enjoy your prize

Long(ish) loops on the cross bike are their own reward.

But a stop at Monty's Log Cabin never hurt anybody. Subsequent to this little tour, I received a virtual introduction to birdcloud. Thanks, El Gato Negro, for the tour and the musical heads-up!

Those gals are the future.

Hey! California! get out there and enjoy some tacky dirt now that we got a little rain...

now even blander and more conflict-free!

Words. You may have noticed the content around here listing heavily toward the obfuscatory. What can I say? What can I say? What can I say?

Some of the rides that we do or plan are not for public consumption. I'd rather be under the radar than under the thumb. But, I am strangely compelled to scribble about these bicycle jaunts and so there are the blank spaces, the redactions, here. Just know that if it's unclear it was so much _____er than you imagine.

In this vein, __d_ and I rode the cyclocross bikes t'other day. I haven't been riding my super custom Black Cat cyclocross bicycle because I've got issues with the rear wheel. The drive-side spokes are pulling through the shitty Salsa Delgado box sucktion rims, and I've been too lazy and there are too many other accessible bikes to ride to do anything about it. This day, I'd decided to do something about it...say "fuck it, the spokes aren't going to fail catastrophically" and ride it anyway. It worked out great.

We started with a plan, but it changed on account of the above was just coming off the couch and illness (and still put the screws to me?! Dang.). Since the original plan had involved a bunch of road and then a bunch of singletrack and then a bunch more road, I'd (cleverly) decided to make my compromise on the trail section, it being nominally shorter, and have everything available to me on the (longer) road section(s). With the change in plan this was no longer the genius selection it had been. At the end of a day spent riding I had a big smile on my face.

At several stages during that day though, I had a big pucker going. At one point I was bound to the slidey, sandy, off-camber-to-the-outside Earth solely by a combination of willpower and ass-clenching. It was exciting! I will allow that the dirt was perfect. Perfect. Tacky, firmly set-up goodness. It was rarely the slick 37mm tyres holding me back as we climbed and climbed and descended and climbed, swooping the while. A new trail in Santa Cruz? Yes, and it is good up and down.

Whatever mushrooms the forests up there hold, they are safe from me. The singletrack will not be denied. It is February, if you are unsure, and we were laying down the Radness all day. Sometimes this California ish is OK.



Halfway stop:

...just up the street from the Bigfoot Museum. I have yet to have less than a Good Time there. We have shown up in all kinds of states and frequently in full body-hugging lycra and never even had the hint of a bad attitude. Classy as it gets.



The knee brace worked out pretty well. It is adjustable in several ways, and is open at the back to allow for easy flexion with minimum binding. It did catch on my frame pump (you damn right, frame pump), and of course it chafed and bound a little. However, there were 2 distinct instances when I felt it save me from some gapping at the joint- so, worth using for certain. Just like the slick tyres, everything is a trade-off somewheres. There might be a lesson in that.

the kind of mistake a man can make only once

In response to a phone call from an unnamed "friend", I found myself waking up at 3:15AM and heading North. In a car. And not for a bike ride.

A helicopter ride to the Farallon Islands sounded like a fair use of a day off. I had never been in a helicopter before, nor had I heard of the Farallon Islands (much less been there). Those of y'all who love birds and live in the Bay Area should prolly get on that. The whole place is literally covered in birds' bones. I imagine at the right time of year it is a birder's paradise. At this time of year it is lots of seals and not so many birds.  The biologists who man the place are some nice guys who are wealths of information. They were counting attacks by Great White Sharks on seals. I heard the term "blood pool" used twice in passing. It stuck with me. The conversations were going great until the subject of Orcas came up.Y'all are familiar with my anthropomorphization of Killer Whales- I think they are assholes. Really, they are the worst kind of bullying meatheads. They need to grow up and stop abusing their position at the top of the food chain. Did you know that Orcas predate Great White Sharks? Apparently they love the liver. Anyhow, when the biologist started waxing about Killer Whales' superior predator status, I dropped the turd into the punchbowl by voicing my opinion (not the 1st time that's happened, I can tell you). I even included the self-effacing sidenote about realizing it was bullshit and assigning made-up values to nature...but not even a smile. He just looked at me. Quite speechless. It was exquisite.

