Grinch Grinder

Difficult

If only all paths in my life were so clearly marked....

sounds like fun...

Do we, as a society, really need coffee with lightning in it? Does anyone else see a problem with this? No... of course not.

Looks cold...

Blue sky, gold trail

Blue sky and Golden trail. These beautiful days are fleeting, aren't they?

Bobcat ridge

Just a friendly reminder that we are not alone.

Cedar park seen from ginny trail

Greed.
the city of Fort Collins is kind enough to build this awesome new trail for us and all I can think about is all the trails that could be down in those valleys and ridges in between here and Cedar Park. Sigh.

Ginny Trail. Open for business

NO HORSES.
Bless their little trail-building hearts!

It’s a long story filled with a string of amazing coincidences and near misses which
has led me to the conclusion that I was powerless against her since long before
I was born. That the whole universe is an intricate machine which since it was set
into motion has been winding up, aligning us, synching vast wheels for millions
of years that one day we would find each other and come to understand that
the movement of all this clockwork is really the construction and maintenance of
love so massive and powerful that we could never hope to stop or stall it, only
to exist within it, mashed together by colossal gears.

Wonderful juxtaposition! This almost qualifies as Pop-art.

FW: RE:

The Message could not be adapted to your terminal

Backcountry

It became clear to me, the polarity of man and nature while riding recently in the backcountry.

It is important to lose yourself in riding in distant places. Not necessarily Tibet distant, but places just beyond the reach of comfort. Places that are much easier to get into than they are to get out of. Places beyond the signals of cell phones, and motorolas and desperate cries for help. It is here that the world becomes once again ominous, like it used to be. It is only a very infinitesimal fraction of human existence that we have lived outside of this area. We have conditioned ourselves only in the past hundred-or-so-years to rely on everything else, but never completely on ourselves. We live in a world where all points are instantaneously reachable by cell phone and internet. Where help via Police, EMS and the Fire Dept are a mere three digits away. We generally have no mortal fear, no insecurity about anything jumping out from behind a bush and killing us unexpectedly. The greatest thing we have to fear is each other, and even in that case we fear something familiar. Additionally, in this case that which we fear is relatively predictable, and susceptible to reason. So aside from the slow killers like cancer and disease, we typically do not live in a state of high alert. A person could, and many people actually do, live indefinitely indoors. One could huddle away inside a private residence with a constant trickle of Domino's and Papa John's and local chinese delivery and UPS and never set foot outside for months and months until the creditors started knocking and the eviction notices start piling up and all the credit cards are maxed. And that's assuming one stops going to work. In this age of telecommuting it may not ever be necessary to leave the house again.

We have separated ourselves from the world, and when we actually go out in it, immerse ourselves in it, we find ourselves afraid of it. It seldom even occurs to us that nature is not an enemy. That nature is not lying in wait to pounce upon us at the earliest convenient opportunity. That nature is neutral, and when surrounded by it we are once again included in it instead of the supposed master of it. When we venture out into the great anarchy of nature, the unpredictability, the enormity, we become starkly aware of the absence of human order. At home in HappyTown, USA we expect people to stop at red lights and are surprised when they don't. We expect people to drive on the right side and are surprised when they don't. We expect electricity and dial tones and drinking water to be there when we flip switches and pick up receivers and turn faucets, and are surprised when they aren't. In the backcountry we realize that our expectations are fewer. That we cannot rely on predictable, sure experience to make assumptions of outcomes. Certain things we can... The pattern of sunrise and set, hours of light and dark, the relationship between elevation gain and eventual loss (and vice versa). But for the most part, our assumptions of outcomes are purely theoretical: We believe our map to be accurate. We think we have enough water. We doubt the probability of catastrophic mechanical or physical breakdown beyond the ability of the multi-tool and first-aid kit. The incline, condition, and difficulty of the trail. The amount of truth behind the statement "wild animals are more afraid of you than you of them". The likelihood of being eaten by a lion. The stability of the weather vs. the amount of weather prepared to be dealt with. The time allotted before concerned loved-ones dispatch search and rescue teams. These are variables. The variables we are used to dealing with are usually things like the variability of drive time from A to B at given times of day. Things that while annoying and frustrating are generally unlikely to kill you.

