Learning from the past...

It seemed like such a great idea.

Three hundred and sixty five days of something. 

The idea came to me (as most of my brilliant ideas do) while I was riding my mountain bike.  I was picking my way through an icy trail in my local Palmer Park.  “ Wouldn’t it be cool to do something like this every day?” I thought to myself. The idea of losing the last ten pounds I was packing on my gut helped me decide 2012 was going to be a great year. 

The rules would be simple.  I had to do something physical every day.  A bike ride.  A run, a trip to the gym, walking the dog.  Something - anything - to stay active.  I even included trail work as an activity.  Basically, anything that was physically demanding.

I had felt I should change my exercise routine.  It would be fun to do a little cross-training.  I’m not much of a runner – in fact I was exclusively a single speed mountain biker.  I finished up a two thousand mile 2011, complete with a single speed trip on the Kokopelli Trail.  My dog (a Husky-mix) demanded her daily ritual – a 2 mile, fast-paced walk.  I was fit; I just wanted to lose some extra pounds. 

The New Year started with a bike ride.  I bought some decent running shoes with my Christmas money and started running as well.  I would run at work, or bring my bike in and get in a quick lunch-time ride on the Falcon Trail.  As the first days of the New Year turned into a month, it was very satisfying to see the miles pile up.  By the end of February I had run 150 miles and ridden another 163 miles.  I even entered my first 5k in March, something I had never done before.

I began tracking what I ate.  I found a free app for my phone, and was pretty religious about tracking my food intake.  At the end of each day, the program would say “Congratulations! If you keep this up, you’ll weigh 160 pounds in 6 weeks!”

I suffered a slight calf injury while running in late March, so I switched to my bike until I could run again.  Other than that, I was injury-free.  As the days got longer, and warmer, I kept it up.  I began to adopt a ‘cave-man’ attitude.  A cave man couldn’t take a day off to nurse an injury – he had to keep going, hunting and gathering food to survive.  If a cave-man could do it, then so could I!

I made it into the summer going full stride.  I rode in the oppressive heat.  I ran through the smoke of some pretty severe forest fires.  Nothing could stop me.  The hottest summer on record did nothing to melt my enthusiasm.

As the days went by, though, I started to notice something.  It was subtle at first.  The food diary program would tell me I’d weigh X-number of pounds in X-number of weeks.  I’d get to the magical day, and I weighed the same.  In fact, as the weeks went by, I gave up on tracking my food intake.  I tried to eat sensibly, but sometimes cravings would overtake me.  “It’s OK”, I’d think.  “I’m doing enough to burn these Oreo cookies off”.  “That beer is my reward.”

Around late-July, I started feeling run down.  I could still work out, but I was just - tired.  I chalked that up to the summer heat.  I also noticed I wasn’t losing any weight.  In fact, I seemed to be gaining weight.  It was a very frustrating process.  I was working my tail off.  By the end of August, I had piled up over 1400 miles on my mountain bike, and an additional 500 miles of running and walking. On most days, I would ride 15 miles on the Falcon Trail and walk an additional 2.5 miles in the evening.  By early September, my frustration started to peak.  I wasn’t losing weight, and I was tired.  Maybe I should take a break and allow my body to recover.  I can’t, I’d argue.  I have to make it through to the end of the year.  I began to dread my workouts. 

On Saturday, September 2nd, I cut down a sprawling juniper bush in my front yard.  It took 4 hours of chopping, digging and cutting.  I counted it as a work out.  On Sunday, September 3^rd, I slept late.  I didn’t ride.  I didn’t run.  And much to the vocalized disappointment of my dog, I didn’t walk her.  I rode the next week, but missed a few days.  The following Sunday, I got sick.  I stayed in bed for about 4 days, just trying to recover.

I guess you could argue I worked myself into that illness.  Maybe.  I did a little research on fitness and found out that you can indeed over-exercise to the point of gaining weight.  Your body is an amazing engine, but apparently it can be contrary when you push it too hard.

I spent 2013 struggling to recover from a disastrous 2012.  I spent the first five months training for my sixth trip on the Kokopelli, I lost my motivation during the summer.  I rode, but not as much as I usually do. 

For the year of 2012, I rode 1,776 miles on my single speed and a paltry 1623 miles in 2013.  I have been going to the gym more, trying  to incorporate a more balanced approach to my fitness.  I also got a new mountain bike, and that has rekindled my love affair with the sport.  I will make sure to rest and give my body a break.

