More Bounce to the Ounce

[formerly: 'Bouncin' on a Big Bike']

My rides have been few and far between this year, but last Saturday I got to head up the the SMBA trails in Saratoga Springs for their annual 'Mix-Up the Dirt' (aka 'MUD') festival, where beers, burgers, and bikes were in abundance.  It was really a great event, with well over a hundred people there, two or three different shops, representatives from the Luna Chix team, a couple of guys from the White Face downhill park, Sigma Systems accessories, plus the Trek/Gary Fisher demo truck.  I'm not sure how much schwag the different groups handed out, but there was a ton, including tires, pumps, lights, and even a complete bike.  Not bad at all.

The SMBA trails are tight, rocky, technical masterworks of trailbuilding, and the lingering moisture from the rain the night before had everything covered with a thin slime.  I don't know where beginners -- and even intermediates -- go to ride around the area, but they don't go here: SMBA serves up the beatdowns for anyone not on their game.

Before I hit the trail I wandered over to the Trek tent and pick me up a big helping of bounce: a full-XTR Trek Remedy with 6 inches of travel front and rear.  Even with this generous helping of rubble-eating goodness the bike with still under 30 pounds, and while that didn't make it Hollywood-approved, it still weighed a reasonable amount.

This is a lot of bike.  I haven't ridden with gears in quite some time, and I've never owned a full-suspension bike, so this thing took some getting used to, and I'm not sure that I ever got it.  Don't get me wrong, this is a great bike for someone, I'm just not sure that I'm that person.  I felt more like I was guiding a couch through the woods than mountain biking, and there was nothing about the thing that you could call 'flickable,' but it would be great fun on a wide-open, fast trail with lots of drops and rubble. On the tight, slow trails of SMBA it didn't exactly shine, for while it liked to eat up the rocks, it wasn't nearly as nimble as I would have liked.  SMBA has a lot of little-ring plodding through rock fields and quick changes of direction, and the Remedy would much rather have been eating up the high speed descents in Fruita than guiding me deeper into the forests of the Northeast.

That said, gears are nice.  Suspension is nice.  After returning the Remedy I got to spend some time on a Gary Fisher HiFi Pro 29er, a XC full-suspension rig.  Me likey.  Me likey a lot.  I don't know when my finances will allow me to have that kind of ride in my stable, but it was sure nice to be able to down shift when climbs got steep, or sit down through moderate rock gardens rather than stand and pump through.  

Feeding the desire for a new ride was the bike weighing contest hosted by EMS.  The idea was to guess the weight of your bike, and

 while I was pretty close on the ol' Ferrous, I was disappointed to find out that she tips the scale at well over 27 pounds: 27 pounds and 9 ounces, to be exact.  That was only an ounce less than a friend's new Stumpy, and even more than this kid's rad Astana-approved trike.  (Kidz these days, what with their trikes and their casts, I tells ya...)

The Stumpy seems like an ideal platform for the area, by the way, as it manages to balance significant travel (5 inches front and rear) with light weight and trail bike geometry.  (Well, it least the freewheelin' Gary didn't have any trouble flogging it around the trail.)

All-n-all not a bad day, truth be told.  I determined that a) bikes are fun, b) I like to mountain bike, c) I am out of shape, d) my bike is heavy, e) hot dogs taste good, even when burnt, f) trees hurt when you hit them, no matter how much suspension you have, g) rocks are hard, h) I need to stop making lists.  As I cruised back to Albany the skies opened up and the rest of the weekend was spent dodging rain, but this allowed me to lick my wounds and cruise the internet for the light parts that I now 'need.'

Finally, a take-away shot from the trails to give you an idea of what they're like.  Bob was happy to be rolling around on a long-travel Ellsworth.  The pic, isn't great, as I caught him just after he landed the drop, but hopefully it'll give you some flava.

Parts is Parts

Bikers are tech-dorks.

There, I said it.

We obsess about grams, tooth-count, alloy material, and tire psi so much that our significant others sometimes question whether or not our love for all things two-wheeled as being above and beyond more important subjects, like, ya know, humans.

Still, much as we may worry about the butting profile of our spokes and bearing quality of our headsets, there's always something to be said for just duct-taping some shit together in the woods, throwing caution to the wind, and just say screw it. Such was the result of my mountain bike ride last Saturday at the SMBA trails north of Albany in Saratoga Springs.