In the backcountry personal entropy levels are higher. There is no prediction of outcome. Domino's and Papa John's will not be there to tell you they love you and bring you pizza. The only constant is self-reliance. When riding there you throw yourself at the mercy of yourself. You must know that you are clever, determined, and resourceful enough to get yourself home. That nothing will stop you. And that if something stops you that you will be able to deal with that with a touch of humility as you exsanguinate beneath that boulder or in the jaws of that lion. Because that is life. There are a million ways to die wherever you are. Those that perish or are injured or lost in the wild are pointed at with fat little fingers by the folks that are cloistered in their homes to be made examples of as what happens when one leaves the protective confines of civilization. No mention is made of the thousands of people dying daily from prolonged battles with sloth and cholesterol addiction, of the sad masses with hollow eyes content to live in cubes and in pursuit of 2 weeks vacation per year after 5 years and a pension fund hemorrhaging dollars faster than it produces them. The casualties of our cause are martyred, severed heads raised atop television-station antennas by the media as warnings to all: Stay in your homes. Do not attempt to leave the box in either the physical or mental sense. Others have tried and failed. You will be safe with Will and Grace, Friends, and Dancing with the Stars. We will inform you of any changes in the world that are worthy of your notice. If Pizza Hut brings back the additional pie for $5, you be the first to know. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain...

The backcountry reminds us that we are not spectators, we are participants. We can navigate the universe with the full extent of free will and are free to have the universe's will navigated upon us in the form of pitfalls and perils, but also in the form of epic rides, neverending descents, incredible sweeping vistas, insane climbs and a pervasive sense of accomplishment and euphoria ill-matched by anything ever offered by The Price is Right.

Powered by ScribeFire.

FW:

Thats a booboo

Maytag'd

My life didn't flash before my eyes.

There were no thoughts of friends, family, or deeds left undone.

Only panic.

And the faint drowning voice of reason telling me what to do.

On the shore there was a 180 pound man hanging on to the end of a rope with such tenacity that he was being dragged through bushes and rocks toward the waters edge. On the other end of that rope was me getting my ass kicked by 875 cubic feet of water per second.

I had dodged several large rocks a short distance upstream navigating out of harm's way with my giant flippers and boogie board. In open water such flippers could languidly propel a diver through the water. In this river the resistance was too great to even kick them. Such maneuvering put me on the far side of the river, and the long end of the rope filled bags held by the safety guys on the far bank. But there were two men standing there, and I had river left. I tried to kick furiously to spin around and face upriver but nothing happened. My fins were immobilized by the torrid waters. Sideways, I tried to signal for the safety to throw the bag. Huge seconds ticked off the clock and he spun the bag. It left his hand and I watched it sail into the air and abruptly plunge into the river five feet from the thrower. It still had about forty feet to go.

The second safety fired his bag and it landed in the water about 2 feet in front of me and accelerated downstream ahead of me. Frantically I raced to retrieve it. I have no idea how slippery neoprene gloves could find that rope and hang on with such tenacity that I could drag a man 20 feet. The faint voice told me that if I held on that the river would bury me, that its juggernaut force would take me under. I let the rope slip and in the long interminable period that I remained with the rope the voice told me that there wasn't much rope left, that it was finite, and that there were no more throwers of ropes or even men in position to help. That voice quietly informed me that I was very quickly approaching the end of the world, the end of the world feared by ancient mariners when the world was still flat. The one that I was about to fall from and into the bellies of large scary sea monsters. I had reached the very literal end of my rope.

On the riverbank a man named Gino was performing what he later called
"High-Speed Gardening" as the river reached up and pulled him down
through that underbrush, hanging on to me. He tore the elbow of his
shirt and would later find bits of trees stuck in his pockets and
buttons. One could see the clear path that he had carved and the tilled earth that had been his wake.

In the river I was feeling the awful finality of the rope bag and the cold river flowing around me. Now over and over me. The immense gravity of it pulling me down, paralyzing me, freezing me.  I lost sight of the shoreline, now only several feet in front of me and my world vanished in a flurry of white water.

And the last thing I heard over the terrible roar of the river was the faintly drowning voice telling me to let go of the rope.

And I let go.

The river spit me out and I popped back to the surface. I had lost the boogie board and willed myself the final few feet to the rocky bank. My gloved hands searched desperately for purchase and my knees bounced painfully off the now-shallow bottom. I clawed my way back onto the earth from my position dangling over the edge of the world.

I heard my own voice in my head this time.

"Close one," was all it said.

Powered by ScribeFire.

Community

A 1.1 million dollar business was being run in my neighborhood.

I had no idea.

Two marijuana grow houses just got raided. One of them several houses down from mine.

And it seems this is a mystery to everyone.

How could this be?

These houses were basically empty, no furniture, no items used for living. All business. Hydroponics, grow lights and of course, plants. Very minimalist.

Now I am not one to cast stones about how another makes a living, nor is this about the social pluses or minuses to marijuana.

