Railroad Creek

You've been here before. Steven King said that his favorite opening line for one of his novels, and if was good enough for him, it's good enough for me to steal,  and I guess that is true figuratively : a hot  fire road climb, a whiff of smoke in the air, riding on Wednesday night, clearing a few downed trees, an overgrown creek side trail with hidden holes.

Literally almost none of you have been here.  Probably only five of the Wednesday riders have ventured onto Railroad, and even fewer have risked the bottom creek.  This season Jeff has made it his personal mission to clear the trail and we finished it last night removing the last few trees on the upper half mile.  This trail continues to grow on me, and all it needs is traffic to reestablish the trail. Sadly this week our numbers were down to a duo, me and the current dictator for life, so the trail remains a mere thread in places, and occasionally vanishes entirely.

You haven't been her before.  I heard the excuses. " I was working late."  "I'm resting up for the Como Tri." "I'm tapering for the Butte 50 and/or 100."  "I was having Italian Festivities."  At least the last one was original.  Since I've never had a woman try to entice me to skip a ride with an an invitation for  festivities, whether Italian, French, Vietnamese, or even English, I'm not sure what I would do.

You probably haven't been here before.  You are middle aged, fast approaching over the hill, still single, still trying out the online dating gig when you get this response to an email, 

"Okay, that was pretty funny...definitely made me chuckle. :) Thanks for your note. I do appreciate your interest and you sound like a really good guy. 

I never know quite how to say this without sounding extremely shallow, because I'm really not...but over the years I've figured out that I'm just not a girl who's comfortable with being taller than the boy. It's obviously not a reflection on you and is clearly my own thing. But, despite my giving it a shot on many occasions, I just end up feeling "big", and being almost six feet tall, have spent more of my life feeling that way than I'd like, so have just kind of made it a rule of thumb to not put myself in that position. 

So, again, I really do appreciate your note and wish you the best in your search, and I can only hope you don't think I'm completely ridiculous anyway. :) Take Good Care..."

Can you imagine if I have wrote back to a woman and said, "Don't think I'm shallow, because I'm not, but your breasts are just too small. If I can't get a nice handful, my hands just seem huge and I feel like I have Marfans."


OK, I get it society makes it hard on taller women, unlike slightly below average height men. Some of the preferences are genetically hardwired, and society has other expectations about masculinity  Still I guess this irritates me, probably since it's not the first time I've been blown off for not being over 6'.

I still trying how I'm going to have a talk about girls with my son, who appears destined to inherit my scrawny proclivities.  "Son, you just have to accept that now matter how smart you are, how funny, or athletic, how big your dick is, how much money you make, some women,  actually a lot more women than you would expect, won't go out with you simply because you aren't tall enough.

You've been here before.  Riding down a trail chasing the last rays of light.

You've been here before.  Downhills, smiles, wrecks.

You've been here before.  Beer and barbie at the the car.

You'll be there.  Next Wednesday. Blodgett Canyon followed by party at Beau's.

Palisades 2013

Every so often I get on the internet and check other blogs and ride reports and I have discovered that most are boring most of the time.  One blog went on for nine posts about some two day race he, his wife, and some of his friends did as team down in Utah. Maybe one picture per post, but you always knew how fast they were going, how steep the hills were, how many watts they were generating along with the elevation profiles of each section. Yeah I know I do that sometimes and writing a blog is inherently narcissistic, but to drag one ride out for nearly two weeks of posts. No thanks.  Of course he makes money blogging and you got to keep the advertisers happy, and it is hard enough to find something to write about once a week,  much less every day.

I know I'm having a hard time being creative, especially since I decided to stop writing about my lack of a love life.  But even revealing the nonexistent intimate details of my life how many times, in a variety of different ways does anyone want to hear about how I'm not getting laid.  Instead more of what everyone wants photos, and unedited videos.

Same thing with Palisades. By now everyone know it is a long, give me some DZ nuts painful climb. Usually hot,  even if clouds saved our eyes from a sweat bath.  Chad and Rob, the hard core duo weren't as lucky. They left early so they could tack on an extra twenty miles with a cruise out to Burnt Fork Lake before attempting the ridge.  That's some Butte 100 training for you.  So don't surprised if you a DNF by my name.  I just did the usual ass kicker Palisades loop.  For the reward, they had the sun on the climb, and some nice tasty overcooked dried out, half cold, leftover sausages that were about to be tossed in the bushes when we turned off the grill.

