to the bitter end

Riding of one type and another. I hadn't been on my street bike for months? yes, it's true. I forgot to mention here (on account of I mentioned it at my other unpaid innernet bicycle stuff writing gig) the full moon ride down to Esalen. It was aboard the street bike, and it was almost all for which you could you ask- my shitty phone camera couldn't capture the incredible imagery of the shadow arches cast by Bixby Bridge, etc. and also sadly, C____ opted out of Old Coast as 23s were deemed unappealing on dirt. Me? I'm running some 37mm Panaracer Paselas (with the gumwall, naturally) on account of that tyre is unaccountably kick-ass on a variety of surfaces.

So you ride one bike for a period, forsaking all others, and you forget the wonderful differences that are to be savored. Ride another bike and it all comes rushing back. And then you want to fiddle with saddle height, and ruminate over stem length ad nauseum.  Thus, the resumption of street biking. Why, just the other day I rode some road and some dirt to get to roads leading to sand. _other_ucking HERO SAND. Fort Ord is set up so nice right now! Tacky, with just enough moisture content to cradle the tyre in the could-be-crumbly off camber berm. I especially love that.



You know, but on the way there are little pockets of RADness everywhere. I try and hit them all. So much niceness, all this sneaky cut-thru and the trail behind the houses and the back ways and.



That there is a little corner of Heaven, custom made just for you. It used to be a corner of suck, but I stopped my raging torrent of personal record setting and fixed the trail. It keeps the nice nice.



This section remains, but it now remains a work-in-progress. We are chipping away at it, under cover of darkness.



And, but, so riding. Eventually,after much huffing and and rallying, I warshed up at Lookout Ridge. Sorry about your hematoma. It's a nice spot for a beer from the stash under the oaks and a view.




From there, it's the rippingest quickness. 2 wheel drift into the tacky (!) berms and push that edge, homie. Push it real good. Down, and down, and down to the swoopy ups. Across, upy downy, through to the New Stairs.



It should come as no surprise that I consider the spot to be MINE. (I made it, after all.)  But, as was recently pointed out to me by my Nighttime Ride Adviser, you put something out in the public domain...and it becomes everybody's. It's a bitter pill.

Because then there is shit like this here:




Let that soak in for a moment. It is the note from the last time the spot was trashed. It lay upon several unopened canned beers, an empty/capped jar (for snacks, to keep the wood rats out), and a couple crushed empties, all tucked in the bole of the tree and covered by a 9"x9" piece of wood. Some member of the public has found "my" spot and this note, and has added to it a demand for weed.

Speechless at the presumption. Please discuss.

guides you through uncomfortable questions...

I don't need to know everything. Neither do I want. Secret stuff stays secret if folks don't say anything about it. So the minute you start running your mouth about riding ____ ______, is exactly the minute I regret* ever having said boo. What's the first rule of any club?




Hanging out with 9 year olds has certain advantages. They are generally down for a Good Time, and I respect that. We did some "stealth" camping last week which I am sure blew up our spot- the close one- for good. The poor old gal walking her fancy dog was surprised to see hobos invading her neck of the woods, is all I'm saying. Lesson (finally?) learned- time for a new and more tucked away spot.

That picture above is the neighborhood peloton rolling deep down HWY1 to Point Lobos (where they disallow bikes on the trails, sadly...though the roads are pretty mellow it being a state park and all. And where we need to really suss out the legitimate camping opportunities really and for real) like a gaggle of tentative baby ducks. We had a nice time.



The ride is about 1/3 dirt, too. And of course, right next to the Pacific if you are into that.



I have collected some odd bits and fashioned them into a 24" rough stuff roadish bike for J. Super jerry rigged Schwinn Sprint (c.1980?), so a tank fo sho, but and hecka sweet, He rallied it down the loose seaside singletrack. 24"x1.75...it is stable as hell. He's feeling the drops out. So far so good.



Bikes. Bike rides.

Also, I finally got J____ S____, long time shop supporter, to come out and see what his AWOL can do...he got his eyes opened, and so did I as to the magicality of getting around by bike. You forget, being immersed in it, that biking for transportation and adventure are the same. He was so blown away that he's lived on the Monterey Peninsula (a real scenic place) for 20someodd years and had no idea about the routes we took, nor the ease with which we took them (no cars on trails and fireroads...).



And I keep listening to this:




because it's good.













*Regrets? I've had a few. I wished I'd a stuck to the old ways and never said anything out loud. All communication about the off-piste is handled with waggled eyebrows and jerks of the head. Then nobody is the wiser that there even is a secret much less, wonders what it might be...

