Worth a Thousand Words

I am trying out my new phone to see if I can take good pictures with it. So far, not too bad considering the low light. These were all shot at St Edward park this morning using my Samsung Galaxy S3 phone.

UPDATE: Writing Competition

Last November I entered a national writing contest. Well the news is out and I did not win, I know it's shocking. The winner is a professional writer, also shocking, right. Winning wasn't the point but merely entering was what I wanted to accomplish. Below is the story I entered. I took several parts of different stories and combined them into one. This year I plan to enter again but will have more time to craft a better story. Thanks to everyone that gave me words of encouragement and support. So here it is:

Red Right Hand 

I look down at my right hand, palm facing up. It's covered, uneven, blotchy, and dripping. Drop by slow-motion drop, on my pants, my shoes, the floor. I see red. My fingers are so coated that my index and middle fingers stick together easily. I test the tackiness by moving the two fingers out and in, out and in, like I'm cutting thin air with my crimson soaked finger-scissors. I can feel it drying on my skin, making it tight. I'm entranced by the glossy sheen and I get lost in thought. 

My dad and I had an arrangement. The sort of thing that just kind of happens. No one sets out to make a pact. It developed naturally, I guess. Although, I know him; he yearned for moments to teach, to impart his vast knowledge, experience, and passion. To watch over someone as he pushed through a problem under his own power was a sweet victory. It brought him the kind of joy that turns the monotony of day-to-day living into something cool. 

Teaching moments crowd around me like weeds, so he never had long to wait. Just around the next corner, another stupid mistake, and another wonderful opportunity for him to teach me something. Dad didn’t dish out lessons on a whim. He was not the sort of man that stood on a soap box with a bull horn to declare his mastery of this or that. Quiet, reserved and patient to a fault perhaps. He would wait for just the right moment, a moment like this. 

I’m frustrated. I’m perplexed. I stare at my hand and then back at him, my brows pinned together like two rams with their horns locked. Every one of my questions to him was answered with a question. 

Argh! “Just tell me the answer!” I blurted. 

Nope. Not yet, it wasn’t time. I hadn’t walked far enough down the path. I kept asking questions, but I failed to bend them into the right shape to hook the ring of the lynch pin and yank it free of its burden. I was bad at asking pointed questions. One of his greatest skills, I think, was his uncanny ability to ask the right question at just the moment it needed to be asked. I'm too impatient for that nonsense. Plus, I know he knows the answer. He just does; certainly he must. Why should he make me suffer through finding just the right question? Why does it matter so much to him? 

To him the lesson wasn't really the one I thought it should be. The problem, the one at hand, is rarely the real problem. Not the one that needs fixing, a remedy, or a sternly taught instruction to prevent it from happening again. 

No. Not this problem: red hand, red pants, red shirt, red shoes, and red floor. The resolution to this sticky situation will not prevent its reoccurrence. He quietly looks at me, waiting. Softly. Breathing deeply, I smell the unmistakable muskiness of our garage; a mixture of truck oil, wheel bearing grease, dirt, hammered metal, and cut wood. Eyes closing, I mentally back track, tight-rope walking along the train rail, following the hardened steal line in my brain that leads me back to where the train left the station, to that moment, the one where I must have jumped the rails. The spot I made the wrong choice. 

AH HA! I got it! 

I look at him eagerly. He sees it in my face, the confidence streams through my 7-year-old body. I smile up at him. He smiles back, slowly opens his hands towards me as if presenting me with a gift and asks, "What is your question?" 

Into his two clean hands, I hold out for his inspection, my red right hand. I ask him my well-thought question, proudly, "How do I hold the can of spray paint so it paints my bike and not my hand?" "Ah!" he says thoughtfully, as if I had just asked him to explain the nature of blue sky, "Excellent question, let me show you how to do that AFTER I show you how to get this paint off your hands". 

And so it went, year after year, I would screw up, he would teach, and I would learn. The lessons became more complicated and problems turned into projects. For Christmas my friends would get bikes, fully assembled and ready to ride. Not me, dad would give me bikes, but they each came as a box of parts, pieces and bits. We’d spend all day putting them together. Year after year, bike after bike, until, it seemed, I didn’t need his help any longer. 

