Potlatch with a Pot Lunch...

Okay, the 2nd Annual Bootlegger's Bliss is on a roll like a renegade keg barrel down a cobblestone street. There's no damn thing stops this ride! The high temperature on Satyrday is supposed to be about 57 60° F, with clear skies all day...almost perfect weather.

Those of you who have "registered" should look for a new email this evening that provides additional important details (for example, START TIME—thanks DT!). There's still room for a few more participants, so if you're genuinely interested, send an email to BBpotlatch@gmail.com asap, and I'll add you to the rogues gallery. (UPDATE: Second email has been sent; check your mailbox.)

For now, one important reminder: in addition to the dirt ride and homebrew-tasting components, the Bliss is a pot lunch affair. Participants are expected to bring a dish that they can share with others. Homemade foods are the gold standard for all the obvious reasons (hint: this is a DIY event!). Think about your particular beer style, think about a complementary food, then make it and bring it! If your dish requires reheating, you should make the necessary arrangements (gas stove, etc.) to effect this in situ. We hope to have one gas stove on hand, but there's no guarantee, so please be prepared—cold chili is a crime...and not the good kind, either.

Also, rumor has it that a certain madly-skilled photographer will be clicking away in our midst, so pretty-up yourself if it matters to you!

Lastly, some early good news: looks like there just may be a little swag on hand for distribution this year, if all goes as currently planned, meaning if whUPS meets the scheduled delivery date.

SAVE GAS, SAVE MONEY, SAVE THE PLANET: CARPOOL!

"Conversation. What is it? A Mystery! It's the art of never seeming bored, of touching everything with interest, of pleasing with trifles, of being fascinating with nothing at all. How do we define this lively darting about with words, of hitting them back and forth, this sort of brief smile of ideas which should be conversation?"
—Guy de Maupassant

"Relax. Don't Worry. Have a homebrew!"
—Charlie Papazian, The Complete Joy of Homebrewing

Homebrew Update: With secondary fermentation still limping along in the carboy, my Tripel Threat Belgian Ale is going to be on the green side come the day of raucous rapture. Looks like I'll be kegging in some capacity after all. Ah, well, not much to be done, besides reminding myself that additional waiting time just means more time for dry-hopping. Small consolation, but I'll take it.

Photo credits: B. Ramsey

To Have and Bike Not...

Not one to shill for any company unless there's a particularly compelling ethical reason (true altruism, environmental sensitivity, fair pay practices, kindness to small animals, etc.), I have to give a warm pat on the back to the gents at Clif Bar* for this statistic-driven video:


Most disturbing statistic? Probably this one: the US—the erstwhile land of plenty and reigning fast-food franchise champion—has the highest per capita bicycle ownership in the world...but it's at the bottom of the list for using them.

"Appearance is everything."

Ride your bike.

*I do have to confess an almost maniacal penchant for the Clif Kid ZBars, particularly the Chocolate Brownie flavor.

Tip o' the hat for this one goes to the ever vigilant WashCycle.

For more on the Clif Bar 2-Mile Challenge, go here.

Overnight Success Story (Part 1)...

“Damn, I forgot my gloves. That’s not going to cut it.”

It’s Saturday. It’s late. Well, late for a semi-impromptu overnighter ride from Northern Virginia to Harpers Ferry and back. I’m in Georgetown along with Donna, who has kindly decided to accompany me on this poorly planned excursion. Our bikes are loaded down with gear; the black, overstuffed panniers droop from the racks like spoiled fruit. Gear, yes...and beer: a bomber of Weyerbacher's Imperial Pumpkin Ale and eight cans of trekker-friendly Dale's Pale Ale ("Pack It In, Pack It Out", indeed!), all of it getting warmer by the minute as, overhead, the sun rolls along its own heavenly trail. But I need gloves, there's no getting around it; the rough terrain of the C&O Canal Towpath can rattle the bones right out of your bare hands over long distances, especially when you're rolling on skinny tires and a rigid frame. This oversight is an omen, a metaphysical message that whispers just above the audible threshold, "hey, you, listen well...it's not gonna be a good weekend for you on the bike, my friend, oh, no...reconsider...you've been warned."