Anyhow, my motto has become: I might show you, but I'll never tell you.

enough is enough

Wednesday Night Rides are a (spotty at best so far) GO! Santa Cruz has had their rich (and by rich I mean PARTY) tradition of Wednesday Night Rides, but it is 50 miles from home. The Monterey Peninsula is lacking in this regard, but it is home. Wherever home is, this midweek ride/party is a winner.

After last week's debacle, in which everyone cancelled, yesterday really happened. I knew the fellas from our shop were all going to ride their (or a demo) squishy bike, but the demos from our location are reserved for today so I did not want to take one. I opted instead to ride my top of the line Specialized bike- the StumpJumper. It was tits in 1989. It is tits in 2013, only now it has baskets.

As I rolled up and over the hill to meet at the shop, I heard a PING, and thought I'd hit some small metal bit. Turns out it was a 15/16 pinner spoke breaking on the well-used wheel my coach had gifted me at the bike swap. Good thing I's on my way to a bike shop...

So I got to be that guy for a bit.

Then we climbed up the pave at a very brisk pace. I was a little concerned at the briskness. I don't often ride with a group these days, so I forget how it is. As we settled into the climb, though, I came to the front and gave the youngsters what for- baskets and all. I admit to liking that part. Those guys are mostly the fucking new guy, and their inexperience and youthful naivete are frankly a little tiring. Witness, FNG from last week who, on a borrowed full carbon/suspension bike, did not have any tools/tube/levers/pump show up again this week not having learned anything from last week's walk out from trail's end due to the same lack. Yes, he had no tools/tube/levers/pump. And he is a bike shop employee! My efforts to point out the flat-out lack where met with a furrowed brow and the statement "somebody has something." That is disappointing. Last week I loaned him my pump (several times), and would have loaned him my spare tube, if he had brought levers (my shit comes off by hand, yo) to get the tire offa the carbon rims. You think he would learn. He obviously can't be taught. It is exasperating having to "parent" grown-ups. I am reminded of my scout master, who would turn his college ring around the 1st time you did something super wrong/stupid, and the 2nd time hit you upside the head with it. He made good and sure you had the opportunity to see him turn it around, but woe to the boy who did not pay attention.

The conversation was witless, too. I pulled beers out of my baskets and we had a short break. I did not expect the FNGs to have come prepared.

But, riding was fun. I slotted in last place on all the downs, which was most assuredly where I should be, full-squish or no. Those guys did a lap. Then they rode home. I laughed, and rode through the trails on my lonesome at a slower but still totally ripping pace. As I reached the spot at which I expected to open my last beer, I saw that my pack had bounced out of the rear basket...somewhere. Then it was a much higher pace back to the split, looking for my pack containing beer, jacket,tools, phone,etc. When I found it, I was glad. I had just begun to despair and there it was.

So, that was where I drank a beer instead. On the way out, I stopped to document the new section of trail just above the Carmel entrance to Pebble Beach:

it is a worthwhile add-on, up and down. The road crossing is sort of shitty, but worth it.

Hey yo, Full Moon coming up and I gots the baskets...who likes to party?

increasingly exaggerated and increasingly dull

So you can keep your cobbles and your Ardenneses and your chimeric twins, and I'll take the real high road

 ...to school, with the only peloton worth following. Some of these kids are the type who appreciate it when the Dad from down the street rolls up and asks them how their brakes are working and then (lightly!) grabs a handful of it for them. Some of them.

it started as an innocent game, then took a menacing detour into the unknown

 In this region, so near to the Pacific Ocean, there is a lot of moisture in the air. At night, it settles. You may recall descriptions of heavily dewed camp-outs in blogposts past. This 1st night out we experienced a driving mist. Having an inkling of what would ("maybe", we thought) come, we rigged our waterproofing as best we could. I simply laid my bike on it's side and strapped my tarp to and over it in a low A-frame. T_dd got busy (Byzantine) lashing together a series of downed limbs to each other and his bike and secured his midget pancho over the top.

I find that every time I head out, there is some crucial piece of gear that is forgotten or fails. Aside from the tents, they were left out...intentionally. This round, I had forgotten that my sleeping bag's top zipper slider had gotten ripped off over Xmas, leaving only the bottom slider- which mean that I could only fasten the zipper by "opening" (pulling the slider all the way to the top) the bag, safety pinning that point, and then crawling in and zipping the bag closed on the way down. It took a couple tries to get it right. I maintained my cool collectedness.

Shortly, soon after conversation faded hazily into drowsing, the 1st drops hit. There was the usual mad scramble to assess and re-rig. I ended up stuffing my sleeping bag swaddled lower legs and feet into my pack and calling it waterproof. My sad companion curled up like a little bug and called that waterproof. His sad sack was too tiny to accommodate.

We dozed and awoke. There were intermittent and constant noises.