One thing for sure is I won’t be doing 365 days of something. 

Papa's got a brand new bike...

I got a new bike for Christmas.

That, in and of itself, is not unusual.  Lots of grown men get bikes for Christmas.  Technically, I got it before Christmas, but make no mistake it was a Christmas present.  It’s shiny, black and has lots of pivots and gears.  The bike is very different from the one I’ve ridden for the last 4 years.  My old bike has no pivots.  It isn’t shiny.  It has one gear.

You see, I’m a recovering single speeder.

I bought the single speed bike to get over a severe case of burn-out.  I had ridden so much in 2009 I actually dreaded going for a ride.  I would get stressed over the thought of doing my usual lunch-time loop.  My riding buddy rode a single speed, and he was fast.  Faster than anyone I had ridden with.  He descended like a demon, and climbed like a goat.   It got to the point I would start twenty minute before him, and he would still be back at the office showered, dressed and sitting at his computer by the time I got back.

So I bought a single speed bike.

At first, it was hard.  But it was fun.  The only shifting I had to do was getting my butt off the seat on descents.  I learned how to truly ride a bike, and not just sit on it.  I sold my twenty-sixer for a song.  After several years, my friends would ask “when are you going to get a bike with gears?  Suspension?”   It was more than a little satisfying to watch the reactions when I rolled up on my trusty steed.  I may not have been the fastest guy to the top of the hill, but I got there.  On a rolling couch, I would tell myself, I was just another middle-aged guy struggling to keep up. 

I realized a lot of things riding a single speed.  For one, a bike won’t make you faster.  I rode a buddy’s full squish and he rode my single speed.  The parts of the trail I had problems with on a single speed still caused me difficulty on a geared bike.   I still suck at climbing.  Maybe it’s a mental thing.  There are points on my home trail where I stop.  No real reason other than that’s where I always stop.  You learn to pick better lines on a single speed.  I’m better at picking out even the smallest path to a smooth line.  Not having rear suspension to bail you out helps.    Walking is an option.  I’ve done the Kokopelli Trail three times on a single speed.  I’ve also walked Entrada Bluffs road 3 times.  ‘Single speed’ is a misnomer.  In reality, single speeders  have three gears; sitting, standing and walking.  There are some parts of the trail I would never clean on a single speed. Or any bike, for that matter.  Maintenance is a breeze.  A quick brush, and occasional chain lube and I’m ready to go.

I’m not a retro-grouch.  I had fully intended to return to a geared bike.  In fact, I attended every demo day I could.  Niner, Specialized, Trek, Salsa – I rode very nice bikes at them all.  The full suspension thing was intriguing, but a little scary.  One bike nearly bucked me off after I hit a water bar the wrong way (what’s this ‘rebound’ you speak of?).  Geometry on bikes had drastically changed.  Instead of the cross country racing, stretched out over your bike geometry, bikes had gone slack.  And it was much better for my back. 

When the time came, I did a lot of research.  I went back and forth between a Trek Rumblefish and a Specialized Camber.  After a visit to several local shops, I decided on the Camber.  As a year-end model, I got a great price, and that allowed me to upgrade to a 1X10 set up.  But most importantly, Ascent Cycles have great customer service.  They didn’t push me into a 2014 model, but instead gave me the information to make a great decision.

I’ve got a little over 90 December miles on my Camber, and it rocks. I cruise past those parts of the trail I used to stop at.  My lines are still clean, but I’m learning to cruise over the rocks.  My goal is to ride the Kokopelli Trail this year, and pedal the majority (if not all) of Entrada Bluffs AND the LaSal mountains.  I’m in good shape, I have a great new bike and I’m raring to go for 2014.

And my single speed?  It’s hanging in the garage, patiently waiting for me to get over this full-suspension fad.

 Gary Fisher Rig. I was sad to see Trek swallow up this brand.

Specialized Camber Comp - one sweet ride.

The dog days of summer...

I hate dogs.

Perhaps I should clarify that statement.

I hate dog owners.  Specifically, the owners who through their own ignorance. allow their dogs to run through both the owners and the dog’s lives unfettered by simple obedience commands.

Come.  Sit. Stay.

