Wrapped

And almost as soon as it had begun, a small crowd dressed in black sat beside the grave bearing good grace to a world better than this. It was short, hectic, wild, and messy, bringing giggles of joy, and breath taking awe, but it died in a cloud or two of dust out west, leaving little more than a pit of slight humiliation and a will for revenge. That can wait now. Time for the pain to start, the lunges, intervals, hill climbs, vomit-inducing double pole rollerski workouts. Time to be fit and strong so when the snow does fly, I can too.

Post Script: Adventure partner in crime LT toted along a GoPro, took some sweet footy, and edited a rad little motion picture that I think captures a lot of what this ride is about. I highly recommend you go check it out.

There's something inherently different when your adventure starts in the dark. Something a little more serious, and a little more intimidating about kitting up in the pre-dawn light of your headlamp. Its been longer than I can remember since the last time I woke up that early to go do something, but early morning grogginess broken swiftly by hard physical effort is not a feeling anyone forgets, and quickly things were underway.

The forecast was for highs 55-60˚ and partly cloudy. As we trundled up the first 5 miles of heavily forested, technical, rooty trail, we  reassured ourselves that the low-lying clouds would burn off as soon as the sun rose. And despite the fact it was October 10th in Montana, everyone was expecting the same beautiful weather we've had for the last three weeks. Luckily, everyone also packed clothes for an emergency situation. 

As trail got steeper, the clouds chose not to burn off, and quite to the contrary, they began to thicken and precipitate. Mostly just a drizzle, but as we reached the top of the pass the water turned to ice and the snow on the ground made sure our feet did not become too warm, while the freezing mist made sure our hands stayed cool as well. And there, from the top of the pass, this intrepid group of explorers set out to conquer the rest of the 20 miles of alpine singletrack ahead of them.

A steady pattern developed amid the swirling white, of bouncing along the tundra and scree fields, punctuated occasionally by a drop in elevation below the cloud ceiling, which was followed by the inevitable hike-a-bike back to the top of the ridge where we were once again greeted by a steady mix of wind and rain. Here the emergency gear was applied in full force and we soldiered on towards the gates of mordor.

Around 4 hours into the ride, while stopped to consume some well earned calories, I made the discovery that the lunch I had packed - a turkey and cheese bagel, two pb&js and a bag of gold fish - was sitting in the suby at the trail head, and the total ingestible contents of my backpack consisted of 3 chewy bars and a gatorade. It was a rookie mistake - and a stupid one at that - but luckily I was riding with good friends who were happy to share their calories. It did stop me though, and it forced me to think. We were 4 hours of difficult riding at the very least from any car. It was october, and this was montana. And while I have been in worse situations, there was a lot of potential for things to go wrong.

 

Luckily, nothing went (that) wrong, so we kept riding, and hiking, and riding, and hiking, and, well, you get the picture.

We thought we got to the top of the last climb, but it wasn't. We climbed some more, but that wasn't the last one either. As it turns out, spending several hours moving through remote wilderness with zero visual cues is not a good way to maintain a good grasp on your exact location. Somewhere between point a and this point, I entered the suffer stage. I was still having fun, but I hit the wall where even in the littlest of little rings, I had to walk any thing that reached a gradient steeper than a wheel chair ramp.

We pushed, pulled, and carried our mud covered steeds through the fog, at times walking right along the edge of cliff bands that dropped sheer for an untold distance below us (editor's note: topo shows these cliffs as 500+ ft), below which a band of orcs could easily could have made camp. The thing about 20ft visibility is that a thirty foot cliff looks the same as a three hundred foot cliff - so erring on the side of caution, much of this portion of the ride/hike was a no fall zone. After cresting the rise, we saddled up and dropped across the rocky tundra once more. This time the clouds had lifted enough to provide a view of the final shoulder we had to traverse before we reached the exit drainage, and my legs found their last wind. As we rounded the corner the clouds began to part, and for the first time that day we had sunshine. Views and sunshine, and it was fantastic.

And on that grand open piece of tundra, the vision quest reached its pinnacle.  If there was any point of the ride that took a smile off someone's face, it was rectified then and there in the afternoon sun. With a whoop and a holler we were off, flying through the grass.

A handful of thousands of feet and countless grins later, and we hit subaru dos, followed shortly by a massive intake of gas station junk food and some car time. Rarely have I ever been more ready for a shower and a nap, but it was glorious I tell you, glorious.