 Upon awakening, I discovered that T_dd had gotten up in the middle of the 2nd (and sustained) shower and abandoned his tiny shelter for the trees...

 

 We got our act together. Coffee 1st. Breakfast 2nd. Poo 3rd. The Kelly Kettle performed well. I think I will get the larger size. The small model I have is bulky enough that the weight difference (never that big a deal for me, truthfully) is negligible. It already takes up the space, I may as well have the extra hot water. The small boils 19fl oz (eh, I'd call that optimistic- more like 15fl oz) in 5 minutes the 1st go-round, and as little as 1 minute by the 3rd, when the coals are really going. Anyhow, it is a good product if you mainly need hot water, which is my style if it ain't cooking on a grill over the fire.

 Ash-laden stalactite.

Just down the hill from camp was a spring, and we used T_dd's "Freedom" SteriPEN to kill the nasties. I carry the Potable Aqua tablets (ready in 30 minutes) if I'm feeling pinched on weight or space, versus a filter, cuz I'm low tech like that. The SteriPENs I have been associated with in the past have proved extremely temperamental, though the USB rechargeable "Freedom" was more friendly. The iodine tabs do not protect against cryptosporidium, but that's a fairly benign gut bomb. Words you never thought you'd say...

 We rolled North, up the Narrows, looking for Bear Mountain Rd for some exploring. This HardCOEre 100 route listing Bear Mtn inspired us to head up and see if it was cool.

  It is NOT cool.

I became very upset that someone would recommend it. T_dd attempted to devishly advocate it on the basis that it could be required so as to not duplicate any sections in such a long event, to which I replied and reply: fuuuuuuuuck that. Only the most pedanticated, mindlessly adherent judge-head would pick that ridgeline fire-break to hike with your bicycle.

 I don't even know how steep it is. Steep enough to make you holler. I enjoy suffering on my bike, but this was just not...fun. At all.

After the hellish climbs and the substantial bushwack of Bear Mountain Spring Trail, we reached Mississippi Lake and were stoked. We felt we were back on track for fun and heading in the right direction to reach the (needed) whiskey cached at Pachec further South.

Having dealt with Willow Ridge Road's vicious ups and downs before, we felt we could outsmart ourselfs and take Heritage Trail down to sweet Pacheco Creek Trail for the win.

This was not to be. I think we blew the turn shortly after dropping like stones to a knob at which the "trail" could be perceived as equally possibly West or South. We checked the map. The vegetation is capable of closing trails up like in the Ventana, and we were guessing South as it looked more established. It ended definitively about 40ft above the creek bed. Being very reluctant to hike back up and then to face the vicious ups and downs of Willow Ridge Rd, we figured we could bull our way through, around that knob, and we'd be at the Pacheco Creek drainage and golden. We checked the map.

Nope.

That creek bed was the 2nd most hateful experience aboard a bicycle I have ever had. We were a drainage further East than we'd reckoned. The poison oak closed in, the manzanita closed in, the walls closed in. I felt like I was in an ant lion trap, the sides were so steep and ready to slip. At times, it was preferable to haul our loaded bikes up the rotten sides to get over particularly thick thickets of poison oak. We traded leads. Procedure became: curse, lean your bike, break (literally- smash branches, most of which were rotted and thankfully easy) trail, curse, return for your bike, curse, move forward until the next impasse, repeat. Really tough.

Eventually, we broke out into the Pacheco drainage, but there was no celebration. We were tired and concerned about the amount of oak we'd come through. That stuff is really uncomfortable. It's now been 4 days with no symptoms, so I'm hopeful. We were covered pretty well- I had gaps between my socks and knickers (the American kind, thank you) and sometimes my sleeves rode up from my wrists, but it was my face I was worried about. The brush was so tight I was very glad to have large French sunglasses for style and protection.

We rode (how novel!) down the creekside singletrack and, after a bit, it lifted our spirits. Sadly, my spirits were broken when we reached Pacheco and I found some jackass had discovered and taken the whiskey. I can write no more tonight.

apparent disregard of taste and fine art

Dude came into the shop the other day with a 1976 Masi Gran Criterium to be boxed for shipping. I don't really dig them, but I know of some guys who do so I packaged it up real nice. Lots and lots of foam wrap and tape and cardboard and zip-ties and newspaper. I'd a taken some pictures, but...you know. The guy sort of gave me the creeps, to be honest. I packaged it well out of love for bicycles and anonymous peoples on the internet, not him. He was in his 60s and spoke with an English accent that may have been put on, and his wardrobe was age-inappropriate. Was it you?

