Hooptedoodle

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? 

A file cabinet and a 2x4

I missed the skate race on Saturday.  I was disappointed, but accept that it was a blessing because I’m sure I would have been more disappointed when my finishing time in the 20 kilometer race didn’t fall exactly on the curve I made in my last post.  Missing a race is bad enough but having one’s scientific foundation shaken is outright catastrophic. 

My reason for missing the race is twofold.  First, the innards of my car are still strewn about my friend’s garage as he spends his evenings methodically replacing my blown head gaskets.  A friend like that is worth waiting around for.  Second, the ride to the race I’d bummed fell through when Reed called me early Saturday morning to say he was too sick to race. 

Dejected as I was, I determined not to let this day slip away without at least putting some sort of feather in my cap.  Instead of racing in a ski race in which I was assured a good esel spark-ing, I decided to add to my ever-lengthening list of absurd and sundry items I’ve hauled on a bicycle, something I actually do spark esel at.  Today’s additions are a file cabinet and a 2x4.   What’s on your list? 

Lost

At 7:32 PM I realize how scared I am when I call my wife.  “Mags,” I say, “I…I…I’m lost.”  I stammer and I fight back tears.  

Earlier that afternoon I had set out for a ride across the Moab desert.  My plan was to ride from Gemini Bridges to Poison Spider, via Gold Bar Rim and Golden Spike trails, for a heavy dose of classic Moab terrain.  At 1:40 PM I still had four hours of daylight, plenty of time, I thought, to complete the ride before darkness set in.  But just in case I packed a good headlight and a blinky red light for riding the ten miles of pavement at the end of the ride to complete the loop.  The forecast also called for rain after 5:00 PM, so I also packed a rain jacket.  I also had three energy bars, two bananas, four bottles of Carbo Rocket and a plasticized map.  

The first two hours go by without incident.  There are two ways to get to Gold Bar Rim, and I take the longer way, miss a turn, but find my way before losing much time.  At 4:30 I’m at the top of Gold Bar, looking over the cliff at the town of Moab below.  Descending Golden Spike and Poison Spider won’t take much more than an hour, will it? 

I stop to mount my light around 5:30.  I am somewhere near the end of Golden Spike or the top of Poison Spider.  It’s unclear on my map where one trail ends and the other begins.  There is no sign of the rainstorm yet, but the winds are picking up.  With my Princeton Tec Switchback 1 lighting my way, I press onward toward the Poison Spider trailhead.  There is a documentary on the Miss Navajo Pageant showing at the Moab Library at 7:30 that I want to be back for. 

This is when things start to get confusing. 

Trails in Moab are marked with paint where they go over sandstone.  Sometimes the markings are pictures like dinosaurs or little jeeps, but on Poison Spider Mesa they are just white rectangles, spaced every 50 feet or so.  I’d followed trails marked with these splotches dozens of times before, even on Poison Spider Mesa once or twice, but never in the dark. 

Is that paint on the rock, or just a white lichen?  I follow it, then see another splotch 50 feet away.  I follow it to the edge of the sandstone, looking into the sand.  Yes there are tracks there; jeep tracks, motorcycle tracks, mountain bike tracks.  In fact, there are tracks everywhere.  How am I supposed to know which track to follow? 

I pick a track and follow it as long as I can, but inevitably it leads to another patch of sandstone.  And again I am left to wonder, are those paint marks or splotches of lichen?  By this time I am walking my bike, studying each splotch, looking for straight edged paint marks, and feeling for that smooth, painted feeling.  But how long has it been since I saw a paint mark that I was absolutely certain was not a patch of lichen?  20 minutes?  30 minutes?  An hour?

Now I am at the top of a steep sandstone hill.  How far down is it?  I cannot tell, but the paint marks go straight down it.  Would the trail really take such an unsafe route?  No.  Those are lichens.  They must be.  Back to the edge of the sandstone again.  But which way did I come from?   I can’t find the trail.  I can’t find the f*cking trail!  There are no tracks now, no white paint marks anywhere, white lichens are everywhere.  It’s getting late.  I circle around the sandstone.  Where did I come from?  How did I get on this rock?  The wind is getting stronger. 

I wander in search of a track for—how long?  I look at my cell phone—7:32 PM.  Two minutes past show time.  I have one bar so I call my wife, who is at home cooking a hot dinner for herself and our niece.  “I’m lost,” I say, “I can’t find my trail.” 