Luckily for me the Ferrous wasn't the victim: as hard as NY trails seem to be on bikes, I've yet to experience any serious failures. I have seen the trails eat parts, clothes, frames, skin, and one collar bone, but I've thus far avoided any real setbacks. Not so my riding partners.

The SMBA trails are akin to a cross between New Light (circa 2003) and Rocky Road, all multiplied by a factor of two: there are lots of different trails, each with its own character and charm, but all strewn with chunky rocks and nothing below 'intermediate' level. These aren't fast trails, for while there isn't much elevation change, they are tight and tech-heavy.

They also eat things. Like skin. And seats.

Brian has kindly let me tag along on a couple rides, some of which lead to disaster, and others to tomfoolery, but none of which have been boring. This last Saturday promised to be an easy two-hour ride with a couple folks, with our tour guide avoiding the rockier trails of the system for the easier ones. We may have hit those, but the difference was negligible. And two hours was more like three, but for a Brian-led expedition that's basically on time.

Most amusing was how Brian decided to rock the ride: after going over the bars maybe two minutes into the trails, scraping himself up and knocking his seat off its rails, he proceeded to finish the ride on some sort of McGrubered-up contraption that looked more like a sex toy than a bike part.

This is that Yankee ingenuity that we hear so much about. At one point I think all six of us were crowded around giving advice on how to best 'fix' his seat with zip-ties, duct-tape, and voodoo.

Needless to say my humanities-educated self stepped aside and let the engineers tackle the matter, as they seemed more competent. Taking the time to reflect quietly on my Walden-like surroundings, I decided my fluffy English-major self would set the moment to verse:

I think that I shall never see
A seat as lovely as B.P.'s:
It's long and black and fits his crack
Just like a glove, or my head its hat.
I think it's sad he's lost his saddle
For now the post his ass must battle
And as we ride this rocky trail
I'm certain it must quite bruise his tail.

The remainder of the ride involved a series of spills, dabs, and near-misses, but since I didn't have my camera to capture them it's basically like they didn't happen. (Or so I learned from the Bones Brigade.) We were all able to finish the ride, though, even Brian, despite being French-tickled all the way home.

This was only my third mountain bike ride of the year and it was good to kick around in the dirt some. I'm learning pretty quickly that lack of practice does not do the body good, that the northeast does have mosquitoes, and that age does not make me wiser or more nimble. Alas and alack. Here's hoping that my future rides are a little more mundane and less abusive.

I hope things are going well down in the Tarheel state!

Blame it on the snow (yeah! yeah!)

(All apologies to Milli Vanilli for corrupting their lyric masterpiece.)

I'd heard that it snowed in Albany, that there were such things as snow emergencies, and that there were times that you needed to budget an hour to shovel your car out of its parking spot, but until this last Friday these stories all sounded like attempt to pull one over on the silly little southerner. In fact, it seems that all of these things are painfully true.

Friday brought us somewhere around ten inches of snow in the matter of a few hours. Once we'd gotten six or so inches I figured it had to be about to stop (I mean, god doesn't have that much dandruff, does he?), so I ignored my better judgement and took to the streets, General Lee-style.

And lo there was ripping. And the ripping was good.

As it turns out, my marginal skillz are unaffected by what skiers refer to as a powder day. When you're already pretty challenged in terms of your shredability, the addition of snow makes everything a little more difficult, but also increases your margin of error. My four inches of bunnyhopability was constant and I still couldn't do a bar spin, but then again I didn't break myself, either.

I had backup along, so I was able to grab a few pics. Here I'm basically showing the very peak of my skills, the rarely seen snow-bound trackstand. Behold it's brilliance.

Since it normally is only light up here for like seven hours a day, during the snowstorm we were reduced to like four. It was already getting dark at this point in the afternoon, though it was only a little after four.

The very pinnacle of my trickery.

This was all pretty rad on Friday, and my amusement extended into Saturday. However, as it's continued to snow, and I've had to dig my car out twice, gotten stranded in the Albany airport for all of Sunday, and seen all of the world disappear under a blanket of white for the next three month, my love for the white stuff has diminished. I'm planning a New Year's Eve shredathon regardless of temperatures (and sobriety level); pics may not follow.

I hope you're all getting to ride some down south. Happy holidays from the Northcountry!