My buddy asked me if the day was worth the trade (I assisted, briefly, superficially, whingeingly,  with some septic system maintenance) and I honestly answered "No." Well, we did see (from afar) a Great White attack on a hapless, by-standing seal (yeah yeah- everbody's gotta eat) but I could not discern the blood pool.

If you have seen a helicopter ride on TV, you have as good as ridden in one. Anything more exciting would be terrifying to boot, and I pass.

I did have a spirited discussion with said compadre while we sat in heavy 5PM traffic regarding how bad BB King sucks. Surprisingly, it was not a difference in degree, but of kind. My boy feels that BB King is good while I feel that BB King represents the very worst kind of soulless pandering to boozy white folks sitting in an overly hot and dirty field getting sunburned and drinking Coors Lite. I said he was just like Robert Cray- tired, played out, no soul. I said I like my blues with razors and whiskey:

Happy Birfday Mr. St-John!

I had a heck of a time going to Church on your birfday and letting some light shine...



all up those slushy trails we really shouldn't have ridden (gots to remember the clip-on fenders!). Twisty singletrack, sneaky cut-offs, local lines all lead to one spot:

You are old and crusty, but there ain't no flies on you.

You say it's your Birfday?

Well, happy to you. Any birfday worth having involves a loooong bike ride. I decided several years ago that I would have a 100miler as my birfday goal. I ain't gettin any younger, and a century is not something I do so often that it can be looked at as anything other than kickass. Really. When was the last time you rode one? Ezzackly. It's a good goal.

So on my last ill fated birfday ride, the goal was considerably less (~75 or so), and there ended up being cheating (friends like these...) and at one point there was an hour or so long beer stop (unplanned, as the SC crew was supposed to be ready and waiting- when really they were only waiting for 9 minutes and ready only to give us a lot of shi_ about being "late" and then they lollygagged around for some time before kitting up) during which this goal was related to one famously grumpy bike industry type who then said how it was a lame goal, and unrealistic, and how his goal was 8 hours on the bike, as that's so much more attainable,etc. Yeah yeah yeah.

So Happy Birfday Senior Sr. Mr. D____ G___! 43 and sleazy as the day was short.

Poor planning was the word of the day. I awoke to the ringing of my phone. It was the birfday boy calling to set up ride times. This after drunkenly claiming the prior Sunday that this ride would be going on and would be "fun" but refusing to give details and then remaining incommunicado throughout the week. I was sleeping in, because I figured it was not going to happen.

Up at 8, out the door at 9. Errands along the way included picking up my still-broken framed tandem (T___, do you read this?) and talking shi_. Rumor has it that there will be some epic mistake of a countywide circumnavigation for this year's County Line, but sources are notoriously unreliable. Liable to lie. I just hope they skip the beach.

So. Meet in Santa Cruz at S___'s house. I arrived. Then G____ S_____, whom I had only met once previously- and then he was shirtless and wearing a large gold "SEX" medallion. He is not shy, conversation was not a problem. Then the birfday manchild showed up with some very special soy milk. Finally, B______ met us as we rolled out. I have a vague memory of meeting him several years ago roadside in Big Sur during the Tour of California- he was holding a fork (to eat with) and the kids and I were spray painting slogans of encouragement for Ekimov onto HWY 1.

The ride started promisingly, heading immediately uphill and onto trails. Rainslick roots are my most-feared obstacle in biking. I have effed myself so badly on rainslick roots so many times that they have grown large in my imagination, terrifying me all out of proportion to their individual circumstance. The redwood forest is pretty dank this time of year, and the roots are slick. I was scared alot of times as we climbed. The dirt was nice and tacky, though. It made for inneresting contrast. To the boys (and Ladies) of Santa Cruz, I say:


in the hopes that they will NEVER take for granted the World Class awesomeness of their trail system. Those narrow and swooping ribbons of Goodness make me laugh out loud with Joy. Even the connector trails are kickass.

