I have had in the back of my mind for quite some time the notion of doing a podcast. I have all the hardware and software to record, edit, and publish right here on this computer. So I finally took a little time and learned how to bring it all together into an actual podcast.

It was nearly as easy as advertised.

So after a couple weeks of tinkering, writing, and researching I am happy to introduce The Grizzly Cast. This podcast will be slightly different than the others you might already subscribe to. Instead of news or race reports I wanted to focus on telling stories, anecdotes, experiences. It will more or less be an audio version of the type of content you read here.

I have long been a fan of This American Life, and Garrison Keillor. I love the way they paint pictures with words and music and sound. And so, the cast will be my attempt to mimic their style, and hopefully establish my own along the way.

I have set it up so you can subscribe in iTunes, Google Reader (or any other feed reader), or simply listen at the website itself. There are two episodes available right now. Give them a listen, and let me know what you think!

Labels: podcasts

Editors Note: This is another post in an ongoing 'how to' series. Also see 'How to: Ride Your First 100 Miler'




There are several really useful benefits to getting sponsored. And you don't have to be Lance Armstrong or Chris Eatough to attract sponsorship opportunities. It is actually quite easy. All you have to do is ask.


1) Ask, ask, ask. But don't beg. Many companies within the bike industry already have sponsorship inquiry links on their websites. Click those links and go from there. You will usually be asked to submit a resume, a schedule, past results, and a little about yourself.

2) Prepare an easy to read resume. A resume doesn't have to be fancy, or even all that impressive. What companies want to know is how often you are out competing, which races, where you live, what you can offer to cycling beyond racing, and will you be willing to talk up their products.

3) Pursue products you want to use. You probably have a frame or a set of lights, or a GPS, or some other piece of gear you are currently lusting after. Look into being sponsored by the group that produces that gear. Being sponsored by companies whose products you actually believe in, and use, is important.

4) Be Reasonable. Getting a free bike, or free anything is not always realistic. I have found that industry companies are as generous as they can be. And for the most part, that is very generous. They want to spread the word about their product, and get athletes using it. Work with them to get this done. But don't expect a free ride.

5) Blog. It seems that everyone in the world has a blog. And that is cool. I love blogging. And the bike industry loves bloggers. In fact, I'd say that the bike industry is one of the most active online communities in the world. A blog with a few people reading it means organic exposure for your sponsors. Display their logos, link to their sites, and talk up the products you use on your blog.

6) Ask, ask, ask. Yes, I am repeating step 1. Ask. the very worst that can happen when you ask someone to help you out with your riding is that they answer no. You won't be made fun of, you won't lose your bike, and you won't be blacklisted. Just ask. You will be surprised at what you can get, when you simply ask.

Over the last couple of seasons I have gotten to know the guys behind the products I use. And they are really cool people. They are just riders who love to ride, love to create innovative cycling gear, and love to get out and share their adventures. One great example are the folks at Princeton Tec. Check out the shenanigans of Living on the Dash.

This is a great time of year to start researching potential sponsors, polishing your resume, and planning your 2009 schedule. Most companies accept inquiries in the fall, so be prepared and good luck!

And remember, the Princeton Tec Swerve contest is going on all week, just drop a comment to be entered into the drawing.

Labels: how to, sponsorship

Remember that every comment left this week will enter you into a drawing to win a Princeton Tec Swerve.

I get this a lot.

"You know who you look like?"

"Who?"

And the answer is always someone that I don't really look like, except that that person just happens to have a beard. I have been visually compared to anyone from Moses to Osama bin Laden to a hobo on the street to of course, Grizzly Adams.

It got me thinking. Who do I think people look like? And I thought of a few other mountain bikers who remind me of random celebrities. I even went as far as to create a collage of a few of my favorites.

So, who do you look like?

Labels: celebrities, look-a-likes, mountain bikers

This blog is nearly 3 years old. That is an eternity in cyber-time. To celebrate I am going to give away a Princeton Tec Swerve tail light. To enter into the contest simply leave a comment on any post this week. (July 28-Aug 2). On August 3rd I will randomly choose a winner.

Simple and easy!

July 22. I went into work like any normal summer day. But I had a nervous pit in my stomach, like some crop of restless insects were twittering inside, eager to break through the cavernous prison that held them bound.

I had a craving for Chinese food.