I’m not really lost, I know exactly where I am on the map, and know exactly where I need to get to, but there are cliffs and ledges everywhere.  I can see the glowing lights of Moab just over the horizon.  I just don’t know how to get from here to there because I don’t dare to hike cross-country in this terrain in the dark.  “I may have to spend the night out here.”  I tell Mags,  I’m going to look for 30 more minutes for the trail. “If you don’t hear from me it means I’ve come down from this high place, have found the trail and don’t have a cell signal.  If I decide to sleep out here I’ll call and let you know.”

I say a little prayer.  “God, please help me find the trail.” and He does.  I follow it easily now, and have learned how to distinguish paint from lichen. I should be out in no time, down to the highway where the pedaling is easy and the route easier.  I’m hungry and am looking forward to the pasta I am going to make for dinner. 

9:03 PM.  I see a reflective Carsonite sign.  ‘Poison Spider Route’ it says, then a little further on, spray painted onto the sandstone is a big arrow pointing in the direction I had just come from, and next to it the word ‘SPIKE’. 

I have been here before.  Probably two hours ago.  Somehow I have walked a giant loop and am still several miles from the trailhead.  I consult my map, more anxious than angry, and set off for the trailhead.  But it happens again, only this time it’s a smaller loop, but here I am again, standing in a spot I had stood in only 30 minutes earlier.  Just like in the movies, I am literally walking in circles.  I come to a T-intersection.  Now which way?  I consult my map again and make sure I pick the right direction.  Ten minutes later I pass an intersection that tells me I made the right choice.  30 minutes after that I pass Little Arch, which tells me I was wrong. 

Now I’m on the right trail but walking in the wrong direction.  I’m six miles from the trailhead now.   According to the map , there’s another junction ahead, and the trail on the right  leads to the Portal Trail.  I’m afraid of the Portal Trail because cyclists have died on it, but if I make it down it’s an even shorter ride on the pavement back to my car.  It’s worth the risk.  I plod onward, now getting further from where I had originally wanted to be, but also confident in knowing where I was going for the first time in three hours. 

I see a trail on the right.  Finally, I have found the way to the Portal Trail.  Oops, that’s not it, but 20 minutes are wasted getting back to the real trail.  Now here’s another trail.  Nope, that’s not it either.  Another 15 minutes down.  Oh, now here’s a big wide trail, with lots of tracks in the sand.  This has to be it. 

Twenty minutes later I’m standing at the edge of a cliff.  The view is beautiful, but for one missing feature.  I can see the Holiday Inn in Moab, but not the Portal Trail.  It is somewhere directly below me at the base of this cliff.  I have a strong signal on my cell phone now.  It’s 10:32.  I have been wandering in the dark for five hours.  I call my wife again.  “I’m going to spend the night” I say.  “The temperature will be in the thirties tonight,” she says “and it’s supposed to rain after 5AM.”

“I’m afraid I won’t recognize the Portal Trail when I come to it” I say.  I don’t want to walk past it and spend another five hours searching.  I walk down the slope and find a small sandstone shelf, eighteen inches off the ground.  It’s just big enough for me to squeeze underneath to get out of the wind.  I put on every piece of clothing I have, eat my last energy bar, lean my bike against the shelf to keep the critters away from my head, say another prayer and slither into my hovel, pulling my map over me as a blanket.  It will be light in eight hours. 

I’m surprised that I’m actually able to sleep.  Not a good sleep, but sleep nonetheless.  I awake every couple of hours, because my hip aches from the rock I’m curled on.  I get up to pee, and to circulate some blood.  Then I slither back in and shiver convulsively until sleep sets in again.  I repeat this four more times during the night:  11:24, 12:17, 1:38, 3:54.    

5:44 AM.  I get up again.  This time while I’m doing my calisthenics it starts to rain.  The sun won’t be up for another 45 minutes, but I’m not going to sit here and get hypothermia.  I continue down the hill in the dark (my light was still shining brightly after all these hours) and find the Poison Spider trail.  Within 15 minutes I come to another trail on the right.  This one is clearly marked ‘To Portal Trail’. 

6:47 AM.  I’m standing on the cliff edge again, looking at Moab below me.  I switched off my light 15 minutes ago.  I can see the pile of uranium tailings below me, where cleanup activity is just getting started for the day.  The Portal Trail is easily visible to my left and to my right.  I call my wife again.  She didn’t sleep well either. 

7:53 AM.  I’m at the junction of US 191 and S.R. 279.  I call my brother.  He and Mags almost drove to Moab last night to look for me. 

8:34 AM.  I’m in my car at the Gemini Bridges trailhead, feasting on canned peaches, cottage cheese, an avocado, chocolate milk, sliced bread and Tostitos tortilla chips. 

