Christmas card from a DJ in St. Paul

I-80 between Des Moines and Omaha is pitch black by 5 o'clock in the evening...not much traffic. Once away from the city, the only evidence of the wind turbines was their collision avoidance beacons, each firing off at a different time than those around it....a strand of giant red lights against black nothing. I must've spent 15 minutes trying to come up with a red light district joke that would work with a farming community tie in...but I got nothin'. Obviously I had begun to go a little car crazy with nothing but the hum of tires with 30% tread and green mile markers to look at. My phone's 'This American Life' app only works with a solid network connection, so that was a bust...consequently I think I memorized the new Cadillac Sky record.

One track in particular really got me inside my head. I had a full 90 minutes to remember.

I'm runnin' at 72 mph in a tin can, listening to this song and thinking about the time dad took me to Dairy Queen on the back of his motorcycle after I had worked in the yard all afternoon. I was so tired, I lapped at that ice cream cone for all I was worth. I remember struggling to stay awake after the exhilaration had worn off. All those brilliant moments when dad would make a sharp, swooping turn, and quick starts from a stoplight where he'd goose that old 550 enough to snap my head back a little. Permagrin.

I remembered how excited mom used to get around this time of year, how her Christmas spirit was indefatigable. Thanks to mom and her Christmas club account, us kids always had some nice gifts and appreciation for the meaning behind them on Christmas morning. I was a little disgusted to remember how we would chuck the socks and undershorts aside, and how we'd empty the fruit from our stockings right back into the crisper. Mom told me once that they always got fresh fruit in their stockings when they were kids, that was a real treat. And I'll be honest with you, I kinda wish I had gotten some boxers and socks this year, I'm in need. The toiletries mom put in there would be welcome, too.

My brother and I connected on a new level this trip. We played guitar for two hours straight Christmas Eve...and I just want to say that all the time and money I've spent on guitar lessons and practicing paid off some huge dividends. I recorded us playing there in his basement...they'll never go gold, but they are to me.

I left home with anticipation, and was not disappointed. I left feeling like a ghost and returned whole and buoyant...renewed.

And I'm just getting started into the planning stages of next summer's trip into the Badlands with my brother from another mother.

Take it with me when I go

Flying solo on Thanksgiving night, I rolled down to the nearest watering hole in the wall for a snort or three. The neighborhood tavern. Just a bar, where people go to lie about their lives and the places they've been. The kind that is slowly dying off these days, where the folks that live stumbling distance away used to gather for a game of pool...watch sports on some beat up old television with $2 PBRs. No frills, no credit cards. Everybody knows each other in these joints. Sit there long enough by yourself and you'll be drawn into a conversation about God knows what. Be yourself, because they'll probably remember you on the next visit.

You don't have to worry about any neon...no store-bought kitch on the walls. No video jukebox thumpin' some horseshit at full volume in the corner. No trivia night. No Jaeger bombs. The idea of advertising at this place is a white sign with big red letters. “PULL TABS” it says, twisting in the wind above the door. There's a simple disc-changer juke over next to the popcorn machine.

Everybody must be at one of the kitch places. There's only a few people around, five or six. All their conversation is fairly audible, even with Van Morrison playing in the background. A small but festive group.

I sauntered past the young heavy set couple in a naugahyde booth making googly eyes at each other over some fish bowl of liquor built for two...caught part of a conversation between a couple guys with a huge stack of pulled pull tabs in front of them. One guy has a jaw like a cash register drawer, he says to the other guy, he says “how do I communicate to my boss the fact that I sell better to women? I mean, I got a way with 'em, they love me...” His buddy says “yeah, you got a radio voice”...just before he made that 'face for radio' joke. I only heard this much because the path to the bar was blocked by a woman with her back to me trying to get her scarf situated.

I finally plunked down on a stool at the bar across the corner from another guy on his own, about 3 stools away. I imagine he's younger than he appears. Now this ol boy looked like he just had his ass chewed out. Like his mind was so tussled, he physically looked like he'd just fallen out of the car he was sleeping in. He must've been buddies with the bartender because the two went back to talking about whatever after I got my beer.

A copy of the local ad rag provided good cover as the two talked. I heard a little of his story, he said he thinks he kinda has it made. He said that most people are dying to get out of the house after spending the holiday with people they don't really like. Him? Shit, he had his peace all day. The bartender let out a rattling smoker's laugh, the guy joined in a second later after an awkward, sputtering start.

The bartender's laughter slowly trailed off as he walked away, pushing his damp dish rag along as he went.

“Yeah, that's what you want.” he said, loud enough to be to me.

“Whatzat?”

He sat there, glassy eyed, got the thousand yard stare at the rim of his glass twelve inches away as his smile slowly dissolved. He didn't repeat himself.

About 5 minutes went by, and he started up again like there was no lull in a conversation we'd been having for awhile.

“No, no, you see...it's not that.”

“It's not what?” I said after a pull on my pint.

“It's not that. I coulda went the family route.” he said, nodding.

He told a barely coherent story about how he had lost at love. It was amazingly rambling and he touched on some things I'm sure weren't related, but there was one thing he was clear on. There was a woman that he had left behind somewhere along the line for quite a few legit sounding reasons, but I could tell he had some...genuine feelings for her. Problem was he didn't think she gave one iota about him at all when in fact she was nuts about him. He said he saw her over Thanksgiving the previous year, found out she's married now. They had the 'what if' talk in a moment of weakness...indulgence. They each found new perspective.

I have no idea if it was true or not, but I could relate.

Epiphany on Theodore Wirth trail

Saturday, October 23, 7:17am

Haven't had much time to do much writing for myself since getting back from my trip North. When I got the word that Eric's wife might well have a serious health crisis on the horizon, he had to drop from the trip. I can't compare my emotions to what they must have went through in those days, but at the moment my reaction was what it must be like to get t-boned in traffic; you don't even see it coming. One minute you're on your way to DQ, the next you're waking up in a steaming wreck. Almost right away I felt awful that I had that reaction not because one of my friends might be really sick...but because the thought of spending my vacation alone brought on what must have been an anxiety attack. I went a little nutty for about 30 minutes that evening. It's a shitty helpless feeling, not being able to do much from so far away. And worse that my first reaction was based in selfishness.

The weather was incredible, in fact I was a little disappointed that it wasn't cooler...I think it reached 75 one of the days. And the nights were still. Every once in awhile breezes would come through that weren't even strong enough to be heard, but just enough to jostle leaves from the trees. Crisp leaves landing on one another were louder than the breezes that dislodged them.

Something was different though, that first night. I went down to the lake and listened to the waves...turned off my headlamp and just sat there. It was clear as a bell, and just too many stars to look at. But I couldn't stay too long. It was peaceful but for some reason I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something big behind me. No matter which direction I faced...there was just something looming.

I felt a lot better up by the fire ring, with the dark outline of the cabin in view. My guitar went well with a little fire and some Left Hand Milk Stout. I had a lot of time out there in the dark to waller all those thoughts around. I think I even dug up some new ones. Now, I know I do this, I catch myself doin' this and I know I need to take steps right away to get myself back on track. Gotta keep movin', keep doin' the things you like...but I'm really starting to wonder why I have such a hard time letting things go. Why I am so hard on myself.

