Tuesday, November 29, 2005

When Burning the Turkey is a Good Thing...

(No pics for this one. I've managed to misplace my ELPH, and until I find it or replace it, the posts will be strictly chalk on slate. Of course, people who know me will say the camera is floating around somewhere in the back of my truck. And they're probably right.)

For the past three years, a group of us locals and not-so-locals have taken advantage of our holiday traveling to get in a little post-Thanksgiving Day ride in the mountains of southwestern Virginia, specifically at Douthat State Park, in Bath County. Dubbed the Turkey Burner Ride (TBR), the tradition is to meet in the park around 9 in the morning, pick a route from among more than 40 miles of exceptional trails, and then endeavor to burn off some excess calories by climbing up and bombing down the long and relatively steep stretches and tight switchbacks that characterize the riding in this part of the George Washington National Forest. Of course, all are encouraged to pack along some post-ride beers, just in case we burn too many calories.

For this year’s event, I decided to bring the single speed, though with the gearing pared down slightly from 32x17 to 32x18. In years past, I rode my full-suspension Aeon Isis, mostly because this was the one and only time in the year that I could justify hanging on to the squishy beast. Although the suspension made for a fun, comfortable, no concentration necessary ride, the spin-while-planted-in-the-saddle climbing method that is de rigueur for such bikes quickly drove me nuts and was at odds with my “normal” riding “style.” One ride a year on the Isis just didn't give me the chance to get used to the change. So, I decided to commit to my beloved Inbred. However, a solo ride at Douthat earlier in the year, coupled with a lingering hand injury from a recent spill at Elizabeth Furnace, convinced me that I could maintain a stronger grip on the bars and descend faster if I ditched my rigid steel fork just this once in favor of a Manitou BLACK sussy that was laying around my house, dreaming of lost dirt.

So, on the morning of Black Friday (aka Suckle At The Plastic Teat of Rampant Commercialism day), the alarm clock detonates at 7:30 with the between-frequencies chatter of competing country and gospel music stations. I slap blindly at the clock to put it out, and manage to drag my tryptophan-saturated ass out of bed to get my stuff ready. As in years past, I was spending the holiday in Covington—about 30 minutes away from Douthat—visiting with my girl's family.

I dress in the dark, then stagger out to the fridge to grab my breakfast, a cold peanut butter and banana wrap, hastily and sloppily slapped together the prior evening. As I force down the wrap, I glance out the back door window at the thermometer: 16 ° F.

Uh, yeah, nice.

Fortunately, it’s supposed to be sunny, there’s no rain in the forecast, and any lingering moisture on the trails has surely crystallized by now. Sounds like the right mix for near-perfect trail conditions.

I take my gear out to the car, fire up the engine to let it warm up, then retrieve my bike from where I'd placed it the night before—under a roof adjacent to the enclosed porch—just in case the mountains had conjured up a little surprise precipitation. The steel frame is so cold that my fingers and palms go numb as I hoist it up onto the rack on the hatchback. Securing the bike with the ratchet straps in the low temps is a game of skill and patience, but after a few minutes of fumbling, I'm all set.

Within a half hour of driving, I'm pulling into the park entrance, where an empty parking lot makes it apparent I'm the only one stupid enough to be out in the sub-20° temperature. I tuck three ones into the box slot at the empty kiosk (it's an "honor system" kinda day), pick up my parking placard, and pull into a spot. After unracking my bike and airing up the tires, I head into the ranger station in search of heat.

About fifteen minutes later, the boys start rolling in. Donny, Tim, Matt, and Will, all from Charlottesville, all in one car, followed by Jeff, from the Wintergreen Resort area, in another. I find out right away that I'm not the only one who will be pushing one gear, as Donny has brought his 1x1, clapped out with the same gear I'm running. I'm already changed, so the boys get on with it, all of us trying to best-guess how many layers we'll need. The topography of the Douthat trails is such that a rider will surely strip off at least one layer on the way up the mountain, only to put it back on again somewhere along the ridge in preparation for the constant, speed-induced chill of the multi-mile downhill. No way around it if you want to be comfortable on the ups and downs. I look at Matt. He's settled on two short-sleeve bike shirts with some arm warmers, and a pair of tights that have seen better days. Donny's outfit is almost as spartan. Apparently, insane riding styles dictate insane dress codes, or maybe it's the other way around.

We leave the warmth of the station and mill about in the parking lot, adjusting the bikes and filling the tires. Then we're off, taking the Tobacco House Ridge Trail up a short incline, then bearing left where it joins the Blue Suck Falls Trail. We roll through a couple of small creek crossings and make our way up a gradually increasing grade to the falls; Matt, Donny, Will, and Jeff in the lead, followed by me, then Tim. After only a few minutes of climbing, I'm burning up, and decide to stop and peel off a layer. Tim catches up and passes me. I hop on and give chase, standing on the pedals to gain terrain as the incline gives way to a switchback. The trail is covered in a thick blanket of loose leaves that masks the irregular surface beneath.

