Finding Nemo – by Bicycle

Winter storm Nemo hit like a bad Clint Eastwood speech the last two days, blowing full force in the Valley. We got nearly two feet of snow in less than 24 hours. People were talking about the Blizzard of '78, but I lived through that Blizzard, I sledded in that Blizzard, and winter storm Nemo, you're no Blizzard of '78.

Sorry... Political flashbacks...

I was eagerly planning to find out what it's like to cross-country ski in howling, snowy winds yesterday, but I ended up spending much of the weekend fighting off the cold that Mrs. V was suffering from all week. Instead, I entertained myself by cooking a special meal for last night. Not a bad way to beat cabin fever, though it sadly added calories instead of subtracting.

Today, I felt a bit better, so I ventured out to the big farm field next door on my skis. Unfortunately, all I could manage to do was post-hole my way around the meadow one time. Exhausting and not fun; no gliding going on at all.

So, I popped back in the house, changed into hiking boots, and hit the road (though not literally, despite plentiful snow and ice) on the all-season, all-terrain, all-awesome Salsa Vaya -- these days featuring the Sport Package: full fenders, lights, and rack.

Before I knew it, I was off in search of Nemo... or its aftermath, at least. My 35 mm Kenda Small Block Eights were enough to keep me upright (with a few intentional pounds lower PSI than usual), and there was no shortage of gorgeous winter views. The weather was very cooperative -- 32 degrees with a warm sun and stark blue skies, saturated with winter intensity. First sighting: a classic Hadley tobacco barn, all decked out in dress whites for the occasion. (Tobacco used to be a cash crop around here, before the anti-smoking days.)

Next, a more traditional barn, with the residential towers of UMass Amherst rising like sentinels in the background. 

It wasn't a long ride, since I didn't want to risk my health, but after two full days trapped in the house (literally, since our plow guy didn't get here until mid-morning today) it was very, very welcome.

Don't let winter stop you having fun. Be persistent, and be willing to compromise. You don't have to be out for hours to feel the good of it. To quote the megagazillion-dollar coporation and their genius marketing guys: "Just Do It."

That's Why They Make Wide Tires

Adieu, la forêt!

Down I flew, enjoying the steep descent, a smile twitching at the corners of my mouth. Then -- a sudden sharp bend, lined with buckets of marble-sized gravel. A quick skitter, a futile application of fancy disk brakes, a full-on macarena-style shimmy in the front wheel, a leg out to correct myself, nearly okay now, but OH, NO, a DITCH! hidden in the grass at the edge of this thing they call a "road," and then...

... sailing... over the bars and through the forested air...

...the usual thoughts have plenty of time to make their leisurely way through the mind: "Not again!" "How much will this hurt?" "I'm all alone out here..."

WHAM! goes the body. BAM-SLAM!! goes the bike, ahead of me somewhere.

A choice expletive splits the quiet morning air. A few moments to see if a) I can breathe (check), b) there are any broken bones (negative), and c) I can move -- which I start to do, gingerly. Oh, so gingerly.

This happened last Saturday morning, about an hour and a half into a very rugged back-country ride through protected land in Shutesbury and then Wendell State Forest. The rest is the short story of a long, sweaty wrestling match with a tweaked rear derailleur, and an even longer slog back to the car, and thence, back home.

I was okay, not seriously injured. But how many times do I get to tell myself how lucky I am not to be seriously injured, before my luck runs out? In years of road cycling, I've crashed maybe twice on the road (once badly, but I was 16 and stupid). In one-plus year of off-road riding (mountain biking or, as on Saturday, nasty double-tracking), I've crashed about six times -- four of them serious, and three bad enough to leave me sleeping upright on the couch, or limping in abject pain, for weeks afterward.

                                    *     *     *

Now, Mrs. V is the most supportive wife you could imagine. She knows I have to get my ya-yas out; she supports me in every way as a cyclist. But even saints have limits. When I recounted the tale to her upon my return (c'mon, I had to tell her, guys), she smiled sadly, and eventually worked her way around to the long-awaited moment where she asked me outright not to do any more off-roading.

Oof. 