One thing that helps...is bike rides. Lately I feel like I've done nothing but try to catch up on sleep and there have been days when the last thing I wanted to do was get on that bike...but 10 minutes into the ride and I'm always glad I went. Earlier today I rode two laps at Theodore Wirth park, an amazing little patch of singletrack right smack dab in the middle of the city. Its on rides like these where I get some real clarity.

I took my buddy Kyle along, it was his first honest-to-goodness mountain bike ride. Man, you'd think he had ridden just last week. Of course being 25 helps. If I could go back to that age knowing what I know now...I would do things a lot differently. He made it through 45 minutes of twisty riding without a scratch, then went home and managed to put a hatchet through his knee cap cutting firewood. Went in for stitches, ended up having some minor joint surgery and will be in the hospital till Monday. And my first reaction?

"Dammit...he won't be able to go ride with me till Spring."

Is life so different than it is in your dreams?

I am pooped. Its a perfect fall day and I don't have the energy to leave the house. My sleep schedule is all over the place. When I finally do lay down, my mind just races. I'm having a hard time quieting my thoughts, sometimes they come so fast I can't even keep up with them, let alone shut them off. Start to nod off...another thought shows up and startles me awake like a loud knock at the door. Its all the usual stuff, I'm not special at all worrying about work or fretting over relationships...wondering about friends and family in far-flung places. I've got it narrowed down to the night shift with plenty of time alone as the ultimate culprit for the times it gets more intense than normal.

Woke up on the sofa in my clothes at about 2. Felt like I could've slept till 4. Coffee tasted extra good today, out on the front porch. Traffic hasn't picked up yet, the only sound on the block is arguing squirrels.

I saw online that my man Tom is nominated for induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame next year. I'd say its about time, but honestly I thought it would be several more years before he would be nominated...so this is a nice surprise.

There's not a lot of artists out there that make me think like Tom does, so many of his songs bring up detailed sense memories. A few weeks ago I was looking through pictures with some random iTunes playlist going in the background. Tom's Please Call Me, Baby came on at an amazingly poignant moment. It made me stop on that one particular page for the whole song. Tom has written all kinds of songs that cover the ups and downs of relationships; take Martha for example. Some guy trying to get in touch with his girl from 40 years back, hoping she remembers him and praying that there might be a bit of reciprocation of his nostalgia. In reality the guy is most likely drunk and making the call at about 2am, standing in a phone booth that hasn't worked in years. But Please Call Me, Baby seems much more lucid to me. He realizes that the relationship has soured to the point that treating each other poorly has become the norm; he admits to his bad behavior and wonders if he can change it, but still asserts the fact that he's responsible for exactly 50% of the problem.

But the chorus...that's what is in his heart:

So please call me, baby
Wherever you are
It's too cold to be out walking in the streets
We do crazy things when we're wounded
Everyone's a bit insane
I don't want you catching your death of cold
Out walking in the rain

Just one of the things I appreciate about Tom, he can make you think twice. He can make you remember what its like to be soaked to the skin, standing at a pay phone in the middle of the night.

Good mail for a Monday

September 21, 6:08 am

Sometimes I don't mind the night shift at all.

When people ask how I cope with the schedule I don't really have much bad to say because like everyone, I've found upsides in my situation and do my best to focus on those. Every job I've ever had, I found moments that were each uniquely special. When I was on mornings, my favorite times were the 5am bike ride in to campus, now that I'm on nights its the thin hint of sunrise along the horizon on the way home. That light is amazing; pre-dawn glow comes up from under your feet. Barely enough light to make out the path.

Sitting on the front porch at 5:30, I know I'm the only one watching a wrestling match between two albino squirrels in the tree across the street...with a beer in my hand.

You pick your moments. Each becomes special unto itself.

A freak hail storm came through last night and I missed it, in my well insulated cocoon at work. Some hail. The trees in the neighborhood really took a beating, there were leaves and small limbs down everywhere. Its a fitting metaphor; I frequently seem to walk in at the end as of late.

The mail included treasure today, my recent eBay purchase. A DVD copy of Tom Waits: Big Time. I put it on and as the first few numbers played, I suddenly realized how I was completely caught up in the aesthetic Tom creates. I read Innocent When You Dream and a collection of 20 years worth of interviews with Waits simultaneously. I saw two sides of a dirty coin; Innocent When You Dream is biographic, but with the interviews its all embellished truth mixed with hobo legends. Things he thought up on the spot, some old chestnuts he pulled out over and over. The problem is no one knows what the proportions of each are. Sometimes the interview gives a little insight to a moody nature. Sometimes he's just a jerk. But this persona of a well-traveled loner...a man who has existed (and even thrived) for so long on the fringe...well, he must have some incredible stories.

I started to wonder.

I wonder if the fact that I've romanticized this persona for so long...if it hasn't actually manifested itself in my life. For real. I wonder if this tendency of mine to shy away from groups, to not actively make more of an effort to socialize...I wonder if I haven't somehow brought this on myself.

But even this strange loner has secret desires of...being home. The most seasoned leathertramp must occasionally want to let the engine cool for awhile...and be around people that are important to him. Say what you will about the delivery; I love the lyrics on this one. Pure beat poetry. Its the feeling of distance I identify with, but the whole story is so evocative I feel like I walked along right beside him the day it all happened. By the end, I was just as ready to leave as he was:

...I wondered how the same moon outside
over this Chinatown fair
could look down on Illinois
and find you there
and you know I love you Baby

and I'm so far away from home
and I miss my Baby so
I can't make it by myself
I love you so

Shore Leave...

I have to wrap up here. Tom is doing his Civil War pregnancy bit.

Crested Butte: Epilogue

I thought things would be different when I got home from Crested Butte.

After 5 days of riding 3 or 4 hours, followed by micro brewed stout and long conversation, I really felt as though I had turned a corner as far as my recent mood was concerned. I believed that I had 'bumped into my old self', cradled in that idyllic valley.

It physically hurt to leave CB. My chest was tight, stomach felt sour. I had the same feeling leaving Mr. Toad's the night of the last session before my move. I felt as though I was choked up to the point of losing it, and wondering if that might not be a good thing. Maybe there would be some relief afterward...but in the end the break down never happened. The thoughts and emotions stay bottled up. Trying to talk about it gives off a pathetically narcissistic aroma. Not talking about it causes heightened paranoia.

No sooner had I gotten back home...I wanted to go back out. Anywhere. To just grab what I needed, throw it in the car and go. I've got the playlists from the trip in almost constant rotation, plus the new release by Ray Lamontagne and the Pariah Dogs. Beg, Steal or Borrow feels like it was written just for me. Sometimes I'd jump on the interstate and get between a couple semis and imagine that the cloud line in the distance was actually a mountain range, that my next stop would be to set up base camp for another outdoor stretch. I even took it a step further and headed off into Western Wisconsin to do an afternoon hike through a nature preserve. It almost worked. The Timber Rattlers we ran into almost made me forget that Highway 35 was less than a mile away.

