Big Wheel Building

Primo.

2012-01-29T10:51:00.007-07:00

Back in the dark ages of ought-nine I got an out-of-the-blue email from Keith Scott at Banshee Bikes. Seems Keith and his cohorts had decided the time was right to start working on their iteration of a big wheeled trail bike.

Keith solicited opinions from several folks, made some basic drawings, got some more opinions, then tweaked the drawings. More conversations were had, dead end roads were taken, then backtracking was done--all parts of any healthy and inclusive design process. Measurements were extracted from the currently available 'big' forks, rims and tires, then guesses were made as to how much bigger things could, or would, go.

There is a lot of skill required to be able to see each minute part of the equation independently, but then it takes significantly more vision to be able to zoom out and, um, envision the overarching whole. Sure, CAD helps but you need to couple that with an acute understanding of how, where, and by whom a bike like this is going to be ridden in order to end up with something that not only works and lasts, but that people come out of the woodwork to find. And buy. Keith has done a brilliant job of sticking to his guns through the process--no small feat when you're consulting a ~dozen vocal minorities, each convinced that their vision is "right".

Here's my preproduction sample of what will eventually come to market as the Banshee Prime.

Just need to heal up the elbow so that I can stop *pedaling* it and begin to really *ride* it.

I'll keep a build log with a moderate amount of geeking HERE as the process continues.

MC

Deep.

2012-01-26T22:09:00.002-07:00

A very mellow week+. Subluxed my right radial head (aka 'dislocated elbow') about 10 days ago and have been unable to ride, ski, paddle. It was a solid 8 days of walking with the dog before I was able to heft a camera--and even then I needed two hands to do it.

Really haven't been able to do much other than answer emails and build a few wheels.

Until yesterday. Even though I merely rode a short, scenic stretch of pavement, with lots of dull pain during and after, it was *liberating* to be back on a bike with wind on my cheeks.

Closest thing I have to a road bike. 20psi in the tires and it moved along just fine.

Nice to be back.

MC

Winter?

2012-01-19T23:23:00.002-07:00

Well, kinda. But not really.

I'm enjoying warm temps and sun as much as I always do, but the closer we get to when spring usually happens around here (about 6 weeks from now) the more I realize how screwed we're gonna be if it doesn't start rainsnowsleethailing. Soon. And often!

Think forest fires, crop failures, brush fires, and massive stress on larger critters--we do live in a desert after all. And lots of dust in the air as the spring winds pick up. Which makes the snow melt faster, which makes summer come sooner, which brings us closer to swirling the drain...

Sorry--this was s'posed to be an 'it's-the-weekend' stoke post. Ahem. Here's a few pics from the one true MTB ride I did last week. I think the ice is about to come off the local lakes, which means boating could soon be back on the docket.

Cheerios,

MC

Up.

2012-01-17T22:16:00.004-07:00

I'm rarely a fan of diesel exhaust, but somehow those caused by the UPS man get a hall pass. When Lyle handed off that big rectangular box last Friday, it was all I could do to keep from jumping up and down in the blue cloud he'd left behind.

Months of discussion, planning, plotting, and a lot of fancy fabrication by He Who Prefers to Remain Unnamed had led to this very moment: My Moots FSnoots (<-Get it?) frame was back from a very important operation.

(You can read the nitty gritties IN DETAIL here if you're into geeking out).

HWPtRU removed the old headtube, then fabricated and welded on a new one to accommodate a custom fat-specific Action Tec suspension fork. A few hours of wrenching got her back to rideable that night.

Shop shots:

That tire is four and a half inches wide, surprisingly light, and tubeless.

Fatback front hub, Speedway Uma 90 rim, Surly BFL tire.

Smooooove.

On Saturday AM I met Cutty and Dreamboat atop Grand Mesa. Our objective was somewhat ambitious, depending on firm trails and minimal paddle-track-equipped slednecks to "go" in the span of an afternoon. 3 weeks of high pressure (with only a scant few inches of snow) leading up to this day made it seem like it just might happen.

Classic Colorado winter scene.

The early miles proved the most difficult: punchy underneath yet wind whipped on top. Low tire pressure is required to maintain float on the ephemeral crust, but too low and you'll spin your tires on the surface merengue. 7-8psi seemed about ideal.

Dreamboat bailed after an hour, opting to go get drunk instead. Cutty and I committed to the meat of the loop--the switchbacks and rollers down to the Cottonwoods.

Hoots and yelps escaped both of us on this must-be-ridden-to-be-appreciated descent. I know of no other like it that is rideable by over-the-snow bicycle.

Occasionally you just had to stop and look around. "Am I really here, atop feet of snow, and *grinning*, with a bike?!"

And then it was back to slaying the descent.

Minor fiddling required.

The descending on this loop is mostly front ended, leaving the real work for the second half. I found the climbing grades about perfect for middle ring spinning, with an occasional and brief dip into the granny.

No two ways about it, the snowpack in Colorado is *thin*. Rocks were prevalent where normally (at this time of year) you'd see none, and there was even dirt and mud visible in places. This shot was taken at better than 10,000'.

Well hellooooo there, beautiful. You live around here...?!

Normally virgin meadows had been thrashed weeks before by powder-starved 'necks doing what they could to stay sane.

Gorgeous late-afternoon light as we cut the Crag Crest at a low point.

Little more fiddling.

We played hide-and-go-seek with the sun for the last ~hour as we passed into and out of thick stands of spruce.

It vanished for good as we crossed the last lake, just as we were welcomed back by the sweet caress of wood smoke. It's just not winter without wood smoke, is it?

We aired back up for the paved climb that closed the loop, grinding it out while gawking at the twinkling lights of Delta and Cedaredge far below.

We finished in full dark, thankful for 6 memorable yet uneventful hours out on the bike.

Thanks for checking in.

MC

Department of Redundancy Department.

2012-01-12T23:02:00.003-07:00

The last few weeks we've gotten into a 'rut' of riding the deliciously tacky, texturous, and empty rock near Moab when time off has presented itself.

No rush, no agenda, just toodling, sessioning, and moving the picnic from one scenic spot to the next.

Forecast (back at home) called for grey fading to flurries. We chose wisely.

Chadly, post-headstand. You had to be there...

One of these years, it'll fall off. But it'll probably dissolve even sooner.

Someday Matt, all this can be yours...

We finished up as it faded to grey, then drove out through flurries.

Greatest rut on earth.

Cheers,

MC

None, continued.

2012-01-10T21:17:00.003-07:00

With the continuation of our springlike weather, Greg and Skippy didn't have to lobby very long to get me back out onto the rock. Felt like March or April out there, which was fine until you paused to think about the scorching dustbowl this world will be if we don't get a heap of moisture some time real soon.

And then that thought fell like so much dandruff as our eyes and tires locked onto the textures created by mid-winter light on sandstone.

Greg talked himself into getting after a few of the more creative lines. Jibber!

Skippy wasn't feeling his usual self, but still managed to smooth several of the funnerer lines.

What I love about riding this time of year is that no one's in a hurry. We can ride a casual pace, chat a bit (or not) and keep our heads up and eyes turned outward. Come April most rides will have morphed into races (to the top, to the bottom, back to work, no time to look around, etc...) so I'm savoring these mellow days.

Though the shadows were never short, as they lengthened we grudgingly turned for home, taking permagrins and tanned cheeks with us.

Praying for snow,

MC

Out with the old...

2012-01-05T23:37:00.003-07:00

...wait!

I like the old!

The 'tweener week gave opportunities to visit old friends and favorite places. Which can seem like old friends in their own way.

I've heard lots of grousing about the 'lack of winter' but other than an impending drought (which, honestly, seems to be a permanent condition) I don't see a good reason to complain. Winter is but two weeks young--it'll happen when it happens.

Meanwhile, the weather outside ain't frightful.

Where's Waldette?

It's what's for breakfast.

Improvising.

The end? Nah, just an intermediate step. And a pretty spot for it.

Need sleep--s'posed to be bluebird tomorrow.

Again.

MC

None of these.

2011-12-30T10:53:00.005-07:00

A few times a year we manage to hit it just right on a trip to the Mecca down the road. Most times it is either too crowded, or windy, or hot. Sometimes it's raining, or sleeting, or snowing, or jeeping. On Monday it was none of these.

We were able to appreciate the satisfying sound of snow crunching between tires and rock. Enjoy the touch of a delicate wisp of wind on our cheeks. Savor the sound of one hand clapping. Ride without a need to hurry up, nor wait.

And once the novelty of all of that sank in, we were able to look past it and into the bigness and wildness of a spectacular scene.

Celebratory wheelies happened out of nowhere--you just had to embrace them.

Shuckin' and jivin', arcin' and carvin'.

Like eating an elephant--one small bite at a time.

Prehistoric elephant tracks?!

Sometimes you simply couldn't take it all in on the move. Stop. Plant feet. Absorb.

Yump for yoy.

Impossible to stifle the motorcycle noises emitted while arcing this one. Braaaap!

As with any great ride, using every last breath of daylight seems compulsory.

And we did. Finished up in the dark. Weaved our way to the pizza joint. Dove in, exhaled, dove in for more.

And dzamn it was good!

MC

P.S. Greg Luck is the guy I was riding with and shooting that day. His view of the same day can be found HERE.

On the eve.

2011-12-27T17:29:00.002-07:00

Although L has lived most of her life in snowy environs, pedaling a fat tire bike atop deep snow is new. Riding with her on these inaugural missions *could* be a recipe for marital distress, but by keeping my distance and letting her figure out most of it on her own, she seems to be both challenged and enthused. And it's enjoyable for me to watch a non-stop string of light bulbs go on over her head with every passing hour.

The snow is deep and cold--meaning there's a few millimeters of crust supporting us, with feet of unconsolidated depth hoar below it.

These conditions are typical for us right through March--cold snow that rots by the minute, and doesn't like to stick to itself. Last winter I had Surly Larry tires on L's bike, but she weighs so little that even at very low pressures (roughly 3psi) she still couldn't get any traction on climbs. So this year we're experimenting with the aggressively knobbed Surly Nate tire out back--and so far it seems to be a dramatic improvement.

Despite the stillness of the day you had to be constantly alert for snow bombs.

The sheer quantity and size of boulders that make up this mountain keep the slednecks home until the snow gets a lot deeper. Thus, this season we're still limited to snowshoe and backcountry ski trails.

In some shady spots the depth hoar is largely indistinguishable from surface hoar--large feathers separated from larger only in the topmost few centimeters of the snowpack. These spots won't be rideable until late March when the sun has swung 'round again.

I can never get enough all-day low angle light, so March can wait while we savor December.

The trails we ride are *skinny*, groomed only by shuffling feet. There is a few inch wide swath dead-center that can support us, but the level of support drops rapidly as you reach the edges of the track. Here L is summoning a whole childhood of snowmobile muscle memory telling her to steer with a weight shift instead of her hands.

But with a track this narrow even ideal technique doesn't always guarantee success. Fortunately snow is clean, deep, and dry.