Heaven knows, she's put up with a lot -- Saturday mornings with me gone for hours on rides. Weeks of yelping and whimpering from painful injuries. Sudden, lightning-like decisions to buy whole new bicycles, costing a lot of money. And yet she still gets happy that I get excited to ride, she loves that I love it. She's like that with every part of my life that's important to me -- encouraging, compassionate, forgiving. She is the original 24-carat gem.

So when she asks me directly to stop something, it's time to hit the brakes.

And here I was working my way around to buying myself a modest mountain bike! "Hey -- 26-inch wheels, that would certainly solve the problem, right? More maneuverability, lower center of gravity!" Yeah, right.

The bottom line is, I'm not meant for mountain biking. I've quickly reached the limits of my potential. I grew up in an apartment building in Manhattan, surrounded by pavement 24-7. The first time I climbed on a MTB, I was 45 -- and I came home with a deeply bruised trocanter (thigh bone) and various badly torn muscles. It took months to recover. She just smiled and rolled her eyes. I couldn't quit, I loved it too much.

Well... I have to quit. I'm 48, starting my own business, adopting a child, I have a wonderful marriage. It's time to think of others first. I can't do any of those things well with a cast on, or from a hospital bed.

The road riding stays -- that's a given. Its my provenance, my roots, planted way back in 1980. And I'm keeping the Vaya for now. It works beautifully on dirt roads, and I love dirt roads. I'm just going to have to stick to the tame ones. No farm fields (injury, caused by a hidden, rock-hard tire-rut). No single-track (headers, teetering sideways destructos). No "gravel roads" which are actually washed-out stream beds (Saturday's debacle).

I'm off to cry under the covers.

Ha Llegado El Verano

I've been re-planting my road roots over the last few weeks, finding rhythms within the eternal music of road noise and turning pedals and heaving lungs on endless hills. This week, the heat in New England became stifling, temps over 100 and humidity in the 80s or higher, so I decided it would be a good idea to turn to my neglected Vaya and head for the sweet damp relief of the woods.

A two-hour jaunt this a.m., through Earle's Trails, with a bonus stretch of road riding through Amherst and environs.

A venture off the easier trails brought many delightful stream crossings and bridges

A philosopher's rock, of sorts, at the small reservoir at Earle's

On Hampshire College campus. I'm still unsure what this means. Pure Pioneer Valley.

A ceremonial pagoda? They do love their uniqueness over at Hampshire.

The 45 mm Vee Rubber tires I've been sporting on my off-road ventures have definitely given me more confidence on every sort of irregular terrain; I love them. I had them inflated at lower pressure than ever today, 30 p.s.i. in front and 40 in back. At first I kept wincing, waiting for pinch flats. Eventually, I relaxed and began to enjoy the extra "suspension" they afforded my fully rigid steel frame over roots and rocks, and the wonderful grounded feeling they gave in loose terrain or sand.

I've been getting braver about stream crossings, and the rewards have been manifold. Why are they so fun? Is it the sound of the water plashing around the tires, so unaccustomed during two-wheeled sport? Is it the sense of invulnerability, knowing that I can ride where bikes are not "supposed" to go? 'Dunno, but I'm diggin' it.

I'll leave you with a couple pics taken around the old abode:

Start line of unsanctioned criterium, which takes place on our dead-end
street every weekend. The schedule is whimsical, all categories welcome.

Mrs. V's fine foot, as she toiled in her garden patch this morning

Here's to the finer things. The first weekend of summer brings 80 degrees and clear skies, hawks circling over our yard, cardinals and catbirds and sparrows singing for their lives and livelihood, vegetables fresh out of the ground (thank you, Mrs. V, you're a gem). 

Life is good.

Adventure by Bike

Not feeling ambitious in mind or limb this morning, I climbed on the Salsa Vaya with no destination in mind. A great bike for that, since one can turn down any kind of "road" one finds alluring.

To wit:

Hubbard Road on a pristine spring day

Juggler Meadow Road's eponymous view

Yes, Virginia, there really is such a road name

Valley roads sport an abundance of quirky monikers and appellations

Yum.....

When I see a turn-off by the road, I look past it for a trailhead; all sorts of little treats lie beyond

Even managed a stream crossing with a little log involved, at speed

Later, another hidden trail led to this treasure...

...and a bunch of flowy singletrack, affording fine views of local industrial history

Happy legs at favorite café after the ride

Even happier tummy

The steed awaits patiently, tied up outside the saloon

Don't you wish you lived in the Pioneer Valley?

