Running red lights

While we officially have three more weeks of autumn, my numb fingers from this morning's commute tell me that winter weather is officially here.  Winter makes for some frigid morning commutes and today it took 10 minutes for my fingers to thaw out before I could use a computer. 

When the mercury drops I tend to be more likely to treat stop signs as yield signs, and treat stop lights as stop signs.  Sometimes it is just too cold to wait for a light to change, and if there’s no traffic coming, I say “Why suffer?”  But don’t forget to check for police cars behind you before you run the light.  I made that mistake once and got this little memento to show for it:

Some states, including Idaho, allow cyclists to roll through stop signs and stop lights after yielding to other traffic, and if Representative Carol Spackman Moss gets her latest bill through the Utah Legislature, Utah cyclists will be finally be able to do it legally too.  There’s a good article about the bill here.

Moss’s reasoning:

If we want people to use bikes as alternative transportation, if we want this to be a bike friendly place, because people speak about Utah more and more and move here for recreational activities, we ought to make that something that we really focus on, making cycling safe.

Moss’s bill would make great strides in eliminating some of the hassles of bicycle commuting and likely would induce more people to commute if they weren’t required to come to a complete stop every block.  Sometimes the safest time to pass through an intersection is when the light is red and no cars are coming.  Think of running red lights and stop signs legally as rewards for good behavior that benefits us all. 

If you think this is a good idea, I suggest you call Representative Moss and tell her you support it, even if you don’t live in her district.  You should also call your own representative and urge her or him to support the bill.  Don’t know who your representative is?  Find out here. 

Lost

At 7:32 PM I realize how scared I am when I call my wife.  “Mags,” I say, “I…I…I’m lost.”  I stammer and I fight back tears.  

Earlier that afternoon I had set out for a ride across the Moab
desert.  My plan was to ride from Gemini
Bridges to Poison Spider, via Gold Bar Rim and Golden Spike trails, for a
heavy dose of classic Moab terrain.  At 1:40 PM I still
had four hours of daylight, plenty of time, I thought, to complete the
ride before darkness set in.  But just in case I
packed a good headlight and a blinky red light for riding the ten miles of
pavement at the end of the ride to complete the loop.  The forecast also called for rain after 5:00 PM,
so I also packed a rain jacket.  I also
had three energy bars, two bananas, four bottles of Carbo Rocket and a
plasticized map.  

The first two hours go by without incident.  There are two ways to get to Gold Bar Rim,
and I take the longer way, miss a turn, but find my way before losing much time.  At 4:30 I’m at the top of Gold Bar, looking
over the cliff at the town of Moab below. 
Descending Golden Spike and Poison Spider won’t take much more than an
hour, will it? 

I stop to mount my light around 5:30.  I am somewhere near the end of Golden Spike
or the top of Poison Spider.  It’s
unclear on my map where one trail ends and the other begins.  There is no sign of the rainstorm yet, but
the winds are picking up.  With my
Princeton Tec Switchback 1 lighting my way, I press onward toward the Poison
Spider trailhead.  There is a documentary
on the Miss Navajo Pageant showing at the Moab Library at 7:30 that I want to be
back for. 

This is when things start to get confusing. 

Trails in Moab are marked with paint where they go over
sandstone.  Sometimes the markings are
pictures like dinosaurs or little jeeps, but on Poison Spider Mesa they are
just white rectangles, spaced every 50 feet or so.  I’d followed trails marked with these
splotches dozens of times before, even on Poison Spider Mesa once or twice, but
never in the dark. 

Is that paint on the rock, or just a white lichen?  I follow it, then see another splotch 50 feet
away.  I follow it to the edge of the
sandstone, looking into the sand.  Yes
there are tracks there; jeep tracks, motorcycle tracks, mountain bike
tracks.  In fact, there are tracks
everywhere.  How am I supposed to know
which track to follow? 

I pick a track and follow it as long as I can, but
inevitably it leads to another patch of sandstone.  And again I am left to wonder, are those
paint marks or splotches of lichen?  By this
time I am walking my bike, studying each splotch, looking for straight edged
paint marks, and feeling for that smooth, painted feeling.  But how long has it been since I saw a paint
mark that I was absolutely certain was not a patch of lichen?  20 minutes? 
30 minutes?  An hour?

Now I am at the top of a steep sandstone hill.  How far down is it?  I cannot tell, but the paint marks go
straight down it.  Would the trail really
take such an unsafe route?  No.  Those are lichens.  They must be. 
Back to the edge of the sandstone again. 
But which way did I come from?   I
can’t find the trail.  I can’t find the
f*cking trail!  There are no tracks now,
no white paint marks anywhere, white lichens are everywhere.  It’s getting late.  I circle around the sandstone.  Where did I come from?  How did I get on this rock?  The wind is getting stronger. 