And so on singletrack (mostly) up through University, with a beer stop at the water tanks under a 3speed nailed high in a tree I had not known was there, and then onto Empire Grade. We then hopped onto another trail (Poison Oak Trail?) and wound down to some more lonely asphalt climbing out to a secret compound in the redwoods where, contrary to rumor, there was not a fridge full of beer. No small oversight. Things could be better with that addition, _ick. So up and back to Empire and up some more to a different secret compound, where there was a fridge full of cold beer. Out came the now infamous globe of scotch, and sandwiches all around.

That place is a tarbaby.

We pried the birfday-ite out of his cabin, and clad in a new and ghastly Coors Lite thermal jersey (circa 1990?) he led us down to the secret entrance of a trail whose name I've forgotten. This descent was the very same we'd ridden on my own birfday ride. Only this time, we did not spend 2 hours at the tarbaby shack and crack open every bottle in the joint to start Suntory Time and the trail in the dark. It was still light and there were no crashes.

Apparently this trail goes nowhere except to Monty's Log Cabin Bar, and some dark railroad tracks. Thanks D___, it was a Good Time.

Telltale Hearts

I rewrapped my bars in anticipation of the bumpy 100miler... here it is: Left before, and Right after adding a layer of cork tape on the ramps and flats. Like an anaconda swallowing a pig.



Friday saw a late start to the Birfday Ride. No surprises there. In the future, I will lie about starting at 6am, so we can actually hit the road at 8am. It's always been the joke about having to overhaul a bottom bracket real quick-like before we set out...but Mr. D____ G___ has set the bar higher by showing up with a shaky BB, loose cones in the front, and maladjusted brakes. To his enduring credit, none of this phased him. Though I admire his level of commitment, that's hard to ignore. I did not want to open the hub, as we were behind already and that can be a time suck, snowballing into more. I thought we'd tighten the BB cups- the nondrive was tight but the driveside crank threads were partially stripped, so nope. We did adjust the brakes for maximum stopping power, since we roll so fast. Time for a safety break, and then the mean streets of Carmel-by-the-Sea.



In order to make our 4pm meeting in Santa Cruz, we skipped several dirt options. It was up and over the hill for sneaky goodness right away, and a beer stash.


And out Hwy 68 to Gen Jim Moore because we skipped Fort Ord due to time constraints (Bummer).

Bike path up to Castroville. At the turnoff by Pezzini Farms, I attempted to outsprint a semi. The driver took offense, and really gunned it to catch me at the entrance to the path. I shook my fist at him, and he stopped the truck and blew his horn when we did not stop to -what? Fight in the street?
Kook.
Time for another beer.

Then it was Elkhorn Slough.

We rolled into Watsonville from the South. Burrito and beer stop. D. G___ thought to ride Hazel Dell, however time was not for us but against us, so it was roll on after stopping at Casserly to get safe and have a beer.

Casserly is a treasure trove! They've got all kinds of random truck stop goodies,

including vintage motorcycle leathers, and German surplus waxed cotton frame packs with leather bottoms. I will be returning for them; they'd make great panniers.



Skipped any illusions of Nisene-time again. Busted ass to arrive at 4:09pm at Santa Cruz Bicycles, the meeting spot, only to be harrassed for being late. We then stood around in the Swobo portion of the compound and milked cold beers from the gracious host. And after an hour or so, the other riders were ready. Hmmmm, no surprises, AGAIN.

And with that we were off!...to the bus station. Where we waited to take the bus up Empire.



Then it was more daylight wasted drinking and breaking for safety- an activity which would be a celebration, were it pursued out of doors via bicycle- at the secret compound of Dr. Mr. D. G___. After which point ( and in spite of the globe of scotch, tequila in chilled shot glasses, and Jager-none for me thankyou) we rolled down Fall Creek in the daaaaaark. It began to rain.

Pileups ensued. People laughed at themselves and others.


We showed up at Monty's Log Cabin Bar to wait for the rain to turn from a cold drizzle into a cold raging downpour. Then we set out for town in the midst of it. At several points, I watched my turn go by as I held both brakes to the bar and continued to slide straight ahead while desperately hoping there was no cross traffic. Terrifyingly wet and slippy.


Late night call to my sweetie for pickup. {THANK YOU, BOBA FET, FOR ENABLING MY BIRFDAY HIJINKS YEAR AFTER YEAR!!!} I was asleep before we hit the highway.

Another year older and 25 miles short of the goal. Good Times.