Other guy calls the shop yesterday, and was nonplussed when informed that his 39t middle chainring has not arrived. "But you told me it would be there today." I had no hand in this prior to answering the phone, but I'm a team player and I'd like us all to have our bikes and ride them too, so I explained that, perhaps, the extended weekend played a part in the delay. "I don't even know what to say to you people." Which I particularly like, because I get to be part of a persecuted minority and that is rare for me. I speculated that the part will be arriving in short order- quite possibly in the following day or 2- as I am certain it has been both ordered and shipped. I checked the computer while he was grumbling at me. I assured him we would get right to work on it when the part arrived and call him upon completion. "I guess I just can't trust anything you people [really. again! I love it.] say." I told him I will try and keep a tighter control over the mail for him and hung up. He was such a dick and I was done swallowing. We will see if I face repercussions over this, because our owner is almost maniacal with regard to customer ass kissing.

I showed up this morning to a text from the mechanic who worked on the bike originally, saying he's forgotten to tell the customer he'd installed a new BB ($55 surprise!) because the old one was crapped out. This had not been cleared or discussed. I texted back the above exchange and the other mechanic tells me that dude hung up on him when he was told he'd need a new chainring and it would require ordering. Winner, winner. This whole scenario was effed, because at that point the guy had a legitimate (we should have called and gotten clearance before installing parts- it's common sense, common courtesy,  and even policy) bone of contention he can really worry, and he seems just the type to do so.

And so I set to work on this fine, middle of the road, 7 year old carbon fiber, triple chainring, adjustable stem pointed down and housing not trimmed accordingly, broken alloy chainring bolt, busted free seat tube water bottle bolt insert...bike only to find it hasn't been ridden (or taken care of) in months, and yet dude acts like he's got some rush to ride. As though we were blowing his tight regimen all to hell. I cleaned, carbon pasted, installed, trimmed, replaced, glued, lubed and tuned the hell out of that bike for the love of bikes.

And for the love of a small paycheck. And for industry pricing. If he hadn't been such an ass, I'd have even re-wrapped his bars for him as part of the tune, but he was and I left those unsightly gaps.

We have a separate form on which we document all the details of a tune-up. It's a useful checklist that helps prevent forgetful mistakes and allows for an in depth explanation if the mechanic who'd done the tune is absent, etc. I documented all the little details, and when the guy came to pick up the bike I quoted him the final price, with no mention of details. Then I paused for the explosion. That's my style. I will try to brazen it out if possible. Ask forgiveness not permission, you know. Dude didn't blink an eye, so neither did I.

Fuck it, I'm going bike camping!

hero worship is not a productive pastime

What? You scared? Slouchy, hungover and aching is no way to go through life, son.

There are certain protocols, specificities of etiquette. Niceties, if you will, which it were better to observe. Consider: say you are riding with nameless "friends", in the woods, in the dark, and you get separated. Established behavioral norms cemented in place to a diamond hardness and sheen by millenia of Fine Upstanding Tradition and reasoned discourse and a consensus of mutual benefaction plus Goodwill to All and to All a Good Night has it that you stop. You assess. You maybe hoot the International Distress Call* (whatever your local and- hopefully- recognized variant may be). You listen. You maybe hoot again. Bearing in mind that you might be in a er situation that could be construed by the narrow minded as technically "off limits" or somesuch. ____ing, etc.

If your party fails (and I use the word lightly. Gently. Tough lovingly.) to show then Logic, Reason and Experience dictate that you retrace your pedal strokes back to the last intersection at which all were present. Simple as that.

But. In the real world, folks get tugged along by circumstance and shit goes wrong. That has been my experience, anyways. Last night I dropped that short, steep doubletrack to the 3 way and hooked a left. The left is the direction we'd discussed taking twice, and it is the flowier option. Straight up the middle there is singletrack, yes, but it climbs and is no joke right away and goes another way and stuff. The right is not worth considering. The drop, the way we'd come- well, it is a reverse and all.

So. Like I say, I railed that sweet assed descent and flowed like water along the further and delicious descent around several corners to the correct singletrack and pulled up to wait for my faceless associates. It being a dark night, and us being in flagrante delicto, (best Latin phrase of all time?)  I shut my lights down and stood around wondering what might be the case as I was all of a sudden alone. I waited. I hooted. I reckoned La__y and Cu_ly had to be back at the 3 way doing something, and rode back up to see.

That 3 way was black and empty. I repeated the lights-off and the hooting and the listening. Nothing. 3 possible routes, with 1 of them being unlikely. Eventually (minutes), I walked up the middle trail because it was most likely to my mind, and sure enough- there was a tire mark. So I walked back down and got on the bike to pursue. Up and up steeply. Hooting. Listening. Across, around, under, over and up again steeply. At that one meadow I stopped and hooted. Shut my lights down- batteries wear down quick!