A year and a month ago today, I walked into a bike shop in bozeman for the first time. After the requisite introductions between staff and patron, I started looking at a map and asking about rides. There was one ride that jumped out right away. Somewhere in the 30-40 mile range, easy over 7k of climbing. But when I pointed the route out, straight up, the immediate answer was a rejection on all grounds. No way, no how, even our strongest riders here would never do that, blah, blah, blah. As it turns out its a point to point affair, and last year I didn't have the motivation to put it together anyways, so it just never happened. But one thing stuck with me. I immensely disliked being told immediately that I should not even consider something like that, with no consideration of my experience or abilities. Now I'm not someone who holds lots of grudges, and I am not usually motivated by revenge, but something inside me has, since that day, wanted to do that ride. So tonight, shuttles are being lined up, pasta is being cooked, and bikes are being prepped for what is heralded to be a truly epic ride. Can't wait.

I wont say that up until this year I've been a slouch in the kitchen, but I certainly was not much of a cook. However, and I'm not laying vast claims to greatness or eternal fame, the chicken enchiladas I made last night were very tasty. And the peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip cookies from this afternoon were not bad either. Healthy? no, but, I sure as hell ain't starvin', thats for certain.

Cooking is something that I do take a bit of pride in. Much like any other tangible forms of creation, such as knitting, there is something compelling about taking a bunch of items that would have no use otherwise, and using a bit of skill to create something that can bring comfort, joy, or simply contentedness. Cooking in this sense is still an operative word, because as much as I do not raise my own sheep to shear their coats and dye and spin their wool, I do not grow, harvest, and grind my own wheat to bake with. I don't even have an herb garden with which I can spice my own cooking. But, those are the final steps. When eating local is eating your food. It has to start somewhere though, and I say consciousness is where its at. Watch what comes home from the grocery, and watch what gets eaten. The next step is to cook each meal. Not adding milk to cereal, but taking the time to produce something of value. Something that makes you glad - or even proud - you are not wearing a loin cloth chasing squirrels. Thats where the recognition of food kicks in. That its not always the most efficient route, to take time to fry up some chicken, mix it up with corn tortillas, beans, green chili, jalapeños, and grated cheese, and bake it for an hour, but what good things in life arise from simplicity or laziness? Not these enchiladas, thats for sure. 

indian summer

Call me crazy, but with every passing beautiful day here, I am finding myself less and less excited for winter. What ho?! This is sacrilege! you must live for powder skiing and powder skiing only! Typically, yes, this is true, that by the first week in October the only word that comes close to describing my relations with the weather would be antsy. Usually I am beyond sick and tired of blue skies and warm temperatures - saying prayers at night - really yearning for snowflakes in the sky and skis on my feet. Maybe its some byproduct of spending too much time indoors this summer, maybe its a phycological response to my recent reclamation of bicycle riding, but I am really enjoying the beautiful weather.

Last year, on september 30th, I woke up to snow covering the ground. Not just a few flakes falling, but a legitimate coating. Turned stuff white for about 2 days, and eventually killed all greenery, but it foreshadowed what last fall in Bozeman was all about: Cold, with shades of white, grey and brown. Aha! you may think that sounds shitty (it was to a degree) but at last, here was a place that enjoyed winter as much as I did. Where the weather gods agreed that summer was long enough already, and that from october to may, the temperature should not exceed 60˚. And that was a good winter, 80 days of skiing was very good.

This fall could not be more different. Today was the first day with notable cloud cover in almost two weeks, and the live-blood of autumn is raging away. A coincidence this morning as I woke up with a stuffy nose and a sore throat. The room was filled up with the sort of grey light that filters in on a cloudy morning, and I had a hard time swallowing.  Nothing quite like it to remind one how much it means to be in good health and riding bikes in the sunny tundra a day prior. So today was a day to rest, drink lots of tea, hydrate, catch up on work and take care of the body. Tomorrow is supposed to be rainy, but a string of days 70˚ and sunny are expected to follow. Darnit if there aren't mountains to be climbed and bikes to be ridden, and I want to be in the best shape possible to enjoy the here and now.

