Kent's Bike Blog

Perry Explains Punctures

2012-01-19T07:40:00.000-08:00

It’s raining when I bicycle over the fragment of a broken beer bottle. The rain is making the whole road glisten like glass in my headlight beam so a single shard of inconvenience is effectively camouflaged. The shard is a perfect sword, the rain is perfect cutting oil and my tire is the perfect victim. I hear a small crunch and a second later I feel the air pouring out the gash at approximately the same rate as curses leave my lips.

I coast to a stop, surveying my damp options. Because I am a cautious man, I have prepared myself for this eventuality. I have a spare tube and a tire pump. I have patches in case the tube is faulty or in case I have a second puncture. I have a bit of duct tape with which I can boot the tire if the gash proves to be severe. I have the extra fifteen minutes in my schedule which I regularly set aside for situations such as this. But being prepared does not make me happy or dry.

I curse again. I curse myself. Just this afternoon I had commented on my recent run of run of good fortune. Some fates should not be tempted.

There is a street light up ahead and one of those little shelters parents make for their kids so Junior doesn’t have to stand out in the rain waiting for the school bus. It’s late on a Friday night and no bus will be by until Monday. Tonight I’ll gladly make use of the light and the shelter. Perhaps this is the universe’s way of saying “Sorry about the glass and the rain, here have some light and a dry place. No hard feelings, eh?”

I figure if the universe can balance things out, the least I can do is cut down on my cursing. I say “thanks” to nothing in particular and everything in general and roll my bike the half-block to the bus shelter.

I’m settling into the shelter, unpacking my tools, when I see a single headlight beam rolling down the street. It’s bright, like a low-flying aircraft, and I shield my eyes against the glare. As the beam gets close I hear a familiar voice call out from just behind the beam, “Ya, got whatcha need?”

“Yeah, I’m fine...” I start to answer, “Is that you Perry?”

Perry rolls his recumbent bicycle to a stop next to the shelter and snaps off his hundred watts of home-brewed halogen. “Crappy night,” he comments.

“Yep,” I agree, “I should be home having a nice cup of tea by now but the Puncture Fairy had other plans.”

“Puncture Fairy,” Perry mocks, “you believe in the Puncture Fairy? You sure believe some weird things.”

“I believe weird things,” I say, tossing Perry’s tone back at him, “I’m not the one who thinks the government is monitoring my brainwaves. How’s that foil beanie working out for you?”

“Oh they’d love it if they could get all of us who are onto them to wear foil. It’d make it so much easier for them to keep track of us...”

I can tell Perry is winding up for one of his trademark rants but before he gets up to speed I divert him with a question, “You still carry a floor pump in that thing?”

That thing is Perry’s battered, hand-built custom recumbent velomobile. If an aluminum sausage mated with a bicycle in the cluttered back-room of a very old hardware store, the progeny of that demonic union would be the device in which Perry is currently reclining. Given half a chance Perry will explain in great detail why this particular road missile is better than any other pedal powered machine on the planet. Given more time he’ll get around to telling why “they” suppress such technology and if you give him a few more minutes to ramble on he’ll get around to telling you how this particular iteration of his bicycle is is not nearly as good as the next one he has half-built in his basement.

Some people think Perry is weird but the weirdest thing about him is that the longer I’ve known him, the more I begin to suspect that he may be right. His machines, and he’s built a series of them over the years, each more frightening than the last, tend to go like hell. I’ve seen very fit dudes pound every Watt they’ve got into the pedals of state of the art carbon wonder bikes as they watch helplessly while Perry rattles past them. Many have speculated that he has a motor tucked away somewhere under the hood of his machine, but I’ve inspected various of his unique vehicles from stem to stern and in every case the only motor tucked inside has been a scruffy guy named Perry who has some rather unique ideas as to how a bicycle should be built.

“Yeah,” Perry says, “I’ve got a pump and yeah, you can borrow it. The old Silca will get you rolling quicker than whatever aluminum flute or carbon fiber candy cane you’re carrying these days.”

He flips a few latches and the front cowl of his craft lifts up. He rises from the rig stiffly, like being vertical is an alien, inefficient and unwelcome orientation for him. Once he’s extricated himself from the comfortable coffin he insists on calling a bicycle, he turns his attention to the rear of the machine, pops another latch, reaches in and hands me a full size, full weight, floor pump.