I heard a voice. "Take the wrong trail?" Man, did that tear it for me.

"No. I took the right trail." Then I made some remark about them not hearing me or hooting themselves or seeing my lights, etc. This was rebuffed. I asked, hotly- it's true- why they didn't head back to the 3 way, as is to be expected. This was rebuffed.

I really popped a wheelie. There was a yelly confrontational lecture. I was told to drink a beer and to lighten up and eventually to shut the fuck up- all of which were good advice. I stated that I would be willing to part ways on a semi-permanent basis. I was less than polite. I may have actually sputtered like a wet hen.

So not one of my finer moments. It was brought to my attention that "it's not Antarctica" and that there really were no serious consequences that had arisen, which are true. I acknowledged that I had gotten overbearing, and they are not my kids... after a while. What got me and kept getting me was that Subject M would not acknowledge any responsibility nor proper procedures. I felt that I am entitled (oops! that can't be good...) to a certain amount of Respect and that that amount of Respect was not being given. I think that's probably the real issue. REspect due.Yes I.

It is easy to seem reasonable and in the right here on screen. Who doesn't want to seem the good guy? Do any of us see ourselfs clearly, without the fog of our self-perceptive beer goggles? I have the moral high ground ( for fucking SURE!) but is it worth holding like a grudge? Do 12 minutes alone in the dark woods warrant a total freak out? No. My reaction is disappointing to me. In the big picture, it is some small hot potatoes.

Anyhow. The whole affair is a bummer- including being introspective about it. I am happy to drop the subject now.








*Remind me to tell you the story of the international distress call in person. The hoot is very distinctive and funny.

go to hell (and return unharmed)

Whew. That was a rockin' Good Time. The dappled 2 track made it glorious. I attempted singletrack along the ridge, but the wind from yesterday's downpour had dropped lots of branches. 1st real storm of the Winter, it put to rest my complaints that most of the saw work was done. There's plenty more now.

Fort Ord glows in the moonlight. I just put a wheel in to touch base at the Shrine and then turned it around and rode for home. Solo night riding can be scary for real- like what if I roll the wheel sideways on one of the many pine cones and crash and get knocked out?- and it can be scary in your head- like when are the werewolves going to come out of the dark shadows, cuz I know they're there. I just go ahead and ride even though it's scary and it ends up being fun. That's real profound.

Anyhow- you suckers missed it. I realize that schoolwork, and familial duties, and employment and really interesting TV shows take precedence though.

each and everyone of you be on some kind of shit

If I ever wondered what I might do on Trail X at spot Y when faced with Ranger Z, well now I know. I'd immediately (as soon as the white service truck is spotted) turn that bike around and begin my sprint. Upon getting out of view I'd begin looking for a shallow enough angle in the slope above up which I could scramble. People in cars don't look for routes that aren't apparent. It's the blinders on for them- if it isn't clear for their car-based perspective, they won't see it. When I was far enough up that slope to be out of the immediate line of sight of a driver, I'd stop and listen. I'd have had to have hurled my SS up slope several times and climbed up to it to hurl it anew. When no noise greeted my listening ears, I'd continue up that slope and marvel at the density of the poison oak thicket. I'd pick my route as carefully as I could. I'd hit the high trail and head back the way I'd originally been going.
But this is all purely hypothetical.



Friday Night SS Ride went like I expected. We don't talk about it. I had some koozies made:

that's a sideways picture taken at the graveyard. It has a picture of le coq hardi, with the classy Latin phrase "est non ad nutrientibus se". Pretty self explanatory, really, but: everbody is all crazed about the Belgian lion and have made it the symbol of cyclocross in this country. I find that nonsensical. This is my rebuttal. I may be throwing these at you this cross season. Keep your eyes open in the tight spots.

too itching for action to look for it (I'll make it where I am)

Details? When you've taken off your glasses because they're spattered in sweat from the extended climbing and you're coasting so fast tears blur your vision. When your cap and jersey and helmet straps are caked in silt. Salt? When one ride is so climb sweat filled that your legs cramp on alternate down strokes (left, right, left, right) but on the next and climbier sweatier ride they don't. When you laugh out loud with the joy of the moment. When you curse the "friend" who brought you to such a breaking point.

That's some reasons why and what for and how come.

I snicker when people here talk to me about "the grade". Seriously? That climb is so trafficked and thankless and hot and exposed, with no descent worth mentioning. The grade. Tell me about some shaded, one-laned, backroad or a hike-a-bike to illicit singletrack if you wanna talk about riding. For real. Shit.

