Let's turn the page

 

The forecast said it would snow overnight.  In the meantime, the inch or two from yesterday morning had mostly melted. I put on more layers than I had in worn in the past seven months. 

My earbuds stayed home as I wanted to savor this ride.  Tomorrow there would be no more trail riding for the rest of the year.  The impending storm likely would not bring skiing, but I will be skiing on these trails before I am riding on them next spring.

The sound of snow crunching under my tires is the only thing I hear. Other than the sound of my tires the forest is silent as I make my way up the trail.  The smell of rotting leaves and wet dirt will soon be lost, buried under snow.  A wind from the northwest cuts through my clothes to my chest.  My hands are warm and hidden inside giant gloves.  This is the kind of cold I hadn't felt in months.

I wasn't going hard and I wasn't going easy.  The objective here was to soak in the ride and not crash. At times the snow was slippery, in other places the dirt was soft and my rear wheel slid more than I would have liked.  I just tried to ride smart and look around so I could recall this ride when I can't ride.

NOAA says we would be getting ten to twelve inches of snow tonight.  This ride was going to be it.  

My eye doctor says I get a lens next week.  After more than five hundred days, that ordeal could be coming to an end.  After that surgery I'll be on the sidelined for another month, so my return may be on skis. 

Here is the warming hut.  All it needs is some snow.

This is me.  Ready to turn the page?  Hell yes!

Time rolls on

It is between ninety and one hundred degrees as I climb steadily, the sun overhead shines down through my bike helmet and jersey and into my soul.  The shadows from the trees on either side of the road fail to reach to the pavement.  Everything about this moment says heat, yet I recognize this open stretch of road as a spot where, in springtime when the snow is retreating, I have had to turn around as the snow on the road becomes solid just around the corner. 

The oddity of thinking of snow in the burning heat of summer reminds me of my own seasonality. Only a month ago I was lamenting my complete lack of fitness and now just between yesterday and today I will have nearly six hours of saddle time. 

At times my physical setbacks seem unending, yet if I step back wisdom tells me this too will pass.  After a spring that refused to come to an end, summer is here; dry, dusty and hot. Seeing the mountains now one would never imagine that in six months they will be blanketed with snow, subject to the long, cold dark nights of winter. 

Yes, today shows no hint of any other day, but those days will come.  I welcome today and I will welcome the changes when they happen.  For now, I will pause, breathe deep and be grateful.  

Can I please have my body back?

Marty, where did I leave the Flux Capaciter?

After months of living my pirate life I had a chance to take a step toward normal vision.  The hope lasted only a few days and then it was a step backward and an unplanned surgery.  I'll spare you the sad story and get to the subject of this post.

After this eye surgery my physical activity was more strictly limited than in the past.  By the time I was given the green light it had been just over six solid weeks of nothing.  Don't even bend over to tie your shoes nothing.  Have your son carry your luggage nothing.  Walk, but not too briskly, nothing.

When I got back on the bike I had nothing.  It was like I was trapped in someone else's body.  That someone else was not a lifetime athlete, it was a fat slob who had puny lungs and weak legs. 

On my rides my HR zones were  a full 1.5 zones above where they should have been.  It seemed wrong, but then afterwards the way my body felt was consistent with the actual heart rates. 

I had only six days before my team was coming to the Methow for a handful of days riding gravel.  I tried to cram in some training with predictable results.  I bet it all on the one big day and managed to avoid cramping until I was past the flame rouge.  I finished the ride pedaling with one leg.  I was blown.  

My usual training ploy after a setback is to load up on zone two miles.  The problem this time was that to go zone two speed, I had to tickle zone four.  I slept like a pile of dirty laundry. This was hard.  Getting back in shape is a young man's game and I am not a young man.

After a couple weeks of trying to build up some fitness I went on a nice Saturday ride with Hottie.  The next day was our team's Coffee and Lies ride.  The fast guys went slower and the rest of us were compelled to keep up with them as a thank you for their kindness.  

I was due for a hard day and I actually felt like I had some power.  I had resumed running for the first time since my forced rest period.  That may have given my legs some power.  Maybe. It wasn't impressive, or fast, but it was what I had on this day and I was happy with it.