Icing on the cake: when I arrived home, the neighbors were dog-sitting, with local kids chasing him all over their yard

I can't recommend highly enough just getting on a bike and going where your nose leads. No goal or GPS unit needed. A good friend (and pretty serious racer) does it all the time; he likes to call it "playing bikes."

Whatever you call it, don't lose out on that wonderment that you had as a child, when you could first take yourself somewhere far away, just to see what was there, and to feel the sun on your skin and the burn in your lungs.

Did I Finish That Ride, or Did it Finish Me?

A rough ride yesterday, and I ain't talking road surfaces.

I had mapped out a brand new route on the other side of the river, up through Deerfield into Shelburne, on tiny back ways with names like Sand Gully Road and Lucy Fiske Road (intersecting now, and for all eternity, with Erah Fiske Road... makes you think).

Before the suffering came the bridge over the pretty Deerfield

Many of the roads were gravel. Many -- too many -- were among the steepest actual roads I've ever ridden, more like mountain bike trails.

All of this sounded like a delightful adventure in the morning, but soon after I set out, I began losing power. It felt like a battery was missing. Shortly thereafter, I hit the nastiest hill of the day.
Standing up and jamming down on the pedals for all I was worth brought scrambling, meager progress.

Scramblescramblescramble, stop, heave for breath, hike-a-bike, heave for breath. And so forth.

A third of the way into the loop, the idea of turning back flitted through my mind, but was squashed like one of the gnats flitting endlessly around my sunglasses. Turn back? I might as well give up on the whole day. Turning back is so... depressing.

For better and for worse, I'm not real good with letting go.

This is a road, but only because it says so on the map

Finally, I topped out, at least temporarily. The view was nice, but not nice enough for all the trouble it took to get there. Later, I did get a better reward -- a visit with a local critter.

Climbing does have its rewards, such as the view from the top

Some people find lamas on the tops of mountains; I find llamas

The roads became more rolling, if by "rolling," you mean jagged, nasty sawtooth hills. The scenery picked up as I crossed Route 2 a couple of times and headed through the edges of Shelburne, a classic New England small town.

Pretty much the entire library for the town of Shelburne

Some business owner built this beauty, no doubt. Four chimneys!

It was about at this time I ran out of food and liquids, with nary a store to be seen. From there, it was onward to more ridonkulous hills and forest primeval. The final "road" that completed the loop portion of my ride was three miles of unmarked wet clay and scarifying descents down loose rock. I would have needed more more nutrition, more skills, or just a mountain bike, to enjoy it. Maybe all three.

But I finished. Ragged, barely moving, I crawled into a convenience store about two miles from the car and croaked out a request for a cola and a granola bar. Sweetest meal I've had in a while.

I'm sorry I wasn't in shape to relish the challenge while I was there, but it was, in fact, some of the more beautiful country I've ridden out here. Glad I took photos, 'cause I ain't headin' back there too soon.

Stupid, but Fun

A shorter route today, and on my own. I was quite unsure what I was going to be capable of today, because I felt so tired all week. Yeah, well… it’s amazing what temps in the 70s, blue skies, and a morning of cleaning house will do for my motivation to get out there and bite off a big hunk o’hill.

This week, I made a vow to limit my duration or intensity a little more this season,  because looking back at my logs, I discovered that whenever I go crazy, I end up sick or wiped out the following week.

Though I kept to my mileage limit today, I did a little more than I intended, vertically – 2,000 feet of climbing in thirty miles on the Vaya, all of it on loose gravel, which certainly can add to the toll. This was supposed to be a recovery week ride, but what’s life for, if not making the same stupid but fun mistake over and over again?

Was feeling quite sluggish most of the climb, but I downed my new go-to energy food, an almond-butter-and-honey sandwich, and very shortly was climbing with considerably more élan. That’s the second time that stuff has put much-needed fuel in my jets, so I’m sold. Costs way less than a Clif Bar and tastes three times better than any awful gel, too.