People come into the shop (or wherever) and talk about being a local. Do they do that where you are? I talked to some old gal who has been here "forever" and she throws a attitude after asking (and I suppose I should have seen it coming) how long we've lived here. Lady, I've lived here for 13 years now. (whoa) My kids go to school here. You "guess" that's local? I roll my eyes. What do these "locals" know about that one section between the 2 East-West ridges where it feels all quiet and it's always still (always) and a mountain lion is maybe- it feels likely- behind the next 180* twist around another fallen Monterey Pine? Or the single perfect line through the broken asphalt screaming down the North facing back way into town while the road, as it Ts, leapfrogs toward you so fast it's as though your vision was frame by frame? Oh. This used to be a bookstore.

We used to live in a small mountain town in Colorado, at 8,750'. I rode a lot of bikes there. I used to live in a small desert town in Eastern Utah. I rode a lot of bikes there, too. These places were/are hard to get to, hard to get by in, and hard in which to ride. We were young and thought ____ __ ___ ___ the ______s. We had a lot of locals only attitude our ownselfs. We were full of shit.

I don't care what you ride. I don't care where you ride*. I care that you ride.























*If you live in Santa Cruz, or Telluride, or Moab...you might _____ that you ha[ve] all the answer_. I don't care that you've gotten tired of your backyard, and no one knows the goods anyhow because they're from somewhere not where you are at the moment or have been all your damn life... Look how good it is. Go find some nook or cranny unknown to you and check it out. You might rediscover how kickass your riding is. This could apply somewheres else, too, if you are tired of your local. Prolly not if you dig riding dumb stuff like Laureles Grade, though.

all the time playing the same licks

Every time I come across a new(to me) trail is a Good Time. We've been living here for 11 years now, and just last week I rode some new(to me) singletrack that will make your head spin while you see purple spots. My favorite option is singletrack. Most of the time I ride my usual routes, occasionally mixing up the direction or shuffling trail order. I ride along and ignore that one faint side-trail because I checked it out a few years ago and, even though I can't remember why now, it doesn't pay off. It goes somewhere wrong or it's too oaky/poorly routed/rooty/whatever to warrant riding. Sometimes I find a good connector on the fringes that adds a funner or quicker or safer option. Last fall I began systematically poking around the edges of that neighborhood at the bottom of the hill, trying to find more and dirtier ways to get to and from work. It paid off, and well, a couple months ago when I found that magic route that gets me to and from trails in 5 minutes. That type of thing.

Point being, there are new trails to be found even after all this time. I especially love that. It helps that I am more willing than some to ride places that are closed to some. We do what we must.

So. I'm gonna be test riding some things in the next couple of days that I really hope work out. The kind of trails we only talk about in person.


Friday night was some trail riding switching up usual routes and shuffling orders. It worked out great. With my crappy handlebar light and my Petzl (shoulder crash wrecked my light) that kept slipping off my helmet and hitting me in the neck or face it felt like we were going dangerously fast, when really we were just going dangerously. When we rolled out on Carmel Valley Road at 12:46AM the sheriffs were there to greet us. We watched 2 patrol cars roll past as we exited our fireroad, our lights off for safety. After they had gone, we fired up our red blinkies and began riding back to home. A different sheriff's deputy rolled up behind us and pulled us over. Because our headlights weren't on was the probable cause."We leave them off to save the batteries and turn them on when a car comes." And our blinkies weren't fixed to the bike (we'd clipped them to our pockets). "You always ride your bike at this time of night?" "Sometimes." She ran our IDs as another deputy joined the party. The Sirs and Ma'ams crept into my speech as stealthily as 2 mountain bikers sliding out from a questionable trail. By the time they'd stopped us, on the pavement, everything was legit except for the mussette full of empty beer cans hanging across my back. I pretended solid citizenship while keeping my back away and the cans from rattling. No warrants/etc we were advised to ride on the opposite side of the road so we could see the cars coming and sent on our way. I scoffed at that. "You wouldn't stop us for that?" "It's what I would do."

Don't take ride advice from the cops. We crossed the street so's we could take that other section of sneaky connector singletrack. Not much by itself, but all those pieces add up to fun.

on the way to school

On the way to OLD school.

a little something, you know, for the effort

Saturday at the races. CCCX#2 back at in in the Ord. Finally, some drizzly legitimacy.

Good course this week- a back and forth between the 2 low ridges around the old Boy Scout Camp. I was very close to vomitus for my 1st lap. 2nd lap...DNF. Front flat. I'd gotten a front flat in my pre-ride and rushy rush changed it (using the 1 spare tube I had) just in time for the 35+B's call-up and to talk a little smack about thorns on the course (you know to get in folks' heads. How do they race where you are?) only to re-flat. I guess I should get a new tire for reals. Apparently the duct tape booted sidewall tear is not kidding around.