It was Columbus Day, 2007.  I had the day off, and the kids were in school. What else should I do but get a ride in.  Not one of my standard routes.  No.  I loaded the bike in the truck, and drove out to the Section 16 trail head.  I’d never ridden there, and I wanted to see what there was to see.  When I got to the parking lot, I got out, unloaded the bike and checked it over.  There were about three or four other cars, but it didn’t look too crowded – not to many hiker-conflicts, I thought to myself.  I shifted into my granny gear, and started pedaling.  I think I may have run into a couple coming down the trail – I stopped and exchanged pleasantries – and went on my merry way. 
I couldn’t have been more than a half mile into the trail when I heard them.  Coming up the trail were two dogs.  I could hear the owners calling after them, but the dogs were more interested in smelling the smell of smelly smells.  I turned to see where they were, and that’s when they saw me.  One dog was older, a Golden Lab I think.  Its grey beard reminded me of my own aging Black Lab.  The other dog was younger – a collie of some sort.  That’s the one that started barking at me.  “No big deal – dogs bark”, I thought.  At about the same time, the older one started circling behind me.  It reminded me of a show I’d seen on Animal Planet, showing the way a wolf pack would hunt. This however was not a nature documentary.  I had visions of the older one nipping my leg to get my attention – then the younger one would jump, snarling toward my neck.   All this time I was keeping my bike between the young dog and me.  If he was going to attack, he was going to get a mouth full of Gary Fisher!

While this whole episode probably lasted no more than thirty seconds, it seemed like an eternity.  I really don’t think the dogs were going to attack me.  Dogs do what they do because they are dogs.  Finally, the owners showed up.  “Don’t worry, they don’t bite”.  It was little consolation.  They collected their dogs – the younger one was a little reluctant to leave his prey – and with leashes in hand (but not on the dogs), they headed up the trail.  The man threw a cursory “sorry” my way for my trouble.  I headed back down to my truck, and I haven’t been to that trail since. 

Why write about this now?  Tonight while I was walking my Husky-we-think-daddy-was-a-German-Shepherd-mix, two dogs attacked me.  They busted right through a door and came after me.  Specifically, they came after my dog.  I managed to make one retreat to his yard by grunting loudly at him (my wife thinks this is the funniest thing, but it works).  The second followed us out into the street, growling and barking.  The lady (I hesitate to call her the owner – I think these dogs own her) came running out, yelling “Oh, don’t worry about them – they don’t….  They….”  At this point, I was livid.  I was barking, my dog was growling and the attacking dog would have none of the lady’s protestations.  She finally got her dogs corralled.  As I pulled my dog away,  I heard the lady yelling  “After eight years of not listening…”  I left.  I thought about telling her to get her door fixed.  I though about calling the police.  I thought about spewing a couple of expletives deleted.  But at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter.  After being handed a ticket, or getting a stern lecture (probably more of the latter), she would still be unable to handle her animals.  The couple on Section 16 still think their animals are under control.  People on bike trails (I’ll bet walkers call them walking trails) who let their animals wander in front of bicycles don’t even consider how much a veterinarian would charge to patch up Fluffy. 

It’s not that dogs don’t have a right to roam off-leash.  But they can’t be let off leash if owners aren’t responsible enough to train their animal.  It can’t be half training, either.  “Oh, Fluffy will come when I call”.  Sure.  But will Fluffy come when she’s barking at a passing cyclist?  Dogs are animals, not people.  They don’t understand sentences.  They understand commands.

To me, the whole issue is about rights.  I have just as much right to enjoy my time doing what is enjoyable to me as the next guy.  It’s when those ‘enjoyable pastimes’ clash that we have problems.  Instead of yelling about our individual rights, maybe we should all sit back and consider how our ‘rights’, as well as our animal’s rights, impact others.  Does it matter if I never go back to Section 16?  Probably not.  Should I change my route when I walk my dog?  Maybe. Maybe I’ll start carrying a stick.  I believe it was Oliver Wendell Holmes who said (and I’m paraphrasing here), “Your right to swing your fist stops at the tip of my nose”.  Whoever said it sure was on to something.

Rant off.

Burn Out Tonight

I had over 2000 miles in my legs by October of 2009. Maybe not a lot of miles by some standards, but for me it was plenty. I had spent the first 1000 miles getting ready to ride the Kokopelli Trail in April, 2009. I rode Falcon Trail a lot - it’s my lunch time ride. I rode Palmer Park. I rode bike paths to get to Palmer Park. I rode bike paths to get to other bike paths.