Doesn't hurt that at 10,000' on a bluebird day the sun is borderline scorching.

There is a spot where a spring flows out of the rocks and into a small lake, keeping that spot open through the coldest temps all winter. I've wondered for years what I'd see from the water's edge, and on this day finally conjured up the gumption to posthole down and have a look.

What I saw confirmed that I wasn't the only organism drawn to that spot.

I sense a multi-sport day approaching...

Eventually we reached a point where the ski/shoe traffic just hadn't been substantial enough for us to continue riding. Rather than practice shove-a-biking we opted for an about face and kept the mood light.

Wrapping up the afternoon with a fun section of twisty track through the trees.

Twas a wonderful way to spend a day of our lives.

Thanks for checkin' in.

MC

Holidaisical.

2011-12-22T23:13:00.002-07:00

Which, I think, is some combination of holidays + lackadaisical. Kinda describes where I am these days--busybusybusy in every direction, but lacking energy to sustain it.

Feels like July in that respect!

Still, thanks to encouragement from Greg, Fang, and Jabroni, I managed to get out and enjoy several hours outdoors in the last ~week.

Evidence:

Looking forward to a few days this weekend to slow down a bit and enjoy it. All of it.

Cheers,

MC

Solstitially speaking.

2011-12-21T21:52:00.002-07:00

I don't typically dwell on the shortest-day-of-the-year as a literal or metaphorical turning point. It's just another day to be savored. If I lived higher in latitude I might feel very differently.

But I don't. So the shortest day of the year tends to feel a lot like the days that surround it--give or take a month.

What ends up being significant about the day is not the amount of visible daylight, but what we choose to do under it's influence. Or after that influence has departed. Fang and I went to the alpine for a ride on snow, watched day turn to night, then kept on riding. There was nothing exceptional or significant about the day. We were happy to be out in it, happy to get done when we did, and happy to get back home.

Happy. Just like every other day.

Snow!

2011-12-15T21:34:00.003-07:00

Twice this week, actually, but mostly gone now. Enjoying it meant watching it tumble down in the wee hours, or savoring it steaming away in the morning sun. Except if you live a wee bit higher than we do:

That which doesn't slab or slough away is gonna be there for awhile. Careful kids--'tis the season.

Makes for hero dirt down here in the valley, once the trails are rideable again.

It was Sprocket's fault.

(Not.)

Thanks fer checkin' in.

MC

Fringes.

2011-12-08T23:05:00.002-07:00

This season of limited daylight seems to encourage us to spend more time at the edges of that daylight. Could it be that we prefer to linger in the quality of its rich warmth? Or is the answer more pragmatic: That other circumstances (commuting?) in our lives align it so?

While considering that conundrum it occurred to me that of late I've spent increasing amounts of time lingering near more literal fringes--those of the earth where it meets waterways, precipices, ancient civilizations.

Which caused me to wonder: Am I lingering there consciously, pragmatically, or obliviously?

Honestly? Dunno. Twasn't til I saw this photo set arranged just so that any of these thoughts entered my melon. Need more time to thinker on it.

Good weekend,

MC

Impending.

2011-12-02T00:06:00.003-07:00

Leaves are down. Days are short. Temps are chilly when not in direct sunlight.

Which means winter is here, right?

It just hasn't quite happened yet--and NO ONE here is complaining. If we wanted a real, long winter, we wouldn't be here in the first place.

Still, the sense of an impending change looms over us, increasing in weight by the day. High pressure gave way to clouds, breezes, and gray this evening. Weathermen say we're in for it. Will we wake to snow?

Honestly, I hope so. We've been teetering on the brink for so many weeks now I've lost count. When the weather is *this good* for that long, and each ride might be your last for the season, you (if you're me) tend to create every opportunity to get a "last ride" in. I've ridden something like 30 of the last 33 days, and I. AM. Fried. Waking to snow would be a good enough reason to finally take a day off.

Maybe even do some laundry, buy some groceries, take a nap...

We'll see.

Here's how we've been enjoying the lingering fall.

Glorious. Or, Tuesday.

2011-11-30T21:10:00.002-07:00

Me: Today?

Greg: I can't think why I wouldn't want to do that.

Me: Where? When?

Greg: Clock Tower of Inscrutability? High noon?

OK.

Punching through the elastic.

Bucket.

Tampon Trail #37.

Widowmaker Bypass.

Gunnector.

Butterbritches.

Saaaaaaaay.

Yup, that looks like it'll go.

Hardly enough of this to mention.

Inflated and ready.

Floating.

And grinning.

Light and shadow. The latter made you really appreciate the former.

Take out, deflate, pack up.

It's all in there.

Then, an easy spin back through town in time to see the UPS man unloading the latest batch of withwhich to build some more wheels.

I love it when a plan comes together...

Moments.

2011-11-24T19:51:00.005-07:00

At first blush, the video below would seem to represent some alleged adults faffing off on bicycles.

And I'd say that's pretty accurate.

But because I was present I can provide a bit of insight that the camera cannot.

The string of moments shown were somehow extraordinary for each person--such that they were taken outside of their comfort zone for at least a little while.

Jeny sessioning the 'closet' switchback. Stevie attempting the teeter/roller. Ed attempting full suspension *and* gears! Scott learning to pump the tables. Derrell revising his opinion (mine too!) on whether the step-up-gap outta the hole could be cleared.

What we all had in common was not knowing whether we *could* do what we were about to try. The awareness and anxiety that come from that uncertainty are among the greatest spices to this life. That I've found yet, anyway. It isn't all about adrenalin, nor speed. Sometimes it's about slowing down to the point where your wheels will no longer roll, then feathering the balance point and applying heaping amounts of body english. Literally and metaphorically.

Regardless of velocity or endorphination, we shared a complete focus on the task at hand. We were NOT texting while paying halfhearted attention to the pot of water on the stove. No drone of TV in the background as we made breakfast while thinking about the day ahead. No ring of a cell phone interrupting a conversation with friends. One thing, and one thing only was happening, and we were with it. In it.

I'm probably more sensitive to the increasing amount of chaos in this world than most. I write that because I'm becoming more intolerant of it by the day. Some chaos is chosen, some of it is forced upon us, some of it is a byproduct of some other choice. Pointing fingers and placing blame is not the point.

Only when the chaos is removed can we truly appreciate the simple pleasures this life has to offer: The pounding of your heart in your ears just before you release the brake levers and drop in. The zzzzzzzz of your freewheel, and nothing else, midair over the creek gap. The eternity between committing to a teeter and the moment when it grudgingly commits back. The giddy-like-a-schoolgirl laughter that explodes out of us afterwards.

I've taken steps to re-sensitize myself to these moments this year. Like any learned skill, they disappear without frequent practice.

End of the season. Really. No, really! I'm serious this time!!

2011-11-23T21:19:00.004-07:00

That's what they keep telling us--impending snow, not just in the mountains but right down to the valley floors. Stay indoors. Remain calm!

And if it snows, well, this time of year it just might stick around for a few months. Which doesn't necessarily *end* the riding season, but if you've ridden snow (and underlying ice) atop rock you can appreciate that it does change one's viewpoint of the trail dramatically. The end is near!

But we seem to be stuck in a vortex of sweetiousness as far as the weather pattern, so today was actually among the (if not *the*) nicest riding days we've had all season.

4th time this week, actually.

No words, really, for how good this year has been from just about every perspective. So many people, and places, and things, to be thankful for.

Didn't just laugh. Cackled!

2011-11-20T20:31:00.004-07:00

At first I didn't exactly understand what was going on.

And then I was walking out of the room, laughing so hard tears were rolling down my cheeks...

Tee hee...

Geek out!

2011-11-19T19:10:00.002-07:00

While taking a break from wheelbuilding I found this.

What leapt out at me:

So much auroral activity.

So many thunderstorms.

Such crappy, droning music.

The amount of the planet *without* obvious human influence (city lights) seems frighteningly small.

And you? What leapt out?

Fell?

2011-11-17T23:02:00.002-07:00

Hard to beat our late fall weather.

If riding tackarific dirt in long sleeves with zero wind, creamy light, and no crowds is your thing, that is.

It IS my thing. Something like 24 days in a row on the bike is evidence enough of that. When the snow finally flies (Saturday, they say) I'll be thrilled to take a break and rest a bit.

But not a moment sooner.

Here are a few visuals from the last ~week outside.

Fell.

2011-11-10T22:11:00.002-07:00

Some years it's obvious what brings the leaves down--a hard rain, or sleet, or snain, or snow. Or maybe a day of wind. Not so this season--we woke Tuesday morning to crisp, clear, still skies. And the flutter of cottonwood leaves coming down by the thousands, catching, reflecting, refracting the low angle sun as they fell.

It's not like I needed a reason to embrace the season more than I already have been: I can't recall the last day I took 'off' of being out in it.

But knowing that we're winding down into winter by the minute, I got out for a short ride that afternoon too. If only to inhale some leaf-smoke-infused autumn air.

Good weekend,

MC

Workworkwork.

2011-11-09T22:49:00.003-07:00

I don't spend a lot of time writing about work in this space. I spend enough time working--in my free time I'd rather write about the fun stuff I do when I'm NOT in the shop.

But occasionally it behooves me to point out that yeah--I do build wheels for a living.

My main website is HERE.

Please have a look if you've never been.

And I also have a sale/specials page that I use to sell oddball stuff like orphaned wheels, used rims, used bikes, and occasionally just overstock that I'm moving out at very low prices. That page is HERE.

In a nut, those two pages are what keeps the lights on here. Please have a look and share with anyone whom might need them.

Thanks,

MC

Whistler 2011.

2011-11-02T15:18:00.006-06:00

Every time I sit down here to try to type up an intro for a bike park video, I get a little verklempt.

I'm an XC geek--always have been. Covering ground comes naturally, being in the air does not.

So how can I talk with any semblance of understanding about park riding?

Because I've been doing it for a few years now. And you can learn more in one day in a bike park than most folks do in a year of non-park riding. No kidding.

It isn't about machismo or hubris, though you'll find some there if you're looking for it.

It isn't about hucking or chucking, but those opportunities exist too.

You don't have to skid down the fall line using your cheeks as a braking device. But you can.

Bike parks these days have at least a little of something for everyone--except climbing. You can get that anywhere!

To me they're about laughing. And learning. And doing unbelievable amounts of the latter with heaps of the former as a byproduct.

Take the hardest trail you've ever heard of and break it down into it's component parts: This drop to that hip to those berms.

First lap it's inconceivable. Next lap you nail the hip but blow the drop and berms. Stop. Breathe. Visualize. Next lap you dead sailor all of them, BUT YOU MAKE IT. And once you've done it once, it's like a switch is flipped--confidence and understanding come pouring in. By the end of the day you've lapped that trail 15 times, courtesy of the lift, and smoothed it top-to-bottom clean twice.

And just 8 hours before it was the hardest trail you'd ever heard of...

