even on the leather section. 
I just finished my second ride today sans gloves and I'll have to say for warm weather drop-bar riding I am a convert. 
I'm not gonna go giving up my gloves on the mountain bike though.  Not just yet.

you gotta be stoopid to be tough

It's been quite some time since I've pinned a number on a jersey.  It felt the same as in the past.   The looming event created nervous energy which in turn made me stab myself with the safety pins.  Even though I knew the event was not a race, I still wanted to post a decent time.
 I signed up for the Moab Gran Fondo way back in the winter, but made my decision to ride in the eleventh hour.  Literally - I was changing tires on my cross bike at 11:30 pm the night before the ride.  All the while muttering to myself the question of why I would pay to do the Loop road when it is basically in my backyard and accessible to me whenever the time allows.  Logic would dictate that any time I wanted to go out and punish myself for several hours on end I could hop on the road bike and roll straight into the pain cave. 
But alas the money had been spent and I would be a giant chortle-head for not participating.  So the morning of the event I got up early and did some stretching.  I pounded some coffee and water and managed to get down a couple of bananas.   I knew I needed to eat more, but rarely can I get up and just start downing food.  My stomach needs awhile to "wake up".  So I stuffed my pockets with a bunch of energy goops, pills and potions and bolted out of the door.
I arrived a few minutes early and found myself a rock to sit on and check out the crowd.  There was enough carbon fiber around to build a stealth fighter jet.  The writhing crowd of lycra almost sent me into dizzy spells before the gun went off.  Why am I here I asked, as I clipped in and dodged flailing freds desperate to get into their pedals.
I've spent a bunch of time on riding in crowds of people and it almost always makes me nervous.  Comfort is usually found at the front of one of these rides because that is where the experienced riders usually are.  As we made our turn onto the river road it began to be apparent how far away those experienced riders were.  By the time we hit the first roller climb of the day the long train began to fracture and form groups.  I found myself in a decent sized group about a half mile gap behind the next group who trailed the lead thoroughbreds.  I took a quick sweep of the talent as we rolled along.  I felt comfortable with about half and not real sure about the rest.  The pace was up and down and all around.  Braking in a group is very uncool and there was quite a bit of that going on, so I worked my way to the outside thinking it would be safer.  The pace continued to be erratic and my uneasiness was compounding.  I began doing calculations in my head as to whether I could bridge the next group.
Before I knew what I was doing I had began moving to the front.  Then I was at the front. And then off the front.  I buried my head and occasionally glanced up.  I could see another rider out in no-mans-land and I quickly made contact.   "I'm not gonna be much help, I'm afraid," the gal said as I pulled up beside her.  I sat on her wheel for a few minutes and got my heart rate back down.  I pulled back around and told her to hold on and made another surge.  The fact that I could see the next group ahead did not help matters, because the gap was not really changing.   Once again I started doing calculations in my head again and realized how close we were getting to Castle Valley and the first of a long stretch of climbing.
I throttled back to a good spin and was soon joined by two others who couldn't deal with the squirrelly group I had left.  They both commented on my tank of a bike and how I managed to move it forward pretty well.  We rode together for a while, picking off debris from the now exploded group as we headed into our first climb.  I felt good cresting the first hill, but knew food had to be consumed stat and I really had to find a place to pee.
I was a great relief to see the first water stop at the base of the real climbing.  Both of my bottles were empty and I was beginning to feel a twinge in my legs.  I topped off both bottles, sucked down some food and was off the to ascent.  I knew what lay ahead so I planned my power accordingly.  Only problem was, my legs had a different idea.  As soon as I stood up my legs gave a warning shot that systems were not functioning properly.  I sat back down.  My quads and hamstrings were alternating constrictions with every pedal stroke.  Cramps.  No, please no. Not the cramps.  
Halfway into my ride and I was cramping.  Son of a biscuit-eater.  I was pissed.  Not enough fuel and going too hard out of the gate.  Now I had to go into damage control mode.  I turned on my zombie powers and got in my easiest gear.  I limped up the climby sections and stretched on every teeny downgrade.  I ate most of the food I had with me and pounded more water.  The miles were going by, but at a much slower rate than planned.
I finally made it to the Kokopelli overlook and knew I was close to being done.  A bunch of downhill followed by the last big climb and some more ripping downhill.  I pulled out of the aid station only to be blasted by a soul-crushing headwind.  I switched into my big ring and extended my middle finger up into the wind.  By now my legs were finally coming back around.  After pedaling through cramps for 1.5 to 2 hours, I felt I could finally put a little power down.  I caught and passed some folks on the downhill.  Looming in the distance was the last of the upward pitches in the road.  I managed to stay on the gas and as I was passing a bunch of shelled carcasses on the climb, my girl passed me going the other direction and I blew her a kiss. Suddenly I was invigorated.
I now knew the finish wasn't far and bombed the huge downhill like a peregrine falcon.  I managed to pick off a few more stragglers before hooking onto a big dudes wheel and riding his draft across the line.
I was fully toasted and knew I had destroyed my legs.  The painful reminder of the ride loomed in my legs for the next two days.  And yes I did finish the ride.  But as my friend Heather D says, "you gotta be stoopid to be tough."