While typing in my journal entries from the CB trip, I ran across a note I had written to myself almost a year ago when I first bought my little Moleskin (incidentally, check out this list...I was a cliché without even trying on this front).

It said “Where has your backbone gone? You didn't used to be like this.”

Truth is, I don't know.

Cue music. Roll credits.

Dirt Worship 2010 Pt. 5

Still overcast, misty, even little bouts of spitting rain. Breakfast was simple, but good stoking food; whole grain cereal with milk, lots of fruit. We were slow getting ready for the ride, which is something I notice we've done each time we're about to take our first ride on a new trail. I can only suspect its a mental wrestling match with ourselves, some sort of internal conversation about whether we're up to the challenge ahead. Will the legs hold out on the climb? Will altitude sickness show up? Will a fall on the descent leave you with a broken collar bone...or worse? You should see the expressions on our faces in the pictures from the day we first rode in Downieville. The Flume Trail in Lake Tahoe. Hole in the Ground in Truckee. (These aren't my videos.)

We drove a few miles north to Gothic, which is really nothing more than a collection of cabins and mobile homes full of University students. Glacier study, mating rituals of marmots, that kinda thing. Parked directly across the valley from Mt. Gothic, we divvied up the shots, gels and energy bars, and stuffed our rain jackets into the CamelBaks.

Just a few revolutions down the road, Eric rather matter-of-factlly said “I'm scared”.

“Me too.”

The dirt road to the real climb at Schofield Pass was well maintained, and while the climb was fairly steep and winding, it wasn't as narrow as past climbs. It was great to have space on each side.

Once again there were several dozen yards between Eric and I, and once again I didn't mind. But it hurt. My legs nagged hard the whole way. With the steep grade, my breathing never really relaxed, I was on the verge of hyperventilation for about 45 minutes. At one point I could feel a little bit of a heave developing, which I took as an excuse to stop. The high point of our climb on this road was 10,707 feet. I knew it was right around 11k that we had some issues in the middle of Deer Creek last time, so I finally caved and took a rest. As it turns out, Emerald Lake was a great place to stop and take some pictures. And this foreboding video.

When I caught up to Eric at the 401 trailhead, a young woman from Newark joined up with us. Dena was a teacher, squeezing every bit of life she could out of summer vacation and trying desperately to relocate somewhere within a few hours drive of the Rockies. She had already made the climb but got spooked at first site of 401.

It was bad enough that the first switchback felt like it was straight up after the 50 minutes we had just spent grinding our way here, but add to the misery a trail still wet from the previous night's storms.

I must have spun out my rear wheel half a dozen times on the first switchback, and that was before the rocks and exposed roots at the turn. To quote my man Tom, “slicker'n deer guts on a door knob”. Plus, the new cadence for the steeper climb had me breathing so hard, my kidneys were starting to hurt. Suffice to say, I walked a good portion of that section. Dena and I were equal, as far as aerobic ability goes, so I had someone to commiserate with. She was hiking it just as much as I was, with the occasional burst of energy that sent her shooting by only to be caught by my tortoise pace when her legs gave out. It had to have been another 40 minutes on that little patch of torture.

When Dena and I finally caught up with Eric, we thought it was a rest stop. Turns out, we were at the top, and the descent was just 20 yards away. Eric knew this because another new member of our party told him so. Alex...had ridden up...the trail we were just about to ride down.

He rode UP...the grade that for the next half hour...would find me hitting 25 or 30 mph, with drops that made my stomach go up into my chest, and chest high fireweed blazing by in a red neon blur. I would've stopped to take pictures, but I didn't want to interrupt a second of this descent.

I fell only once, in the turn of a rocky switchback. I thought I could go high on the rock and miss the jagged spot that looked like it would shred a tire. Apparently I couldn't go high, because I ended up going off the back of my bike trying to tap dance across wet slate without letting go of the handlebars. Choosing to be daring at this particular point wasn't all that smart...since I was focused on the trail, I hadn't paid any attention on what was to my right: a V-shaped trough that went clear down to the valley floor. It widened out the further it went, and had nothing to stop a fall but low brush and slate rock. Once again, I took this as sign to stop and catch my breath, to relax and savor the trail so far.

After the rest of the group caught up, Alex took my wheel as we started back down again. The middle third of the trail was the stand-out. So fast...lots of half-buried rocks, and of course exposed roots sprinkled in once we got back down into the tree line. There were points where the bike was shaking so much the only thing I could hear was the rattle of my chain, pinging tires, and debris bouncing off spokes. And it was glorious.

This trail was perfect. Ideal for me. The training I have been doing plus a little natural ability made the descent something I will remember for the rest of my life, and so what if I walked a large part of the second climb? I still made it. I saw the top. And any face I may have lost on the climbs I gained back on the descents, and then some with the obstacles.

There is nothing but euphoria at the end of a ride like this. Physically drained, but alert and impish. Its as though there is nothing you can't do, and to celebrate you want a big glass of Rodeo oatmeal stout with some chips and salsa. We invited Dena and Alex to Maxwell's to bullshit over a couple pints. Dena joined us almost immediately, and the three of us sat there trading 'so what do you do' stories while watching people cruise up and down the last day of the art fair in the street. Dena talked about teaching middle school and trying to find a teaching gig in Boulder. She had been driving from state park to state park, camping in between stops at rooms she had rented through people on Meetup.com. She suggested I try it after I told her about my situation. Eric's current line of study isn't one that is easy to explain, at least not in 25 words or less. In the past I've seen people nod along as the details of the paper unfolded, yet still have a “so...what now?” look on their face at the end. I think Eric was surprised when Dena caught on to it right away.

Alex said he thought he would join us, along with his mother, but after 2 pints he still hadn't showed. We were thinking of checking out and heading back to camp for dinner when Alex strolled up. A few minutes later his mother joined us, and we told the waitress to keep the tab open when she strolled up to give us the check.

It was a sublime end to an already perfect day. We had finished a major trail on every mountain biker's checklist (without injury, I might add), and simultaneously became fast friends with two riders along the way. And Alex's mom was gem too, a short Hungarian-American woman that was telling stories and swearing along with the rest of us after a pint or two of beer.

Sleep came fast in the tent that night. Enough with the rain, already.

Journal entry for the day:

Day 4 – 10:10pm

For once it didn't rain all afternoon.

Rode the 401 today, a

completely brilliant trail

best descent ever!

I led the charge downhill

Alex (a new friend we met

on the trail) actually thought

I was fast!

Tomorrow Teocalli, then home.

Since the last day in town was a low-key one for me, I figured I would go ahead and write about it here. This series has gone on long enough, I think.