Skippy, Stevie and I managed to ride ~8 days in the Whistler Bike Park through every kind of fall weather imaginable.

The vid was shot on a Contour 1080HD, GoPro Hero HD, Canon SX230IS, and Canon 7d with 8mm UWA.

Thanks to Skippy for sharing bunches of his POV and for shooting some great handheld too.

We all rode LenzSport PBJ park bikes with Lacemine29.com wheels and our own preferred mess of componentry.

Skippy = white bike, black helmet, always wearing a pack.
Stevie = white bike, white/red helmet, no pack.
Mike = red bike, no pack.

Details on my bike here: http://forums.mtbr.com/29er-bikes/bike-check-mine-741938.html

Skippy's is here: http://forums.mtbr.com/29er-bikes/bike-check-skippys-pbj-651486.html

Music by John Prine and Skream. Bet they never guessed they'd be featured together!

Thanks for checkin' in...

~MC

No, errrr, few words.

2011-10-27T22:58:00.002-06:00

Fall keeps ticking along (we're alllllmost to peak color) and we take every opportunity to step out into it. A few rainy days this week that meant a mere stroll around a city park when everything else was too sodden to support feet or tires. But on one of the nicer days we managed to get up into the alpine to say goodbye to the dirt season as the snows take over. And down here in the valley it'd be hard to imagine more beautiful weather or more heroic dirt. Just killer right now.

Thanks for checkin' in--have a great weekend.

MC

What's with the days flyin' by already?

2011-10-20T20:29:00.003-06:00

Friday? Really?

Seems like it was just Friday like, uhh, a few minutes ago...?

With time slipping through our fingers this fast, I guess we must be enjoying ourselves. Thumbing through the last week worth of pictures confirms it. Fall rules.

Winter still seems distant enough that we're enjoying the rides leisurely, with no sense of impending doom. Whether the doom is there or not is irrelevant--it's just a nice change to be able to linger and smile a bit before moving on to the next thing.

Give it a try, if you're not already there.

MC

Crossin' some country.

2011-10-17T20:41:00.006-06:00

Over the past several years I've been fortunate to work directly with Devin Lenz on some of his amazing suspension bikes. And by 'work' I mean that I ride them in lots of different conditions--including some they were never designed to handle--and then give Devin my candid opinion on what worked, what didn't, and what needs to be amended before the bike goes into production.

My opinion is one of many that Devin throws into a collective melting pot before making the important final decisions. He needs to consider frame geometry, sizing runs, intended use(s), spring curves, leverage ratios, cable routing, finish options, and all of the other hyperanalytical nits that must be picked before he can push the 'GO' button and put each model into production.

I worked closely with Devin on the Leviathan, Behemoth, LunchBox, and PBJ platforms, and have happily owned, ridden, demo'ed, and sold all of these models to friends and friends of friends through the years. Hard to swing a dead cat around this valley and not hit a happy rider on their Lenz bike--no matter the vintage. But lately I've been so busy with wheels that I had to make the tough decision to stop building and selling Devin's bikes. Just not enough time in the day to do all of it, and Devin's name and bikes deserved a dedicated shop behind them. Which means that instead of working late every night trying to get folks out onto my wheels and Devin's bikes, I can work all day on wheels, then get an evening ride in myself.

It's been rare the past few years to get to spend quality time on a bike thinking about what I'm riding and how it blends with where I'm riding. But it's long been one of my favorite hobbies--and one that I love too much to turn into a 'job'. It's also something that I'm gratefully getting to do more of these days.

With that preamble I introduce you to 'what I'm riding': Devin's newest prototype, provisionally dubbed the Mammoth.

Getting the idea yet? It is a bike built NOT for hucking and chucking, nor bashing and banging. It is a *light* bike that happens to get better than 5" of travel on each end, whose intent seems to be to cross huge swaths of chunky country in the most efficient manner possible, and that happens to look dashing, elegant, and fast at the same time.

While collecting and assembling the parts for this build I knew that Devin went to great lengths to keep the chassis as light as possible while maintaining appropriate stiffness and durability. We won't know for a few months yet how well he balanced 'the big three'--my proto and the others out there need a few hundred thousand more stress cycles before any conclusions can be drawn. Thus far I can only say that it feels surprisingly light and uncannily efficient.

The parts spec pictured is my own personal idea of, um, ideal, for long xc rides in this part of the world. I like wide bars--hence the DH model pictured. I like durable, high volume tires, hence the bulbous, not-as-light-as-they-could-be tubeless versions shown. And I like climbing friendly gears, hence the real-world 21/33/bash paired with an 11/34 out back. All of these parts are subject (and likely) to change in the next few weeks. The idea is to ride the bike in as many different conditions as possible, and as much as possible, so that I can identify issues, ruminate on them while riding some more, then ultimately suggest solutions to help it morph from merely great to outstanding.

I'll share what I can as the process unfolds. But mostly I'm just gonna enjoy riding it.

Thanks for checkin' in.

MC

Fall at home.

2011-10-13T22:12:00.003-06:00

Spending a rainy ~week in Whistler is one of the best ways I can think of to appreciate (once home) our local fall weather. Chilly at night, warm-but-not-hot during the day, and crisp, clear, cloudless and windless blue skies overarching every outdoor activity.

In short: It's good to be home.

Dorothy was under duress when she uttered her famous 'no place like home' line, but there's a lotta truth to it regardless.

Fall in Whistler.

2011-10-03T19:35:00.007-06:00

A few days ago Stevie, Skippy, and I loaded 3 bikes, a duffel apiece, and a heap of spare parts into the E and hit the road.

22.5 hours of driving later we rolled through Squamish and onto the home stretch.

We arrived at our palatial imitation condo in Whizzler at dark thirty then crashed out immediately, expecting to wake to more of the rain we'd driven through. It's October--fall--in coastal BC; What else could we expect?

To our delight we peeled back eyelids to find extremely late summer instead.

We suited up, bought fall passes and were at the lift 10 minutes prior to opening. Holy tourists! Once they let us up the hill we introduced Stevie to our favorite lines: B-Line and Crank it Up as warm ups, then Dirt Merchant and A-Line laps for most of the day. If speed, flow, and air are your thing (they are! they are!) it'd be hard to imagine a better way to spend a day.

Unbelievably, the weather mostly held for the first three days and we rode, at worst, through fog and intermittent light drizzle.

Skippy surprised all of us by riding hard all day on day three, then racing up to the Air Dome for an evening session with the local groms.

A bit more on that later.

On Saturday the upper mountain was open, and that's where all of the really good stuff lives. If you've ridden it, you know, and if you haven't...

...I can't possibly help you to understand just how special it is. 3400' vertical feet of everything you could imagine, and lots of things you'd never have guessed, from a bike park.

Rain and fog increased throughout the day, somehow increasing our enjoyment of the trails. We rode in fog so thick I couldn't see Skippy two bike lengths ahead of me at times. And I daresay we rode faster than at any other time of the trip. Full speed, through the fog, into the biggest booters of the week? Go Skippy go!

That day seemed to be the tipping point where the last hints of summer got flushed down the creek and fall flowed briskly over the mountains to replace it. We've had heaps of rain the past few days, forcing us to to relearn and remember how to cope. No one has hit the ground yet, though we've all had several near misses and Stevie got up close and personal with a spruce.

Where are the riding shots, you ask?

Movin' pictures are still being captured! I'll share those sometime next week.

For now, we're savoring the last few days in BC before heading back home. The rain continues day and night, and short breaks show a rapidly falling snowline. This climate couldn't be more different from my own backyard, so I've been enjoying daily nose-in-the-ferns walks around the perimeter of the village.

Breakfast table discussion this AM has revolved around each of our respective 'must do' lists. Time is getting short with only two days left to ride before heading home, and each of us has at least one personal dragon to slay. Butterflies in the stomach just typing that last bit.

Leisurely finishing breakfast, slowly suiting up to ride, and enjoying these views out the window...

'rental units.

2011-09-29T22:03:00.004-06:00

I had the great fortune to receive a visit from my parents last week. We ate good food, had some great conversations, and spent a good chunk of every day outside, playing.

On the first day we kept it mellow by paddling around a local chain of lakes and soaking up the sun, with dogs as both escorts and entertainment.

On the second day we headed for the alpine with fishing rods, leaving late summer in the valley and driving up into fall in a matter of minutes.

Early on the third day I checked weather closely, knowing that only the bluest of bluebird days was going to be good enough (at this time of year) for what I had in mind. Nothing but bright sun was on tap, so we loaded up paddles, boats and lunch and left the dogs to sleep away the afternoon.

Our destination? A quiet little slice of slow moving river to transport us, ever so slowly, through a gorgeous canyon on a stunning afternoon.

Never having paddled a river before, they were justifiably nervous upon putting in. But the river was low, and it seemed the worst luck we might see on this day was grounding out and dragging our butts on the bottom. With a little instruction and a few river miles behind us, they forgot their nervousness and really seemed to enjoy watching the canyon, with all of her attendant views, history, and wildlife, come floating by.

It was a long day for all of us--lots to see, lots to wonder about, lots to process. Sleep came easily after 5+ hours out in the sun.

The next day we all felt a bit tired, so we opted to meander around the house, reading and napping in the shade most of the day, then head out for a sunset hike. I kept them on their toes by choosing a place they'd not yet seen on previous visits.

We topped the ridgeline in the last light of day, eating sammiches with root beer and ginger snaps under a crimson tinged sky.

Then we hiked down in the dark, with the city lights twinkling beneath our feet.

It was a great few days. But then, all too soon, they headed for home.

Mom, Dad--thanks so much for making the trip! Hope you had as much fun as I did showing you our little slice of earth.

Love,

Mikey

Lava Coast: Adversity, entertainment, and out-takes.

2011-09-06T21:17:00.007-06:00

All too often I'm accused of painting a slightly-too-rosy picture of the trips I've done. People tell me that I underestimate the amount of hike-a-bike or other foot slogging when bikes were supposed to be ridden. They tell me I underexaggerate times and distances. They accuse me of doing these things deliberately, in an effort to sucker people ("them") into joining, just so that I can watch them writhe in misery.

They're wrong.

I think it's a simple misunderstanding. I don't enjoy watching people suffer--neither friends nor strangers. It's just that a long time ago my idea of fun somehow got intertwined (chemically, I think) with my idea of ridonkulous.

An example: On my 2010 traverse of the Iditarod Trail I crossed paths with a pair of rookies near the top of Rainy Pass. The snow was bottomless, the wind was strong, the trail was gone, and when we weren't wallowing and wading through the unconsolidated fluff we actually had to leave our bikes and *swim* forward through the snow to create a trough. After a few exhausting minutes we'd turn around and wade backward to where the bikes lay. Then we'd waddle forward once more. Then back. In so doing we'd create a 'trail' that would allow us to drag the bikes forward maybe 50 yards every 15 minutes.

This lasted hours.