Rutland remembered

The plan for last Saturday's ride was simple enough on paper: jump in the car early; meet up with Jeff and Chris, a couple new folks from the interwebs, and Brian (my tour guide for the SMBA trails and the Grafton-Pittstown extravaganza); zip over to Rutland, VT; get in a couple of hours on the Pine Hill Park trails; then head back to the Empire State and be done with things by two in the afternoon. Easy, schmeezy. I hadn't been out on the mountain bike -- or any bike -- much in the last month, but with snow in the forecast I figured I should take my non-frostbitten rides where I could.

There were a couple harbingers of doom -- Chris reported cougar sightings in the area and Brian had his car rearranged by his toddler on the way to meet us -- but as we pulled into the parking lot in Rutland and geared up, the rain from earlier in the morning was slackening and things were looking good. Brian decided to start things out with a bang and while poking around the park's activities building tripped a loud alarm. Not to be daunted by the closed door, the chain across said door, and the lights off, his attempt to sneak into the facilities was met with a sphincter-constricting FAIL. Rather than wait around to chat it up with Rutland's finest, we decided to hit the trail.

And it was a good thing that we did: any time missed on these trails is time wasted (and especially so if it's spent explaining to the authorities how ya just hadta go, ya know?). We started out on some flowy, techy trails on the lower section, complete with decent little freeride drop. Being the stunt expert that I am, I volunteered to film Brian as he launched the smooth transition.

Here's a still shot of Chris sizing up the rocks and then Brian making it look old hat. (Clicking on the pics will make them bigger. 'Playing' the videos will, well, play them.)



This was just the beginning of a trail system that represents untold labor hours in its creation and maintenance. It was really rather amazing, as the many of the trails had the ample rocks pushed from the middle of the trail to the sides, not only making things faster, but making for an easy path to follow through the leaf-strewn woods. In other places there were rather elaborate rocks playgrounds, and everything was clearly cut and well-marked. There were a number of criss-crossing trails, and we were happy to leave the navigation up to Jeff, who whipped his map out regularly to plot the best path.

After a short (for the region) carriage road climb (read: rock-strewn double-track bent on shaking your fillings loose) to the upper side of the park the fun really began, with some of the slow speed maneuvers from below replaced with fast, berm-filled, "grip it and rip it" fun. I didn't stop to take pictures of this because I was simply having too much fun, but if I can ever convince you NCers to trek north on two wheels I'll want us to go here: the trails were fast, techy, scenic, with a wide variety of terrain and a great use of space. No complaints, except maybe wishing that they were a little closer.

But as great as the trails were, they were not without their quirks. Exhibit one: an enormous suspension bridge in the middle of the trail that crossed what was little more than a wet seep. This thing was an impressive feat of engineering, with four huge anchor posts, treated lumber decking, and a totally-legit suspension setup. Much as we couldn't quite figure why bother, we did have fun playing around on it. Here's a couple of videos of us playing around on the swaying wonder:





There are also some rather interesting trail names, and I have to admit that I chuckled every time we took a turn down the Droopy Muffin. (I'm not sure if Brian thought so too, of if he was just humoring me in this photo.)

However, it was while drooping the muffin that we had our first problem, when Jeff realized that the creaking that he thought was coming from his seatpost was actually a cracked frame. In an attempt to keep the crack at the toptube-seattube from getting any larger he shoved his seatpost all the way down in the frame and rode BMXican style for the rest of the day. He may have sat down a couple of times, but I didn't see it, and instead was happy to pedal huckster style around on his bouncing bike.

A little later we ran across what is certainly one of the weirdest things I've seen while on the trail: a collection of hanging rocks, rock pyres, and weird things made out of branches that would have been more at home on the set of the Blair Witch Project than interrupting my ride. I would have stopped to take a few pictures, but it was really a little creepy.

Not incoincidentally, a few seconds down the trail I got a flat. The curse of the witch you think? No, you say? Well, then what do you say when I mention that the valve core pulled out of my spare tube after I got it pumped up? What if it happened again? Still not convinced? What if I told you that the witch (possibly in the form of Jeff) also stole Chris's brains around this time? (Sweartagawd.) Clearly, the place is cursed and should be avoided when you ride the trail. Alas, I couldn't tell you where it was.

