Warm Springs Ridge

I think for this ride I'll let my models Sean, Corey, and Cassie tell the story with their action shots.  I'll just share two comments that summarize the various opinions of the ride.

 "The only thing hard about this ride is getting here on time."

"Fuck You. Fuck All Of You."

As usual context is everything and if you don't know the context, then where the hell were you for the best pure single track ride we do Wednesday nights.

Did you know a bull's penis is also known as a pizzle, which when dried can be used as a whip or as dog treats.  I guess you can also diddle your pizzle, and if you have been bitten by a radioactive spider, you can diddle your fissile pizzle, which sometimes fizzles if you spend too much time on a bike saddle.

We just missed the World Naked Bike Ride in Portland

Weasel Creek 2014

Weasel Creek is one of those trails the elicit strong emotions. Some recoil in disgust, creating every more fanciful excuses to avoid getting anywhere close, "I heard they closed Skalkaho so we probably can't get up Rye Creek",  " I need to mount my new Kodiak in my office so that  it rears up over my desk," "My ferret chewed up my brake cables so she could drink the brake fluid." Some others when the first wiffs of a Weasel ride waft through the ether bounce off the walls like a wrecking ball after a visit by Miley Cyrus's tongue.

Initially I was firmly in the first camp, considering the time a starving, half frozen pine marten took a nip at my dangling  dongles while I was seated in an outhouse for my morning pre-ski tour weight shaving routine to be preferable to floundering through the hidden rocks, roots and water crossing in the creek bottom, or trying to walk my bike through  loose cobbles and washed out switch backs.  With the ride usually ending with me floundering around more off the bike than on and hoping I get out before the night creatures make a meal of me. Over time my feelings have evolved like Hannah Montana from Disney naiveté to bring it on punk rebellion.

To what can I attribute my conversion, could I be rebelling against a stereotype? If so, what stereotype might that be. Possible the washed up wannabe with more money that ability, who goes out and buys the fancy bike and can't ride like crap, kind of like a dentist and his Serotta, or the guys on Kleins I used to pass on my low end Trek back in my younger days.

Hmmm, seems to sort of fit, except I wouldn't considered so much rebellion as evolving into a rider almost deserving of the bike. A little different geometry, a dropper post, more suspension can do wonders for the confidence of even for the most inept klutzes of the world. So now, while I may not have the honey badger don't give a shot attitude of Travis or Jeff, I can usually manage to let the bike roll and release my death grip on the brakes.  Not that he was ever close to being in the same category of bumbling menace that yours truly flails about in, but I have noticed that Ventana Jeff has stepped up his downhill game once he changed his name to Knolly Jeff II.

Not that I don't have a few quibbles to make about the ride.  I continue to detest the road we add to the beginning and ending of the ride to make it long enough to be worthy of a Wednesday night.  As usual I attempted to be intentionally late by making chores to do before I could leave: pick up kids, feed kids, feed dog, move pipes; then forget a critical piece of clothing; this time shoes. It almost worked.  Jeff and Dean tried the same scam, but Dean was early enough to catch the group just a little bit down the road, and forced us to turn around and park with everyone else

Given how many trees had fallen, the upper trailhead might have been a reasonable option, and let us ride down the gulley of the beast with a bit more light.  Thankfully Jeff had cleared the downhill the previous weekend and rerouted some of the water back into the creek.

Considereing that we had the biggest turn out of the year, one might think that there are more Weasel lovers than haters.  At least of the riders had been uninitiated so I guess time will tell, and while Joel was there, that was only because he couldn't make up an excuse that lived up to his reputation.

A quick post ride check at Red Barn the next day reported four bikes in for repairs.

Well everyone is in luck, I was planning on a long exposition of the importance of the post ride grill session, but I'm out of time for this post.

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.