11:08 AM.  I stop in an empty parking lot in Price to take a nap.  My sleeping bag is luxuriously warm.

2:28 PM.  I’m home again.  Mags and I share a long embrace.  We go out to the yard to rake leaves together.       

La Diabla de Rojo

There is a trail called Rojo in eastern Utah that makes it way up Red Mountain.  It’s somewhat of a favorite among the locals, what few locals there are out there.  The rest of you have probably never heard of it, and the locals prefer it that way.  They ride up an ATV trail to the top of Red Mountain and then ride down Rojo to make a loop out of it.  But the locals are doing it wrong.  The only way to enjoy Rojo is to ride up.  

 Rojo is a short little trail, just three or four miles long, but what it lacks in length it makes up in technical difficulty, chest pounding climbs and aesthetic beauty.  It starts in a wash next to the ATV trail, deliberately difficult to find to keep the throttle twisters off.  Then it immediately begins making its convoluted way to the top.  It doubles back on itself twice, flirts with the edge of a cliff three times and crosses a normally dry wash four or five times.  All along the way the trail steps up, down and across sandstone ledges, cobbles and potholes.  Rojo is every bit as good as the Zen Trail in southern Utah, if only a little shorter, and Rojo is way better than Gooseberry Mesa in that there is no eight mile drive down a washboard road to get to it.  The road to Rojo is paved all the way to the trailhead, but I have never, ever, seen another car parked there.   

I said going uphill is the way to enjoy Rojo, but I might be wrong.  I really don’t know.  The truth is I’ve never gotten to ride down it.  Well, at least not in an enjoyable way.  Aaron, Ryan, Mark and I have attempted three times to ride all of Rojo—it’s become an annual event—and we have failed three times.  There is a devil living on Red Mountain and she does not want us to ride Rojo. 

 In 2007 we underestimated the difficulty of the trail and started too late in the evening.  Then Aaron hurt his knee and we had to turn around and pick our way down in the near-darkness.  Aaron’s knee was better as soon as we got off Red Mountain.  The devil, la Diabla, has power over our sinews. 

In 2008 we arrived at the trailhead under cloudy skies.  La Diabla turned on the rain and immediately turned the wash into a small river, the sand into quicksand and the slickrock into, well, slickrock.  Dejected and cold, we turned around again.

2009 was supposed to be our year.  We attempted Rojo in August instead of October.  We started early in the evening so we’d have enough light to get to the top.  It was 90 degrees in the shade but the trail was dry—like a desert trail should be.  Everything was in order to finally ride to the top of Rojo.  We made it 90%, 95%, then 97% to the top.  We were within 200 yards of finishing, easily within shouting distance so la Diabla would hear us celebrating our triumph over her evil. 

La Diabla does not give up easily.  Right as we started the final push to the summit she reached out her fiery talon from under a bush and snatched my rear derailleur. It disintegrated upon her touch, and it happened so fast that Aaron, who was immediately behind me, saw nothing but the aftermath. We walked to the top and I coasted, sans chain and with a little help from my friends, down the ATV trail.  We were doing the locals' ride in reverse. 

We don’t give up easily either.  We’re going to try again in 2010.  But please tell us, la Diabla what do we have to do to get to the top?  Should we pour tequila on the trail and put habanero sauce in our water bottles?  Is this a punishment because on the night before the ride I put Ryan’s chamois in the freezer?  Oh please, how could you even know about that? Just tell us what we need to do and we’ll do it.  We’ll give you whatever you want, your evilness, because Rojo is worth it.

 

 

Central Wasatch Tour

It’s been five years since Mags and I dipped the back tire of our tandem bike into Puget Sound and set out eastward for a zig- zagging tour across this great country.  To celebrate that anniversary we loaded up our acoustic motorbike again on Friday morning for a two day tour around the central Wasatch Mountains.  Would it be possible to replicate all of the experiences of our twelve week cross country tour in just two days and 120 miles?  Nope—we checked the weather forecast Friday morning before we departed: Thunderstorms Ominous.  A flash flood was one experience we didn’t want to repeat.  We decided to postpone our departure one day.

Just five miles into our ride we did replicate one of the most common feelings of our cross country tour—the feeling of being stared at when arriving at a social gathering in stinky spandex.  Mags’ cousin was getting married on Saturday, and while we hadn’t planned on attending the wedding breakfast, our unplanned route through the maze that is SLC’s southern suburbs took us right past the park where it was held.  Mags’ parents were arriving at the same time we pulled in, and they cajoled us into going in and saying hello.  I was just a little self-conscious about my odor as I hugged my mother-in-law, but much more so when I hugged some of my wife’s cousins whom I hardly know.  They say the further you are from your bicycle the more ridiculous you look in cycling clothing.  A wedding breakfast is about as far from a bicycle ride as you can get. 

