Hooptedoodle

Touring the Newfies

Mark and I were sitting on the railroad tracks when the first man on a four wheeler rolled up.  The road west along the tracks was closed in six miles, a Union Pacific sign courteously but sternly warned us.  The road south to the Newfoundland Mountains, our desired destination, was too wet and goopy for our bikes.  We had just pedaled over 80 miles across the Great Salt Lake with the intention of climbing Desert Peak and seemed now to be thwarted just ten miles from where we could start hiking.  In those moments of indecision we had hidden our bikes behind an embankment and were considering starting our hike from there when instead we decided it was a good time for lunch.  We had not seen a train for over an hour.  When the first ATV rider arrived I was sitting on the rails munching on a cheese and mustard sandwich so I let Mark do most of the talking.  After exchanging a few pleasantries Mark asked the man about the roads in the Newfies.  We were learning about a ride he’d done down the east side, over a low pass and back north on the west side when his partner rolled up on a second ATV.

This time there were no pleasantries.   “How the hell did you get out here?” the second man asked as soon as there was a lull in the conversation.  We told them about our bikes and secretly wished we hadn’t as they could steal them and leave us out there to die in the desert.  Then Mark turned back to the first man and asked more about his ride around the Newfies.   We were particularly interested in the rode around the southern end of the range, though the Air Force’s bombing range.  If that road was passable then a circumnavigation of the Newfies by bicycle was a distinct possibility.   After a minute or so there was another pause in the conversation.   The silence of the desert hung in the air.  I started to peel a tangerine.  Mark looked at the railroad ties, then at me, then at the first man.  I might have heard a coyote howl.  The second man couldn’t take it anymore.  He had to be sure, he asked, “You mean you rode your pedal bikes all the way out here?”  

Indeed we had.   We camped two nights on the mudflats near the Hogup Mountains, far enough from the railroad tracks not to be awakened by passing trains but not so far that we couldn’t walk over after dinner one evening to put railroad spikes on the rails to watch them get squashed by freight trains bound for the ports in California.  We raced our bikes across the mudflats, marveled at the enormity of Governor Bangerter’s pumps on the Lake’s western shore while debating the futility of that attempt by man to control his environment, and watched with curiosity as backhoes and bulldozers built miles of dikes to parcel out more of the Lake into evaporation ponds so Great Salt Lake Minerals Co. can produce and sell us more salt to sprinkle on our roads, salinate our rivers and farmlands and be pulverized into dust we can breathe in our winter air.   The west shore of the Lake is changing.  

Indeed, even the desolation that draws us out there is at risk.  On the morning of our return we met a Union Pacific employee who was out inspecting the track.   We hoped he wouldn’t notice our collection of squashed railroad spikes but he seemed more interested in telling us about the other cyclists he’s seen out there.   He’d noticed our tracks on the causeway on his way across the Lake that morning and figured he’d run into us sooner or later.   “Most of them are out lookin’ for Jesus, I guess.” he says of the cyclists he sees out there all the time.  “Are you heading back today?  Well, watch out for trains.”

“Yes sir,” I say with a smile because he has implicitly given us permission to ride across the privately owned causeway, which we were going to do anyway, “we’ve found our Jesus and are ready to go home.”  As we turn away and pedal for home my smile turns to a frown because he has also implicitly stated that Mark and I are not the only nut jobs who ride out there.  As much as I’d love to see more people out enjoying the Lake, I want to keep that most desolate part of the Lake just for us.  I decide not to believe him.   As far as I am concerned, we are still the only cyclists who ride out there.   

How My Cyclocross Season Is Going

Utah Thief Picks Wrong Bike to Steal

If you're going to steal something to pawn, pick something with a wide market appeal.  More here. 

 

 

Cycling Great Salt Lake

The other day I got an email from a guy who had read about my ride around Great Salt Lake.  I had emailed one of his colleagues about a project at work and that colleague forwarded my email on to him.   In his email response to me he answered my work related questions then finished with this:

In a funny coincidence, I was talking to some co-workers today about bike touring and I told them about a Cycling Utah article I had read four years ago or so about some crazy dude who rode his bike around the Great Salt Lake. I had remembered a few things -- it sounded very rough and he ran out of water. I wasn't sure it sounded fun.

So I googled some stuff, found the article and guess what?

YOU'RE THAT CRAZY DUDE.  

