Thursday, July 31

Back in the saddle today, thank goodness. The standard route home, up over Confederate Hill, over Happy Pass and into Happy Valley. One of my very favorite things to do in the world, especially on an evening like tonight where other people were non-existent and a nice drizzle greeted me at the top of the climb. Rode the single, enjoying the simplicity, plus I can climb standing the whole way, giving my arse a nice break. Felt only so-so, a bit sluggish from the time off the bike and a long day revamping a shot hard drive at work, but thrilled to be back dancing in the woods.

I guess I'm not delusional, as a number of other people confirmed to me that the evenings in the high country have been feeling darn right autumn-like. Fine with me. I'll be doing a rain dance for the next two weeks hoping for a deluge at Montezuma's Revenge. I'll take 50 degrees and wet any day over 80 degrees and sunny.

Montezuma's looms. Honestly, there's a side of me that is afraid of the sheer effort, the loops, the mental challenges, the threat of physical blow up. And then there's the other side, stronger, that's thrilled at the opportunity to play in one of the most beautiful places in the world for 24 hours. Aside from the first hour of the race, where it's easy to get caught up in what other folks are doing, it's really a race against yourself, blocking out all your insecurities, keeping it moving and staying energized. I believe that to do well, it requires at least as much of a mental and indeed spiritual commitment as it does physical strength

This is my fifth Revenge. My goal this year is simple: make this the most enjoyable one I've done yet. Take the good and the bad in stride, keep moving and stay happy. If I can achieve this, it'll all work out in the end. This week off the bike has made me realize how much I need this activity, and how much of a gift it really is, and that there's no time to take it for granted. Carpe Diem, or something like that.

Wednesday, July 30

Hallelujiah! I can ride again pain free, thanks to a super old school saddle pilfered off a Merlin Newsboy from work. It even has spring-like suspension under the brown cow leather cover. Sweetness, and actually sort of looks cool too. Sort of 1928 retro style.

They say it's better to be stoked to ride than fit, and after having been forced off the bike, I've never been more psyched to ride in my life. This mountain biking thing is one hell of an addiction. Get us away from the bike for a bit between April and October, a we get irate, jittery and downright pissy.

Here's a theory for you. Throughout the tour de france, Phil and Paul kept commenting that Lance Armstrong looked uncomfortable in the saddle and was standing a lot on the climbs. Lance himself said he had "some problems you know about, some you don't." I think Lance actually had a wickedly brutally painful saddle sore, but was too embarrassed to announce on national T.V. that his ass hurt and that was why he couldn't drop Joseba, Jan and Tyler. More things that make you go hmm...

And this ends this websites installment of "Sore Asses."

Tuesday, July 29

There's definitely a certain tendency among all of us, myself included, to take all this stuff just a wee bit seriously. Good God, it's just mountain biking and trails, little insignificant blips in the universe. Insignificant blips that can be an obsession, to be sure, but small worries in the big scheme of things.

Looking forward to the 24 Hours of Adrenaline in Winter Park this weekend, where I'll be racing on a team as opposed to the masochistic solo route. And while I pretty much suck at the short race stuff, it's going to be fun riding for less than an hour at a time, playing in the woods at night, chatting it up with our fellow competitors and all around raising cain. Four aliens have landed in our galaxy in anticipation of our campaign of sleep deprivation. Bust out the Red Bull.

Dying to get back on the bike, since I've sort of been forced off of it for the past few days as a result of a...ummm...sore ass. Too much damned riding and too little care of my Chamois. Egads!

A funny story. For probably the first 7-8 years of my riding career I used to ride in tighty whitey underware under my chamois, completely unaware that this was a major faux paux. I did a couple 24 Hour races in 'em, Montezuma's Revenge, Leadville Trail 100, etc. Well, during a long ride in 1999 the Intergalactic Pilot himself noticed a peek of white peering out from under my baggies, and I was basically laughed off the mountain by various Boulder pros. Realizing I had been wrong all those years, I shed the whities in favor of chamois on skin. Yet in all those years of riding in tighty whiteys, I never got a single saddle sore! Things that make you go hmmmm.

Just think about those Hugh Jass guys at 24 Hours of Whatever, racing 4 guys in one chamois, trading it off between laps. Oh the horror.

