Gwadzilla's Worst Nightmare...1

...comes to life.

Introducing Azonic's latest helmet offering, the Surround Sound, a brain bucket that comes prewired to get busy with your MP3 player. Azonic's site claims that the integrated speaker system "doesn’t restrict outside noise", but I have to believe that depends on user volume preference.

To be fair, the helmet is of the BMX variety and isn't the sort of thing you typically see on the heads of cyclists cruising the city streets (excepting some elements of the messenger crowd, of course), where full employment of all of the senses is, arguably, a little more critical. Still, I think a better (and more imaginative) name might have been Hear No Evil.²

Judging by the model on the site, this thing scores big with rad little hottie punk-poseurs of the Avril Lavigne genus. Huh. You'd think the danger of riding helmetless would hold greater attraction.

1 Mount Pleasant's own answer to the Cardiff Giant often posts about the plugged in, tuned-out people he meets on the bike and the dangers they pose to themselves and others around them.

2 Full Disclosure: I often ride jacked into a Shuffle. And there are times when I can be found in a state of mild inebriation whilst behind the bars (the handlebars, that is!). Finally, there are even occasions when I pedal under the distracting influence of powerful emotions and what I consider to be profound thoughts. End true confessions.

Multi-tool Personalities...

Reviewed: Park Tool I-Beam Mini Fold-Up w/ Chain Tool (IB-3)

Ah, the multi-tool...where would we cyclists be without this jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none? A good multi-tool eschews the glorious, self-aggrandizing path of the specialist, preferring a more cosmopolitan approach to the world, where "getting by" in a variety of situations is more practical than excelling in any one. It's the socialist of the tool world, a classless microcosm where no single implement dominates or exploits another.

Exordium -
The Park Tool IB-3 sits at the top of the company's trinity of I-beam themed multi-tools, offering up to fourteen (depending on how you count) tools in a compact, relatively lightweight design. The "award winning" I-beam configuration, in addition to lending strength to the tool body, affords four "compartments" in which the separate tools recess. The whole package has a low profile and a nice hand-feel. Weight (6.4 oz. or 180 g.) is respectable, given the steel and aluminum-alloy construction, and compares favorably to similar offerings from other companies.

I carry this tool in a seat bag on my fixed gear and I've owned it for about 3 months.

Ingredients -
Features play out as follows, stolen from the Park Tool website and slightly modified for brevity:

• 1.5 hex wrench
  
• 2 hex wrench
  
• 2.5 hex wrench
  
• 3 hex wrench
  
• 4 hex wrench
  
• 5 hex wrench
  
• 6 hex wrench
  
• 8 hex wrench
  
• T25 star (brake rotor bolt) driver
  
• standard screwdriver
  
• composite-wrapped tire lever
  
• two spoke-wrenches:
  
  1. "0" (3.23mm nipples)
     
  2. "2" (3.45mm nipples)
• 10-speed compatible chain tool

Design -

Good:
The IB-3 is aesthetically pleasing. The comparatively compact configuration, recessed tools, and absence of sharp edges mean that it rides well in a saddle pack or pocket. The aluminum alloy I-beam body is light, strong, and flex-free—a characteristic sorely lacking in many multi-tools that feature a plastic housing. The blue color, a Park Tool standby, comes off a bit prissy on a hand tool, owing to an odd and presumably unintentional shade disparity—a common issue with anodization—and a glossy sheen that is anything but proletariat.

Evil:
The I-beam design is not exactly palm-friendly in action. The unused tools tend to bite into flesh when applying torque (e.g., using a hex wrench). The discomfort may be reduced by prophylactic use of a glove, something I don't often wear out on the road during the summer. A minor snag, really, but I thought I'd point it out for the delicate of hand.

Function -

Good:
All hex wrenches are made of hardened steel of an undisclosed alloy. As mentioned above, they fold nicely into the I-beam body, with the slotted tire lever/chain-tool handle sliding onto tabs along one side. The star driver is nice to have if you run disc brakes and need to tighten or loosen rotor bolts in situ. The chain tool/I-beam interface is solid and offers ample leverage. The slim tool body means easy rotation when turning a bolt with the wrench extended 180°. Overall, the tool feels solid and durable, with no discernable play at the junction where each tool attaches to the body.

