Grassroots

Some homestyle, cross country lovin', from me to you. [Watch in HD for enhanced viewing pleasure.]

Video Vednesday

This put a huge smile on my face. The flow in here in unreal. Nice Blur LTc too.


Here's to hoping to get out tomorrow.



Also, a little cross country action headed your way. This guy makes it look easy.. 

Because My Clothes Have Holes in Them

Dear Die-Hard bikemuse Readers, 
      
     How would you like some swag to represent your favorite blogger and bearded mountain bike companion? Please leave a comment or feel free to e-mail with a simple yes or no answer (or a complex, "Yes, I want 19 of these gem-boats."). I am open to design changes, as these glorious shirts are for you, the dedicated and ultimately stylish bikemuse reader. 

Loaves and Fishes,
Erik

As a parting gift, please feel free to watch this. Love the soundtrack...

Goin' Against Your Mind

If cyclocross had to be summed up in three, concise words, it couldn't be. There's just no way. To set the scene for this brief tale, it takes place at the annual Hidden Valley CX Race in Vernon, NJ. Its a beautiful day as my buddy and I haul our flannel-clad carcasses from the car to the registration table. As we pad across the gravel lot towards our eventual number plates and impending doom, we feel a pang of urgency. Entertain this: say you enter a kite flying contest. Your kite has beer stains on it along with maybe some blood or bong residue, a cracked frame and a piece of haggered twine connecting it to your trembling hand. Your hand is trembling because all of your other fellow-kite-enthusiasts have brought carbon kites with lasers on them and are warming up by burning lesser kites.

My feeling of urgency is soon escalated as I look around and see approximately zero single speeds and even less 26" wheeled mountain bikes. The horizon is consumed by carbon works of art from Van Dessel and Colnago. Humans are scattered amongst the art wearing full lycra suits, which sport their sponsors names and reveal their mammoth calves and jagged hamstrings. The humans were warming up vigorously on their trainers as I jogged to the bathroom and back in my mountain baggies and chewed up flannel. Needless to say, we stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs amongst a patch of super fresh, not sore, thumbs.

The Cat 4 whistle blows. I am situated mid-pack, where I will eventually finish. The sprint up the gravel road and the first few super muddy, off cambre turns felt great. I quickly realized a few things though. One: I had made a tragic error in gear choice at 38:17 and my legs were almost instantly ablaze. Two: It is much easier to put out your leg-fires when you can sit down. Three: Sitting down becomes quite difficult when you flail like an electrocuted baboon whilst re-mounting after the first barrier and crush your saddle rails, leaving your seat aimed squarely at your rectum for the entirety of the race. I learned these things and many more as my pelvis turned to dust and my hamstrings broke off during the remaining 39 minutes.

Awesomeness reigned supreme that day, in the truest sense of the word. I went to have fun and did just that. The course was awesome. The spectators were awesome. The other racers who I met were, you guessed it; awesome. It was a painful day, but that is exactly why we do it.

We finished off the day like true trail riders, with a few pints of Yeungling and gut-bomb burger-meal. I will definitely continue to enter more CX races and will, with each one, become a bit more calloused and jaded. It is a hugely fun, epic sport and the uber-humans who excel at it are true athletes. I can say with overwhelming certainty though, that it felt damn good to get back on some single-track and back to my wooded sanctuary.

 Occupy Trails

 Wildly unrelated, but very excited about this.

Largely unrelated as well, but the want level is so high, this picture should remain.

In bikemuse fashion, here are a smattering of things that make me tick.

Some Music

Some Super Epic Shred Vids

Steve's Porkroll Mmmmm..

Wonder Years

A self-filmed video of this 'n that - XC style. Must go up to come down. More to come. 

ALSO: Please take a trip on over to my sister/twin/evil-spawn blog; bikemuse .:art:. to see some riding inspired work. Everything is also for sale! 

Also worth noting. Damn.