It is rare that my legs hurt even before the ride is over, but the climb up to the cafe was a mix of twitches and simply sore legs.  It felt good to be strong enough to have tired legs. 

To distract my mind from the hurt I tried to plan my afternoon ahead so as to minimize the number of trips I would have to make up and down our stairs.  

When I got home I felt I had earned the right to what had been forced on me for all of the month of May; nothingness.  I relaxed and spent some time chillin with Hottie.

Loaded for bear

The road, like a slender finger of spring, splits winter and reaches into the backcountry. Spring is here with the promise of long days of sunshine.  Under a blue sky dotted with clouds ranging from white to grey three souls rolled out of Mazama and follow that road into the mountains where winter remains steadfast.

As the miles ticked by we climb and the snow on either side of the road grows deeper. Wild flowers are starting to bloom on the valley floor, yet the mountains are still cloaked under a deep blanket of snow. Spring is a time of contrasts.

As we ride, we look lumpy, our pockets bulging as we make our way deeper into the hills.  

The road isn't ready for cars and, on weekends, the snow plows are idle. We ride three abreast.  The first hour was warm, but now the clouds are thicker and a wind is bringing the chill of the snow through our jerseys.  Patches of ice on the pavement become larger and more frequent.  Finally we round a corner and can see the road goes into a wall of snow. 

There is no doubt we are at the end.  Often in spring I ride a road to where the snow takes over and there is a "Should I, or shouldn't I?" moment as I consider if I should turn around or keep going.  No debate here.  This is it.

We look around and realize it has begun to spit snow.  We are emptying our pockets like we are contestants in a game show.  We pull out jackets, vests, gloves, tights, and neck warmers. I sit on the pavement to put on wind pants. I am amazed that the road isn't cold.  We dress as fast as we can and then begin what we know will be a long, cold descent.  We are no longer lumpy, we are dressed to stay warm.  We have all done this multiple times over the years and we came prepared.

Time to get going.  

As we begin the descent the sweat on the front of my beanie turns cold and I have an ice cream headache.  The wind blows in our faces, then from the side, then for a moment behind us as we ride down the mountain we spent the last two hours riding up.  I realize that while I am not quite warm, I am not cold.  After several minutes we see two cyclists heading up and they are not lumpy.  They will be cold.  They will be very, very cold.

We trade pulls and can't help but have fun on the never ending descent.  The road grade fluctuates as we drop thousand of feet. 

As we near the valley floor we see a cyclist with bare arms and legs.  He appears to be out for a short ride and will turn around soon (we hope).  We finish our ride and welcome some hot lentil soup into our bellies.  We express gratitude for the day, the ride and each other's company. 

Snapshots in a box

 

It happens so fast.  I close my eyes and remember learning to ride my red Royce Union bike and my first day of school. I remember the first day a child of mine went to school.  After decades of reliance on my body as a tool to get me out of tricky situations, I am resigned to accept my age as a real number. 

The doctor cites my age as a risk factor.  My VO2 Max or Garmin Fitness age don't seem to matter to him. I can go on a five hour bike ride and come home and make dinner, but my fitness now has a fragility that it has not had before.  Looking at the ceiling waiting for surgery I recall looking at the ceiling waiting to see the principal in elementary school. I was in trouble then and I'm in trouble now. At my age I don't feel helpless often, but I fear it may be a trend.

I watched my grandson Drew trying so hard and in him I saw my own son who both hated his older brother and wanted more than anything to be his older brother.  Drew's older brother is like his dad and his dad's dad. How could I have been so cruel to my younger brother without giving it a thought?  

After my mother was moved into her new apartment and bags and boxes were dropped at goodwill and the trash place and my daughter took what she could use, there were two large boxes of photographs and keepsakes that summed up my mom's life. Big photos of her parents and others born a hundred or more years ago. The results of a tennis tournament she played in fifty years ago.  Photos of my mother as a young woman ready to take on the world. She asks me a question. Five minutes later she asks again. Two minutes after that she asks a third time. I smile and put my arm around her. She knows she has done something wrong, but doesn't know what it is. My assurance calms her. I am glad I can give her some peace. 