At any moment the phone was going to ring. It would be my wife, announcing that the hospital was ready for us. That her turn in the inducement line had come around. That it was time for our family of 5 to become a family of 7. And so I waited out the day. I sent pointless text messages and made fruitless, redundant phone calls always asking the same question; "did they call?" And the answer was always, obviously, "no." The day crept along. Slowly, nervously.

I was regretting the Chinese food.

Evening started to interrupt the waning afternoon. The shadows grew long and our patience grew short. We went for pizza. As we ate we resigned ourselves to having to wait just one more day. Just one more awkward, uncomfortable night. For her. Just one more night of token concern and questions for me.

"Sleep well?"

"No"

"Hang in there."

She'd glare.

What else could I do?

We finished our pizza. We were browsing the dessert menu and discussing the absurdities of some news headline or the other. I don't really remember. My 5 year old son Harry wants to play baseball in the yard when we get home. "Sure thing Harry" I promise. He beams with anticipation.

Her cell phone rings.

Thirty minutes later we are in a Labor and Delivery room at the hospital. The pitocin is starting to flow, which means it is time for the epidural. A massive needle injected into the spine, spewing wonderful, magical, pain numbing fluid into my wife's body. I get a little queasy looking at the thin metal dangling from her back as the doctor fiddles with his gloves.

"One in...oh, about 100 will get a nasty headache from this. Only about 1 in 15 or 20 thousand will suffer paralysis. So you will be just fine."

I think that there is a large difference between 15 and 20 thousand. 5 thousand in fact. I think of abnormally high batting averages. Or abnormally low home run totals. Everything always regresses to the mean. The average will fall, the home runs will rise. Somewhere, at some time that one in 15 thousand will happen.

But not here, not tonight. I breathe a little easier as the portable numbing cart is wheeled out of the room.

All is quiet.

I have exhausted my magazines. Read all the blogs and websites I can on my phone. I pace around the room. I find myself watching the monitor next to the generic and sterile hospital bed. Those narrow, adjustable, uncomfortable, clinical, horrible hospital beds. The monitor displays both babies heart rates. 155, 165. Good training zones for me. Average, normal, and healthy for unborn children. Underneath the heart rate numbers is a graph. It looks nearly identical to the elevation profile for the upcoming stage of the Tour de France. Rolling flats, followed by massive climbs. Rinse and repeat.

"What is this measuring?"

"My contractions."

"Oh. Right."

The epidural and the pitocin are working. The profiles go from category 3s to hors categorie in a matter of a few minutes. A cervical Alp D'huez. From time to time the nurse checks in on her. Us. I flip through the late night talk shows.

"Hey this guy named his kid Political Inspektor. We could use that."

The joke is mildly appreciated. But it is nearly time to push. Time for the children to arrive. Time for blood and placentas and anxious life and death moments. Just another day at the office for these doctors and nurses. The nervous pit returns to my abdomen as I dress in scrubs and follow my wife into the operating room.

Just being in an operating room, when normally we'd be in the pseudo home like labor room is nerve wracking. There are instruments of all manner and description laid out neatly on a table next to my wife. Scissors of many shapes and lengths. Knives. Tongs and other things I don't recognize and don't want to be able to recognize. I hope silently that none of them are needed.

On hand are multiple nurses, a couple anesthesia guys (one of them the same who applied the earlier epidural) a midwife, and of course the doctor himself. He sits down and takes a look at the babies with an ultra sound machine. I stand quietly to the right of my wife. My only instruction is to brace her right leg when she pushes. I look around at the eyes of everyone in the room. There is a calming professionalism to them. But I wonder it they are feeling, as I am feeling, that this could all go horribly wrong. It's a delicate balance, this business of being born. As I trust my wife and two unborn children's lives into the hands of these strangers I realize that I am a totally unnecessary accessory to what is about to occur. That if anything did start to go wrong, I'd most likely be brushed aside in the panic and intensity of the moment. I start to mutter a prayer, or a plea or something.

"Come on, come on, come on...everything work!"

And then suddenly there is a scalp, a head, a face. A person.

He dangles up side down, the doctor holding him by his slimy ankles with one hand and suctioning goop and blood and fluid from nose and mouth and lungs with the other. In one fluent and familiar motion the baby is handed off to the respiratory nurses. They rub and wrap and suction and then...

Silence.

For what seems like a lifetime there is no sound. I clench my wife's hand tightly. I hear her ask nobody and everybody if he is alright. More silence. I can see his pink skin turning white on the warmed bed.

"Come on, come on, come on..."

And then the most welcome, sweetest, most heart wrenching sound a father can ever hear.