inspiration

I got a message from a fellow blogger recently that basically read, "help, I've got writer's block."  I shot back a message, "write about what inspires you."  Then I thought about how long it's been since I've posted.  Heck, I needed some inspiration myself.  Then I thought a little deeper and decided maybe inspiration was all around me.
Spring has ushered in guiding season and I now have two trips under my belt.   Lucky for me they were both mellow trips, because bad planning has left me with nothing but my one speed to pedal.  I am currently trying to sell my "Moab" bike to get a more "pedal-able" trail bike for work.  So in the interim I have left myself with the body punishing one-speed to ride in the dirt. 
I felt good about the riding on the trips, but questioned the fun-factor of daily singlet-track riding.  I cut a few laps on some tasty new ribbon overlooking town.  There were the expected o-shit-my-head-is-gonna-pop moments, but I also found the some flow.  My eyes and brain were firing in concert when spotting inclines that required synapse directed muscular turbo boost.  I managed to refrain from hiking AND didn't barf.
I was hooked on the single-speed again.  And then I road Phil's World in Cortez, Co.
That's when I really freaked out.
I was riding with a bunch of friends and blew some turns even though I had no idea where I was going but it didn't matter because this was one of the most fun 22 miles of flowy desert trails EVER.
I didn't go the wrong way and we regrouped and freaked out some more.
Holy crap the riding there is fun.
And if that isn't enough, my little buddy Elijah is doing his first race this weekend.  I sent him a cycling cap I made in hopes it brings him good luck.
So I reckon I've got inspiration spinning around me.

la classica di Primavera

Today marks the 102nd running of the the Spring classic, the Milan-San Remo.  The event was organized by the Italian sports paper, La Gazzetta dello Sport in 1907, who questioned whether or not finishing was even a possibility.  The first edition started on April 14, 1907, covering 288 kilometers and draconian rules forbade any feed zones or equipment changes.  Out of 33 starters, only 14 finished. 
In 1927 the race was moved from April to March, and the length gradually increased to 300 kilometers by 1946.
The fastest Milan-San Remo was in 1990, won by Gianni Bugno in 6 hrs, 25 min, 6 sec at an average speed of 28.45 mph.
The slowest was held during a snowstorm in 1910, where only four riders finished.  Eugene Christophe was the victor after 12 hrs 24 min.

The venerable Eddy Merckx holds the greatest number of wins at seven.
The Italians have taken 50 victories in their home country and Italian rider Wladimiro Panizza holds the record for participation with an amazing 18 starts.

