The Thousand Word Picture

My Orbea Orca.  Felled by a squirrel just weeks after taking me to my first win.  A bicycle wheel sporting a broken pair of front tines would make a perfect prompt for a creative writing workshop.  Consider the variety of stories that might end with a wheel spinning up the road like the last spasms of a severed limb.

Society for Wheelchair Accessable Single Track

SWAST is gathering steam.  And I've attained at a new level of blogging:  the rant.

Before venting, it seems appropriate to set a baseline.  I ride trails on a CX bike.  I dislike suspension forks and hate rear suspension.  It's entirely possible that I've never ridden a properly tuned bike, but I enjoy climbing and love the feedback of a stiff frame.  I've been hitting the local trails year 'round for about a decade and have learned to live with the rocks and roots and logs and the annual rhythm.  Ride fast in the summer when the paths are clear.  Pick your way through the leaves in the fall.  Feel damn lucky that you can get out at all in the winter.  Stay out of the mud in the spring.  My definition of a great ride is staying clipped in for the entirety of various climbs.  Until this year.

In this winter of my mild discontent, leaves disappeared from the local trails.  At first, sections were swept.  Then holes appeared where rocks once lay.  Someone was pulling rocks out of eskers.  You might as well pull words out of sentences.  New England without rocks is Kansas.  And logs that could be moved were; logs that couldn't were built up with sticks.  In some spots (see above), borders were added.  The photo above is of a trail that was regarded locally as technical, although it looks more like a garden path now.  The log in the distance was ridable, but now it's a rollicking speed bump.  And the path is four times the width of the old trail.

Who would do such a thing?  Only bike riders build up logs.  But what bike rider widens a path and adds borders?  To my way of thinking, the time it took to build borders would have been better spent learning to clear a log.  The changes have been going on all winter long and over a pretty wide range of trails.  And I never see anyone actually doing the work.

I really don't like what's been going on, but I've accepted it as legitimate and well intentioned.  I'm not about to undo anyone's efforts.  What has been difficult to accept is my own reactions.  Have I become such a curmudgeon that I get all worked up about a couple changes?  Have I developed that awful dismissive attitude that there's nothing worse than a newbie?

Truth be told, the trails in question are literally across the street from a large neighborhood full of kids - less than two minutes of coasting downhill from my house.  That's a detail that only a complete curmudgeon could overlook.  I'm not ready to thank the people of SWAST for stealing rocks and widening trails.  But in a world where every kid has a mountain bike that barely leaves the sidewalk, I will find the SWASTies and shake their dirty hands if I start seeing kids riding bikes in the woods.

Guardian Angels

I was impressed by Chip's ride through NTF last week.  My preference off road is trails that are ridable in both directions.  NTF is littered with one-way drops and rocky carries.  It's not big, but I always get lost and always have to carry the bike when the trail goes hiker.  It messes with my flow.  So it's good to know I'm not alone.

But that's not what made the impression.  Riding with someone who shares their expertise and enthusiasm impressed me.  I'm buoyed by the number of talented cyclists who shepherd someone.  I had an awesome season of cross primarily because someone took the time to invite me along to races, let me shadow them warming up, shared the little tricks that made me a better rider, entertained my dumb questions and challenged me to use all the those advantages to race better.  It was a private cyclocross graduate seminar.

There are riders that always have a good word and share what they know.  That's very cool.  I keep a mental list of those folks and do my best to be them.  But circling back to break down how to clear a ledge, step by step, is another level.  That's the Guardian Angel; the Counselor who makes sure you get your Log Riding merit badge; the Big Brother who shows you how to get backstage.  They might get something out of it, a partner in crime or a platform to preen, but it's no where near what they give.  And from what I've seen, what they get is the satisfaction of sharing something good and seeing it make a difference.

Chip and I have been anointed.  It's nobody's fault but our own if we're not rocking ledges, logs and barriers, soft fleshy parts not withstanding.  Long term, the trick won't be Macaskillian mastery.  It will be identifying the next guy who's ready to be anointed and taking the time to see that it happens.

Saturday's Ride

It certainly felt that the tires were particularly awesome.  Brand new, tacky, slick Pro4s in black.  New equipment always gets more credit that several weeks of training on a heavier bike, or a thoroughly cleaned drivetrain, or a crazy schedule with exactly the right sized window of open time for a good ride or even an unusual eating day.

What ever the reason, the bike surged ahead at the slighted provocation.  The wheels spun up to speed and stayed there with suspicious lack of effort.  Explanations veered far afield of possibility:  hit by a truck and instantly killed, the transition to heavenly reward was seamless; tire diameter had been reset on the cyclometer; a fierce but unfelt tailwind had developed; wings?

Stopped by the shop and despite being very busy, everyone said hi.  Returned to my bike to find two guys with Euro accents admiring it.  Perhaps it would be best to call home for a ride and make every effort to conserve the high.  It might last until tomorrow's training race...

Or not.  Apparently, when the cycling gods reach down and caress one's thighs, the appropriate response it is to ride until the touch fades.  Bask in the glow and pray for more divine intervention.

Dancing on the Pedals

This may sound strange, but I often envision riding a bike as dancing.  Perhaps it has to do with listening to music while riding.  As a teen, I would ride with a radio on a touring handlebar basket.  It wasn't really a basket, but a boxy, red cordura thing, very technical at the time, with a vinyl sleeve on top for maps.  I would flip the top back and position a large transistor radio for optimal listening on long rides.  I had gotten the idea that pedal stroke was key to quality riding and the music made for a smooth, fast cadence.  Incredibly, I'm still concerned with my pedal stroke, but now I have an iPod.

On the road, it's mostly about cadence and I'm drawn to latin music.  I think it has to do with latin dance beats or the precision I associate with latin dances.  But I'm not ready to rule out a subconscious conflation of Spanish climbers and Phil Liggett's description of "dancing on the pedals".  In any case, I don't have enough latin music to fill a typical road workout, so I fall back on music with groove.  M,M&W, Galactic, Fatboy Slim and the Stone Roses all have groove.  The trainer lead to an uncharacteristic taste for electronic/dance, such as The Chemical Brothers, BT, Moog Cookbook, and Moby.  I guess the regularity of electronic lends itself to the tedium of the trainer.  On the trails, I've been digging funky, jazzy stuff, like Robert Walter, Diplo, Flow Dynamics or Deela.

On the road and trainer, music provides a groove; it's all about forward momentum.  The trail is where riding really feels like dance.  There's more manipulation of the bike and more interaction with the trail.  The lifting, leaning, balance and rhythm combine to become a very personal interpretation of how to negotiate each section.  The dance is maintaining balance and rhythm while committing to various lifts, leans and turns.  I guess real dancing would be riding on a level field and using music to dictate the rhythm, leans and lifts.  In my mind, the terrain is the music.  The iPod mostly provides audible adrenalin.