I can tell you it was another slow morning in camp. Of every morning we'd spent in town, this one was the stormiest. It felt like it might rain at any moment, and nippy too. The only reason I have for being so sluggish is...perhaps riding my legs off the past four days. The day before was the most physically demanding, plus I had 5 or 6 pints...so I guess I should've planned on a poor recovery. I only have four pairs of riding shorts, which forced me to climb into my kit from the previous day too. So there I was, worn out, wearing a sweat-soaked outfit that had been in a bag in the back of a car all night, rain clouds threatening all around...I just couldn't go. I stayed behind. Took a shower and did a load of laundry at the hostel, then went for coffee. Crested Butte is a town of bikes, lots of cruisers in front of just about every business on Elk Ave. I tooled around and took about two dozen pictures of bikes I saw. Mainly old, rusted out ones and the really, really shiny ones.

I also needed a souvenir of the vacation, so I popped into the Alpineer for a new water bottle. The weather came up in casual conversation with the cashier, and he gestured to the bottle and asked if I was going out. I said no, it was a surprise rest day. He just said “I wouldn't”. The forecast was for heavy rains coming through all afternoon, waves of storms. It looked like Eric was going to get caught in a downpour.

When he got back in, he looked like he had been under a couch for a while; a little pale, covered in grit...breathing like he'd just stepped back from the top ledge of a 50 story building.

“I don't think that climb was meant to be ridden...” he said, looking at the map. He only saw one other person all day, a fisherman that hiked in. He made it to the top only 15 or so minutes slower than it took Eric to ride. It must have been a little sweeter for him, riding up a trail that might not have meant to be ridden. Another notch on the seat post; another grand reward for the price of exertion.

That night, we went out for our traditional end-of-trip sushi dinner. Whenever we go on one of these trips, its a chance for us to reconnect in detail on everything going on in one another's lives since the distance keeps us out of the day-to-day happenings. Each night we'd end up bullshitting for a few hours, either by a campfire, over a pint or in the dark standing in pouring rain, and I felt like I had run into the old me again.

Plus, I learned that when it comes to art, Eric and I actually share the same aesthetic, its our mediums that are different. While he is trying to finish his book on Romantic agri-literature and the rising voices of peasant poets responding to the situation, I'm trying to put into words what Beethoven might've been thinking when he wrote his piano sonata no. 8. He approaches with with words, me with notes. Maybe even external and internal. What was even cooler was when we started connecting the dots between Wordsworth and Beethoven.

Journal entry for the night:

Last night – 10:30pm

Didn't ride Teocali today.

Spent. No matches left.

Eric agreed and we decided to take

an easy ride to Green lake.

Storm clouds gathered at the lot

I had no enthusiasm. Eric called

from the lake (amazed that he had a signal)

said it was the hardest climb on the trip.

Better I lazed around town.

Great dinner, better conversation.

I feel connected.

To the land

to the bike.

to my friend.

This was good...now I go back to my real

life. My 'normal'.

But it'll be easier to cope with now.

Dirt Worship 2010 Pt. 4

Day three and once again we woke to a cool, misty, overcast morning. Except this morning was cooler, mistier and overcast...er. The clouds were darker, not threatening rain, but they felt like they were hanging lower, like the flap of an envelope about to be sealed. It was still, an out-take from an opening scene of a movie where the soundtrack hasn't started yet; there's nothing. Not even a random bird call. Even the river running by seemed silent. The mist on Mt. Treasury moved only at the thinnest tips.

I mentioned it before, but let me just say again that the new little Coleman stove was the belle of the ball. Your food choices change drastically when you've got one of these babies. We had tried pancakes in camp before, with dismal results. Campcakes.This is the true test.

If you're sitting around camp one morning, with just one MSR WhisperLite camp stove, and some guy says “Hey, want some pancakes?”, just go ahead and refuse. They might as well say “Hey, want some half cooked batter wrapped in scorch?” That's what happens with campcakes. You start pouring the batter into an 8” shallow pot and invariably overshoot on how much batter is going to come out. So as you jerk your hand to the next available spot when that cake gets too big and the batter slops over one side causing you to shuffle as you sit there on your haunches, thighs burning from the length of time you've hovered over the thing. Next thing you know you're flat on your ass and the bottle of batter is headed for the dirt. Lurching up to catch the batter bottle causes a bit of a splash and by the time you've cleared the globs out of your eyebrows you realize the one big one you poured only seconds ago is starting to burn because you left the stove on high.

This was different. There was plenty of room for a 14”, non-stick pan. The heat was even and controlled. The stove was at a comfortable height. There was no sticking. We had nice, warm pancakes with syrup.

“We shoulda brought bacon.” Eric said.

I dropped my fork on the plate. “Aw man, bacon. I almost did. I didn't think it would keep.”

Bear in mind that I also had the foresight to bring two complete sets of cutlery. Eric has two, but the set I always end up with isn't good for much. It's plastic, and the tips of the spork are all boogered up, so you can't really get a handle on anything you're trying to cut with the accompanying knife.

Pancakes were the perfect fuel for the day, the complete ride we had intended for the day before. We knocked out Upper Loop in no time, second nature. We hit Brush Creek Road and gained a little elevation before descending into the valley between Double Top Mountain and Mt. Crested Butte. We bombed down the other side with confidence; we had seen this road before, twice on our previous trip. Plus the clouds had cleared off, leaving an idyllic mountain morning.

You can take all the pictures you want. You can write songs and sonnets. You can spend an entire night of bacchanalia to describe this valley...and none come remotely close to taking in its splendor first hand. Forget being beyond description, it is beyond comprehension, the beauty of this place. Thick wild grasses leading to the tree line. Larkspur and Fireweed slowly dissolving up the side of the mountain, with peaks that combine amazing shades of grey and brown that I am sure are mimicked on the living room walls of the condos near town. Big, puffy white clouds dotting a shade of blue sky that just doesn't exist anywhere else. There is only one man-made structure, an old homestead with a cattle pen near the road on the valley's edge closest to town. Other than that, there is no evidence of anything apart from the wild.

I was overwhelmed, clearly. Staring out over the expanse, it became obvious just how relaxed I was. My back was loose and limber. No stomach issues. My jaw was completely relaxed. Standing there at the trail head where we were to begin our climb toward Farris Creek, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I felt welcome. Home.

The trail to Farris Creek is shared by a few other rides. I think one hooked up with Trail 409, the other goes further up to Strand Hill. Strand Hill...that was our second hardest day last time. Even though Eric was way ahead of me on the climb, I was consistent. Slow, but consistent. I didn't have to stop, I just kept the bike one ring above my lowest gear and kept grinding. Of course with scenery like this, it wasn't a grind. I didn't mind the slow pace.

We ran into a couple groups of steers. I'll never forget, standing there with my bike in front of me, waiting for them to move. They just stared blankly, as did I. One even bluff charged. Suddenly over my right shoulder Eric let out a piercing “HIYAH!” and they all started to move. In different directions, but they moved. I follow, not realizing I'm rolling my bike through fresh cowpie. That'll be nice on the next downhill, slinging up in my face. In the middle of it all, there's one confused but randy steer that kept trying to mount the others...it was pandamonium for a few seconds.