He cries.

A squawk really. And then another. Followed by a full bawl. His skin is pink again. His arms are flailing, his skinny chicken legs kicking. The nurses smile and coo.

"He's ok?"

"He's perfect!"

I feel a rush of relief. My iron grip recedes a little. The blood flows back into my wife's hand. Success!

Except. There is another. Still in the womb.

And the whole process is repeated. Rinse and repeat. Literally.

The same horrifying silence, the same musical squawk. The same blessed relief.

My wife has her eyes closed. She is exhausted and elated. I bring her Asher, now tightly wrapped in a warm blanket. His large, watery, curious eyes blink in the bright light of the sterile room. Underneath my hospital mask I am grinning. A tired, elated, toothy grin. Asher is little, but alert. A hairless, pink, wrinkled, slimy, befuddled spitting image of his father. I look at his bony legs and wonder about all the places they will take him. The things he will see. The man he will become.

And then there is Norah. A perfect girl. She looks identical, not to her twin, but to her older sister. She's wrapped regally in her blankets, a look of mild disdain on her round face. It is as if she is expressing her disgust at having her life be interrupted. Intruded upon. All for the unpleasant, albeit necessary experience of being born.

Later, much later. So much later that it is now the next day, I find myself holding both babies in my arms. I look down at them in wonder and awe. "How on earth..." One of them begins to fuss and the other soon follows. I wrap a hand around each head, just being able to reach the passifiers with my finger tips. I gently hold them in place.

I feel a tug at my elbow. It is Harry.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"When can we go play baseball?"

Labels: twins

I have been threatened with leprosy, and who knows what other untold doom, if I did not respond to these questions below. So, Fatty, here you are. I hope you are proud of yourself.

And the only reason I have decided to answer these now (rather than later), is because I am stuck in this bewildering limbo as I wait, and wait, and wait for the hospital to call and tell us they have room for my wife to come and deliver the twins. Only in Utah will you find a line at the hospital to have a baby.

But, yes. The twins. They are en route. Watch this space for details. If you are into that sort of thing.

As for the questions...

If you could have any one — and only one — bike in the world, what would it be?

I don't know. I love the bike I have. But if I could have any bike in the world it would be a bike that does not weigh anything at all, and yet is strong and unbreakable. It would have a built in GPS, air pump, gas stove, satellite radio, and Slurpee machine.

But if I can't have that, well then I'd take a full suspension Jersey Devil.

Do you already have that coveted dream bike? If so, is it everything you hoped it would be? If not, are you working toward getting it? If you’re not working toward getting it, why not?

Sort of. I have the Jersey Devil hard tail. And it is awesome. I just want a little cushion for the pushin' you know?

If you had to choose one — and only one — bike route to do every day for the rest of your life, what would it be, and why?

Now, do you mean that every day I'd have to ride this route. As in no days off the bike. Ever?

I'd go with the Ridge Trail 157. Or maybe the Colorado Trail. Yeah, the CT. Because nobody can ride the entire trail in one day. And so the logic of the situation is destroyed, and thus I am excused from the contract of riding the same trail everyday.

Makes sense right?

What kind of sick person would force another person to ride one and only one bike ride to do for the rest of her / his life?

Have you seen Groundhog Day?

Do you ride both road and mountain bikes? If both, which do you prefer and why? If only one or the other, why are you so narrow minded?

I ride both. If Dug is Bi-curious, then I am Bi-cyclual. I prefer my mountain bike however. But sometimes, like a cold Coke or an Otter Pop, a road ride just hits the spot.

Have you ever ridden a recumbent? If so, why? If not, describe the circumstances under which you would ride a recumbent.

lol serious?

Have you ever raced a triathlon? If so, have you also ever tried strangling yourself with dental floss?

Does the Fatty Tri earlier this year count? If so, then yes! If not, then, well...no. I floss everyday, but have yet to do any significant bodily harm to myself.

Suppose you were forced to either give up ice cream or bicycles for the rest of your life. Which would you give up, and why?

Since my dream bike will have a Slurpee machine I suppose I could do without Ice Cream. But how stupid would that be, to give up ice cream?

What is a question you think this questionnaire should have asked, but has not? Also, answer it.

What's with the beard? No kidding, a door to door salesmen just asked me that. He interrupted my writing, and after he was done with his pitch, he says, "so, what's with the beard?"

"It's just a beard." I said.

"Oh, so you are not like an actor?"