By now everyone knows I'm a slow as molasses climber.  I always figured that at least I was molasses that had been sitting out in the sun on one these recent toasty summer days.  But when Beau blew past me again and again and again I felt more like molasses on the North Pole on the winter solstice at midnight.  I know molasses at the south pole would be even slower, but I have some dignity and even I'm not that slow.

So how did Beau keep lapping me on a climb. Well he would race to the head of the pack, dust them, turn around ride back down, check on the straggler and repeat.  I'm glad I was lagging far enough behind to give him something to keep him motivated on the climb.

So was there anything unusual about this year's sojourn.  Well, Joel wasn't around to piss and moan about how long and hot the climb is, and then to piss more vinegar about all the rock on the way down.  The mosquitos seemed less pervasive, but them I pre coated myself with DEET at the bottom. (Reminder to self, don't wipe mouth with back of hand afterwards) No one bonked, a rarity for this ride. No face plant in the mud. (My speciality and  my introduction to the ride years ago)  Just fun, fun, fun this year. Plenty of time, somehow despite my laggard climbing we managed to do the loop faster than ever. Go figure.

Did I mention Beau was riding a carbon hard tail.  I understand the appeal for the climb.  I'm still flabbergasted that he and the bike are still in two pieces after the descent.

My apologies for the quality of the videos this week. With Chad galavanting on the optional out and back to Burnt Fork Lake, Travis was forced to putz along and film the decidedly slower options of either me or Warwick, yes our Dictator Emeritus made it for a ride this summer. I knew he couldn't miss this one, even if he couldn't finagle a shuttle out of one his family members.





For those who miss the elevation profiles and GPS mapping crap, there is some here from two years. I guess I missed last years joint ride with the Missoula crowd. Speaking of which, I think it is about time for some Blue Mountain tea bagging starting at Eric's house.



Finally for those who haven't heard, it's time to block out weekend of September 6-8 and join the Bitterroot Backcountry Cyclists for some shuttling and beer drinking on Warm Springs Ridge. Yes the Lost Trail Bike Fest & Shuttle Extravaganza is for real, unlike sharknados

Warm springs Ridge 2013

The ways of the gods are unknowable to man so I am ignorant as to whether those were tears of joy or sorrow that fell in response to the French Caboose's departure. Regardless of the motivation, they were a portent of what lay in store for us.

The gods were clearly in the mood for a celebration and in turn treated us to what may have been the penultimate Wednesday ride in a long series of excellent rides.  The angels tears and overcast skies  keep us cool on the grind up the ridge.

Along the climb the almost overwhelming scent of lupine filled the damp air.  Blossoms of bear grass on the side of trail blazed like LED headlamps when backlit by the occasional appearances of the sun.

I don't know the physics behind what moisture does to sandy soil whether it changes the angle of repose or changes some adhesion coefficient, but I know what it means for riding; skittish sand is converted into hold me, squeeze me, never let me go loam.

With the solstice having occurred only a few days earlier, the long days allowed us to extend to ride nearly two miles past Fire Creek and up to the ridge crest. We were rewarded not only with dramatic clearing skies, but with one more section of screaming downhill.  With only one tree having fallen since trail day.  The only thing left was the memorable Fire Creek downhill, or for some of us Warm Springs Ridge.

Speaking of the gods, I can shake my head in wonder in how fast I was dropped on the climb. 100 yards and two switchbacks and I had already fallen off the back of the herd of mountain goats flying up the trail. Along for the ride were several Wednesday virgins.  What a way to lose your cherry.

While I have occasional tried to keep up with these god/goat hybrids, does that make them satyrs, I have long ago tried to give up on trying to stay with them on the downhills. Watching the GoPro videos primarily of Chad and Travis I was amazed to watch them gaining speed and pedaling through sections that I had been riding my brakes.  I wish I knew how they did it, since brakes seem to the bane of my downhills. I only wreck when I use them.

Still a very satisfying downhill from me, cleaned the switchbacks and survived without injury.  Something that couldn't be said for Travis.

Apparently the encounter with the hidden tree was impressive in real time.  The video, while showing the brush with fate, doesn't appear to do it justice.

Even with the long day, we didn't return to the grill and beer until near sunset with festivities continuing  until 11:00.  It was only until I started the ride report did I realize two faux pas for this requiem to Jean. I suppose instead of the farewell hug we should exchanged the european style quasi two cheek kissy kiss, and I totally neglected to get a photo of him the entire ride.


Still I wouldn't be surprised to see him and his Audi skulking around these parts in the future. Until then I imagine I will need to resume my post as the caboose. It's been great riding with you Jean. Good luck in Moscow.

Camas Lake 2013

I guess there is no need to be gentle. I had a an off night yesterday. I sucked like a sorority girl at her first frat party.