 The event has become known as the "sprinter's classic," amazing in itself that riders have enough "kick" left after 299 kilometers of racing.

movie review - The Misfortunates

When in the movie rental store, I tend to gravitate toward the strange and quirky.  Independent films are preferred and for some reason I enjoy foreign movies with subtitles.  I usually trend toward the conservative side when watching movies with Lisa, mostly because I have picked more than a few duds in my time.  So since she was out of town, I went out on a limb and rented "The Misfortunates." 

The above photo was on the back cover and even though the dudes were naked, they were on bikes.  I've ridden a bike naked, so therefore I could relate and was intrigued for more back-story.
The film is Belgian.  So as one might expect there is bike riding and drinking.  Lots and lots of drinking.  So much drinking that Uncle Beefcake participates in a Tour de France of drinking, complete with a yellow jersey for the leader.  And as you can imagine, problems arise from all that debauchery.
The story is centered around 13 year old Gunter Strobbe, his dysfunctional family and his desire to leave the chaotic surroundings. 
That's about as much as you need to know without giving the whole movie away.
The film feels raw and confounding as it walks the line between tragedy and comedy.  It carries it's message close to the surface.
One might wonder what the attraction might be in such an emotional train-wreck of a movie.
I guess it's the same as most movies, we just want to see how it turns out in the end.
Plus, there are many scenes with bikes and any flick that incorporates cycling into the script has got my attention.  Naked or not.

saturday spin with lola

 

Sometimes it's tough living with a special needs four-legged zombie.  Saturday started out as one of those days.  I could see it in her eyes as soon as she finished breakfast.  It was a "you're gonna take me out to play today or I'm gonna do something crazy while you're gone" look.

Normally I'm not so concerned when her brother and mother are around.  But the better-half had taken CottonBall with her to SW Utah for some vertical bluff-scaling.  For the next few days, it was just me and  the little nuerotic one.

Friday night at the mixer I had spoken with my friend Angela about doing a Porcupine lap.  It had just opened up recently and she was going with some other bad-ass lady-friends of ours.  I felt honored to be invited on the ride, and bummed to bow out.  I knew Lola needed to run wild, but Porcupine wasn't really dog friendly.

 So we packed up the truck and headed north for the Sovereign trail.  Although it's a short drive out to the trailhead,  both of us couldn't wait to get out of the truck.  Something about our rickety little toyota truck scares the bejeezus out of Lola.  When we turned onto the dirt section, she bolted away from the passenger door and tried to climb on top of my head.  It was rather difficult fighting off a 60 lb dog and navigating a sandy wash.  I managed to get her out of my lap, but she slid beside me and extended her broom-handle legs enough to press all her weight against me.  Ears cocked and body tensioned, there was no moving her until that door opened.  She stomped on me like a doormat as soon as I lifted the handle.

I couldn't wait to wear this crazed beast down.

And ride some sweet singletrack.

We started at the trailhead on Dalton Wells road and went up to the left towards Cedar Mountain.  I had never ridden some of that action and kept wondering to myself how this was possible.

I mean seriously....I couldn't believe I had never ridden this section of the Sovereign before.  There was plenty of climbing to the mesa top top and no shortage of technical moves on the way.  The climb up is mostly through a bentonite shelf, so as long as it's dry the trail is bomber.  The bottom section is a groovy slickrock wash.

It was a good ride for both of us.  I got to explore some "new" digs and Lola got the beat-down she needed to overcome her neuroses or whatever she has.

The weather was rather polite and we didn't see another soul out there.

Mmmm, singletrack.

I'm looking forward to riding this little gem again.

I think Lola is in too, as long as we don't take the Ez-truck.

march radness

March.  It's a month and a word defining movement.  March also tells us that spring is coming and so are the people.  Gone are the sleepy winter days in our little hamlet of Moab where you can cross the street without so much as looking.  The rise in the mercury seems to have a direct correlation with the amount of cars rolling into town.  And a majority of those cars have bikes on the roof as well as frostbitten Cool-oradan's, itching to pedal in the warm desert sun.

