a notorious creampuff

Here are some things:

 




Your "religion" is actually a Cargo Cult. Stings, don't it. If it makes you feel any better, you can send me your $15 and I'll tell you what to think and believe, take some of the pressure off. Same diff, only I will be a benevolent despot. I promise.

So...a big (BIG!) upcoming bikecamping expedition has me examining all of my gear selection. What you know about this?

Aw yeah. That fairing sock? in a flesh tone? with a integrated 6pack cooler? and some short shorts? You know, to get the mostest out of the aero-legs. It could be the next big thing.

Could be. Now, I'll hand you a list: Aptos Creek fireroad, Buzzard Lagoon, Highland Way, Summit Rd, Morill Rd, Wright's Station Rd, some stuff I can't categorize, Aldercroft Heights Rd, Old Santa Cruz Highway, Mtn Charlie Rd (in with a whisper), Glenwood Dr, Granite Creek Rd, Branciforte Dr, Mountain View Rd, Laurel Glen Rd, Soquel San Jose Rd, Olive Springs Rd, Aptos Creek fireroad.

Cross bikes. I sit here with recovery legs. It got so tough up Olive Springs with the cramping. I'd shift around on my saddle, trying to maneuver my pelvis into different alignments so as to spread the over-work over a wider range, which sort-of worked; the cramps would lessen, and then shift themselves over to a different group of muscles. No lie, I could walk my cramps around. Ridiculous. It got to the point where I was only actively engaging muscles to kick away from myself as everything else musclewise was roached. Then I had to get off and walk up the darkening fireroad. Horrible and glorious. I blame myself, since it is revealed that my hot button is being called "soft". Seriously, it's like taunting a caged animal




my response is Pavlovian. I first declined to add the heinously steep Olive Springs to the end of the ride, was accused of "getting soft", and before I knew what had happened I'd agreed to the extra like a reflex bypassing my brain. Dumb.

I have some work to do to be ready for the stern mileage headed our way. And since I'm heading in a new fashion direction for this outing, I have some outfits to plan. If you see any discount gold rope chains, let me know. I'm a get my shit together, boy.

hand-reared jungle cat

Local roadies all want to ride out 68 and go "over the grade". They say it with a gleam in their eye, like it's something. Pardon me while I snicker. Cloacal roadies, get real! Carmel Valley is where it's at. Sure, there're the wine-drunk tourists sometimes, but over all the experience is much more good. You can talk about how 68 has such nice pavement after the winter's redo, and how it has the wide shoulder...and get blue in your face as you ignore the issue- commuter traffic and buses and trucks and the grade sucks, homie. It is hot, it is exposed, and it backs up with assholes driving way too fast teaching you a lesson by passing within a foot of you. And, then, you're up and over and down and you have CV to ride anyhow. (buzzer sound.)

On the other hand, shifting into your big ring and smoothly pedaling circles out the valley gets you past the village in practically no time and from there it's no-traffic one-lane goodness. To wit, Cachagua:

where you can get your hot exposed climb on with minimal cars, nice grades, and fantastic descending on the backside. Scary twisty and quick.

So I did that. But the ride was too short, even though my lily-white, coastal-fog-softened pins were talking. As I was headed West, I opted for a further climb up the South side past all those steep false summits. Hopped a gate that wouldn't open, and rolled through some more:

oak land goodness. Summer is here and the time is right, for riding in the streets. ~70ish miles of street biking.

At home afterwards, I stretched hamstrings and adductors and foam-rollered the legs. It helps. Don't sleep.


Finally, in the interest of Summertime and more info than you deserve or desire, I made the BBQbaked black-eyed peas from the Vegan Soul Kitchen cookbook by Bryant Terry.  Fucking delicious.

the accomodating circumstance

I hope you are getting your miles in.

Smiles over here aboard a few rigs, but lately mostly the plastick street bike. I have said it out loud and in person as recently as just this morning: road riding is as fun as mountain biking. Sure, I have to make a little bit of a icky face while spitting that out, for form's sake, but that takes nothing away from the Truth of it. Fun is fun, and where I'm sitting fast enough to bring tears to your eyes counts double. The extra bits, such as how you can swoop all over the place and pull Gs in the corners if it's swept, well that's piling excess on success. You might wanna put on your power clothes and get a hold of some of that.

The extra extra? Sheeeeeeeeeit. Only reason you can't take that one trail is because- wait, why can't you? Oh, come come. Horses for courses and all, but you'd be surprised.

360* nutjob

There is no Gravity in space.