During that year I rode a lot with a buddy who rode a single speed 29er. Besides the fact he’s ten years younger, he was always faster. My fastest time on Falcon Trail was about one hour thirty two minutes. With rest stops. His was about an hour fifteen minutes. It got to the point where we had an unspoken agreement. We’d start the ride together, but at the first big climb, he was usually gone. By the time I stumbled back to work, he was dressed and at his desk. I always chalked it up to the three extra inches on his tire, or my fitness (or lack thereof). It was, I suspect, a little of the former and a lot of the latter.

During that period, I had spent a lot upgrading my bike. I found a great deal on a Fox fork, Cane Creek wheels and SRAM components. I even found a newer GF frame. I lightened the bike to about 23 pounds. Not bad for a mid-level Gary Fisher. I spent so much on my bike my wife had a nickname for it. Coral. It's a Marlin, and if you’ve seen “Finding Nemo”, you might get the connection.

I had a lot invested in the bike – physically and mentally.

So it was with a great deal of alarm I realized, quite suddenly, I was burned out.

I would get anxious around lunchtime. It was time to get a ride in, but my body said no. Hell no, actually. I rode, but I was going through the motions. Falcon trail was boring. Palmer Park was boring. I even rode up The Chutes to Highline, then down Cheyenne Canyon, back to my truck parked near CMHS. Yawn.

So I stopped. I stopped riding, and for about a month, I didn’t touch my bike. I was afraid I’d never ride again, but I couldn’t really get excited about something that in reality saved my life.

In November, after not riding for a month, I started to think I should try the whole single speed, 29er thing. I started doing a little research. Being a short guy, I saw the feedback about toe lap. That 29er’s aren’t for short
people - only tall folks benefit from a 29er. I found out a lot of companies make 29ers, but not as many make single speeds. I made a spreadsheet with geometries, prices and components. I was actually getting
excited about getting a new bike.

Then in December, almost on a whim, I stopped by a bike shop. They had a Redline Monocog. I decided it was time to take the plunge. With some Christmas money, I walked out with a brand new bike.

My first ride was interesting. From my part of town near the Citadel Mall, I have to climb a fairly substantial hill to cross Palmer Park Boulevard. I don’t know what the elevation gain is, but on a 26” geared bike, it was tough. On a single speed, it was tougher. As I got into the climb, I kept looking for my shifter. “Oh crap, this is hard!” I kept going, standing on the pedals, struggling to keep my momentum. I made it to the top, barely. The downhill was nice, and I enjoyed coasting while I got my breath back. I got to Rock Island Trail, then to the Santa Fe Trail to Goose Gossage Park, then over the cycle bridge to Nevada, and then east. I struggled up Templeton Gap Road, and stopped to rest at the entrance to Palmer Park. It was hard, but I was having a blast! No gears to shift, just pedal and go.

The rest of the story? I’m hooked. I put a lot of miles on the Redline, mostly fire roads on the Academy and romps into Palmer Park. In mid-February, I found a smoking deal on a Gary Fisher Rig at Pro Cycling.
It was lighter and had a front shock. After about 250 miles on the rigid Redline, I decided front suspension
was a must. I did another 400 miles on the Rig, with a trip on the Kokopelli trail in May of 2010. I’ve learned a couple of valuable lessons in single speed riding. Some I knew, and some presented themselves in the form of pain.

Momentum is your friend. With a geared bike, it’s easy to shift into your granny gear and pedal over obstacles. My buddy calls this ‘hiding behind your gears’. Developing the leg strength to pedal over an obstacle is key. I’ve had a lot more low speed ‘get-offs’, but I’m slowly refining this skill.

Downhill is for resting. My geared approach to climbing was to sit and spin up on an uphill, then rest at the top. I quickly realized I could continue on the other side, bring my breathing and heartbeat into a comfortable zone and get ready for the next climb.

Riding a single speed is liberating. It’s not just about the lack of shifting. I no longer have to spend an
hour a week cleaning my drive train. Adjusting the derailleur. Worrying about chain stretch, and protecting my frame from chain slap and chain suck.

29ers are for big people. Maybe in the early days this was true. But with the number of companies making 29ers, and the refinement in frame geometries, this is no longer true. You will find yourself a stronger rider if
you switch to a single speed 29er.