Monday, July 28

And finally, as preparations begin for the 2003 Intergalactic Single Speed Championships, the Intergalactic Single Speed Space Federation releases a classified account of the events that led to the 2002 IGSSC confusion.

Sunday, July 27

One fucking speed! Fuck that Shift! OFS is so bloody 1999 midwestern crap. In a desperate effort to pay for this website, the Intergalactic Single Speed Space Federation has received stickers from outer space that let the world know you just don't need all that geared crap. Shimano watch your back, yo! So click here, order a sticker and keep the intergalactic dream alive.

And while we're on the commercial topic of swag you need, let us give props to the small crew over at Hypnotic Design. H.D. makes some of the dopest, most durable knickers I've ever seen. I've pretty much lived in the things this summer, and they are showing zero signs of wear and tear. They have a chamois sown in and are designed with cyclists in mind. The only problem is, I've worn my black knickers so much this summer that my co-workers are starting to make comments, so I guess I have to order another pair. They're not cheap, but that's because they a hand sown with love and care in Northern California. The owner, Jack, could probably make them cheaper by making them in Asia, but thankfully he's not into supporting sweat shop labor. So show the little guy some love and get some knickers from Hypnotic Designs.

Thursday, July 24

The struggle from within, figuring out which bounds to cross to keep us from going insane, and which not to cross to keep us true to our beliefs. It's no different on a mountain bike ride, really. On every ride, the temptation is there, to go deeper and further, and often the seduction is too much to resist. Yet do we compromise our core instincts by doing so, selfishly inflicting what we want to do and where we want to go on the creatures that call a place home?

As much as I've preached here about having a high environmental standard, and respecting the hills, there are times when the selfish aspect takes over. There are a few times when I want to see what's in that gully, over the next ridge, and I want to ride that secret trail...consequences be damned. I'm guilty of occassionally shutting off the brain and letting emotion take over, riding in places I probably shouldn't be. Perhaps it's a sin of being young, being bored or just being. Nonetheless, it's a hypocrisy that I have to examine and determine if I can live with it.

There's something called the Rules of the Trail in our sport, and while these are well and good, I think my personal code of ethics is slightly different:

1. You're a guest in someone else's home when you're riding you bike outdoors in mother nature. Respect Mother Nature, the creatures who live there, the dirt, the trees, the plants and all other elements of her home. By doing so, you'll be blessed with impeccable balance, lightning reflexes and all around goodness.

2. Protect the mother. Fight vigorously to keep evil doers out. The powers that be have few methods to control what really goes on in the woods. Do what you must do, but never physically harm your fellow human being.

3. Never ever build new trails unless you have permission from a land manager. No matter what. There are enough trails out there already. New trails bring new people, new rumors and are a lazy way out of doing the work to actually find a route.

4. Keep the group small. Riding in groups of more than four has more impact, and mother nature prefers small parties as oppossed open house keg parties.

I don't know if it was the heat, a long day or what, but when I left the bus tonight for my commute over Confederate Hill back to Happy Valley tonight I was irate. So much so that despite seeing lightning clapping off the summit of Confederate Hill, I just didn't give a fuck. In fact I welcomed it, curious to see if getting struck by an electrical blast from the sky is all it's cracked up to be. Into the tempest, into the fury, into the storm.

Fortunately, it was all very uneventful. The lightning stopped and the rain was a mere trickle. A pleasantly cool climb, and a surprisingly coordinated descent down Crack Addict back to Happy Valley. Lucky hour 13 so far this week on the bike, and off to Colorado Springs tommorrow to see what's in store in their neighborhood of singletrack.

And finally, hurray for Tyler Hamilton.

Tuesday, July 22

WARNING: This is what happens when you decide to be Lewis and Clark for the day. Don't do it. I decided to leave this post up to show the results of pure stupidity. If you're looking for new places to ride in your area, buy a map.

Today will be remembered for one of the biggest clusterfuck adventure rides I've ever gone on. Last night, one of my co-workers, Taco Time Boy, asked me innocently enough if I'd like to go on a lunch ride today. Sure thing, no problem, as I envisioned the typical hour long loop on one of the few local trails. A nice warm up to the ride home I figured. Well, noon rolled around today and for a change of pace I suggested to Taco Time Boy, and another coworker Hippy Girl that we head to the rumored to exist Mordor trail.