I awoke sometime in the wee wee hours and knew that I should get up and get at it. I lacked discipline, so I decided to sleep longer. This happened 2 times. Finally, in the much less wee hours, I rallied and began preparations to continue riding.

 By the time I'd had coffee and breakfast (I've found that instant oatmeal with maple and brown sugar mixed with nuts and cranberries is a solid morning meal for me- the Quik and EZ, which is what all the kids want) the sky was light and the sun was peeping over the horizon as I headed deeper into Rabbit Valley.

Sport Legs work very well for those of us who are prone to the cramping. I'd taken several the night before and some with breakfast as well. The blues were at bay, and I figured I'd push on at least to Dewey Bridge. From that point I could ride the River Road into Moab or hitch if required.

Tired and broken as I was, I figured I'd take it easy to Westwater and have a swim and a shady nap there. The plan was to take all the easiest routes. I was having a fine old time cruising and ignoring the Western Rim trailhead. Yep, flying along on a sweet doubletrack downhill...

Flying.

Nice, cool downhill.

Huh. That singletrack down there along the rim sure looks fun. No. Stay on the Quik and EZ. You've already dropped a bunch and you'd have to climb to get back up to that trailhead anyhow. That singletrack looks really, really  fun. No. Now you've dropped even more, stay-

F it. I turned around and climbed back up to that trailhead where the getting was good. And the getting was Good. That Western Rim was the high point. The singletrack is single, right next to the edge, and smooooth music. Well worth the "effort". I rallied.

When I reached the intersection with Kokpelli, I rolled right across in a frenzy of following the fun. It's an ATV track there, and that was a mistake. Those motorheads love to throttle up and down fins with no regard to flow. The trail worsened quickly. After getting further out than I wanted to suffer back, I decided I was back in the pickle and would take the easiest easy I could find. This led me to look at the map with lazy eyes that only saw what they wanted to see- a coastable reroute. So I made my next mistake by continuing in a descending ramble towards the Colorado. Down the Bitter Creek drainage until I was far enough down I figured I'd see it through in the hopes that I could hunt and peck a connector along the RR tracks.

It worked.

At a little after 11am I popped out across the tracks from the Westwater put-in. Yay!

The ranger, Alan- an unlikely cycling fan at 6'3"/258lbs, appeared right away from the HQ saying"It's too hot to be touring the Kokpelli! You look like you could use a cold beer." Allllllright. I swam, lunched, and napped in the shade of the Cottonwood trees.

When the rafting group of at-risk teens began loudly shushing each other right next to the picnic table upon which I dozed, nap time was over. It was still hottt, but it was time to leave.

That is a picture of a Fucko Racing Products sticker stuck over a Land Rover Lifestyle Magazine decal. I imagined, as I slowly rolled along the sandy doubletrack beside the RR tracks, what a Land Rover Lifestyle is. I imagine promenading into town at the end of a long day spent riding the brakes to get pedicures and sneer at the locals while eating out. I had a lot of time to imagine.



I came upon several antelope (Antilocapra americana) during this ride. They look like beetles to me, due to the weird facial markings. When I was a boy, swimming at Deep Eddy, we used to find the longhorned cottonwood borer. With it's bizarre black slashes on the face, the antelope looks a lot like the beetles of my youth.

 That is a picture of being sick of riding a bike along a sandy doubletrack beside the RR tracks. Notice how the bike is thrown down with abandon. Actually, this section was packed down pretty well from the showers in the week prior, though still sandy enough to wear away at my thin veneer of cool.

 That is a picture of storm clouds gathering about the La Sals, toward which I was heading.



So. The cramps came back. My thumbs began to convulsively pinch the hoods. My fancy black shoes got so hot in the sun that my feet got hotspots where the pinky toes touched them?!? Etc. I knew I would be done one way or the other at Cisco Landing.

I reached Cisco Landing around 4pm. Took a refreshing swim- well, except that my feet would cramp if I kicked too hard. I lounged around in the shitter as the rain came driving in, pushed by fierce winds. That was rotten. Really rotten. After the rain dwindled, I was afforded the luxury of lounging in the porte cochere. There was an opening under the wall through which I had my legs stuck when my toes cramped. I reflexively pulled my leg up, which knocked my shin on the wall, which started my anterior tibialis to cramp, which caused me to reflexively pull my leg up, which caused my hip flexors to cramp...I'm my own 3 Stooges.