Among those making the annual spring pilgrimage from our neighboring state are the folks from Yeti.  Yeti has had a connection with Poison Spider Bicycles and much of the community for 20 years.  So last night to celebrate, Wes and Penelope opened the doors of the Love Muffin for a Yeti mixer.   A chance for the locals to show their face in public again and rub elbows with folks they haven't seen in a while and maybe meet some new friends.

I'll have to say, seeing a pile of bikes outside an event warms the cockles of my heart.  The bike to person ratio hovered pretty close to 1 to 1.  There was cake and adult beverages being consumed, rides being planned and smack being talked.  

With the legendary HB leading the charge.

A big thanks to the Love Muffin, Poison Spider and Yeti for bringing everyone together.  It's good to start out the season with laughter and good friends.  And of course bikes.

Bikes of all shapes and tire sizes.

The Hardcore Porn for Bike Geeks Show

The most vivid memories of my childhood have to do with bicycles.  Like many children of the 60's and 70's, I began with a Schwinn Stingray.  By the time my brother and I got finished with it, it was an unrecognizable smoldering carcass of its former self.  I remember the last time I saw it, it was sitting in the corner of a dilapidated barn, stripped down to frame and fork and rattle-canned matte black.  I felt ashamed.
Alongside it was another bike I had abandoned.  It was a red,white&blue ten-speed Free Spirit.  I had begged for a ten-speed for Christmas that year.  What I had in mind and what my folks could afford were two different things.  I had been in a real bike shop and had "seen the light."   In reality, I was an ungrateful teenager that was about to be taught a lesson.  You want it bad enough, get a job and buy it yourself, my parents had leveled.
So I did.  I was overwhelmed by the desire to own a nice road bike.  To this day, it is still puzzling to me.  I was old enough to drive, yet I didn't want a car.  All of my friends were shredding on bmx bikes, and yet I didn't want one of those.  My mind was reeling from glossy steel tubes and shiny imported parts.  I was whacked out on bikes and blaming the tubular glue.  My life was consumed with everything bike.

And here I am, some 25ish years later and bikes are still like crack for me.  Over the years I have become attached to a bike or two.   There are bikes that are dispensable to me, usually my work bikes, and then there are the ones that will never leave the stable.
 The coveted hand-crafted ones.
Which brings us to the North American Handmade Bicycle Show.
I personally think they should change the name to Hardcore Porn for Bike Geeks.
The show is going on right now as we speak, February 25-27 in Austin, Texas.
From it's humble beginnings of 23 vendors and 700 attendees in 2005,  the show has continued to grow and draw more attention each year.
A majority of the bikes on display are nothing short of stunning.   Part of me wishes I could be there adding my fingerprints and drool to the mix.  The other part knows I could only attend without a wallet.  Nevertheless, there is some nice photo documentation going on and I can live vicariously via the internet.
Check it out for yourself.  John is doing a nice job at  http://www.prollyisnotprobably.com/.
My personal favorite I've seen so far - http://www.flickr.com/photos/johnprolly/5476704189/in/set-72157626011075451/ .
Enjoy!
http://www.2011.handmadebicycleshow.com/

what's wrong with US?