We cross the eponymous falls, and continue climbing on the Blue Suck Falls Trail. By this time, I've managed to catch up to Jeff, who is middle-ringing it the whole way in the saddle. It's simply a matter of physics; I'm running a larger gear and standing much of the way; if I'd had my geared bike, I wouldn't have caught even a glimpse of Jeff until the ridgetop. Of course, standing means I'm not likely to make the trip to the top without either a voluntary break or a blow-up. I stick to Jeff's rear tire for a while, huffing and puffing like a beached whale. It doesn't last long. I stop to suck some wind, and Jeff keeps right on steady peddling, disappearing around a slight bend in the trail.

I hop back on, and at some point, I see up ahead that the leading four riders are stopped, waiting on me and Tim before tackling the next upward leg. I join them, swallow some GU, and tell them to go on, since I have no problem taking another quick break until Tim arrives. Snow covers the ground just off the trail, waiting for the afternoon sun and the modest chance it offers to join the trickling creeks that bisect the valleys below. I don't really have time to get cold, because it isn't long before Tim rolls up. His breathing seems steady and he looks to be climbing strong, with little apparent effort. We hang out a minute or two, discussing the climb thus far, the weather, and how we feel. I've ridden with Tim only once before, last year on this very occasion, and I remember that he made an effort then to pace my slow ass so I wouldn't be the last one to the top. This really paid off when I broke a spoke, since he hung around while I wrapped it and adjusted my rear brake, bullshitting with me the rest of the way up to take my mind off the occasional and unwelcome rubbing of the warped rim on the brake pads. Helluva nice guy, to say the least.

We mount up again, and it isn't long before we more or less reach the top, traveling along on the Middle Mountain Trail. Eventually, we find our way to the Salt Stump Trail. Tim and I exchange places and begin the first real descent behind the others. Pounding down the narrow ribbon of trail, slicing through puffs of dry leaves like thick brown smoke that open and close around each passing rider, I'm digging the suspension fork as it effortlessly corrects for the hidden bad lines I seem to be "finding" beneath the litter. I let it all hang out, ignoring the exposure on one side, and catching up to Tim only at those points where I would be slowing down if I knew better. Tim knows the trails, and I use him like a traffic cone time and again, rushing up until I see him scrubbing speed for a hidden switchback, then following suit. It's a strategy that let's me relax, lay off the brakes, and really enjoy the speed for long stretches. There are times when the leaves are so thick on the off-camber path that none of us knows if we are on the trail proper or riding somewhere inches above or below it; we simply carve through short sections of what seems like the route until we are a bit more sure of our placement.

From the Salt Stump Trail, we head right onto the Pine Tree Trail to take on another long downhill that gets us out of the saddle and using our legs and arms like living coils and struts to guide our bikes along swatches of frozen earth and loose shale barely wider than the footprint of our tires. There are scattered mini-drops that let us get some nice air at speed before touching down again. The thrill of the descent is more than enough to make us forget the climb and the cold, and the adrenaline-fueled exhiliration lingers on in our minds and bodies long after the wheels have reached stasis, like the vestiges of some fantastic, psychotropic drug. It's a fix of sorts, the reason we showed up.

The Pine Tree Trail is the last arc of a jagged, misshapen loop that brings us back to the Blue Suck Falls Trail. Soon we are forced to dismount to hike the bikes over a rocky section that is all but impassable for anyone who isn't a solid trials rider with a pair of brassies to back it up. It's a short break, but just enough to spoil the descent a bit. We hop back on, and bang down the remaining stretch that is rockier than the rest of the loop.

At some point along the remaining half mile to the parking lot, I notice a distinct and very unsettling thunk coming from the front of my bike. Remembering that I threw the fork on late Wednesday night before my trip without a test ride, I'm figuring it's either loose in the headset or else it's low on air. Caution gets the better of me, and I stop to check it out. It's not the fork, but the hub, jiggling around in the lawyers tabs during this last part of the ride like a can of paint in a mixer. It's the result of a skewer that has worked itself loose. I had this problem once before on my Karate Monkey, using the same skewer, a Ringle. Nice-looking, light, but there's a reason Shimano skewers enjoy a better reputation, and it ain't all marketing. I tighten up the errant skewer, make a note to switch it to some other bike that's not running discs to see if that makes a difference, then throw a leg over the bike to catch up with the others in the parking lot.