You’re riding your bike in the wilderness (if you’re a roadie, you’re on a road, but otherwise the surroundings are quite wilderness-like) and you see a bear. The bear sees you. What do you do?


Take a picture. And then I'd talk to it. Something like "hey Bear, lucky for you I am riding with my slower friend today. He once threatened me with disease if I did not answer a 100 question survey. You could probably easily catch him on his bike. But first you need to let me on by"

But for real, I'd just take a picture and hope he goes away. Because I wouldn't want to have to go all Davey Crockett on him.

Now, tag three biking bloggers. List them below.

I apologize in advance to:

• Dave
• Dave
• Dave

Labels: tagged

The White Rim is a storied location. Vast and wide and mysterious. Gateway to an unknown wilderness, edge of the Maze, an alien world of ancient ghosts and impossible canyons.

As I rode the trail this spring I gazed out at the landscape feeling small, awestruck and otherwise soaking up the Abbey-esque vibes of the natural wonder and enchantment that surrounded me. It was one of those sublime moments, a rare connection with the intangible world beyond our own seeing, our own existence.

And then, a grown man on a single speed wearing knee-high church socks, plaid shorts and a basket on his handlebars passed me.

Labels: Dug, moab, rawrod, white rim

There is a place, near Moab, but not Moab. A place that is nestled between the mighty Porcupine Rim, and the looming Adobe Mesa. A place watched over carefully by The Priest and The Nuns, with Sister Superior keeping a watchful distant eye. It is a wide open valley, sitting quietly at the base of the mighty La Sals, but acts as a gateway to the hoodoo deserts of Arches and beyond.

Castle Valley, Utah

I once explored the valley in 1995. A friend and I climbed to the base of Castle Rock, its red stone splitting the blue sky with stark and startling contrast. From a distance the tower looks small and tame. But up close it is massive, rugged and demanding.

We reached as high as anyone could go without climbing gear. We etched our girlfriends names into the soft stone. Certainly they were feeling the effects of our undying devotion some 200 miles northwest. Their names etched in stone. To last forever. Or at least until the next rainstorm washed the shallow scrapings into the red dirt below.

When we broke the news to them we expected laughter and gratitude. Girls impressed at the manly ascent, and the equation of that desert beauty with their own. Instead our heroism and romanticism was greeted with indifference. Neither relationship lasted.

While I was living in Canada I had a roommate from Castle Valley. We were living in Vancouver and he was awestruck at the steel skyscrapers, the massive grocery stores, the buses, trains, cars and the people. Oh my, all those people!

He ate bird food. We'd go shopping and he'd buy wheat and nuts and seeds. He'd pour them into a bowl and drip honey over them. That was his favorite meal. I wonder at times if he is back in Castle Valley today. If he explores the La Sals and the hidden canyons and the black muddy river. That hidden oasis among a sea of natural wonder. Does he still eat bird seed and honey?

The valley from high on La Sal Loop road is breathtaking. A scenic masterpiece of the Kokopelli Trail. The rock formations dominate the landscape, but the green fields, the long dirt driveways, the conical and comical round mountain, the mesas in the distance and the river flowing far below are like a painted backdrop in some spaghetti western. Beautiful yet artificial. Surreal. Technicolor meets color country.

After we climbed Castle Rock we returned to Moab. We had greasy hamburgers at Milt's, restocked on some poisonous red drink (99 cents a gallon) at the City Market, filled our packs with pastries, candy and salty snacks. The sun was sinking low. We pointed the van toward home.

The sun disappeared, and the stars above began to twinkle in the black desert sky. The La Sals sunk out of view, the snow capped peaks reflecting the last light of day. Ahead the lights of Green River twinkled in the distance.

Castle Rock dwarfs me as I work my way toward the base.

Labels: castle valley, moab, Utah

I have not been following the Tour all that closely this year. I don't have the RV and Rodeo Channel (Versus) and so I am left to follow the race online. And I forget to do that. And honestly, the last year or two I have just not been all that interested. The post-Lance era was shaping up to be epic. Great young riders who could time trial, climb, and sprint were rising above the peloton, ready to establish themselves as the next cycling Bosses.

But then they all doped and were banned and everything went to hell.