Evil:
All of the "driving" tools are very short, even for a multi-tool. A short shaft (cue the cock jokes) is an open call to battered knuckles, greasy hands, and a bad fit in tight places where the tool body bangs against parts of the bike. A slip on a tough rotor bolt could mean fillet of hand. Of course, this downside is the trade off you make when you're going for a short, compact design. There is no Phillips head screwdriver or bottle opener (very important to some of us).

The "composite-wrapped" (read: plastic) tire lever features a metal core to lend it strength. However, Park mysteriously failed to extend the metal core into the plastic lever tip. The result is a business end that is noodley under force, as I discovered recently while fixing an obstinate flat. This oversight, and the fact that there is only one lever with this tool, makes this feature all but worthless in most real-world applications, and raises the perennial question, do these engineer types even ride? The lever could be removed and discarded except for the fact that it also functions as the handle for the chaintool and as a spoke wrench.

Regarding the latter, the tire lever does an adequate job of adjusting the two most common sizes of spoke nipples. However, because it is a lever design, you cannot spin it 180° around the spoke as with a typical spoke wrench; thus, adjustments are made only in small increments and require a bit more dexterity and a modicum of patience.

The 8mm hex wrench is really a cap that fits over the end of the 6mm wrench—a common concession in the multi-tool world. In use, the 8mm wrench works as expected. The downside is that this small cap is easily lost in the field or on the street. What's more, it does not fit snugly enough on the end of the 6mm wrench to remain in place while somersaulting around in a seat bag.

The chain tool, though it is well-built, solid, and streamlined, is not without its drawbacks. Its weakness is the dead-horse tire lever, which has a nut-shaped hole in the center that fits like a box wrench over the head of the chain-tool drive shaft. Once attached, you spin the lever like a propeller to drive the shaft and push the rivet pin out of the chain. The problem here is not so much one of concept as it is of execution: the tire lever is so thin that it walks off the head of the drive shaft under force. Again, it works, but requires care and finesse, qualities in short supply when you're in a hurry or stranded in bad weather.

Purchase Worthiness -
Hmm...this is a tough one. I like the compact shape of this tool. The wrenches are tough and resilient. On the other hand, when I pay for something that has multiple features, I expect all of them to work satisfactorily, at a minimum. The lame tire lever, while clever enough in concept, blows it on the execution. This alone is no deal breaker, since I'm unflinchingly faithful to the Pedro's Milk Levers and wouldn't be caught flat on the bike without them. The quality of the other tools, the overall design, and the tool's fierce resistance to self-dissection in my seat bag—an underrated feature not "found" on several offerings from competitors—means the Park IB-3 gets a passing rating, though without a helluva lot of fanfare. Park Tool, if you're listening, some suggestions: beef up the tire lever, magnetize the 8mm wrench cap (or find some other effective way of holding it fast to the tool), and field test the prototype before unleashing it again on the public. With minimal modification, this would be a fine addition to any portable tool stable.

Sweet Southern Heat...

So, my first bottle of Speedy's #44 Hot Sauce arrived in the mail from Virginia Beach early this week, courtesy of that expertly-inked southern ruffian turned condiment cuisinier, Dr. Jimmy of 2Drunk2Shift fame. I say "first" bottle because after tasting this nuclear nectar, I fully intend to purchase more for the holidays.

Why? Simply put: FLAVOR! This stuff possesses that rare perfect blend of sweetness (peaches! carrots!) and fire (habaneros!) that lends itself so well to so many different foods, converting the mundane to the magnificent with just a few dashes.

Let's start with the label, a nicely rendered drawing of a skeleton on a scorcher, leering skull emblazoned with colorful tats and streaming flames engulfing bike and biker alike. A fitting image, it's at once wicked and whimsical, redolent of those hot-rod trading cards you'd get (along with a stale stick of gum) for a couple of coins as a snotty-nosed kid. On the back, the all-natural ingredients list (buy a bottle and read 'em yourself), along with contact information¹ for future purchases.

