Salsa Mukluk: Now With Half the Fat!

I dutifully turned in the Jamis Dragon 650b Pro I'd been testing for my LBS a few weeks ago, and, missing the relief that front suspension brought to my wrists and shoulders, decided to give a rather odd set-up for my Salsa Mukluk a second try.

A couple months ago, I dropped a few bucks on a duplicate brake rotor, installed it on the original fat front wheel, and threw the whole deal in the front fork. This set-up is commonly referred to as fat-front (though I've resolved to come up with a more euphonious moniker -- maybe fat-head?). I think it looks wicked cool.

At the time, I gave it a go on a local trail, and was so horrified by the extra weight and slower handling that I swapped it back out after only one ride. Later, after my interval with the nicely-suspended Dragon front end, I went back to my fully-rigid Muk, and the wrist and hand stiffness returned. So, I put the fat wheel back on the front, resolving to give it a good chance this time.

After a few rides, I started to really enjoy myself. I wasn't nearly as sore as I'd been when riding the 29er front wheel in the rigid aluminum fork, and, with the deal, I gained some of the handling benefits of suspension from the big, soft tire.

The fat tire rolls over tall roots and jagged rocks that would give my 29er front wheel pause -- literally. So, when climbing, I have way fewer dead stops from hitting obstacles at awkward moments, even when handling an off-camber switchback. On sharp turns and descents, I get to trust my front tire a tremendous amount; the stock Surly Nates are heavily lugged and, of course, wide enough to save my bacon in many situations where I feared for my precious neck.

Granted, a fat tire is never going to handle as smoothly as a suspension fork, but I have a thing for trail feel; I find the constant flow of communications through my hands indispensable to safe and nimble riding (if a little exhausting after a couple hours).

When descending especially fast, straight, and rocky/rooty sections, I still get terribly blurry vision from all the jarring and bouncing, a clear disadvantage compared to a properly adjusted fork. (I try to think of this as a safety feature -- it keeps me from overdoing the speed on descents.)

The extra weight of the wheel, tire, and elephantine inner tube -- a hefty four or five pounds -- is not as much of a drag (pun intended) as I expected. A heavier front end stays down more. There are very few moments in which it bounces high off an obstacle on a steep climb and throws me off balance. Even though I'm pushing over thirty pounds up the steep New England slopes,  this increased flow on the climbs means less exhaustion overall.

Another note regarding added weight: I've explained elsewhere that I believe that the body adapts to a reasonable level of weight variation on a bicycle. On the days when I feel exhausted riding the fat-front set-up, I'd be exhausted riding anything. On the days when I'm whippy on this set-up -- I'd be whippy on anything.

Finally, why fat-front and not fully fat, as the bike was designed? Simple: I don't need the extra four or five pounds on the back during the warm months. The 2.2 Maxxis Ardent on the back is rugged enough to handle most challenges, until the snow flies. I don't mind adapting to weight if it saves my wrists, but an extra five pounds to gain maybe 15% more traction? Nah. I'll just hike-a-bike a couple more super-steep pitches.

Having a dishless 29er rear wheel custom built on a special hub for a fat bike is not for everyone (and not every fat bike will accommodate it). But if you have the scratch, or the spare parts, give it a go; you may never go back to suspension forks again.

Heck, the conversations you start at the trailhead may be worth the price of entry alone.

All Things Green

What I learned this week:

When you do your civic duty -- like attending a town Conservation Committee meeting -- you might find out about some secret access points to the Connecticut River (the center line through the Pioneer Valley).

Using all your skills to maneuver your dirt-road bike along old tractor roads, you might see some beautiful scenery between the access point and the river.

You might find a beach you never knew existed, which you'll plan on returning to in the hot months.

 

On your reconn mission, you might end up poking around a neighboring town, and see a road block with graffitti which says, "Bridge too purty for yr car." (True, by the way.)
 

On your way home, you might even see a convoy of local tractors hurrying to take their places in the town Memorial Day parade.

Help your town save the local greenery, and then go out and ride your bike to see it all.

It might be worth it.

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.

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.

A Wire From the Front

HOME-TOWN YANKEES BROKE MY HEART STOP RAN MY FIRST 5K LAST WEEKEND STOP PLANNING TO RUN MY 1ST ORGANIZED 5K THIS MONTH STOP RIDING LESS ENJOYING MORE STOP GONNA GET ME SOME DIRT THIS PERFECT NEW ENGLAND FALL WEEKEND STOP TELEGRAM STYLE OF WRITING IS ADDICTIVE STOP CAN'T STOP STOP

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!



Confessions

dear diary,

am so ashamed!!!!! spent 3 of my last five rides on singl track!! what will my group ride frends say when they see mudd on my legs?? the paint job on my newest bike is getting, like, all chuwed up from rocks or sticks or something. every day i ride up to the trailhead with my helmet pulled so lo i can't see, just in case one of my roadie frends goes by and is all, like, "doood! what is up with the baggies + t-shirt???!!!"

OMG! Who am i???

=v=

Zen and the Art of Dirt

Zen tip number one for dyed-in-the-wool-jersey roadies just building basic dirt skills: Hit the trails early. Mountain bikers are slackers, and will never show up at the trailhead before 11 a.m.  As the old koan goes, "If a biker falls in the forest and no one is there to see it, did he really fall?"