The next several miles were on what you'd call a 'false-flat'. The trail looked as flat at the pancakes we had at breakfast, but in fact was just a slight tilt up. The dirt was soft and loose, and made my bike feel like it weighed 100 pounds. But again, there was so much to admire and appreciate...I really didn't mind.

Eric was way in front and hit the next fork well before I did. It was the downhill. It looked a lot like Baby Head Rock Road in Butcher Creek out in Downieville, CA. But remember that the babies have jagged heads here. He motioned to the trail like it was a prize, like Monty Hall gesturing to to curtain number 3. Without hesitation, I jumped on the offer to take point. I'd say it was a 5 or 6% grade. Some pretty steep drops here and there, about 2 feet each. As usual, there were exposed roots all over.

I don't know...something happens when I take a downhill, especially one with obstacles. As if everything but the trail goes out of focus with a low whoosh, but everything for the next 15 yards in front is crystal clear. It's very Zen for me. I just let my body go loose...let the bike do the work. I only point it. This section must've lasted a good 20 minutes, and at the end I propped my bike up against the trail sign and looked back up and marveled at what I'd just ridden. Gad, it was so good.

When Eric joined me at the bottom, we took the last bit of singletrack together. It was fast and swoopy, complete with a creek crossing at the bottom. I barreled through, right between some guy and his two kids that were frolicking in the water. As I climbed up the other side of the creek bed and rejoined the trail, I heard one of the kids yell “that was awesome!”.

Once again, we were just ahead of the rain. Nothing makes a downhill go faster than the gentle push of Mother Nature...in this instance, consistent thunder coming from the dark blue clouds behind us. We pedaled along side one another and talked about the high points of the ride and of course, what was on the menu for dinner that night.

The hill that we so confidently bombed down 3 hours earlier wasn't as much fun in this direction, and Eric quickly put 100 yards or so between us. The temperature was falling pretty quickly, maybe 10 degrees in 15 or so minutes, and when I reached Eric at the top of the climb I stopped to put on my rain jacket, both to take a bite out of the chill and the fact that it looked like we were going to get caught by the storm. The dark blue clouds behind us had turned black, and more storm clouds had gathered just behind the entire range to the east.

I hauled ass back to town from there, which was dirt road for a short time, then asphalt to the bike path that cuts along the edge of a little golf club community. All the along the path, I watched the storm grow by the second. Ground strikes went from quick flashes to long discharges that lasted 3 and 4 seconds. Each time the thunder clap was right behind it, sounding off like the crack from a starter's pistol and a percussive rumble following that. I shifted to high gear and pedaled for all I was worth...which wasn't much.

The downhill had drained everything I had left from my thighs, and the slight cramping in my hands from all the braking made the muscles feel like rigor mortis was about to set in. But I was moved by the idea of actually beating the storm. I thought we would when we started the descent, then thought we wouldn't at the top of the climb out. If I just kept at it for another mile and a half, the only dampness I'd have to contend with would be portions of my jersey due to sweat...plus every few seconds I could hear a single raindrop on my helmet or the back of my jacket. I felt them on my calf. The rain was like a hand, clutching to grab me but could only reach with brushing fingertips.

After getting changed, the full weight of the storm had hit town and it was obvious that it wasn't letting up any time soon. Usually the storms would swoop in, rain for half an hour, then swoop off and you could enjoy the rest of the afternoon. This storm seemed to want to stick around.

Our afternoon pint was at Maxwell's again. Crested Butte Rodeo Oatmeal Stout. Again. It kept raining, so it became 2 pints and some chips with queso. More rain equals 3 pints. And hot wings. I looked outside at the deluge, still strong and steady. It was really putting the gutter systems through the paces. I reminded Eric that we had no cover apart from our tents in camp, and that I had no intention of standing in the rain waiting for dinner to cook. It took little convincing, and we ended up at Donita's Cantina. We'd had good luck there the previous trip. I went with the special for the night which was your standard combo plate, but with two gorgeous enchiladas cutting the plate down the center. One with a blue corn flour tortilla, and the other was fluffy and crispy at the same time. Hot wings. Beer. Mexican food. Man, I knew for sure my stomach was going to be miserable laying in that tent.

But as I climbed into my bag for the night and lay there, staring at my headlight on the ceiling, there was nothing. No heartburn. No acid. No sour stomach at all.

“Crested Butte is magic”, I thought.

Playing the day back in my head, the thing that stood out most of all was a really nice comment from Eric, something I'm sure was nothing big to him...but it really impacted me. We were walking in the rain, on our way to Donita's, and as per usual our conversation had drifted back to the ride.

“You're riding the best I've seen you ride.” he said at one point.

You see, cycling is a great individual sport. You can go alone or with other people and it still rocks. Seeing as how I have a great deal of time on my own, its a perfect way for me to get exercise. But riding alone and without any kind of electronic gizmos that tell you how far you went and how fast and blah blah blah, you have no real way of measuring your abilities. You can watch your time and see if you can shave a few minutes off...other than that it is difficult to track progress. Being such a strong rider, the fact that he remarked on my progress really made my day.

Tomorrow is the ride we drove out here for: Trail 401. Still raining. In fact its coming down hard enough now to be a bit maddening.

Journal entry for the day:

Day 3 – 7:30 pm

Sooo tired. And full of

mexican food. Rode farris

creek, just over 20 miles

2,000 ft of elevation gain. Getting

down was simply incredible.

just missed the p.m. storm but

still raining now. Inside tent is dry!

good purchase.

Dirt Worship 2010 Pt. 3

Day two...time to pick up the intensity a bit.

Our plan was to take Upper Loop to Brush Creek Road, where we would take the Farris Creek trail, one of the more iconic CB rides we didn't do the first time. It was a pretty good morning after all the mist burned off. When I woke up, Mt. Treasury was draped with a single, fat line of mist. Both mornings so far our view was eclipsed, like a puffy white octopus cradling the mountain in the crook of its tentacle.

Normally mornings in town are really quiet, but this was the first day of an art fair. In addition to a couple hundred more people ambling up and down Elk Ave., there was also rumblings of the presence of Hell's Angels in town. Gunnison, the town directly south on 135, is evidently their main camp. The 25 miles between are a beautiful ride and Crested Butte is a great town to take in some street art. Who says Hell's Angels aren't cultured?

After I took in a couple blocks of the art fair while Eric called his wife, we pedaled over to Upper Loop, another ride that starts in town. You have to follow a dirt road through open valley before the single track starts, we actually blew past the trail head the first time. Eric swore, something about missing it in 2003 as well. No big deal, but Eric must've considered it a rookie mistake seeing as how there was nothing whatsoever obscuring it from view, causing a quick U-turn in some rich guy's driveway. The climb up to the ridge took a toll. It wasn't a severe incline at all, but it was long.

The altitude difference was really making itself known and I felt as though my lungs may well come out my ears. But while slogging along on the way up was a drag, the pay off was speedy and a bit challenging. After taking a breath and a drink I stopped and admired the view for a minute, and realized I had forgotten how much fun Upper Loop was. The trail undulated at points, and if you timed it just right the inertia from coming down one slope would be just enough to get you to the top of the next. I caught on quickly and just rode those sections like I was on a carnival ride. There were a few parts that were swoopy too, with quick upward bowls that would kinda slingshot me into the air.