I first sampled this lava largesse on a carne-asado burrito I picked up from WholeFoods. Though it was a relatively large burrito, I think the amount of sauce I used—as evidenced in the pic below—still accurately conveys my opinion of this fine salsa del diablo.

Like an expertly crafted IPA that meshes malt and hops in a heavenly union, the sauce strikes a delicate balance between flavor and heat. Too many hot sauces are either blazingly hot for hot's sake out of some misguided machismo association, or (equally disdainful) skimpy on the scovilles so as not to offend the faint of gut. Any fool can dump a ton of scotch bonnets into the mix and blister the skin on the roof of your mouth, or use a callow jalapeno that leaves you craving something with a bit more ass to it. But it takes real skill to make the angel and devil dance nicely together. Jimmy appears to have done just that. Doubtless, Old Nick himself would approve.

Hmm, wonder how it tastes on oatmeal?

1. Want a bottle for your very own? Shoot an email to the following address (substitute @ for the AT--the sauce don't go well on that kind of SPAM): rooster790cc AT yahoo.com

Overnight Success Story (Part 2)...

NOTE: Part 1 is here.

The town of Harpers Ferry remains a perennially drowsy tenant of the South. Steeped unpretentiously in nostalgia, it waits at the door for the return of a vagabond era grown amnesic and effete, a once proud era of sinew and steel, of rebellion and retribution, its contours starkly limned in blue and gray. Peace slips into town between the roar and howl of lumbering locomotives, emerging unnoticed from the idle cars like a savvy tramp bent on secrecy.

This night, an unusually warm Saturday evening, the town is uncharacteristically dark and deserted. And then, pedaling up Potomac Street, we interrupt a procession of tourists on a ghost walk through the otherwise empty streets. They traipse along an invisible route like well-behaved ants, hoping to spy a spectral expatriot from a time when the blood of militiaman and raider alike mingled and flowed over cobblestones. If John Brown's spirit walks, surely it walks here.

We arrive at the Armory Pub, our destination, only to find that it has just closed, a victim of meager patronage and a staff all too willing to call it an early night. A couple appears on foot. Like us, they've found their way into town for a beer and a quick bite. They mention an alternative, a place called The Secret Six Tavern, located on the street behind the Armory Pub, and begin making for it. We continue up Potomac Street, checking to see what's open. But everything is closed. No worries, really. We have food and beer back at the campsite, but a little rustic atmosphere and comfortable (if temporary) accomodations are still in the crosshairs. A quick check of a barbecue joint offers little promise. We decide to try The Secrect Six on the next block.

Bacchus smiles upon us. The Secret Six is open. As we approach, a couple of women call out to us from the hostel across the street. They've noticed our bikes and want us to know that they've traveled two-thirds of the C&O over the past two days, and are resting up tonight for the last push in the morning. Impressed, we congratulate them and wish them luck on tomorrow's ride.

We roll the bikes onto the outdoor deck to leave them while we go inside. Just then, a small child emerges from the doorway, perches on the railing, and informs us that the bar is indeed open, but that the kitchen is closed. He is overweight, underhumored, and only half-full of good news. Satisfied with his public service, he hops from the railing and quickly disappears inside.

So, food is out, but perhaps the taps are worth a look. We wander in and make our way to the bar. They have Wild Goose IPA, among other less desirable offerings, and in the back row, something labeled Mountaineer Brewing Company Stout. We order a round, Donna opting for the Wild Goose sure-thing, me gambling on the local stout. We take the beer out onto the deck to be closer to the bikes and to enjoy the crisp night air. The view from the deck, even at night, is impressive, overlooking the railroad station and offering a panoramic slice of the mountains of Maryland Heights. As we take it in, a tiny kitten strolls out of the darkness, emboldened by hunger. He plays with me, sure that I have some food stashed somewhere, and though it's obvious I don't, he keeps coming back with renewed interest like a carnival rube.

We are suddenly joined by some ghost seekers who have traded in their spectral nets for a couple of cold pints. They fill the air with banter. Our beer is good; the stout is respectable, tasty, nicely emblematic of the style, but not over the top in any one direction. Perfect. A chill invades the evening air, and we move inside to finish the beer in warmth. We pay the 'keep, then mount up and roll down the hill toward the bridge.