I’ve debated weight with Perry in the past, pointing out that since a bicycle is a machine where the passenger is also the engine and speed is generally considered to be a function of the power to weight ratio and that a human being can only generate so much power. “So,” I’ve concluded, “doesn’t it make sense to at least try to build a light weight bicycle?” I’ve had better luck explaining Daylight Savings Time to my cat. Perry only looked at me as if I was being obtuse and proclaimed, “if you build a fast bike, it looks like this and it weighs this much. Besides,” he added, “weight doesn’t matter once you’re rolling.”

Tonight neither of us are rolling at the moment and Perry seems content to hang around and indulge my odd ideas while I work on replacing the tube and booting my tire. “Tell me more about the Puncture Fairy,” he says.

“Well,” I say, warming to the topic, “have you ever noticed that if you comment on how long it’s been since you’ve had a puncture or you are in some way unprepared to deal with a puncture, then within the next 24 hours, you puncture? That’s the Puncture Fairy in action.”

“Really,” Perry notes, “so were you unprepared this evening or...”

“I’d just remarked this afternoon how it had been months since my last puncture,” I admitted.

“And this Puncture Fairy overheard you, rushed out here to smash some glass and teach you a lesson?”

“Yes,” I insisted, “that’s the way the Puncture Fairy works.”

“Kind of an egotistical view of the world you’ve got there,” Perry notes.

“How so?” I ask.

“Well, you think a mystical little pixie has nothing better to do than hang around listening to you talk about tires? When it’s not digging through your bag making sure you’ve packed a patch kit?”

“Well,” I say, defensively, “it’s not just me. The Puncture Fairy monitors all cyclists, in word and deed.”

“Busy little critter,” Perry comments, “So is this Puncture Fairy a single entity with an astounding workload, like Santa Claus, or are we talking an entire species, a global network of gremlins intent on thwarting the travels of the the unbelieving or the unprepared?”

“Given the frequency of punctures in the world,” I say, “I’m inclined toward the latter hypothesis.”

“Ah ha!” Perry counters, “As long as you’re hypothesizing, how about this for a theory: There is no such thing as the Puncture Fairy. What you observe can be explained by coincidence, observational bias and science.”

I must admit that hearing this bit of clear reason from Perry surprises me. Perry and I have a long history of bouncing increasingly whimsical world views off each other and Perry’s retreat toward simple logic has me wary. “Coincidence and science I understand,” I say, “but tell me more about observational bias.”

“Observational bias,” Perry explains, “is when you notice data that confirms your hypothesis and ignore data that does fit your theory. Today you commented on your good fortune and tonight you flatted. If you hadn’t flatted tonight would you have noticed your good luck in making it home without incident?”

I reluctantly admit that he has a point. “And further,” Perry pressed, “tires do wear. You’ve gone thousands of miles on that tire without a problem, right?”

I’ve been changing the tire as we talk and in checking the tire, I see Perry is right. The rear tire on my bike has gotten very thin and has several nicks and gashes. “I guess I have been running on borrowed time,” I agree.

“Yep,” Perry says, “and that long run of luck begins to get noteworthy and you note it by saying something and when that luck runs out coincidentally you credit some sort of mythical Puncture Fairy. That’s not very logical.”

“Well thank you for setting me straight, Mr. Spock. And thanks for the use of the pump.” I’ve already removed the glass from the tire and booted the gash with a strip of duct tape. I fit the replacement tube, pump the tire up to full pressure and hand Perry’s pump back to him.

“But,” I comment, “you would think that if we can land a man on the moon somebody could come up with a decent bike tire that doesn’t go flat.”

“Well,” Perry says, “there’s a simple explanation for that as well.”

“You mean that solid tires suck and that everybody trying to uninvent the pneumatic tire eventually rediscovers that? And that as bicyclists we’re always trying to find the right balance between a light, fast tire and one that’s tough enough to go the distance?”

“Actually, no,” Perry says, “the reason we don’t have flat proof tires is the same reason we can’t go to the moon any more.”

“What do you mean we can’t go to the moon any more. Of course we can go to the moon.”

“No,” Perry says, “no we can’t. NASA has no rockets that’ll get us there anymore. The Russians don’t, the Chinese don’t. Nobody does.”