I was fixing my friends’ bikes now; the ones that got to ride their bikes as soon as they got them. The same ones who would ride past my garage, chasing each other, popping wheelies, hitting jumps and doing cool power skids while I sat there trying to figure out how to pack wheel bearings. I was seven and my dad just smiled at them and waved, “Hi boys, nice bikes ya got there.” 

The years went by and we sort of settled in to this arrangement where he would ride the hell out of a bike and then give it to me. He would go off and buy a new one for himself. I would spend all my spare time in that garage tearing the bike apart, sanding the frame, painting and putting it back together like it was brand new. Every once in awhile he’d walk past the garage and wave at me, “Hi son, nice bike ya got there.” 

The funny thing is, I don’t remember ever riding with him, just fixing and rebuilding. Weird. He rode every day and so did I. I guess that’s just the way it was. He and I and bikes. 

He had a great passion for cycling. Riding a bike was something very different for him. He was into cycling like a fish is into swimming. It was just simply something he did, no clubs, no nonsense, and no matter what. He rode to and from work (6 mile round-trip) year round, in Colorado! 

He owned countless bikes over the decades and the deal was: I got his old bikes after he rode them into the ground. I would then disassemble, paint, and rebuild them to make my own bike. But since I moved to Washington 20 years ago, I no longer got his old bikes. The deal just kind of fell apart. Distance is a difficult thing to bridge sometimes. 

Well, a few days ago my brother delivered to me the last bike he ever rode, a Specialized. Technically not the last bike he owned. A few years back he retired the Specialized and dropped some serious cash on an all carbon-fiber bike, which he rode despite being almost completely blind from macular degeneration and his body riddled with cancer. How he managed that, I'm still not sure. There came a time when even his strong-will could not keep him balanced on a bike. He reluctantly traded it in on a three-wheeled recumbent, which he rode nearly to his last day. 

This bike, the Specialized, now standing proudly in my garage, represents the return to the old system: he rides, gives to me, and I rebuild it into something of my own. That's what he wanted, that's why he wanted me to have it. 

Resurrection, Dr Frankenstein style. 

I look down at my hands, they remind me of how his looked when I was 7; wrinkled, torn, cut, damaged. I grab his bike and close my eyes. Over the past few months I’ve held myself together. Bound up a million broken bits with a wafer thin veneer, sharp corners and crumbling pieces pushing the limits of the shallow skin. But now I feel it tearing and a small hole starts. Tighter and tighter I squeeze the handle bar grip in my right hand and the seat in my left but to now avail. I’m breaking apart, shredding into ribbons and a million pieces shatter and tumble like an avalanche of rocks: bouncing, crashing, and bashing each other as they fall across the floor. 

It’s like Christmas morning and I’ve crumbled in to a box of parts, pieces and bits. No instructions, no dad, and worst of all no questions. I don’t even know where to begin. So I just stare at my hands, palms up in front of me, flushed red from the blood rushing back into them after releasing the death-grip on the bike. From the bike, to my hands and back to the bike I stare. Blank, thoughtless, numb. 

For now I think I will let it rest, peacefully.

4 in the morning

Now, suddenly I’m awake. Moments before I was fast asleep, dreaming of unicorns, banana splits and rainbow sprinkles. Not now. Now my eyes are open. Now it’s darkness, peppered with soft light from the suburbs that surround my house. The trees outside my bedroom window sway back and forth pushing the light across my walls like a paintbrush smearing muted watercolor. Now it’s 4 o’clock in the morning. Now is not good. 

I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply. I can’t. I gasp and gulp. I wince and worry. I can feel my face tighten under the strain and pressure. The furrows of my forehead deepen with each attempt to inhale. I hold my breath, instinctively I guess, hoping that the pressure will somehow subside. It doesn't  It’s getting worse. I roll onto my back for relief. Better? No. Right side? No. Left again? No. Stomach? Oh gawd, hell no!

I roll back to my right side, my favorite sleeping position, and I focus. I can do this. I can calm the rising panic and simply breathe easily. Eyes closed gently, forehead relaxed through sheer will power. Floating into my happy place. I’m shallow breathing on purpose like I’m trying to grab the reins of a wild horse. If I can just seize control over the lizard part of my brain then I can slowly increase the depth and quality. I have it, I think. I pull in the cold, fresh air pouring from the whirling fan perched in the open window. Ach! I stutter – I clinch – I gasp.

