The Dark

There are two kinds of people in this world:

Reality vs The Dream, one might say. Others might call it simply those who say yes, and those who do not say yes.   Night riders, or people that don't.  I'm not trying to glorify what I do, because it's not for everyone - I get that.  But into the storm we went.

Tuesday Night.  Post TNW Road Ride.  The storms blowing in across the mountains look purple on the radar, but I lie to Fort and tell him it's looking clear because I really do think we've got time to make it happen.  As so often happens, I was wrong.

Conditions were sketchy, right from the start, and Fort might need stitches when he wakes up and gets the rocks out of his knee this morning.  There was thunder and lightning pretty much straight overhead, a little mud and a lot of wet roots, and a certain level of nature-induced panic that even the deer seemed to feel as the storm really set in and got worse.  Having been struck by lightning once already in this life, and sensing the treachery, I was a little scared - but mostly just exhilarated.  But that's almost never the point.  I don't actually know what the point is, but it's not that.

I've given up on trying to find the point in night riding anyway, and I've given up on trying to explain it to people.  Covered in dirt and soaking wet, we bribed the bartender at Pro De Nata into serving us after he'd already counted the drawer, and the old guy on the stool next to me in the Mossy Oak hat was asking us, "Wait, you were just out there doing what?"

I try to spell it out to him in the most basic terms, but paradoxically those are the most difficult to understand:
at night
in a thunderstorm
on bikes

"wait, you were riding bikes on Miller School Road?"

No, on the trail.

He doesn't get it.  I have to keep in mind, in situations such as this, that I'm the weird one, and he doesn't get it because it defies explanation, and even I don't really understand why I do this, and even if I did, I couldn't put it into words that someone who doesn't love night riding would understand, and like all things in life that only have individual meaning, most other people don't care.

Like all of those owls out there on the back perimeter trail last night - the loudest family of birds I've ever heard.  They were raucous, but still somehow in harmony, scream-singing at us in a language we couldn't understand.

Turns out Fort doesn't need stitches, but he's gotta take a few days off and let it heal.  Like Bukowski said:

How are you going to tell the dreamer there's a 15% take on the dream?
He'll just laugh and say,
Is that all?

Straight out into the dark, and up, up, up.

Welcome to town, Coach.

You will fit in great around here.

It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock 'n roll, and something tells me you do.
One way to get there, and that's up, up, up.

Circus Bear

A boy and his dad go to the circus, and while they're there they see a bear riding a bicycle.  

Fascinated, the boy asks his dad, "Dad, how do they teach that bear to ride a bike?"  

The dad replies confidently, "Well, that's easy son.  

They just nail his feet to the pedals and beat the shit out of him."

Keep training.  

Up, up, up.  

Keep Firing, Assholes.

Matt Hayman won Paris Roubaix yesterday, and hours later, Danny Willet won The Masters.

Who made that man a gunner?  I said ACROSS her nose, not UP it.

I guess it's possible you might know the name Matt Hayman if you follow cycling closely enough,  A veteran, almost 38 years old, who's ridden and finished 15 Paris Roubaixes.  A big fella, lots of power, a cobble basher and journeyman, and capable of delivering a top 10 - but usually just a domestique for some of Orica GreenEdge's other, more talented riders.  Certainly not the type of guy you'd think would outsprint Tom Boonen for the W after 260K of badassery.

Gunner's Mate, First Class, Phillip Asshole.

And Willet?  Even if you're a golfer, which you're probably not considering you're reading this blog, but if you are, you also probably haven't heard of him.  He's 28, only playing in his 2nd Masters Tourney, a largely unknown British kid who'd just had his first child and barely even showed up to The Masters.  He was literally the last guy to show up on Monday before the tournament began.  Capable of beating Jordan Spieth from 5 shots back on the back 9 on Sunday and wearing the green jacket?  Oh hell no.

But - much to our collective bewilderment - that's exactly what happened.

In both cases, the underdog went unwatched, and suddenly became the top dog when the best of the best failed to deliver for one reason or another.  Boonen admitted to underestimating Hayman.  Cancellera crashed badly enough to be lucky to say he even finished.  Sagan got caught out in the chaos and the mud, despite hucking his meat right over Fabian's bike and further into history as arguably the best bike handler to ever race in the Professional Peloton.  Spieth, like Rory McElroy the day before, just plain fell apart in the same way so many of us do when we play golf and the goddamn ball just won't do what you tell it to for a few minutes.  In the unlikeliest of scenarios, Sunday unravelled for the big names, and the smart money lost.

And really, I think that's why so many of us watch these sports.  Not for all the times that Spieth wins (which he certainly will) or the 110 or so Victories that Boonen has chalked up in his career - but for the days like Sunday, where against all odds, the guy who is most like us wins.

Because in the absence of actual, winning level talent - which so very few of us have - sometimes sheer volume is enough.

Keep Firing, Assholes.

Miller School - Conquer the Hill

The Miller School trail system: Amazing.  Young.  Great moves.  Picturesque.  Smooth as silk.

If Justin Timberlake were a privately-maintained, machine-built, flow trail system and you could ride him, he'd be Miller School.  That place is insanely well built, immaculately maintained, and it's only getting better.

