Buttercup

Honestly I don't have much to stay this week, and not many pictures. More important things were on my mind; the threat to the world wide sriracha supply has been resolved without military intervention, Kanye and Kim made honest people of each other (or not), and I still haven't found an unsuspecting teenager wanting to drag aluminum tubes around wet grass at dawn and dusk.. Plus, the lighting was terrible, and I didn't see a point in taking crappy pictures just for the sake of taking pictures. Although towards the end of the ride, the sun curtsied to give us some great light, but by then I was more interested in the downhill than I was in jumping off mu bike, finding a good spot in the sage and watching everyone else ride by.  In my defense, I planned to get some shots on the switchbacks, but by then the moment was gone.  Those switchbacks, they have always given my the willies, but every year the horses knock more off the edge and uphill side slowly slides down with the remaining dental floss of a trail hanging over visions of broken bones after a long painful tumble.

Matt was generous enough to let us know a bunch of trees were down so that we should bring saws, but not generous enough to bring one himself on his memorial day ride.

Driving over to the parking area, aka  the Little Sleeping Child Trash Can Collective, I drove by Chad  and Rob. I offered them a ride and in return I was appropriately castigated for being the total wuss I am for not riding from my house.  I felt a little better when I noticed they were on rigid climbing machines, assuming that an El Gordo sans the gordo tires can be considered a climbing machine, and I was on my overbuilt uphill averse Ibis with flat pedals. Not that I would have ridden anyways.  Getting back to a post ride beer seemed preferable to a twilight road coast down Sleeping Child.

Regrouping at the top of the first gravel climb, Rob was fiddling with his tire when he whipped out his tool explaining that he had heard that ejaculate is a good emergency replacement for tire slime  when we were all treated to a temporary full monty.  Maybe not Game of Thrones full frontal, but enough for most of us to quickly remount and resume climbing.

At this point someone asked how much more a climb we had, and either Warwick  (It may have not been Warwick, but he was in earshot, and if even if it wasn't Warwick it makes a better story if it was him, and anyways all ride reports are based on actual events) replied without irony that it was only a couple of miles more, and everyone knows what that means. Pain, maybe not the six fingered man degree of pain, but pain nonetheless: false summits,  premature last turns,  and forgotten anoxic grunts.

Towards the end of the ride, Chad was spotted wearing a glove on one had and a dirty inside out sock on the other.  Theories were  that Chad was channeling his inner Michael Jackson, or that Chad was practicing his lamb chop sock puppet theater. Alternatively, on one ride last year Chad almost froze due to lack of extra layers, and on another ride Chad became hypothermic after forgetting to pack rain gear.  Possibly this year, misled by a forecast of a sunny 70° ride, he was once again caught without the necessary gear.  Maybe this time Chad forgot gloves, and potentially his hands were slowly turning White Walker zombie white, aka Raynaud phenomenon.   Chad may be a year older, but Chad may not be a year wiser. Chad asked that I not include his face on this photo.  Here you go Chad. No one will know who the socked hand belongs to.

 Oh what the hell.

Shannon Ridge

Oodles and gobs of boys and more boys continue to show up every Wednesday for bike fun, but after Jeff's Excellent Adventure it will be interesting to see if interest continues.  Not that anything was unusual for a Bitterroot ride: a little snow,  bushwhacking, a setting sun. Still, a newcomer probably would have questioned our collective sanity.

Running late again, this time due to tending to my hay fields and teaching my new workers the intricacies of irrigation.  At least those I learned since turning on the pump Monday. Fearing I would be left behind I cheated and drove up the road above Como, found the gang and the route on which to chase them. While I am in general a firm believer in plush rides and long travel suspensions, I was reminded again of the pleasures of light weight, big wheels, and a rigid frame.

As expected, the El Mariachi made dirt roads, if not enjoyable, at least tolerable.  Riding with pack was  once again a pleasant change from the condition of watching everyone reach warp speed, get all blurry and disappear into a point while I  slog along on impulse power in the delta quadrant.    More surprising was the way it plowed through snow like a ATAT Walker, and jumped like it had a cylon FTL drive.