While taking a much-needed breather one of the others quipped, "At some point it gets so ridiculous you just have to laugh...!" She said it with a tone of incredulity, a look of befuddled amusement on her windburned face. I smiled as the wisdom of her statement sunk in: She couldn't have been more right.

Traveling to or through difficult-to-access places is rarely easy or straightforward. At some point it's going to get downright difficult, if not seemingly impossible. I relish these moments more now than ever before: I can't google the answer; Can't call information and ask them what to do; Can't call 'time out', can't push a button and be transported elsewhere. I have to put the brakes on, slow down 'til I am here and nowhere else, and figure out a solution. Often that means grin and bear it, and move a few feet every few minutes. Sometimes it means retreat and find a better way. Occasionally it means sit down and wait for something to change.

Any one of the above is priceless. We've become so conditioned to being ants-in-the-pants go-go-go now-now-now with the world at our fingertips that we rarely process what's happening right now. We're always thinking three steps (or hours, or days) ahead while glancing, uncomprehending, at the scenery and talking over the music in our ears. Putting myself into ridonkulous situations has become an 'out' of sorts, where I have no choice but to embrace whatever is happening at this precise moment.

And once you've gotten yourself back to 'now', there's just no sense complaining when you're the cause of your own situation. Is there?

So it's not that I try to dupe people into doing miserable stuff. I'm actually trying to enable them to have some reptilian fun!

Which is which depends purely on perspective. Are they looking at it from here?

* * *

On this last trip up Alaska's Lava Coast I didn't document much of the adversity that we encountered. It seemed that usually when our fun meters were pegged it was also raining and blowing, and I try to keep my cameras holstered when it's like that. Either that or my hands were busy with the handlebars, or paddle, such that I couldn't stop what I was doing to shoot. So I can't show you the defining moments: The uncertain crossing of Moffet Lagoon at dark. The terrifying-for-all-of-us realization, while crossing Hague Channel, when Pete finally understood he was being sucked out with the tide. The white knuckle crossing to Egg Island in 4' whitecaps with 30 knot winds. The tension of the Bear River incident, when we were outnumbered, surrounded, and unsure if any direction was safe.

Can't show you any of it, nor can I explain in such a way that you'd 'get it'.

But I *can* show you this:

And after watching that, maybe you'll understand on some level that it wasn't all peaches and cream.

Or...

...you might just see that it *was* all peaches and cream.

There is, to some extent, a choice.

There is.

Full report is a few days away--stay tuned.

MC

This just in.

2011-08-29T07:06:00.004-06:00

Alaska is an amazing, diverse land.

We rode fat bikes on tundra and beach from Cold Bay to Meshik, deploying our packrafts to cross Moffet Lagoon, Nelson Lagoon, Mud Bay, Herendeen Bay, Ilnik Lagoon, and better than 30 rivers along the way.

Amazing trip. Details at 11.

MC

Total Immersion.

2011-08-06T22:27:00.006-06:00

Summers in this part of the world are hot. Until this year, the way I've adapted is to ride early (rarely), ride late (more common) or escape completely to the high country. Otherwise, I could be found hiding in a climate controlled building while doing anything other than riding.

The packraft changed all that.

Lately I've spent increasing amounts of time out paddling, even and especially in the heat of the day. Fang is my most common paddling partner, followed closely by Greg.

Living at ~5000' in the desert means there aren't a whole lotta choices on where we get to float. Two big (albeit flat, and hot) rivers run right through town. A few pothole lakes and abandoned oxbows sit on the fringes. Unless you want to get in the car and drive a bunch, that's about it. So we've gotten creative to keep it fresh--we've ridden our bikes to the put in, then floated (and flipped!) with bikes aboard on the way home. We've paddled all of the lakes at various times of day, created a new-to-us loop by paddling The Death Canal and then running (to stay ahead of skeeters) back up The Path of Blood. We've paddled with Girls, in silty water and fresh, with and without dogs, with and without bikes, and lately, even in some massive-to-us waves. Which means we've also gotten some experience swimming, and wet re-entering our boats.

Getting out with L, or Fang, or friends, and just being outside, unhurried, and in the relatively cool water has been the only real goal. But while sitting here editing this video tonight, it occurred to me that I've gained a heap of experience at the same time. I am NOT an experienced boater--I'm not even into the ranks of intermediates yet. But I feel like I've turned my learning curve from vertical to maybe just a wee bit tilted. Still a long pitch to climb, but I'm starting to see handholds.

Is that even important, if the goal is just to be outside? Well, yeah. Experience means you have a better idea of your limits. If you can stay inside those limits, future experiences don't have to be scary or even anxious--they're more likely to just be fun. More to the point, if a month ago you were quaking in your sodden socks every time you approached a riffle or a wave, and now you feel like those same waves aren't just NOT scary but are actually pretty dang fun, well, that's progress. Progress is motivating, making the act of further progress yet more motivating. It's a self-energizing cycle, and one which translates well beyond the backyard.

Which brings me 'round to the real point of this post: In a few short hours I'm shoving off for Alaska, with fat bike and pudgy boat in tow. Myself and some good friends are heading out to the Alaska Peninsula. We'll ride and push the bikes along ~200 miles of bluffs and beaches. When we encounter water too deep to wade we'll use the boats. A cursory count says we've got 3 big bays and ~30 rivers to cross, so the boats are gonna get used bunches. With a little luck and a lot of determination, we hope to make it from Cold Bay all the way to Port Heiden.

Although all of us have spent the better part of our adult lives outside, this trip is a bit beyond all of our comfort zones. In short, it promises to be A Challenge.

I think that by now I've got the biking part pretty well figured out: Never been fast, but I can usually get there. And I've been good at shiver-not-sleeping in a bag while everyone around me saws logs since... ...forever. World class really. Here's hoping that the past month of boating fun allows me to contribute to an otherwise solid group of guys, all set on experiencing some new-to-us wild country. And with a little luck maybe bringing back some images to share.

Til then, thanks for checkin' in.

MC

Dough!

2011-08-05T13:58:00.004-06:00

On the Lost Coast trip (both the original and the southern section) Dylan and Eric relied to some extent on a loose derivative of cookie dough to 'keep their sugars up' every day.

After kyping a hit of each of theirs, I could see why. Calorically dense, easy to get down, and fzackin' tasty! I'm ~36 hours from leaving for a bikerafting trip out on the AK Peninsula and I knew I needed something similar to get me through. A quick trip to the groovy hippy grocery store yielded the withwhich to get started.

I ended up using roughly:
1lb of chocolate chips
2 sticks of butter, softened but not liquid.
20oz of peanut butter
1lb of brown sugar
5 cups of oats

No eggs, no flour.

Mix together in an enormous vat. Sprinkle in more of each to reach desired consistency.

Keep two large spoons on hand during the process: One for mixing, the other for swatting the SO when she gets a snootful, then follows her nose across the room and tries to climb in.

Yield: ~4.5lbs of crack.

Serves one.

L to me, after seeing and tasting it: "You're gonna get pancreatitis out there!"

Me to L: "That's the least of my concerns!"

More later...

MC

Three One One.

2011-07-31T22:13:00.003-06:00

Early last summer Greg and I took the "Dixie 311" bait on offer from Dave Harris. Which is to say that we couldn't resist the idea he'd been dangling before us: A 300+ mile bikepacking loop on little used trail, in SW Utah, with super scenery and allegedly even better riding.

The riding the first few days was excellent--over the top of the Markagunt, up, across, around, and down the Paunsagunt, then a hot lap of the Thunder Mountain trail had us in excellent spirits as we tanked up on water and climbed past sunset toward the Sevier Plateau.

We quickly discovered the reason that no one rides there: A scorcher of a forest fire laid waste to tens of thousands of acres, and in the wake of that fire there isn't much left to ride. Trails still exist on the ground but they're covered by hundreds upon thousands of downed trees. No way through there but to carry (and occasionally drag) bikes and get comfortable with a 1mph pace. For days.

The Tushar Mountains had far fewer downed trees, but the trails Dave routed us onto were mostly too steep to enjoy. With much exertion many of them could be slaved up, but when you crested the top expecting (and, after awhile, demanding) a fun descent as 'payoff', you'd be repeatedly disappointed by even less rideable descents. That's right--hike-a-bike up earned you hike-a-bike back down. Unlike Dave, we aren't superstar high-horsepower riders, so we didn't expect to be able to ride all of the climbs. But the downhill hike-a-bike had us scratching our heads in wonder.

Highlights of the trip were stunning weather (only one t-storm in 7+ days out), stunninger flowers, crystal clear creeks to fish in and drink from, burning turns on Thunder Mountain, blasting through skunk cabbage, aspens, and bluebells on the Virgin River Rim, bacon, sausage, and ice cream in Circleville, and a week of camping under the stars.

See for yourself:

Thanks to Dave for the motivation, inspiration, and map work to get us out the door. Thanks to Greg for being such a great bikepacking companion: His spirits are always appropriate to the mood of the day and the trail. He also has a keen sense for when nap time approacheth--usually where tiny rivulets course through lush alpine meadows. Worked for me. Greg's words and images from the trip are here.

Nice to see Lee and Joan out there a bit too--thanks for dinner!

Thanks for checkin' in.

MC

What could this mean?

2011-07-31T14:26:00.006-06:00

Itinerary:
Mon, Aug 08
Flights: PENAIR, KS 0245
From: ANCHORAGE, AK (ANC) Departs: 10:00am
To: COLD BAY, AK (CDB) Arrives: 12:30pm
Class: Economy
Seat(s): CURIAK/MR MIKE - 04F
Status: Confirmed
Meal: Smoking: No
Aircraft: SAAB 340 TURBOPROP Distance (in Miles): 0619
Duration: 2hour(s) and 30minute(s)
Please verify flight times prior to departure

In a nut, it means my thoughts have lately been dominated by bikes, boats, bugs, bears, and cold freaking rain.

And by "thoughts" I mean the awake kind and the sleeping ones too.

Stay tuned...

MC

Parkin'.

2011-07-29T11:46:00.005-06:00

A few days ago, while paddling the Death Canal with Greg, he accused me of '...Resting on my Yakutat laurels...' with respect to updating this space.

I couldn't be sure I'd heard him correctly--his mumblings often get lost in the depths of his leaky boat as it sloooshes down the waterways.

If that is indeed what he said, he's way off the mark. I have NOT been resting--there's just far too much to be done, and not nearly enough time to do it. For me, summertime life becomes an exercise in managing sleep deprivation while putting out the most important fires as they flare up. Triage, in a word. Sleep can happen, but probably won't, sometime this fall.

In reality, he was probably talking about defoliating Mongolian poodles. Again.

Here's a hint at how I've spent a few days out of this month.

If you consider yourself a mountain biker, and if you haven't ridden a bike park in the last year, you really need to look in the mirror and ask yourself why not. Aside from the thrill-a-minute nature of the riding that is evolving within these parks, it is so easy, so fast, and yes, so fun to up your skill level in the span of a few hours. Need to learn to get comfy with speed? Check. Wanna learn to boost smooth airs to tranny? Double check. Have a hankerin' to get your chunk mojo on, or a compulsion to slay some berms? Check, check, check.