The tire issues and the lack of cognitive abilities led us down the trail and back to the truck after one more rip down a trail aptly named Halfpipe. At the parking lot the clock on the wall said 2 o'clock. (Last call. For alcohol.*) For those of you keeping track at home that's when we'd planned on being home, but we were in the wrong state, in need of food, and still lacking Chris's grey matter. So we stopped in to a local pizza joint to top off our cholesterol reserves and prepare for a quick trip home.

The road home was, well, interesting. Not only did I learn about the vicious cougar attacks of ought-eight, but I also came home with a much broader picture of the Upstate riding scene, including -- but not limited to -- the following**:

• Their fondness for reminiscing about kicking Spiderman's ass.
• A hatred for the mullet.
• Nothing is ever "at altitude," because everything is "at altitude." (Dammit!)
  
• It is in fact possible to be too messed up to go to a junkyard.

Heard on the trail or the ride:

• "I'd take that [stuff] and I'd eat it."
• "Well, I am a dirty boy."
• "I like to meet new people. And watch them eat. I mean, see them eat. I mean, see what they eat. Nevermind."
• "I think there were four generations in that house. And an airmattress. I dunno, it was weird."
• "You know, vodka out of a plastic bottle and hawaiian punch gatoraid really isn't bad when it's mixed for you by and old lady and given to you after a long ride. And has roofies in it."

I think that's all of the PG-13 stuff we have.

Needless to say it was a great day. Maybe without the pain of the Grafton-Pittstown epic that left Brian with a broken shoulder, and possibly more expensive when you figure in the broken Yeti, but still good times. Sure our quick morning jaunt turned into an all-day affair, and maybe when we got back to town Chris and I had had our cars towed, but it was totally worth it, if only for ten minutes spent on the Droopy Muffin, and maybe a few more on Halfpipe.

I'm not sure when we will get out again, as there's snow in the forecast (they said that you can bike comfortably down into the 20s, but I'm not believing it), but at the very least we got in one last good ride before we turn to dogsledding or curling or whateverthahell else they do here for fun in the winter. Keep on keepin' on down in the NC.

One for the way out:


*I know that this clip takes you to a song where the quote is "The clock on the wall said quarter to midnight" and not "two o'clock," but I can't in good conscience link to the George Thoroughgood version where he changes it to the latter. So instead you get an inconsistency, but at least one with soul.
**All of the below are taken from my extremely suspect memory of the events and then painted liberally with a brush of Guinness-forgetfulness masquerading as poetic license.

Back to the hills

After two weeks in which the only riding I got in was on my short commute to school, I decided that the beautiful autumn weather and my ever-tightening pants meant that I needed to get in some quality saddle time in. Without enough time to hit the trails I pumped up the Cannondale to 135 psi and pointed my handlebars to the southeast to take on the Hiedelberg Escarpement.

The last time that I headed this way I met with rather dismal defeat, and today I was even less prepared: poor nutrition? yep; fattyboombalatty? check; lazy? uh-huh; lack of sleep? guilty. However, I might be a little wizer. Rather than map a route that took me rather straight to the top, I took a longer, more gradual approach to the top of the ridge. I'll probably wear out my 26 tooth cog if I do many more rides like this, but by getting in a groove and rolling I at least was able to avoid the walk of shame.

The fall colors were nice, and while it was never cold, by the time that got to the ridge the wind was chilling my ears pretty nicely. This route was much longer -- possibly my longest road ride of the year, embarrassing though that is -- and the rollers once I got to the top of the hill really took a lot out of me. By the time that I limped back in to Albany I was ready for a hot shower and some eats.

Here's a map of my ride for your cartographic enjoyment. The total ride time was just a little over two hours and twenty-two minutes; take a whack at those number Adrawk!

How Hiedelberg could kill a man...

This is something I can't understand: how a bike can near kill a man.

Pressed for time last Sunday I headed out to the southwest of Albany to get a couple hours of riding in on the skinny tires. I'd planned to head about halfway up the Hiedelberg Escarpement, a ridge outside of town that begins to loom over you as you get onto progressively smaller country roads. Unfortunately I can't read maps (or wasn't paying attention), and my route took me winding to the top. (And you know it's the top by the beautiful views, and the cell phone towers.)

