Ward Mountain 2012

Taking a break from my relentless schedule of trying to turn my every thought into a clever tweet and posting comments on my wall, I discovered a whole new way to combine narcissism and vacuousness. I just discovered Strava.  For the fitness and Facebook obsessed this is a mainlining heroin fantasy. How this works is you can post your gps tracks and  race other people without the hassles of having to agree to a day or time or even needing to watch their chamois.

I figured this would appeal mostly top roadies or triathletes. Then I was reading the FatCyclist blog, and  he was boasting about his wife out there trying to claim her title as Queen of the Hill on several mountain bike trails around Salt Lake City and I realized that it must also appeal to that endurance fringe of mountain bikers who like things like the Butte 50 and the Park City Point to Point.

My first impression was like you know like whatever.  Then while pedaling up Ward yesterday I had one of those lightbulb moments, when I realized why my reaction to this new social web app was so blasé. I was at the back of our intimate crew of 5 and I was reminded that I don't need an app to remind me how incredibly ordinary I am. I'm routinely dropped on the climbs and I gave up filming with my helmet cam since I couldn't keep up with anyone worth watching on youtube. Sam Shultz I'm not, and if I was the last thing I would need is an app to remind how good a mountain biker I was.

I'm not opposed to competition. Every Wednesday is full of the testosterone addled, and at some level we are always measuring ourselves against each other.  Where should I be in the lineup?  Who do I want to be in front of going down?  I'm just not sure I want every ride to be a redlining competition.  I love to get on my bike and I hate the idea of having interval days and recovery days and long and slow days. I just want to go out have fun.  I do a few races every year like the Bitterroot Tri and the Butte 50 a few years ago and while I don't expect to win I still want to perform well.  In that way Strava kind of reminds me cyber sex.  You get a chance to get all sweaty while alone and it feels good, but it in the end it is still just masturbation.

While on that subject, I realize I haven't mentioned my social life in the last few posts, and no doubt everyone is salivating to know how the singles scene is.  I can report that I have found where the single women are. Moscow has 3 million single women between 25 and 50. That's like three times the population of all of Montana. I'm not entirely sure how this helps me.  I can't seem to find the time to go to Missoula.  On the other hand, it would be great excuse the checkout the main NRS store. Never knew there were that many women in Idaho.

As far as yesterday's ride only five showed up to see how high we could get on Ward.  The answer 8400 ft before the snow became annoying. Beau brought his friend Scott along to pop the cherry on his new Giant. The previous day's wind managed to knock down five more trees since it was cleared this weekend. The trail is once again cleared except for two big monsters well beyond the abilities of our handsaws and even our small chainsaws.  It is becoming clear that we may to assign loper duties along with sawing.  With fewer snags remaining upright to become future problems, our future in trail maintenance will need to shift to taking care of all dog hair lodgepole encroaching on the trail, especially if the FS wants an 8 foot wide corridor.

There was one moment cognitive dissonance after pushing my bike for half an hour when I saw Dean get back on his bike and  he started  pedaling up the hill and I stood there momentarily confused by what he was doing. Until it dawned on me that I had spent too much time at the Whistler Bike Park last week and was forgetting that bikes can be ridden up hills as well as ridden down. Above the burn, we played a continuous game of anaerobic leap frog as we took turns climbing, pushing and leaning against trees.

Those days in Whistler must not have been a total waste, the upper section of Ward seemed easier than I remembered, and even the drops in the burn seemed fun rather than intimidating. Once on the flowy lower section I can't remember every using my brakes so light and delicately, kind of like a shy teenage boy who for the first time has managed to talk a girl out of her bra.  It was so titillating felt a need for a virtual spanking.



Normally I'm not concerned about now shows, but this week one of our missing brethren gets the years first WTF award.  I was down at the Barn the day before the ride a certain Mr Riley assured he was riding and that he would bring his grill, so I wouldn't need to bring mine. Lo and behold the day came, no Riley and no grill.  Most everyone else fled, except Rob and I who did out duty surviving on Single Hop and salsa.

Not sure where next week's ride will be. First off next Wednesday is the 4th of July, and secondly Camas still hasn't been cleared and Sleeping Child is already covered in downfall again, only a week after being cleared.