David Millar is an admitted and convicted doper. And he also once threw a fantastic tantrum, tossing his bike over a set of barricades. Anyway, since his return to professional cycling he has been an outspoken critic of dopers, and doping. And for that I admire him. He was once part of the problem, but now is determined to be a part of the solution. He is doing what Mark McGwire, and others have not had the guts to do. When McGwire retired he talked up and down about helping educate young athletes about the dangers of this and that and all sorts of other noble things he intended to do. Instead he hides behind a gated Malibu neighborhood and never says a word.

But I digress.

Back to Millar. He has been blogging about the Tour, and in his usual candid style has lambasted Ricco in the wake of his positive test. In a hilarious and damning assessment he said:

It was a little surreal and disheartening watching the police and dozens of media surrounding the Saunier Duval bus. But at the same time, it was gratifying to see the little bastard getting caught. Because that’s what he is, a little bastard. Forget ‘The Cobra’, I’ve got two better names for him: The Trouser Snake (courtesy of Danny Pate at the Giro), and The Worm (courtesy of Mark Cavendish here at the Tour). Well, I had a feeling the snake’s move on the Aspin was too good to be true. And unfortunately of late when I have that feeling, doping is involved.

I love his frank way of telling it like it is. The war on doping needs riders who will call one another out like this. If a rider worries about what the peloton will think of him (since what the press and fans think seems to have no impact) if he is caught juicing, perhaps he will think twice before he plunges that needle.

But then again, maybe not.

I have to wonder about the intelligence of people who continue to cheat in an environment where the number one focus of all involved is to stop the cheating. Or, conversely, I wonder how effective the testing procedures are. Neither side (athletes/testers) is perfect. And both probably dabble in collusion, corruption, manipulation and conspiracy. But certainly there must be well meaning chemists and scientists and athletes and coaches who are sincerely trying to clean up the sport?

The reality is that doping is not going away. There will always be a new "Clear", a new "Cream", a new EPO, steroid, hormone, juice, pill, bar, patch, and whatever else you can think of that will artificially enhance athletic performance.

But hopefully the efforts of David Millar, and others like him can help slow that tide. Maybe, just maybe the younger riders will develop a competitive ethic based on clean racing. That was the hope this year. At least it was until the snake came along and played us all for fools.

"Little bastard" indeed.

Labels: doping, racing, Tour de France

Editor's note: This is a post in an ongoing "How To" series. Have an idea for a How to post? Let me know. And if any topics come up that I am no help at all with, I will track down someone who is!

Also see, 'How To: Get Sponsored'.

I have been asked several times how I "switched from XC to endurance riding". And I usually offer up what is probably an unsatisfactory answer.

"I just sort of rode my bike more."

Not exactly helpful. So I thought I'd go through some of the process that I experienced when I was preparing for my first endurance event. Feel free to add your own tips and ideas in the comments section.

When I knew that I wanted to try off road hundred milers as well as 12 and 24 hour events, I realized that I would not be able to simply line up and successfully finish one of these demanding rides. So I planned out a course of action that helped me be a little more prepared for that first 100 mile day in the saddle.

1. I read everything I could on the topic. I surfed forums, blogs (in fact, that is how I discovered Kerkove--the first cycling blog I read), articles, magazines, and books. I sent off emails to people who were already established and successful and asked for their advice. I became a sponge.

2. I rode my bike more. Knowledge is powerful. But putting that into practice is even more so. In addition to the regular riding and training I was doing, I tried to incorporate a few 5-8 hour mountain bike rides into my schedule. These rides allowed me to figure out how my body would react to different pacing, food and time in the saddle. I learned a lot in those first few long rides about myself. And about what would work and not work in an endurance setting.

3. I trained a lot on the road. Road riding is boring. Well, it can be. But it is excellent training. The consistency of it means you can target your power or heart rate very specifically for extended periods of time. And because you can rack up a ton of miles on the road relatively easily, it became a big confidence booster. It feels great to look back on a day and see 60 or 70 miles behind you in only 3 or 4 hours. I also did my first road century in preparation for my first off road one. It was a huge help in getting everything dialed in for an dirty hundie.

4. I tried a lot of different foods. I tried different drinks, gels, bars and real foods (bread, fruit, etc.) out on those big rides. It is important to go into your first dirt century (or any big ride) with a clear plan for how you will fuel. Experiment. Find out what tastes good after 6 or 8 hours in the saddle. Find what needs your body has during long efforts and plan accordingly.

5. I had a plan. It is important to have a goal for your big rides and races. But be realistic in those plans. I always try and set a goal that is a little ambitious, even a bit unrealistic. I do this in hopes of pushing myself harder and further. I have had mixed results with this strategy. Use it with caution! Realistic expectations will help you be flexible on race day.