The ladies from the hostel have retired for the evening. Overhead, stars puncture the night sky, suggesting pinhole burns in black velvet. We pedal up a ramp and over the bridge, mindful of the sudden drop to the stairs hidden in the darkness at the other end. Once on the trail, we travel quickly, anxious to get back to camp and get food and beer in our bellies. The mini blinker mounted on my bars is all but useless, as the feeble, gray-white light is quickly gobbled up in the inky void. We find the site and roll down to our tent. Our neighbor's tent shows no sign of life, and we wonder if (s)he has abandoned it. Its door and flaps and fly are battoned down tightly as if in preparation for a coming storm.


We break out the freeze-dried dinners and stove and get the grub on. On the menu: Chicken Terriyaki and Spaghetti with Meat Sauce, courtesy of Mountain House. And with it, some Dale's Pale Ale¹, a product of the Oskar Blues Cajun Grill & Brewery, Lyons, Colorado. Pound for pound, the world knows no finer on-the-go epicurean ensemble, I assure you.

Night settles deeply into camp, and we talk about the day's ride and the one that will come all to quickly with the dawn. Suddenly, the sound of splashing travels across the Potomac, as two drunken hikers wade across the shrunken river from the other side. They move through our camp, greeting us as they stagger up to the towpath. Neither of them is wearing waders. The sound of their laughter slowly disappears with them as they amble down the trail.

One by one, the beers surrender, and with the last, we do as well.

End, Part 2

1. Proud to call Maverick American a sponsor...says so, right on the can!

Food, Firkins,1 and Fat Tires: The Second Annual Bootlegger's Bliss (Part 1)...

I'm feelin' restless
Bring another score around
Maybe something stronger
Could really hold me down
—The Who, "Dr. Jimmy", Quadrophenia

If you missed the personally famous 2nd Annual Bootlegger's Bliss, well, a little self-flagellation should be added to your to-do list (unless, of course, you like that sort of thing, in which case you should abstain). Oh, and while your at it, might as well add next year's event². Then, before you forget, head out to your local homebrew store and set yourself up with the requisite gear so you'll have something to offer at the next one. Now on to the recap...

On the chilly morning of Satyrday, November 3, seventeen of the finest homebrewing mountain bikers in the US mid-Atlantic region (and their friends) made the pilgrimage to Rosaryville State Park in Upper Marlboro, MD, to throw down and throw down. Some journeyed from as far away as Massachusetts and Pennsylvania to attend this intimate but nonetheless burgeoning little event. The gods of drunken debauchery were with us, compelling (as gods are wont to do) the unsuspecting park authorities to leave the park road gates open for our little blissful bacchanalia. We didn't complain about this oversight; driving in a little closer to the pavilion meant we wouldn't have to huck our beer and food and gear the half mile to our destination. I don't mind hauling things by bike, but yeast sediment has a different opinion.

After waiting for all the participants to arrive, the event gets underway just after 10:00 ayem with a pre-ride lap around the Pavilion 2 parking lot to warm up. After that, we roll along the park road en masse to the trail head, where we drop in one by one onto a ribbon of sweet singletrack.

Butch takes the lead while I sweep. We spread out along the roller-coaster ride that is Rosaryville, a roughly 10-mile loop of fast, buffed singletrack designed with a bent for elation over enervation. Single-speed friendly? That's putting it mildly. With only about three or four "uphills" to call its own, Rosaryville is the sort of place you make for when you just want to turn off your mind, have fun, and not feel like you paid a price for it—it can even make for a nice recovery ride, depending on how hard you choose to lay it down. "Bliss" is an apt word here.

This morning, the trail is freckled with fallen leaves, unusual for the time of year, when trails are normally inches deep in a musty blanket of leaf litter. A protracted Indian summer has left the trees in a quandary over when to begin shedding their mottled finery. Foliage is just sparse enough to allow good sight lines at the normally blind corners, making for a speedy pace where a little caution might otherwise be in order. The earth is mostly dry, but not dusty, owing to a little rainfall whose essence lingers like an aftertaste here and there in the shade. Perfect conditions.