I look forward to riding now. I feel I'm in the best shape of my life. A lot of this has to do with my bike. In fact, this bike is the first bike I’ve ever had that fit. It fits so well, I’m not sure I’ll ever get rid of it. I may do a little upgrading, but I’m pretty happy with it.

I may, at some point, get another bike – a full suspension geared bike. It will be a 29er, that much I know. I still have my 26” hardtail, hanging in the garage.

Maybe one day I’ll take it out for a spin. Then again, maybe I won’t.

That WAS fun...

There. I made it.  Three days to ride the Kokopelli Trail.  On a singlespeed, mind you. It was hard, but not as hard as the first time.  Or the second, really.  The first, I was out of shape, and out of my element.  On the second trip, I was definitely in shape physically.  Mentally, I think the trail still had me.  It didn't help my friend got knocked out on the first morning - we'd trained together for 5 months for this.  I was a little disoriented without him.  Plus, I was worried about getting home - he was my ride after all.

This time, I was ready.

I think I went into this trip with very little in the way of preconceived notions - how I would ride, who I would meet.  I just wanted to ride, and get it over with.  If fact, I was a little impatient.  I was ready.  Beyond ready.  All the rides on Falcon Trail.  The rides up Rampart Range Road (I still need to get to the end of that ride).  The really crappy winter I rode through.  Driving all the way from the Springs to Fruita to stand in a mud pit to hear "The ride is canceled".  Coming back the very next week, juggling my work schedule and home life.

It was time.

The weather on the second trip was as close to perfect as I could imagine.  As bad as the week prior was, this was completely opposite.  It was cool - perfect riding weather.  The sky was a perfect robin's-egg blue, and there was even a tail wind!  The trails at the beginning of the Kokopelli are amazing.  The most technical part of the trail, its arguably the most beautiful.  I spent a lot of time behind people who had never ridden singletrack (at least judging by the rider who went down most hills Fred-Flintstone style - feet out to the side).  Not that I'm some great technical singletrack guru.  I wouldn't have a clue how to be a roadie in a peleton...

Coming out of the lunch SAG, we had a pretty severe headwind.  Enough to make me want to quit.  I suppose I could have.  It would have been a tailwind back to the truck.  But I'm a stubborn S.O.B, and eventually the trail turned and the head wind became a tailwind.  I didn't even try to ride the hill into camp.  That wasn't happening on my singlespeed, anyway.

The night in camp was windy, cold, and I crawled into my tent shortly after dusk to go to sleep.  Again with the wind.  I had visions of this lasting all trip.  My tent was flapping , as was all the other tents. And then, it stopped.  The morning dawned crisp and still.  We ate, packed up camp and I was the first one down the hill.  Of course, the racer boys on their full-squish machines quickly passed me up. It was all good.  I was out to ride the Kokopelli for me.

The second day of this trip is the big mileage day.  By the time you roll into camp, most people have 50 miles in their legs.  If you take the Yellowjacket Canyon option (or as I like to call it, the 3rd level of hell), you add about another 10 miles.  The morning, though, screams by.  Mostly flat, two-track.  After several miles of paved road, you ride more jeep-track towards the Colorado River.  Several hike-a-bike sections, and a cool run by the river, and you climb out of the river valley toward the lunch SAG. 

It was during this section I saw something I still can't figure out.  As you climb onto the bluffs overlooking the Colorado River, you hit some hills, on a gravel ranch road.  As I recall, there is one farm / ranch you ride through, then on to highway 128.  As I crested one of the last hills, I hear the sound of a semi-truck engine running.  I look off to my right, and a refrigerated semi-truck has run off the road.  If you can imagine (or if I can describe it properly), the road swoops down to the right.  On the right side, a hill continues down another 25-50 feet.  The truck looked as though the driver had tried to short cut the curve, opting to cut the apex of the curve.  The tractor part had started up the far side of the hill, and only one of the  axles of the trailer was still on the ground.  The rest were dangling in the air, quite useless as support to the trailer.  I didn't see the driver, and the engine was running.  I can't imagine that conversation.  "Hey boss, I, uh, can you send a tow truck.  Where?, Uh,  well..."

Anyway, I made it to the lunch SAG at the bridge formerly known as Dewey.  I was one of the first 15 or 20 in.  I had lunch, refilled my water bag and bottles, and restocked my Clif Bars and gels.  I decided to SAG the first five or so miles of Entrada Bluffs.  The first year I did this ride, this part got snowed out. The entire group was SAGGED around, and we rode up Onion Creek Road into the camp in Fisher Valley.  The second time, my knee hurt so bad by the time I got into SAG, I caught a ride into camp, foregoing any attempt to ride this portion. 