So we start off, at a mellow pace thankfully because I was definitely hurting today from yesterdays effort, six hours of sleep, and blazingly hot temperatures. Eventually arrived at the top of the hill and enter. We actually didn't know where the trail was, but I assumed it would pop up rather quickly in sort of an idealic, Swiss Family Robinson fashion. Well, this didn't exactly happen as we traversed gully after gully in search of Mordor Trail.

After about 45 minutes of backtracking, we eventually did find a trail, that indeed had all the tell tale signs of Mordor Trail. Basically, a straight fall line path that in two years will be an erosion ditch. After sort of enjoying this for maybe a half mile, the trail came into a meadow and suddenly stopped cold. No continuation anywhere as far as we could tell, so we plodded onward, not quite sure whether Mordor Trail was abducted by aliens or there was simply a massive gap jump required to complete the route.

Shouldered the bikes, now a good 2 hours into our "lunch ride." Every now and then a remnant of a trail would appear, but then this too would disappear, and we'd spend another 10-15 minutes bushwacking through thick brush and prickly pear cacti. Around about this time I began to suspect Taco Time Boy and Hippy Girl would likely never go on another lunch ride with me. Over hill and dale we proceeded, crossing numerous ridges, dry stream beds and rock faces. I've never worked so hard in my life heading downhill.

Hour three arrived and it indeed appeared we'd be out there till dark at least and I was concerned group morale would drop. Decided the best thing to do would be to forge ahead, leaving little time for contemplation. On that descent hike/ride/slog, which was probably 3,000 feet vertical down, we probably hiked 1,000 vert UP just to ascend the various ridges. Around hour 3.5 we saw an old jeep road, the Rivendale Route, across the canyon from us, in what looked like somewhere near Tanzania from our perspective.

No matter - heading for the road was a better option than out .2 mph slogfest, so we huffed it down and up the canyon, hit the road and descended back to Boulder. Somehow we ended up a good mile below where we should have been. This occassionally happens on exploratory rides, although as we rolled into the office, covered in sticky nettles, pine needles and dirt four hours later, I made a promise that I'll bring a map next time and ride one of the countless trails that actually do exist!

Monday, July 21

Oops, sorry, slacked a bit on the journal entries, but I was traveling, and was unable to log on. Spent the weekend up in Whistler, B.C., doing a little freeriding brah. Mountain biking for the masses really. It's quite easy actually: load your bike, preferably with lots of suspension, onto a high speed chairlift and get whisked away to the top of the mountain where you have a myriad of choices for all descent. Very much like skiing actually. Not really my thing, but to each their own I suppose. More on this later.

Much more interesting today was this morning watching Le Tour de France and the return of one Lance Armstrong. Quite a stage up to Luz Ardane, with Lance crashing, recovering, and blowing the socks of the peloton. Very impressed with the sportsmanship of Tyler Hamilton and even Jan Ulrich for slowing down the pace, not wanting to win due to someone else's misfortune. I wonder if Rishi would do that Montezuma's Revenge? Somehow I doubt it.

Motivated by the incredible stage, I decided to ride up Magnolia this evening. A fabulous ride, feeling quite solid after a week of relative rest, and visualizing in my head the fast ticking pedal cadence of Lance. Of course the reality was I wasn't really attacking Col du Magnolia - more like surviving - but it's fun to pretend nonetheless.

Arrived home to Happy Valley shocked to see that I had gone 15 minutes quicker than normal - evidently payback for some of those time space continuum's I've been stuck in much of this spring! It was quite dark when I arrived home at 8:30 p.m., a definite change from just 30 days ago when it was light until 9:00 p.m.

And perhaps I'm delusional, but as a drizzle began just I rolled home, I swear there was a slight hint of fall in the air.

Monday, July 14

Back to life, back to reality. Thrust from the heights of 12,000 foot high ridgeline trails into the slums of newsletter editing hell. The realities of being an editor/designer. The fun part of the task, being creative and artistic, accounts for a mere 1% of the job. Much more common is editing sheit writing and making it somewhat salvagable. Yet getting through this makes the 1% worthwhile, I suppose.

A crazy week ahead. Off to Whistler, British Columbia on Wednesday to do "research" on freeriding, downhilling and such. It's more than a little ironic that the rigid singlespeed retro eco boy got sent on this mission, but I'm going into it open minded. Sneaking my Ionic Johnny Rotten along with, thanks to two free United bike vouchers, just in case the life of the plush gets a little too lush.