Here's my route:



There's no way that the map can convey just how out of shape I am, so let me say this: at the top of the ride I actually had to get off and walk the last hundred yards or so. I've never, ever had to do this on a road bike before and I have to admit that it was pretty humbling. I imagine if I had a 27-tooth cassette in the rear -- or a compact crankset -- I would have been fine, but on Sunday the choice was stop and walk, turn around with my tail between my legs, or fall over and hope someone found me. So I walked. Of course as soon as I unclipped the only car I'd seen for minutes pulled up behind me to make sure my humiliation was witnessed.

So yes, I have been beaten and unmanned, but I'm ready to go back for more: at my slow pace, the ascent took somewhere around 25 minutes, all but a couple hundred yards or so were uphill (there were two quick dips). Some was just steady climbing, but there were a few switchbacks and steep pitches. Needless to say it was quite a change from doing repeats on Mt. Sinai (which I was never very good at, and I haven't done for almost a year now).

There were a few minutes where the only thing that got me through were my snazzy new bottle cages. But survive I did, and I'll live to ride -- and walk -- another day.

Spire Falls asks "How big a boy are ya?"

Answer: not big enough; or, conversely, too big. Clearly my options at this point are to lose a few and join the ranks of my more svelte BCC-brethren down in the southland, or to get some meat on my legs and learn how to ride up hills. Either way, I clearly have my work cut out for me.

The day started reasonably enough, with Dan and I loading up our 29ers and heading about an hour north of Albany for a set of trails know as Spire (or Spier) Falls overlooking Moreau Lake State Park. As we got off the thruway the roads got twisty, ridges rose around us, and I realized that I was in for a good time. We parked near an inviting lake, but quickly turned our eyes to the hills and headed up.

I've learned something about the north in the past few weeks: people here do not warm up. Whether as a result of trails that jump on you from the word go, or from some sort of biologically programmed, high-powered starter, of the three rides that I've done with others here, each began with a bang (possibly the sound of my heart exploding). Back in NC I had a bit of a reputation of pushing the pace a little too hard from the beginning (as a result of youthful exuberance, I'm sure), but I have nothing on the few ankle-breaking beginnings I've experienced here.

Since we'd parked at the bottom of the hill there was no way for us to go but up, which we did immediately and continually for several miles. Notice that I do not say quickly, as while Dan motored his way up the tight, twisty, and rocky climbs, my ever-enlarging posterior was soon plodding slowly up each rise on my two left feet. On and on I seemed to walk, with only the relatively low weight of my Ferrous as inspiration.

Every few hundred yards I found Dan waiting patiently for me, he having happily spun up the slopes that were crushing me. The moniker emblazoned on the toptube of his Ellsworth Evolve is "Gnarly Old Dude," and while that certainly fits, I would also like to suggest "He-of-stoic-patience-and-hill-crushing-legs." It's been a while since I felt like I was the anchor on a ride, but Dan was understanding, as well as just being happy to be out on the trail.

Luckily for me, after we approached the top and I was able to ride -- as opposed to push -- my bike, and after I got a minute to let my heart rate dip below 200 bpm, I started to get a rhythm again and began making a few climbs and bashing through some of the more technically difficult sections. I was far from putting on a clinic, but I didn't feel any longer like I was ruining someone else's day.

Our route was a circuitous one around the ridge that borders the Hudson river to the south. The trail system up here is rugged (to say the least), but as the holiday weekend had families out to the state park, we saw some hikers venturing up the trail. No other bikes, though: while Dan and some of his friends ride these trails relatively regularly, it appears as if there aren't a whole lot of other people taking advantage of these climbs. And the trails are rough: we did a little exploratory route-finding, and found ourselves walking some extremely steep up- and downhills. So steep, in fact, that I actually fell while walking, in what I think was the day's only 'wreck.'

Neither of us had a computer to log our miles, but by the time we got back to the truck we'd put in somewhere around four hours. Since we weren't exactly flying along (largely because of me), I'd guess we actually rode around twenty-five miles: not a huge amount, but plenty for this southern boy at the end of August.

After we were done we took a quick dip in the Hudson River to wash off the dirt. I'm getting used to the swim-after-ride tradition up here, and even if it's a little chilly I like being able to wash off some of the worst of the ride funk before heading home.

Here are a few pics from yesterday. They're people-, bike-, and trail-less, but hopefully they give you an idea of some of the scenery.



Here's hoping that the Shenadoah rockers are heading happily home after 100 fast miles

News from the North, pt. 4: What have I gotten myself into?