We dismount and grab a drink before heading into the ranger station to discuss the possibility of getting in some more riding. We've rung up somewhere around twelve miles at this point, and I'm thinking about another six; specifically, the six of Brooklyn Brewery Black Chocolate Stout that's sitting all alone in a paper bag in the backseat of the car, chilled perfectly by the icy embrace of Lady Nature and pining for a little company. In the end, only Matt and Will decide to continue on riding; the rest of us rack up the bikes and head down to the Stony Run parking area to throw down a few and reminisce about the day's ride. It's a good time, what mountain biking is all about. It's still as cold as the proverbial witch's teat, but the sky is clear, the sun is beaming, and the stout tastes so fine I can almost forgive Jeff for bringing Heineken. Until next year...

Thursday, November 17, 2005

The Wheels of Revolution...

Some pics from the events surrounding Operation: Ceasefire, Washington, DC (9/24/05):

Berkman Would Be Proud



Show of Force



Brass Against the Brass



Monumental Loss



Magic Bus



"Welcome Back My Friends/To the Show That Never Ends..."



A Job for Godzilla



Who Pulls the Strings?



"Some People Call You the Elite. I Call You My Base."



Fellow Fixed Gear Fiend

Monday, November 14, 2005

"Imagine a Boot..."

While out on the fixie recently, I happened to notice this little Orwellian device planted just off the Custis Trail in Arlington:

Not sure exactly what it is, but it was staring directly across the trail at this, a rather unassuming hunk of plywood spray-painted Industrial Black with the utmost care and fixed with a cheap reflector:

I assume it was installed with the purpose of gathering data on the number of people using the trail in this area, but I haven't found any information on it anywhere online. Though it looked as if it had been weathering the elements a while, the Master lock adorning one side like an outsized earring was practically sparkling.

Whatever it is, someone obviously didn't appreciate its contribution to statistics in the public interest, and decided to register his or her dissatisfaction with a little smashy-smashy to the eyes:


Rust-flecked and wounded, tilted back slightly on its single skinny leg as though spavined, the little spybot looked forlorn and homely; might have to ride back and hit it with a nice pink WUSS sticker, just to give it some character.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

C(haos) & O(rder)...

From the early chaos of a very loosely-knit plan—cobbled together largely from overlapping emails and snippets of pub room conversations—to the order of everything falling together nicely—both on its own and with the help of some hard-working gents who wanted to do something nice for their ladies for putting up with their cycling-related shenanigans over the years—the (first annual?) "Ladies C&O Canal Towpath Ride" was a major success.

First up, special props go out to RickyD for brainstorming the whole gig and putting the wheels in motion. I know it wasn't easy, but you can be sure that all of us very much appreciated it.

Second, the real story here should be told from the perspective of the ladies, who came up with a name for themselves—the Femme Fatales—over the course of 60 miles of hand-numbing terrain, amid falling flecks of red, yellow, and gold like the radiant offspring of some technicolor snowstorm. Hopefully, they'll share their experiences over at Bikecentric. Until then, this limited view will have to suffice.

The plan itself was relatively simple: on Saturday morning, drop off the ladies at the visitor center in Cumberland, Maryland, near the towpath terminus (mile marker 184), drive to the Stickpile Hill campsite (mile marker 150), set up camp and have things in order for when the cyclists arrived, make dinner, drink, eat, drink, hang out, drink, sleep. On Sunday, make breakfast, see the ladies off, pack up camp, and meet them in Hancock (mile marker 125) for the conclusion of their ride.

All of us guys, of course, wanted to get in some riding, but the reality was that someone would have to drive to jockey supplies. In Cumberland, the decision was made to forego sweeps—riders following behind the ladies at a distance in case some disaster befell them—because it was felt that this would pressure them or otherwise cramp their style and intefere with the harmony of an all-female ride. Instead, after dropping off the ladies, four of us rode in two cars to Hancock, parked, and pedaled back to the Stickpile Hill campsite. In the meantime, the remaining guys drove to a spot just off the towpath near Stickpile, and began hauling most of the gear by bike and BOB a half mile or so to the campsite.

Those of us on bikes arrived at the campsite in about two hours. We helped haul the remaining gear from the car to our spot, then started setting up camp. Once everything was more or less in order and a few beers were uncapped, it wasn't long before someone set up a log pile jump on the edge of a dip that separated the campsite from the trail. This bit of daredevilry provided a good 15 minutes of skinny-tire entertainment, replete with endos and handlebar slippage. At some point, there were some porta-jon hijinx when one of us was pinned inside the stink silo by some well-placed fire logs.

Soon the Femme Fatales began rolling in. They had just finished 35 miles of towpath riding, and looked like they could have easily handled another 35. Any doubts we might have had about how much fun they were having quickly faded when we saw the smiles on their faces.