The muscles on my back that encase my rib cage have clamped down tighter than a dog on a gravy covered bone. Their jaws are locked down and they refuse to loosen their death grip on my ribs. My breathing is short and choppy. My fussing hasn't gone unnoticed and so the dogs are up now and Alex is stirring. I can’t bear it and the only thing I can think of to relieve the pressure is a hot shower. Probably not the best idea but it’s always been a default cure-all for whatever ails me. With her help I manage to shuffle myself into the shower and stay there until the water runs cold.

Now? Now what? Several days later and the pressure is still there but significantly better. Merely a reminder now that my body is telling me something isn't right and I need to fix it. Finding the source of back muscle pain is nearly impossible. It basically breaks down to two options: Strain due to overuse or injury. I didn't injure it, recently. So overuse then. My constant bike riding is most likely the culprit but since I am loathe to stop or alter that in any way I will begin building and strengthening other parts of my body so that my back doesn't have to bear all the strain. I’ll start with my core.

The Threshold

I'm so sick! My brain is fighting with my body. I wanna puke but my pride won't allow it. I'm the middle rider in a group of three: Crash is leading us through our typical Wednesday ride around Paradise Valley, in the dark. His 16 year old son, Panic is riding at his best just behind me. He is so close that his front tire periodically roughs up my back tire. It's a sharp reminder to keep pedaling despite my desire to stop and purge my last three meals all at once. I can't stop, I mustn't. If I do, I've convinced myself, that I will never get better, I will never improve. 

I'm not sick in the sense that I have a cold or flu or anything like that. No. My body is revolting, kicking and screaming against the harsh task master of extreme exertion. We're cranking our bikes through one of the most difficult and physically punishing sections at Paradise - "Two Trees". It's dark, wet, and everything is covered with sloppy mud and ice. I can taste it in my mouth, I'm covered in it. 

I've ridden this section of trail dozens of times yet somehow it never seems to get easier. Tonight it seems particularly grueling. Lactic acid crashes through my legs like a hurricane. My back aches and my hands would probably hurt if they weren't so numb from the cold, wet air. That cold air, by the way, I can't get enough of it. I'm breathless and it feels like I'm wrapped tightly into a straightjacket. I bite and gobble the air. My heart is red-lining and it feels like it's teetering on the edge of exploding. 

And then it happens. Almost like clockwork. Usually some time between 35 and 45 minutes into a ride I pass through the doorway. I cross the threshold. It's a transcendence of sorts. I reach a point when the storm subsides, my breathing calms and my heart settles into a steady cadence. It feels like this massive weight is lifted from my body. 

It's an odd feeling because it was only moments earlier that I wanted to be put out of my misery and now I am lifted. I don't know if it's a mental breakthrough or a physical one but I find a renewed energy and determination to push myself. Lee's son who was just hot on my trail is now 10 feet back, then 20. And now that I've noticed it, I expect it. I drag myself along knowing that I will eventually hit the tipping point and my energy will gush out the other side. Not that it diminishes the crushing pressure that leads up to that moment but now I have hope. And sometimes that's all I need to keep myself from puking. 

Love Letter to the Pacific Northwest

Skookum Flats draped with moss

Paradise shrouded in fog

Greg "Caution" approaching the mushroom stump at Duthie

Winter in the Pacific Northwest is cold and wet. It's continuously moist climate has it's drawbacks and it's many detractors and haters. Not me though because unlike any other region in America it also stays green year-round. Not sparsely green either. Trees that are usually dense with leaves most of the year; alder, ash, birch, and maples drop their vibrant plumage to reveal that their trunks and branches are not bare and twisted bones but are flowing arms elegantly draped in moss, peppered with lichen, and flaunting the most extraordinary array of colorful mushrooms. 

Early Saturday morning we stood in my driveway chatting and loading our bike gear. The aluminum frame of my bike is cold to the touch. It's just above freezing at 7:30 AM and I think about putting my gloves on and how that might feel; much better than frigid metal of course. Greg breaks my train of thought with a blunt observation: "Thick fog this morning". It sure was, I hadn't given it much attention until then. I paused and looked around to notice that we were socked in. The sky, or more accurately the space above us was an endless fluff of light grey dog-toy stuffing, yanked out and scattered to every horizon. It floated and hung in the air and it wrapped itself around pine trees, connected eaves between houses and obscured lamp post tops.