Our route took us over Suncrest to American Fork Canyon, up the Alpine Loop to Cascade Springs. I knew we’d be climbing slowly, but climbing American Fork Canyon was a little too similar to hauling our fully loaded tandem over the Cascades, the Rockies (three times), the Appalachians, and hundreds of other mountains along the way. 

Tandem bicycle + Gravel road + 10% grade = Slow

The climb from Cascade Springs to Midway was similar to riding the Mickleson Trail in the Black Hills of South Dakota, only steeper, but the reward of fajitas and mole from Tarahumara in Midway was far better than the Chinese buffets that were all we could afford five years ago. 

We camped outside of Midway behind some scrub oak that protected us from view from the roadway.  Nothing about that experience has changed.  With a bicycle, you can camp just about anywhere. 

From Midway to Park City via Guardsman Pass was more grueling climbing up a steep gravel road, but this time with washboards.  We bought lunch at the grocery store in Park City, and remembered how, along with a public library, a grocery store was an oasis in the desert that is the American highway.  They offer air conditioning, clean public restrooms, friendly faces and a chance to rest in the shade during the hottest part of the day. 

From Park City we continued north to Jeremy Ranch and the gravel East Canyon Road.  Mags replicated her perfected back-seat driving here as I leaned deep into some of the sandy corners on that road.  From there, it was another grind up Big Mountain Pass, punctuated by chubby guys wearing dew rags and goatees riding Harleys waving to us as they blasted past us. 

There are two kinds of bikers:  Leathers ride loud, stinky machines powered by fossil fuels and adorned with chrome, tassels and American flags.  Lycras ride silent, emission-free machines fueled by Mexican food and Power Bars and encumbered only with water bottles and a shiny coat of paint.  

There is a Brotherhood of Bikers that Leathers share with one another.  Some Leathers include Lycras in that Brotherhood, especially Lycras with panniers, what Leathers call 'saddlebags' because Leathers have an aversion to all things French.  Leathers figure there is a connection between anyone who chooses two wheels over four.  Lycras generally don’t feel the same way toward Leathers, but don’t tell them so because Leathers are mean.  Or maybe they just look mean, whereas Lycras look like fairies with their tights and shaved legs.  We saw two Leathers wearing skins and furs, with horns.  Now that's mean. 

From Big Mountain Pass it was a quick ride to Emigration Canyon and to our home in Salt Lake City.  Total distance was 122 miles ride time was just over 11 hours. 

I ride a tandem bike and I vote

Mags and I voted on Friday.  It was an unseasonably warm day, so we pulled out our tandem and made a fun outing of it.  (Any ride on a tandem bike is a fun outing.)

I had tried to vote on Thursday night, but the line was too long when I got there.  I had the impression that early voting was meant to be a way to avoid the long lines on election day, so I figured I could stop by the Northwest Multipurpose Center on my way home from work and be in and out in a flash.  When I saw how long the lines were, and realized I had forgotten to bring a bike lock, I decided I could come back another time.

It didn’t help that I was wearing my race kit and was a bit sweaty and smelly.  I had gone for a ride with a co-worker earlier in the afternoon, and had to rush back be on a conference call.  I made it in time for the call, but didn’t have time to change out of my chamois.  So I sat there at my desk in my spandex and stewed in my own sweat.  This happens more often than I care to admit.  By the time the call was over it was nearly quitting time so I figured I’d just wear my kit home instead of taking the time to change back into my civilian clothes. 

Like I said, Mags and I tried again on Friday afternoon.  This time we brought along a lock, which was good because the line was even longer.  That gave us plenty of time to discuss the influence of the tandem bike-riding couple as a voting block.  I wondered why McCain and Obama had failed to reach out to us.  Don’t they know that couples that tandem together vote together? 

Remember that it’s patriotic to ride your bike to the polling station, and you won’t have to worry about parking (if you remember to bring your bike lock).  I’m not going to tell you how to vote, or who I voted for, but I will say that the following two photographs influenced my decision: 

I spat on my front tire

This story has no point. 

So I’m just riding along today playing hooky from work and going to a yoga class.  Actually, my employer provides the yoga class—two bucks per class.  You can’t pass up a bargain like that. 