Sunday, July 13

End of the vacation, back in Happy Valley, after a good solid 30 hours of riding in the last six days. Had planned on heading out on one more jaunt with Meriweather this morning, but the body was uncooperative, so I had to bail on that plan. All in all, a really solid week that will hopefully pay dividends a month from now. And, if not, it was a hella good time anyhow.

Rode yesterday with a now Crested Butte local and an old Vermont friend Geo Bullock. Geo was something of an underground legend back in the day, winning pro class races for Ted Wojcik Cycles in the early 90's in New England by huge margins and starting something called the Gonzo Cafe. Basically, after he mopped up on the competition, Geo would open up a burrito and smoothie stand out of the back of his truck, and sell food to competitors as they limped across the finish line. Geo also had a preference for hitting swimming holes after races and rides. Once, during a race at a place called Randolph in Vermont, Geo miscounted laps somehow and ended up doing one more lap than anyone else. In a move that defines grace, Geo crossed the finish line and in one motion did a Greg Louganous style leap into a nearby lake seconds later.

As a teenager, I'd always gauge my progress based on Geo and a handful of other haunch riders in Waitsfield, Vermont's Mad River Riders cycling club. The happiest moment of my early cycling career came on one of our Wednesday night hammer sessions, when I was able to actually open up a slight gap on Geo on a local climb and maintain it to the top of the hill. That happened, count it, ONE TIME, but it was a pretty good ego boost for a 17 year old kid whose self esteem was based entirely on how fast he could pedal a bike a ski down a hill.

Beyond just being a hammer though, Geo taught me the basics of bike mechanics, getting involved in trail maintenance, and basically just how to view life from a slightly more laid back attitude. Geo is 43 years old now, but hasn't exactly slowed down much. He's won the Grand Elk Traverse, a winter ski race from Crested Butte to Aspen, 3 of the past 4 years and always finishes top 5 in the 42 kilometer Alley Loop Ski Race.

On our particular ride yesterday, we started off with a King Nimbyish 20 minute hike a bike up a 45 degree slope that Geo said was a "popular trail" among the locals. This was followed by a good hour and a half of jeep road climbing to a ridgeline 12,000 feet in the sky. Around this point, Geo casually mentioned in a way that was completely unpretentious, that this was his, "good little ride after a hard day of work."

A few hours later, the jeep trail turned into a goat trail, and eventually into marmot trail as we traversed along a ridgeline overlooking the entire Elk Range. Not your classic smooth Colorado singletrack ride, but better. Unsanitized for your riding pleasure. Along the way we discussed various topics: how cars suck, snowmobiles, mining history, Vermont vs. Colorado, poaching Ride the Rockies and swapping various adventure stories, with a ratio of five stories for Geo for one of my lame tales. Basically, the dudes afternoon jaunt is the equivilant of what most front rangers would consider the trip of a lifetime.

After a casual lunch break (Geo's retired from racing now and has no time for Power Gel inhalations) we dropped down our rocky, barely perceptible marmot trail, which eventually turned back into a slightly more visible goat trail, and finally, in classic Geo style, right to a pristine mountain lake, where we took a chilly but invigorating swim before rolling back down to town. For me, a five hour drive home followed, listening to the i-Pod fully cranked, basking in the orange rays of the sun shimmering off the Collegiate Range, the full moon illuminating the Indian Peaks and vowing that there won't be another 10 year gap till my next ride with Geo.

Friday, July 11

Crested Butte is amazing. So far this trip, I've pretty much only ridden trails in the "book," but it's just mind-boggling how much other singletrack is out there. There are literally trails everywhere, and they all look sweet and smooth. Because there are so many trails here, you almost never see anyone. This far, I've ridden what would be considered very popular routes: Dyke, Pearl Pass, Reno Divide and today, 401, and have seen exactly zero people on the trails.

This evening checked out the classic, 401. Rode from town, through a place called Gothic, up to Schoefield Pass, and back down 401. Finished the day with a dusk loop on Snodgrass before arriving back in Crested Butte in darkness. Imagine the perfect singletrack: twisty, narrow, hip deep vegetation, wildflowers, snow capped peaks, river crossings and switchbacks and you get an idea of what 401 is like. Because I was riding later in the day, there were an unbelievable amount of birds out. Actually had to slow down on the descent, as I almost caught a low-flying bird heading down the singletrack in front of me, and realized squashing one of our feathered friends would ruin my day.