We made dinner (pasta and tomato sauce with sausages) and got a roaring fire going, around which we sat while drinking and joking for several hours. The ladies recounted stories about their passage through the Paw Paw Tunnel and the overly-friendly Ranger stationed at one of the locks. Featured beers for the evening including Clipper City's Loose Cannon Hop³ Ale, Lancaster's Hop Hog IPA, and a couple of big boy offerings from Great Divide (Yeti), Stone (9th Anniversary), and Bear Republic (Red Rocket Ale), along with some Lambics. By 10:00, the first couples had quietly slipped away to their tents to retire for the night. A couple of us holdouts, looking to supplement our stomachfuls of beer with additional foodstuffs, cooked up the remaining sausages on the campfire grill, which proved to be a daunting task as several slipped off and into the coals. Probably a good thing, since the two I managed to wolf down didn't seem to like sharing gut space with the blend of ale and stout roiling therein.

The next morning, the guys lumbered out of their tents to coax the coals into flame and whip up breakfast: pancakes, bacon, eggs, OJ, and, of course, coffee. We ate, then made PB&J sandwiches as a trailside lunch for the ladies, who were busy readying their bikes for the second leg of the ride. A few pics later, they were off to complete the remaining 25 miles to the cars in Hancock. We rounded up the bulk of the gear and hauled it a half mile down the towpath to the cars. Then the same four of us who had pedaled from Hancock to the campsite struck out again behind the ladies to ride the same stretch of trail as we did on Saturday, but in the opposite direction.

We left about an hour and a half after the ladies, but at some point we decided that a beer break was in order. So, around mile marker 140, at the town of Little Orleans, we banged a quick left off the towpath and through a small tunnel onto a road that led to a country tavern called "Bill's Place." This was the joint a group of us stopped at last year on the C&O ride, so we knew there would be some cold bottles of Yuengling Porter awaiting us inside. After parking the bikes, we were disappointed to discover that the place was closed; a sign on the door stated that this would be the case if the fishing was good. Apparently, it was. Just as we were getting ready to leave, the owner—a slight, elderly man with a permanent Pall Mall pinched between his lips—pulled in and quickly opened up.

Inside, surrounded by cozy decorations that included the ubiquitous Dixie flag, various retired hunting paraphernalia, dead-eyed deer heads, and a moldering Osama bin Laden hunting license poster, we polished off a six pack of said porter. The big screen TV was on, tuned to the obligatory football game. At some point, the station cut away to a weather report that informed us that some seriously crappy weather might be heading our way soon.

As we left, the rain was just starting, nothing heavy, but it made us wonder whether we would be pedaling through the thick of a nasty thunderstorm. We mounted the bikes and, as if on cue, the rain more or less subsided.

Back on the trail, the remaining fifteen miles passed quickly as we contemplated the changing cloud patterns in the sky, wondering whether we had outrun the impending storm or were instead heading into it. About a half mile from the cars, Jason kicked in the turbo and sprinted ahead to the group of ladies who were sitting by the canal, casually eating some ice cream treats and likely wondering where the hell we were.

We racked our bikes and headed over to a nearby local restaurant for some more beer and a warm refueling, and to catch up on the day's events. All in all, it was a great experience, with almost perfect weather conditions. No mechanicals to speak of from either group, and the ladies got a good taste of what the towpath is like. As we headed to our respective cars, there was already talk of future such rides and more mileage along the scenic C&O Canal.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

So Chocolatey...

10 Ingredients: Northwest Harrington & Klages, Crystal 135-165 and Beeston Chocolate Malts, Cascade Hops, Rolled Oats and Roasted Barley, Natural Chocolate Flavoring, Free Range Coastal Waters & Top Fermenting Pacman Yeast. No Chemicals or Preservatives.

Ebony in color with a rich creamy head. An earthy flavor of oats and hops that gives way to a rich chocolate truffle finish.





Oregon BrewedEstablished 1988
Oxygen Fixing Caps
15°69 IBU
77 AA135.45° L

Friday, November 04, 2005

Everyone Has to Take a Beating Now and Then...

Packing up my stuff and getting the bikes ready for this weekend's adventure, loosely titled "Ladies C&O Canal Towpath Ride;" more about which later.

For now, I'll leave you with this recent, extremely rare (and poor quality) post-dunking pic of none other than DT (of Fatboy Deluxe fame), whose scrawny 30mm front tire somehow managed to find the only hoof crater in the creek before tossing him into the drink like a poorly designed skipping stone. Extremely rare, because the boy's got some serious technical skills.The bugger got up so fast I didn't get a chance to snap the money shot.