So it’s not really hooky if my employer provides the class for me, but calling it hooky introduces some intrigue to an otherwise boring story.  And since I’ve already told you this story goes nowhere I’ve got to do something to spice it up.  Look, nobody’s making you read this.  So when you get to the end and you’re disappointed don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I write about things I think about when I ride my bike.  This is one of those things. 

So anyway, I’m just riding along to yoga class when, for no explainable reason, I do something I haven’t done in twenty years. 

I spat on my front tire. 

When I was younger I used to cruise around on my BMX bike—it was a polished chrome Diamond Back Viper and it was AWESOME—to the 7-Eleven for a Big-Gulp, to Go-fer Foods for a pack of Big League Chew, to baseball practice, to the gravel pit, wherever really, I didn’t care.  I just liked to ride my bike.  

And sometimes I liked to spit on my front tire.  I did this often enough that I remember it some twenty years later. 

I liked to watch the spittle hit the front tire and fling forward from the rotation of the wheel.  I thought it was a cool thing to do in 1984.   

OK, I’m not afraid to admit it.  I still think it’s cool in 2008.   

Chilies and Voyeurs

I’m spending this week in Santa Fe for some high altitude training before the 12 Hours of Sundance this Saturday.  Well, I’m really here on business, but I did arrange to borrow a bike so I could see the city without depending on a car, fighting traffic, paying for parking, burning foreign oil,…It's my way of supporting the troops. 

Riding through downtown Santa Fe, I came to the conclusion that it’s a nice little city with a big tourism problem.  There were gift shops peddling Indian jewelry, Chinese-made fridge magnets, and authentic New Mexican salsa made in Ohio.  Oh, there were over-priced art galleries galore.  The only thing missing from this tourist trap were boutique shops selling ‘homemade’ fudge.  I did find some spectacular New Mexican food, but it wasn’t near the plaza downtown.  It was on the ugly drag leading into the city at a place called Tortilla Flats.  The Steinbeck lover in me made me go there.  The chili rellenos made me never want to leave. 

After pedaling around to take in the centuries-old architecture, I decided to sample some of the more recent history of Santa Fe.  What better way is there to acquaint oneself with a city than to visit its thrift stores and see what the denizens throw out?

I was browsing the used book section, hoping to find a New Mexican cookbook to tell me what to do with the twenty pounds of roasted chilies I bought earlier in the day, when I came across a spiral notebook.  I’ve seen spiral-bound cookbooks before, so I thought I had hit the jackpot. 

I had, in fact, hit the jackpot.  It wasn’t a cookbook, but it did contain the recipe for delicious reading. 

It was the journal of a woman named Maria. 

Go ahead and call me a voyeur, but honestly, do you think you could pass up the chance to read someone’s diary?  Don't make me remind you that you are reading my blog, which is basically just an online diary. 

I happily handed over the 59 cents the Goodwill wanted for my priceless treasure and rushed back to my room to see what nuggets it held.  I wasn’t disappointed.

The first page outlines what appears to be an exorcism for somebody named Larry.  I present it below exactly as Maria wrote it:

1.    Light 1 white candle.  3 or more people holding hands in the center of the room.  3 clearing breaths. 

2.    Prayer:  Call in spirit guides of entities, ask that they surround them in love + Light and carry them home.  Now feel that.  Be aware.  Feel them go (circled).  Thank you for going home.  Ask all guides of everyone present to be there and participate—pause—(feel their presence). 

We command that you now leave. 

Only those energies that are appropriate connected participating in Larry’s highest good, joy, good health, growth, are welcome here.  All others cannot enter here.  be allowed in this house

Now that your are gone and never to return this house is now protecting Larry from all that is not at his highest good

This house is now filled with light and joy for ever more. 

Call in his guides help him to know that nothing can harm him in any way, no fear.  His energy field if free of all energies that don’t belong to his process.  Crown (circled).  Solar Plexus (circled). 

Stay tuned for more exciting events in the life of Maria, including partying on Ecstasy in Hollywood, her unexplained move to Santa Fe, and her plea to God to send her a man “who loves that I am a healer and believes in me.” 

My dear Maria, I believe in you.  I believe you have healed me of my boredom. 

Aww, not again!

Remember that Seinfeld episode where Kramer tells the gang that if you ever happen to meet a proctologist at a party, don't walk away?  He says proctologists "usually have a very good sense of humor...See, no one wants to admit to them that they stuck something up there. Never! It's always an accident.  Every proctologist story ends in the same way:  'It was a million to one shot, Doc. Million to one.'"

Remember that?  Well, I may be setting myself up to be the star in one of those stories.  