The challenging part was the rock gardens. I'd call 'em 'baby-headed rocks'...if baby's heads had sharp corners. Thousands of 'em. Sometimes I could just rocket through and hope I didn't catch one just right and flat out, but most of the time I had to finesse my way through, quickly rocking the bike back and forth across the trail...just trying to find the right line in time.

Add to the equation exposed tree roots that were still damp from the previous day's rain and you've got parts that are slicker than deer guts on a doorknob. Slicker'n snot. And sometimes...they go up...and as soon as I'd put weight on my fork to raise up on the pedals it would slide out from under. And just for good measure, roots show up at least once in every rock garden. Every...jagged...baby-headed rock garden.

Now I know what you're thinking...”This sounds harrowing...it can't be!”

Well, to be honest I was really in my element on this trail, despite the long climb out of the valley floor the first few miles. My time spent at Lebanon Hills before the trip prepared me perfectly for this trail. Everything from the swoopy bits in the Aspens, to the rocks, the roots, the quick, sharp descents. I played it like a violin. If I had been in just a bit better shape cardio-wise...I bet I could've ridden this whole section without putting down a foot.

I stopped and struck up a conversation with some hikers where the trail met the Whestone Rd turn. It seems if you live up in this area, you get a private trail. Anyway, right around the time I started explaining that I wasn't alone, but rather riding with a buddy that should be coming along any...

“DAMMIT!” Eric yelled from beyond the turn, followed by a string of obscenities that would put you in mind of the Old Man in A Christmas Story, swearing at the Bumpus's dogs next door. Or a foul-mouthed Yosemite Sam.

Two things were wrong here; Eric always swears, but never this much. Something must be seriously awry. He sounded angry, not puckered up. The other and somewhat less important (from Eric's point of view) was that this couple had a kid with them. Eric's swear throttle must've nearly exploded when he came up and saw that the couple had a little person with them.

As it turns out, Eric tried to adjust the air in his frame shock on the trail. He wanted a bit more plush. He pressed the release valve quickly. “Tst!” Just a little. Well, in a shock...a little is a lot. The pressure is much higher in a frame shock than in your tires. Even in your front shock, for that matter. He wanted a bit more plush and ended up with all plush. Or, nothing. Depending on your point of view. The end result was bottoming out on every drop and a hard rebound after every obstacle, makes you feel like the bike is going to buck you off.

Obviously Farris Creek wasn't going to happen today. We were already more than an hour from town and storm clouds were gathering. A more foreboding looking octopus was approaching the range. The new plan was to ride back to town at Brush Creek Rd, have lunch and increase the shock's pressure at the car, then ride Upper Loop again.

What a great day. It was clear and sunny, maybe 85 degrees and no humidity in town. There was a rumble of thunder every now and then, low. You had to kind of be listening for it, otherwise it just blends in with the town noise. Like when you lightly pound against your neighbor's aluminum horse tank swimming pool, leaned against the shed for winter storage.

If you sat too long in one spot in the sun, you'd start to feel scorched a bit...then a breeze would come through and cool everything down. A Toyota with a huge dog in the back drove by. Twice. On the second trip, Eric hollered at the driver and asked him what kind of dog it was. A Malamute. A real mountain-type dog. Hair all matted and nasty. Right next to him was a Shih-tzu in the ultimate pet owner paradox. I'll bet the guy's wife is high maintenance. That or else he's a dainty mountain man trying to express his duality.

The second time up the mountain to Upper Loop was no better than the first. However this time, I knew exactly what was coming. Eric wasn't nutty about taking the same bit of singletrack we did last time, but I saw this as a chance to play his normal role for a moment. See, Eric is a very driven guy. He is adventurous and pushes himself to excel all the time. Many times he has spurred me on in situations like this, so I responded in kind.

“Don't you think this part would be easier, now that your bike is adjusted properly?” I asked.

He took a drink and and motioned for me to take point. He only needed someone to ignite the drive. Out of all the times he's given me an option in the past, one that makes the trail a little tougher or a climb a little higher, I have about a 60-40 record. I usually decline, taking into account how I feel or how optimistic I am. So far this trip, I hadn't declined anything and I was hoping to maintain that momentum and to somehow have it be contagious to Eric.

The adjustment made all the difference. He held my wheel the whole way down the descent back to the car. Just as we were loading up to go back to town, we caught a glimpse of what we would've been in if we had gone on to Farris Creek the first time around.

Huge, inky black clouds rumbled heavy all along Strand Mountain just above the valley we would've been in. Completely exposed. With lightning strikes. We had made it back to the car about 5 minutes before the serious rain started, and rolled back into town in time to find vendors scrambling to get their shit covered.

But meanwhile, inside Maxwell's, we discovered another local treasure. Crested Butte Rodeo Oatmeal Stout. It's black as motor oil with a brown foamy head. Not as foamy as Guinness, and it dissipates quicker. Just a little smokey. It's lighter than you'd expect it to be, and a fine way to wait out a rainstorm.

Back at camp we found that the storm had rolled through before it hit town. Everything had a dirt coating around it, about seven inches up from the ground. Like a dirt skirt. On the upside, everything in the tent was bone dry. Good purchase.

I crawled in bed at 9:30 or 10 and read for a bit. It started raining again, not hard but consistent...and went all night as near as I can tell.

Journal entry for the day:

10pm Day 2
Altitude really messes with your lungs.
Rode 14 or so miles – big, big rainstorm
interrupted things. Camp wasn't hit hard,
but everything in the tent was bone dry.
Good luck! Tomorrow – farris loop.

Dirt Worship 2010 Pt. 2

Our first day of riding was to be light in order to get acclimated. We rode the Lower Loop Trail, about 8 miles with 500 feet of elevation gain.

This year, another new treat was introduced to car camping...hitting the coffee shop before the ride. I think this was a real life saver for me, because its really hard for me to get up at 7:30 in the morning, what with my schedule. Prep was lazy. In fact, we laid out the plan for the rest of the week on the shop's patio while street vendors got ready for an arts fair a dozen yards away. Lower Loop today, Upper Loop to Farris Creek tomorrow, 401 Saturday, road ride recovery Sunday, Teocalli on Monday, home Tuesday. Took just about a 12 oz cup of coffee to cover.

The Lower Loop trail head is right at the edge of town, and we pedaled through re-familiarizing ourselves with the little burg. There has been some development since our visit in 2003. Not much, which is nice. Crested Butte is still difficult to get to, so maybe that has helped. Property is still extremely expensive, even modest homes in town go for hundreds of thousands. Immediately, we began hatching a plan on how we could form an LLC and get a place out here. Then we'd always have a comfortable home base, and rent it as a vacation residence when we're not there. It seems the vacation rental business is big, since there are almost as many realty companies as there are shirt shops.

I'd love to live there all the time; the solitude is amazing. Of course I'd need something major to happen in order to make that work. Even now I can't help imagining setting up camp there for the maximum two weeks...maybe in a little pull behind camper. For my car, not the bike.