We aren't all astronauts.  I may have finally leaned patience.  Everyone is doing the best they can. Whomever set up the process isn't the person standing in front of you so don't take it out on them.  Smile and say, "Thank you."  People don't hear that enough. It is my secret weapon.  Oops, no longer a secret. 

Hottie loves me.  Ever since I was that kid on my way to school in 1965 I was hoping people would like me. I'm a dick and Hottie still loves me.  I am a lucky man.  I hear the Beach boys songs I heard as a kid. When I heard them I hoped someone would love me, she does. I know she is frustrated beyond words with injuries that we hope will be done soon. I'm feeling helpless again. 

I am lucky.  I get to see (maybe a little blurry right now) people I love and beautiful places.  I get to do fun things.  I find more joy in helping my mom or trying to make Hottie feel special than I ever thought I would.  I find joy in watching Kona play in every way he can.  

That is it for today. 

Snow dog

              You mean I can go full speed on this straight trail?   Hell yeah!

Kona has been miss and hit on coming when called.  With a solid layer of snow and temperatures perfect for a thin-skinned greyhound, we decided to see if Kona would enjoy running on one of the dog-friendly trails in the Methow.  Lest we forget, Kona was born and raced in Florida.  His first experience with snow in November was not good. What would happen?

                 Where we going? I'm in. Where we going? I'm in. Where we going?

I had promised myself I would take Tux running on the winter trails, but it just never happened.  I felt grief for that and determined not to let it happen to Kona. I figured Tux would approve of taking his young nephew, Kona, in his place.

At the trailhead I readied the fat bike and then brought out Kona on a leash.  After giving him a treat and making sure he knew I had more, I unclipped his leash and we took off.  

I have taken him trail running a few times keeping him on a leash.  That follows a familiar pattern of him pulling like a sled dog the first mile or so and then me dragging him back home. He was a professional racer, now retired exactly one year to the day, but his races were only seventeen seconds long. He did exceed forty miles an hour on those races, but he has yet to figure out the endurance thing.

He sniffed some other dog's pee in the snow and then launched after me and passed at a full gallop. He loved that I could go fast as I clicked down the cassette flying along. The trail stretched out in front of us and he looked back as if to ask if he could just open up.  I cheered him on and he was so happy to run.  He greeted other dogs and ran with them a bit before continuing on his way.  This was heaven for him. 

We then stopped and I took off his coat as his running had generated plenty of heat.  In Florida they would take them in wading pools to cool them off after races.  Without his coat in the sunshine, bounding in full stride he looked like he was born for this life.  He was panting now and his muscles bulging. A skier with his own dog commented on how beautiful Kona was.  I agreed and he said it again, "He is just so beautiful. His markings, his muscles, his smile!"  Kona looked not just fit, but so happy.

We got Kona in the age of COVID and he loves dogs and people and having everyone and every dog keeping their distance was torture for this social creature.  Being able to greet people and dogs and run free was what this guy has been dreaming about for eight months. 

After less than two kilometers I stopped and told Kona we should start heading back. He looked further down the trail and only reluctantly turned west and followed me. His strides now were bouncy and he was slower as we headed towards the trailhead. The shadows now reached the trail and the distractions of urine and holes in the snow had a greater pull than they had on the way out.  My chain was on the other end of the cassette wrapped around the big cogs. 

I was now coaxing him along with treats and we were no longer passing skiers, but just holding our place among the groups heading back.  He was spent and it was an effort to just go faster than a walk. 

                             In the shadows of Virginia Ridge.  

As we neared the parking lot I clipped his leash back on. When we got to the car he jumped in and flopped down on his bed while I secured the bike.  The day could not have gone any better.  He kind of minded me. The treats gave him a reason to stay close and he played well with other dogs, which I fully expected. He didn't leave the trail chasing a bunny or other small mammal off in the woods. 

Pacing?  We will leave that to another day.

On the drive back we declared success and Kona asked if we could do it again soon.

            We stopped by Methow Trails and got him an annual pass.                                                              Yes Kona, we will do it again!

                        Then we went home and both enjoyed a fine dinner                                                             (Kibble for him, Pizza for Hottie and me)

                         This is what happy looks like a couple hours later.

2020 DONE!

2020 Started with such hope, only to expose our collective pettiness via tragedy. An inconvenience for Hottie and myself, yet a horror for others. I kept working.  We had no major surgeries for the first year in a while. 