This did, however, give me the opportunity to stand around and heckle with the rest of the seedy bottom feeders from Monterey. We chose the 3' drop over by the hidden playground as being more prime time than the barriers. I had opted for the right hand line in practice and found myself with much more hang time than I'd bargained for, so it was the place to encourage others. To encourage them to race fast and take chances!

It goes without saying that_______________. But, a few did take up the gauntlet and let fly. Napoleon Bonaparte is quoted: "Men will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon", and it still holds true though it might be paraphrased as "Cyclocross racers will perform for some jeering and cowbells." Leave it to DFL's own P__ M____ (whose brother _uck, 1st introduced me to fixed wheel bicycles and the phrase "Cuz it feels so good when you stop." in Moab, UT circa '96) to pick up a little bit more speed and a little more air each time round until the inevitable.
Somersault dismount.
P__ had already been taunted. On his 2nd lap, his front wheel had been hit with an empty beer can. He'd flipped the bird and raced on, head down. Not catching anyone, but still- willing. I don't know if it was the determination to win at all costs or the increasingly antagonistic "cheering", but he took the right line and sent it. Sent it sideways and high-sided the landing for a dramatic tumble.
No stranger to this type of set back, he wisely sat still where he landed and regrouped. Asked for a beer. (We failed him there-the beer was all drunk- and I promise it will never happen again) Got back up, straightened his rear shifter (I failed him there- I'd checked the wheels and headset, but did not check the shifter...DOH! Always check the shifter!- and I promise it will never happen again) and jumped back in that race. Well played!



The Little Corporal also said "It requires more courage to suffer than to die."

uva uvam vivendo varia fit

Like to what Gus told Call.


So. This and that can get in the way of bike rides. I have found meself slipping into soft (sit a)roundness...Time to snap to; turn some pedals.




Remedied by taking some yout' dem out to Fort Ord a ride bikes, mon.





School starts on Wednesday!?! J______ and I rallied the grommet (that's insider code for "youth interested in bikes and willing to do ish work") and his buddy inna MTB style.



Those guys are 14ish, so the pace was a little bit rushy for J, but we worked it out.





The 2 knuckleheads were fun to ride with as they strained at the leash like pea-brained spaniels (I hates a bird dog) only to stack it up in the corners whenever they were turned loose. J and I brought up the rear to find one or both of them in a heap several times. They are not my kids, but it was a good Dad-type feeling to see them find their level and give each other ish.


I tried to find a line between Coach Knowitall and laissez faire- warned them at the top of 68 about that dangerously placed wooden barrier at the bottom, but otherwise let them make their own beds. We gave them plenty of rope on Mudhen Express (also made sure they know the proper and respectful name for that fine trail) and they hung themselves nicely; coming into the whoopdedoos waaaay too hot, and blowing by the overlook to, predictably, lose control in the sandy mess at the bottom there. I could hear (grommet friend) S___'s curses and lamentations about his ankle and a mazanita bush. This especially amused me as he had been very quiet in the presence of a strange adult thus far.

Foreground Rockhopper= grommet bike. Not a bad way to spend your summer earnings... Poopy Trek was too small for grommet friend, but he run what he brung with a smile. J's and my bikes fit and twerked perfectly.

I have replaced the creaky pop squeak squeak 952 cranks with the Surly Mr. Whirly. It is a crazy versatile crank. The spider can be switched to several different BCDs. Worth a look at Surly. If you're into that kind of thing. Heavy but seemingly durable. I'll let you know in 14 years how they have rated.


We called the hounds back up to the Caprock to show them 50 and give them their assignment- to ride down it and climb back up it while J and I, uh, waited.

Look at them GO!



I used the time constructively; i.e. checking the beer cave while the yout' dem were not around. I am many things, but stupid enough to show 2 (not my own) teens where I keep booze in the woods I am not. Anywho, the situation is grim under there. I suppose I have my mission.




The yout' dem were very well behaved and thanked me politely (several times) for taking them. Next time I'm gonna show them those trails in Pebble Beach so they have some access they can get to without having to bum a auto ride. Learn the boys up right, in the ways of riding your bike from and to your door and trail.

take no chances

Today at the bike shop.

I had a lady come in and return a $200(I know, neither would I) mountain bike helmet because she "already had a pink helmet" but had wanted a white one to match her other jersey, but upon reflection decided it was silly to spend that money on a helmet just for the color. I was with her so far. Then she wanted to know what the differences between helmets were (shape/ventilation/weight...they all- even (especially?) the kids' helmets have to pass the same impact tests) and which was lighter than the one she was returning. Well, none. That's a big part of why the helmet cost $200 (I know, neither would I). Soooo, X is close in weight but it has unattractive graphics, and Y is close in weight and comes in white- but it's a...a...road helmet.