I forgot to check the battery on the GoPro, so we missed out on a video of Chad putting his new Alpino through it's paces on the Camas rock gardens.  I forgot to check to make sure all the nuts and bolts were tight on the Mojo, so my rear axle backed itself out and my rear tire almost fell out on while catching a little air on the humps. Makes me wonder if my hair is going blonde rather than gray. I chose the wrong landing zone on another kelly hump on the ATV track from  the Lost Horse Overlook and had a closeup with a rotting log.  I even committed the ultimate faux pas of skipping out on beer, heterocyclic amines, and polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons.

 Worst of all I had no endurance on the climbs and was repeated dropped from the pack as fast as a sorority girl who won't give head. Riding alone as a loose caboose I missed out on any juicy tidbits to share, and didn't get a chance to find out what mental disorder inspired them to ride hard tails (It's not that I have anything against hard tails, I just picked up one myself, it's just that Camas is Camas), just who the bunch of new faces were, and how the several infrequent flyers were doing.  

About the only good news is that I can once again suck through my camelback bite valve. I'm hoping it's temporary adrenal suppression after stopping the steroids on Sunday, and not some sudden loss in fitness.  Even my lunch rides have been slow. When I look at my strava logs I'm riding several minutes slower than I was the week before.  I feel like my clutch is worn out with me stuck in second gear.

Since I'm in a groove of suckiness this week, this ride report might as well suck as well.  The End.

Weasel Creek 2013

Every so often there are days that I really appreciate being alive, because well the alternative isn't so hot as this fawn discovered after he was left dangling 30 ft above the ground after being impaled by the talons of a hungry eagle and dropped into the branches of an accommodating Ponderosa.

In addition, like my most seemingly healthy adult males I have a firm rule against visiting a doctor for anything other than broken bones or life threatening exsanguination.  Sadly I had to break that rule two weeks ago after some virulent Streptococcus decided to have an orgy in my middle ear leaving me deaf,  feverish, and doped up on Vicodin as I thought my head was going to go all Cronenberg on me.  Eventually those gram positive cocksuckers managed to perforate my ear drum, not enough to relieve the pressure, just enough for my war to ooze pus for a couple of days.  Sometime during all of this along with fevers having me shivering under a down comforter, and sweat soaked sheets, the left side of my face decided to stop working and I was having a hard time blinking and leaving half my face looking like Joan Rivers after a particularly aggressive botox treatment.

As an aside to the new dads amongst us, you can be relieved to know that ear infections in adults are a different beast than the viral infections your rug rats will inevitably will get. So don't panic and feel a need to dose them with antibiotics. They will be just fine.

 Luckily after having some holes poked into my ear drum, a bunch steriods and antibiotics I was feeling good to climb Sawdust the next day, but my balance was off enough the idea of doing Weasel last week would have been too stupid even for me.  So being the narcissist I am, I was glad it rained, giving me time to recover,  except the facial palsy which made drinking out of a camelback an interesting ordeal. Still things could be worse, I could have a pudendal nerve palsy leaving me with a pecker rather than a pucker dysfunction.

In general, when Weasel Creek is the ride I usually show up late intentionally, so I have an excuse to skip the extra road miles.  This time without a dictator or road rabbits to enforce the orthodoxy, I discovered that I wasn't the only one with an aversion to extraneous road miles, so in a frenzy of rationalization we decided that by driving up to Weasel Creek we would have extra time to ride/hike all the way to 313.  Unfortunately for the latecomers, they were more punctilious are now were not only late, but had an extra three miles of road to make up. Apparently they took having a deer nearly dropped on their head as a propitious omen on the righteous of using the lower starting point.  All I know is that by the time they staggered out at sunset all the elk burgers and wild boar chops had been consumed, and all that was left was the remnant of a sausage on the now cold grill.



Chatting on the climb, I discovered another shared experience.  Usually when I go home after a ride I'm still wired and feel a little frisky and in the mood for some bonding, which for most of us on the ride implies an exchange of bodily fluids and not a discussion of our post ride emotions, except for Rob. I'm sure Rob goes home to talk about his feelings, "I'm feeling good. I'm happy.  I'm horny. You look hot. Let's make it happen." Despite my empty bed, I still share the same end result as the partnered folks. For some reason the mamas don't seem interested in a post ride tickle, or a conversation.


As I mentioned we were planning on riding to 313, but shortly after the junction and climbing once again, the drizzle evolved towards rain.  Having not yet been stimulated by the downhill, and not yet feeling amorous, fears of having to spoon with a once again underdressed Chad dissuaded us from pushing to the Sapphire Crest. Inevitably the rain stopped once we headed downhill,  adding a pleasant grippy tackiness to the trail without greasing the roots and rocks excessively.