I wander in search of a track for—how long?  I look at my cell phone—7:32 PM.  Two minutes past show time.  I have one bar so I call my wife, who is at
home cooking a hot dinner for herself and our niece.  “I’m lost,” I say, “I can’t find my
trail.” 

I’m not really lost, I know exactly where I am on the
map, and know exactly where I need to get to, but there are cliffs and ledges
everywhere.  I can see the glowing lights
of Moab just over the horizon.  I just
don’t know how to get from here to there because I don’t dare to hike
cross-country in this terrain in the dark. 
“I may have to spend the night out here.”  I tell Mags, 
I’m going to look for 30 more minutes for the trail. “If you don’t hear
from me it means I’ve come down from this high place, have found the trail and
don’t have a cell signal.  If I decide to
sleep out here I’ll call and let you know.”

I say a little prayer. 
“God, please help me find the trail.” and He does.  I follow it easily now, and have learned how
to distinguish paint from lichen. I should be out in no time, down to the
highway where the pedaling is easy and the route easier.  I’m hungry and am looking forward to the
pasta I am going to make for dinner. 

9:03 PM.  I see a reflective Carsonite sign.  ‘Poison Spider Route’ it
says, then a little further on, spray painted onto the sandstone is a big arrow
pointing in the direction I had just come from, and next to it the word
‘SPIKE’. 

I have been here before. 
Probably two hours ago.  Somehow I
have walked a giant loop and am still several miles from the trailhead.  I consult my map, more anxious than angry,
and set off for the trailhead.  But it
happens again, only this time it’s a smaller loop, but here I am again,
standing in a spot I had stood in only 30 minutes earlier.  Just like in the movies, I am literally
walking in circles.  I come to a T-intersection.  Now which way?  I consult my map again and make sure I pick
the right direction.  Ten minutes later I pass
an intersection that tells me I made the right choice. 
30 minutes after that I pass Little Arch, which tells me I was
wrong. 

Now I’m on the right trail but walking in the wrong
direction.  I’m six miles from the
trailhead now.   According to the map ,
there’s another junction ahead, and the trail on the right  leads to the Portal Trail.  I’m afraid of the Portal Trail because
cyclists have died on it, but if I make it down it’s an even shorter ride on
the pavement back to my car.  It’s worth
the risk.  I plod onward, now getting
further from where I had originally wanted to be, but also confident in knowing
where I was going for the first time in three hours. 

I see a trail on the right. 
Finally, I have found the way to the Portal Trail.  Oops, that’s not it, but 20 minutes are
wasted getting back to the real trail. 
Now here’s another trail.  Nope,
that’s not it either.  Another 15 minutes
down.  Oh, now here’s a big wide trail,
with lots of tracks in the sand.  This
has to be it. 

Twenty minutes later I’m standing at the edge of a
cliff.  The view is beautiful, but for one missing feature.  I can see the Holiday Inn in
Moab, but not the Portal Trail.  It is
somewhere directly below me at the base of this cliff.  I have a strong signal on my cell phone
now.  It’s 10:32.  I have been wandering in the dark for five
hours.  I call my wife again.  “I’m going to spend the night” I say.  “The temperature will be in the thirties
tonight,” she says “and it’s supposed to rain after 5AM.”

“I’m afraid I won’t recognize the Portal Trail when I come
to it” I say.  I don’t want to walk past
it and spend another five hours searching. 
I walk down the slope and find a small sandstone shelf, eighteen inches
off the ground.  It’s just big enough for
me to squeeze underneath to get out of the wind. 
I put on every piece of clothing I have, eat my last energy bar, lean my
bike against the shelf to keep the critters away from my head, say another
prayer and slither into my hovel, pulling my map over me as a blanket.  It will be light in eight hours. 

I’m surprised that I’m actually able to sleep.  Not a good sleep, but sleep nonetheless.  I awake every couple of hours, because my hip
aches from the rock I’m curled on.  I get
up to pee, and to circulate some blood. 
Then I slither back in and shiver convulsively until sleep sets in
again.  I repeat this four more times
during the night:  11:24, 12:17, 1:38,
3:54.    

5:44 AM.  I get up
again.  This time while I’m doing my calisthenics
it starts to rain.  The sun won’t be up
for another 45 minutes, but I’m not going to sit here and get hypothermia.  I continue down the hill in the dark (my
light was still shining brightly after all these hours) and find the Poison
Spider trail.  Within 15 minutes I come
to another trail on the right.  This one
is clearly marked ‘To Portal Trail’. 