I realize that bike parks aren't everywhere, and getting to one might take some doing. It certainly takes commitment and time for us to spend any time there, but that time is ALWAYS enjoyed, and I consider it an investment of sorts--in my skills, my safety (the rest of the year, due to skills acquired) but mostly in my sanity. A day in the park shrink-wraps a permagrin onto my face for the next week+. If only I could get there more often...

Special thanks to Skippy and LaLa for the continued grins and giggles each day out. Braaap!

Anyhoo, enjoy, and thanks for checkin' in.

Cheers,

MC

Bikerafting Alaska's Lost Coast.

2011-07-04T21:20:00.004-06:00

Long before I'd finished the video below, I knew that I needed to do more than just compile said video. I knew that I needed to do a full-blown writeup with explanatory images appended. Too many stories to be told, none of them properly tellable in video form.

And I will. I'll probably do a full-on gear-geek-out (what worked, what didn't, why, and what I'm changing for the next one...) too.

But not now. Summer is short, much to be done while it lingers.
. . .

We successfully traversed from Yakutat to Gustavus. In Roman's words:
225 miles total.
135 miles riding every sort of beach sediment you can imagine.
65 miles paddling lakes, rivers, streams, ponds, sloughs, oceans, bays, fiords -- we used our boats 25 times.
25 miles of mostly stumblef*cking.

We averaged 3.3 mph on bike (including rest breaks), 0.6 mph stumblef*cking on the boulders or f*cksticked bear trails, and 2.3 mph on the paddling stretches. That's with the fat bikes on board.
. . .

Please, please take the time to sit back and relax with this one. I feel strongly that it is worth watching in it's entirety, perhaps more than once, and not just on your iphone while commuting. Sooooo much crammed into that 10 minutes--watch it twice and you'll get twice as much out of it.

Thanks much for checking in.

Cheers,

MC

Off the hook.

2011-07-01T10:14:00.002-06:00

That's where the phone has been, and will remain, until I finish sorting the pics from an amazing trip.

Eric got the jump on the rest of us and has already posted some words and pics HERE.

Ditto Roman.

I expect Doom will do the same. When he wakes up.

Oh so much more to come...

Good weekend,

MC

Beach bound, hold on!

2011-06-14T00:14:00.005-06:00

Waaaaaaay back in 1989 I was a wide-eyed undergrad at Michigan State. I'd aimed myself toward a law degree but seemed to spend a lot more time riding and racing, as well as tearing down and wrenching on bikes, than I did studying. My interests have always pulled me down the experiential path, leaving theory and philosophy for others (mainly the birds) to wring their hands over.

In my quest to further immerse myself in all-things-bike, I spent lots of time back then picking the brains of the local bike crowd, most of them employed as wrenches or sales-floor-geeks. They patiently explained the uses of and need for quality tools, the importance of wearing a helmet (I was unconvinced for far too long) and the value in learning to do all maintenance yourself. Never know when, or where, things'll break. This last bit caused me to linger in grocery store magazine aisles, reading the articles that I couldn't then afford to buy. It was here that I first read about "Hellbiking". What those guys did was, to me, akin to orbiting the moon. I could see little similarity between what they did and what I was doing, and (at the time) wanted nothing to do with their version. Brush bashing, chronic wetness, and inadvertent swims aside, I wanted speed and flow in the woods more than creeping death in the wilderness. What can I say--I was young...

Fast forward to 1996. I'd finished school and fled to Colorado with ski-bum aspirations that quickly turned (for 5 months of the year) into full-fledged bike bumming. I worked through the winter at a restaurant in Crested Butte, then come spring I traveled, rode, and raced all over the continent. In those days a long race was 100 miles, and a long training ride might span 4 hours. A few times a year we'd indulge in an ~8 hour epic, but those were a rare exception. Not just for me, but for pretty much everyone I knew. We'd barely begun to scratch the surface of the possible--we were just having fun.

That summer a team of three bold riders completed a 775-mile off-road, off-trail tour exploring the Alaska Range, *and* their story and pics made it into National Geographic, effectively blowing the hell out of what we had 'til then considered 'epic'. Nevermind that it was more of that 'hellbiking' thing--I'd been in the Rockies long enough to see their limits, and the bigness and wildness of Alaska seemed like the logical next step. That was 15 years ago, and I've immersed myself in the Alaskan backcountry for a part of every year since.

Now, fast forward to the present. One of the riders from the hellbike trips linked above is Roman Dial. We've never met, but we share many similar interests. A few months ago myself and three others received an email from Roman, proposing a little trip: Riding fat-tired bikes on the beaches and bear trails of Alaska's Lost Coast. Using packrafts to cross river outflows, circumvent glacier snouts, and portage around headlands. We'll also use the boats to paddle a seeming eternity through Icy Strait and Glacier Bay to our takeout.

It is an ambitious trip through some wild country. It is a place I've never seen, though often thought of. Having so little packraft experience, my initial reaction was to decline the invite. L talked me off that ledge right quick, and the past few months have all been a sort of preparation for this trip.

I write 'sort of' because it's hard to prepare for something you've never done, in a place completely opposite to where you're going. Paddling local pothole lakes at 90* in the sun has zero in common with coastal paddling at 38* in pissing rain. Nonetheless, I've done what I could to get ready, including heaps of reading and a little bit of gear buying. The trip starts tomorrow, and the list of those involved reads like a who's who of the genre: Dylan and Eric. Roman. And Steve. Why they invited me is anyone's guess. Court Jester? Rolling source of additional (adipose) calories?!

Dylan and Eric have done similar trips to this one, and described them as 'chronic wetness'. So the crux, as it were, of this trip seems to be managing moisture. On one's person that can be challenging enough, even once you've thrown up your hands and accepted being wet all the time. Camera gear is different--it has to stay dry, period, or you're suddenly carting along a very expensive packraft anchor. I've been fiddling with a few easy-access drybags to accomplish this feat. More on that in a bit. Will they work? I'll know tomorrow...

I'll be riding a stock Surly Pugsley frame and fork. Single speed, single brake.

The brake is a Hayes Dyno. Low end from a certain perspective, but *my* perspective is that I'm not keen on going brakeless (as Eric, Dylan, and Doom are planning to) and a little digging unearthed the fact that this brake uses aluminum in key places, thus avoiding (or at least delaying) the death-by-corrosion that plagues most brakes in this environment.

I laced a set of Surly Rolling Darryl rims to a set of Surly hubs, using DT Swiss butted spokes and DT Prolock brass nips. Fixed cog up front just in case, White Industries freewheel out back. Shod with Surly Larry tires, and even some svelte Surly tubes. Cranks, bb, and fixed cog are also Surly-made. Sensing a theme yet? These guys make reasonably priced stuff that works well and lasts a long time. Durability on 'out there' trips like this one is really the only factor I considered, but I was very, very pleasantly surprised by the sweet steel feel when I started riding the bike. Didn't think you could feel that kinda subtlety through that much rubber and air volume, but you can, and I ain't complainin'.

Gearing is what Eric and Dylan told me to run--small. I've got a 24t up front, and a 20t out back, which is actually a bit *taller* (!!!) than they said we'd want. I'd prefer to mash than spin, so I went taller.

Bars and post are Moots ti. The post was chosen for comfort via deflection, the bars are there because they're a custom width and sweep that fits me to a "T", but they also store ~12 oz of alcohol--to run my stove.

Pedals are Answer flats--simple and dependable. Cheapy stem and old comfy saddle, with some old Ergon grips and a (very!) used chain round out the package. No sense using a new chain when it's gonna be dead as dead in 10 days.

The boat is an Alpacka Llama, mostly stock. I glued a few strap plates and grab loops onto the spraydeck to facilitate camera carrying while paddling. The clear bundle in the middle of the deck in this pic is a ~9lb drybag with DSLR, big (for me) lens, an intervalometer, a few batts, and a few memory cards:

While riding, hiking, or 'shwacking I'll have an Osprey Talon 22 on my back, stuffed with that big camera bag, a small stove and pot, and a bit of water.

The frame pack and gas tank are works of art, made by Eric at Revelate. How can you beat having a piece of kit made by the guy that knows more about where it's going and how it's going to be treated than virtually anyone else on the planet?! Most noticeable are the gaskets that protect the waterproof zippers.

Inside of the frame bag are 10 days of lunches and snacks, as well as a GPS, SPOT tracker, spare batts for both, spare batts for my cameras, spare tube, patch kit, and 3 other things I'm forgetting right now.

Inside of the gas tank are two wrenches (one for removing pedals while paddling, one for removing wheels), some snacks, and a Contour HD POV cam. For on/in/under water shots...

On the Old Man Mountain rear rack is one stuffsack, lashed atop one paddle blade-cum-fender. I tried a compression drybag but it leaked, so I'm back to basics with an uncompressed (and very full) version.

Inside of it is a Thermarest Prolite shorty pad, for sleeping on and for insulating me bum from the cold water when paddling. Also inside are my sleeping bag (an old TNF synth bag, procured for $40, temp rating unknown) and sleep clothes, plus ten days of freeze dried breakfasts and dinners of my own recipe. Mmmmm, lasagna...

Phew. So that's the gear. Which is and can be critical in so many ways. My hope is that over the past few months I've made logical and well-informed decisions on what to take and what to leave, so that the next ~10 days are anything but epic. Wet? Yep. Buggy and beary? No way around that. Adventurous? Yeah, you bet. It's wild country and we'll need to do lots of problem solving as individuals and as a group to even have a chance of making it all the way through. That's probably the biggest draw to this sort of thing--the mandated personal growth required to succeed, and the massive amounts of learning you do regardless of outcome. And then there's the scenery--we'll be on the Alaskan coast and in Glacier Bay. If the rain stops and the fog lifts, we're in for some knock-our-sodden-socks-off views.

With any luck, I'll have a few (thousand!) pics and some stories to share when I get back.

I'll leave you with the trailer that Eric made from his and Dylan's last trip in this area.

Lost Coast Trailer from Eric Parsons on Vimeo.

Whoowee. Counting the minutes now...!

Thanks for checkin' in.

MC

A taste of summer...

2011-06-14T00:13:00.003-06:00

...from our wanderings around 'the backyard'.

Thanks for checkin' in.

MC

Steppin' out.

2011-06-11T18:49:00.003-06:00

My bread and butter has been 29" wheelbuilds for the past 7 years. 9.8 out of 10 builds that go out the door are for big wheeled bikes.

99.9% of the remaining builds are 26" wheels, usually for longtime customers that are having wheels built for a spouse or a kid.

.01% would then fall into the 'other' category. I can count on one hand how many non-26" or 29" wheels I've built, ever. Not many!

But then Jabroni blindsided me yesterday with a request that definitely fell outside of normal parameters. He's building a kick bike for Jabroni Jr., and because Jabroni Sr. is who he is, he can't just spend a hundred bucks and call it good. Nevermind that the kid would have just as much fun with a ball of dough or a cardboard box!