Gothic reminds me a little of Happy Valley, being a town near the end of a canyon with a sort of ethereal, peaceful vibe. Last day here tomorrow...going riding with a friend from my days back in Vermont who helped introduce me to the sport. He's a hammer with a preference for huge epics, so it should be an adventure.

Thursday, July 10

Another scorching day in paradise, except for that if this is paradise, there are an awful lot of doey-eyed Texas tourists wandering the Crested Butte streets with sort of that "feed me, I'm bored, oh isn't this place quaint" look about them. If you're wondering what I'm talking about, just go to Estes Park any Saturday during the summer. Who needs the great outdoors when there is cotton candy to be had, after all?

Anyhow, another day of terrific riding. Today, wasn't feeling so afraid, so I broke out Johnny Rotten for a singlespeeding adventure on something called the Reno/Flag/some name I can't remember/Rosebud/Deadmans Gulch ride. Absolutely a killer ride, right up there with Monarch Crest in terms of quality singletrack. Decided I needed a little soundtrack to my solo endeavor today, so broke out the I-Pod and grooved away. The last descent, called Deadman's Gulch, has 32 switchbacks, made all the more pleasant by Bjork's Violently Happy and an Avril Lavigne remake of a Metallica song (really!). The bugs were phenomenal today. At one point, I was dancing down a singletrack with butterflies as they flew along side of me.

Decided at about hour three of today's ride that I much prefer riding 5 hours a day than working 8 hours a day. It's a lot better for you too - the stress of work politics have left the body, replaced by a youthful energy that makes me feel about 18 again. My God, the useless bullshit we put up with each day. There has to be a better way dammit, and we're going to have to find it.

Wednesday, July 9

Sitting in the Crested Butte Laundromat, pilfering a FAX line, hoping the desk person doesn't catch me, all to bring you, one of the six viewers of this website LIVE MINUTE BY MINUTE UPDATES FROM CRESTED BUTTE. High tech baby.

After perusing through the Mountain Bike Hall of Fame last night, reading about the legends of our sport, ogling the relic equipment (hey, I still use those Shimano 7-speed with the extra 8th click top mount XT shifters...see the photo below) and hearing about the early pioneering rides, I was feeling nostalgic today. Decided to forgo one of the numerous 400 numeral trails here (401, 402...420...and so on) and ride classic route, Pearl Pass. For those needing to brush up on Mountain Biking 101 history, the story goes something like this. A clan of Crested Butte rowdies placed a wager with Aspen motorcyclists that they could pedal their original clunker one speeds up and over Pearl Pass, which links C.B. to Aspen, faster than the motos could do the same route. I'm not exactly sure who won the wager, but the ride up and over Pearl Pass was one of the first mountain bike rides in the modern history of the sport.

Had I to do it all over again, I would have brought my singlespeed out today, to pay homage to those original pioneers. Problem is, these trails out here intimidate me. The climbs are steep, go forever, it's hot, and I've been feeling a bit off lately. Broke out the Moots today, but in the end it really didn't matter, as gears don't help much on 20 percent grades of scree. Truth be told, I doubt those early pioneers actually rode much of the upper portion of the 12,700 foot Pearl Pass route, but who really fucking cares. Those early dudes, clad in cotton cycling hats, various old school wool jerseys, running shorts, sneakers and fueled by copious amounts of green leaf made a statement on that day that bikes were a legit way to cross some of the burliest terrain on the planet.

I had my own dual with the moto heads today, as a family (extended) of folk on 4-wheelers yo-yoed up the climb with me. For example, they'd stop to take a piss and drink a six pack, I'd plod along and pass them, they'd get going, pass me, stop a little later to piss more and drink more beer, and so on and so on. I felt like yelling at the children, two daughters about 11 years old, "run, get out while you can, you're doomed to a life of redneckdom and cardiac arrest at age 40." In the end, the mountain bike was victorious, on two counts. First, the top of the pass was snow-covered, and while it was quite simple picking up the bike and hiking over the 100 yard snowdrift, the 4-wheelers were stuck. On one hand, I'm sure they wanted to reach the top of the pass. On the other, that would require a 300 yard walk at nearly 13,000 feet above sea level, and I suspect this may indeed have killed off two or three of the group. Like any creature concerned with survival, the 4-wheelers turned around pre-summit, leaving the grandeur of this historical place to me in sweet solitude.