I felt the smile on my face moments after the subconscious, involuntary reaction put it there. I am smiling, kind of smirking actually because I love it here and I know that most people don't, they can't stand the grey and I'm okay with that. They long for July when it's hot and sunny whereas I'm thankful that the heat only lasts a few short weeks. And so I soak it all in. I inhale deeply; the cold damp air fills my lungs and surrounds my heart with the same blanket of fog that surrounds the trees. I am energized by it, lifted by it, strengthened and inspired by it. 

Some of my close friends and family have referred to me as a die-hard mountain biker, or hard-core, or some other similar moniker meant to describe my tendency to head off into the forest on my bike in spite of the sun-less weather. They are almost right. I do enjoy mountain biking and all the side-effects that bubble up because I'm active. I can't deny that riding twice a week improves my physical health and mental well-being. I have more energy and it gives me yet another great item to add to my list of wonderful things in my life. 

The truth is, I simply love living in the Pacific Northwest and mountain biking has been the best way for me to enjoy it. I get to go out with my close friends that not only share my passion for biking but also share my love of this region. Sometimes getting out and riding with my friends ends up not being at all about riding but more about the camaraderie, the shared experience, the common passion and sometimes it feels like we share a secret that no one else knows about or understands. And so it is. As I give our bikes a final once-over before we head off to hit another favorite trail, I catch a glimpse of Greg: he's smirking. 

Minimalist

The 1st fender I broke - and "trail-fixed"

The last fender I'll break

I broke another one. I think this is my fourth busted fender and it’s the second one in under a week’s time. Only this one belonged to Caution (Greg). I borrowed his because I hadn’t the time to go buy a replacement and I wanted to use something for our wet and nasty ride last Wednesday night. I used it again this Saturday morning and split it in two on the first run. Thankfully none of them shattered due to a crash on my part. These types of fenders are mounted to the front shock and so they take a great deal of abuse during any given ride. If the shocks compress to their full limit, usually about 6 inches, they top out and the tire hits the fender with enough force to bust it in half. This normally doesn’t happen but speed combined with a high drop-off will max out the forks. Snap-o!

Spending 30 bucks on a new fender isn’t that big of a deal. But the frequency is what’s got me thinking. It obviously makes no sense to buy a fender after every other ride. The fenders I buy are considered some of the best so there’s no question of quality. There are several different styles of fenders, some mount to the frame, some to the bottom of the head tube (my style), and others mount to the shock chambers. Each have their own pros and cons and each of them keeps some of the mud flung from the front tire out of my mouth. Yeah, I said some.

I’ve been using fenders for a long time and I’ve ridden in nearly every conceivable weather condition. I almost always put fenders on because even in the peak of summer there always seems to be some sort of wet muck on the trail…even if it’s just horse apples. And the fenders are light and unobtrusive so they’re imperceptible. Here’s the thing though, I don’t think they make any difference.

Ok, maybe a little bit of a difference but if I’m riding in the rain, I’m going to get wet – with or without fenders. If the trails are sloppy muddy, I’m going get muddy – with or without fenders. And somehow I end up riding close behind someone just as they rake through a fresh pile of horse crap, which doesn’t even come close to getting captured by my fenders.

So why do I ever bother with some of this stuff? Because that’s what everyone else does. Guys in the magazines use fenders. My local bike shop has a whole wall dedicated to fenders, all shapes and sizes. I’ve been using them because it’s been one of those “why not?” things. But now I’m asking, why should I? It doesn’t seem to make any real difference, not how or when I ride anyway. It’s one less thing (two, actually) to put in my bike box for a trip, one less thing to put on and take off every time I ride, it’s one less thing to break and one less thing to spend money on. So screw it, I’m going fender-less. I’m stripping things down to the bare essentials. Now I’m thinking, what else can I get rid of? Who needs all that extra crap anyway. What good is it? Bring on the mud ya slimy bastards!!!

No is easy

Saying "no" is easy. Doing nothing is easy. Excuses and rationalizations for not doing something are a dime-a-dozen. It's easy to say I'm too tired or it's too cold or whatever. When ice covers the front yard the last thing anyone thinks of doing is going for a bike ride. Which is precisely why I do. It builds character and confidence. Makes me happy? Sounds weird but yeah, it does take the edge off to know that I'm doing something that very few would even consider. Some people also call that crazy. Whatever.