I think I’ll be swapping out the 45 mm Vee Rubber tires for the original 35 mm Small Block Eights on the Vaya. The 45s make my pseudo-single-track expeditions a little more manageable, but everywhere else, they’re just an albatross. I miss the light, incisive quality of the 35s. As for cushioning, let’s face it: Miles of washboard roads is brutal, and five pounds fewer psi does little to ameliorate that. Especially when you’ve paid for that cushion with every turn of the pedals on the climb.

A gorgeous spring day, though a tad warm; temps reached mid-80s. My bod tends to run warm, and my favorite riding season runs from March through May. Typical May that is, if there is such a thing as typical weather anymore. Brooks sparkled and splashed under dirt bridges, birds flitted energetically and sang with brio, and the Vitamin Water at the halfway point really hit the spot.

Here’s to the next dumb mistake!

A Different Kind of Easter Hunt

Easter brings rebirth to the Pioneer Valley.

Buds are tightly unfurling on local branches. Yards are blurring with colorful flowers. And Peeps, in all their sugary, chicky charm, have appeared in our kitchen. The winter felt long, even if abnormally warm. It's good to see life returning, riders out on the roads.

My first jaunt of the year on the Vaya today; I planned only to poke around little Lake Warner near our house in search of decent trails.

Old mill building converted to alluring home on the burbling dam at Lake Warner

No luck with rideable trails, but on the way back, climbing rustic Mt. Warner Road (my favorite neighborhood stretch) I noticed for the first time a wide trail starting at the side of the road, and no "Private Property" sign.

A camouflaged barn on rustic Mt. Warner Road

Ever on the lookout for trails near my house, and being on the very bike that was built for exploring such mysteries, I hung a right. Lo and behold... a network of trails stretched well into a secret patch of woods surviving quietly between farms and houses. Happy Easter to me!

I spied four ATVs trundling home on a far part of the trail as I entered, and, a few hundred yards later, an empty camp with six or so stumps set up in a sitting circle. Empty beer cans were strewn everywhere and overflowing a very large wooden box off to one side. I wondered if a mere cyclist on an effete (non-mountain) bike would be welcome on these trails. I didn't let the question stop me.

Further down the trail, I found a beautiful wreck of a pick-up truck.  I seized the photo opportunity.

Sculptural pick-up wreck...

...joined by sculptural dirt road bike

I poked around for half an hour or so, stringing together stretches that were rideable, though challenging on a bike more suited to gravel-road than single track. There was more trail, but I was expected at home. Hence, I made the obligatory "wrong turn on a new trail system as the sun was going down" on the way out. Got lost for 10 or 15 happy-scary minutes, pushing the bike through small forests of prickers and using the angle of the sun for navigation. There's no feeling quite as sweet as spotting the trail you rode in on after being lost.

You can bet I'll be returning soon to map out this little treasure. In the meantime, happy rebirth to y'all. May you feel new life in your life!

The Year in Spandex

Welcome to the Velophoria 2011 wrap-up. I figure I’d wait ‘til every other media outlet in the world had its annual retrospective orgy before I offered up my priceless pearls of wisdom.

It was, as regular readers know, a tough year emotionally, with my dad's illness and his passing in November. However, I took a full 11 days off for the holiday break, and I’m feeling a bit more spunky coming out of it than I was going in.

With the break, I’ve had some time to consider my athletic year, separate from the crush of everything else, and was surprised to realize that it was extremely successful, especially based on my ever-increasing reliance on the smiles-per-hour (versus miles-per-hour) metric.

I did things I’ve never done before, including my first-ever season of cycling dirt roads, trails, and even some straight-up single-track. This I accomplished on my Salsa Vaya (a 2011 purchase): an on/off road bike with drop bars, no suspension, and narrowish 35 mm tires. Not bad for a guy of 47 to pick up his first dirt skills on that puppy, eh?

I did things I’ve been trying to do for a few years – such as finding a well-established local road riding group I could fit in with. I went on five or six outings with them, had fun, made friends, and managed my share of the work load respectably.

I also did things I’ve been longing to get back to for decades. I had long thought that running, which I enjoyed quite a bit as a college student, was out of the question for me, due to creaky, aching joints. Turns out that, using a very slow and deliberate introductory schedule, I was eventually able to build back up to the “runner’s high,” and even complete a 5K. I ran most often at 7:00 a.m. on weekdays, through inches of snow and the coldest winter on local record for years.