Just what the doctor ordered

bicycle (racing)

For a long time I was a bike racer. For me it was the end all be all, the dream and the path, the guts and the glory. Everyone I looked up to was a bike racer, and all of my friends were bike racers. It was, quite literally the life blood that ran through my veins. Then, a little while ago, I stopped bike racing. Instead of another summer of intervals and traveling, bicycle racing was dropped on the side of the road. There wasn't a straw that broke the camel's back, but two summers ago, I lost all motivation to train or race. I went to school, locked my bike in the basement, and there it stayed untouched for the better part of six months. Bike racing was all but dead to me and the thought of riding rollers through the short cold snowy bozeman days - while it might appeal to some folks - was not high on my agenda.

Then I got a job at a bike shop this summer. I was excited to spend time around bikes, learning, working, and sharing these machines that got me so far. I thought that the atmosphere would take me back to a place where I was truly excited about biking: where I could spend hours on mtbr and velonews, geeking out on parts and races and pros. But it didn't. Working in the store a handful of hours a week was, contrary to my expectations, one of the worst blows to my cycling enthusiasm I've ever encountered. As it turns it out, bike shops are not the right place to fall (back) in love with bikes.

I did do a bit of riding this summer. It was not a chore, it was not stressful. It was full of dead-ends, turn-arounds, and hike-a-bikes. Still though, it was not care free and easy going. More of getting lost, high in the hills, served to chase some demons from the rest of the world, a place to be turned around but still comfortable, where the new was really old, really old. It was shit that got rediscovered, redeemed in the most valiant of fashions, but still shit that was there all along, and it just took a while to find it. Like how you can get out of bed in your former house - without living there for years - and still find the light switch in the middle of the night. That was last summer, finding the light switch.

Just over a month ago I again packed my material possessions into the subie and headed north. Things this time around were a little more under control than a year ago the same time, and whoever that wise man is, he's right in saying that you can sleep when you're dead. Or at least when you're done with college. In all seriousness, this fall has been an eye opener. Pushing the boundaries of my riding, my fitness, and my psyche, long rides, short rides, hard rides and easy rides. But all in the name of fun, not stress or goals or anything like that. This weekend in particular, was something of a revolution. I've done a handful of races in the past year and a half, maybe two handfuls, but definitely no more than I have fingers, but there has not a race that - and this may sound stupid - I have really raced. I love to ride my bike, and I won't pass up an opportunity to pedal, but it takes a lot of commitment to suffer through a bike race. Commitment I didn't have any interest in until yesterday. The bangtail ball buster was not a spectacular race in any sense, in fact, for all intensive purposes I got the shit kicked out of me, but darnit if it wasn't fun.

It really is the best place to be right now. Fall is beautiful, trails are rideable for now (knock on wood). And while I am excited for winter (always will be) the riding is stellar. There are not many months of training and stressing ahead of me, only a few short weeks to be savored until the snow starts falling, so until then, the indian summer will be fully embraced, and biking will be fun. And for lack of any better way to put it, I feel blessed that bike riding has returned to that.

Nope, No fun here

None at all

Don't even bother

Fine and Dandy

There is not a moment I could imagine here where I would hesitate to say I have fallen head over heels for the montucky fall. Except when you are at risk of taking a number 4 buck shot through the woods. Where's my hunter's orange?

Whilst meeting some folks this weekend, I was introduced as Sam, he should be an art major, he just doesn't know it yet. I still smiled but it caught me a bit off guard, not going to lie. You see, I really love art. Pretty much all of it actually, but the act of being an art major has never really been an option for me. The one advice everyone says, I mean everyone, is to do what you love. Follow your heart, thats the yellowbrick road. Hand me a paint brush and hand me a science textbook, and its not a hard choice which one will be dropped to the floor. Why then am I charging headstrong towards another 10+ years of studying and working for science. Yes, I suppose I do enjoy learning, and science is captivating, but I feel no deep soul bound connection with it, but I don't think thats it. Somewhere buried deep in my head is the notion that art is frivolous, not to me, no most certainly not, but to the people who brought me up, who worked to put me where I am today, that is not the 'noble' pursuit in life. The noble pursuit is a well paying job with lots of toys and stuff. Thats the life I've lived... indeed it is still the life I am living, but it is the secure life, where with a medical degree I have the security of money and societal superiority. These are things that hold worth, no doubt, but how much is it worth to me? On the other hand, there is the unknown, making a living at something that brings sheer joy. Every minute of it, not a compromise of stress and comfort, but pure joy... hard work yes, but real enjoyment. That is the passion I need to find, sometimes it just looks like a long ways to jump.