6:47 AM.  I’m standing
on the cliff edge again, looking at Moab below me.  I switched off my light 15 minutes ago.  I can see the pile of uranium tailings below
me, where cleanup activity is just getting started for the day.  The Portal Trail is easily visible to my left
and to my right.  I call my wife
again.  She didn’t sleep well
either. 

7:53 AM.  I’m at the
junction of US 191 and S.R. 279.  I call
my brother.  He and Mags almost drove to
Moab last night to look for me. 

8:34 AM.  I’m in my
car at the Gemini Bridges trailhead, feasting on canned peaches, cottage
cheese, an avocado, chocolate milk, sliced bread and Tostitos tortilla
chips. 

11:08 AM.  I stop in
an empty parking lot in Price to take a nap. 
My sleeping bag is luxuriously warm.

2:28 PM.  I’m home
again.  Mags and I share a long embrace.  We go out to the yard to rake leaves together.       

'Cross round up

I’ve been doing a little cyclocross racing the past couple of weekends.   My first race was a sloppy mess but I did better than expected, which is pretty easy to do when you have expectations as low as I do.  I still can't get past the absurdity of riding a bike with skinny tires and drop handlebars on trails better suited for a mountain bike (or occasionally cross country skis).

 

My second race was on Halloween and rather than exert effort in putting together a new costume—I don’t exert effort in preparing for cyclocross, not even for a costume—I decided to dig out my Little Bo Peep costume again, which I must say was remarkably comfortable for racing in.

The short skirt was never in the way during my mounts and dismounts, and the ample bust was a perfect place to store the cash Chris was handing out mid-race.  I’m afraid to admit this because normally I tuck cash, wrappers, tools, etc. in my shorts but, wearing the dress, I instinctively put the dollar where my boobs were supposed to be.  What exactly does it say about me that I do this on instinct?

Shortly into the race, on my third time up the run-up, I felt a twinge in my right hamstring.  Argh!  Not again.  From then on I couldn’t pedal with much power.  I thought about dropping out, but remembered that I race cyclocross strictly for fun and to develop bike handling skills for mountain bike season.  Fortunately it was just a twinge and not a pull, so I soft pedaled my way around the course for the next 40 minutes.  Besides, I wanted to make sure there were plenty of pictures like these.  Don't you just love the perfect balance of strength and femininity? 

Speaking of strength and femininity, Mags raced on Saturday too.  In her first ever cyclocross race, she flew over the trails on her way to a second place finish on her heavy mountain bike.  Maybe it was the wings:

 

Hipster sighting

Last night while riding home I came upon a hipster riding a 20 inch wheeled bike with sissy bar and big, but not quite ape hanger, U-bar handle bars.  While I didn’t get a photograph of him, if you can envision this urban lumberjack:

riding this bike:

then you get the idea.  Besides, if you’ve seen one hipster on a bike, you’re seen them all.  Hipsters have a tendency to express their individuality in highly conforming ways. 

This particular hipster was furiously spinning his tiny cranks by Liberty Park last night, likely on his way to the Coffee Garden at 9th and 9th.  He had a Chrome brand messenger bag [Full disclosure—so do I.], a tweed cycling cap, and rolled up, skin-tight jeans.  When I stopped behind him at a stoplight we exchanged pleasantries, and then he said

I've been riding a 56 centimeter track bike for like five years, so I'm used to spinning fast. 

I resisted the urge to laugh at his need for validation, or at his beaming pride in riding a fixie since way back in the George W. Bush administration, or at how he betrayed his efforts to show how little he cares about being fashionable by excusing himself for riding such an unfashionable bike. 

Instead of laughing I said something nice and polite like “Well, at least it gets you around.”  But what should I have said?  Maybe something like

No kidding, 56 centimeters?  How ironic that you’d ride a bike that’s actually your size.

And what do you think was this hipster’s point?  Was he worried I would deem him un-hip?  Or embarrassed that a guy with fenders and a hi-viz jacket was faster than him?  Please help me out with this.  I live in a neighborhood full of hipsters and while I may not run across this particular hipster again, I’m sure to have encounters with others of his ilk.  What can I say to earn myself some cred? 

<em>La Diabla de Rojo</em>

There is a trail called Rojo in eastern Utah that makes it way up Red Mountain.  It’s somewhat of a favorite among the locals, what few locals there are out there.  The rest of you have probably never heard of it, and the locals prefer it that way.  They ride up an ATV trail to the top of Red Mountain and then ride down Rojo to make a loop out of it.  But the locals are doing it wrong.  The only way to enjoy Rojo is to ride up.  