We stop occasionally to regroup. About mid-way through, we decide to hit the trials section to let the gifted among us showboat a bit and to give Gary and some others^3,4 who hucked their cameras along a chance to shoot some pix. Among the daredevils who step up are local legend the Single Speed Outlaw, Dave B. (fixed gear!), Rickyd (fixed gear!), DmofoT (SS, front brake only!), the Disco Cowboy (fixed gear!), Butch, Ernie, and a hard-riding chick named Lynn, whose talent and ad-hoc yarbles put us slack-jawed gawkers to shame. They take turns riding the log curve; some gain access via the barely-ramped ends while others choose to side-hop their way atop. Thrills and spills ensue, and this little episode ends on a chicken joust of sorts, with DT at one end going up against Rickyd at the other. Two matches conclude with one win apiece and a ton of laughs for the rest of us.

We mount up and head off again. Soon, we come upon the single log ramp at the trailside just before the park road that bisects the trail near mile five. The same characters (minus Lynn and Ernie) take turns putting on another show here. They shift and shimmy, start and stop to stay in balance as they trundle along the narrow log to launch off the end. The results are often comical, as when Rickyd muffs a reverse attempt and ends up giving new meaning to the phrase "sporting wood"—cue the banjo, if you catch my drift. After taking some shots, Gary decides to head back along the road to the parking lot to meet us on the other end of the trail for some more action pix.

The rest of us venture across the paved road and back into the woods for a short climb. The second half of the trail at Rosaryville always seems faster to me, and with the increase in speed comes a trebling of fun. We spread out a bit here, and I abandon the sweep and soon find myself behind ShivaSteve, who is skinny-tiring it on a fixed Il Pompino cross bike and making good time. It's Steve's first ride here, and he's carving the twists and turns as if they're already tattooed on his cerebral cortex. I stick to his tail for a while. At some point, he cedes the lead to me, and I angle around him and lay it down. I catch up to Lynn, who is, oddly, riding toward me. Seems she's lost the trail proper at a four-way intersection and needs a little guidance. I set her straight, then wait for the others to make sure no one makes a similar error.

Back on the bike, I catch several riders before the last climb, a short, somewhat steep up-n-over that gives way to a curvy downhill to the parking lot, where the sky once again expands just beyond the tree cover. The chilly morning has quitely surrendered to a most favonian afternoon, bringing with it a pronounced thirst for some tasty beer. I circle the lot to wait for others to emerge, after which we all begin the slog back along the park road to the pavilion, where the feast and gifts from the yeast await.

End, Part 1

1. Okay, truth be told, no firkins were on hand, but really, nine gallons of beer from any one brewer might have been excessive, even with this typically hard-drinking crowd. It's in the title only because I'm a fiend for alliteration—a shortcoming, I know, but let me wallow in my wanton weaknesses.

2. Speaking of which, rumor has it that DmofoT may host a springtime Bliss up in Massachusetts.

3. Photo credits, in order of appearance: B. Ramsey (1st); D. Ross (2nd through 5th); G. Ryan (6th, 7th, and final)

4. Links to more pix of the finks and the drinks and the hijinx are here and here and here and there. Additional perspectives may be found here and over at this little-known gem of a site.

Beta Testing for the Bliss...

US-made.


Double-sided.


Sized right.


Watertight.

Start time for the Bootlegger's Bliss—the "single greatest overhyped mountain bike ride-cum-homebrew tasting event to happen in the Mid-Atlantic region of the continental United States on November 3 in the year 2007" ¹—is 9:30 ayem. For your own sake, don't be late.

PARTICIPANT COURTESY CHECKLIST:

Homebrew (6-pack or equivalent and whatever is necessary to dispense it)

Suppin' Glass

Mountain Bike

Food (enough to share; preferably homemade)

Water

Change of Clothes

Sociable Demeanor

Utensils, plates, and napkins will be magically provided.

1. C. Papazian, "Of Wort and Dirt," Homebrewing Mountain Biker 12.1 (2007): 69.