Last night Mags wanted me to go on a night ride with her and her friends.  I don’t understand the logic behind going for a night ride this close to the summer solstice.  I mean, people in Alaska are starting baseball games at midnight just because they have the daylight to do it.  I could understand a night ride if I lived in Phoenix (does anybody really live in Phoenix, or do they just exist?), but not in Utah.

But I digress.  You want to know how I might find myself saying “It was a million to one shot, Doc”, not why I think summertime rides should be done in the daylight, nor how I think the Phoenix is a colossal suburban mistake.  

So, I rode my mountain bike to work yesterday. That way I could ride from my office to catch the train to Ogden and meet Mags and her friends in the evening.  On my way in to work I started to hear a little creak coming from my seat post.  I didn’t think much of it, only that I should get more of that special carbon fiber grip paste on my fancy new carbon fiber seat post.  I forgot about it as soon as I got to work.  

Later in the afternoon a co-worker was ribbing me about my dirty bike, in light of the recent brouhaha about bikes in cubicles at my office. I looked at my bike, flicked off a piece of mud left over from the race in Deer Valley, nearly two weeks ago, and saw this:

There’s no question as to what I’m going to do about it.  I’ve cracked enough frames to have memorized Gary Fisher’s warranty process.  But I do have a few questions.  Such as, why do I continue to rely on these cheaply made Taiwanese aluminum frames?  

And more importantly, do I dare keep riding my cracked frame in the meantime?  How confident can I be descending on a bike that could, at any moment, lose seat and post completely, leaving me with nothing but a jagged tube upon which to rest my hiney?  

I can hear the JRA story now.  I’d be sitting there in the doctor’s office, pleading with him to believe me.  “It was a million to one shot, Doc.  A million to one.”

RAWROD '08

I was one of about 50 riders on Kenny’s Annual Ride Around White Rim in One Day (RAWROD) on Saturday.  Mags, Darren and Ryan were too.  It’s a hundred miles of rocky road through Canyonlands National Park.  I’d done it before in 2005 and bonked around mile 90 because I didn’t see the final rest stop.  Maybe I’d already bonked and just rode on past it. 

This year I vowed to take it easy, to go slow and to have more fun.  I wanted to ride with Mags and some folks I don’t normally get to ride with, so I took my brand new single speed out for what would be only my 4th single speed ride.  Ever. 

The day went exactly as planned.  I prodded Mags early to stick with the group, because I know riding 100 miles alone is no fun.  I made excuses to stop a lot to make sure she was in front of me.  She made it the all the way but had to walk up Horse thief, but I almost did too.  It’s 2.8 miles and straight up—well, at least it feels straight up.  That was one of the few times I wished I had extra gears.

Here are some photos from the trip.

Fish, living Aloha...

Mags, doing her first century ride not spent staring at my butt...

Me, second-guessing my single speed decision...

Darren powers up Murphy's Hogback...

Ryan cleans Hardscrabble as a birthday present to himself...

Fish celebrates his finish with a Cock 'n Bull...

Mags had the dirtiest legs of all...

Thanks, Kenny, for putting it all together.   It got me thinking about my own epic ride.  Anybody interested in repeating the RAGSLOW with me this fall?

Aristotle, Jimmy Buffett and bit of religion.

On a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is strictly business and 10 is pure hooptedoodle, today's post is an 8.5.  Hold on tight.  This one goes all over the place. 

Aristotle said that our success at living a good life depends on two things.  One is having the moral virtue that enables us to make right choices day by day.  We don’t have to make the right choice all of the time, just more often than not.  Think of moral virtue as having good habits, like flossing your teeth or riding your bike. 

The other thing our success at living a good life depends on is being [blessed, fortunate, lucky—you pick] with good opportunities.  As our moral virtues and good habits point us in the proper direction and (usually) keep us from doing things that are bad for us, being blessed, fortunate or lucky gives us the goods, means and opportunities that we cannot obtain by our own power or choice. 

Dan, Darren and I headed south to St. George on Friday morning.   Ryan and Aaron, who likes us to call him Seldom Seen except in the presence of his wife, showed up a bit later.  You might say that winter mountain bike trips to Dixie are morally virtuous, or at least a good habit to have.  The weather report called for sunny skies and temps in the 60s, which is to say that we were blessed, fortunate or lucky that the weather would be perfect for mountain biking.  The plan was to repeat last year’s Mardi Gras celebration by riding the Dixie Trinity, but first we cruised a lap on the Desert Rampage race course on Friday afternoon before cutting over the hill to Bearclaw Poppy.    That’s where we first met the mud. 