This is about community, or more specifically, where community has gone. It is no longer in the subdivisions and neighborhoods. Our cities have become dark alleyways of garage doors that open and shut with bear-trap rapidity. We come home, go about our business and do everything to firmly plant our heads in the sands of our neatly manicured yards. We build 6 foot privacy fences and our houses so that the windows don't face our neighbors houses and all so that we can have the illusion that our homes aren't mere feet apart. And what we lack in actual distance, we make up in social distance.

I couldn't even tell you the names of my neighbors, nor they mine. Especially the ones across the street. I know because in 5 years, I have never spoken with them. Not once. And I am a normally social, gregarious even, person. Why aren't we out talking by the mailboxes and inviting each other over for dinner and having block parties for the kids and getting to know each other? We all run our lives as though the rest of our neighbors don't exist. So I guess it isn't a stretch to understand how it can go unnoticed for so long when your neighbors actually don't exist. When no one is actually living in these grow houses it can so easily escape our attention because we are not caring, paying attention to, or otherwise giving a damn about any of the other actual residents of the other houses, why should we care about the phantom ones?

It is indeed sad that we care so little about where we live.

We placate ourselves with monthy dues to the HOA that we tell ourselves is maintaining our little neck of the woods. But in reality Home Owners Association is the latest-greatest oxymoron. There is no Association in these neighborhoods. If anything, we have purposely built, created, and customized a very efficient Disassociation from one another.



And this is exactly what we deserve.



We completely deserve to have drug dealers use this construct to their advantage.



Yes, we completely deserve it. This is our own fault. We are to blame. This situation is completely of our own doing.



We have fostered the perfect environment to harbor this kind of activity. Thus far we are lucky that these houses have been used for growing pot, which is relatively benign in use, has basically no overdose level, and is as safe as growing tomatoes to produce.

The meth labs in our midst are not so safe. Not only is the drug potent, addictive, and completely destructive, but the places themselves are dangerous. And if 1.1 million dollars worth of pot and guns can remain unnoticed for years, so can they.



Where have our communities gone? We are all turning our backs on each other and forgetting why we built cities in the first place: The simple principle that we are stronger together than we are alone. Yet we do everything in our ability to attenuate that basic tenet by huddling in our own little foxholes day and night. By not getting involved in each other's business. By not knowing each other's names.

We have a choice to make: We can be a community. We can be strong and make our streets safe and know what is happening in OUR neighborhood. Or we can turn our heads. We can live our own little lives and bury our heads in the sand. And in so doing we choose to fall.

The choice is simple.

Talk to your neighbors. Get to know them. Ask them questions. Answer theirs. And in so doing we will mend fences far more effective than the ugly wooden privacy fences in between our property. We will rebuild the community that we have somehow lost. We will find our strength in each other.

Powered by ScribeFire.

Rapid introduction of entropy into this system.....

..resulted in catastrophic gyroscopic destabilization and loss of yaw control.

Beauty, joy will always be free

They're very interesting to me... those rich folks in their fancy houses. I mean the ones that feel so violated by cyclists on the DBB @ night that they need to call and do something about it.
First off... I think we can agree that there is little discussion regarding whether or not you can ride there at night- you can't. It's a bad idea.
However, I am amazed that someone would have the ambition to make it their mission to call in reports of such activity like the DBB is part of their frickin HOA and someone left their trashcan out overnight.
It is ridiculous to me that we should feel intimidated into submission by these folks and their "golf buddies" for no better reason than they feel that the DBB is part of their profanely oversized backyard, oh- and that they have lots of money.
It's sad really, that these folks have no better way to spend their time. No other happiness in their dim lives to distract them from the flagrant happiness of others; no other motive than to interfere with it. That all that money couldn't suck any more marrow out of life must really perturb them.
And there I am, riding on a trail for free, unburdened by conscience or care, enjoying a little slice of heaven that they couldn't buy. Maybe it's not the lights that they're complaining about. Maybe the smiles are visible from there.

This video makes me feel better about the one-handed wheelie crash in the parking lot yesterday.

Childhood.

This is why I ride. These rare childlike moments. To giggle uncontrollably as I rail a singletrack descent, hovering over perfectly spaced and placed diving-board rocks. To be released from all other cares in everyday life. To leave them forgotten somewhere on the climb. And for a little while to be a kid again, totally carefree pedalling my Huffy up the sidewalk toward a ramp made of plywood and firewood. I forget my bills and work and retirement planning and yardwork and laundry and oil changes and dinner menus and for a time I am that little kid spinning uneasy circles in my frontyard without training wheels for the first time.

Well... that, and the beers in the parking lot.

Powered by ScribeFire.

Either the settings on my camera were set incorrectly, or Pac-Man and Q-bert are in hot pursuit.