Weasel Creek - 2012

Urgent alert: Cayla's bike was stolen yesterday. From Brett: "Stolen off bike rack at good food store at 2 pm tuesday.  Bike was locked to rack and the asshole on tape cut lock than came back for bike a little while later.  Bike was a small blur lt with a fox 36, blue handlebars and zip ties, xt crank diva seat with rock shox reverb seat post.  If anyone sees it please call police and kick in nuts and teeth.  Thanks Brett and Cayla."  Thief was wearing a hoodie. So if anyone in Zootown sees a guy in a hoodie, we have the man who needs his gonads and orthodontia rearranged.

Before the ride, I was packing my Deuter and debating whether the bring my rain jacket. It had dumped the day before and the clouds lingering over the Bitterroots looked looked like they could turn into something.  On the other hand I had put the long heavier downhill Lyrik back on the bike, so I was trying to keep things as light as possible.  As everyone knows the only thing worse than bringing a rain jacket and not using it, is being captured by the secret police in some middle eastern country and thrown into a dungeon where they introduce you to Morning Thunder, and it's not the Celestial Seasonings mate' blend breakfast tea that I like to start my day with.  Instead the Syrian or Iranian version of Morning Thunder starts with steeping your personal tea bags in a warm bath to let them get all dangly and loose before dropping in the live wires.

So I left the rain coat behind, hopefully risking something less than torture by the Mukhabarat.  I also left behind the handsaw since plenty of other stronger and faster riders, such as Quick Draw McGraw had already joined the backcountry forestry brigade.

Whether it was Aaron's difficulty digesting lunch or the anticipation of a big turnout for the ride, someone brought in a bunch or Porta potties for our use. Wow they knew we would have nearly 20 people show up I don't know, maybe they knew the sunshine, cool weather, and brownie dirt after last night rain would inspire us all.

Ridlon returned for ride after a long absence loitering in Bali and Nepal and wherever else, to take the place of  our other  world traveller Joel, who was gone to BC, just after getting back from the Middle Fork.  This is one ride where showing up late is a benefit with the luxury of parking at the upper trailhead like Knolly Jeff and the Kiwi, but this year they missed the chance to  make the discovery that I did as I slowly drifted off the back of the pack, courtesy of the previously mentioned fork.  Beau has a secret identity: Hammer Man.

Almost immediately after we entered the single track realm, downfall was the story.   It looked a lot like this.  Find tree.

And this. Get off bike.

Mill around.

Move tree.

 Repeat.

With all the manpower we eventually managed to clear the main loop; leaving the remainder of the trail to 313 for another day.  

Looking good. Sometimes I wonder if someone wants to be a ski and bike model.

Along the way we managed to get glimpses of the ever enjoyable Weasel Ridge downhill.

 As slow and painful as it was to climb, though not as painful as Sex in the City 2, with my bike set up for shuttling and downhills; it was pure joy on the way down. I finally managed to ride the steep drop to the creek and the creekside obstacle course out.

Not everyone was as lucky.

With practice it gets better, especially with the power slide.

 Many thanks to Chad and Jeff for clearing the bottom.  If only the dip shit  third wheel with them had managed to brush more than the last quarter mile.  Compared to last year the creek was lower, and feet were drier.

In order to keep Red Barn busy (not enough damage this week, only one rear derailleur) and to stay consistent with last year's ride schedule plan on Blodgett to the Wilderness boundary next week.  Sorry I'll miss it.  I'll try and post from Whistler instead.  Food for thought for July rides, Super D series in Missoula

Warm Springs - 2012

If I was a betting man, and if I was in Macau,  and if a member of a Chinese triad was threatening to slit  my throat with a rusty razor if I didn't bet on where the idea for this post came from, I would bet on the Bratwurst.  Two Hamilton Packaging were happily digesting away in my gut last night when I had my insight.  The other bet would have been on hallucinations caused by Rickettsia rickettsii.  As it happens, while those bratwurst were being broken down by proteases and bile, I discovered a Dermacentor andersoni had managed to embed itself below my belt.  Normally having someone's head in that vicinity is rather pleasant, being tea bagged by a tick is a different story.  It made me consider my opinion on the brazilian. Chances are the tick was left over from the weekend, probably the one Adriana has thrown into the truck, but it was still too early to be having febrile hallucinations.

So what was the great idea that the brats had given me. It was an understanding of the connection between Wednesday night rides and cooking a meal. First, both require the freshest finest ingredients, and the trails around here don't get finer than Warm Springs Ridge.  For those of us who are omnivorous, the key ingredient is the meat, which in Bitterroot means wild game.  They don't come more wild or gamier, than the 5 guys I rode with last night. They are the backstraps of the Wednesday night crew.  The last thing you want are the gristle, fat pieces and pick slime that the naughty moose coats with BBQ sauce to give away apres ski.  You know the mountain equivalent.  The excuse machines who ride the trail on Sunday that you cleared on Saturday.