Kev29er has been bugging me to get out there and ride for about 18 months, and I just kept failing to actually get there.  Finally, last night I made it there after TNW and got in a night ride.  Wowsa.  The things you can do with a ditch witch, some dirt-savvy, and an army of hoe-equipped, forced child labor.  Some of the berms, upon first look, don't even make any sense - but then you ride them and you realize that, actually, you CAN make a berm that steep on that angle and absolutely rip it.  Was I inverted back there?  Jesus.

And those stunts.  Gigantic wooden wall rides.  Totters.  Not to sound like a grumpy old man here, but back in my day, the only use we had for that kind of wood on the trails was to build a fire to keep our cantilever-brake-pumped hands warm and to thaw out our numb, thudbuster-beaten crotches into some semblance of forward progress.  And now?  Just look at this place.  6-inch travel 25 lb bikes with disc brakes that pedal like a hardtail, but you've built the berms so high that you don't actually have to touch the brakes anyway.  I could go on and on...Basically, you kids have no idea how good you have it, and that's a good thing.

Conquer the Hill, the upcoming race and a fundraiser to keep the good stuff growing, is April 16th.  A 4 hour enduro-ance contest to see who can pull the most g's for the longest and not get the bends.  Do It.

Register here:
https://www.bikereg.com/conquer-the-hill

Ride this stuff:

Praise Justin Timerblake.

Up, up, up.

Zwift Doping

Deep thoughts on the subject of doping, strava, social media, and the bizarre commercialization of weekend warriors and their Instagram feeds.

It's a fascinating read that I highly recommend:  http://cyclingtips.com/2016/03/who-is-thorfinn-sassquatch-the-mysterious-case-of-a-los-angeles-strava-legend/

Because until there's a good hack for Zwift that will give me an extra 200 watts (up, up, down down, left right left right b a start) there's still old fashioned doping, which luckily works in all manner of imaginary racing - Strava, Zwift, Instagram, your local Tuesday night fast ride, and now it's more convenient and affordable than ever.  At least for a little while longer...



If you bought drugs through the mail in the last 10 years or so, my advice is to just fade into the background, deadbolt your front door, and arm yourself to the very fucking teeth.  The feds are coming.

No way out but up, up, up.

Ragged Mountain and Main Street

You know, places you can ride your bike.

A wee bit of linkage first:

The Ragged Mountain Public Hearing is tonight, 3.22.  I'm told the first one was sparsely attended.  But this is our chance, as a community, to make our collective voice heard - that our greatest in-town singletrack future is strong enough to support bikes.  And dogs.  And running.  And fun in general.  Indeed, if you believe that more than one bizarre, misguided, remarkably slow and plodding user group deserves access to our public lands, then show up and make your voice heard.
http://www.charlottesville.org/departments-and-services/departments-h-z/parks-recreation-/parks-trails/city-parks/ragged-mountain

Similarly, City Council is now accepting your input on the design of West Main Street.  Same deal: residents on bikes should be able to ride down West Main without being run the fuck over by trucks.  You can read more, ponder, and support that kind of outlandish, radical thought here: http://gowestmain.com

This stuff is easy for me.  I know where I stand on these subjects, and I don't even have to attend.  No, indeed, my wife is plugged in, and since she's more beautiful, better spoken, cooler under pressure, smarter, calmer, less likely to cry in public, faster, and generally a better representation of the kind of quality person who'd like access to these kinds of bike infrastructure; it's just better for everyone involved that she attend and speak her mind vs me showing up with a rogue hoe and a muddy "fuck you" t-shirt.  So she attends, I stay home, and everybody wins.

But this sign...

Every time I see this sign, it absolutely murders me.  You read that right: no beer, no dogs, no running ("NO RUNNING!") no bikes, no "collecting."  Basically, no anything.  You can walk there, as long as you don't pick anything up.  Not much else at Ragged Mountain is legal.  We, the taxpayer, actually pay a significant amount of money to keep ourselves the fuck out of there.  Animal control is out there a few times/month to ticket, arrest, and persecute people who have the audacity to walk their dogs.  And NO RUNNING!  That always makes me smile a little.  Is there a lifeguard there who will blow the whistle and scream at you if they perceive you moving too fast? Are we five years old and at the pool?  And, for that matter, running is a little tough to define...what about just a really fast walk?  A shuffle?  Are there judges there who - like in the powerwalking championships of the World will disqualify any walker that they can closely inspect and perceive to be, in fact, running?

It's a slippery slope, this whole "No Running" business.  Lucky for us, our tax dollars can support the infrastructure to prevent running, that being a chubby little fellow in a white hat with exceptional judgement, character, and a startling level of passion, capable of tossing even the great walking champion, Jane Saville, from the women's 20K walk at the 2000 Sydney Olympics.  Let's just say this: HE will not be persuaded.

But maybe the people who actually matter can be.  So get out there and help mold the future of how bikes, runners, dogs, and pretty much the remaining 95% of us will access our public places in the very near future.

Because it still holds true - even amid the internet of all things: the world is still run by the people who actually show up, up, up.