 Rojo is a short little trail, just three or four miles long, but what it lacks in length it makes up in technical difficulty, chest pounding climbs and aesthetic beauty.  It starts in a wash next to the ATV trail, deliberately difficult to find to keep the throttle twisters off.  Then it immediately begins making its convoluted way to the top.  It doubles back on itself twice, flirts with the edge of a cliff three times and crosses a normally dry wash four or five times.  All along the way the trail steps up, down and across sandstone ledges, cobbles and potholes.  Rojo is every bit as good as the Zen Trail in southern Utah, if only a little shorter, and Rojo is way better than Gooseberry Mesa in that there is no eight mile drive down a washboard road to get to it.  The road to Rojo is paved all the way to the trailhead, but I have never, ever, seen another car parked there.   

I said going uphill is the way to enjoy Rojo, but I might be wrong.  I really don’t know.  The truth is I’ve never gotten to ride down it.  Well, at least not in an enjoyable way.  Aaron, Ryan, Mark and I have attempted three times to ride all of Rojo—it’s become an annual event—and we have failed three times.  There is a devil living on Red Mountain and she does not want us to ride Rojo. 

 In 2007 we underestimated the difficulty of the trail and started too late in the evening.  Then Aaron hurt his knee and we had to turn around and pick our way down in the near-darkness.  Aaron’s knee was better as soon as we got off Red Mountain.  The devil, la Diabla, has power over our sinews. 

In 2008 we arrived at the trailhead under cloudy skies.  La Diabla turned on the rain and immediately turned the wash into a small river, the sand into quicksand and the slickrock into, well, slickrock.  Dejected and cold, we turned around again.

2009 was supposed to be our year.  We attempted Rojo in August instead of October.  We started early in the evening so we’d have enough light to get to the top.  It was 90 degrees in the shade but the trail was dry—like a desert trail should be.  Everything was in order to finally ride to the top of Rojo.  We made it 90%, 95%, then 97% to the top.  We were within 200 yards of finishing, easily within shouting distance so la Diabla would hear us celebrating our triumph over her evil. 

La Diabla does not give up easily.  Right as we started the final push to the summit she reached out her fiery talon from under a bush and snatched my rear derailleur. It disintegrated upon her touch, and it happened so fast that Aaron, who was immediately behind me, saw nothing but the aftermath. We walked to the top and I coasted, sans chain and with a little help from my friends, down the ATV trail.  We were doing the locals' ride in reverse. 

We don’t give up easily either.  We’re going to try again in 2010.  But please tell us, la Diabla what do we have to do to get to the top?  Should we pour tequila on the trail and put habanero sauce in our water bottles?  Is this a punishment because on the night before the ride I put Ryan’s chamois in the freezer?  Oh please, how could you even know about that? Just tell us what we need to do and we’ll do it.  We’ll give you whatever you want, your evilness, because Rojo is worth it.

 

 

A race I can win

The last part of the Intermountain Cup race season was a bit of a blur.  I started out great in the State Championships at Solitude, but missed a turn in the first lap and lost about 7 positions.  I did it again in Jackson, this time leading two other riders off course in the third of four laps.  Sorry Brandon.  Sorry Rich.  Then at the series final at The Canyons Resort—By the way, who’s brilliant idea was it to start a race at high noon on the first day of August?—I had put in an effort I could feel good about and was coming down the final descent with Brandon Firth hot on my trail.  I was certain I could hold him off since I’ve been working on my descending and can now descent faster than my eight-year-old niece.   However, in typical fashion I was also letting my mind wander.  Gee, I thought, I’m going to make it through this entire season without a single flat tire.

Moments later I whacked my front wheel hard on a rock and heard the ominous burping sound of air escaping my tubeless tire.  I stopped and quickly gassed it up, surprised that it sealed, and hopped back on.  I had probably only lost about two minutes, but that was enough time for Brandon to pass me. 

My tire was flat again by the time I got to the bottom, I guess it didn’t really seal, and I nearly went down at the final hairpin turn before the finish line.  Rather than fight it, I just got off and ran the last fifty feet to the finish line.  I suppose finishing like that is some sort of metaphor, but I don’t like its implication so I’ll just leave it out there. 

