St. George: Mountain Biking in Paradise

A few weeks ago, I had the good fortune to go and do my favorite thing in the world in my favorite place in the world: I went mountain biking in southern Utah.

Mrs. V and I were visiting her parents in St. George, which is fast emerging as a competitor with Moab for the United States Mecca for mountain biking. Before arriving, I found a local store to rent a bike from, and researched good beginner trails. There are so many systems in the St. George area, it was hard to choose.

After a day spent catching up with friends and family in the Salt Lake area, Mrs. V and I got in the rental car and drove from the massive alpine mountain ranges of northern Utah to the unearthly desert paradise of the south.

I only get to this part of the world every five or ten years, but as soon as I see the cliffs turning to red rock, I get high as a kite. I have the overpowering feeling that I’ve transcended to a higher plane.

When we arrived at my in-laws' house in St. George, I couldn't believe my eyes: a huge network of unmarked trails ran right out their back door, a latticework of options that stretched out to sun-baked, red-rock mesas in the distance. The region seems to have alluring trailheads like this every few miles. To drive around there is to be constantly nettled by the itch to get out there.

I rudely took my leave and shot over to the bike store and picked up my 2015 Specialized Camber Comp—a full-suspension, 110 mm travel 29er that walks the line between cross-country and trail bike. Since I spent my whole first year of mountain biking on a rigid bike, and just upgraded to a hard-tail a month ago, this was a major upgrade for me and I couldn't wait to set it up and fool around on it.

My last mountain biking experience in this part of the world turned out pretty sadly -- I’d never ridden a mountain bike before, and an exuberant friend talked me into starting on the famed Slickrock trail in Moab. I crashed badly, bruised my hip bone, and was off the bike for weeks. Though I have more trail experience now, I still had fears about transferring my newbie New England MTB skills to the Southwest. They proved unfounded. Partly due to the confidence-inspiring bike (about which, more below), and partly because I stuck to basic trails, I didn’t have one close call the whole trip.

I did, however, get in three adventursome rides, each delightful in its own way. The first was a shakedown sunset ride in the hills behind the house the day we arrived. It was blissful.

The first major trail I tried was Bearclaw Poppy, apparently the most popular route in the area. The trailhead was only 15 minutes from where we were staying. 

After about six miles of flowy, rolling climbing on desert terrain, interspersed with a couple of ridiculous steeps, you turn around and fly down what the locals call the Acid Drops (huge, multi-pronged drop-offs). Full suspension means never having to say, "Oh, no!" I would just pick a line, commit with full confidence, and be rewarded with stomach-heaving drops. Fun! 

From there, on to the ridiculously, absurdly, illegally fun roller-coaster BMX course close to the Bloomington trail head. 

I was laughing out loud on those flowy hillocks, just one swoop and stomach flip after another. It was like jazz on a bike. When it was done for the morning, I badly wanted to do the last part again, but age brings wisdom, and I conserved a few watts for the plentiful hiking and biking to come in the next few days.

The following day brought an extended hike in Zion National Park, a place with mythical status in my life. I spent four or five weeks there many years ago, in the summer between high school and college, conserving and blazing trail, and sleeping under the stars. It quite literally blew my mind and brought me my first tangible experience of what I would come to know as God. I left with a heavy heart, and with a touchstone I never lost. Needless to say, my return last month was a very rich experience, but that's a topic for another post. I took the photo below from a precipice about 800 feet high, floating in the middle of the canyon. If my wife and father-in-law hadn't been waiting for me, I might have stayed til sundown, dreamily soaring the canyon in my mind. Do yourself a favor and click on this one to see it full-scale. Imagine a biting desert sun, cool shade, the smell of baking minerals in the rock, and the sound of distant crow caws breaking the huge silence.

A bonus image from our hike, a couple days later, to the marvelous Kolob Arch in the northern end of the park:

The next day, I took off after breakfast for the popular Anasazi Trail in the Santa Clara River Preserve, also about 20 minutes from our door. The proximity of these major trails added to my feeling that St. George is just teeming with special rides.

"Anasazi" is the locals' name for the trail (and is the name of the native people who lived here a thousand years ago); it's technically named Tempi'po'op, reportely a Piute phrase for "rock writing." There are indeed petroglyphs there somewhere, but I didn't do quite enough research before heading out and, believe it or not, I missed them. No worries; I've seen plenty throughout the Southwest.

What I did find was a trail winding gently up to and along the rim of a mesa that looks out over an impressive canyon, and across to looming, red and brown cliffs.