“Well,” I counter, “we could, we just don’t want to.”

“Like I said before, you believe weird things,” Perry says. “If somebody wrote a story years ago that said we’d build all the stuff to fly to the moon, fly there and land there in 1969 and then forty years later we’d be incapable of doing it because we didn’t want to, it would never get published. That, my friend, is an unbelievable scenario. If we want something, we make it. Unless somebody stops us. We’re being stopped.”

“We’re being stopped? Whose stopping us?”

“The same guys who are keeping flat proof bike tires off the market. The little grey guys with big bug eyes.”

“Aliens?!?” I say, “Aliens shut down our space program and are keeping flat proof bike tires off the market?”

“Yep,” Perry says, “think about it. We can build machines that can go 57 miles on the energy contained in a bean burrito yet we drive 3-ton SUVs to the grocery store. We’ve had brilliant engineers working for a century and cars still get the same mileage they did in Henry Ford’s day. We spend more time engineering cup holders to hold 64 ounce Slurpees than we do improving fuel standards. Haven’t you ever wondered why?”

“Because there is money to be made in the oil business?” I venture.

“Don’t get me started on that whole ‘trade your life for money’ scam,” Perry says, “that’s just the tip of the iceberg. And speaking of icebergs, you know they’re going away. That’s the point, that’s the goal.”

“Global warming is the goal?” I ask.

“Yep,” Perry says, “they’ve got to warm the place up before they all move in.”

“I think you’ve been watching too many episodes of the X-Files,” I say.

“The X-Files is part of the plot. They carve out a big hunk of pop culture with stories that are close enough to the truth and then they can label guys like me as conspiracy theory wackos. It’s a pretty clever way to undermine those of us who know. It’s like the foil beanies.”

As Perry speaks, a meteor streaks across the eastern sky. I start to make “ooh pretty” fireworks noises, but then I see the look in Perry’s eyes. He’s not thinking “ooh pretty” he’s thinking something else.

“I gotta go,” he mumbles, “I’ll see ya around. You know I was just kidding about that alien stuff, right?”

“Yeah, sure Perry,” I say, “thanks again for the pump.”

Perry tosses the pump in the trunk of his machine and climbs into the cockpit. He looks me in the eye, as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “Just kidding,” he says as he pedals off, “just kidding.”

Stop SOPA and PIPA

2012-01-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

I'll get back to posting bike stuff tomorrow but I'm offline today to protest SOPA and PIPA. Better folks than me can explain it better and for the moment you can find that information on the internet. If you'd like to keep things that way (or even if you think SOPA and PIPA are a good idea), please consider contacting your congresscritter and expressing yourself. Democracy works when we do.

Shopping Online, Shopping Local

2012-01-17T05:40:00.000-08:00

I have friends, earnest good friends, who rage against online shopping. Amazon is killing independent bookstores they assure me and places like Performance/Nashbar are killing local bike shops. I have other friends, earnest good friends, who shop online and find deals and rage against being "gouged" by their local shops. I live in a kind of a middle earth, a place I suspect you may live as well, where some shopping carts are real and some are virtual, some shops are bricks and mortar and some are clicks and bits. It's a good thing grey is my favorite color.

Let me tell you a little more about my grey world. Years ago I worked at a place that was called Trintex when I started there and was called Prodigy by the time we launched our online service. It started as a three-way venture funded by IBM, Sears and CBS and we did battle with guys like Compuserve and AOL. It was a hell of an interesting place to work. Buy me a coffee sometime and I'll tell you a lot of interesting stories from the early days. Now the common story is that Prodigy never made much money for it's founding partners, that it ultimately got killed by AOL and the internet. The common story is not quite right. A couple of years ago, when I was working at the Bike Station in downtown Seattle, an old colleague from Prodigy dropped by. Over lunch I commented that "Prodigy may not have made money for the partners, but heck, it payed us some decent dollars." My friend looked at me, "Oh, the partners did OK. Those guys up the hill," he said pointing to Amazon which at the time was ironically headquartered in one of the biggest brick and mortar buildings in Seattle, "settled a deal with Prodigy over one-click-buy. Your salary, mine, and every dollar poured down the Prodigy 'rathole' has come back home many times over."