  Once you have the ingredients, there is the prep work. This year thanks to the efforts of the Bitterroot Backcountry Cyclists, the trail prep was about as perfect as it gets. (Thanks again to everyone who showed up. Hopefully next year it will be bigger and better.) Although it looks like next year we'll need some lopers on Fire Creek.  The regenerating lodgepole are coming back with a vengeance and the forest service standards call for a 8 foot wide swath clear around the trail, as it was the new trees kept trying to grab the handlebar and help me steer.

Inevitably when cooking a time will come when some key ingredient has gone AWOL, all the tamarind paste is used up and all you have on hand are couple of limes.  Last night two screws for my front shifter made a break for freedom, and my shifter took a dive into my spokes. Even going uphill, amazing things happen when forward momentum is converted instantly into angular momentum.  With the successful escape of the screws, the usual substitutes of zip ties and electrical tape temporarily remedied the problem.

One key of cooking is getting the temperature right.  Sometimes a low simmer, sometimes a hot grill. I can't think there are many times that I would say this, but low 50's and overcast is the perfect temperature.  I have climbed Warm Springs on plenty of a hot, bright sunny days, and I'll take cool, cloudy, and even pellets of graupel every time.

If anyone has ever done any baking, especially something like brownies one of the keys is getting the moisture right.  Too dry and you're eating a brick. Too wet and it's all sticky goo.  Trails are the same; mud or sand on the extremes. Last night we had perfect brownie texture,  soft  and a little grabby.

Last night's Warm Spring's soufflé turned out perfectly browned, and we discovered the last commonality.  A multitool is as good for flipping burgers as it is for  bike repairs.

Lost Lick Loop

Awhile back I was talking to a Wednesday night virgin and I encouraged him to get experienced.  His main concern was that the rides sounded too social, and that would impair his need to ride fast.  Eventually he tried a ride, and the group rabbits quickly disabused him of the notion that our post ride beer somehow impairs our riding ability.

This got me thinking about our motto, "A beer drinking club with a biking problem," and how this is more apt than we are willing to admit.   After a previous post that mentioned my current relationship woes, I received a few comments that confirmed that I wasn't the only one who finds these rides to be an antidote for the Facebook and Twitter masquerade.  In the words of one rider whose presence is sure to be missed and who I hope doesn't mind me sharing his thoughts, since they mirror mine, "That collection of my favorite assholes has seen me through hating my job, not sure what direction my life should go and the bumps that appear traveling down the road of marriage."

After last week's arctic expedition, ideal riding weather returned. Overcast and just warm enough to let our shirts soak up some salty pack juice, but not enough to induce eye burning headband leak.   Along the way a startled white tail almost took out Brett. If only Brett had been faster, the deer slower, and I had my helmet cam on.  After climbing over the hill from Lost Horse and a few more warwicks up the road we regrouped at Como Overlook.  Too bad that when looking over you can't see the lake.  For some of us, we have always felt that this ride was lacking something.  While it has a long climb road slog, it was missing that essential Bitterroot: the hike a bike. Having poured over old maps and Google Earth someone noticed signs of a old road climbing the ridge above the overlook.

While most of us get as excited at the prospect of finding some new trail as we do after a google search for "naked MILF recumbent ride," a small minority looked at us pushing our bikes up the hillside, tucked their tails and with shouts of "Fuck That Shit!" echoing through the forest they disappeared into the trees in pursuit of beers and kebobs. Kebobs made by someone's woman folk who so appreciates the power of the ride that she is willing to bribe us to let her husband join in.

The rest of us pushed and rode our bikes, except for Rob in a Dylan worthy display of climbing prowess pedaled it in it's entirety, another half mile up the old reclaimed road hoping without reason that the Subaru babes that had sped past us earlier had decided to hang out on ridge high above Como.  Needless to say, no willing wanton women were found, although we did find a real overlook of the lake.

Luckily we dissuaded Dean, who was still dreaming of the the grassy knoll free ride on Butterfly two weeks ago, from attempting a repeat straight-line down to the north shore.  We, and especially Dean, were even more lucky that water in canal discouraged Dean from any more ill advised line choices.

Even with several gap jumps attempts, all of the favorite assholes returned in one piece.  The only biomechanical issue was an episode of cramping cured with a few sport beans.

Next week: Warm Springs Ridge hopefully freshly cleared.