Winter in the Northwest is mild compared to many places around the world but we still get nasty cold temperatures, snow, ice and frost. It would be easy this time of year to sit inside on the couch and hide under a blanket. I would love to eat cookies and get fat, lazy and complacent. But that's not what I'm about. I'm on a mission. I have something to prove and something to fix. Resting on the couch and watching Top Chef ain't gonna cut through shit, sorry. 

Paradise Valley is covered in ice and not your regular run of the mill ice, this is Ice Palace ice. Slippery, glossy, unforgiving, what-the-hell-are-you-thinking ice. I let the air out of my tires for better traction and nature laughs at me. Ha! There's no adjustment or compensation I can make to my bike or my riding style that makes it easier to ride on ice. The ground is frozen solid, no give at all. Cover that with a sheet of ice and thats what we have, sort of. I mean what's a difficult situation, or nearly unrideable situation that couldn't use an extra dose of wtf impossibility sprinkled over the top. 

Well leave it to me. Look at the picture above: that's Lee (Crash) on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Everything is frozen solid and ice covers everything. Difficult riding conditions? Hell yes. Nearly impossible. So what. Three days after this picture was taken we went back to Paradise to ride....at night....while it was raining. Yeah that's right, we ARE bat shit crazy. But we had the best time. Because we knew that no one else was willing to do it. It was just the two of us out there in the freezing rain. 

When I do something that I know others aren't willing to do it changes me, little by little, into the man I want to be. Is it hard? Yes. Would it be easier to not do it? Yes. Would I be a better man if I stayed home? No. I'm not looking for easy because I know it's a whisper of a dream, it doesn't exist. The only path to healing is through pain. Anyone that says differently is trying to sell you something. Go and do. Stop saying NO.

Bone Chill

Many of my regular readers have asked why I have been silent for a couple weeks. Truth is that I have been riding and writing however last weekend I got struck down with the flu. I have three incomplete entries that are now sitting stagnate waiting for me to recover. 

For the past week I have been slowly melting into my couch, coughing, sneezing and trying to manage my manic body temperature that hopped between freezing and burning like a jack rabbit. 

I am on the mend, slowly but surely.  

I Broke It

Lee and I rode Paradise Valley on Wednesday night. We each fought the overwhelming urge to sit on the couch and watch TV; so easy to do this time of year. Not only does it get dark around 4:30 but rain has been falling off and on for several weeks and so it came as no surprise that it started to rain again around noon on Wednesday. Yuck. Oh yeah, and it’s cold. These are not the most encouraging conditions to jump on a bike and go for a ride: wet, cold, and dark. 

At the trail head we shuffled around, getting our gear on and chatting about the day as the rain came down. Helmet, pads, gloves, fenders all being put on wet. As if we needed any more of a deterrent, the rain pounded harder to test our resolve. Once you’re wet, well, you’re wet. We saddled up and off into the black forest we rode.

When everything is soaked with water riding becomes more about keeping in contact with the bike and less about getting fast section times. My grip is tighter because my gloves and grips are wet and slippery. My feet are tense because my shoes and pedals are covered in muck. My glasses are fogged by the mixture of body heat, dripping rain and sweat. Not that it matters because it’s foggy and it’s cold enough to see my breath so each time I exhale I push out a cloud of steam in front of me that obscures my already diminished vision.

It was under these conditions that I broke it. For the first time I broke a small piece of Paradise. All the conditions were awful and I felt sapped and unmotivated; being cold, wet and shrouded in darkness does that. Somehow, I managed to set a personal best on one section of single track, Cascara is about a half mile of up/down, twisty-tight trail with plenty of roots and obstacles. I shouldn’t have even come close to my best time and yet I beat it and by a respectable margin. This is the kind of thing that keeps me out there, keeps me going, and keeps me interested. Not because I’m looking to get record breaking times but because even though I didn’t “feel” like riding I did it anyway and I proved to myself that I can still produce excellent results despite having the odds stacked against me.

True to life, my exuberance was short-lived. About 30 minutes later I barreled in to a corner covered in slimy roots and my front tire gave way. My bike slammed flat to the trail and I lurched sideways against a dead tree stump about as round as my thigh. I broke the top two feet of the decayed tree off with my ribcage. It knocked the wind out of my body but not my spirit. I picked up my bike and kept riding, needless to say, I did not break any time records after that. Paradise giveth and Paradise taketh away.