6. I had fun! Riding a mountain bike is fun. A hundred miler, or a 12 hour race should be no exception. Ride the day with a good attitude. Be determined but flexible in your strategy. Roll with the punches. Ride with a smile, and you will most likely finish with one as well.

Riding a bike all day long can be an intimidating proposal. But I think you will be surprised at how well you will do. If you have been riding even somewhat regularly over the last year or two, then you are well on your way to riding for 100 miles...and beyond. Pick an event, train for it, focus on it, set some achievable, process oriented goals and go for it!

Sometimes it is as simple as lining up and pedaling that bike!

Labels: 24 hour, great divide race, how to, tips

Don Quixote was delusional. Idealistic. Insane. He lived in a fantasy world. A place where he was the hero of the story, a noble knight, capable lover, and eccentric adventurer.

Just like a mountain biker.

In each of us is a little, or perhaps a lot, of Don Quixote. We fool ourselves into believing that the world is full of giants, ogres, and evil magicians who plague the helpless, the poor, the masses. It is our sacred duty to intervene. To make things right.

But these mythical beasts are not creatures, rather they are mountain passes, desert valleys and endless plateaus. They are ideas. Small voices that whisper doubt and failure, misery and demise. Sanity (whatever that is) is the enemy. That ever blithering noise of content and sense. "Leave well enough alone" it bellows, "there is no reason in this madness!"

But Quixote was not looking for reason.

He sought after a thing which was impractical, dated, ridiculous. And he never found it. Not literally. But then, perhaps he was not ever meaning to find anything at all. He just wanted to go looking.

In my own mind, in that corner where ideology and impracticality sit together and plot against the stuffy twins of conservation and rationality, I find a bit of Don Quixote. I fool myself into believing that each new ride is bigger, more important, and more meaningful than it ever will be. I deceive my rational mind, convincing it that what is about to happen will be an exciting, romantic, even noble task. A great adventure. I've been telling myself these lies for so long that I embrace them now as fact. As gospel.

And in fact, those delusions of grandeur have indeed become tangible, their veracity gripping at my imagination. In my own mind the ride is a grand tour, a high speed chase, a vision quest. Each soul searching moment, every dark self doubting hour, every failure and each triumph is a turning point. Each a slain beast. A fallen giant. And every last one as real and corporeal as anything I have ever experienced.

Our world is too literal. There is an emphasis on practicality that is like a disease spreading through the veins of the people. Poisonous rationality corrupting the hearts and minds of man. Let us imagine more often. Let us be delusional. Let us see the world for what it should be, or could be, rather than for what it is.

At least once in a while.

With the Divide riders thinning out and finishing (or not) the route, I can't help but wonder what thoughts tyrannized their minds as they pedaled the lonely miles along the spine of the continent. What giants did they battle? What demons did they suppress? What beauty did they discover?

They return home differently. That awkward out of place-ness that follows any life altering event. They return like a seer, a prophet, as one who has seen and who knows. Only those who have been there will ever understand what that is like. I envy that misplacement, that experience, that knowledge. I want to understand it.

Or, as Peter O'Toole says, as the Man of La Mancha:

I've been a soldier and a slave. I've seen my comrades fall in battle or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I've held them in my arms at the final moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no brave last words, only their eyes, filled with confusion, questioning "Why?" I don't think they were wondering why they were dying, but why they had ever lived. When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? To surrender dreams - this may be madness; to seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness! But maddest of all - to see life as it is and not as it should be.

To those Great Divide wanderers who were lucky enough to slip into delusional thought, idealistic meanderings and irrational expectations, I salute you. I envy that sort of passion and motivation. That maniacal throbbing that pushes you to live, and to see.

Life is madness. But only for those who are not already mad themselves.



Quijote and Sancho, by Ruth Haggerty

Labels: great divide race, quixote

Grandeur Peak, Mount Olympus, and others from Ensign Peak, SLC, Utah

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”

Labels: photos, Wasatch

Albion Basin, Alta, Summer 2006

Up. And up. As long as the eye can see, wrapping around the next ridge, the next hill, and on into eternity. The endless climb. Burning legs, lungs at capacity, the rocks on the dirt slowly passing underneath feet and wheels. Gravity tugging gently at jersey pockets.

Suddenly the world opens up. Everywhere the earth stretches out, on and on, and on. The air is cool and crisp. Thin. The trees start to spread out. Meadows are full of flowers. In the shade snow lingers. Elevation.