One wonderful thing: when I am so worked over, I am at peace. Just stretching out on the solid Earth and not pedaling was fucking delight. I wanted for nothing. It is a profound sensation, the lack of desire. I didn't want entertainment. I didn't want food or water. I didn't even want to shift position. Totally satisfied just lying there. The Amtrak employee with the talk had told me about some guy who'd had his gear stolen the night before a big back country excursion. He'd asked his father to wire him some $ to get replacement stuff, but the nearest he could receive the $ was a ways away and he decided to hike through he Arizona desert with nothing to get there. 3 weeks later he was rescued, floating in his underwear and weighing 100lbs. He was completely lucid, and wanted to stay there and "talk" for 15 minutes before leaving. The crew gave him 8 minutes. I can see relishing the place he'd reached and being reluctant to return to the world. How far out must he have been? Beyond want I'm sure.

As dark fell, I heard the honking, slaloming arrival of my own rescue. 5 hours of  glorious loafing ended with the arrival of Mysterious BS, the man of the hour.  The inglorious end of my Kokpelli: beers, laughter, and a ride into Moab.

Extreme Safety!

You gotta be more than a butt that's booming.

After "sleeping" on my double coach platform (yes, I even pulled out the sleeping bag) I eventually washed up in Grand Junction at 10:10AM.

 

 My bike was extensively disassembled, so I puttered about on the platform for quite a while, putting the bike together and listening to the Amtrak employee tell me stuff about Freedom and the dangers of heat exposure in the backcountry.

 By 11, I was no disassembled and ready to hit it. My 1st stop was the nearby bike shop for a Latitude40 topo map of GJ and Fruita. After some lunch at Main St Bagels I rolled West on 340, heading for Fruita. I had filled only my 3 36oz water bottles and 1 100oz bladder, thinking to save weight/effort. When I reached Over The Edge Sports (the shop to patronize in Fruita) I axed those guys for pointers and filled all 4 100oz bladders. It was nice to meet you, Greg. It's still a new experience for me to meet the live humans behind computer screens.

 By the time I reached Mary's Loop, gateway to the Kokopelli, it was hot.

 Hott.

 Hottt.

 At a certain point along Mary's it was no longer fun. I skipped Steve's. Hottt, loaded heavy and tired is no way to flirt with the edge. At a later point, on Troy Built, it became hateful. Usually, I can keep a sense of humor whilst suffering. I went well past that point. I began to hate. I hated myself for committing to such a stupid plan, and more for not being smarter about it (like I'd "planned") by riding in the cooler hours. I hated Troy Rarik for putting such rotten lines in his loop. I hated you.

Truly, it is rare that I cannot laugh about how bad things get. I knew the jig might be up. I sweat a lot, and my electrolyte balance was out the window. Whose idea was heading from my constantly cool coastal kingdom up to 4,000' of 98* in the shade? What a jackass.

I stopped in the good shady wash, pulled out my pad, and napped for an hour or so. This was an attempt to bring my core temperature down. I was beginning to feel nauseous, and that's an early warning for heat exhaustion.  I poured some over myself several times, but my water was all too warm to help much. It felt hot, not refreshing.

When no more napping was to be had, I got back at it. I immediately felt just as ill as before. I wanted to reach Rabbit Valley as close to 4pm as I could for reasons of my own, so I pushed instead of staying there in the shade as I should have done. I should have waited for cool.

 That above is the cut-off down to Salt Creek to reach the Kokopelli as it branches from the Mary's/Lion's Loop. It is a bitch.


I dropped down and crossed the creek. I wet my socks, bandana, and hat. I was very bitter about any "unnecessary" elevation gain. I could see climbing up that fin was gratuitous, but I knew no other route. After following the train tracks for a bit, the trail turned up. I got off. I began to push. It suuuucked. I settled into a routine of pushing the laden bike an arm's length away and climbing up to it. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. On the (frequent) occasions that a (surprisingly small) rock stopped my wheel, I felt like crying. It was a total emotional breakdown. I have never felt so broken.


I reached Rabbit Valley, and my camp site, as the sun dropped below the horizon. I was surprised to have cell reception. I texted several folks with my dejection- I was cramping and sad. I knew I should sleep on it, but I felt like abandoning. It would have been easy to hitch to Moab as that campground is only a mile at most from I70. Eventually, I rallied and got up from my prone position on the table top to  heat water and make tea and dinner. Then I slept.

tip up your cup and throw yo hands up

and let me hear the cross race say:




This is how we do it. If I saw you at Aptos High then that was rad. ____ing hard course. Just mean spirited.
To the dude whose front tubular peeled off resulting in his painful smack to the pave: Ouch.
To the hecklers at the top of the hill by the loosely duffed Cedar 180: you are missing the point. How are you gonna tell racers "that looks like it hurts", get called out for having a cooler full of ____, say "it's not for you, it's for winners" (ok, I just remembered that, and you got me there), not hand any out, get called out every subsequent lap, and not deliver? Fuck you. If you got it, flaunt it. And by flaunt it, I mean spit it on me, or hand me some.
To the crusty old guy in polka dots on the humpty run-up at the lower loop: you were getting bumped with my wheel from the side, and as I said "rubbing is racing". I would have told you more only you rode away too fast.
To all the yahoos: YAY! BOO!