I don't listen well. Ma tête est comme un diamant, mais sans brillant!

It's 1:30 in the afternoon. I had wanted to leave no later than 11:00 a.m. But preparing for an overnighter on the morning of departure demands concession. No matter, the show must roll on, and us along with it.

We dock the bikes outside of Revolution Cycles, and I wander in to check out the merch. I find a pair of Castelli gloves that look nicely padded in all the right places, try on the XLs, and make for the counter, another satisfied customer. The chick who rings me up takes my word that I’m a WABA member and fronts me the 10% discount, despite the absence of my membership card (apparently, "in the system" has multiple meanings). Nice.

Outside again, we hop on the bikes and wobble up the sidewalk to cross over M Street. The pavement is packed with traffic, as the sidewalks are with shoppers—my usual blind luck has placed us smack in the middle of Yuppieville during the 14th Annual Taste of Georgetown festival. We proceed across and up M Street, briefly separating in the colorful ebb and flow of a crowd that seems to mill about on instinct. The throng is a single, undulating organism adrift in the opiatic haze of a shopping stupor. Today Only! Half-Off Synthetic Self-Esteem! Better buy two, just to be sure.

Adding to the natural pandemonium are cops at the street crossings. They direct pedestrians instead of traffic, betraying a pathological preference for the mechanical over the metabolic with commands like, "hurry up, the light has changed!" and "c'mon, c'mon, let's move!" I stare back at one who does his best to stare me down. His face is weathered, and he scowls distastefully at this impudent mutant, this mobile hobo in an overpriced wifebeater who dares to occupy the niche—figuratively and literally—between walker and driver. Justitia omnibus, my ass. Ah well, it's a shitty gig, I'm sure.

I meet up again with Donna on K Street under the Whitehurst Freeway overpass. The steep hill down to K was a test of strength, as the extra weight and the 50x16 gearing had me battling the cranks for cruise control. We roll onto the Capital Crescent Trail, the start of our journey, and take it down to the first "on ramp" to the C&O Canal Towpath. But first, in a rare display of forethought, I stop to leave a cable lock attached to a kiosk, so that the post-ride pub stop tomorrow will be agreeably uneventful. And so that I don't have to pointlessly huck the extra weight.

Once on the towpath, the ride out goes well. We make good time, and though Donna is running a single speed set up with a 42x16 gear and loaded down with panniers (a first for her), she's able to stay with me for the most part over the miles. The weather is more than we could ask for; the temperature is in the low 70s, the sun has kicked every cloud out of the ribbon of blue sky separating the treetops on either side of the trail, and any thought of rain is only a wayward memory. We have 60 miles ahead of us, almost 70 overall, and my plan is to take a break for a few minutes every 15 miles or so.

The trail is surprisingly free of leaves, and we come upon only one downed tree blocking the path. The lack of thunderstorms recently has meant little debris and no puddles to contend with. In some places, the remains of fallen walnuts stain the earth in ragged ring-patterns that morbidly suggest gunpowder tattoos. Those that survive the fall intact are like giant green marbles to the blind tire. We weave through them at speed.

The canal appears as it always does, though obviously much has changed since its forced retirement from the coal business more than 80 years ago. Unemployed and left to fend for itself, the water is still, dark, and mysterious in most places; brackish where it lies completely undisturbed. Hulking willows and black walnut trees huddle like old friends along its banks, and in their solemn shadows a thick, green coating spreads across the water's surface like a rash.

There are times as we roll along when we're tempted to break out a beer. But we resist, knowing how much better they'll taste later, at the random campsight we plan to happen upon near Harpers Ferry. Assuming one is available, that is.

The miles limp by. Though the towpath is flat for the most part (with an elevation change of only 605 feet over nearly 185 miles), distance is surrendered grudgingly, and 60 miles of canal riding in a day can get to you, beautiful scenery notwithstanding. The countless jolts and vibrations add up like língchí, until the thought of more time in the saddle gives way to a crippling malaise.

Just past mile marker 50, we reach the first campsight I had considered, Bald Eagle Island campground (where in June I suffered alone the plaintive howls of CSX trains barreling through the darkness all night long), only to find it occupied. The Indian summer we're experiencing has attracted cyclists and hikers looking to take advantage of the mild temps before winter snows blanket the trail like a funeral pall. We press on.