This is really the only part of the ride I hadn't done.  And, as a point of order, it's still a part I haven't ridden.  I mean, I pushed my bike up it, but I haven't really RIDDEN it.  Had I been smart, I would have put my 21t cog on at SAG.  But I wasn't.  To be fair, I rode from Top of the World trail to the next junction.  To be fair, the road surface is really difficult for a singlespeeder.  It's all loose dirt and thumb to fist-sized rocks.  To stand on the pedals and put some effort into it meant spinning out.  So I pushed my bike.  I think it was 5 miles, but I don't really know.  It was a long, LONG way.  Once I got to the top, the trail conditions didn't get any better.  Steep, loose, rocky, steps, and that was all in the first 50 feet.  I kept going, letting gravity find my line.  I stopped when I should have, and rode most of what I could.  On past trips, I had heard people talking about Rose Garden Hill, and how it was un-ridable.  I seemed to be doing pretty good.  It definitely wasn't flowing, but I was making it down.

Then I got to the actual portion of the trail called Rose Garden Hill. 

Once I carefully walked down the steep, loose, rocky  portion of the trail, it was another couple of miles up, then all downhill into Fisher Valley Camp.  I struggled against gravity, pushing my bike for what seemed the hundredth mile (in reality, I was 45 miles into the day).  As I crested another hill, I looked up and saw Frank sitting on a rock, giving me a thumbs-up.

I thought I was hallucinating. 

Frank is the unofficial, senior staff member of this trip.  He's seventy-something years old, had just had knee surgery, and could probably ride circles around most everyone he meets.  "Not too much further", he called out. "About a 1/4 mile, then it's mostly downhill into camp".  I thanked him, and made some hilarious (at least in my dust-addled brain) comment.  I kept pushing, riding, pushing, riding.  I turned around when I heard the sound of someone clipping in.  It was Frank, peddling up the hill    I had just struggled up.  Gathering up my last shred of whatever I had left, I got on and started pedaling to.  Just as he caught up to me, we crested the hill, and I swore I heard angels. 

Actually, it was the wind whistling through my helmet.

Frank escorted me into camp, and as I rounded the corner, he let me pull ahead.  I was greeted with cowbells and cheering.  I had a beer, some chips and I set up my tent. 

The rest of the trip was cake.  I opted to ride down Onion Creek Road to Highway 128 into Moab.  I'd had enough weather drama the previous year.  I averaged about 12.5 MPH over the 33.3 miles.  It felt so good to end the trip on such a high note.  I was the third one into the campground - I even beat the staff in.  When the trucks showed up,  I grabbed my bag and headed for the shower. Setting up my tent, I reflected on the two previous times I had done this trip.  Before, I had survived.  I made it despite the weather, the pain, the inexperience.  This time, I made it because I was strong, and I knew what to expect.  It had taken three tries, but I did it.  I didn't conquer the Kokopelli, but I did conquer myself. 

Well, THAT was fun (Pt. 1)

For the last four months, my life has revolved around one thing - my bike.  That, and getting ready to ride the Kokopelli Trail.  The Kokopelli Trail is a 150 mile trail from Fruita, CO to Moab UT.  If you know anything about mountain biking, these two places are very important places in the sport.  Kind of like Lambau Field is to football.  Or Madison Square Garden to basketball.  This year is different, though.  I've ridden the Koko twice before.  For my third try, I've decided to ride it on a 29er singlespeed.  I bought a Redline Monocog at the end of 2009, and fell in love with it.  In early 2010, I found a smoking deal on a Gary Fisher Rig, and sold the Redline.  Regardless, I haven't touched my 26" bike since. 

To get ready for the trail, I've put off a lot of things I really should finish.  Like the bathroom.  For the past year, I've been putting new greenwall and tile in.  I've had some really good excuses for not finishing, though.  The original tile was a bitch to match - that took some time.  Putting in greenwall was another thing altogether.  I finally got the backing in, and the tile matches pretty well. All that's left is to grout the tile, and remove the plastic sheeting I put on the wall.  I've put off doing something with the yard.  My excuse is the yard is dead, but in reality, it just needs some work.  A little raking, some fertilizer and seed...  I might have a nice yard. 