We lost Tux. That hit me so hard I realized I actually have a heart. As a tribute to him, we welcomed his nephew, Kona, who has brought so much joy and love to our hearts. That was unexpected. 

Bike races and bike rides were cancelled.  Our Sunday "Coffee and Lies" rides took a five month hiatus. My son Tim and I were able to share the backpack trip of our collective dreams albeit with masks at the ready. 

An ideal remote work assignment allowed me not just to continue working, but to spend a majority of my time in my favorite place. So grateful.  I ironed two shirts in all of 2020.  What the hell?

Such a strange mix of good and bad news.  We were lucky, yet are so aware that many were destroyed by the Pandemic.  It would be offensive to celebrate. We are powerless to change the pandemic and how the powers that be handle it.  We can control how we treat those we see and this event has provided an opportunity to be the best we can be. We could all have done better.

For all the good and bad that we had in 2020, I am ready to move on and welcome 2021. Let's learn our lessons and move forward.

Summer no more.

I'm from Florida.  What is this cold, white stuff?

On Thursday it looked like this:

I'd call it an Indian Summer, but perhaps that phrase is now racist or I'm a day or two behind the political whirlwind of woke correctness and I should stick with just saying fall.  Anyway this is what late October looks like most of the time.....

It was predicted to happen Friday, and it did:

It took Kona a while to step onto the mysterious substance, 

but it proved to be an adequate running surface.

We are all adapting to a new season.

Angel’s Staircase Adventure

2020 has become a year of bucket list accomplishments.  A month ago my son Tim and I finished off our John Muir Trail odyssey.  This past Sunday KB and I set off on the Angel’s Staircase Loop. 

 

The adventure really started when I took my bike out to add some sealant to the tires a few days before (just to be safe) and I noticed the back wheel felt wonky.  It turns out I had a broken suspension pivot axle. I took it to the great folks at Methow Cycle & Sport and they told me that they would have to order a part and the bike would not be ready until after my planned ride.

 

I contemplated renting a bike, but opted instead to give it a try on my fat bike. I took it out for a short test ride and made a few minor adjustments (saddle height, brake lever angle) and deemed it ready to go.  I figured there was going to be a bit of hike a bike so the day would be an adventure anyway.

When KB suggested we set off from my place at 5:30 AM I flinched, but agreed.  Starting early would get us riding before it got too hot and running out of daylight was a problem neither of us dared say out loud, but it was a possibility we wanted to avoid.

We arrived at the trailhead in time to dress, drink up and get rolling before 7:00. The assortment of bikes on racks and campers told us we were in the right spot. Soon we were out of the parking lot and climbing a dusty trail in thick forest.

We were leapfrogging two other groups of three riders as we climbed and climbed.  At each trail junction they would stop and wait for their friends and we would confirm our direction and putter on.  The fat bike was doing very well soaking up the bumps and lumps of tree roots and rocks.

Although the fat bike is rigid, it does have a dropper post and more than one rider commented that given the choice of suspension, or a dropper, they would choose the dropper.

 

These trails are shared by hikers and bikers so we kept an eye open and at times the hikers envied us and at times they offered us pity.  “I’m glad I get to hike up this steep trail,” was something we heard more than once.

        Above Cooney Lake.  Look carefully and you can see some sad souls... 

When we passed Cooney lake the trail shot up a comical climb that made me wonder if we were off the trail. The grade necessitated us pushing and then carrying our bikes before returning to ridable trail.  Then after what seemed like a three-minute uphill ride the trail shot up becoming what a ride veteran referred to as “the wall.”

Nobody rides the “wall” section up or down, and we and others alternated between pushing, pulling, carrying, cajoling and cursing our bikes.  The trail was like trying to climb a mountain of loose marbles.  You would push your bike uphill, grab the brakes and pull yourself up even with the bike and repeat.  Some carried their bikes on their shoulders with their steps sliding backward like they were climbing up a down escalator. Everyone was glad to be here but nobody was smiling.  I told KB that as a hiker I found this part of the trail horrible and as a biker I thought it was more of a dare.