A short time later, we stop again, certain that a solid 20 miles stands between us and our fuzzy destination. It's late in the evening now, sometime after six, and dusk has snuck into the woods on the feet of a cat burgler¹, stealing the daylight. After talking with some cyclists heading in the other direction, we find out we're only 10 miles from the finish—my aforementioned lack of planning had left us relying on my memory that Harpers Ferry was near mile marker 70. Sometimes it's good to be wrong.

Encouraged by the news, we saddle up and lay it down at a good clip, racing the moon, who has arrived early for the nightshift. Somewhere near mile marker 58, we happen upon a large campsite inhabited by a lone tent zipped shut against the coming of nighttime. Not knowing how many other sites lie between us and the town, and weary enough to be done now, we opt for this one. We set up camp as far away from the other traveler as possible, trying to be quiet as we unpack. I begin to assemble my new two-person tent for the first time. It comes together smoothly in no time at all, and we decide to climb back on the now-unburdened bikes and venture a little more than two miles up the trail to visit Harpers Ferry for some grub and a beer.

In no time at all, and guided only by blinker lights, we arrive near the base of the mountains at Maryland Heights. We heft our bikes up the steps of the footbridge that spans the Potomac River, then ride across the bridge and down the ramp on the other side. We climb into town over cobblestone roads, hoping that the Armory Pub has something good on tap. It's just before 9:00.

End, Part 1

¹Yes, I've read a little Sandburg in the past and yes, some of it stuck.

Tripel Delight...

The perk is on. The Belgian Tripel I'm brewing for the Bliss is eructing like an angry volcano, having started only two hours after pitching the yeast.

Seven hours later, the fermentation lock looks like a methed-up miniature lava lamp, with CO₂ gurgling out at a rate of one burp a second. The krausen is kicking and this one is growing fast; hopefully not too fast!

Here's the workup, more or less in order of inclusion:

Tripel Threat (Belgian Tripel)

5 gal Triton Spring Water
4 oz Gambrinus Honey Malt - Lovibond 20
4 oz Dingemans Belgian Carapils Malt - Lovibond 7.7
7 lbs Briess Pilsen Light Dried Malt Extract
8 oz Maltodextrin
1.5 lbs Light Candy Sugar
1 oz Styrian Golding Hops (Bittering)
½ oz Styrian Golding Hops (Finishing)
20 g Fermentis Safbrew T-58 Dry Brewing Yeast - Saccharomyces
       cerevisiae
1 oz Hallertau Leaf Hops (Dry hopping)

UPDATES:
10/16/07: Racked to the secondary.
10/18/07:: Dry-hopped with one ounce of Hallertau loose hops.
10/23/07:: Still fermenting: bubbles in the fermentation lock at a rate of about one every thirty seconds—this one's going down to the wire!
10/31/07:: Bottled!

Agony and Bliss...

The Outlaw's 1903 Agony...er...Adventure Ride II went down yesterday, and I have to say it was probably the toughest single-day fixed-gear ride I've done to date. No surprise there, really. Sixty-six plus miles in the end, up and down what I have to believe are some of the toughest hills Frederick has to offer, paved or gravel-coated. Hope to have a write-up with pix soon. Okay, that's the agony half.

The bliss half is, well, the Bliss. The Bootlegger's Bliss is happening Satyrday, November 3rd, and promises to be the greatest mountain biking, homebrew-tasting event on that day in the mid-Atlantic region within one hour of DC, bar none. Come out and enjoy up to 20 miles of tight, fast, and fun singletrack, followed by a sampling of some of the area's best homebrew.

If you're interested in attending, please:

1. Send an email now to BBpotlatch@gmail.com expressing your interest. You'll receive an email reply within a day or two with more information.
   
2. Read this post for an explanation of the event and some details.

If you plan to brew and bottle, get it done today—you're pretty much at the deadline now if you want carbonated beer.

If you plan to keg, as I do, you still have some time to procrastinate, but not much.

Hope to see you there.



Credit for the above pix goes to one B. Ramsey, who risked life, limb, camera, and lens to record Sunday's sufferfest.