It seems that I’m getting a reputation for being ‘that crazy dude’ that rides his bike around Great Salt Lake.  While ‘crazy dude’ is not a status most people, myself included, aspire to, I have done little in the past to dissuade people from thinking otherwise about me.  Today’s post can only make the matter worse and will probably solidify my position as the world’s preeminent crazy dude that rides around Great Salt Lake.  

During the summer a friend of mine met a woman who was devoting her summer to exploring Great Salt Lake.  She and another woman had been swimming in, sailing on, hiking along, flying over etc. etc. around the Lake and were writing about their experiences on a blog called Summer of Salt.  My friend, doing his part to ruin my reputation, said something like “I know this crazy dude who rode his bike around the Lake.  You should talk to him.”  So a few days later I got an email from Heidi and we arranged to meet for lunch. Nicole, her partner in the project, came along too and we all swapped stories about our travels around the Lake and discussed why so few people appreciate and recreate on it.  I felt good talking with some fellow Great Salt Lake lovers and wished there were more people like us.  We decided that one way to make that happen would be for me to write a post for their blog about why I rode my bike around the Lake, and why I keep going back.   

You’ll find the introduction to my post below but you’ll have to visit Heidi and Nicole’s site to finish it.  When you’re done, do yourself a favor and spend some time reading some of their other posts. I recommend the one on the Bear River and the one on the Sun Tunnels. 

Let me make one thing clear from the beginning: The cycling opportunities around Great Salt Lake are terrible. There I said it, but it’s a lie. Great Salt Lake is the last destination in Utah I would recommend for a cycling adventure. For that Utah has Moab, St. George, Vernal and Park City. Those places have buff single track, paved rural roads, ideal weather and communities that cater to cyclists’ needs. Great Salt Lake has none of that.  Instead it’s got horseflies that bite through spandex, a complete and total absence of shade, awful roads that rattle loose every bolt on your bicycle, and the real possibility that the most minor of mechanical failures, or even just one too many flat tires could put your very survival in question…click here to continue reading.

My Second Tandem Bicycle

I won the greatest prize of my racing career on Tuesday night, both in terms on monetary value and sheer awesomeness. 

I’ve been doing most of the Tuesday night races this summer because they’re a great way to maintain your top-end fitness levels without the drudgery of intervals.  The races are typically an hour long so if you want to compete you’ve got to red line it from start to finish.  I actually won the series last year—and won a wad of cash in the process—primarily due to my amazing ability to show up every week.   But this year the series is a lot more competitive so instead of focusing on overall points I’ve had my eyes on the prize that matters most—The Post-Race Raffle.

Tuesday night was a special night because, among all the usual bicycle wares up for grabs, was this deluxe acoustic motorhome:


When the time came to raffle the tandem I was busy being distracted by my buddy Matt, who was…well, I’ll just let the pictures tell the story.

 

  

The only thing it needs is an iBert Safe-T-Seat so our whole family can ride.  Whaddya say Mags? 

 

Pierre's Hole 100

Finally my efforts get the attention of the “national” press are starting to pan out.  I got interviewed by a guy from Cycling News after the Race last week and I did my best to not sound like a doofus. 

See how I did - I don’t appear until 15:50.   One more NUE series race for me this summer, then I’m calling it a season, maybe even a career.

 

Read the article here

Fatigue Limits

I’ve been a dad for a week now, so I now know a few things about fatigue.  For instance, it can be caused by 2am feeding sessions followed by 3am diaper changing sessions.   It can also come from all of the visits we’ve been having from family and friends which stretch well into nap time.  I might have to establish—and strictly enforce—visiting hours so Mags can get some sleep.  Fatigue also comes from cycling, and I don’t just mean riding your bike.  I’m talking here about the periodic loading and unloading of a material, for example, the aluminum in the fork on my cyclocross bike.  

I like to ride my cyclocross bike this time of year because most of the trails are still muddy or covered in snow, and with all the rain we get in the spring, it’s nice that I can fit fenders on it to keep my arse somewhat dry when I ride on the road.  Last week, in one of my final pre-fatherhood rides, I went up Emigration Canyon and beyond to see how high the snowline was.  What by all accounts was an uneventful ride was almost ruined at the top of Little Mountain Pass when I saw that my odometer had changed to 9,700 miles. 

“Wow, 9,700 miles”, I thought as I descended into Emigration Canyon at 30 mph.   “I’ll turn the thing over in just a few weeks”, I thought as I rode over a few bumps and watched, as I have been doing on this bike for eleven years, my fork flex up and down.  I used to joke that I get almost an inch of travel out of it.  Then I thought about the Strength of Materials class I took in college where I learned that aluminum has no fatigue limit, meaning that in can develop microscopic cracks that enlarge where loads are applied repeatedly.  Eventually the crack becomes so large that sudden fracture of the material occurs.   Fellow enginerds wanting a geekier explanation of this phenomenon can scratch that itch over at the Sabrosa website because, thank goodness, I’m not that kind of engineer.