Finally making it to the right corner of town, we left the concrete for the first time. Just a fire road, and there were still some rustic vacation houses along the way, but it felt good. I like the sound of loose gravel under my tires. Reminds me of 3rd Divide trail in Downieville. Landmarks etched into memory 7 years ago were still there, including GRONK. I can only guess its part of an old mine. Someone spray painted “GRONK” on one side. GRONK, incidentally, would be a great name for a dog.

I remember stopping a lot the first time we were here. I remember walking a lot of it. This year...I kinda owned it. It was hard to breath, but not as bad as I thought it would be. I may not have been the fastest climber on the mountain, but I wasn't the slowest either. Then again, consider the competition. Lower Loop is the mountain bike equivalent of a Bunny Slope. Once the first good snow hits the best this area would be used for would be cross country skiing and snowshoeing. There were couples on hybrid bikes with young children on the trail, a few trail runners. Eric said he saw a professional rider out there, but his name escapes me now. Point is, it gets a lot of use from a wide array of riders.

We sat for a bit an ate after finishing the first lap in what seemed like an incredibly short time, I think it was something like 53 minutes riding time. Lunch was a mix of Shot Blox, Clif Bars, and gel shots. Even though I can't remember what we talked about in that 5 or 10 minutes, I know it was full of optimism. Buoyancy. The down hill was no sweat, a really nice warm up, but it turns out I kinda worried about the climbing for nothing. I climbed really well, as a matter of fact. I took all the rock gardens and tree roots in stride, even got a chance to do a few jumps on the way down. It went so well, we decided to ride it again.

This time it went a little quicker, to my amazement. Eric showed me a little shortcut that took out the trail's only real obstacle; a 50 ft drop to the Slate River rushing by below. Gladly took that cheat.

The climb on the fire road in made for a good bomb run heading back down. 30 mph at one point. After changing we immediately went looking for some chips and salsa and a pint. We bellied up to some pizza joint that had an outdoor bar. We never ate there, and I learned a few days later that pizza is not a food you want to eat on a bike trip, because the next day you get 'pizza legs'. I don't know if I've ever had it or not but it sounds hilarious.

It was a one pint visit. The atmosphere that afternoon included plenty of the 'Dude...' sort and a pair of smokers. Plus, we had a cooler full of kick ass food and cold press coffee back at camp. Went all out on the camp stuff this year, I even scored a perfectly working propane stove for $25. It was the star of the campground for sure. Dinner was sauteed vegetables with curry pasta.

Eating and clean up went quickly, and before long we were sitting nearly idle. Only 90 minutes before, we were pedaling like hell with a heart rate somewhere around 150; now only enough energy was being exerted for Eric to read and me to strum my guitar (yes, I brought it). There were only a few other camps occupied. One right right across from us belonged to someone we never saw. Perhaps 4 or 5 cars went by as we sat there, each time Eric would mutter “keeeep movin'”. Worked about as well as saying “rabbit” repeatedly to keep campfire smoke out of your face. Right then I thought to myself “where does that road go?”, and Eric said it just after I thought it.

“Have we ever gone left there?” he asked, looking at the fork in the road that led to camp.

Nope. And suddenly a drive further down the valley sounded like a great idea. Evidently the road takes you up and over Paradise Pass. An appropriate name, I think.
We could see all the way down to where we were camped.

Journal entry for the day:

11pm First full day
in Crested Butte
rode well today. 16M
1,000 feet of climbing
I'm really dirty , but
happy as I've ever been.

Dirt Worship 2010 Pt. 1

I'm sitting on my front porch with one of the few remaining beers from the camp cooler. Session 9. Fat Tire would have been my first choice, but you need an opener for those bottles and I don't feel like going into the house.

I'm tired. 1,142 miles in two days. As much as I like road trips...that one got a little long. I look up and still expect to see things whizzing by at high speed. It feels good to sit and not have to worry about steering. And to not be in the passenger seat afraid to take a nap for fear the driver will nod off after 4 hours of Interstate 80 in western Nebraska.

But the real reason I don't want to go in the house is because it's out-take from a Tommy Bahama ad in there. Tropical. I closed all the windows when I left for Dirt Worship 2010: The Crested Butte Edition, and evidently it was pretty grim heat and humidity-wise here while I was gone.

In 2003, Eric and I took a trip that we believed at the outset was to Durango, to ride mountain bikes. Crested Butte was to be a stopping point; a two day layover on our way to bigger things.

After the first day we realized we had already arrived at our destination. If the skyline of Mt. Crested Butte giving way to the Slate River valley leading down to Mt. Treasury wasn't enough to make us stay, the unimagined exhilaration the riding gave us was realized day one. The map to Durango could now be used for kindling.

Now that Eric is living in Omaha, our annual mountain bike sojourn found us going back to where it all started. We rolled in to Crested Butte late on July 28th. Poignant conversation had given way to zombie car ride exchanges by the time we hit Ogalala, which has to be some kind of a record. It wasn't long before the sight of the Rockies on the horizon caused us both to get a little goofy. That kid-on-Christmas-Eve kind of goofy. Shortly after taking a left turn at Denver, we came upon Fairplay. Fairplay is made up of several flecks of trailers, dilapidated homesteads, and expensive looking cedar homes. They're scattered around the valley floor and the foot of the mountain like the last few drops of water whipped from a paint brush. The pass gives you your first real taste of the views to come.

We grabbed a spot in the same camp area as before. I think its the perfect spot; about 6 miles from town in National Forestry land. A fire ring is all you get. And there's a picture perfect valley at the base of Mt. Treasury that you never get tired of looking at. Since there isn't much else up the road apart from a few private parcels, this would be a John Muir cul-de-sac.

For the first time, we were car camping. I say 'for the first time', because while in fact our past outings we were technically car camping, but it was just a home base. We had few frills; light tents, a mat, a bag, a book, backpacker food. That was all that was necessary. And bikes. Those are necessary.

Calories were maximized in the smallest possible vessels for the ride, with bigger carb and protein laden dinners cooked over a single burner MSR stove after the ride. Compared to the way we've done trips in the past, this year was first class. Eric spotted my queen size air mattress while packing up, and I braced to defend my position on improved camp comfort only to be relieved to find out that he had the idea too...he just didn't act on it because he thought I'd give him shit. He did however bring two sleeping pads, thinking that the double-decker foam pad theory would save him from my slings and arrows while simultaneously affording his back a bit more relief at the end of a day of riding.

But wait, it gets better.

We set up in the dark. Just a bit of spitting rain and cool enough to see my breath in the light from my headlamp. Crested Butte sits at 8,862 feet...or 9,241, depending on which novelty shirt you believe. Anyway, the point is we've been in a car for the last 12 hours and are suddenly exerting ourselves at altitude.

"Great. I'm already getting winded," I thought.

I was excited about my recent purchase; a three man tent. A real splurge thanks to REI's online clearance propaganda email. After I got everything set up, I went back to the stuff sack I propped up against the trunk of the pine above my tent.