I had planned a mellow ride, as I was going on a long hike with the family that afternoon and was already pretty cooked from all the travel, time-change, and loss of sleep. Getting lost put the kibosh on the mellow, adding three or four miles of up and down. I always get this fun mix of anxiety and excitement when I get lost, and truly, if you're going to get lost, this is the place to do it. 

On Anasazi, I got my first experience with full suspension in truly technical terrain. (See the rockiest part of the picture just above? That's the trail.) There's a mile or so of very slabby rock out on the mesa edge, and the Camber just rolled right over it, no matter which line I chose. I even had no fear rolling right along the cliff-edge on an off-camber section. I seriously have to get a full-suspension bike; it was like I'd won three free skill tokens in a video game.

A word or two more about the bike. I needed almost no adjustment time for the full suspension. It's not a bike with a ton of travel, and it felt natural under me. The low bottom bracket and big wheels provided confidence aplenty. The automatic sag adjustment for the shock definitely helped: I set it and forgot it. Once in a while I’d use the middle compression setting if I was headed uphill on a long, smooth stretch, but mostly, the rear took care of itself, and the confidence and handling it provided definitely raised the level of terrain I could handle. I gave it an melancholy pat as I dropped it off at the shop at the end of the trip.

Mrs. V and I were scheming ways to return to St. George next year, before my in-laws have to leave the area. I wouldn't trade New England mountain biking for the Southwest; they're both wonderful in different ways. But I know for sure I need more of that desert fix, just as soon as I can get it.

[A big shout-out of thanks to Mrs. V's wonderful parents for their hospitality—and for their understanding when I disappeared for a few hours every day.]

Ode to a Headwind

"Spring" has arrived here in hoary New England—with quotation marks in full force. Time again to trot out that trusty piece of doggerel I penned a handful of years ago:

Ode to a Headwind

When the trees are all blown halfway over
And grit in your eyes makes you half-blind at best
When the handlebars fight you like cobras
And the roar of the wind in your ears leaves you deaf 

When the roads are all pot-holed and mangled
And you struggle to keep your front wheel pointing straight
When you fear for your rear triangle
And you crawl at a glacial, detestable rate

When you can't feel the skin on your knees
And your teeth start to freeze in your mouth
When the wind chill reads six degrees
And the birds are all flying back south

That's when you know that you're cycling New England
Might as well go do an ultra in Finland
If you're cycling New England in March

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Goals: Both Helpful and Harmful

Whatever you ride, however you ride, for the love of everything real, PLEASE: Ride for your own reasons, ride to your own standards, and if you don't know what they are for all the screaming out there about what's important, just keep riding and keep thinking, and it will come to you, slowly, in increments.
~ Velophoria, September 25, 2013

I got back into biking with a passion seven-and-a-half years ago, and very quickly started swallowing all sorts of ideas about what kind of rider I should be, from all the media messages around me, like Internet message boards and cycling magazines. 

I immediately set out to make myself in the mold of the lean, tough cheetahs in the Big Photos of the Big Races. In the process, especially at the beginning, I literally made myself sick. Long-term knee problems. Exhaustion. Pneumonia. Black moods from having to be off the bike and miss training.

Several time, I saw the light, and set off in search of my own weird muse, maybe "bike photo safaris," only to find some passionate dude on the other side of the country with a blog set up about exactly that kind of riding, with gorgeous photos and eloquent posts. Voilà: another picture in my head.

I'm thankful for those painfully unreachable goals. They've led me to glorious adventures, a boatload of knowledge, and even brief, exhilarating whiffs of almost-fast fitness. Over the years, I've gone from dyed-in-the-wool-jersey roadie to hard-core gravel rider to zealous fat bike convert to baggy-shorts-clad mountain bike addict.

I've also learned many of the roads and trails worth riding in the area, and become "the dude with the unique bikes," and an unofficial rep for my great local bike shop.

I've spent egregious amounts of time angsting over being that limbo between recreational rider and fit competitive cyclist. The fact is, I'm neither of those things, or—better yet—some third, unique thing that doesn't even overlap with them at all. 

I guess what I really am is both much simpler and more complex: I'm a guy who loves to have new experiences on two wheels. 

I like that description best of all. It allows for the times I feel sprightly and torture myself with the idea of signing up for a race for the very first time, and the times I want to meander down the road to find a new nook just a few miles away, and the times I put together a six-township epic over hill and dale, and the time I want to do a 15-mile gravel hill-climb. It allows for whatever new bike experience is over the horizon, and whatever old one is calling to me from the past. 