But Big J asked in just the right way, so I was happy to help out.

Start with a pile o' parts:

String 'em:

Tighten 'em down:

The feeler gauges on the truing stand wouldn't reach, the spoke length was too short for the tensio to fit, and the dishing tool was about a foot too long to tell me anything. So I improvised with a zip tie and some guesstimation.

Let 'em cure overnight with the big kid wheels:

Then headed out on a special delivery mission this AM:

Proud Papa:

BAMF glam shot:

Jr. was napping when the delivery happened, so no action shots just yet...

Fun to step outside of the box for a bit. Always good to get the perspective looking back in.

Thanks fer checkin' in.

MC

We've gone plaid.

2011-06-09T21:37:00.002-06:00

Spring ended some time in the last week, giving way to all that comes after. You know, summer? When life speeds up beyond fast, beyond ludicrous even, and spins out into plaid?

Feels like we're jussssst shy of that. For now.

Case in point: Most of these shots were taken in a 48 hour window...

Somebody got a new boat. Any guesses on how she's taking to it?!

Huckin' Skippy. Not bad for a dead guy.

A bit of a teaser--full 'splanatory post comin' shortly.

Fang and I pulled our first cutthroat of the season out from yonder ice.

Sprocket tests the waters. "Full" was his conclusion.

'Hyperspace jets'? Nope, just Greg.

Like, totally knobular.

Combat skiing. With our skillset, the only kind of skiing we know.

Fang in full frolic.

Whaaaa?

Illuminated from within? Or something.

We're doing what we can to savor each moment; Mundane, spectacular, or vaguely inbetwixt. A bout of silence at sunset; a cool breeze on a 90* day; the sound of water dripping from the dog as he points at quail in the riverside brush. And so much more.

Summer is wonderful, hypnotic, maddening (from a certain perspective) and above all, fleeting. Hope these pics have inspired you to get out amongst it.

Thanks for checkin' in.

MC

Crammed!

2011-06-02T22:17:00.002-06:00

We did what we could to keep grins on our faces over the long weekend. We rode, we hiked, we paddled, we swam. We made ice cream. And then we ate it! We grilled flesh (by god!). And then we ate that too. We played indoors while the wind howled, we avoided crowds while riding, and then we rode some more.

Cramming that much hedonistic pleasure into three days is my idea of 'living'. Bonus that it makes for such a short work-week-after.

Cramming.

2011-05-26T23:46:00.004-06:00

Your mission? Find out how many different kinds of fun can you cram into the next three days.

Huh, wonder where that creak is comin' from...?

Ready?

Set!

...go?

Hither and thither.

2011-05-19T23:24:00.002-06:00

A climatically confused spring has us wondering: Is anything, ever, normal anymore? We had wonderful warm temps and tacky dirt back in March, but lately it's cooled off consistently and we're back to borderline snow at night.

Nooooooo I'm not complaining! Summer in the desert is long and hot, and every day of reprieve we get from that is one to be savored.

Here's 'what' and 'how' we've been savoring lately. The 'why' oughta be self-evident.

Hope that you're getting out into it every chance you get.

Cheers,

MC

Rocked.

2011-05-17T19:06:00.003-06:00

I've been jonesing to get down to Preskitt and ride with Eric for several years. Trouble is, getting there from here just ain't easy--there's no direct route. Best guess was 10 hours of solid driving, and each time we've looked at heading down the thought of that drive has made us think about heading elsewhere.

But things finally fell into place last week. I loaded Fang, two bikes, and a cooler fulla ice cream into the toaster and hit the road.

The beauty of a 10 hour drive in this part of the world is that there is no shortage of spectacular scenery to appreciate. If you're into that sort of thing...

We stopped to stretch legs, peruse the on-board Scooby Snack department, and empty bladders on occasion.

During our sunset break Fang talked smack to the local 'yote's...

...then hid between my knees.

Eventually we arrived chez Nelson and sacked out almost directly.

Early the next AM we rolled out. I'd warned Eric that I'm a slow starter, and that it'd probably be better if we hit something mellower early on, then worked up to the harder stuff.

And he did *exactly* what I would have done with that info: Took me to the techiest stuff right off the bat. My head was swimming with a lack of sleep, body was reeling from too little rest and half a day in a car, and I simply couldn't embrace all that was happening on these uber-techy moves *and* dig out the camera. So I didn't--I focused on staying upright, not bleeding, and occasionally even walking. So, no pics of that stuff.

Eventually I woke up a little more, coincident with Eric steering us onto some mellower trails. And I began to be able to see what lay all around us.

Rock. Acres and acres of gorgeous, tack-a-rific granite. My college geology and geomorphology are distant enough that I can't be sure, but this stuff seemed closer to granodiorite than actual granite. Whatever you call it, it was *grippy* under bike tires, even where the lichen owned it.

Eric's phone rang for the first of 72 (73?) times right here. While we waited for a late joiner, he gave me the verbal visual tour of the valley. No shortage of opportunities for outdoor activities 'round here.

Then Chris joined us, and what a treat to ride with the guy that personally envisioned, laid out, and oversaw construction of these very trails.

It was educational if not enlightening to hear Chris chime in about how certain sections came to be built or evolved through time, and he made several mentions of how the trails could (gasp!) further evolve as needed, pointing out where work could happen to enhance flow, or incorporate nearby (and very cool) features.

I thought I'd died and gone somewhere heavenly--I'm so used to hearing a thousand-and-one reasons why a certain move/feature/trail/flow line can't/won't/shouldn't happen, before those that are being asked have even digested the question. Chris's vision and dedication to these trails has to be experienced to believed, and I have a hard time imagining a person more suited to his job.

And then we rode some more.

Between a rock and a hard place: A heap of granite in the foreground, Granite Mountain out back.

A gal could, at this point, be forgiven for assuming that the place is rock, rock, nothing but rock. T'weren't so. There were heaps of bugs in evidence, though none of them seemed toothy.

And even more heaps of soft, colored things to draw ones attention.

But invariably (and gleefully) your attention was pulled back to the rock.

Lump-in-throat commitment on this one.

Eric's ride for the day:

My choice:

Bike choice for these trails is an interesting conundrum. Eric has lately been smitten with a full-rigid bike, but has also ridden out here on just about every other incarnation from full-sus to single speed to 27 speed, and many different hardtails with varying levels of travel up front. Pre-ride he bamboozled me a bit by insisting that I wouldn't want a long wheelbase bike--that such a critter would 'punish' me on the incessant tight, slow speed moves. I never did see a place that I wouldn't want the bike I brought (it has the longest wheelbase of any of my bikes), but I came to understand a lot about how this place has shaped his gear preferences. Geometry of the bike is far more important than amount of suspension travel or suspension design. You want low and slack, with high bars, a short rear center, and a drop post. Can you ride here with a bike that is opposite all of that? Of course. But unless you are a superstar rider with catlike reflexes and laser guided focus, you'll bleed (or break, or just walk) a lot sooner than if you rode something low and slack, with high bars, a short rear center, and a drop post.

It is a fantastic place to hone your slow speed rock skills. Which means you need to be able to control speed at all times (and above all else) to far, far below walking pace. And then, still under control, with weight back and body contorted, you need to place your front wheel *right there*. Nope, NOT there. There. Miss that spot, or come in hot, and you've blown the line, period.

Eventually we exhausted ourselves and none too soon--our presence was required for pizza and ice cream back at the ranch.

I came away shellshocked from cramming so much into a single day. After a few days home to process it all, I can't wait to get back and dive in deep. Soon...

Fang and I spent the next few days slowly sauntering our way homeward. We'd drive a bit, get out and hike some, maybe check out lakes, overlooks, even river flows. There was no end-goal to this part of the trip, we just used it as an opportunity to camp our way homeward and hit those backroads that we rarely have time to check in on.

Until now, I'd never realized there was a place on this planet where you'd find natural camouflage for a 90lb red-and-white dog. I'll be damned!

(no photoslop applied nor needed here: Late evening light mixed with iron-rich rock took care of the magic. We just had to be there at the right time...)

Huh. Wonder how those got here, so far from any ocean...

There were a few back-road-revelations along the way.

Future bikerafting missions were scouted. And approved.

G'mornin...

...rise and shine.

Fang used his newfound hiddenness to stalk and chase the local lizards. Unsucessfully, from his perspective, but it was great entertainment for me and the lizards.

Further north, almost home now, we stopped to check in on a micro-dune landscape that I'd spotted and noted better than a decade ago.

Channeling Deffeyes, McPhee once quipped that 'wind is the dominant sculptor here'.

Indeed.

Whom passed this way?

Everyone, apparently.

Him too.

One last stop before grudgingly merging onto the interstate.

We rolled back home tired, filthy, disheveled, with mile wide grins inside and out.

Thanks for checkin' in.

MC

Stoke.

2011-05-05T23:32:00.003-06:00

When you get right down to it, that's what these early-Friday-AM posts are all about. Sure, they're a way to share some pics and verbiage from the week gone by. But they're mainly a means for emptying out the head. You know--in preparation for turning off the confuser for a few days. During those days I'm always hoping to let a little dust collect here on the keyboard, while we're out adding layers of dust to our bikes. And bodies. And teeth!

Where's Wilbur?

Get outside this weekend! Embed some dust in your teeth!! Do it for the whales! Do it for the nuns! (??) Do it for Ozzy!

;)

Game change.

2011-05-01T11:28:00.008-06:00

I grew up riding bikes. I also grew up around water. Living in Michigan, you couldn't swing a dead cat and NOT hit water, so it was a natural to be out in it in some capacity whenever the temps were warm enough. And lots of times when they weren't. The only way to find your true limits is to go past them, then pull back a bit, right?

Ahem. Bikes. And water.

Until a few years ago it never occurred to me that they could be combined in such a way as to be fun. I remember reading a NatGeo article way back when about an out-there (in both thinking and execution) expedition that traversed the entire Alaska Range using bikes and packrafts. And, of course, lotsa foot travel to connect the dots. But that didn't sound very appealing, especially when the participants themselves referred to it as 'Hellbiking'. They'd concocted and executed a novel, creative way to see a huge chunk of country, but to me it didn't sound like enough pure fun to be worth the cost--in dollars or suffering. The reality is that I hadn't yet acquired the experience or imagination needed to appreciate what they'd achieved.

Lately the bikerafting idea has sunk it's teeth into my hide, largely as a result of the waaaaaay-out-there exploits of Roman, Eric and Dylan, and lately Doom. Yes, ferchrissakes, you have my attention!

I've been reading their stories and salivating over the images, all the while feeling a certain momentum building inside. A few months ago a conversation started that has been building and building into something concrete: a trip involving bikes, a few friends, and some wild Alaskan country that will require the use of boats. Dave has been the driving force behind the planning, and his early efforts at learning to become a bikeboater succeeded, finally, in pulling me down that road too.