At the risk of becoming maudlin, it was awesome to have a younger Bender along for the ride, even though usually one Bender is more than enough. Luckily for us Nate must have inherited his mom's finer qualities.  Even more important than seeing the torch being passed on to a second generation is the  fact that a mom will do things for her son that her husband, even one as deserving as Joel,  no longer warrants.  So we were all rewarded with a goodie cooler filled with perfectly formed elk burgers, beer, and cookies.

On a related note. I have heard a rumor that once Bitterroot Brewery starts canning, they want a new IPA with a mountain bike themed named.  Something that screams Bitterroot, with a good backstory, but still has that universal appeal.  I  thought we could name it after its creator, kind of like Red Dread, maybe Bald Top. Not that I should be talking. I thought of a bunch of lame generic names: granny gear, big ring, bash guard, rock drop.  When I think of what the beer should be. I imagine the beer you pull out of a pack during a good break, preferably from someone else's pack that you had stashed the treasure in. There has got to be a name for that.  Pack 'stache IPA? No, not quite right.  Anyway,  Aaron I left a PBR in your camelback.

RIP

This weeks ride report has preempted by important news.  Buttercup was awesome as usual.  Feel free to read last year's report.  A different cast of character, otherwise about the same.  To the new faces, welcome.

It is with a heavy heart that report the passing of a good friend and fellow rider, J Hanrahan. When I first started riding with the posse J was always there with a laugh and smile. Once I eventually managed to acquire the endurance and skills to hang with pack, he was the one I tended to hang with on the climbs, and not just because he sported a cute lycra clad butt while the rest of us tended towards baggies.

 I remember a couple of years ago convincing him to join me on a to early in the season Warms Springs/Fire Creek Loop ride, trooping through snow on the ridge top.  On the descent he generously and with his usual laid back cool rode sweep at my pokey pace far slower than his usual high speed descents.

I have lost count of many times we have been out on ride with frozen feet from trekking through snow and crossing stream overflowing with snowmelt.  Long days of sore asses and fighting the urge to lay down and take a nap.

There is one moment that I will forever be grateful, after a ridiculously cold ride at Coyote Coulee my feet were numb and despite fresh dry socks, I was having a hard time standing and enjoying the post ride camaraderie.  Sitting in the cab of his Toyota warming my feet with the engine running, resisting the urge the cry like a school girl as warmth and feeling returned to my toes in stabbing waves of pain.

Beyond the curly blonde locks that he can still wear over his collar, something I will forever be jealous of since my ponytail has long since been a victim of male pattern baldness, I will remember the perennial loafers on his feet before and after rides.

J was last seen heading off to go fishing  along with a cooler of his tasty all grain, no store bought extract, home-brew.  He is survived by his long time partner in crime Shrek, his wife Mo, three daughters, and I think even a few grandkids.  If you run into his ghost in town, remind him that even ghosts are welcome to ride with us, especially if they supply the beer.

I have heard that bad news and deaths comes in threes, so with some alarm I must report that two other members of the old guard have been reported as missing.  Our favorite Kiwi, and former dictator for life was last seen at The Canyon sweating profusely as he pushed himself to the limit going nowhere on the Versaclimber and muttering something about it being too cold to go outside. Hopefully someone checked the sauna to make sure he wasn't passed out inside.

Dean the Machine was reportedly in Moab mountain biking last week,  but the source is unconfirmed and of dubious reliability.  Until physical proof or visual evidence of such an event is obtained this will remain in the realm of rumor.  He was last definitely seen wearing running shoes and running shorts at something called the Boston Marathon.  He was not among the list of those injured by the blasts, and his location since has been a mystery.

As I get closer to middle age, one fact that I have to face is the inevitable loss  of friends and colleagues.  Along with the above three metaphorically missing people, I can't help but think of the others who for various reasons no longer ride with us, whether due to physical issues or moving on with their lives.  I came across this following photo and realized that everyone it no longer rides on Wednesday night, or in Jean's case, is soon to leave us.

Riding Buttercup last night and afterwards drinking beer with friends new and old, I was once again amazed at how lucky I feel to have met such a amazing group of people.  To be honest I have a hard time imaging my life in the Bitterroot without the folks I have met while on a bike.

So I guess what I'm trying say without getting all beer commercial sentimental on you is get off your lazy fat asses, tell your wife, your girlfriend, boyfriend, or pet fish that you have an emergency because, goddammit, we miss you mother fuckers