It even allows me—and this is maybe the biggest miracle—to get off the bike when my knees hurt, and let them heal.

This is not a young man's lesson. It's something that had to be forced on me by the inarguable, concrete limits of middle age. I just don't have time, health, or energy anymore for things that aren't truly me.

When I befriend both my limitations and strengths in cycling, I can thrive in concert with both. And that ripples out to the rest of my life. Beyond the disappointments of middle age lies the freedom from those tyrannical pictures. 

I like to say to my clients, "If you don't do your thing, who will?" If you go over to the giant bubble where the masses hang out, and act just like them, there's a small but crucial hole in the world where the real you--quirky, flawed, flavorful--used to be. That's a pity. 

Let's live out to the edges of our real selves, and, when it's time to go, perhaps we'll be able to say good-bye with a sense of peace instead of regret.

Seems like a worthy goal—for riding, and for living.

Spend a Night in Jail

Well, it's been a long time
I shouldn't have left you
without a strong rhyme to step to
Think of how many weak shows you slept through --
times up. Sorry I kept you. 

     ~ Rakim 

Personal events, losses, changes. It's been a bumpy fall and winter here in Velophoriaville. I'm reporting in from the front.

Been thinking a lot lately about rebuilding the egine of my life. Stripping down and turbo-charging my aging creativity. Been doing the same thing creatively for a long time. From the time I was nine, sitting at my mom's ancient Olivetti, banging out nonsensical Krazy Kat stories. Ever since.

I'm listeing to creative people in different disciplines. Artists, activists, clergy, filmmakers. Today, I came across a few of the four thousand things Werner Herzog has said about being creative. For anyone who's stuck in the muddy middle of their life, may this be your next to-do list:

Always take the initiative. There is nothing wrong with spending a night in a jail cell if it means getting the shot you need. Send out all your dogs and one might return with prey. Beware of the cliché ... Keep your eyes open ... Carry bolt cutters everywhere. Thwart institutional cowardice. [My personal favorite.] Ask for forgiveness, not permission. Take your fate into your own hands … Learn to read the inner essence of a landscape [okay, also my favorite]… Guerrilla tactics are best … Get used to the bear behind you.

I don't care if you are laying on the couch playing Candy Crush all day with a film idea rattling around  the back of your mind... working a full-time job with dreams of hitting the local open mic stage... or crafting your next bike trip or homemade saddle bag. Do it right, and how you pimp your ride can be an expression of your innermost self. What you wear to work, too. The plans for your homemade chicken coop. Whatever it is, do it right: do it as an expression of who you are, warts and all. The dangerous parts -- the righteous anger, the pollyanna-ish, sunshiny bliss, the black questions that have no bottom -- go there. If you're not afraid of what a project will reveal about you, don't bother starting it. You're spinning your wheels.

Just to be clear, I'm not advocating quitting your day job. And I'm definitely not saying "do what you love and the money will follow."That phrase (and book) led me into near-bankruptcy 15 years ago.

Here's what I'm saying: Do what you love, period. Find a way. And don't just do something; say something.  Take it into those places that scare you way down inside. That story that makes you say, "Yeah, that would do the world some good, it needs to be said. But I can't say that out loud…" That's your next project.

Make it one page or five minutes long.

But make it.

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(With thanks to musicbed.com for the inspiring Herzog excerpts on their site.)

What My Mountain Bike Taught Me About Life

If a bike falls in the woods...

Little did I suspect when I bought my Salsa Mukluk in January of this year—and later converted it to a rigid 29er and then a fat-front mountain bike -- that it was destined to teach me as much about how to live life as about how to ride bikes.

At the time, it was alien to me, this feeling of teetering off on two wheels down trails I might hesitate to essay in hiking boots. Being a roadie for thirty-plus years, biking meant smooth speed, the feeling of flying while still on the ground. The most technical I ever got was leaning the bike, not my body, into a turn on a fast, winding descent. 

Variable traction, sizable obstacles, branches flying at my head? These were not part of my picture. Mountain bikes, to me, were inelegant. Lumbering, steampunk contraptions, elaborately contrived to navigate places bicycles just weren't meant to go in the first place.

When I first rode the fabled Earl's Trails in Amherst, Mass., however, all that went out the window. This was fun, with a capital F! I was riding not by the forest, I was in it, right amongst the breathing trees and living soil. And the challenge! No longer did I need to ride for five hours through five towns to feel I'd actually accomplished something. A couple hours straight up and down the side of a mountain was plenty.

