Litter bug

I have a confession to
make.  It is something for which I feel
deep shame and embarrassment.  So please
bear with me while I get this off my chest:

Despite my environmental
ethic, and everything I learned in elementary school and as a Boy Scout, I’ve lately developed a
habit of littering.

This reprehensible behavior
first manifest itself two weeks ago in the first round of the Mountain States
Cup in Fruita, Colorado. 
57 pros lined up for a 31-mile loop through the desert, all vying for a
modest cash payout (that only paid three places deep) and a truckload of
external validation, which most of us were competing for.  In preparation for such a long race, I put two
bottles filled with CarboRocket on my bike and hoped it was enough. 

The start of the race went
exactly like one would expect when 57 cyclists race down a sandy wash.  I saw two crashes and was in front of another
that took out several riders.  About 15
minutes into the chaos I looked down and saw that both of my water bottles were
gone.  The responsible thing would have
been to go back and find them, but instead I bummed a drink from Charlie Gibson
and kept going.

I was fortunate the
neutral water stations hadn’t run out when I got to them, thus preventing a colossal
meltdown in the desert, but I might have learned my lesson about littering if
they had been out.  Instead I continued my irresponsible
ways last weekend at the third Intermountain Cup race at Five Mile Pass.  Even though I got some new water bottle cages
that held my bottles snugly I still found a way to spread my trash around the
trail.  

At 44 miles, Five Mile
Pass is another long race,
so I figured I’d need some food along the way. 
I put two packs of Clif Shot Bloks into my jersey pocket.  This race started more humanely, i.e. less
chaos, than in Fruita, and I finished the first lap with the main group.   At the start of the second lap I enjoyed one
of my Shot Bloks, but while putting the pack back in my pocket the vest I was
wearing over my jersey got in the way. 
After a bit of fumbling which led me to believe it was in my pocket I
felt it bounce off my foot and onto the trail, which told me it wasn’t.  No worries, I thought, that’s why I packed
two.

The next time I snacked on
a Shot Blok I took extra care not to do it again because I didn’t want to run
out of food less than half way into the race and because deep down I know that littering is wrong. 
So you can imagine my surprise when on lap three I reached back for
another snack and felt an empty pocket.  I had done it again.  Lack of control is a classic sign of compulsive behavior. 

I saw both of my packs on
the trail during my third and fourth laps, and I am ashamed to admit that I
never stopped to pick them up.   For all
I know, they’re probably still out there, feeding the ants and lizards.  What has come over me?

There, now I've said it.  I hope this first step puts me on the path toward ending this vile behavior forever.  I feel so dirty. 

Race results are here and
here. 

 

 

 

Mayor's message fails to produce immediate results

I've seen our mayor riding around the city more than once, so I know he's not a fair weather commuter.  I was sorry to hear about his bad luck, but the irony of this story was too good not to share.

    Read the original article, including ignorant and mean-spirited comments, here.

A file cabinet and a 2x4

I missed the skate race on Saturday.  I was disappointed, but accept that it was a blessing because I’m sure I would have been more disappointed when
my finishing time in the 20 kilometer race didn’t fall exactly on the curve I
made in my last post.  Missing a race is
bad enough but having one’s scientific foundation shaken is outright
catastrophic. 

My reason for missing the race is twofold.  First, the innards of my car are still strewn
about my friend’s garage as he spends his evenings methodically replacing
my blown head gaskets. 
A friend like that is worth waiting around for.  Second, the ride to the race I’d bummed fell
through when Reed called me early Saturday morning to say he was too sick to
race. 

Dejected as I was, I determined not to let this day slip
away without at least putting some sort of feather in my cap.  Instead of racing in a ski race in which I was
assured a good esel spark-ing, I
decided to add to my ever-lengthening list of absurd and sundry items I’ve
hauled on a bicycle, something I actually do spark
esel at.  Today’s additions are a
file cabinet and a 2x4.   What’s on your list? 

SoHo 10k and a race prediction

Mags and I did another ski race last weekend.  This one was a 10 kilometer race that was
part of the Wasatch Citizens Series, which is to cross country skiing in what
the Intermountain Cup is to mountain biking in Utah.   In
other words, most people are just out having fun, but there are a few folks that
take it far too seriously. 