Finally, I returned to another activity I’d been away from for years: Cross-country skiing. I rented at the (pretty good) local ski area three times, and had a blast. Good way to make use of the record snow falls last year. I got Mrs. V out with me once, and she really enjoyed herself too.

I’d say that’s a pretty good list for one dang year. To celebrate, Mrs. V and I just went out and bought ourselves presents to make the coming winter a little more exciting:

Have a great, active new year. If an office-bound, middle-aged dude like me can get out there all year ‘round, so can you!

Beauty Persists

A little bit of normalcy returned to Velophoriaville this week -- a full week of work, followed by many hours of catching up on chores around the property (cutting brush and raking leaves -- not exactly torture on a beautiful fall day). Finally, I took a couple hours yesterday to really get out there on a bike and vacate.

Six weeks of unrelenting intensity fell away. As my friend Herringbone once so aptly wrote (I'm paraphrasing here), "As soon as I got on the bike, I felt better." Miserable head colds, injuries and inactivity, four days in a chilly, dark house without power, endless tense waiting for Dad to die, hopeless wishing that he would never die, anguish over his suffering, and then the surreal visit to NYC last weekend after he passed on...

To say it all melted away is cliché: The more accurate statement is that it vanished, the moment I rolled out of the garage with an image of Atkins Reservoir, shining in the sun at the top of a dirt-road climb, crystallized in my mind's eye.

The day was untouchable, 48 degrees and clear as a bell, the shadows chilly and the sun toasty,  the colors of every object -- barns, trees, meadows, tarmac -- condensed and intensified in the surreal brilliant Kodachrome autumn light. Contrast was cranked up to 11. Everything seemed cut out of brilliantly hued paper and pasted on top of everything else.

I discovered a couple of new hiking trails and some broad singletrack well-suited to the Vaya's limited off-road capacities. Farther on, I paused at the reservoir to snap a shot, breathe, and feel grateful. The silence was golden, the air was scrubbed clean.

A middle-aged, fit-looking guy ran by with his dog, and we smiled at each other knowingly: "This is as good as it gets, it's why we do these crazy things." Caught up to him further down the road and he asked about the Vaya, said he lived on one of the many dirt roads in the area and rued his purchase of an upscale road bike poorly suited to local surfaces. Gave a hearty endorsement of my bike, and rolled on for home, powered up, as always, by a friendly interaction during a ride.

Last night, a deluxe dinner at an elegantly understated Argentinian steakhouse in Northampton. Mrs. V. and I chatted and laughed as if we were still courting, charged up with delight in each other's special-ness.

Death comes. Death goes. Grief is a process we're all involved in, know it or not. Everyone falls down and hurts themselves. Bodies heal -- or they don't. Power lines collapse, bad news comes in clusters, people will be mean and stupid. But there's a lot of good in this world.

Beauty persists.

Go find some.

What I Did for my Labor Day Weekend



Artifact of Tropical Storm Irene: Blocked trail in Monague on Saturday. Time for some hike-a-bike through the woods!



Cranberry Pond in Sunderland, on Labor Day. Dirty roads, dirty weather. I tried to climb the fire road up Mt. Toby (in the background) but didn't have low enough gears or fat enough tires (okay -- or strong enough legs).



When you have a bike that thrives on faux-roads, you have fun exploring under highway trestles.



And you find mysterious inscrptions on stone blocks by railroad tracks.



And you turn off trails or roads onto newly-discovered single-track networks. See that footbridge way at the bottom? Hike-a-bike, from there upward. Fun!



Look to This Day

As I said yesterday, I think the Salsa Vaya is my kind of bike. Today, I headed off for some reconn on a small area in the north of Amherst that I'd recently been told hides some short but lovely trails. Indeed they do -- flat, smooth, well-maintained, and scenic. The pleasure the Vaya allowed was riding up there on the road, then nosing off into the woods until I ran out of trail, then turning on to a gravel road and sniffing around for another trail, and so on. I've never seen a bike more perfectly suited to this kind of advenutre.
Scenes from a Tuesday morning well spent:

Memorial stone in Mill River Recreation Area


 

Mill River riffle




More Mill River trail



Presumably the site of the old mill



I even covered a snippet of the famed Robert Frost Trail (Puffer's Pond on left)

I think the Vaya wanted a souvenir of this lovely jaunt