I took my battles where they presented themselves, maybe forced a pass whenever I saw/made a hole (take that in the corner!), sweated a lot, and had a fine time.

Did I win?

This is water.

These days I'm seeing a bunch of biker down words on the interwebs. People getting hurt sucks. I'm sorry that goes on.

What I'd want? I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike! I want people to remember this, and attempt to act accordingly. I mean breathe in, take some time outs for the Common Good. Cycling is Good. Bikes are good.

I'd be riding regardless, even if it were actively bad for me, if you need the Truth. It's just that kind of party. Knock wood I'm done and holding, but I've been struck by cars 3 times so far. I ride accordingly. I assume you're all furiously texting instead of watching the shoulder much less the road itself, and that's taking as a given that you want to avoid hitting me with your vehicle (to say nothing of the beverage container in your sweaty paw), if only to spare your wax job.

So. Not the weight of Everything, but access to wonder. You know, if you're into that.



And, plus while riding today I got the secret handshake authorization at that one gate. No kidding. Supposedly the homeowner will be all chill with me breezing through to the trail. It will be so nice if it pans out. I'll let you know.

maybe my tattoo IS working! ladies, you're welcome.

Whew! You feeling it? I'm feeling it. A high level of stoke just to be riding streets and trails. So much quickness. What passes for it around here anyways; back roads and flowy singletrack and whatever it takes to join the 2. Which today was South Boundary out to 50 and then that loop through the Ord-QUIET! silence. OK, the wind is blowing. Trees whispering in the breeze. Maybe loudly conversing. A bird singing here, there a hawk shrieking as it folds wings in and plummets down then opening full span and soaring quickly back up to do it again. A used GU packet rests in it's natural environs (a trail), whence it has come from some racer too fast/important to put it in his pocket.

And that was before I stopped to look for that pesky #28.

Then it was homeward through Cside(!) to climb the hill through Veteran's and some more trails down the other side to COTSRHQ. What I'm increasingly considering my Local Loop. ~35miles. Pavement, dirt, radical.


Friends, if I should die while riding, I hope you will chain up a Ghost Bike and then ride off to your favorites. Or at least ride off.

All Day Elegance

It was a fun 3 Day Training Camp with Mr. Softy (hard earned nickname, that) Newton. He was fresh off his personal vision quest journey down South. Apparently we need to get down to Solvang to ride Mt. Figueroa.

Day 1 saw a mixed bag of Monterey Peninsula riding- singletrack and road. As good as it gets down here. No poison oak, though...Mileage? High 40s.

Day 2 had us in Santa Cruz for the pave. Mr. Sr. D____ G___ joined us, though he really should know better. I promptly got us lost up Trout Gulch- an uphill 7.5 mile detour to a dead end. Then we got back on it to ride the funnest road anywhere, ever. I shall no longer refer to this road in anything but a spoken whisper. Done.
I will say that we saw a group of ladies on the lower section of said road, and they chased us for a while. We had stopped for a nature break, and a group of 5 ladies rolled up. Needless to say, we hurried it up. As we rolled out I told them "We'll see you when you catch us", which I actually meant, and they actually took as a gauntlet. They clipped in so hard and fast behind us I thought a tool had fallen out of my pocket! (Yes, we shelled them.)
I experienced the most exquisite cramping I have ever known near the top. This is quite distinct from the worst or longest lived, etc.; this cramping was special. It started in my adductor, and then wrapped around the lower half of my hamstrings. It felt like a web of constricting fire. I have never felt anything like it.
In true to the route form, we finished zipping down Eureka Canyon in the cooooooold dank dark. Super Fun road ride. Mileage? Low 60s.

Day 3 showed sooner than I'd have liked, bringing with it a return to SC, but for dirt. "Serious riding"- some fire road up, some narrow singletrack across and down, all good. The one ride to go on if you can only do one? Mileage? High 20s?


Good times with Good Friends. Parts of me hurt.