Rigor mortis

Its one of those days - cold and rainy and my thumbs are tired from pressing the buttons on the remote. Really? Does that actually happen to people? I haven’t been on the bike in a little over two weeks now and my limbs feel as if they have been unwillingly preserved  - like Hans Solo. I’ve searched high and low, under carpets and between the couch cushions for a vintage rig, but with no luck. I was looking for something to turn into a winter bike; something I could pilot to a few mid-pack finishes in a CX race or two. It seems like people don’t enjoy cash in their pockets and space in their garage. I’ve sent out twelve e-mails and gotten none in return. NONE.

I was about to accept that I would not be riding a bike for the next month (the remainder of my time in California), when I got notice that a bike was indeed available and that someone actually wanted to sell it. A 1992 Bontrager OR. It was beautiful. Santa Cruz made, it had the original three-piece fork, a Surly 1x1 Flip Flop hub, cantilever brakes, drop bars and plump 2.4 up front. I knew it had to be mine. I ended up bargaining with the owner who was not only an awesome guy, but also someone who respected and valued my excitement and stoke. He said he’d rather see the bike go to someone this amped about it, than have it sit in someone’s backyard and have an extra $50 in his pocket. Why cant more people value this? It is something that has been lost in most modern settings, but seems to remain cemented amongst people who ride bikes, probably because it never left. It is the common denominator amongst people who ride, the unspoken reason we keep coming back. It’s the pure, unconscious smile shared amongst riders. The smile that creeps from the inside out as you come out to the trailhead and share high fives and trail-tales with your friends.

Anyway, let’s get back on track with this story. We set a time and place (an In-N-Out Burger which conveniently catered to my burger needs) and then I blacked out. I thought about the places I could now go, the things I could now see, the beating of my heart as a I pumped up a hill and the feeling of unadulterated bliss as I flew down the first descent. Like stepping into a cool shower, or taking off sweaty, worn-all-day socks, I pedaled my way to a refreshing jump-start the day after I picked up the bike. On the trail, it reminds me of the glory days of mountain biking and what this is all about. The fully rigid, rigor mortis frame reminded me that line choice mattered more than ever and that staying loose and letting the flow of the trail be the master had not been totally phased out by five inch travel trail rigs, triple crown forks and 64 degree head angles. The lack of derailleurs and consistently modulated and powerful disc brakes only lead to more exhilaration, if not a palpable feeling of imminent doom. I am revitalized, I am reborn; I am back. 

 Went Here.

Beautiful.

 Went here. It was beautiful also.

 Made this.

 Home is where the bike is.

Almost forgot, I have been listening to this great band. I also have watched this numerous times. Look at that whip at 0:38... Mother of God.

Over the Bars

I have just about ten rides on the Nomad and all I can say is woah. Woah as in, holy shit this is an amazing and extremely capable machine whose VPP2 linkage lets me do stupid things and take heinous lines that would usually leave a less capable bike wallowing in its own stagnation. You see? Woah. It is built up a bit hefty (to support my own extra heft) with Saint M810 Cranks, 36 Talas RC2, ’11 Codes, but it still pedals surprisingly well and doesn’t wallow in its travel or feel sluggish at any point. The only thing left feeling sluggish and alarmingly winded is the rider. Three quarters of the aforementioned rides have been at the beautifully sculpted, flowy and cardiovascular Allegrippis Trails at Raystown Lake. Last weekend I was able to get a ride in on my home trails and it felt great. I haven’t felt that good on those trails in some time. The dirt was moist in all the right places and the trails were surprisingly clear considering the amount of rainfall and storms we have had. The fallen trees that remained were converted into fun, semi-technical bridges of stumps that grab at your front wheel and do their best to buck you off. After crossing one of these bridges, the trail opens up into a section where gravity is actually in your favor. I rounded a snappy left hand turn at a good clip and was abruptly introduced to a downed tree. My Minon 2.5 DHF 3C shook hands with the new acquaintance while I watched the awkward interaction airborne, from directly above. The stars were aligned to send me straight over the bars: my saddle was hiked up, my rear brake had been shy all day and I was plainly unprepared for the sudden confrontation. I hit the dirt and felt great. Is that so wrong? It’s been a while since I really ate it and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it. It just feels like you’re trying hard enough. You know?  Playing it safe yields a calculated and mild mannered ride and there is certainly a time and place for that, but that is not the reason why I go out for a ride. I am searching for that moment in time where nothing else is crossing my mind except for exactly what is happening in front of me and for that that brief second while I was soaring through the air – I found it.