These days I walk to my job in a brick and mortar bike shop, the Bicycle Center of Issaquah. We sell Trek bikes at the Bicycle Center, something I'm happy to do. There are lots of good bikes made by a variety of companies but the first bike shop I really hung out in back in Minnesota was a Trek shop. The folks at Trek were good folks back when they were a few people in a barn in Wisconsin and now Trek is a hell of a lot bigger but they still seem to be pretty good folks. A couple of years ago a guy came into the Bicycle Center and introduced himself to me with the words, "Hi, I'm John, I work at Trek." That guy, John Burke, is the president of Trek.

John is a very smart guy and when I was back at Trek's Wisconsin headquarters last August he laid out Trek's online strategy for all its dealers. Trek basically built a support system for the local dealers to have a powerful online presence. If you go to BicycleCenter.biz you'll see the online version of the Bicycle Center. You can see what we have in stock and you can order things. Bikes have to be picked up at the local store but accessories, clothes and stuff like that can be shipped to you if that works better for you. Yes, Trek makes money, but your local shop makes money as well. As I said, John Burke is a smart guy.

Online shopping exists and I have a hard time seeing it as this purely evil thing destroying life as we know it. My lovely wife rides her lovely bike to her local job at the local grocery store. Her job is putting real groceries in a real shopping cart and then on a real truck to be delivered to folks who put virtual groceries in a virtual cart. People buying groceries online pays for the groceries on our table. I make a living by working in a brick and mortar store and via Amazon referrals.

Amazon is another enterprise I cannot paint as simply black or white. While some folks are absolutely certain that Amazon is killing the independent bookstores, I know many writers who have found a richer market of readers thanks to Amazon's efforts, and I find some value in that. The laptop I type this on, my internet bills, the cameras that take the pictures I show here and all the other bits that go into this blog are here because Amazon pays a good chunk of my bills. But I understand that some folks really, really hate Amazon and I certainly respect that choice.

Each day we vote with our dollars and our attention and we try to do our best. If you value your local bike or bookshop, please spend some dollars there. If you get value out of Grant Petersen's expertise at Rivendell, buy something from him and don't feel bad that he's not local. Local isn't just a matter of geography. Like Jan's magazine? Subscribe.

Since you're reading these words on a screen right now, it's safe to say you spend part of your life online. And you probably spend some of your dollars online as well and I really don't think there is anything seriously wrong with that. But the offline world is pretty cool too, it's that place where we ride our bikes. It's worth spending some time and dollars there as well.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson

Issaquah WA USA

The Richest Man in Issaquah

2012-01-08T01:24:00.001-08:00

Here at the Peterson estate we're extremely rich in both love and laughter. Over dinner in our 800 square foot Issaquah chateau the laughter side of our ledgers went up several hundred percent when Christine and the boys read this recent comment posted by my friend Jan in response to my recent blog post titled "Why I Don't Buy Expensive Bicycles".

Jan Heine said...

I think the difference between Kent and I (Jan) is simple: I don't have the time to work on my bikes all the time, and I don't have the money to buy bikes frequently.

In 14 years I have known Kent, I have ridden two bikes, and just got a third. Kent has had at least a dozen, if not more. My bikes may have cost more each (one was used, though), but when counting all expenses on the bikes we ride, I would not be surprised if Kent outspent me by a good margin. My bikes generally require little except chains and tires.

I understand Kent's approach, but for me, a bike must be ready to go, without requiring constant care and feeding.

I'll address Jan's very valid position that it is often the case that buying cheap can be false economy a bit further down in this post but it was Jan's placing the spotlight on the vast Peterson fortune that Christine and the lads found particularly amusing. While I would bet that the total amount Jan has spent on bicycles over the years is lower than most folks would guess, I'd also point out that the "Kent has all those bikes because he's rich and the bikes are unreliable" is a concept that should be explored a bit.

Much like my fellow rich man John McCain can't be bothered with petty details like how many houses he has, I always have to stop and think when someone asks me how many bikes I have. You'd think I'd have one of my accountants keep track of these things, but I don't. Right now I have three bikes in ready to roll condition: my Allant, my Dahon and the Octocog. I currently have a frame someone gave me and quite probably enough parts to build it up but that will probably just get built up and donated somewhere. Us rich guys do stuff like that. We like to help the little people, we call it trickle down economics.