Bob Roll has written, "Any 7-year-old Flemish schoolchild knows 100 times more about cycling than all Americans combined."   Let's face it, Europe in general is crazy about cycling.  Countries, cities, and families have all been divided because of a favored rider.  Italy has Bartali versus Coppi, a debate that is still going on today.  The French have Anquetil and Poulidor.  The Swiss have Kubler and Koblet.  The Belgians have Roger de Vlaeminck and of course, Eddy Merckx.  European fans pack the roadside of every grand tour and spring classic, hoping to get a glimpse of their favorite rider. 
And this may beg the question - who is Bob Roll?  Well, Bob used to be a pro-cyclist who went to Europe in the 80's, lived in a tent and wrote poetry on the sidewalls of his tires.  He eventually got picked up by Seven Eleven, the first American team to win stages in the Giro and the Tour.  Roll was racing beside the likes of Ron Kiefel, Davis Phinney, Eric Heiden, Jeff Bradley, Tom Schuler, Greg Demgen, Bradley Davies, Roger Young and Danny Van Haute all hailing from the U.S..  And you probably don't recognize any of these names either. 
But I'm guessing that Greg Lemond might ring a bell.  Rolling alongside the Seven Eleven squad, Lemond gained notoriety by taking a first American victory in the 1986 Tour de France, after battling it out with his own teammate Bernard Hinault.  Then in 1989 after recovering from a near-fatal hunting accident, he repeated, beating Frenchman Laurent Fignon by a mere 8 seconds in the final time trial.  I remember watching the final stage unfold, glued to the edge of my seat.  And for once, it seemed like at least some of the country was watching as well.  Sports Illustrated featured Lemond as the Sportsman of the Year cover boy and ABC Sports voted him Athlete of the year.  In 1990 he won a third Tour de France, keeping U.S. cycling on the map.  He continued to race until 1994, then quietly retired from the pro ranks.
And then came Lance.
So much has been said about him that I don't even know where to begin.
My first look at Lance was in the 1992 Summer Olympics.  I screamed at him through the television as he watched the break go.  They were too far in, I thought, there's no way he's going to bridge back up.  And like that his fate was sealed.  No medal and a permanent black mark on his record for not listening to me.  My opinion of our "new rising star"  had been wavered.  I am aware that basing my opinion on one race lacks rationality, but the damage was done.
My interest in road racing was waning while Lance was launching his attack.  He was winning Tours, beating cancer and becoming a media darling.  His persona quickly eclipsed that of Lemond and he was becoming a household name.  His Livestrong campaign started a wristband craze.   He was on the road to winning seven Tours.  And sides were being taken.
Whether you are for or against Lance, chances are you have an opinion and that is a beautiful thing.  A cyclist becoming a household name in the United States is a rarity.  Somewhere along the way, we have pushed aside the notion of cycling as a sport.  Maybe Americans lack the grit and the passion to inspire the country.  After all, the guy who has the record for Tour de France wins is from the U.S., but what other races has he won.   Focusing on one race is drive.  Turning yourself inside out in every single race you do is called passion. 
Lance recently announced he was retiring - again.  Clouded by accusations of doping and a federal investigation underway, he continues to stand in the media spotlight.  I just wonder how many teenagers have been inspired to follow in his cleats.

Me and My Bike

This video was posted on bikerumor.com and I had to share it.  The group is called Wafalme and they are a group of teenagers from the slums of Nairobi.  The clip won a video contest called "1 Minute to Save the World."   Just goes to show, no matter where you live or what side of the tracks you are on, bicycles can have a big impact!

wednesday spin

Take a close look at this photo.  It's the middle of February and I'm wearing shorts.  If this photo wasn't black and white, I'm afraid those pasty chicken sticks would make the goth crowd proud.  It was a balmy 61 degrees with nice chunks of sunshine.

These are the days that make me even more psyched to live in such an amazing place.  I was only out for about an hour and a half, but it was time spent pedaling in spring-like weather.

I love my backyard.

And some bike ridin'!

cycle sculpture

Bikes are comprised of lots of metal parts.  Metal doesn't decompose, nor does any of the other parts hanging on bikes.  And let's face it, there are crappy bikes out there as well as bikes that have out-lived their safety.  So where do all of the terminal bikes go?  I would like to think they are lifted up in a shaft of light and sucked into two-wheeled nirvana.  But the grim truth is that a sweaty, slightly over-weight and hairy dude in jeans that show his crack, a dirty t-shirt and a yellow hard hat is hauling that scrapped wheel to live out it's half-life in a dump overlooking the Jersey shore.   And unfortunately other places in the world that could be scenic.   Good thing for us and the bikes, there are people out there trying to keep bikes out of the dump.   Re-purposing bikes that were destined for purgatory.  This is a little photo essay of some of that work.  Starting right here in little ole Moab, we have the WabiSabi thrift store sculpture. 