And still, up and up. Fatigue creeps from within, evident in salty stains. The chain groans under the pressure, dry and dusty. Above, so close, the summit. But ahead an innumerable path of switchbacks. Onward.

And then, finally, the top. The wind is blowing. Far below a glimpse of city streets tangled beneath a dirty haze. No trees. Just boulders. And a few resilient flowers. A deep breath is shallow and short. Thin air fills the lungs, lightheaded ecstasy. Altitude.

Sacred elevation. Sacred mountain top. A place where few have been. And fewer will ever go. To difficult. To painful. No time for nature. Watch it on television. Vicarious adventure. What shallow ambition!

No chair lifts here. Just muscle and gritted teeth. The high country. The endless climb.

Labels: mountain bike, photos, Wasatch

Terrified. Exhilarated. But still, terrified. Before me stretches an unknown road. Twisty, rough, upward it leads. Up into high country–meadows, trees, streams, dark forests–a blind vastness that engulfs the known universe. Terra incognita. There is no turning around now. Nothing to do but press forward. I clip in, and push the pedals.

Slowly the anxiety melts away. In the deep reaches of my psyche it lingers, pesters, festers, surfacing occasionally in fits of panic or rage. And again, the unknown is thrust into center stage of my thinking, ugly, awkward, foreign. I press on and the feeling retreats. In its place the joy of exploration.

And so it has been this summer. The uneasy pressure of the twins arrival has been a constant presence, like a coming storm gathering courage and strength, ready to rain chaos down upon the masses below. We have fortified the house and adjusted our expectations. And now we wait.

A mountain bike race can be a lot like life. But a race has distinct advantages. A specific starting time and length. A choice of difficulty. Always the option to gracefully bow out. People cheer. Brightly colored ribbons are given out. Life however is not so scripted. Not so sanitized. Life is spontaneous. An unknown trail winding thorough thick pines with just the immediate future visible.

I am embarrassed to say that there are days, sometimes many of them strung together like a rotted popcorn necklace, that I wonder, honestly wonder what my wife and I have gotten ourselves into. Regret? No. Just hesitation. Fear. Anxiety. Questions.

“Rise up O man!” admonished my dad. Easier said than done. But that is what lies ahead. That familiar chaos of children. Running and playing, screaming and fighting, hungry yet they don’t eat, tired but do not sleep. Family. Chaos. Similes. And again I am reminded how unprepared I feel. “Rise up O man!”

There is a moment that each and every mountain biker has experienced. It can come unexpectedly, suddenly, dangerously. It is that moment where forward motion is suspended, the front tire on the ground, the rear hung in the air. The body lurches forward and for a thought all time stops, the world shrinks into sharp focus, lucid clarity, as you realize with terror that your body is going over the bars.

I am suspended in time, at that moment. Waiting patiently to go over the bars. The sting of the rock, the gasp of air forcibly leaving the lungs, the clang of the bike and the grunt of impact. As the ground approaches the worst possible thoughts race though the mind. What will break? Will it be me or the bike? Both?

And then it is over. And after a few minutes of rolling around in the dust in pain and humiliation while companions ask through giggles if everything is alright the realization sinks in that in fact, everything is okay. Bike and body are fine, have lived to ride another day. And another after that. And so on.

Terrified. Exhilarated. But still, terrified. But not as much. Twins. I can handle that. Well, we can handle that. My wife and I.

The twins, like all those over the bar, head first, bone bruising, ego crushing, feet over head, awkward bicycle crashes that have come before and not turned out so terrible after all will inevitably arrive. And soon. And like that un-retrievable momentum that sends a rider face first into the dirt there is no going back. Instead, all I can do is embrace the moment, and hit the ground rolling.

Labels: twins

July the 4th. Independence Day. Everywhere the smell of grills cooking, smoke bombs burning, and fireworks crackling. A blue haze wafts lazily throughout the neighborhood. Sparks fly, lights flash, packaged fire, made in China, with names like Jade Blossom and Butterflies in Flight go boom and crack and pow.

Our own domestic miniature shock and awe.

Another parade, another crowded park full of kitsch; Peruvian wood flutes, bolo ties, stuffed animals, pencil sketches of dead celebrities and caricatures of living ones, pewter jewelry, homemade quilts, navajo tacos and gigantic lemonades, funnel cakes, painted faces, overweight ladies in tank-tops and men wearing button down western shirts with gaudy patterns of red white and blue despite the triple digit heat. A man dressed like Ben Franklin rings a big bell on the street corner. His clanging is tolerated today. Any other day and he’d be hauled off to jail.