Now exceeding 40 mph I thought back to all the great rides I’d done on my cyclocross bike.  I rode it on my longest day on a bike—211 miles from Seattle to Portland.  I loaded it up and toured the San Juan Islands on it.  I’ve raced cyclocross on it.  I’ve ridden it around the Great Salt Lake twice.   I’ve put countless (well, 9,700 miles actually) miles commuting to and from work.  It’s always been my go-to bike in the worst weather because I wanted to preserve my road and mountain bikes.  Rain, snow, salty roads, tours, muddy cyclocross courses, I’ve ridden it in some of the worst conditions possible. 

What do I do?  Is 10,000 miles too much stress on an aluminum fork (not to mention the aluminum frame)?  Is it time to retire one of my favorite bikes?  A sudden failure of my fork at 40 mph, or 40 miles into the west desert could cause my boy to grow up fatherless.  [I could probably survive a sudden fork failure 40 minutes into a cyclocross race, so should I save the bike for racing only?]

Sometime while descending the canyon I convinced myself that 9,700 miles is a lot less than 10,000 miles and I am somehow safe for another 300 miles.  So when I got to the mouth of the canyon I turned onto the Bonneville Shoreline Trail for a little single track on my ‘cross bike with skinny tires. 

Anyone want to buy a used cyclocross fork? 

Without Hesitation

Vince is my best friend from college.  After our graduation we both went to grad school, Vince to Indiana and me to Seattle.  Since then he’s lived in Texas, Arizona and Washington.  Despite all that distance between us, he and I manage I go backpacking once or twice every year.  Mags usually comes too and Vince’s wife Kylee joins us as often as she can. 

In August 2009 we hiked through Death Hollow, a tributary to the Escalante River in south-central Utah.  Death Hollow is a slot canyon, meaning that the walls are too steep to climb out in most places, and it has a good size stream (huge by desert standards) flowing through it.  There is no trail so instead of fighting your way through the tamarisk and willows, you just walk in the stream where you can, and swim where you can’t.  Over the years, we’ve perfected a method for keeping our equipment dry.  We pack everything we want to keep dry in river bags then slide the river bags into our packs.   When we come to a deep pool we just take off our packs, throw them in the water and swim behind them.   Our packs get soaked but our equipment stays dry.  No matter how much I do this I am amazed every time how what feels like such a heavy burden on my back can stay afloat in the water.  I always hesitate for a moment before throwing it in the pool, but our packs float every time.  In fact, they float so well that Mags prefers using hers as a raft more than swimming behind it.   

Like most desert streams, the water in Death Hollow is muddy, like coffee with double cream.  Walking downstream the way we were, we couldn’t see where we were stepping.  We were walking single file with me in front in water was about ankle deep.  We were probably talking about Andy Skurka, whom we had med that spring on a trip in Hackberry Canyon when I stepped into a hole.  This was no normal hole.  Mags says she watched me completely disappear under the water.   I never felt the bottom.   Fortunately my buoyant backpack brought me to the surface, but unfortunately it was forcing me facedown into the water.  Thinking quickly, I unfastened my hip belt and tried to wriggle out of my pack, but my sternum strap was still fastened.  Quick thoughts are not always wise thoughts and the result was that my pack floated higher and pushed me deeper into the water.  My sternum strap slid from my chest up to my neck and I struggled to breathe and flailed wildly to keep my head above water. 

Without hesitation Vince dropped his backpack and jumped into the pool.  Mags says that he also disappeared under the water. When he came up he pushed me and my pack closer to the edge where Mags was able to help me get my pack off and then pull us both out of the water.  It was over as fast as it started and we all sat on the bank catching our breath and wondering just how close I had come to drowning. 

In hindsight, jumping in after me was probably not the smartest thing Vince could have done.  It's possible that I could have become so panicked that I drowned him and me both.  Instead he might have been able to pull me in from the bank.   But we'll never know, and that is not what this story is about anyway.  Vince jumped in without hesitation.  Without any thought for his own safety.  He didn’t take  time to analyze all of the possibilities. 