Yes, but all helmets pass the same- yes, you can wear a road helmet to ride your mountain bike. People do. I prefer road helmets for their streamlined shape and visorless magnificence, and I ride the heck out of some trails. No, but you can wear a cycling cap under your helmet if you need a visor.

I almost laughed because my 1st reaction was: "Oh. Good one." But this poor gal was not joking, she was genuinely stressed.


I (I thought) talked her down and sold her a $60 road helmet (no visor), and credited her card the difference. Then she wanted to know if this helmet didn't actually come with a visor, and had I misplaced it, because the illustration on the box which showed how to properly position the helmet on one's head showed a visored helmet.

But: Even though "the last guy" (wha? I really don't see it) at our shop told her only a mountain bike helmet would suffice for mountain biking, and even though her father told her she "looked like a bug without the visor" causing her to try on the road helmet with 2 different pair of glasses to check for bug-like-itude and ultimately declare it OK, and even though I politely yet pointedly asked her if she were happy with her choice...20 minutes later I answered the call from our sister store where she was returning that helmet because her husband had told her that a road helmet would not work.




What the hell?

People. There is no wrong way to do it. Let yourself go!

you're not carnival personnel!!

There are categories of bikes.
Within these categories are niches.
Within these niches are windowless dive bars peopled by shady lowlifes. It may happen that you need to lock your bike up here, and when it does happen you will count yourself fortunate to have prepared for this inevitability by building a bike to fit this particular seedy niche:
the bar bike.


The bar bike is your townie, stripped of all precious componentry. This is harder than it sounds. You think to yourself, "Whatevah!" (because that is how you talk ) "I have a huge booty bin of parts! I can whip something together in no time." But, before you know it, your beater has been turned out with that sweet high flange intricately cut-out Campy Record wheelset you have hanging up in the workroom. Or those undeniably comfortable yet slightly too narrow Ti 16*bend WTB handlebars. Or that rough around the edges and heavy as a boilermaker 3 sprung Brooks touring saddle, or that sweet 40spoke tandem front wheel... Etc.

Now you see.

Those are all parts you are not currently using, yes. But you would hate to lose them even so, and that is the complicating factor in this build. A true bar bike requires mechanical soundness (who can fix anything demanding more than a good kick when departing the 4th lube joint en route to the 5th?) and a modicum of comfort (seedy bars are not all gathered in one convenient neighborhood), yet also demands that the bike be subject to prolonged exposure in the most debauched of locales...yes, sometimes even overnight. Frankly, crashing is to be expected at some point, too.


There is the latest iteration of my bar bike. If you're out driving in your car and rekanize me, just roll up next to me and yell "FAGGOT!" or throw something...I'll know it's you.

Street Scientists are talking

Friday was the birfday ride of the lovely and talented M______. It was a boob fest. So, being a bit of a boob meself, I fitted in. So to speak.


There was a lot of talk like that flying around. It's surprising how ribald the ladies are. All that innuendo about the pink slotted Terry Saddle and such. It started with one gal opining that it should have a fake beard glued to the edges, and then went too far when I speculated about installing pink satin in the cut-out for more realism.

Use your mind and your 'magination.

Anyways, in fits and starts (starting with $10 bottomless Mimosas) and with a revolving assortment of accompanying drones the queen bees climbed their way up roads and trails above Santa Cruz. There was a fine ratio of partying to riding. Trails, pave, bikes.



At a certain point in these SC Birfday Rides it always devolves into a to do at Monty's Log Cabin. This time, Monty's was hosting a Christmas clothing swap. The women's clothing was strewn across the pool table, while the men's was (appropriately) in damp boxes in the alley. There were no fine choices there so Christopher St John and I were resigned to looking drab when the gals showed us the finery they had chosen for us.


Matronly.



Festive.




Revealing.


Then we drank more shots of bottom shelf booze than I cared to, and rode down the hill in our finery. Good Times, ladies. Thanks for all the fun.

Shiney shiney.

Yes, I know it is bad form to post pictures of mock ups. That is a given in the tradition of geeked out bicycle-related-picture-posting internet culture of highbrows such as ourselfs.



Well, maybe that's just me. Would you like my review of the fenders' performance now? They are markedly shorter than Honjos, both front (sadly) and rear. The hardware looks different too, from my brief examination through the bag. Order extra stays (they come with 2), as the front tends to flex some, and you don't want that. Your local can order them for you from Merry Sales.



I am waiting on the actual fork for this bike before installation; which, as opposed to the virtual one you see represented here, will be fender compatible.

Shiney brass fenders. I am going to let them tarnish to a weather beaten mellowness, which will understate the unspoken message of how much better my bike is than yours and by logical extension how much more Quality a Person I am than you. Sorry to be so harsh.