There are a few common signs that your ride has gone on longer than planned: you run out of food or water, you use all of your spare tubes and have to start patching, cramps infect your legs, your over-pumped hands loose the ability to hold the bar, or -- and most dangerously -- your nips get chafed. This last is no joking matter, however laughable it may be: once those tender bits of flesh start to feel like Andre the Giant is having at them with 50-grit sandpaper, your fun on two wheels is over. On what I think was some sort of initiation ride devised by the guys in Albany, we experienced all of the above.

It started out innocently enough: Brian, my tour guide from the SMBA trails, suggested a longer ride for this past Saturday, one that linked up the two nearby trail systems of Grafton Lakes and Pittstown State Parks. Both parks are located just east of Albany, over the Hudson River in a rural area nestled among some decent hills. One park (Grafton) is located several hundred feet uphill the other, and the plan was for us to ride the Grafton trail system, bomb down hill the Pittstown, work our way through those trails, and then enjoy a leisurely -- if uphill -- ride up a fireroad and back to the cars for some frosty beverages.

The best laid plans...

Brian had a map complete with a highlighted route and trail notes that spoke of both authority and knowledge on the subject. Dan and Gary -- the other two in our quartet -- were a little leery of all that was sketched out, but a quick check of the (did I mention impressive?) map and we were on our way.

I was once again thrilled by the trails: with more elevation change than the SMBA trails, but with more interesting features than those I found at Thatcher State Park, both the Grafton and the Pittstown trails were a blast. The terrain was great, as we rolled though a series of thickly-wooded hills, around several small glacial ponds, and up and down rocky, undulating hills. The loamy trails went from moist, to wet, to soaked, to the point were we were essentially riding in a stream, but this seems to be the norm in the area, as without the clay that makes the Triangle trails so susceptible to damage, this singletrack bounces back much more quickly.

Another factor in the trails' resiliency has to be the fact that there are simply fewer riders in the area. While a typical Saturday at Beaverdam could see a packed parking lot and more lycra-clad nignogs than a Poison reunion concert, we didn't see another rider the whole day. There were a couple of fresh fat-tired tracks on the trails, but other than a couple of hikers we had the trails to ourselves. Not bad, especially considering that we were only 30 minutes or so outside of Albany.

But remember Brian's map, and our best laid plans? Yeah, about that...

We were hoping for a three- to four-hour ride (the ubiquitous 'three hour tour'): something long enough to loosen the muscles, but short enough to allow for some riding on Sunday. The problems began to arise as we hit the trail from Grafton down to Pittstown. This was supposed to be a fire road, but daaayuuum: as far as I could tell it was just a place where the giants (that ruled the land before people arrived) had collected rocks and placed them into a long uphill trench for some humanity-torturing purpose I can only begin to fathom. I mean, I guess you could drive on it -- thus giving it 'road' status -- but the idea of heading up that in anything less than a Hummer is hard to imagine.

That said, it was a blast to ride: high-speed, rock-strewn (from the pesky giants), drop of something around 1000 ft in just a couple of miles. The Ferrous went from hill-climbing diva to descent-eating monster, with the big wheels and the Reba just eating things up. (Or so I'm saying: with no witnesses I can cloak my downhill ineptitude in the fiction of my unobserved skill.) This was easily the fastest, most technical descent I'd been on, and by the end -- and after several close calls where I saw my life flash before my eyes... or at least my teeth -- I was in love with the road, rock-collecting giants or not.

This is when I got my first sign that our day might have taken a turn for the worse: as I approached the end of road, I came upon Brian spread out on the trail, deep ruts around him, a dazed look on his face, and his bike pointing the wrong way back up the trail. Whenever the locals on their long-travel bikes (and their all-important map!) go down, you know you're in trouble. Even worse, when you ask anyone if they're OK, and they look at you in a bit of confusion, and then answer 'I don't know,' things could get hairy.

Luckily, while Brian was pretty beat up (his back made him look like he'd developed a sudden S&M fetish and made quite the night of it), both he and his bike were in one piece and he insisted on continuing. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings back, but by the time he'd correctly identified a 1982 Dodge Omni in the distance (without reference to the crappy-american-cars-of-the-80s field guide) we knew he was going to be OK.