Eric was evidently feeling optimistic about the weather and asked if I was going to use my tent's rain fly. Since it was already kinda raining as we were finishing up, I figured it was a good idea to go ahead and put it on. The last thing I wanted was to climb into my sleeping bag only to get back up just before dozing off to put the rain fly on in my shorts.

"Yeah." I said flatly, although it must've sounded something more like "yeah, dipshit" when I said it out loud, because after a pause you can insert your one word, two syllable, insult of choice for Eric's response.

Inside my tent, I laid out my prized air mattress and plugged in the handy-dandy rechargeable battery operated air compressor I picked up when I scored the mattress. Damned parallel marketing. That little gizmo fired up with a high whir and within a few seconds had my valley floor suite taking shape.

"What the...? Oh...My...? You got an inflator too??" Eric shouted from his tent. It wasn't thinly veiled envy, it was the ire of a man who held this option in his hands at his local Target store only days before, but chose to save his $34.99 instead.

You should've heard the tone in his voice when he walked back from the car and saw me tucking in the sheet.

Anyway, just as I got in, kicked my shoes off and zipped the door closed...it started to rain in earnest. This...was the sound every Sharper Image alarm clock fails to capture; a full on mountain rain shower punctuated by larger drops, randomly slipping through pine nettles. For the first time since mid-June, I welcomed the sound of the rain.

Little did we know at the time, this would be the norm for every night but one.

Journal entry for the day:

11:50 pm (mt time)
In Crested Butte - same
old camp – falling asleep
to the sound of rushing
water 20 yards away.
I have to poo.

Anticipation, or "Hurry Up and Wait"

I've not written in quite a while.

Sorry, for those of you who were rabidly waiting for an update.

Fact of the matter is, not a whole lot has happened lately. Nothing really blog worthy. Actually that's not true, nothing significant enough for me to simply take the time to sit and write.

This time next week, I'll be in Crested Butte, Colorado. My annual dirt worship trip with EOB finds us revisiting the place where the tradition started back in 2003.

I've been looking forward to this trip for months now. Over the last few years I've found that taking a road trip every few months helps keep me fresh on my vampire-like schedule. Having something planned gives me something to look forward to, and the time away and unplugged keeps me buoyant for weeks afterward.

My dad thinks that I'm nuts for taking a vacation to go do something strenuous and then sleep on the ground in a tent. I like to get away and stay in hotels and eat out the whole time too, but being outside in a basic camp recharges me more than the course sheets of a motel. While I like riding tour trams and taking pics at all the pretty stops, I value the views far more when I've worked to get there. One of the most exhilarating feelings I can think of is that moment when you finally reach the crest of a climb...and you stop and just look around you, gulping water in between gasps for air. Have a little snack, get your legs back, all the while seeing the landscape in a way that only a handful do; a landscape that most will never see in person. Then comes your reward...the ride down.

Everything from wide, swooping trails to tight singletrack with blind hairpin turns. I love negotiating my way through rock gardens and over fallen logs. My strengths in mountain biking have always been descents and obstacles. Its like a puzzle to me, finding the best line through rough patches. There's a finite time to find the line you want to take, and you have to simultaneously gauge the right speed to take to safely clean a technical part of the trail.

The last time I rode Lebanon Hills, I reached a few milestones in my technical riding. First, I successfully navigated my way through the big rock garden on the XX Expert Loop. Here, your line is important, but not nearly as important as speed. There's a hairpin right turn on the other side of this section, and if you aren't going fast enough coming out of the rock garden you'll never keep your balance through the turn and up a ten inch stone stair.

Next was one of the man made obstacles, expertly constructed by people at IMBA and a volunteer team of riders who maintain the trail. There's lots of little bridges sprinkled throughout the course, some made of composite decking but most are just good, thick slabs of pine. Here's the camelback obstacle, about twelve inches wide, that goes up and over a large fallen log. The top is about three feet off the ground. Here you have to hold a steady line, and straight. At the same time, you have to make sure you've got enough inertia to start up the side so you have enough time to gear down and spin hard to get up over the top. On top of that, your cadence has to be constant because hesitation will cause your balance to shift and you'll go off to one side and slip off. Three feet looks a lot higher when you're in motion on top of a bike.

Lastly, and the one I'm probably most proud of, is the log stair section. There's 7 or 8 of these bad boys; they're placed about eight feet apart and each is about twelve inches high. The top logs on each of these stairs are pocked with tiny impressions that look a golfing green after a foursome has just each three-putted then drug their feet as they left for the beer cart. Hundreds of riders use this trail every week, and I'll bet each one of them (myself included) has at one time or another rammed their big chain ring directly into these logs. The effect of ramming your big chain ring into a log like this is a sudden, jarring halt. Thing is, on quick stops at times like these, your bike stops...but your body observes Newton's law of motion. There are also some rocks that have been strategically built in to the stairs, so if you hit there it'll sheer the teeth right off your chain ring.

Here's the ultimate combination of technical skills. I jumped into a nice middle gearing and built a bit of speed approaching the first stair. I leaned back a little and jerked on the handlebars just enough to allow the top third of the log to catch my front tire. This kills most of your speed, but I needed the tire to be on firm ground as soon as possible. As soon as that tire hit the top I leaned on the handlebars and pulled up on the pedals so my chain ring would clear the log. That way, the little bit of speed I have left will allow my back tire catch the top log just as I'm starting to pedal again to approach the next step.

Repeat.

These stairs also go around a gradual corner, so you have to change your line as you go. If you stop on the second or third step, you'll be hike-a-biking the rest of the way...you'll never get the right speed going in concert with timing each of the little ballet steps you need to reach the top.

On average I've been able to get about half way up pretty consistently. Every once in awhile I'd make it 75% of the way. This time I found just the right rhythm; pedal, jerk, feet, pedal, jerk, feet, pedal, and so on.

Even with these little victories, I'm nervous about the trip. I'm a bit spooked about the prospect of hard riding in high altitude. Not to mention the fact that Eric is now a collegiate bike racing champion, where I am...not. But I have to remember that I'm in a better place this trip, physically speaking. I've come a long way since we successfully made our way through several trails at Crested Butte unharmed. This is encouraging because I've not been able to adhere to a regular training schedule. Chalk it all up to my back-assward schedule, the duties of home ownership, and trying to build something that resembles a social life.

Plus, I've been training on a road bike. I think my endurance has benefited. I'm not a big smoker like I was then, so my lung capacity should be better. Everyone said the road bike would help, and I believe it has. I can see a difference in my legs, they're definitely bigger. I think my ass is higher up, but I can't be sure. Also, my bike was new at the time, that was the first trip. There is a bond there now, an understanding.

Most of all, I'm looking forward to unplugging. Unplugging from my phone. From email and Facebook. From work. For a little more than a week, my only cares will be to climb steady, find the right line, and attack the downhill

As good as all that sounds, I'm most looking forward to a long drive, endless playlists, and conversation with one of my closest friends.

If my lung capacity turns out to be a problem, I will propel myself to the top through sheer will, grit, and enthusiasm.