I acquired a boat and some helpful literature, devoured said literature in two late night benders, took my maiden voyage on a windy pothole lake with Fang along for company and entertainment, then decided that I needed to get into some moving water, stat.

It didn't hurt that Fruita Fat Headed Geek Week is happening right now--that's enough to dissuade any rational non-sheeple to avoid the trails entirely.

I spent the better part of Friday night fiddling with different ways of strapping the bike to the boat, and of carrying the boat on the bike. There isn't really a 'right' way to do either, just varying shades of grey depending on how far you're going to go, how strong your back is, and how brushy the creeks are. This realization, amidst a pile of junk straps and little used gear from the depths of the closet, brought me to a more important realization:

I know nothing about paddling rivers.

Canoeing on midwestern lakes comprises 99% of my experience, and most of that was an early-teenage me in the bow with Dad in the stern doing the real work of propulsion and control. Other than that, one rubber-ducky trip down the Middle Taylor (which I swam, repeatedly) and one sea kayak trip down Ruby/Horsethief on the Colorado.

In a word: Noob.

But hey--at least I know my place, and can start working from there.

Which means yesterday AM I found myself looking at aerial pics of the Colorado River a few miles from home.

Note to the unsuspecting--when you're ignorant and you know it, and you're prone to paranoia about worst-case scenarios, AND you know enough about spring snowmelt to be dangerous if not informed, the more quasi-pertinent info you find, the more paranoid you'll become. In short, the aerial pics were meant to give an idea of a put-in and a take-out. What they really did was to make my eyes sore trying to decipher which of many braids were runnable and which were too boney, or too full of strainers and sweepers. The end result of all the map lookee looing was a Grade-A case of analysis paralysis. I nearly made myself sick with anxiety.

Knowing that action of the right kind can diffuse a/p pretty quick, I tied my shoes, strapped on a helmet, and pedaled gently downhill toward the river.

I rode along the Riverfront Trail (aka the Homeless Highway) headed upstream, and stopped often to scramble through the brush and take wide-eyed looks at the river. In a word, it seemed big, and the thought of my bigger-than-a-breadbox, smaller-than-a-bathtub boat bobbing along out there brought the anxiety level right back up. The water also seemed to be moving much faster than I could ever remember.

I got back on the bike and kept pedaling.

Eventually I came to a calmish slough with a grassy out-of-the-wind place to rig up, then dropped the bike and the pack. It was getting on toward evening and I wasn't likely to find a much better spot. Time to commit.

In a few short minutes I had the boat inflated, then started fiddling with straps and trying to remember which went where.

Maybe 10 minutes later the bike was secure, all extraneous gear had been stowed, and there was nothing left to do but get in and shove off.

I slid into the boat, secured the velcro spraydeck, took a last look on the bank for odds and ends, then pushed off. I could see that the slough met the main channel of the river about 300 yards ahead, so I used that distance to practice ferrying (forward and backward) across the current, moving back upriver, changing direction 90 degrees, then 180 degrees, picking a spot on land then trying to move to it without altering course, etc... Basically trying to make these moves seem somewhat ingrained, instead of having to think about them. I have a very small amount of muscle memory for canoeing, but kayaking is just completely different.

After maybe 10 minutes of avoiding the main channel, I let myself be carried out into it. And, as most of you are already aware, it just wasn't any big deal. I was moving faster in a larger volume of water, but this little boat is so stable and nimble that it just didn't seem to matter. The biggest thing was that I needed to learn to look farther down the river--just like driving (or, um, riding) when speeds increase.

The most obvious things I noticed on this section were hordes of swifts, swallows, and martens swooping along at water level. I couldn't see any bugs but why else would they be there? They parted as I bobbed past, then came back together in my wake and proceeded, I hoped, to tear hell out of a fresh mosquito hatch.

Clouds blew in fast, obscuring the sun and dropping the temps. It rained some, then snowed a little, then just like that they were gone and it was back to sun.

The sun/rain/snow/sun cycle repeated itself on into the evening. Looking upriver at a receding cell.

Then looking downriver at another approaching.

When the water was flat and calm I could peel back the spray deck, dig out the dry bag, open it, fiddle with a few dials and then take a picture or three. Then I'd hear or see an approaching change in the river, so I'd stash the camera and get both hands back on the paddle.

In reality, there wasn't much cause for concern. An occasional sweeper, a few deep undercuts with perplexing (to my uneducated mind) currents that seemed to plow straight into solid earth, and a few small rapids with wave trains but no holes. Naturally, I was moving the boat into what seemed the 'safe' places through all of these, thus you only get to see pics of calm, flat water.

I didn't manage to snag any pictures of the 'homeless' camps along the river, partially because I was in such a state of disbelief at how many there were. Dozens if not hundreds of tents, some of them assembled into compounds where it seemed they had electricity (there was LOUD music playing from a stereo, somewhere), communal tents with huge amounts of bike parking, and communal trash pits at the apparent edges of the camps. But mostly the tents were in ones and twos. I was barked at by several of their dogs, but never saw any of the people.

It was also nice to observe that tamarisk seems to be on the downswing--mostly brown if not outright dead.

Around here I realized that most of my anxiety and apprehension were gone--I was just observing and ruminating, even as I read the river and adjusted my position in it.

And that seemed to be a pretty big milestone to me.

After that the sounds and sights of birds seemed to fill my whole world. Swifts and martens, plover and sandpiper, rails and herons, canada geese and mallard ducks, even an invisible but audible ringneck pheasant somewhere out in the reeds. Lots of life out here, but, at least on the water, I saw no people.

Maybe 40 minutes later, just before sunset, I saw an obvious takeout and ferried over to it. Not much mud, a short scramble up to flat earth, and my first bikerafting trip was 2/3 done.

A few minutes of de-rigging and reassembling and I was zipping down the Homeless Highway, bubbling with enthusiasm not at what I'd just done, but at what I would now be able to do.

Inspired. Enthusiastic. Giggling. All of these describe my state of mind as I rolled back into town.

Later, I pulled out some maps. Maps that I've been poring over for years, that I've used to plan and execute other trips in other times. And you know what?

They all look different now.

* * * * *

P.S. To Roman, Eric, Dylan, and Doom: Why the hell didn't you grab me by the scruff and TELL ME SOONER?!

Nuthin' to see here.

2011-04-29T05:07:00.002-06:00

Or, put another way, nuthin' *new* to see here. Just an incomplete visual record of how we spent our week outside.

Which, I guess, could be construed as a pretty dang good way to spend the days of our lives.

All depends on what you're into.

Good weekend,

MC

Goose with the guys.

2011-04-27T15:17:00.005-06:00

A few weeks ago I met some friends, old and new, down in SW Utah. We'd loosely planned several days of riding, camping, lots of pictogeeking, and even a slot canyon.

But then the weather did what the weather does--made a mockery of our plans. We had one solid day of bluebird, but the others were filled with rain, sleet, snow, blustery winds, and more cold rain. We ended up shelving the slot canyon immediately--one look at the collective adipose of the guys I was with was enough to know that they'd have died in the water in those temps. (Skinny bastiges always ruin stuff...) And we spent better than a day cooped up 'inside' at camp, watching the rain turn to sleet and snow and back.

In the brief moments of non-precip, we did our best to enjoy ourselves by hiking when it was too muddy to ride, riding when and where we could, not to mention shooting guns and even burning stuff. All good, solid, man-affirming things to be doing, especially in the presence of, um, other men.

Even with the 'downtime' due to precip, we managed to enjoy the hzeck outta ourselves, squeezing every last iota out of every minute we had.

Great, great stuff--thanks fellas.

MC

TGIF?

2011-04-21T23:40:00.002-06:00

Or something.

Here's an end o' week sampler to get you through the workday, get you stoked for the weekend, or just to show some pixels.

Short sleeves, sunshine, fragrant (flagrant?) flora, and hero dirt. A guy could *really* get used to this...

MC

Blowin' out the cobwebs.

2011-04-20T12:42:00.003-06:00

A coupla friends got flushed (by high water, I assume) down out of the mountains near Crested Butte and washed up on my doorstep last week. They floated heavy artillery (aka DH bikes) along with them, which meant we headed straight for the Tabeguache trailhead to take full advantage.

Each of these guys had saved for, drooled over, and eventually bought a sparkly new DH bike over the winter, in anticipation of the upcoming park-riding season. The secret is out about Winter Park and we're all jazzed to get up there again. But these guys are equally jazzed about the up and coming park at Crested Butte, and they spent the day filling my head with awe and fear of the existing and not-quite-complete trails up there.

The trails we rode down here don't require a full-on DH sled, in fact most of them are significantly easier on a lighter, more nimble bike. But the guys wanted to fiddle with and dial in their new toys, and I can certainly relate to that.

Shuttling is emphatically not a part of my repertoire, so we punked the big bikes up to the top a total of 3 times. Climbing a ~40# bike is never fast, but if you can unwrap your head from needing to be in a hurry, it's actually no big deal. Despite the odd geo and monkey motion going on, they are surprisingly competent at tech ups--you just have to approach the moves with slightly modified timing and intent. And on the non-tech stuff? Patience, grasshopper.

Here's a little sampler of how we spent a gorgeous spring day.

For a few of these guys it was their first time swinging a leg over a bike since November. We took it slow, sessioned bunches, fiddled occasionally with dampers and springs, and everyone got back on top of their game in a hurry.

Thanks boys. See y'all up there when it gets hot enough to evaporate me outta the desert (bike and all) and precipitate me back down into CB.

Cheers,

MC

Doogan Day.

2011-04-17T23:23:00.004-06:00

We don't have access to stunning backcountry skiing from home, but we do have easy access to some pretty OK stuff. Fang and I woke on this day and checked all the RAWS sites on the Mesa to learn that down low they had maybe 4" of fresh, but up high the storm totals were closer to a foot. At that I closed the laptop and started throwing gear into the car.

45 minutes of driving got us to our starting point, and from there we did what came naturally.

Fang likes to run immediately behind me when I'm turning. Took me a bit to realize that with the upturned tails of my skis he was just getting himself non-stop faceshots. Smart puppy.

Powder days are all but gone for this season, but there's heaps and gobs of creamed corn left out there for the taking.

We'll be back up--hopefully this week.

MC

Last dance with snow?

2011-04-17T17:48:00.000-06:00

No way. Better than 7' left on the level up there--I'd say there's at least a month left. Maybe more.

Fang's pretty happy about that.

Nice to have an easily accessed (and totally empty) refuge from the teeming hordes that flock to the valley in springtime.

No caption needed.

Yup, gonna be around awhile...

Cheers,

MC

'twas a wonderful night for an evening.

2011-04-15T09:16:00.002-06:00

All of the ingredients were right: I'd shipped all the day's wheels with time left over to answer the most pressing batch of emails, tossed a fresh coat of chain lube onto a brand-spankin' new bike, grabbed helmet and pack, spun out to the trailhead and arrived at the meeting place in time to catch my breath and savor a plethora of heretofore hidden cholla.

And then we rode.

