Singletrack Sherpa: Crash-aholic

Singletrack Sherpa: Crash-aholic: "The acrid smell of burning flesh penetrates the haze and floods my nostrils. The realization of what is taking place seems to take forever...."

Crash-aholic

The acrid smell of burning flesh penetrates the haze and floods my nostrils. The realization of what is taking place seems to take forever. Not until I have cleared the asphalt and the gravel side do I realize I have crashed. My hands float upwards as I am still sliding to my collar bones. There is a giant bulge on my right shoulder but that is luckily a predisposition from an earlier clash with gravity. I cannot control the smile of shock that erupts across my face nor the urge to almost whoop for joy. Have I come out of the gnarliest crash I have ever encountered unscathed? Back to the burning flesh, back to reality. My adrenal glands are merely secreting a whimsical delay for the inevitable pains I will experience. No matter. I am on top of the world. 45 miles per hour, a blowout, a reintroduction to being alive. I haven't felt this alive in months. Pushing the limit always has a regression back to the realities of your human existence at one point or the other. Whether skiing a slope greater than 45 degrees, going so fast on a mountain bike that your eyes are watering through your sunglasses or sliding across warm pavement on a hill in the middle of no where, your sense of self is heightened with every movement and breath. As I care for my wounds I am reduced to infancy in the pains manifested by roadrash. I grit my teeth through the pain and cannot help but think about my next adventure, my next challenge, my next painful experience that will help shape my mind for the right protocol to enact the next time. Maybe some time off the bike and in the mountains will achieve the clarity that I desire with my mind and my saddle sores. Never stop pushing the limits, and never stop moving. Death to stagnation.

~Get out there and ride that thing~

Hittin' the Road

It is that time of year again. Dusting off those stiff carbon soled shoes that have laid dormant all winter and getting those hairy legs under control so one can be a respectably lycra clad member of society. The grind of the road begins to play through my head, and it seems to be a constant battle. Wind, dogs, flat tires, angry motorists all of the amazing attributes that come with riding on the road. But as Ernest Hemingway famously said "it is by riding a bicycle you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them." No other invention has come close to offering such simplistic yet amazing experience transportation wise. Bicycles range from something collecting dust in a garage, a sleek racing machine meticulously maintained, a cornerstone in the developing world to serve as a transport for goods and people, or something people collect and neglect. One cannot deny the impact a bicycle has on everyone. Those of us who ride every single day and those who ride once a year have the same primordial glee when coasting down a hill. Respect the gravity of this simple machine and get out there and ride that thing.

A Fixed Madness

It's hard to focus on the beautiful landscape as pedals are a complete blur. Thoughts begin to wander toward the phrase "breaking off more than you can chew." My pedals propelled by my legs and the forces of fixed momentum have melted into a streak of controlled chaos. My current predicament finds me on one of the longest steepest hills I have ever seen and on a machine with one gear that is fixed and no brake. The town of Durango, Colorado looms in the distance but thoughts are dilated toward the task at hand, survival. The flat black paint on the frame reflects the strain on my face perfectly. My confident facade has melted along with my calf muscles. A fixed gear bicycle is a beautiful two wheeled invention. Unencumbered by design constraints a fixed gear can morph into myriad of styles, colors, and genres. This concept of being unencumbered translates into the fact that one does not need to bare the weight of a choice during the ride. No shifting, no braking, no coasting. Only the forces acted on a drive train by legs baring the potentiality or maybe stupidity of energy. No other type of cycling requires my undivided attention and thus none is more beautiful to me. This is why I find myself flying down a mountain in Southwestern Colorado. Before my legs fill completely with lactic acid and fail to respond to the synapses in my cerebral cortex the hill begins its transition to a run out on the valley floor. My adrenal glands have given me a natural boost to go along with my Rocky Mountain high as I slow my pedals to a bearable pace. I turn my head to look at the monster looming behind me. Before I can think about the serious gradient percentages I just encountered I find myself turning around and pedaling back up hill. Time to do more introspective experimentation I guess.