And then, like December the 26th, or the second day of school, or a grey Monday morning, July the 5th dawns with a thick hangover.

Blue black stains are burned into every driveway. Scraps of this and that, exploded evidence of the night before, drift down the gutter. Stale, cold franks still sit hopefully on the greasy grill, waiting for relish, mustard, and the warm comfort of a bleached white flour bun.

It was 1986. I was 9. I awoke early on the morning of the 5th. I ran out of the house with a box of matches and a plastic bag. The street outside was littered in confetti, the remains of cups, plates, toys, and fireworks all blasted into oblivion the previous night. There were burned out cardboard tanks, empty charred shells, hand sized symbols of American might. Toxic snakes were dry and crusty, lying in their own soot as the heat of the day turned them into ash. Dixie cups, half burned spotted the pavement, their waxy coating melted in a semi solid puddle around them. Like a drunk in his own vomit.

I scoured the asphalt with peeled eyes, looking, hunting, for unlit pyrotechnics. I knew that in the rubble of burned up celebratory explosives that lost, un-erupted fireworks were lingering, not unlike the hot dogs on the cold grill, waiting to be discovered, ignited, and consumed. I was determined to stretch Independence Day into the new morning, and beyond, if luck–and a trip to the firework stand–allowed.

But, alas, that luck would run out. Finding only a handful of Black Cats and ground flowers the reality of July the 5th started to sink in. Bleary eyed now, and tired, the heat of the July sun starting to beat down on the dark asphalt, I walked homeward. Grumpy and irritable. The routine of summer staring me directly in the face.

Those 4ths of July during the late 1980s seemed especially exciting. Perhaps it was because I was finally old enough to appreciate the risk of blowing off a hand with honest to goodness, bought in Evanston, Wyoming (at Porter’s Fireworks and Firewater), quick-wicked Black Cat firecrackers. We’d strap them to action figures and plastic cups, drop them down the sewage drain, or toss them high in the air, timing the explosion just right, so the loud crack would echo through the neighborhood at the apex of flight. We’d find creative ways to use gasoline, bottle rockets, PVC pipe, and pellet guns. Everything was a potential burn victim. Our toys, our clothing, a mailbox and the neighbors yard. If it could be blown to bits, we blew it to bits.

Those were the years that several dads in the area would pile kids into Suburbans and pick up trucks and make the trek to Evanston. Once at Porter’s it was hard for them to object to our Black Cats and bottle rockets when they themselves had a cart full of explosive illegalities that would make any smuggler, no matter how crooked and accomplished, blush with envy. We’d pull out onto I-80, the vehicle heavy laden with contraband flammable excitement and head back home. Always one eye on the rear view mirror, and the other on the speedometer. In the distance, rapidly growing smaller was Porter’s marquee. “Welcome back Utah, Happy 4th!”

It was no secret, all that border crossing with loads of pure, street credible fireworks. The highway patrol was in on it. They’d had to be. After all, they wanted a good show at home, in their driveways as well. Chicago cops have nothing on rural Utah.

Fireworks are tame nowadays. At least the ones that the grocery stores sell. Fountains of emitting sparks, crackling balls, snaps. But the proof of continued pilgrimages to Evanston lights up the night sky each and every 4th. A deep thump, followed by a shower of multi-colored fire high in the sky above our calm suburbia is a living symbol of all that is right in the world. Despite what troubles we deal with, no matter our health or our finances, our fear or anxiety, there is always in America that one day of the year when we are encouraged to blow crap up.

And now, today, the streets are quiet. Like New Year’s Day. Red-eyed and tired, friends greet each other. The desire to extend the great American holiday another day or so burns shallow, but every day life demands otherwise. Bills are due, deadlines loom, and life, paused for a few flammable moments, moves on. One by one the masses fall back in line. The short lived, but universal rebellion is over. Hot dog sales slump. Red white and blue t-shirts appear on the clearance rack. And that man dressed like Ben Franklin is out of a job.

Like a line of black ants, America returns to it ordered life, the 9 to 5 of punching the clock. Life, restored. Order, threatened, but victorious. A heavy sigh drifts from coast to coast. And everyone, nose back to the grindstone, looks forward again to blowing up more crap. Until next year, God Bless America.

Labels: America, July