You know how on some rides as soon as the group is back together someone's chomping at the bit to take off and keep moving, if not 'racing'? If they even stop to begin with? Not tonight. No hurry, no agenda, just a leisurely flowing pace that allowed us to enjoy the ride, the scenery, and even the conversation.

Borrowed. Sporty.

Welcoming flora. Hero dirt.

And the spin back through town wasn't too shabby either.

Cheers,

MC

You know it was a good ride when...

2011-04-05T14:47:00.000-06:00

It started with this:

Included lots of this:

And ended with this:

And this:

Hzeck yeah!

MC

Little.

2011-04-03T18:36:00.002-06:00

Between building wheels and answering emails today I've been checking the weather--both online and out-the-window. Lots of precip means I've then gone back to answering emails and building wheels.

In a very, very brief not-raining-spell, I snuck out with a new lens and took a couple of shots. As far as macro-capabilities, this lens goes to eleven. Thus, I've appended a few words to each image to help you understand what the heck they are!

First, an easy one--bowl fulla spoke nipples:

Head of one spoke.

Dandelion, apparently drowning.

Recent rain on a big blade of grass.

Various magnifications of a single cottonwood leaf.

Aside from the dandelions, these little purple guys are the only color in the yard thus far. Friend or foe? Too early to call. The entire blossom, if indeed it can be called that, is about the size of a pencil eraser.

(Remember pencils?!)

Tip of a juniper 'leaf'.

Droplets on a tulip bulb.

Love that you can see the intricate texture of the 'fabric'.

Whatever the purple thing is, I could not, cannot see it with a nekkid eye.

Artsiest shot of the day: tulip stalk as seen through a droplet dangling from the blossom.

And then the rain/sleet/snow moved back in...

Fun to look at things from a bugs-eye-view for a spell.

Cheers,

MC

SC.

2011-04-02T15:42:00.003-06:00

Swizzle Chest had to come west for a work trip. When the work was over he managed to sneak in a bit of riding and camping. You'd think a skinny kid with huge responsibilities (at home as well as at work) would take the clean lines, follow wheels, and generally just 'ride mellow'.

Tee hee.

SC can't help himself. He's one of the more naturally gifted athletes I've ever met, coupled with a few decades worth of MTB muscle memory. Take him to an unfamiliar (darn near alien, actually) environment, stick him onto a clapped out rental bike, tie a borrowed pack around his waist, and then stand back:

Ahem:

Always fun to spend time around such great riders. Wish it happened more often.

Currently sorting through the heap o' stills and video we shot on that trip. Hope to have it up here in a few days.

Til then--enjoy some spring!

MC

A damn fine loop.

2011-03-19T20:18:00.003-06:00

The story goes that Scott and Chad were driving home from the Grand Loop, frustrated at the lack of quality singletrack on that route. I'm not clear how they were surprised by this--the loop has existed for better than a decade, Scott has ridden it before, and it's *never* had much singletrack. Anyhoo, I'm glad they were frustrated, because they spent the bulk of their drive home trying to brainstorm a multi-day bikepacking loop with as much high-quality singletrack as possible.

The end result of their brainstorming, map-geeking, and on-the-ground reconnaissance is the Coconino Loop. Start in Flagstaff, get on dirt right in town, ride to and through Sedona, Cottonwood, Williams, and back to Flag on a heap of high quality trail. A bit over 200 miles in sum. There is a heap of singletrack, quite a bit of doubletrack or forest road, and a quasi-tolerable amount of gravel. Very little pavement, and it happens in short stretches.

Tim Stern, Jeff Oatley and I spent four full days and nights out on the route, camping from roughly dark until dawn, and traveling at a comfortable, even leisurely pace during daylight hours. Naps were taken, as were photos. Snacks and stories were shared. NO ONE was in a hurry--none of us seemed to have any sort of schedule or agenda at all. We rode when it felt right, stopped when that felt right, and just sort of proceeded through each day. It seems the three of us have one main thing in common: Riding and racing on the Iditarod Trail. Thus you can probably guess that when the conversation wasn't lodged firmly on bacon, or bikes, or how much longer 'til we'd be into a town to get some more ice cream, we spent a *lot* of time talking about The Race in Alaska.

And that was really good. I get asked about The Race all the time but it's rare to sit back and hear about it first-hand from the perspectives of two who've been there, at the front, several times.

I really enjoyed this loop. I seem to have arrived at a place in my life (mentally and, um, chronologically) where I haven't the patience nor desire to repeat trails unless they tick all of my boxes. Put simply, the Coconino was the kind of loop that I could happily make into an annual trip.

These pixels might tell the story that my words are failing to approach:

In this day and age 4 days and nights is a lot of time to spend essentially doing one focused thing. If I had to pick one moment, one sensation from that length of time to list as the most memorable...

...hmmm. I guess I can't. My brain goes into overdrive and then brownout when I try. But the hyperspace descent into Williams, with millions of chunky manuals on a dark and hobbitesque trail...

...yeah, that one keeps bubbling to the top.

Cheers gents--thanks for all of the hard work that went into making this a brilliant turnkey bikepacking loop.

MC

Well then.

2011-03-17T23:32:00.003-06:00

Imagine my disappointment when, instead of facing glorious arctic hardships along the iditarod Trail while photogeeking the racers and locals all doing their thing, I found myself facedown and shivering inside my sleeping bag as a microscopic bug with a pissy attitude wreaked havoc inside my gut.

I didn't make it very far. And I didn't get many pics along the way. Meh.

Here's one to tide you over--two riders pushing a stiff headwind on the approach to Rainy Pass.

Sigh.

Home now, trying to get healthy.

In between catching up on emails and getting back into the wheelbuilding swing of things, I've been working on a lot of projects left over from 2010.

Here's the latest--our annual midwinter escape to AZ. The point of this trip is never to cover miles, never to flog ourselves into a stupor, never to race hither and thither. The point is simply to be outside with some exposed skin, and to have a little fun on the bikes. We ride until we get to something that we can't ride: A big rock, a series of ledges, a tricky switchback--whatever. Then we attempt it repeatedly until we figure it out, bleed, or cry uncle. Then we move on to the next.

Nothing more to it than that.

Enjoy.

MC

Up north, headed South.

2011-02-26T19:12:00.004-07:00

No matter how many times I step off the plane and out of the airport into Anchorage, the outside temp always seems colder than it should be, colder than I remember, and colder than I'm expecting.

Even when it isn't very cold outside.

Last night as we crossed Turnagain Arm and began final approach, one of the guys from the flight deck came on to thank us for flying Barbarian Airlines and tell us what a pleasure it had been to take our money and, as thanks, send us through TSA screening. But then he also mentioned that the local temp was minus 7*C. In the convulsive turbulence of the ensuing few minutes I stopped trying to remember the conversion for celsius to fahrenheit. And then, leaving baggage claim and stepping outside, it didn't matter anymore.

Beyond a certain point, cold is just cold. Well, cold enough, anyway.

Driving through the deserted streets of Anchorage at 3AM, gusts buffeting the car as snow snakes danced across in front, each bank thermometer agreed that the raw temps were in the teens, but the humidity carried from the ocean-next-door always makes those temps seem so much colder to me. Add in a few knots of wind and I find myself doing what I've done every year since '97, and what all of this year's rookies are doing right now too:

Wondering what the hell I'm doing here.

The fact is that I'm here to do a little bike tour. And, this year as in past years, once I'm out onto the trail I'll adapt to the cold, and the wind, and everything else that comes my way, just as the rookies (whom are trying unsuccessfully to sleep right now!) will do. It just happens, almost involuntarily.

Touring on the Iditarod has become my annual sabbatical--the one sure thing that my year revolves around. If I wasn't here with a bike and a big bag of junk food at the end of February, the sun might not rise for me tomorrow. It's just that simple.

It's a little known fact that The Iditarod Trail splits into a North Route and a South Route just shy of halfway to Nome. North is used in even numbered years, South on the off years. I've ridden the North Route before--four times, actually. But I'm 0-for-3 on the South Route. I attempted it in 2001 and had to cut the trip short (waaaaay short--at Shell Lake) due to a torn tendon in my left ankle. Then I tried again in '07 and got shut down on three different attempts to cross the Alaska Range: once at Ptarmigan Pass and twice at Rainy Pass. It just wasn't possible to get through when I was there that year. I knew then, as I know now, that I can't *not* see the South Route--it passes through the namesake village of the trail, and just how the hell do you explain never having been to Iditarod after 15 years on the Iditarod Trail? So I tried again in 2009 and an errant gear failure caused me to abort my plans early on, thus I never made it past McGrath.

For 9 years I raced along this trail--traveling light, moving fast, enjoying it on some level but knowing that I was missing a lot by sleeping little and keeping the pace high.

Then I spent the last 4 (5?) years trying to get to Nome without outside support. That was incredibly educational and rewarding, but NOW, by gum NOW I want to see what I've been missing! Thus, the theme for this year's trip seems to be morphing into some version of "How many pictures can I take while traveling cabin to cabin and breaking bread (eating MEAT!) with the locals?"

One way to find out!

There's no way I could travel this trail without taking a heap of pics along the way. Bill and Kathi Merchant, the directors of the Alaska Ultrasport race, know this. So when I mentioned that I was thinking about coming up to tour this year, they didn't hesitate long before asking if I might have interest in shooting some video too, with an eye toward creating some sort of film about the race, the trail, and the people involved. And that sounded like a pretty good idea to me.

For those that haven't seen it, there is an *excellent* film already out about this very thing: A Thin White Line was made by Canadian RJ Sauer, whom followed the 2001 race to Nome by snowmachine and airplane, documenting the scenery and travails faced by the racers on their epic trips across Alaska. Even though it's fully a decade old it seems as poignant and gripping now as it did back then. If you've read this far you WILL enjoy it--find a copy any way you can.

So here I am, sitting in an Anchorage hotel room assembling the bike and sorting gear to the tune of a cold north wind blowing down out of the mountains. 45 racers attended the pre-race meeting this afternoon, and by this time tomorrow we'll all be a few hours along on our respective missions. I'll be riding the Snoots loaded for bear with cameras, batteries, filters, tripod, and chargers, traveling elbow to elbow with the racers and killing wholesale amounts of pixels when opportunities present themselves.

I will NOT be making any effort to keep up with anyone--merely filtering my way backwards through the pack as I make my forward up the trail.

I will not be checking in here along the way--vacations and blogs don't mix!

You can (and should!) follow the race as it happens HERE.

It is usually enjoyable to follow those updates as well as all of the other places that they pop up as the race goes on. Enjoy it, as well as the impending arrival of spring wherever you are. The wind outside the window tells me that spring is on the way to somewhere southwest of here in a hurry...

Cheers,

MC

...aaaaaand relish.

2011-02-23T23:08:00.002-07:00

Thusly closing the loop, bringing 'us' back up to date with more from GJ, Grand Mesa, Moab, Tucson, and points betwixt.

Tee hee--I love wide angle...

Thanks for checkin' in.

MC