Holes in the Road

Dreamily watching the rain and relishing in the fact my tires hit dirt for two hours last night. The nights are getting longer and the faint pheromones of Spring are in the air. Racing is underway in the warmer climes of the country and is around the corner everywhere else. Cyclists everywhere are stepping on scales, thinking about the winter consumption of pizza and beer and beginning to spin those legs to avoid embarrassment at the start of the season. The friction on the trail is perfect as my tires lock up around every turn. Turkey looks slightly different as the snow has left a few alterations to the lines that we know so well. The unfortunate sight of holes on the trail has led to the bleak realization that people are still attempting to alter the landscape in the wrong way. Education, education, education. Preservation and conservation are in my heart and I wish the people doing this damage would realize the impact of their hands and feet on the soil. One cannot ignore the progression of ability on the trails by merely making them easier. They will soon disappear because the snows and rains will make those easy, rockless trails completely unrideable due to erosion. Respect the trail and the trail will respect you. The culture of taking back from the world without thinking or giving back is over. There must be accountability for actions and a thought provoking dialogue started to address this inherent evil within human beings. Many do not even know what they are doing because it is programmed deep within our genetic code to search out the easiest way to get things done. Easiest is not always the smartest if we can look into the ever nearer future and see the lasting impacts that our actions in the present make. If you love the feeling of tires on dirt, of flying through the trees and playing in the leaves then please come work at the Trail Work days, please think before you act and please introduce someone to the joys of riding and conserving.

Midnight Cowboy

I begin to wonder if the pressure on my head is coming from my helmut or the strain of squinting my eyes. My senses are hyper aware as I attempt to navigate the trail by moon, stars and cheap forty dollar headlight. The rush of riding at night has inundated my mind with a feeling I can never let go. The trails are bustling with activity as the nocturnal nature of most creatures is interfered by my presence. After dusting myself off for the third time in a row after a crash I am determined to keep myself upright the remainder of the ride. This will be a hard mantra to follow due to my predilection for speed and the fact that I can barely see ten feet in front of me. As my time on the saddle increases so does my level of confidence. I have ridden this trail thousands of times and I know every rock, root and hole on it. Yet, why does it feel so unmistakably different? My thoughts are sliced in half by the shocking realization of an event taking place out of my immediate control that will be with me forever. Rounding a bend in the trail I have picked up an abundance of speed, something like 7 miles an hour (see forty dollar headlight). Rather than singletrack and the noticeable darkness that has accompanied me for the duration of the ride there lies before me two sets of hooves and a hulking body positioned perfectly in the middle of the trail. A split second lasts an eternity when you are riddled with this much adrenaline. I begin thinking of the hamburger I had for dinner, the weight limit of my front fork and the reason I am out all alone riding by Lake McMurtry on this starlit night. The next thing I know I am in the middle of a mini stampede. Luckily for me, and the cow, I have meticulously laid my bike down on its side to avoid a direct impact. As the dust and my heart rate begin to settle I dust myself off for a fourth time. A little shaken, a little uneasy but forever hooked on the concept of hammering down the trail with a light strapped to my head or handlebars. Turns out that pressure on my head had been coming from the giant smile on my face.

Winter Sun May Someday Rise

I see its shadow before I hear its scream. A hawk is circling methodically overhead, but surely not after me. My 180-pound frame and 20 pound Ridley cyclocross bike may be a bit of an indulgence for the hawk. The abundance of snow still dampens the vibrations in the air and there is an eerie silence to the world that is only disrupted by the occasional passing car. Two weeks of indoor solitude gets broken by one amazing day with the sun in my face and the wind in my hair. I am on such a high I fail to notice the burning pain in my legs as I conquer hill after hill. Not even lactic acid can ruin my ride nor make my smile disappear. A close buzzing by a truck does a little to dampen by mood. It will not ruin my ride but the hair on the back of my neck is standing up to remind me of my mortality. The conversation sways toward the psychological precursor that allows for people behind the wheel to get so upset as to act out their frustration in such an aggressive manner. I have been spit at, yelled at, swerved at, thrown at and even shot at in one crazy circumstance. Is lycra that offensive? Am I doing something wrong by enjoying this beautiful day just propelled by nothing more than my own grit and determination? There must be an open dialogue between the two groups because many people cross over into each category. The vast majority of people in each are good people and could care less about cars on the road, or bikes on the road. But there are bad eggs that unfortunately carry with them the weight of the entire population on their backs. A driver fails to signal a turn, a courier flies through a red light, and both are stereotyped by the other. Let us end this mockery. Create some bike lanes, some awareness, some education on both sides of the aisle. The next time you are out on that beautiful day, feeling high on life and you get that sickening feeling after being buzzed by a fast moving diesel pickup try to just wave your hand and not your finger. One act of maturity, or kindness really does go a long way. Besides what do we want to do, ride on trainers the rest of our lives?