The second victory came on the descent. 4-wheelers may be able to go almost anywhere, but any hack mountain biker can dust these tippy contraptions whenever the desire strikes. After breathing their exhaust for 3 hours on the climb, I certainly desired, and enjoyed the stunned look on their faces as a non-motorized BiiiiCiiiiCuuul fucked with their notion of reality.

Unlike the early pioneers, I did not go onto Aspen, instead turning around at the summit, looking forward to evening of relaxing and eating in Crested Butte after five-and-a-half hours on the bike. Felt in shape today for the first time in while, proving once again the notion that the more you ride, the better you become.

Tuesday, July 8

Day 2 of my road trip, day 1 in Crested Butte, the self proclaimed "paradise" of the world. They even say so in their various shopping establishments: Paradise Bakery, Pita's in Paradise, Paradise Pipes, and so on and so on. And who am I to argue? This quintissential little town is ringed with 12,000 foot peaks, all the singletrack you could ever desire and a mellow vibe that gives a big F.U. to the rat race establishment. Granted, the town has its annoyances, including a high propensity of white dudes with dreads and a feeling that may almost be a little too chiiillll brah dude. But I'm nit picking. All in all, "the Butte" ain't a bad place.

Today I rode something called the Dyke Trail, although it took me awhile to find the thing. I initially hopped on a severly overgrown cow track that I thought was the Dyke Trail, but was more like the Biatch Trail. Eventually this cantankerous route hooked into the Dyke Trail, which turned out to be a enjoyable jaunt through hip high flower patches, river crossings and ridgelines. Took me awhile to find my mojo today, with all the stopping to read the map. This is typical though. I always find the best experience on a trail is the second or third time I ride it, after I know the lines, can gauge the climbs and not worry about over-shooting some random turn and ending up miles from where I need to be.

The climb out of the Dyke Trail, up over Kebler Pass and back to Crested Butte, was brutal as the agonizing July sun beat down on me like a trout left in the desert. It's a good thing I'm doing this Montezuma gig, or I'd probably hibernate in the summer, waiting until the day time high temps dropped to 70 before embarking out on the world. This heat wave can end anytime now.

This evening, after the temperature dropped below 90, went for a quick ride on something called the upper lower upper loop, or something like that. The names were quite confusing, but the ride was pure sweetness: smooth, short climbs and a brilliant sky. Brought out the singlespeed and found my mojo, finally.

Monday, July 7

People avoidance rule #1. Whatever you do, never ever venture out into the wilds on 4th of July weekend. Every Ma, Pa, Dick, Joe, Harry and all their relatives are out driving their Ess-you-vees, jeeping around nature, revving their two strokes, lighting firecrackers and basically acting so idiotic that you stop wondering how George Bush Jr. ever got elected. No, every good mountain rat knows that 4th of July weekend is the perfect time to bop around the house, do chores, lie in the hammock, rest and basically become an isolationist.

But now the weekends over, and, like any self respecting slacker, I've decided to take this entire week off from work, giving me in essence 11 straight work free days, while only paying the piper for five. Not a bad gig. My duty this week: get into a nice ride, eat and sleep pattern. Left Happy Valley to ride other trails in Colorado and generally be less tempted to get sucked into the email/Playstation II vortex. A mini-training camp I suppose, if you want to call riding sweet singletrack five hours a day training.

Made my way to the Crested Butte International Youth Hostel, which will be my home for the next five days. Surprisingly clean and very cheap make for an ideal combination. On the way here, I swung by Salida, and rode the world renowned Monarch Crest Trail, which actually lived up to the hype. And beyond. Phenomenal singletrack, with everything mountain bikers seek: alpine tundra singletrack, scree fields, rivers, lush green forests, killer descents and painful climbs (especially at 12,000 feet above sea level)

Had the not so brilliant idea to ride the entire loop from town, having been informed - erroneously as it turns out - that the climb up Monarch Pass was only 10 miles from town. Well, I rode 10 miles in 95 degree heat and a nice stiff 30 mile per hour headwind (cry me a river) and was no where near the summit. The road hadn't even started climbing yet, as it basically just traversed a big valley on a sort of false flat. Decided that getting buzzed at 70 mpg by oil tankers really wasn't that much fun, so I hitched up to the top, skipping the final 10 miles of road up to Monarch Pass.

