strange animals you never saw

Days off are for fun. Relax in the woods with some clippers and a pull-saw for 4 hours and what a you get? Trails clear of logs (the smaller ones, anyhow. There are a few still down that will require some real sawyering...under cover of darkness), free from eye-poking limbs, and NO POISON OAK within arms reach of the singletracks. Those are some results.

I been demoing a full squish (full carbon?!) with the 1x11 for the past week. While the Magura disc brakes squeal like they're a little overweight and their log book is way behind, I am enjoying the shit out of the experience. That 1x11 business...that is all right. No problems climbing the sustained, the steep, or the punchy. Lots of giddy.

The bloom is on over here, and I'm thinking folks going bike touring 2 weeks from now are gonna be missing the wildflowers, which will be past. Seems like a couple days in Coe are just the ticket for some climby flower viewing...who's got 2 thumbs and is off next Monday and Tuesday?

another showdown scene

Out of everbody invited, only me and Adolph Herman Joseph Coors showed up for the Full sandWormsofarrakis Moon. We toured from 10th street liquors ("coldest beer in town") on out to the tower by the boarded up military shack the Sleaze Otter ran through that one time. I'd plugged the light in, and left it at home and my blinkie was blinked out, so all in black makes it a be safer offa the roads evening anyways. A homeless dude told me to get a light on the path out of town. The other tower is full of bees again, like it is seasonally. And that damned skunk was tail-up on the trail as he will be sometimes, at the intersection after the poison-oaked access. But he moved when I told him to beat it. For once.



All strapped up Saturday night.




Well, I wanted a close-up view of one of the old DANGER! ordinance signs. I love them, with the skull and crossbones they're waaay more effective than just strong wording.



Swapping the framebag around from bike to bike. Loaded with 10.L of water, it is some heavy load to push. It's OK, though. Still rallyable.  It's not as though it weren't fun or nothin.

Spring is sprung over here, for sure. Waking up was delight; the 1st of many warm and sunny mornings, I hope. Bird choruses and good green smells.






I put the B17 back on the bike, and my pants didn't have any holes in them when I got home this morning.

I'm ragged but I'm right

So of course, as soon as they were available to me, I purchased a Brooks Cambium C17. I'd attempted to finagle a demo model when Brooks ran their advertising blitz a while back, but was denied for reasons unknown. I even wrote a regrettably curse word laden email to what I assumed was their robot mail service crying foul (mouth). Regardless, so far as I can tell from an admittedly brief (I'm not getting paid for this, you know) internet search, their chosen "testers" have been goddamned lax in their reviewing.

Knowing all that, you be the judge of my impartiality when I state: that saddle wore through 2 pairs of pants in the 1st 2 rides. 

Perhaps that is why the radio silence. You can and will take what I write as you like, but I counsel you to abstain from the throwing of good money after bad in purchasing this saddle. I wore an old pair of wool/nylon dress pants for the 1st ride, which is a usual style for me as they are weather resistant and comfortable. Pilled up and wore through in a single ride of 4 hours. I've had that pair of pants and ridden in them extensively for over a year with no issues on leather B17s. The next pair was a worn-out at the knees pair of Levi's, because I wanted to test the saddle without ruining a good pair of trousers. These now have a super worn crotch with a nickel sized hole at the center seam after the same route/time as the 1st ride.

I have nothing but praise for the B17, and no good to speak of the C17. Talk amongst yourselves. 

I have begun a winning tradition

Ooo baby.



Digital records of analog events. Is it even worth leaving this chair?

Exhibit A:

It is.

Exhibit B:

It IS worth leaving this chair. Even (especially?) if the computer is all loaded up with viruses and in the shop, and so little documentation is to be had.

Riding bikes and drinking beers happens in the flesh, after all.

Feel so froggy lately, I wanna jump back. Legs as fresh as your creepy uncle. Aw yeah. There was a while there that I was allowing my ride schedule, such as it is, to be determined by other folks' show/no-show. I'm past that now and the satisfaction of riding whenever the riding is there is it's own reward fo sho. Again, I relearn that you can't let other people get your kicks for you.

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.

the distinctive mark of great classic style

I am recognized at the liquor store round the corner from the jay oh bee. They treat me with all the courtesy required by a humble man who doesn't drive a great big Cadillac and is, in fact, just riding a couple blocks over to pop a quiet top in the graveyard...I ain't special. I shut up and finish my drink. Pedal.

I am known at various points along related yet subtly ever-varied spots on the routes from this town to it's outlying dark, tree-lined or open maritime chaparral singletracks. It's only the Monterey Pines, the coastal live oaks, the Hooker's manzanita, the ceanothus, and the poison oak, but beggars cannot be choosers. Except in the sense that I have chosen these spots, and the skunks, the raccoons, and all the different owls who also choose them are my boon companions on a dark night. I flatter myself that my route is hard and my pace is high, but the reality is that I am working with boozy vision, chasing low-mid range bike lights down sandy, crumbly singletracks. Pedal.

I am accepted by the dark. Granted admittance, given a pass, have options laid out for me. I toast the lurid glow of Monterey and walk a few steps to the other side of the ridge to toast the garish lights of Salinas. I had left a pocket bottle of Old Grandad under the tree on that now-closed top section of 49, but last time around, there it was- emptied and tossed in the bushes. That treatment causes me to think it was some do-gooder pissing off trail who saved me from myself. That's just a waste, and I cannot be saved from the depravity sunk deep in my bones. Look at it: gently swaying along a trail miles from nowhere...it's absolute moral decay. Pedal.

So this next bottle, I hid it better. And, of course, some jackass drank the tallboy from the Caprock (remember before folks knew about it, and it was a regular bar?) and did not replace it. I figured that would be the case, and slithered on over to the new stairs. There's some beers there, and the masses don't know where it lies. Pedal.

I'd fixed the fixed gear. Tightened the BB, and reversed the chainring, so the drive faces are somewhat fresh. Good enough to get me further down the trails until I order actual new replacement bits. Home to workplace in the unseasonably warm sunlight, job interlude, then leave work thru Cside(!) with a little Frog Pond surprise singletrack and out and up So Boundary for a larger loop, pedal pedal pedal, don't stop. Except to piss in the street. Pedal.

It is a Good Feeling. Trails, trails, trails. Legs, lungs, no brain.

a whole new blog

This one's for the people.

We crept out to the secret spot, my riding buddies and I. And we stowed our crap behind the tree (hung the food bag up high) so's to set the scene for some fast and loose.

There was the required fiddling with bikes that haven't been ridden in a while- the saddle height adjusting, and the refresher talk in regard to shifting. There was not the talky talk about gear and the new new. These fellas don't care (SO refreshing). They are in it for the smiles.

Well, and because I require their participation. Given the choice, there will always be the quick and easy. TV, computer, facetime, Minecraft, skate park, or whatever's next are the rathers but after the ultimatum there are no frowns to speak of and the little reservations are quickly forgotten when the trails shifts, narrows, and swoops.

 Secret Boys. We don't say.

Sun goes down, adventure goes on.

When we are done wringing the last drops out of this Good Time, we roll out.

 There is no sign we were ever there at all.