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?

The Bike Bum Diaries

Training Dirty

I watch a bead of sweat drip from my nose and explode on the top tube of my bicycle. The explosion has an uncanny syncopation with a blast from Dirty Harry’s .44 Magnum pistol that he brandishes with the swagger that one would expect from him. Yes it is that terrible time of year. The snowdrifts are higher than our spirits and the ice comes out of nowhere to remind us of our mortality on skinny tires. Obsessively watching watches, timers, and computers until they finally count down to our magic number and we can get off the damn trainer. What a terrible thing we must deal with to have those magical days in the spring when the sun is shining on our faces and our legs feel as if they could never run out of energy. Cyclists deal with these trainer days all over the world with the hope of an early spring to get out there and ride with the wind whipping at our faces alleviating us from the sweat induced madness of stagnation. There are a few exceptions to the rule of winter woe. Those lucky few that get to call home those places that remain bearable year round, and can train outside with no in-home trainer in sight. I would call these individuals more soft than lucky. The pain of cold weather, of sweating on the trainer, of riding for hours and going no where makes us appreciate that perfect sunny day so much more. So in terms of riding a trainer, sweating inside, dreaming of that magical place that miraculously has 70 degree temps year round I have one thing to say, “Do ya feel lucky….Well do ya punk?”

The Bike Bum Diaries

Footprints in the Snow

Deep in thought once again as snow crushes under my boots. The same trails that I usually am ripping down on two wheels have a new mystique about them covered in snow. There is an innocence to the land that is normally lost. The snow amplifies the noises of my steps and my dog rummaging in the brush. I follow numerous tracks left over from the various excursions into this snowy wilderness. I find myself trying to identify the tires that left these footprints, and begin thinking of the stories behind the persons who left them. The tracks I follow the most have to be left over from a Maxxis Ignitor tire. The shapes and patterns are too easily discernable. It is interesting to see a visual representation of a mountain biker's "footprint" that is left on the mountain even after they are long gone. The snow is not always there to show us the extent to which we can manipulate the earth with two wheels. Many of us do not think nor care about our footprint, nor the impact that our presence has on the land. Moving rocks, riding in soggy mud and re-routing trails without knowledge of the watershed and the topography all can leave an incredibly large footprint. Just because those prints are not always right in front of us in the snow to remind us of the multitude of people that were there before us doesn't mean we should not think about our impact. Ride and ride hard, but do so with the knowledge that you have a lot more weight on the land than you think. I shift the weight of the saw I am carrying onto my left arm. I can't get too lost in thought or I may wind up with a chain saw in my gut. Back to reality and the task at hand. Back to keeping the trails open, to giving back and to appreciating all that has been given. Back to being a Sherpa.

The Bike Bum Diaries

Like a Rock

The mountain bike community is currently caught in the crosshairs of a poignant dilemma. There is a fine line between the beautification of a trail and the change that turns into a catalyst for destruction. Turkey mountain far and wide the most diverse mountain bike trail in the state of Oklahoma. That diversity has bred some of the best mountain bikers in the area and also a reputation that proceeds itself. The entire spectrum of trail type is present allowing for perfect, smooth single track to coincide with the most inconceivable rooty and rocky terrain. This is our playground. This is what manifests the best riders and grandiose reputation in the state. There is a progression one must follow to conquer their fears at this playground for all things off-road. You start on the mellow and transition to the gnar. That is how it always has been and that is how it always needs to be. There were things I did not even think possible that I can do without thinking now. There must be an attempt to educate not ostracize those that just don't know better. Those that don't think about moving a rock here, cutting a trail there, and disregarding the flow and energy that the mountain contains. Everyone needs their personal sherpa, bodhisattva or guide to show them the line, and to show them that it may look hard, it may look gnarly and it may hurt but it is possible. If it takes an effort please don't move it and if you have a doubt let it be.

The Bike Bum Diaries

Riding through the Pain

The amount of energy two wheels hold, especially big boy wheels, is something incredibly hard to quantify. Cycling has a strange power in this world and many of us are struggling to harness it. Those who obsess over this power have to battle more than just the wind, the snow and the rain to achieve greatness. No other discipline has the same power to tear relationships apart or threaten the very health of the individual. Is the void left by striving to achieve greatness worth this heartache? We cover up the emotional destruction by getting back on the bike, crushing a big gear and clearing our heads. What a conundrum. The very thing that drove us to the point of breaking is now keeping us from breaking all the way. There is always a finite balance that one must achieve, and unfortunately that balance is harder to find than the perfect gear ratio, the perfect frame set or the perfect trail. Who knew there were so many philosophical underpinnings to pedaling? Alas we will always get back on the bike despite the philosophy behind it and we will always struggle because that is what the sport is about. We are all used to pain and hell some of us bask in it, but there is something to be said about those few who have a clear head before the ride. Those of us who ride to ride and don't have the same implications of destruction. However, the end goal is the same and fortunately at some point on every ride there erupts that feeling of weightless joy...at least for a little while.

Get out there and ride that thing

The Bike Bum Diaries

Riding in the Leaves

One minute you are ripping along your favorite trail listening to the ambient noise of mountain biking and the next there is an eerie silence and time has slowed to a crawl, You find yourself thinking about a lot of things given your current situation. The trail conditions are perfect given the abundance of leaves that have hidden the holes, roots and rocks that can manifest a crash at any time. The leaves are beautiful in their autumnal hues and give the allusion of riding through an ever-changing canvas. The air has a distinct bite to it as it floods in through the nostrils. Winter is definitely in the air. The race season has finally come to a grinding halt and many are struggling with that dilemma of getting back on the bike that we love to hate after a strenuous season of racing. But we always get back on it despite the soreness, the pain and the heartache of hours in the saddle because we love it. We love the pain, but we definitely love the pleasure of picking that perfect line, of making that seemingly impossible climb and most importantly flying down that perfect descent. This is the best time to be a mountain biker. Our usual battles against the elements are much easier. There is no poison ivy, no spider webs and no sweat. The only thing we have to contend with is the early setting of the sun and the occasional angry significant other that doesn’t seem understand why cooler temps allow for much longer absences from home. Finally we get to ride just to ride with no races and no threat of soreness holding us back from an epic session today. The silence and introspection is temporarily interrupted by a distinct noise of metal and flesh on dirt and rock. Time seems to catch up with a vengeance as you rely on that old stalwart strategy of tucking and rolling to dissipate the impact of your crash. Sure enough you have gotten a little overzealous and the leaves have made you pay for it. As you dust yourself off you smile since you know it isn’t the first and definitely won’t be the last crash. Reap the benefits while they lasts and remember to give back to the trail that gives so much to you. Have fun riding in the leaves.