This next one caught my eye.  I like the wheel in the middle and the mesh of frames comprising the roof.  I'd like too see the rest of this beauty, it's in Belgium.  Photo courtesy ForeignNature.com is the photographic index of Jonathan Galbreath.

Arches are naturally occurring.  Bikes are not.  Neither are bike arches.  This one is at Burning Man.  You can bet your sweet drunk grandmother's naked ass that there is enough naturally occurring shit happening there to scar any impressionable mind.  Mark Grieve created the piece after Larry Harvey, founder of Burning Man, asked him if he was interested in creating a piece for the entrance to Center Camp, an area where people park a lot of bikes.  Grieve was inspired to make the piece after a trip to Arches National Park in Utah and by observing nature. The arch took about four months to complete and was a collaborative effort between Grieve and Ilana Spector, a former lawyer and solar energy company president turned welder.

"Pablo Picasso was never called an ass-hole."  And in 1942 he made a rather cool and well-known sculpture from some bike parts.  "Head of the Bull"

And Before Pablo, there was Marcel Duchamp and his Bicycle Wheel  in 1913.  The 1913 Bicycle Wheel was lost, but nearly four decades later Duchamp assembled a replacement from newly found prefabricated parts, indicating that the later version was as valid as the original.

The next image was borrowed from creations, the great big sculptures thread on http://fazyluckers.com/discussion/2471/2/the-great-big-sculptures-thread/.  Apparently this is in Parc de la Vilette :  Paris, France. This one gets two big thumbs up.

And our last artful use of bicycles.  Use them as outdoor wallpaper.  Or just to confuse the brain right out of a bicycle thief. 

Sunday spin

The Sunday forecast taunted me with temperatures near fifty.  I decided to forgo the "Church of the Sweet Ride" feeling I needed more penance on the legs and less on the back.  I chose to flog myself by heading out toward Canyonlands and coming back via Gemini Bridges. 

It was pretty quiet out there.  Once I turned on to Gemini rd, I only saw one vehicle.  It was a great day to put in some hours, despite the clouds holding back the warmth of the sun.  I ended up back at the house with nearly four solid hours of pedaling.  Although I was psyched to end up with the saddle time, I was starving and luckily caught Lisa via phone at the pizza joint.  I beat her home and pretty much ate what I could find until she arrived.  Then I devoured giant slices of pizza until I couldn't get off the couch.  Now that's training!