I am beginning to suspect some sort of geomagnetic re-alignment that has put our little slice of heaven known as Colorado somewhat in the vicinity of Seattle. Gray skies, fog, cold. The weather report this morning read: "Don't even think about it".

This is Colorado. 300 days of annual sunshine. What gives?

This is Wisconsin weather.

I left there 5 years ago to escape the perpetual blanket of gloom that lasts all fall, winter, and spring; lets up for both days of summer and then proceeds directly back into fall.

But wait! A glimmer of hope! Blue skies!

And I have to go to work.

Perfect.

Oh well.. Here's a little something to act as surrogate in the mean time.

Powered by ScribeFire.

At these speeds, einstein's predicted space-time distortions become noticeable.

My first thought preceding this picture was "I am going to break my leg". Then, the elation of not having broken my leg was shattered by the sight of the Mojo whirling toward my head and subsequently bouncing off the pictured rocks. This was a difficult time. I needed a moment.

Mother nature is an amazing magician. Yesterday I was lost in a deep well of depression and despair, convinced that winter was eternal. The thin blanket of new-fallen snow may very well have been a harbinger of a new ice age. All this talk from Al Gore about global warming and I'm looking out my living room window at snow? In April? All those years I bought gasoline for my 318 cubic inch Jeep and purposely endured a 50 mile commute in a vain attempt to bring a little bit of the tropics to this corner of the world?! And this is the thanks I get?! Damn you hybrid gas/electric vehicles! Stupid hydrogen fuel cells! Help me Halliburton, you're my only hope!
But I digress.
Today I woke to green grass and blue sky. Nature had pulled her wintry tablecloth and had left the flowers standing. It might be 20 below out there. I don't care. The sky is blue and the snow is apparently gone. Today I am going to ride my bicycle.

Roller Coaster

My wheels are still awaiting hubs... So I cobbled together a set to get me through these dark times....

Snow. Yesterday it was 65 degrees, sunny and beautiful. Today its snowing. I could not have been more surprised if I had looked out my window this morning and found that a nuclear war had obliterated the world, only to leave me and my house intact.

There is a breakover point on every ride where an excuse is made. Either to go further or to turn back. It is the mark of a great ride to beckon further, to leave you wanting more. To be sure, the most efficient use of this is to ride this decision like the proverbial fencepost. To go just far enough. We never know what lies in wait around those unturned corners, nor exactly what forces encourage or discourage our subconscious. How many rattlesnakes have I avoided? How many crashes and car vs. bike accidents? Impossible to say. I do know that getting a flat tire one hundred meters from the car is about as good as a flat tire gets. To have that tube hold out for 20 miles only to fold up within a brief cool-down to the car is about the best fortune one can hope for when considering the topic of flat tires.

The 36x18 was just about perfect... Blue sky is looking good.

Maybe a 36x18 isn't the best idea.

Wheelset woes..

Still no wheels yet. My shop guy says the hubs haven't come in yet. Which is unfortunate as apparently hubs are important in building wheels. So the Ibis sits unfinished, unridden.
On the bright side, this is an opportunity to get some good training in and spend some quality time with Jenna. I'm pretty sure that once the Ibis is operational, I might be on hiatus from singlespeeding.......
So this will give me the opportunity to set a benchmark for devils backbone with the new Garmin Edge 205... if I can't kick my own ass on the Ibis vs. Jenna.. then maybe my money wasn't very well spent. Stay tuned.

Post-ride musings...

All our pre-riding thoughts are focused on the RIDE itself. The weather report. The surface condition. The singletrack. The climb. Topo maps of the area used to be good enough, now we log into google earth and spin circles in 3D and fly down the trail in advance. We fill camelbaks and mix sports drinks and check off mental pre-ride checklists. We double check the integrity of the bike-roof rack interface multiple times.
And we ride. We sweat and burn and push ourselves into little anaerobic hells for brief glimpses of gravity driven heaven and short respites of beauty. Each pedal stroke takes us further from job and stress and the review that used to be due last week that we got an extension on until tomorrow that we didn't even start yet because we were too busy riding.
But for all that planning we focus so little on what can be considered by some to be the best part.
The End.
That final push into the parking lot/area/trailhead. Those last few revolutions that say to us: That was worth it. An endorphin fueled sense of all-is-well. Knowing that the trail is still there but that we have Accomplished It.
Satisifaction.
With still-burning legs and indelible smiles putting the bike back on the car. Checking the bike-roof rack interface just once. The sound the cooler makes when the ice swishes around inside it. The best tasting beer ever made.

Post-ride at the devil's backbone TH

The sign says 'ice unsafe at all times' notice the hole in the ice that we cut to dive thru..