Here’s a case in point. 
Like the ICUP, there are categories for racing based upon skill level in
the WCS.  Fast people should race in the
open category, and beginners should race in the novice category, the rest of us
race in what I call the age-grouper categories, where we race against people
close to our same age.  I don’t know which age group started behind mine, but
mid-way through my first lap some of them started to catch up to me.  On one particularly steep uphill I was trying
to go around some slower skiers—effectively taking up the entire track—when a
guy from behind me started to get impatient. 
 “Come on,” he said “we started a
minute behind you.  Give us a break.” 

“I’m trying to pass these folks too.” I replied, but was
thinking more along the lines of “If you’re so [expletive deleted] fast why
aren’t you racing in the open category?”

Also like the ICUP, there were lots of people standing
around before and after the race talking about their equipment.  I’ve never been very good about talking ‘gear’
and actually can’t think of a more vapid topic of conversation, but I felt even
more out of place at the ski race.  People
were talking about ski flex, special grinds, binding types, carbon fiber this
and carbon fiber that, and how many fluorocarbons were in their wax.  Pshaw, high-flouro wax? Who do you think you
are?  Should I call you Sven? Or Thor?  It’s not the arrow, it’s the Indian. 

Or maybe it is the arrow. 
 I got passed several times on
descents by the same guy I’d just passed on the climb.  I’d like to blame that on my transcendent
inability to go fast downhill in any sport, but there was clearly something more
going on. 

But oh well, there’s only one more ski race for me this
season and I’ll be using my same old hydrocarbon (aka zero-flouro) wax again,
and I’m OK with that.  But I do think a
prediction is in order.  My first race
was 5 kilometers, the next one was twice that distance, and the race on Saturday
is twice that again.  Not surprisingly,
my time in the second race was not exactly twice that of the first race, but
interestingly, it was less than twice my 5k time.  Clearly, this means that the longer the race
is, the faster I’ll be.   Sure, some might argue that the race
conditions were different, but I choose to ignore the fact that there was a
blizzard at Snowbasin while the race at Soldier Hollow was under sunny skies on
immaculately groomed trails.  [This also
explains why my second lap at SoHo was 14 seconds faster than my first.]  So  I’ve decided to use the data from my
races, consisting of exactly two data points, to predict my finishing time in Saturday’s
20 kilometer race.  As I've done in the past, I made a chart to
help me: 

As you can see from the chart, I’ll be finishing in about 42 minutes.  Sochi, here I come. 

Snowbasin Nordic Challenge

For three years now, I’ve been threatening to try cross country ski racing.  I made good on that threat Monday morning.  The Snowbasin Nordic Challenge is a 5 or 15 kilometer skate ski race held to raise funds for a hospital in Guatemala that was nearly destroyed by a mudslide in 2005.  Sure it was nice to contribute to a worthy cause, but I was more excited that there was finally a cross country ski race held on a weekend where I would be in town.  

Getting to Snowbasin was not without incident.  Our car started overheating when we pointed it toward the mountains.  That, combined with the sputtering and misfiring we were experiencing earlier in the week, leads me to suspect the worst—head gasket failure.  We stopped three times to let the engine cool off so we had only 15 minutes to get ready when we got to Snowbasin.  

That was just enough time for Mags and me to get our bibs, click into our skis, Mags to lose her gloves, and me to figure out where our timing chips were supposed to go.  Then just like that the gun went off and the race was on.  Mass starts in ski races can be a little dangerous with all those sharp poles flying everywhere, but we both managed to get through it with both eyeballs intact and no new orifices.  

After a short downhill, the race turned uphill and I started moving up.  I started to get that sandbagger feeling after I passed a dozen or so racers.  I was wishing I’d signed up for the 15k race.  Then the trail got even steeper and I changed my mind again.  It had been a while since I’d felt that old familiar tinge of exercise-induced nausea, but there it was, in all its glory, starting from deep in my gut and getting stronger with every stride.  I looked to the side of the trail for a place to puke, but the top came before the barf did.  Phew! Chuckage contained. 

Mags had her own bout with nausea and she too was able to contain it.  She finished the 5k third among women and first in her age category.  I was second overall with a time of 17:55 and about 30 seconds behind the winner.  It was a well organized race, with lots of raffle prizes, great food and a good turnout.  Uh oh, cross country ski racing seems like something I could get into, but another expensive hobby is the last thing I need. 

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.