I'm so thoroughly enjoying taking my new Salsa Vaya (a dirt-road touring bike with 35 millimeter tires) onto single track to see if I can pick up a thing or two about trail riding. Here are some of the principles that seem to be arising, like satori sneaking up on an unsuspecting monk sweeping the hallways.  Like most of Zen—another study of how to deal with rocky and unpredictable paths—they're often counter-intuitive:

- Handlebars are not for steering. Use your hips instead; wither points thy pupik, so goes thy bicycle.  If you have enough momentum, the front wheel will flow in the right direction, no matter how rooty or washed out the trail. Body English, first, last and always.

- The old chestnut, "Look where you want to go," could not be more true. The sharper the turn, the more you need to point your nose through the apex (your shoulders and hips tend to follow). Scary at first, but works like a stinkin' charm.

- Momentum will cover a multitude of sins (though a better line will always win in the end). If you don't got the mo' when you meet an obstacle or ramp, you'll have to manufacture it with a sudden surge. This will make you strong -- eventually. Better yet, just go a little faster generally. Again, scary, but right.

- Braking is not helpful for anything except a full stop, or scrubbing speed before a sharp turn. You can't do almost anything else well or safely while you're braking. If you're scared, the last thing you should (and always will want to) do is grab a handful of brakes. Go back to look more closely where you're going. Keep your grip as loose as possible (all the more necessary with a fully-rigid road bike).

- Finally, don't shoot low on your gear choice; you might not be able to power through that next scary patch. Again, not logical; I mean, if you see obstacles, you want to be able to have torque, right? Wrong; you'll spin like a pinwheel and land on your side in the dirt (at best). See "Momentum," above.

*     *     *

Like any new zealot, I'm feeling all wise and accomplished today. Yeah, well. That wise old Zen master, the Mountain, just smiles. Tomorrow, bike and body are bound to part again, in a fascinating new way. And that, too, will be learning, will it not, Daniel-san?

Well, I'm off polish my bike. Wax on, wax off.

Sixes and Sevens

A hard, but rewarding weekend – and believe it or not, I’m not referring to cycling. Although, in a sense, the difficulty-to-reward ratio was similar to an epic ride.

Mrs. V. and I were over in the Catskills for a family gathering with my father, quite sick with cancer since April, and my step-mom. Dad’s not doing great. I won’t waste words trying to describe how hard it is to see my vibrant Old Man failing and suffering and scared. Suffice it to say,I would run through brick walls if I thought it would lighten his load even a little. The hardest part is, there’s nothing I can do on that front. Chemotherapy is a cure that’s almost as bad as the disease. There were lots of strange vibes in the air this weekend, lots of spoken and unspoken changes in the family dynamic, but overall, a very positive visit. We're growing closer and deeper as a family, and for that, I am very grateful.

I awoke quite out of it Monday morning, sporting something like an emotional hangover, or maybe more like a hairball. Intestines acting weird, head heavy, mood sludgy. The day was gray, sticky, and still. I spent the morning at sixes and sevens, drifting uneasily from one thing to the next.

Finally, despite threatening clouds, I did what you’re thinking I did, what I know how to do. I kitted up and steered my beloved Vaya out toward some local flowy trails about five miles from our door.

A steady rain started on my way to the trailhead. It felt so much like an extension of my mood, I almost didn’t notice it at first. I considered turning around, but instantly rejected the idea. I needed to ride, period. I emptied my mind as best I could and pressed on toward the trailhead, hoping things would work themselves out once I got into the woods. They often do.

 I’ve spent most of the last few weeks on the road bike, so when I first reached the dirt, I was all over the place. After a while, the rain abated a bit, I could see the trail a little better, and I picked up a little speed. I poked around, discovering a lovely loop: Good-sized, flat-to-rolling, with just a few steep ramps of loose soil and roots which I could enjoy powering up, and enough washed-out, rooty sections to get the adrenal glands firing over something more substantial than the feverish thoughts haunting me of late.

Riding mountain bike trails with 35 millimeter tires, a rigid road frame, and traditional touring gearing does more than just soak up your power like a loamy sponge; it demands a lot of  desperate maneuvering and bucking-bronco-style handling skills. The first time I rode real single-track (a test ride of the Vaya this spring) I had the simultaneous experience of being a rank beginner, and yet falling in love and picking up skills surprisingly smoothly. I still feel that way. Half the tricky sections I clear are due to pure luck or sheer momentum. I have more narrow misses than I care to think about. But when they come, I often stop, turn around, and study the root or rock that nearly threw me, and get clear on what happened. Frequently, I’ll ride that section again, and even again, until I have a better feel for the dynamic. That part reminds me of my days as a guitarist, going over and over a lick on a recording by some hotshot gunslinger. That moment when I got it cold – when I couldn’t tell the difference between his guitar line and mine – gave up a feeling quite similar to nailing a patch of trail I could only skitter through before. That sensation is quite a useful antidepressant; it’s called agency in the psychotherapy world.

 

I stopped for a while beside a pond to nibble at a Clif bar and watch puffs of dense mist being blown across the surface of the water.  It wasn’t a Zen moment. The rain didn’t come down like a blessing, didn't wash away my cares and leave me reborn. My father was still deadly ill, I still needed a better job, on and on; all the stressors were still stubbornly tangible. But for the moment, they were surrounded by damp forest smells and total isolation and flowy, earthy trails, and new-found agency pulsing through me with each heartbeat. The mean and the grand, the fun and the dreadful; in the wet woods, there was room for everything to rest side by side in a grudging truce, which might last only until I pulled, soaking wet, into my garage, but it was enough. There was a balance. My sixes were sevened, and my sevens sixed.

 I wiped the rain-sweat from my face and time-trialed home.