My lust for this new challenge knew no bounds. Starting at 50, though, meant there were few peers who would take me under their wing. People my age who were mountain biking had been doing so for decades. The beginners were mostly 20- and 30-somethings, who made up for lack of skills with the innate strength and grace of youth. I couldn't keep up with them, either -- though that hasn't stopped me from trying. 

Most of what I learned, I picked up through sheer diligence, or that failsafe library of the people: the Internet. Here are some lessons that have accrued as I've gone from rank novice to almost-skilled beginner. 

Where you look is where you go. 

This most familiar rule reflects the Karate Kid nature of so many mountain bike skills. When riding any trail I don't know by heart, I have to be constantly aware of my focus, which can be quite meditative in its own way. If I'm navigating a narrow, off-camber section with a steep drop on the outside edge, it simply becomes urgent. 

The act of forcibly turning my gaze and attitude away from the drop and toward the bend in the trail, repeated over and over as I meet new obstacles, seems to me as much about personal growth as about skill-building. Who wouldn't want to take a more constructive focus into their daily life?

The tighter you grab, the less control you have.

Really, it's amazing to me that a school of Zen hasn't grown up around this sport—some monastery in a remote mountain fastness of Tibet, replete with a garage full of tools, tubes, and grease-stained rags. Unlike road biking, so many off-road skills are counterintuitive.

Flying down a boudler-strewn descent, every brain cell wants to cinch up my arm muscles to brace me for the next impact. (Especially on a rigid bike like mine.) Locked elbows, hands, and wrists, however, will lead to dangerous rebounds off of obstacles, and will eventually twist my front wheel perpendicular to my path, sending me flying over the bars or skidding off the trail into a tree. Over time, I'm learning to keep a loose-but-sure grip on the bars, with deeply bent, flexy elbows absorbing most of the shock. It's amazing how the front wheel will find its own path through rock gardens when I use my hands only to keep it from the most extreme angles.

Speed is not always your friend. 

The popular idea that "faster equals more flow" is perpetuated by young riders, who can afford to crash--financially, physically, and temporally. This is one case in which intuition can be your friend.

Sometimes a little more speed will, indeed, get me over the scary obstacles just down the trail, and certainly, braking out of fear is usually a mistake. But you have to learn the limits of your bike and your skills. Often, scrubbing speed and proceding carefully over slippery roots or a craggy rock garden is best. 

I like to focus on momentum more than speed. If I shift up or gently squeeze the rear brake, and pedal so as to constantly apply moderate power, I can usually make it all the way through a sketchy patch with little trouble, and more control than if I'd tried to bomb it.

Speed can also be just plain dangerous. My motto, oft repeated to myself on gnarly descents, is, "Don't ride faster than you can see." If the jarring of the front wheel means that my glasses are doing a flamenco dance on my nose, I can't see the what's coming up. We all know what comes after that.

Which leads to the next axiom:

You have to go slow to go fast.

Yup, another "wax on, wax off" moment. Slowing into a turn to accelerate out of it, dealing with craggy rock gardens at the pace that's right for you; these will help you stay upright. 

Upright is faster than not upright.

Not only are you slower if you fall a lot -- that's obvious. You're also slower if you simply get off-course a lot by blazing into sharp turns and correcting too late, or if you have to dab your foot every few minutes. Staying upright isn't as sexy as "ripping" a trail (a phrase I have very mixed feelings about) but you may very well beat your more impulsive friends to the next intersection. 

When I was learning to solo on the guitar, I had to constantly, willfully slow myself down while practicing complicated sections. It was painful speeding them up so slowly that I barely noticed the difference, but before I knew it, I could play the passage at speed, sounding like I'd been born playing it. You don't get that kind of finesse by bombing trails before you're ready. All you get is either injury, or a rush of relief that you didn't die. 

Personally, I get more satisfaction out of skillfully cleaning a section of trail at five miles an hour than I do blasting it at 15 miles an hour and barely escaping with my neck intact. 

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Now, I wouldn't undertake to try and prove to you that I've become a more focused, relaxed, and self-assured person as a result of applying these principles every time I swing a leg over my hybrid Mukluk. But, as I see it, just writing this post is evidence that the ideas are taking root, however slowly.

That's a heck of a lot more personal growth than I could have claimed if I'd chickened out and tried to find yet another road biking challenge. 

Well, Daniel-san, I have to get back to catching flies with chopsticks. 

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