The ride is the last week of April.  Three days to do the entire thing.  I spent money to do this supported ride.  There are companies that do this trail in 5 days, and they cost an arm and a leg.  The company I ride with describes itself as the 'HomeDepot of bike tours - everything you need, nothing you don't'.  They get your gear to each campsite, bring plenty of water and cook pretty good meals.  All out of the back of 2 big Budget rental trucks.

The first year I rode Koko, it rained every day.  Not the soaking rain you might imagine if you are in the east coast.  In fact, the rain is not the bad part.  But when it rains, the ground turns into one big mud pit.  There are reasons they made houses from this mud! I remember being totally demoralized.   The weather would be clear in the morning, only to have clouds gather in the afternoon for an extended rain shower.  In fact, we weren't able to ride the mountain pass out - it snowed 6" the night prior, and we had to go back the road we came in on. The road was a red soup of mud.  And then you'd go through wet creek crossings.  Rumor had it there were 24 crossings, all wet.  I didn't count, but it was then I realized how wet the desert could be.
Along with the weather, I rode a totally stock Gary Fisher Tassajara. So it was HEAVY.  One of the first things I did to upgrade this bike was to buy a different stem.  A 100mm Ritche stem.  It replaced the stock stem, which contained the warning "May disintegrate if exposed to off-road trails" or something to that effect.  Trouble is, coupled with a longer  Fisher top-tube (that's what they call 'G2 geometry'), I was stretched out on that bike way to far, and spent the entire trip off the bike laying in my tent popping muscle relaxers. 


When I went the next time, I had totally upgraded my bike - new brakes, front shock, wheels - everything.  I'd gotten my fit fixed (mostly), and the weather was pretty good.  I had about 1000 miles on my legs, and I was ready.  Despite my buddy breaking his collarbone on the first day, then leaving the trip (he was also my transportation home), it was a good ride. I had pretty severe knee problems the second day, but some Motrin and an adjustment to my seat allowed me to continue.  The last day, on the last climb (17 miles of climb),  the weather drama hit.  Hail, rain and lightening, all coming down as hard as it can on an 8000' mountain.  Absolutely brutal.  I made it over, but barely.  On the descent, the storm had dropped the temperature by at least 20 degrees.  Coupled with the monsoonal rain, wind and my speed, I wound up with mild hypothermia in the company's bus before I could make it to Moab.  

So this year, I was ready.  A new bike that fit, warm clothes, and an attitude going in that I could do this. If only the weather would cooperate.

About that.

I check Accuweather.com two days out, and was greeted with the headline "Hurricane force winds slam the west".  A quick check of the map, and I saw western Colorado directly in the line of the storm.  There was hope, though.  It appeared the storm was tracking slightly north, and if we could get through the first day, we might be OK. 

My buddy and I had decided we'd camp at a nearby state park.  We drove out seperately, and the entire drive was nothing but a severe headwind. 

This is not good. 

We got to the park, and set up camp.  The weather was a little chilly, but great riding weather.  We were going to sleep in his late-60's VW van.  Dinner was fixed, and a ride was gotten.  Just a quick one to make sure all the parts of our bikes would stay attached.  We started a fire in the fire pit, and that's when the wind kicked up.  I'm not sure of the best way to describe this wind, other than heavy.  Heavy as in 'tie down everything that's not attached to something heavy'.  Heavy as in 'don't stand up or it will knock you over'.  As the night wore on, it got colder.  I was good - I had a warm coat - I was prepared!  We finally gave up and put out the fire, and headed into the van for some sleep.  I got the top 'bunk'.  It really was just a canvas stretcher, but with my pad and sleeping bag, I was pretty cozy.  The wind continued to howl.  It was so bad, I thought the van might tip over. 

And then it stopped.

Just like that.  I woke up about  1:00 am, and the wind was no more!  If a person can be joyful at 1:00 am, I was.  Until I heard the rain.  Not big drops, mind you.  More like dainty little drops hitting the canvas sides of the pop up.  Plip! Plip!  I tried to go back to sleep.  Maybe I was imagining it.  I'd go back to sleep, wake up and the weather would be perfect. 

Yeah, right.

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I stepped out of the van.  I saw the worst thing I could imagine.  Wet bikes.  Wet everything.  Remember what I said about the mud?  The trails would be impassable.  There would be no way we'd ride the Kokopelli Trail if even a little bit of rain had dropped south of us.  Looking around, we saw clouds in all four directions. 