 

Distraction #74

Purpose – It feels pretty good doesn’t it? Sometimes this cool, collected feeling becomes foggy and when it drifts into the mist, we are left with all the crap that makes our daily web complete. Microwave bean burritos, too much beer, consternation toward winter, internet, phones and 300 channels on the tube; an imbalance of the greatest sort. Let’s face it, lacking a purpose blows. Maybe we are missing purpose of the greatest kind, or perhaps we are just bored with the miserable weather, the stale taste of the indoors and the way that daylight seems to be a function of how little we care. When you truly want those precious few minutes of remaining light, they never seem to be there. If you haven’t picked up on it, I feel a bit purposeless. 

Enter bikes. Over the past several dead-of-winter weeks, I have performed a whole host of mischievous and destructive tasks on my bikes, including taking 120-grit sandpaper to parts I normally try to protect. All this sanding and painting and breathing in of fine metal particles and clouds of primer-black spray paint got me thinking – or maybe the exact opposite. Reason has become the slave of my passion for mountain biking. Responsibility of most sorts is hurled out the window as if it were on fire as my ardor takes hold. Even these seemingly menial tasks provide a purpose. Putting in wrench time is just one more step towards the ultimate goal of hurling oneself down a mountainside glued only to the loose sediment beneath you by two patches of rubber. Speaking of rubber (read Attention Deficit Disorder), it might be time for a review of a tire or two. Or maybe brakes. Or cranks. Or hubs. You’ll have to wait and see what I spit out next. I know you wait on bated breath to read what I put on here, so I will make it snappy. 

In my hazy stupor, I have somehow found the time to listen to good stuff like this, recommended to me by my good buddy and purveyor of all things plastic, composite and waterproof; Jake. Also, in typical fashion, here is a quick video with a great feel to it (despite the ending). Best of luck with your mid-week flounderings.

                                         Re-Build Project #1: Fox 40

PS: This is way too good looking. Gasp.

So is this.

Vitamin-D

The sun came out today. God, it felt good. Brakes set up. Shock dialed in. Fork dialed it. Still enduring -ice-pacolypse. Roads ridden instead. Frozen fingers. Frozen snot. Great big smile. Listened to this.  Watched Brendan Fairclough and Curtis Keene shred some sensually tacky all mountain goodness in Santa Cruz. Get me there?

                Day #11 of no trails. Insanity level 9.

The Spark

I've been rehabilitated. Out of this winter slumber and into a dizzying head rush of excitement. Warmth and it's compadre, Sunshine are coming and I've never needed it more. The Big Brown has delivered a gorgeous example of what man and machine are capable of and my heart is beating out of my chest. I day dream of roosting corners and whooping and hollering through the trees as the dirt beneath my feet becomes a blur . This green machine is taking me there and I hope it is not too soon to confess - but I am in love. I hope whoever is reading this can find something of equal excitement to keep them pushing through these slow, slushy days where you never leave your robe. I write from the Robe of Stagnation now, but underneath I have laced up my riding shoes and my Fox Racing Sox are blooming out over the tongues. Let the stoke begin. Give this a listen and let it take you wherever you need to be.

                                                                                         Here she is. All built up.

                                                                                               Here she is close up.

                                                                                       Here she is being stolen.

                                                                                          May have had a few of these.

                                                                                                Living Arrangements.

                                                                                                        Trails Await...