The Bearclaw Poppy trail is famous for being a smooth, hard-packed roller coaster of a singletrack ride.  It is that way because of a high clay content in the soil and a near absence of precipitation in area, which is part of the Mojave Desert.  But this has been an abnormal winter, especially for St. George.  They got several inches of snow last week, and that snow was slowly melting and soaking into the clay when we tried to ride there on Friday.   

We made it about 50 feet down the Bearclaw Poppy trail before our tires were caked with mud.  We probably could have gone on but chose not to be the guys who ruined a great trail for everyone. 

We tried the JEM trail the next day, and had the same result.  We thought about the Holy Goose but heard rumors that it was sitting under six inches of snow, so we didn’t even try. 

So while we wouldn’t be communing with the Dixie Trinity, we were in a position to ride some drier, lower elevation trails for the first time.   We unknowingly decided to take a brief tour of some world religions at the same time. 

First up was Church Rocks, which, of course, represents western Christianity and could arguably be a fourth member of the Trinity, but that would make it a Quatnity and that just doesn’t make sense.  I really have no idea why the ride is called Church Rocks.  I’m just making this stuff up, which by now you should expect from a blog called hooptedoodle.  Some people choose to get married in a church.  Others think Church Rocks is a good place to pop the question.   

Next up was the Paradise Rim, where we sampled the relatively new Korean faith of Chundoism and its aims to convert our society into a paradise on earth.  Rather than amaze my riding companions with my astounding knowledge of world religions, I decided not to mention Chundoism to them at this time.  Instead I suggested that maybe there’d be cheeseburgers at Paradise Rim.  You know, “Not too particular not too precise, I'm just a cheeseburger in paradise.”  I bet you didn’t know Jimmy Buffett was a Chundoist.  Don’t worry if you don’t get it.  My riding buddies didn’t get it either.  But go ride Paradise Rim anyway.  It’s “Heaven on earth with an onion slice.”

Finally we visited the Zen Trail.  It’s like Gooseberry Mesa on a slant.  It twists its way across a rocky slope with biting rocks and oppressive drops that only a transcendent cyclist can master.   

We found an ancient Anasazi bicycle seat at the top of the Zen Trail.  Aaron, who reckons himself an authority on the ways of the ancients, decided to demonstrate for us how it was used,

but in doing so he slipped out of his Zen state and dropped it.  I’m pretty sure he’ll be cursed with visits from evil spirits.

Mass transit

Mags and I went to see the Peking Acrobats on Saturday night.  If you ever get the chance, go see them.  It’s worth every penny.  The thing that stuck out most to me was the absurdity of the stunts they did.  I mean, who would ever think about diving head first through a hoop five feet off the ground? Or why would anyone want to do handstands on a platform held 10 feet in the air by martini glasses?  What about lying on your back and twirling an end table in the air above your feet? Who would ever even consider that? 

Toward the end they had a man on a bicycle riding in circles on the stage, at every turn he would pick up two passengers, somehow finding room for them on his bicycle.  He did this each time he went around until there were ten people on one bike. 

The most people I’ve ever had on my bike was three, counting myself.  That was when I carried Mags and one of her friends across a parking lot.  We were coming home from dinner and I think I could have made it all the way but my passengers were starting to complain that their butts were sore. 

Another time my brother carried me and two of his brother’s-in-law on a BMX bike.  It was so easy for him that he decided to do it backwards, sitting on the handlebars.  Also note that the back tire is almost flat.

When I look at  that picture now I can see some places he might have fit one or two more passengers, and with a bigger bike we might be well on our way to ten.  All we'll need then is some pink leotards. 

Cycling fashion faux pas

When the weather is warm no one ever accuses me of being a fashionista.  That's because I am familiar with, but don't always follow, most of cycling’s fashion rules.  But when the temperature drops, my friends and I throw all those rules out the window. 

Take, for instance, these neoprene gloves; they’re only $12 in the hunting section of your local sporting goods store.

Or when it’s too warm for leg warmers on the climb up, but you’re too lazy to take them off because you’ll need them for the ride down, just roll them down to your socks and feel like it’s 1984 all over again.

Then there’s the tan wool socks with black tights look.  Extra warmth on those chilly winter days.

But if that’s not warm enough, no wind is too bitter for the plastic bag sock liner trick.

Thank you sir, may I have another?

While winter inversions and the air pollution that comes with them have been hanging around Salt Lake City for over a month, winter weather still hasn’t arrived. While part of me is longing for some snow so I can break out the skate skis, most of me is still happy to get out on the local singletrack.