So it’s been nearly three weeks since the final ICUP series race.  I finished in a respectable fifth place overall in the pro men field.  Not bad, I suppose, but I just don’t understand why the series has to end so soon, or more specifically, why there needs to be five races in May and only one in August.  The Mountain States Cup Series in Colorado runs through mid September.   The Wild Rockies Series in Idaho finishes in late September and the Wisconsin Off Road Series has two races scheduled for October. 

The end of the season has given me a case of the doldrums.  Normally by now I’m shifting my focus onto some longer distance races and my plans this year were no different.  I was really looking forward to racing the American Mountain Classic stage race again, and the 12 Hours of Bear Lake seemed pretty appealing too.   Then there was one more Pro XCT Tour series scheduled in Las Vegas in September where I was hoping to redeem myself after my lackluster performance in Colorado Springs.  But all three of those races have been canceled.

There was also the Leadville 100 last weekend, to which I was denied registration due to the Lance-factor.  Speaking of Lance Armstrong, he won that race this year, but he needed the help of some teammates to beat perennial winner Dave Wiens.  That speaks volumes about the 44 year old Wiens and what it takes to beat him, and about Lance, especially after he tirelessly worked to divide his own team at the Tour de France this year simply because he wasn’t the team leader.  

Lance’s use of team tactics to win at Leadville also says something about the race itself.  Mountain bike races aren’t team events.  The Leadville 100 is a dirt road race.

So no AMC, no Pro XCT, no 12 Hours of Bear Lake, and no (not ever?) Leadville for me.  To add insult to injury, Fish has scheduled his luau for the same day as the 12 Hours of Sundance.  I’m still wrestling over that decision.  

Maybe I’m just bitter but it’s not all bad.  There is one bright spot this time of year.  It is harvest season and the farmers’ markets are in full swing.  I try every August to eat my body weight in locally grown fruits and vegetables. 

 Last weekend Mags and I went to the People’s Market on the west side of SLC.  On the way back we came upon an older couple riding bikes in the same direction.  I was on our Grocery Bike, albeit with only partially loaded baskets, unlike in this picture.  The woman was on a fancy new bicycle.  It looked like one of those GoCycles.  It was Fancy because it was electric and new because she was proud of it, as evidenced by what she said to me as I came by:  

“Wanna race?” 

“You bet.” I said as I mashed the pedals.  She throttled her electric motor and the race was on. 

I pushed hard, wishing Mags hadn’t lowered the seat on the Grocery Bike.  The old woman and I were still even.  I pushed harder, and nosed into the lead, but my opponent countered by starting to pedal.  Oh that was ruthless, how was I supposed to compete with motor and muscle?  

My only chance was to shift gears, but the shifters are mounted on the stem, and reaching for them meant pulling one hand off the handlebar, possibly allowing my loaded basked up front to cause dangerous speed wobble—we were reaching speeds in excess of 10 miles per hour!—leading to the doubly embarrassing likelihood of crashing and losing to a gray haired woman on an electric bike. 

I risked it.   My hand shot like a flash to the stem, pulled the rear derailleur lever up two notches, and flashed back to the bar.  I gave my opponent a  Lance-inspired steely glare and rode on to victory.  As she rode by a few seconds later I heard the woman (remarkably clear despite all the wind noise from our high speeds) say to Mags “He’s faster than me.” 

Yes finally, a reason to feel good about my race season. 

National Watermelon Day

Mags and I bought our first Green River Watermelon of the season on Friday, just in time for National Watermelon Day today.  Why this tasty gourd has its own special day goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway:  It’s refreshing, it ripens at the height of summer, it’s so messy that you ought to eat it outside, and so big that there’s always enough to share with you neighbors who see you out there.  It’s also a good source of lycopene, something Wikipedia says can ward off cardiovascular disease, cancer, diabetes and osteoporosis. 

I can not think of a better way to eat your thirst away.  

As if that weren’t enough, Watermelon has been shown to share some of the same effects as a certain little blue pill.  In other words, it might make you a faster cyclist. 

For all of these and more reasons, watermelon is my favorite food.  Yes, that’s right, it’s my favorite food.  There’s nothing I would rather eat, and there’s no better watermelon than a Green River Watermelon, grown in the sandy soil of Southern Utah, with warm nights and hot days, and plenty of irrigation from the nearby Green River.  

My insatiable thirst for watermelon is genetic. How else do you explain that my brother chose to be married on Aug 3, a day set aside [probably by a consortium of watermelon farmers] as a day to commemorate the many facets of this delightful fruit (or is it a vegetable?)?  And it is also no coincidence that my father was born on National Watermelon Day, and that he asked us to decorate his grave with watermelon instead of flowers.  

Don’t worry Dad.  I’ll personally see to it that your share gets eaten.