In a few days I’m going to become a father.  Want proof?  Check out this photo of Vince, me and a visibly pregnant Mags backpacking in the Grand Gulch two months ago—Vince and I carried all of her gear.  Throughout Margaret’s entire pregnancy I’ve been telling people that I’m feeling a mixture of equal parts joy and terror.  Undoubtedly my life well never be the same, but how much of it will change?  How far will those changes reach?   Another friend says I'm terrified because I care.  I want to be a good dad and I tend to be overly analytical in my decision making.  My analysis and tedious preparation are just another form of hesitation.  Maybe Vince is on to something.  Maybe when it comes to being a dad I just need to just drop my pack and jump into the pool without hesitation. 

RAGSLOW 2010

Crossing the Promontory Mountains seemed especially excruciating this year.   The first 200 miles of our ride around Great Salt Lake had gone by with relative ease.  Sure, I had my share of equipment failures—a broken rack and a flat tire, both encore performances from the 2006 RAGSLOW, but up to that point I had felt good, had plenty of water and good company.  Up to then the riding had been relatively easy, but the climb up the Promontory Mountains is when I was crying for my mama.  There were at least five false summits along that hot dusty road, and each time I got to the top of one I was greeted with the view of another summit in the distance. Five times I was sure I was done climbing and five times I was wrong.   

It wasn’t until I was finally descending for real that I realized what a metaphor for a ride like the RAGSLOW the Promontory Summit really was—no matter how many times I do that ride there is always a need to do a bit more.  There is a section of ‘road’ on the northwest shore that is quite possibly the quintessence of cycling.  Rough, rocky, hot, snake infested, lonesome—it is hardly fit for hiking and yet we descended it on our bicycles by our own volition after having ridden 120 miles on the worst roads over which one could plan a bicycle tour.  And we all were grinning from ear to ear.  In that instant I knew why I choose to ride a bicycle and why I choose to ride it places most people would never drive.

Unfortunately I left that experience out there.  I cannot put down in words what I felt because I still do not understand it myself.  That is why I am not finished with RAGSLOW.  That is why I likely never will be.  Not because the view from of the lake on the northwest shore rivals anything I have ever seen from the seat of a bicycle, which it does, but because I felt a sense of life there that I have not felt in any other place. 

I have finally come to terms with the fact that RAGSLOW will never be a ‘destination’ ride like RAGBRAI or RAWROD, and I have realized that is a good thing.  To let it follow the arc of those rides with their debauchery, excess and total absence of real danger would be a desecration.  Instead we have decided to hold the RAGSLOW on a quadrennial cycle.  That allows enough time for its mystery to build and the horsefly bites to fade. 

So who’s in for 2014?

RAGSLOW Anyone?

Can you handle 300 miles of stark desolation?

I’ve managed to convince a couple of suckers from the Northern Mojave to join me this fall on another bicycle tour around Great Salt Lake.  Mark from O-Town and I did it in the spring of 2006 and became, I believe, the first people ever to circumnavigate GSL by bicycle.  That tour inspired two other haphazard attempts at riding around the lake by Kirk and company (All bicycle tours are haphazard—this is a compliment).  One of those tours passed through Wendover(!) and included a stretch of riding across the salt flats.  The other expedition followed Mark's and my route, but in reverse.  Mr. Kirk described how that expedition ended in an email to me :  

A friend and I rode "your [the April 2006] route" this past spring. We did it counter clockwise though. It took us 3 days but we really didn't finish it. It got to be like 10pm at night and we were still by the Tooele exit. I couldn't take the bugs and Interstate anymore so I called my woman and had her pick us up. I still feel like a total failure for doing that. We were sooooo close to being done. We were at 126 miles for the day. We had gotten BAKED by the sun all day, took a dramatic wrong turn, eaten alive by bugs, ran out of water, on and on and on. I hate my cell phone. I never would have called if it wasn't for that damn thing.

This year we’re going to take a slightly modified route which should keep us closer to the lake for more of the route.  We’re also taking a few precautionary measures to ensure we do not run out of water again but aside from that we’re prepared to shrivel, wither, evaporate and desiccate in the desert again. 

Are you interested in joining us?  Serious inquiries only, please.  You’ll need to be prepared to ride nearly 300 miles in three days while carrying your own food, water and camping gear.  Still interested?  If my story of our first expedition, found here, doesn’t scare you off then email me and we’ll discuss the details. 

You can also read Kirk’s story of his second expedition here.  It begins on page 22 of the pdf.

 

Overheard in My Office

I overheard this little gem this morning on my way to the water cooler:  

I'm a perfectly healthy obese 27-year old.  I'm alright with that.  

Your thoughts?