The next few miles were a bit of a comedy of errors: first Brian and Dan were attacked by bees (causing me to get "Bee[t]s. Bears. Battlestar Gallactica" in my head), then Brian got one flat, then another, then there were chainsuck issues, and before we knew it the watch on Gary's arm said 5:3o: we'd been out for four hours, and we were miles away from the cars, not to mention a thousand feet lower than where we needed to be. Moreover, I'd eaten all my food (actually, for some reason I did this before we were two hours into the ride), we were all bleeding a little bit, and we wanted to get home, pronto.

This is the point were questionable judgement came into play. While the original plan was for us to go up the trail that we'd come down (and where Brian had wrecked), popular consensus held that most of that was unrideable in the other direction, and that we'd be pushing most of the way up. There was a plan floated for us to try a much longer gravel road ride up the hill, but this was nixed with the following logic: "ya know, if we're going to be pushing anyway, we might as well take the shortest, most direct route, thus minimizing our pushing." It doesn't take a genius to see that this would also mean that we'd be headed back the steepest route, one even steeper than we'd come down. (Like I said, it made sense at the time.)

However, if route one was made by rock-hoarding giants, then route two was created by an evil sorcerer, who bewitched the rocks to march into one long line heading directly up the mountain in an unbroken stream of boulders, then sent an actual stream cascading down it. As some sort of silly joke, someone then labeled this as a 'trail' on the map, and the hilarity ensued.

By hilarity, of course, I mean nipple-chafing hell. I'm not the worst climber in the world, but I was probably on my bike for a total of 200 yards on our two-and-a-half mile hike up to the cars. Luckily, my feet -- clad in always-comfortable, carbon-soled shoes -- didn't hurt, as I was much more focused on the nipular region. At some point things just got funny, such that I began imagining how I'd think back on the occasion, rather than what I thought about the moment in the moment, some sort of weird present-thinking-into-the-future-to-imagine-the-present-as-past that made things more bearable.

Eventually we summited (and yes, I do think that word is appropriate), and it only took us a few minutes to get down to the cars. I bypassed the cars for a quick dip in the lake, bike-n-all, in an attempt to get some of the mud off me and to pretty-up the Ferrous. At this point the crew looked pretty shell-shocked, and three hours had stretched into five-and-a-half, and we'd traveled something like 43 or 48 or 75 or 900 miles on and off the bikes: I mean, we'd basically ridden to the moon and back, all uphill.

I'd be certain that this was some sort of Yankee initiation ritual, a make-the-southern-boy-pay stunt, if the others hadn't looked in a similar state to me. And to be honest it was a great ride: long, hard miles on great trails, with only relatively minor mechanicals and one serious fall. Moreover, the beer tasted all the better at the end of the day, and as sore as I am today I'm glad that I got out for as long as I did yesterday, and even more pleased that such lengthy trails are so close to Albany, and that I had such great guides for the area. It's not enough to make me quit missing the Triangle, but it is enough to make me very happy with Albany.

A few pics of the day:



And a quick video of Brian working his way up one of many short climbs:



I hope NC is treating everyone well and that the Fool's Gold fools come back from the battle unscathed.

Edit, 8/19: As it turns out, the spill that Brian took on our screaming downhill did end up doing some permanent damage, specifically an "avulsion fracture of the humerus." I don't know what that is, but it doesn't sound good. Here's hoping he heals quickly!

Missive from Yankeedom, pt. 3

It's possible that I've moved not to upstate New York, but to some sort of deciduous rain forest: it's rained nearly every day I've been here, with numerous severe thunderstorms and some pretty serious flooding. As a result, I've been a little hesitant to go on a long road ride or a fixed-gear urban exploration ride for fear of getting caught in some sort of biblical deluge. But I'd heard rumors of a sandy, quick-drying park west of town, and on a whim yesterday afternoon I threw the bike on the car and headed to the Pine Bush Preserve.

Sandy indeed: I was shocked at how different the land of the preserve was from anything else I'd seen in New York. In fact, this was easily the sandiest trail system I've ever been on, including some pretty loose trails in southern Arizona and the Sandhills region in North Carolina. The difference from the rest of the city was striking: while the region is largely characterized by thick, loamy soil interspersed with rocky granite protrusions, the Pine Bush is covered with deep, light-brown sand heaped in rolling dunes with nary a rock to be seen.