I muttered several deleted expletives, and got into my (warm) riding kit.  We ate breakfast, and packed up.  As we drove to the meeting site, I knew no good could come of this.  We pulled in and saw a couple of people waiting.  We parked, and I got out of my truck. 

My foot sank into the mud.  With every step I took, more mud would adhere itself to the bottom of my shoe.  After about 10 steps, I felt like Frankenstein walking in big hob nail boots.  We found out the ride had been postponed until noon.  A group of us decided to try the trails anyway.  The sun, after all, was trying to peek out.

It turned out the the trails weren't too bad.  We got a nice little 10 mile ride in, and returned to the parking lot.  I was hopeful the weather drama was over.  The owner of the company showed up, and the trucks showed up, and the riders gathered around the sign up table.

And it was good.

As the owner gave us our instructions, I felt a little moisture on the back of my neck.  Then a little more.  Before I knew it, dark clouds had screamed overhead, and it was snowing.  It was still warm enough that the snow melted before it hit the ground, turning the previously semi-dry parking lot into a squishy, muddy morass.  The owner took one look at the sky, then looked at the riders assembled before him, and made the announcement everyone was dreading.

The ride is canceled. 

People were mad. People were disapointed.  The owner offered two options.  Come back next week for the second ride, or go with him to Moab for an impromptu ride.

I chose the latter.

As I thought back today on why, I realized it was the weather that had beat me.  I was so tired of the weather drama.  This trip is a great ride, through some of the most amazing scenery I've ever seen.  The thought of slogging around Moab during a winter storm in May just didn't excite me.  I'm very lucky I have an understanding wife and boss.  I'll be back next week, and I'll ride the trail in perfect weather.

At least, that's what Accuweather.com says.

People are strange

I got a ride in today.  Finally.  After three days of snow, I was able to throw my leg over my trusty Rig.  Getting in a quick ride was one of my goals today.  I had to drive to the dark side and pick up the boy.

He spent spring break with my father-in-law (otherwise known as 'Gran'pa').  It's a four hour drive, and I wanted (needed) to get out before we left.  I felt pretty good riding up the road for a quickie. 

The weather cooperated, and it was chilly but not cold.  I lumbered up the hill to get out of the neighborhood, and down to the bike path.  Under the wife-killer memorial bike tunnel, and across Union.  As I got about two miles into the ride, I noticed a man walking his dogs.  They didn't appear to be on leashes (naturally).  Fortunately, he saw me from about 100 yards, and gathered in his dogs.  As I got closer, I saw the bigger of the two - a brown boxer-pit bull type dog.  The smaller dog was close, but I could see him bending down, holding the brown dog.  I assumed he was soothing the dog, his face very close to the stubby ear of the dog. 

As I got closer, this is what I heard the man say:


STOP IT! THERE'S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF!!!

He was yelling this in the dogs ear.  Maybe not yelling as much as growling. 

As I passed, the dog was wide-eyed, looking at me.

I'm no dog whisperer, but this is what I imagine the dog heard:

BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLABADEE BLAH!

Not only did the dog hear gibberish, he saw me zooming by on... what?  But boy was it fast.  The dog could only have imagined how tasty I was, and the big dog was growling at him.  What to do?  Chase?  Maybe this fast thing was tasty.  Or at the very least, a playmate.

I can't imagine the dog learned anything constructive.

Other than that, the ride was pretty uneventful.  I didn't stop on the ride, which made me feel good. 

This particular loop is about five miles downhill, 2 miles on the base leg and 5 miles uphill, with a nice down and uphill in the last two miles.  In other words, a typical ride in Nirvana.

I did pass an epiphany. 

I passed him on a part of the trail where I often see homeless, indigent, unkempt, unwashed... you get the picture.  This part of the trail is a fairly steep, long (about 200 yards) hill.  It appeared he had all his belongings either on his back, in his hands or tied to his bike, all in some form of plastic bag. He was pushing his bike up the hill. I was huffing pretty hard as I came up behind him.  I called out 'on your left' as I always do.  He was walking in the middle of the trail (naturally), and turned to look at me as I passed. 

He had to have been my age, maybe a little older, but not by much.  He looked at me, and I looked at him.

There, but by the Grace of God go I.

I nodded and powered up the hill.