Flawless

A master Japanese potter will deliberately mark his beautiful and delicate masterpiece with a single blemish. They have a word for this, I am sure but I do not know what it is. Not the point. The point is everything is flawed either by accident or by design, incidental or deliberate, natural or man-made. We know this deep in our bones and yet somehow we strive for perfection. Hopelessly in search of the flawless. So it should not come as a surprise when the simple and humble bike breaks or stops working. They do though and usually at the worst time. 

My heart is pounding hard, I can feel it deep in my jawbone. I normally try to breathe through my nose mostly but not now, I am sucking in all the oxygen I can get. My mouth is wide open and I am eating the air and swallowing hard. Legs are pumping and pushing the bike crank round and round, one agonizing revolution after another. Up the hill I go, over slippery roots, uneven rocks, and loose, wet dirt. My quads are burning with lactic acid, the arches of my feet ache from attempting to hold my feet fast to the wet pedals. 

Every muscle and fiber of my body wants to tighten down and strain against the steep hill climb. I have to intentionally relax my upper body in times like this so I don't injure myself or make a tactical mistake and crash because I'm too tense. It's an odd feeling; pushing my lower body to it's bitter edge while simultaneously relaxing my upper body. Being careful not to relax so much that I lose my grip or steering control. My hands resting on the grips, lightly with all of my fingers relaxed and straight. 

I open my mouth wide to relax my jaw. It's at this moment, during my hardest effort that it breaks, my sweetness, my bike. Not break exactly but expose a flaw, show me a blemish, introduce me to its lack of perfection. It gave way under the force of my hard-charging legs. The pedal stopped resisting and just gave way completely with no fight, no nothing. All I got was the unmistakable sound of the gears changing and not finding it's home, anywhere. The chain jumped free and then jammed.

So there I lay, with my bike. Both of us flawed, broken, covered in mud, sweat, and alone. I'm still breathing heavy. Cussing, of course, looking up at the trees that just stand there looming over me like shocked bystanders at some horrible accident. They are no help to me. I'm not hurt but I am mad. How can I make this better; me, my bike, my riding, my living? How can I do this by myself, where has my master potter gone? How can I fix the flaws, overcome the mistakes, make the right choices? How?

Round Pegs Make Round Holes

Mountain biking, or any worthwhile endeavor that requires self-mastery through consistent effort, sacrifice, and dedication will at some point ask for more than can easily be given. The request usually comes at the point of physical exhaustion, imbalance, or mental fatigue. It never wants anything except absolutely everything you have and whatever is left after that too. 

The trail post that marks the beginning of a wicked single track bears a sign with one of the most ominous trail monikers, "Braveheart". Just to begin requires a hard swallow, a gut check, and a sternly worded pep talk. To start is to commit fully, there is no stopping and getting off or quitting once the front wheel rolls over the top ridge of the trail head. 

The ground falls away from the bike so steeply that I am completely off my seat with my arms stretched to their limit as I try to counterbalance the quickly descending bike by nearly sitting on my rear wheel. My bike speeds, tumbles, and bucks down the face of this fifty-foot luge. The side of this hill is packed with jagged stones of various sizes and shapes. These misshapen blocks force my direction and at multiple points they actually drop off completely on the downhill side by a foot or more. 

Under normal conditions this trail is technically challenging to say the least. Add to that the fact that the Northwest has been saturated with rain for a solid month. This rain turns everything into mush; wet leaves, spongy moss, and gooey forest debris all mix together into this sort of slimy and slippery Vaseline that coats every surface; especially jagged stones of various sizes and shapes. 

In situations such as this descent, foot position on the pedal is critically important. But with all the other things I was trying to manage, navigate, and control (like NOT killing myself) it slipped my mind. Mountain biking made me pay for that lack of attention in-full, plus interest. About halfway down the face my front wheel leapt from the top edge of a drop and slammed hard on an unyielding block and my ill-positioned left foot slipped off the pedal. The results can be seen in the picture above. I didn't crash, I just kept going, riding, pedaling and pushing myself up the next hill. 