As it turns out this area is an example of the rare 'pine barrens' ecosystem, and a specific inland variety that is unique in the U.S. The sand is the remnant of glacial lake that covered the area during the last ice age, explaining why there's beach-quality sand so far from the ocean. During my ride it was a veritable riot of vegetation: clearly all of our recent rain has prompted a great deal of growth. And like many forests, the ecosystem is threatened by a lack of pruning fire, which traditionally helped to beat back the underbrush and keep the woodland relatively open.

The effect is hard to capture in words, but the place is undoubtedly beautiful and even a little erie: the blackened sand, cut through with soft brown trails, all over topped with dense, clinging brush and interspersed with black-water bogs could easily be a little creepy. This was heightened by the fact that I got caught in yet-another thunderstorm, meaning that it was just me on the darkened, twisting trails, with thunder and gunshots echoing through the trees. (Evidently there's a shooting range nearby.)

The Pine Bush is -- or was -- relatively well known: George Washington includes his impressions of the region in his journals, Longfellow uses the setting in his poem 'Hiawatha,' Melville cites them in Moby Dick, and Nobokov writes about them as well. While the trails themselves weren't that interesting -- they were wide, relatively straight, and the deep sand had me pushing the bike more often that I'd like -- the park was great, and made me happy I made the trip. I can see why the area has captured the imaginations of past generations, and why it's worth saving the land now: evidently the park supports a wide diversity of plants and animals, a number of which are endangered. I'll certainly be back, though probably with a pair of running shoes as opposed to a mountain bike.

Alas, the rainstorm means that I didn't get any pictures. You'll have to take me at my word that the place is spooky. That, or re-read Moby Dick and see what ol' Herman has to say.

Missive from Yankeedom, pt. 2

After a week off, during which I spun around town some, found a great bike shop, but left the big wheels alone, I headed to the southwest of town for a Saturday afternoon ride at John Boyd Thatcher State Park.

The park is several miles outside of town, so I saddled up the Focus and headed out. As I drove I began to wonder if I might not have the wrong form of transportation: the roads were beautiful, and even my fat-tire-loving soul wished that I was cruising along on my road bike. Unsurprisingly, I saw a number of lycra-clad warriors on the route, and I'm sure I'll join them in the future, as the spin through old villages and up the climb onto the escarpment looks like a blast. (And it should help with my inability to climb.)

The park was packed with picnickers, with the smell of grilled goodness and music wafting over the hills while I rode. The trails themselves weren't anything special: a mix of double-track and wide paths that were heavy on smooth and low on excitement. The climbing, on the other hand, was fun (whether I did it on or off the bike), and the views made the trip well worth the drive. Here are a few snaps of the area:



Of course I've since found out that there are some really sweet trails in the park, just not where I was. An excuse to head back, it seems.

Missive from Yankeedom

As I've flown the coop from Durham and settled in the upstate NY (aka The Land of No Barbecue), I thought I'd update everyone on how the Ferrous likes the new surroundings. (Updates on the General Lee and the Cannondale will have to wait.)

A few days after piloting the moving truck into Albany I started itching for a ride. A few feelers on the web landed me with a guided tour of the Saratoga Mountain Bike Trails just north of Albany in Saratoga Springs. Brian, a knowledgeable local and officer in the local club, was kind enough to meet me and show me around their complex, overlapping trail system.

And it was a good thing that he was there, as I never would have managed my way on my own: the trails were tight, slow, rocky, and highly technical. Normally I find myself getting bored on slow-speed trails (like Rocky Road), but after an initial break-in period I found myself having a blast. The trails were hard, and I appreciated having a local to follow, as I'm not sure I could have picked my way through the rock gardens otherwise. As it was I tried to stick Brian's wheel, crossed my fingers, and prayed that the big wheels and my fork would make up for my relative inexperience on this type of trail.

These were easily the rockiest trails I've been on since I left Arizona, and it was quite a shock just how many boulders can equal a trail, as well as how much exposed granite slickrock there is here, many miles from the mountains. In fact, there wasn't too much elevation change at all, though the quick, technical nature of many of the climbs had me walking more than once (or twice, or three times a...). I would have loved to have had a lower gear here than my 32x18, as I think I might have faired a little better and embarrassed myself a little less. A swap might be in my future.

I wish I had some pictures to illustrate what the trails look like, but as we got caught in a torrential downpour it was probably best that I didn't have my camera with me. Next time, though, I promise.