But I’ve noticed something about riding singletrack this late in the year; when I descend I feel like I’m getting a hundred lashings. I’m getting whipped across the face, my arms have red tiger stripes after every ride and my legs are covered with ugly welts. All from the same tree branches that have been hanging over the trail all summer.

I have a few possible explanations for this phenomenon. Maybe I’m just more sensitive to getting whipped when the mercury drops, or maybe it’s because the center of the trails these days are a little muddy so I’m unconsciously riding on the trail shoulders. Then again it might be that the branches have been whipping me all season long but now that they’ve dropped their leaves there’s nothing to soften the blow. A final theory is that I’m riding lower-elevation trails now, where the dominant vegetation is scrub oak and sage, whereas I was riding the high country among the pines and aspens all summer.
 
I really don’t know what it is, but it’s getting bad enough to make me consider hanging the mountain bike up until spring. I just wish it would snow so before I do anything so severe.

Bad air

Last week I got an email seeking my insight from Chris, a [the only?] loyal Hooptedoodle reader.  He had just done his first ride on a single speed 29er and he wanted to know why he had to get off and walk up a few sections that he normally has no problem with.  In fact, he had set a personal record on the same trail only the week before. 

Actually, he had two questions:  First, are all those riders singing the praises of 29ers and single speeds certifiable crack pots?  And second, is he just a wuss?   I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive. 

You can read his whole email here:  Download dear_chad.doc.   

The obvious answers to Chris’s questions are that no, he is not a wuss and no, single speeders and 29er riders are not wing nuts.  First of all, he changed too many variables in his experiment.  If he wanted to know how riding a 29er compares to riding a bike with small wheels [For the record, I now refer to 29 inch wheels as ‘standard size wheels’ and 26 inch wheels as ‘small wheels’], then he should have ridden a standard size bike with gears. 

And if he wanted to know how he would do on a single speed he should have ridden one with small wheels like his other mountain bike.   Note to Chris:  Ask your scientist wife to give you a lesson on experiment design. 

The next obvious answer is that there is a technique to riding single speeds, regardless of wheel size, that only comes with practice.  Resting on the go is more difficult than on a geared bike.  Line selection is more crucial because you’ve got to maintain your momentum.  And if you’ve got a rigid fork it adds to your fatigue.  With all that going against them, it’s no wonder why single speeders only do two laps at the local mountain bike races. 

Like I said, those are the obvious answers, but there is a more insidious answer that may explain why Chris had such an embarrassing ride. 

Chris set his personal record on October 22nd.  His single speed 29er experiment occurred the morning of October 31st.  Those of you in Salt Lake Valley might recall that there was a strong inversion over the valley during that week—we’ve got another strong one this week.  An inversion is a meteorological term used to describe a mass of cold air trapped beneath a mass of hot air.  It’s 'inverted' because normally the temperature drops as the altitude increases. 

In much the same way that oil and water don’t mix, the cold air trapped below doesn’t mix with the hot air above it during an inversion.   And since there is no mixing, anything people on the ground put into the air during an inversion doesn’t get diluted.  The result is elevated levels of pollution, hacking coughs, scratchy eyes, asthma attacks, and, just maybe, diminished athletic performance. 

I checked the pollution levels in Salt Lake’s air for the days Chris did his rides, and sure enough, the concentration of PM2.5 on the morning of the 31st was about twice as high on the morning of the 22nd. PM2.5 means particulate matter, basically dust, below 2.5 microns in diameter.    Particles smaller than about 1 micron are small enough to work their way deep into our lungs, where they tend to stick.  It can take a few days for our lungs to clean them out (think phlegm, or what cyclists call lung oysters).  In the meantime, any chemicals on the surface of those dust particles have had plenty of time to be adsorbed into the bloodstream.   

So the good news is that Chris is not a wuss, single speeders are not crazy, and standard size 29 inch wheels are a good thing.  The bad news is that Chris may have damaged his lungs. 

So what’s a cyclist to do?  Driving up the canyon above the inversion exacerbates the pollution problem, so that’s not a good solution.  What I suggest is a quick check of the current ambient air quality conditions on the Utah Division of Air Quality website [click on Trend Charts], where they have up-to-the-hour data for Salt Lake, Davis, Cache, Weber and Utah Counties.  In the wintertime pay attention to the graph on top, PM2.5.  In the summer, the second graph, Ozone, is the one to watch.  In both cases, the 1-hr lines are more representative of current conditions.   

When concentrations are high, you might consider turning the intensity of your workout down a notch or two.  You might also consider bicycle commuting so we won't have these problems in the future.