Yeah dirt

Date: May 5
Mileage: 35.5
May mileage: 168.2
Temperature: 45

I wasn’t expecting the trail to be clear. But there it was, no slush in sight, cutting up a steep embankment and into the woods. I slowed mid-interval and veered off the road.

I was immediately thrown into a minefield of rocks and wet roots. The front wheel jolted like a jackhammer and nearly bounced me off my bike. I stopped at the side of the trail, my heart still racing from my road sprint. As I waited for the woods to stop spinning, my clearing vision rested on a narrow strip of dirt - still clear, still dry as it disappeared into the trees. This was not the time or place for road intervals. I unlocked the shock, took a deep breath, and rolled forward.

And just like that I was mountain biking, for real this time - no snow, no slush, no wide gravel roads. It was time for my Karate Monkey - which I have already ridden a few hundred miles - and I to finally get acquainted.

The singletrack weaved erratically through a jungle of wet roots and spiderwebs, and I was rusty, rusty, rusty. I shoulder-checked a couple of trees. I slid sideways off a root or two. My last mountain bike was a full suspension, and I realized that I actually do miss the bouncy on back. That rear shock sure took the edge off the downhills. There also is something dubious about 29” wheels on a small frame. I get some toe overlap with my Pugsley, but it is one thing to occasionally scrape the front tire when you are puttering through snow. It is another thing to have that happen when you are banking a sharp right on rocks at high speed. Gotta learn to pull those feet in.

The moss-lined thread of a trail cut out of the woods and onto the glacial moraine, snaking through a series of rolling gravel hills. I amped up my speed and crested the high banks of every curve. I had found my flow, my perfect flow, and in those moments I remembered what it felt like to be 8 years old and clutching the handlebars of my dad’s motorcycle as we rode the waves of sandhills just beyond our house. The area was little more than an undeveloped suburban tract, the earth moved by bulldozers and front-end loaders, the trails carved by dirtbikers out for a quick thrill. But that didn’t matter to me then, with the wind whipping through my hair and my dad’s powerful arms guiding the motorcycle over a rollercoaster of sand. It was the epitome of adventure, and to experience again what that was like, what that actually felt like, is exactly why I ride a mountain bike.

The soft blue light on the Mendenhall Glacier, the reflection of Thunder Mountain in a rippling beaver pond, the soft moss carpeting the forest floor ... these are my suburbs. They were beautiful then, and they’re beautiful now.

It's official. I can't fix bikes.

Date: May 4
Mileage: 29.2
May mileage: 132.7
Temperature: 39

How much time have I wasted on a shifter cable? Enough that I really should have left my bike at the bike shop for three weeks, and given them a few hundred dollars just to keep it away from me for that long. Because if I spend any more time tightening and loosening cables and screws and staring intently at the nubbin pulley wheels on my rusted-out derailleur, I am going to throw my entire bike off my balcony and hope the devil's club grows thick enough to prevent me from ever trying to retrieve it.

I know, I know, I know. I need to learn this stuff. But people like me shouldn't be teaching themselves the procedures. That's like telling a dyslexic person they should teach themselves how to read. I have a genuine mechanical learning disability. Only because someone held my hands and guided me through every excruciating step did I learn to change a tire or put a quick link on a chain. Simple stuff baffles me. I thought the cable replacement would be easier than simple. So I browsed Sheldon Brown's and Park Tool's Web sites for a while until I got sick of trying to decipher Sanskrit. Then I propped up my bike, oiled the cable, and threaded it through the only possible places for it to go. Then I spent hours adjusting the tension and tweaking the derailleur screws just to get the thing to shift smoothly. I came close a couple of times. But then I'd try to execute a hairline tension change, only to end up with the chain skipping all over the place. In the end, I stripped the threading for one of the screws and mangled the cable, and gave up with an adjustment that is about as choppy as it would have been if I had never bothered with it all. I didn't replace the old housing, and maybe that's my problem. But it doesn't matter. I am done. Done. Done. Done.

So my new plan is to wait out this bike shop backlog by ordering a new derailleur online, and then taking the whole setup into the bike shop to have it replaced properly after things slow down. In the meantime, I think I will just slash the cable and accept my bike as a clunky three-speed.

Or put it in the basement. I thought about that. I really like riding my new mountain bike. It rides so comfortable, so smooth, and I've been making a genuine effort to keep up with the cleaning and maintenance to keep it that way. My only problem is the mud-specific tires I bought for it, which put up more rolling resistance than studs on pavement. This time of year and this location require a lot of pavement riding, so I'd be subjecting myself to much frustrating slowness if I use the Karate Monkey for every ride. At the same time, putting slicks on a mountain bike limits my trail riding options; plus, slicks on a mountain bike is just sad. And I'm not going to switch tires back and forth. I am the world's slowest tire changer. Did I mention my mechanical disability?

Too bad Ibex Bikes is sold out of all of their Corridas. Despite Roadie's problems (and they're mostly my fault after years of lax maintenance), I really like this bike. For the price, I think it's a great touring/training/commuting bike. It just needs a little TLC. And an entire set of new components.

The world at large

Date: May 2
Mileage: 19.2
May mileage: 113.5
Temperature: 41

Geoff called me from California today with some great news - he had a tough race at the Miwok 100K, couldn't sleep at all the night before, was battered by the "super hardpacked" trail, faded during the last 20 miles of the race ... and landed third place.

I thought I heard him wrong. "Thirtieth?" No. He said third. As in third place! In a field of 250 ultrarunners, completely stacked with many of the top names in the sport. Basically, Geoff had what he views as a bad race - well, maybe not bad, but not exactly at the top of his game - and still came out ahead of at least a few superstars. Scott Jurek I think came in just behind Geoff. I haven't been able to track down the results online yet, but it's pretty impressive.

Geoff's placement automatically qualifies him for Western States, which I understand to be the elite A race in this game. Unfortunately, the race falls one week after the first day of the Great Divide Race, so Geoff isn't even thinking about registering. He has his heart set on this GDR thing. Meanwhile, I'm trying to think of how I can talk him out of his dream bike tour. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to see him tackle the GDR ... but I think he can do that any year. He has this opportunity now to steamroll into the national ultrarunning scene (and yes, in my biased view, he could steamroll into it.) And he's just letting the opportunity pass by. But, he never listens to me anyway, so ... eh.

Today I had lunch with a woman who tracked me down through my blog. Kate is a Minnesotan, in town for a few weeks as an Americorps volunteer, landed on my blog while she was researching the area and wanted to meet me. I felt really weird about an Internet stranger date, but we had a great lunch. We don't even have that much in common - she's not really all that into hiking and camping, although she's being subjected to it in a rather brutal fashion here in cold and rainy Southeast Alaska. But we talked and laughed and connected for a few hours before I had to be at work. She would be a fun friend if she had any permanent plans for Juneau - which she doesn't. But the experience of that brief connection made me realize that the Internet reaches deeper into my life than I even know.

I say this because I have been feeling heartbroken about Elden (aka Fat Cyclist) Nelson's recent news about his wife's surprising turn for the worse in her battle with cancer. I've never met Elden or his wife, but he has been very supportive of me in my comparatively trivial cycling challenges, and this news has hit me hard. Like many in Elden's legions of fans, I'm unsure how to react. How do you tell a man you've never met and a woman who doesn't even know you exist that you care about them and are thinking about them? The gesture is simple, but the emotions behind it are harder to qualify. I've never been the strong link in my interpersonal relationships, but I do know real love and support can connect across places as vast and vague as the Internet. So I guess the best thing to do is reach out.