A JRA Story With a Feline Twist

Last night I saw something I thought I would never see.  I was just riding along, sipping an agua fresca—heaven on earth with a strawberry slice—from my new favorite taqueria when I saw a young woman on a bicycle carrying a cat container.  

“Have you got a cat in there?” I asked as I came closer.  

“Yeah”  

“Awesome.  Can I take your picture?”

She told me her new kitten was a little under the weather, and that the veterinarian had prescribed some prescription strength food for him.  However, if she left him alone at home with his special food her other cat would eat it all.  The solution, of course, was to take kitty to work.  

Makes perfect sense to me, but seriously, what kind of person carries a cat on a bike?  

Hypermiling Triumph

Please indulge me while I toot my horn. 

Ever since I moved to Salt Lake City five years ago I’ve had my mind set on a single goal.  It is not a cycling goal, nor is it a career goal.  It’s not something for which I would earn a prize, prestige, a medal or even a ribbon upon its accomplishment, but it is something I have worked toward every time the opportunity presented itself.   I have failed so many times that I started to believe it was impossible, nevertheless it’s so compelling that Ryan and Paz are trying to do it too. 

Last night while driving home from a mountain bike race in Park City I finally did it.  I coasted all the way down Parley’s Canyon. 

To the uninitiated this seems easy or stupid or dangerous, but I say don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.  For those of you not from the Wasatch Front, Parley’s Canyon is just east of Salt Lake City, between Park City and SLC.  Interstate 80 runs through it, so it’s a major thoroughfare with lots of traffic, big trucks and steep grades.  It climbs 2,240 feet in the 10 miles between the canyon mouth and the 7,120 foot pass called Parley’s Summit. 

There are a several challenges to coasting all the way down I-80 through Parley’s Canyon.  To begin, the top is so steep that coasting down is asking for a speeding ticket.  You could easily hit speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour by coasting through the entire upper section—and you’ll never be able to boast of your hypermiling abilities if you crash and die because you coasted around a curve at that speed.  It’s also uncool to scare the bejeezus out of your fellow road users by blowing past them at such dangerous speeds.  So the only option is to scrub off a bit of speed by using your brakes. 

But don’t scrub too much.  You will need that momentum to make it through the first flat-ish section near Mountain Dell.  Here the canyon curves to the north for about a mile before curving south again and getting even less steep.   This is a good time to start looking for semis to draft.  There’s a nice steep pitch by Little Dell Reservoir, but you’ve got to play it just right because there’s a long flat section just beyond it.  Keep an eye on your rear view mirror here because you want to see those semis before they squash you like a bug on their windshield. 

There is one more chance to pick up some speed before the mouth of the canyon, and you’ve got to take full advantage of it if you’re going to make it all the way.  With luck you can tuck in behind one of those semis that had to swerve around you and let him pull you all the way up the small rise at the mouth of the canyon.  If you can do that then you’re home free.  Coasting down to the valley floor is academic as long as nobody pulls the classic Utah no-look, no-signal merge on you.

My night of glory was the result of perfect storm of provident fortune and adroit skill.  I was returning from a mountain bike race but I had put my bike inside my car instead of on the roof rack, ostensibly to improve my gas mileage but really because it eliminates the risk me of driving into the garage with it still up there when I get home.  Normally the added drag of the bike on the roof slows me down in the lower, less-steep parts of the canyon.  But I needed more help than that.  At one point I actually pushed in the clutch and put my car in gear, until I noticed a slight tailwind that pushed me through the toughest section.  I pulled it back out of gear and released the clutch pedal.  Only then did I realize I was on the verge of something magical. 

With white knuckles, I moved from semi to semi, trying to get maximum pull from every one, but they all slowly pulled away from me.  I was starting the final climb before the mouth.  A check of my rear view mirror for another semi to draft left me disappointed—nothing was coming.  I’d never make it without another pull, would I?  Then it hit me, I realized with no traffic behind me, it didn’t matter how slow I was going.  All I had to do was ride it out.  My speedometer dipped below 30 mph before I finally crested the hill and had a view of Salt Lake Valley.   Oh what a glorious sight!  The only thing between me and my dream now was the unlikely event of a traffic jam or the very likely event of a bad Utah-merge.  But luck and the hypermiling gods were on my side that night.  By now there were two pickup trucks pulling camper trailers waiting patiently behind me while I picked up speed and entered the valley.  I actually made it back to freeway speed before my exit at 1300 East.  There is a stoplight at the end of the off ramp that I coasted through just for good measure. 

Success never felt so good.