After first ticks clambered onto our legs around Tin Cup Overlook we reached tickquilibrium as ticks hopping on were balanced by the those knocked off by the bitch slapping lodge-poles reclaiming the trail.

This ride had been conceived as an exploratory mission to finding possible loops for future trails. Jeff had done his Google Earth and GPS homework and despite dropping off one sub-ridge too early for a choose your own adventure straight-line, we clearly found terrain begging for new dirt ribbons. All we need now are some shovels, lopers, and oh yeah, FS approval.

Thinking back I don't think I managed a Shannon Ridge ride last year. I forgot how fun it is. Even better with a setting sun.

Lick Creek

Last night after the ride I was in laying in bed and I'm not sure if I was dreaming, or in that half asleep altered state. Either way I remember thinking a naked in bed snuggling up with someone warm, or am I still chasing Beau down the canal road, and if I am still on my bike, why am I not wearing any clothes?  Interpret that as you will. All I know is that I can't blame in on octo-bobs.

Kid duty forced me to leave before the cooking began, but Kevin brought fresh Utah/Chinese (?) marinated baby octopi, and cooked them over a campfire since no one brought a grill. Mine is fixed, but I figured since Jeff just bought a new one at Home Depot he would be as excited as a Dermacentor andersoni along the Como Trail.   I know I would be.  Jeff was, however, rebuffed by the assembly required warning on the box.

Leaving work and heading to grab my bike and change into my biking uniform I noticed a wall of clouds sitting over Como, and I knew despite the weather I had to get my ass down there. Since I missed the last wet ride with my excuse that I was busy at work, I had to make this one rain or not; otherwise my jibes of castration and eunuchs would ring hollow. Luckily the clouds move off to the south leaving clear skies to the dozen of riders who also braved the risk of hypothermia.  Among the gathered were: Mike, a valley newcomer out for his Bitterroot dirt experience; Sam, the next in the Kern dynasty who recently discovered that mountain biking can be fun even if his dad does it and is already kicking my sorry butt, and John who I never had a chance to introduced myself to, but I think has been on a few recent rides during my Moab adventure.

Speaking of Moab, if only because I have better pictures of there than I do from the current ride, while down there we rode maybe the best trail I have ever ridden, Captain Ahab. It accomplished something I didn't know was possible it was flowy and technical. As long as you listened to British 80's pop and understood that you "gotta have faith" the lines were always there whether you wanted to roll or huck.

Ignore the pictures, we are back to Wednesday.  While the rain may have missed us, it left a calling card of gumbo on the fire roads and the the canal return Everyone earned their stripes.  It was one of those rides that once you get home, you aren't sure whether you are covered in mud or rickettsia vectors.

 Snow is till hanging around higher up so the highest we could go was lower upper Jenny, then down upper lower Jenny, and lower lower Jenny ridge.  More so than most years, the winter has left us a bounty of downed trees.  Most of last week's ride around Como was a clearing party and we had plenty of trees to move and cut again this year. I imagine our annual clearing of Warm Springs should give everyone plenty of practice for Darby Logger Days.

I tried something different for yesterday's ride.  I grabbed my 29er hard tail, instead of my usual Ibis, to see if climbing could be enjoyable.  I'm still not sure it was smart. Sure the climbing and return along the canal could almost be described as enjoyable, but it made me cocky, and I still think lactic acidosis and residual hypoxia from chasing Beau contributed to my disturbed sleep. On the other bike, I can't even fantasize about having an climbing prowess.

I guess I'll wrap this up with a little hypocritical bloviating, since I spent lunch trying and failing to reclaim my Blodgett Camp KOM. A KOM I only had because Dean and Jeff and Chad and Cory and Beau, and most everybody riding Wednesday night, even those roadie/triathletes Quentin and Jeremy don't do Strava.    When did eating become fueling, drinking become hydrating, sleeping becomes recuperation, and sex become oxytocin management. All these scientific terms, along with being pretentious, convert the best parts into life into obsessive  neuroses. Eating and drinking should be sitting around an open fire, roasting seafood and drinking black IPA leftovers slipped out of the brewery; not replenishing electrolytes.  Mountain biking should be about climbing hills and not quite making it, sliding around on muddy roads, and finding new uses for rocks on the trail; not about keeping the heart rate in the right zone.