Sloth

I do not intend to do all seven deadly sins but I simply cannot avoid this one: sloth. I never understood why laziness would be listed in the top seven bad habits that warranted the moniker of "deadly", until now. I rode heavily this past summer. It felt great. But it's been over two weeks since I've even looked at my bike. I have, however, riden the couch in front of the TV like a mad man. 

The body atrophies quickly with lack of exercise. I have done more harm than good by resting for as long as I have. Now when I go back out to ride it will feel very much like the first time. It's not going to be pretty. In fact I am so bored and disgusted with myself that I don't even have the motivation to write this blog entry. How sad is that?

At some point, even the sloth has to get up off the dirt and forage for food right? Right? He does eventually get up. I am pretty sure that other animals don't actually come serve him meals like ordering room service at the Fairmont Hotel, which sounds really good at the moment. 

If we let our inner sloth take over, then the view never changes, if we never challenge ourselves we never learn anything. We grow through doing, not sitting. It's been raining pure sadness here for two weeks straight and so that makes it crazy hard to get up the motivation to go ride in the muck. But into the muck I must go. My sanity depends on it.

Okay, so I have resolved to not let my slothfulness be the death of me. I am committing to myself and the throngs of my devoted followers (all four of you) that I will rise up this weekend and ride. But not before I eat something. Hey what's the number for room service again? Let's all say it together: ice cream is my friend!

Lust

Being listed as one of the seven deadly sins can hamper a word's image. Add to that several centuries of religious dogma declaring it a tool of that rascal Lucifer and it can be rather confusing to see our culture embrace it with such reckless abandon. We live in a culture of conspicuous consumption. Lust is the icing slathered on top of every salacious news report, advertising campaign and Hollywood romantic comedy. It is inescapable. It seeps in to our subconscience despite our best efforts against it. 

With that said, I have a confession; I have lusted after YETI mountain bikes for longer than I care to admit. Now they have really outdone themselves and I find myself starving for something I didn't know I needed, until I saw it: the YETI SB66C (C is for Carbon Fiber). The frame weighs 6 pounds and boasts 6 inches of rear travel. What?! Plus, they've spent the last two years engineering their new "Switch Technology" platform. I won't bother to describe it here, suffice it to say: it's bitchin!

The question I always ask myself, when it comes to spending more money to upgrade to something different: Does it really make a difference? In this case it's not a matter of throwing done a few hundred bucks or even a thousand. A real top-notch build out of this frame would set someone back about eight grand. Wow! Now, the bike magazine editors would have us believe that it makes all the difference in the world. These guys ramble on for paragraphs about how they can detect the difference in a bike's weight change of just a few miserable ounces. Uh huh, sure.

The problem with giving in to lust is that once the seal is broken it cannot be fixed. The gash never heals and in most cases the opening just gets bigger and bigger until one day it just flows through without resistance. So how much is enough? When is good enough acceptable? Even if I do decide that enough is enough and that my current ride is more than acceptable, how do I turn off the craving, or at least dial it down so I can get some sleep?

It's a pretty straightforward choice at this point because I can't really justify laying down that kind of cash. That doesn't mean I've stopped thinking about it. It doesn't mean I've stopped trying to justify doing it anyway. I've come up with some awesome rationalizations. None of which have passed the muster of trying to convince others that it's important. Because even if I had unlimited resources I'm not sure I could bring myself to spend that much money just for the sake of lust. It is dreadfully tempting though. I guess that's why it's still on the deadly sins list. Lust:

 

See more delicious pictures of the SB66 Carbon here 

Dirt Rag Magazine

I haven't posted  here in awhile. Not for a lack of riding, even though the weather here has conspired to make riding a challenge. I've been poring all of my creative juices into a single piece. Every year Dirt Rag Magazine holds a Literature Contest and I was determined to enter something this year. I'll post here first if I win and if I don't then I will post the story that I entered. 

Thanks everyone for the support and stayed tuned, I'll be riding and writing very soon.

What it is

When I tell people, "I'm into mountain biking" they look at me with this blank stare like I've just said, "I'm into eating cereal for breakfast". They are completely unimpressed, uninterested and begin looking for an exit. If I dare make an attempt to elaborate, I notice a heavy glaze stretch their face downward as if some invisible force is pulling a nylon stocking over their head, bank robber style. 