 

Although this section wasn’t that long, it took longer than it should have and knowing we had several more hours after this, we did not want to kill ourselves.  When we reached the top others were seated on rocks next to their bikes recovering.

We could see Rainier to the south

We snapped some picture and ate and drank.

After a brief traverse we had a bit more climbing and then we were at the high point of the ride at over 8,000 feet.

We dropped down the Angel’s Staircase and all I can say is that I guess not all angels are good angels. The trail was a series of switchbacks where we dismounting at each corner.  The loose, lumpy, steep drop corners just invited a crash and that was not on our agenda.  Showing more wisdom that expected we aligned our risk aversion to our age and talked about how smart we were.

Soon the trail was traversing alpine meadows that were golden under the late summer sun.  We stopped at a stream and filtered water to restock our supply.  The water was cold and felt like heaven on our parched throats.

                                      Looking SE

                                   Looking NW

After some moderate climbing we reached Boiling Lake and paused to enjoy the mountain scenery.  We began the hot, steep, exposed climb up to Horsehead Pass.  

                                  About to go down here

                         Just came up from here (see the trail?)

KB’s bike with water and gear strapped to it weighed a ton, and by a ton I mean pretty close to fifty pounds. Thirty-five pounds of bike plus seven pounds of water and a more than a few pounds of extra clothing, tools, tubes and first aid gear. 

 

The switchbacks just kept going and we paused a few times to drink and take in calories.  This was a full day and we were glad to have started as early as we did. People had been encouraging to us as we were both on rigid bikes and the novelty struck some as adventurous.

       Spring, summer and fall were all in the last month at this elevation

When we reached the top we had the place to ourselves.  It was a narrow ridge and we took our time refueling and taking in the view below us.  An observer might wonder if we were tired, or casual about not rushing to get going.  It was a pleasant combination of savoring the time and gathering ourselves mentally for a long technical descent that would require a Zen-like focus.

 

When we were ready, we dusted ourselves off and set off down the trail.  It was the now familiar “cliff on one side, mountain on the other” that we had been riding most of the day.

                     Yeah, and THIS was the shit we rode....

 

The trail started off rough, loose and exposed.  Each kilometer it got less so and our speed increased the closer we got to the trailhead.  We had over three thousand feet to descend and the trail got better and more flowy by the minute. 

 

We paused at one point on the way down and shared the observation that nine hours of riding and pushing/carrying a bike can make you tired.   KB had blood on the back of his calf from multiple pedal encounters and a dirt moustache. I was likewise dirty and had some blood on me.  I was glad our appearance matched the day’s effort.

                             The dirty smile

When we arrived at the parking lot we felt like we had experienced the full meal deal that is the Angel’s Staircase Loop.   KB commented that if we did this ride every day for a couple weeks we would get in really good shape.  I just let that hang in the air as I opened the cooler and fished out a bottle of cold water.

           Don't think for a moment that we don't know how lucky we are....

Respect the mountains

No; snow gophers didn't make it all lumpy

A few recent experiences have reminded me that failing to respect the mountains can be a dangerous mistake.   In recent weeks, with spring in full attack mode, I have ventured into the mountains many times on bike and on foot. The sunny tranquil world of the mountain valley can easily betray the potential harshness lurking in the higher mountains. 

Three times in April I left the sunny valley and climbed up only to find dark skies, cold wind and spitting, unforecasted light snow.  Snow being far less of a risk than rain. 

Miles and miles from a paved road, sweating and feeling the climb in my legs I look around. Seeing the dark skies, hearing the frozen hail bouncing off my helmet, and feeling to cold wind cut into me, I thought, "This could get ugly."  

My life was never at risk, but the prospect of the day turning into a very uncomfortable death march was a real possibility.  

On one of the rides near the start I passed two men sitting in the sun wearing T-shirts and drinking beer.  After nearly three hours of riding punctuated by frequent glances at the grey sky and spitting hail I returned glad to be back where it was warm.  Those same two guys were still in the sun, still in T-shirts, blissfully unaware of the journey I had undertaken while they took their repose.  The mountains don't play fair and they often override the weather forecasts. 

Hottie, bundled up for a chilly descent.

Even a drive up a canyon for a short hike with our new companion Kona revealed threatening skies and temperatures that chilled our excitement.