proper set-up

I remember when I first started riding mountain bikes.  It was the late 80's and things were evolving rather quickly.   Drawing on ideas from bicycles, motorcycles and industrial machining, a flood of ideas was building that would be big enough to bury us all.  Being a shop rat and ready to embrace all things new was a bad idea.  I adorned my Yo Eddy with gaudily colored, overly-machined parts complete with way too long and low stem and chopped down handlebars.  There was barely enough room to fit brake levers, shifters and grips before the bend.  I rode like this for years thinking it was a good idea.
Then came riser bars.  And good suspension.  And finally comfort.
Finally it's totally acceptable to ride with your handlebars the same height as your saddle.  No more granny comments.
So what has happened out there in the world in the last 20+ years.  Did we get smarter.  Are dudes my age spec-ing all of the bikes out in the world.   I know there are actually people who still ride with long stems and chopped off bars in their stretched out neon lycra.  But most of the world is starting to embrace proper bike fit and comfort.
Let's face it, most of the world is not out to be a world champion.  They just want to be outside having an enjoyable experience on the bike.  And this goes for road or mountain rider alike.  The key to enjoyable cycling and the road to improvement, begins with proper bike fit.  The more dialed you are on your bike, the longer and faster you can ride.  Or you can make that trip to the corner store in half the time in an emergency.
Look at almost any video footage of Eddy Merckx, the great one, and I'll guarantee you he measures and adjusts something on his bike.  He was fanatical about bike fit, and it apparently paid off.  He looks pretty comfortable blowing peoples doors off. 
So what do you look for in proper bike set-up?
Well first of all, because of mountain bike suspension, we have to differentiate fit and suspension set-up.  Both are very important, yet independent of each other.  First you have to get comfortable on that mountain bike before you start turning knobs and dials.
Now this is by no means a formula to get the perfect fit on your bike.  On the contrary, it's more of a "what to look for" and when to seek a professional.
There are three areas of contact on the bicycle.  Your hands, feet and your arse.  The magic triangle.  Get the angles your body draws correct, and you'll be a happy camper on your rig.  Get them wrong and you will likely struggle.
Your cockpit length is most important.  This begins by having the right size bike with a top-tube that is close to the right size.   An important part of the saddle-bar reach.  Saddles can slide for an aft, moving your rear wheel weight and knee angle.  Ideally you want the ball of your foot over the pedal spindle.  You can usually tell if your saddle is in the wrong spot if you are always favoring the nose or tail.  The stem length and angle affect where your bars are going to sit.  Racers (road or mountain) go long and low for climbing and overall power.  This is great if you want to go fast, but handling will be sacrificed on the downhill.  Thus, down-hillers run their bars high and short, with wide bars for leverage.  They want a heads up riding position with quick steering feedback.  Set your bike up like this and you will hate the way it climbs, at least at first.  Somewhere in between these two is a compromise.  You also have to decide which ride quality is most important.
Keep in mind though, if you really want your bike set up like a rocket ship, your neck or back may hurt at some point.   And you can't get pissed if your downhill chopper climbs like it has two flat tires and you can't hold a straight line.  Big adjustments one way or the other will yield that compromise.  Little adjustments however will get you somewhere in the middle.  Just remember a few millimeters one way or another can yield a result, and you only want to adjust one thing at a time.
Once you get your fore-aft position dialed in, you need too figure out the pedal-saddle height.  A good starting point is having a slight bend in your knee on the full downward position.  Too high and you will rock on the saddle and jack up your hips and knees.  Too low and you will strain your quads and tops of your knees.  The more dialed your seat height, the more efficient you are.
Now about that suspension set-up.  The ideal situation is to befriend a good mechanic who does the work on your bike.  Ask them what and how many adjustments your shocks have.  The front and rear shock should work together.  Too much/too little in either one will affect how the bike rides.  The set up chart that comes in your owners manual is a great place to start.   Many manufacturers also include the shock manuals for higher end bikes.  Find out what adjustments you have.  Are your shocks air or coil spring.  Air and all you will need for adjustment is a pump, coil and you could be looking at different springs to achieve the ride you want.  Rebound, compression and lock-out are options on nicer shocks.  Compression is how fast your shock squishes down.  Rebound is how fast it returns.  This is achieved by opening or closing oil flow.  Open, the oil runs fast, and as it closes the oil becomes more impeded.  Adjusting these two can make your bike feel like a pogo stick or a bucking bronco.  As with making fit adjustments, make very small adjustment when dialing in suspension.  One or two clicks at a time.  You should definitely notice a difference in one and three clicks, oil flow will be slower or faster.  The rule of thumb is a smooth compression a rebound between "snappy" and "slurpy."  This will make more sense when you push on your shocks. 
Bike fit and suspension set-up are way more than I could ever begin to cover in one sitting.  This is just some general platforms.  I will try to edit this so that it remains a concise overview.
Getting comfortable on a bike takes time.  There are a great deal of factors that contribute to positive or negative outcome.  Do yourself a favor and spend the time getting to know your bike and how it's set up.  It will make you dig riding that much more.