Today I realized why; context. When I say mountain biking I mean one thing but when most people hear it they think something completely different. Why? Because everyone knows what a mountain bike is, they have at least one themselves, hanging from the ceiling in the garage, on the deck or in a tool shed. They've been meaning to ride it but they never get around to it. So there's a disconnect. 

I'm going to fix that disconnection here, with pictures. When I say mountain biking this is the image that pops into everyone's brain:

Ha! Maybe if you're some 80 year old retiree living out your last days in New Smyrna Beach, Florida. 

This is what it means to me:

Darker than a Raven's Taint

Crash, Caution & Princess' Bike

The theater is solemnly dark and mostly still. But somewhere the sound of shuffling, stirring, and rustling can be heard. Shapes, shadows and figures are just blotches here without the light from overhead. 

A thick, ink-black, plush-velvet curtain, drawn closed at the outermost edge of the stage has a small hole in it. The hole shines bright from the light it leaks. A bright beam from beyond, as if shining from the crown of a lighthouse.

Grab the fabric taut with both hands, peer through to see beyond the engulfing darkness. But only bits can be seen, not the entire stage, not all at once. Pivoting the view reveals different aspects, sections, parts and pieces but never the whole stage production. Never enough to get a true sense of where this belongs, or that sits, or how these things relate to those things. Sharp greens, bright yellows, deep oranges scatter the floor and bright white drops shimmer under the harsh spot light and give only a hint of their true nature.

Riding in the near-dark of dusk, shrouded by the thick canopy of century old pines is one thing (see earlier post: Riding Braille), but riding in the dark black of night is entirely different. Day and night different? No. More like the difference between coffee with cream and sugar and black coffee.

This is how I chose to spend my birthday. Me and my two friends, Crash and Caution, with lights strapped to our helmets, rode off into the sea of black. Paradise was empty, completely, save our trio. 

I love riding at night because the problem solving of day riding is amplified at night. With only a small spotlight punching a hole through the deepest darkness its difficult to see the whole problem. Only parts and pieces, sections and samplings but never the whole thing. Never seeing enough to get a true sense of the next obstacle, or corner, or where the actual trail is. Rain-soaked leaves cover the ground with sharp greens, bright yellows and deep oranges. Beautiful but slippery dangerous. I can't wait to go again.

Crash

The black speck at the crest is Lee

By any standard of measurement, riding to the summit of Tiger Mountain is difficult. From the upper parking lot the ascent is over 4 miles on a loose-gravel service road. The incline is relentless and constant, there are no flat or downhill breaks from the 30 degree ascent, in fact, the only change comes when it actually gets steeper. It takes over an hour to gain over 1700 feet of elevation, pedaling the entire time. Which I did not do.

But mountain biking is like that: difficult. When it 's approached with serious devotion, with intent, and in a way that leads to mastery; it's hard, it's painful, it's dangerous and more often than not, it's crashing. 

Most of the time a crash is scrapes, bumps, and bruises but sometimes a crash is breaks, blackouts, and permanent damage. Crash, is also the nickname of my best friend and faithful riding companion, Lee. I've been friends with Crash since the 80's but he only just received his mountain bike name this summer. 

Ride after ride, he would crash, usually in very spectacular ways but always without drama. He simply gets back on his bike and rides on as if nothing happened. 

Consistently crashing on a mountain bike (several times each ride) usually means that the rider is out of their depth, or their skill set is less than the conditions demand, or they quickly find themselves in an unsolvable problem. In Lee's case it's different. Lee crashes not from inability or inexperience; he crashes with intent. That is not to say that he deliberately sets out to go ass-over-tea-kettle. No. 

He rides with abandonment and with the idea that every ride is an opportunity to become better, to push himself past his limits, to break his old-self into pieces so he can carry them forward into a place of mastery. This unrelenting effort is difficult to match. Combine all that with his iron will, the endurance of a Kenyan marathoner and the result is that I frequently find myself on rides with him where I watch him disappear ahead of me down the trail without effort. 

The ride on Tiger Mountain was a typical ride with Crash. I struggled up the road with everything I had, I dismounted often, I walked my bike (shameful), and I cussed. Not Lee, yeah he struggled too but his determination and tenacity kept his pedals moving when mine stopped. I am reminded of that brutal ride today because we rode 12 crushing miles at Lord Hill this morning and once we started on a trail I saw very little of Crash. Only at crossroads, he'd patiently wait, as if he'd been there all day. 

Crash to Master.