I somehow entered into Megan's Time Space continuum on this ride. The guide book said it should take advanced riders 3 hours to complete the 35 mile route. Not to be arrogant, but I would consider myself an advanced rider. Granted, I stopped a lot to take photos, but I was out there for a good 4 hours, plus the hour used to climb the 10 miles up the pass! Oh well, I suppose there are worse places to be stuck in a time space continuum than on perhaps the best mountain biking trail in the world.

Sun burned, dehydrated and all around worked this evening. Time to sleep, and do it all over again tomorrow.

Wednesday, July 2

After a nice mellow ride up and over Tennessee last night (disturbed only by motos here, there and everywhere and the worst mosquitoes I've seen since Alaska), spent the evening paging though old BIKE Magazines. Looking for inspiration, looking for new places to ride. Anyone ever been to Silverton, British Columbia? Looks amazing.

While sorting through the old magazines, I came across BIKE Mag volume 4, issue 7 from August 1997, entitled "The Funk Issue." The cover features a James Brown type individual ripping down a singletrack on a Salsa singlespeed, platform dope ass shoes, a feather coat, various items of jewelry, huge aviator type sunglasses and a sweet pimp daddy hat. After reading through the issue, which features an interview with Rick James, something called the Funk-o-meter (Fudge=singlespeed, Mayonnaise=Shimano STX), and a lament about how damned white bread mountain biking is, I've come to the conclusion that our sport - or at least the portrayal of it - has regressed by quantum leaps in the last six years.

Which is where this little website might help. Granted, most of us are so white that we make Wonder Bread look diverse. Nonetheless (to paraphrase from the funk issue) the argument could be that single speeding (and all mountain biking with soul for that matter) "is an expression of free will against the conformity of of road riding, freeriding, Shimano, Rock Shox, etc, in much the same way that funk music could be seen as an expression of freedom and lightheaded rebellion against standard pop culture."

Not really sure where I'm going with this, other than to try to encourage myself, and others if they so desire, to add a bit more funk into our wonderful world of mountain biking.

Tuesday, July 1

There are a few masochistic climbs around here that I like to break out every now and then on the single speed as a sort of painful cleansing. In particular, these are, in order from easiest to hardest: Super Flagstaff, 505, Magnolia Road. Last night decided to take old Johnny Rotten up Super Flag and then back to Happy Valley via various random routes. Obviously, it was a painful affair, made more so by scorching conditions as the mid-summer sun blared off the asphalt. Still, it was good to work hard and keep it rolling – albeit at about 2 miles per hour – up the steep sections.

I have heard rumors over the years that there is a guy who rides up Flagstaff on a regular basis on a full-on cruiser bike. Rumor has it that he is quite fast, often passing decked out roadies while pushing an insane gear up the grade. Well yesterday, I had the privilage to meet this guy. Saw him up ahead as I was climbing, and based on his ridiculously slow pedaling cadance and the extensive time it was taking me to bridge the gap, I figured it was him. Finally caught up, and he was super psyched to see another single speeder. Truth be told, I felt like a wanker compared to this Ted Kazinski type pushing a bike that probably weighed 40 pounds in a 53x18 gear ration in flat pedals!

As we climbed up to the Amphitheter together, it was quite comical to see the looks on people's faces as this hippie dude on a cruiser went blasting by them, ringing his bell and uttering, "one speed is all you need." He gave me a big hoot and holler as I headed up to the top and he turned off to the Amphitheter, and I have to say his words of encouragement made for a much more enjoyable climb.

Flagstaff seems to attract the eclectic types. I remember ten years ago, as a green freshman at CU, climbing Flagstaff on my old Rockhopper Comp on a particularly foggy fall day, and coming upon this shaman type dude beating a drum. It felt like I'd stumbled upon some monestary in Tibet. Apparently, this guy was paying off an homage to a Buddist god by walking up and down Flagstaff beating the drum slowly. For the next few years at least, I'd often see him during this climb, and I'd always get a little surge of energy upon hearing the otherwordly beat. I've always viewed climbing as sort of a trance-like spiritual event, and the Tibetan drum beater certainly enhanced this feeling. Haven't seen that guy for probably five years now, and I kind of miss him.