Now Jan points out that I somehow have more time than he does. I find this is common in the world. William Gibson observed that "the future is already here, it's just not evenly distributed" and while I think he's right there, it also seems that time itself is not evenly distributed. I see evidence of this daily, with people rushing around to get all kinds of things done because they "don't have much time." And then you have rich guys like me who have so much time to kill that they can spend it doing silly damn things like puttering with bikes or writing blog posts. It's just crazy and it hardly seems fair.

Because I have so much time to kill, I'll toss in a little story here that has nothing to do with bikes. Years ago the novelist Sinclair Lewis was the darling of the literary set. Of course hardly anybody reads Lewis anymore because who has the time, but wait, I'm digressing from my digression...anyhow Lewis would wind up at these parties and often some fan would come up to him. "Oh, Mr. Lewis," the reader would confide, "I've always wanted to be a writer, but I just don't have the time." Lewis would nod sympathetically, "My God, that must be terrible for you," he'd say, "How much time do you get? I'm given 24 hours each day."

Because, like Lewis, I get this rich allotment of 24 hours each day and somehow I've managed to work things around to the point where I get to spend many of those hours doing things I enjoy doing, things that include writing this blog and puttering with bikes, I'm happy to report that, yes, as near as I can tell I'm the richest man in Issaquah. Thanks for calling me out on that Jan.

Jan rightly values bikes that don't require constant care and feeding and we all have horror stories of this or that part breaking or that false economy gone wrong. Stuff does happen. In several decades of riding bodged together bikes, I can think of one time I was late to work. I blew a Suntour freewheel apart and wound up walking to the nearest Park & Ride. On LEL, I cracked part of my Bike Friday (and still finished the ride), I blew a rim out on my 2005 Great Divide Ride & got the wheel replaced in Montana (and still finished the ride) and in 2010 I destroyed a freehub in the Great Divide Basin, bringing my 2010 Tour Divide to a halt.

But I can also come up with a long list of problems folks have encountered with various bits of very well-regarded gear. On the 2006 VanIsle 1200K, Ken Bonner expressed doubts about the 50 year-old Sturmey-Archer hub on my Kogswell surviving the ride but it did fine while 2 other riders had their lovely Campagnolo freehubs fail. Stuff happens.

But I have many, many, "rode this for a lot of miles with no issues" stories. Take my $400 dollar Dahon for example. When I first wrote about it in 2007 several commenters wondered how it would hold up over time. In the years I've had it I've ridden it thousands of miles. It's been to Seattle, Portland, over the mountains, on vacation and all over Issaquah. In the time I've owned the bike, I've replaced the saddle & the pedals to ones I prefered (not because the stock ones wore out) and I have replaced tires, brakepads & the chain. And I also bought some lights for the bike and Christine bought me a travel bag for it. Not exactly a money pit.

The bike I used on my 2007 tour of Washington State is a fairly typical example of the vast wealth I expend on bike hardware. I bought the bike for $20 and then because money is no object to a guy like me, I went wild accessorizing it. That bike turned out strong and strange and when I sold it later (not because anything was wrong with it, but because I was no longer using it) I somehow managed to get more money out of it than I put into it. That's how us rich guys work, we don't get rich by writing a lot of checks.

That's not to say I don't buy stuff. I'm a good American and somebody has to stimulate this economy. And my wife, she's been known to spend a bit of money as well. Why heck she saved a bit out of her paychecks over time and bought herself an Allant. And then, because peer pressure is a wonderful thing, I got one too! They fit well with our exciting, extravagant lifestyle which includes scenic getaways and cruises to exotic places. The maintenance to date has involved putting air in the tires and a bit of adjusting the cable tension on the brakes and derailleurs. And a surprisingly small amount of lube on the chains. (Quick update on Chain-L, Christine has been commuting daily on her Allant ever since she got it. It sits out in the rain when she's at work. Her chain is still squeak and rust free. We haven't had to re-lube it since I put Chain-L on it in September!)

Now I'd like to restate that I am not in any way disputing Jan's claim that a quality bike is a good investment. A bike you get value out of, that you enjoy and use, will be worth a fortune to you. How you spend your time, who you spend it with and if you enjoy what you are doing are the true measures of wealth and value. I know Jan is happy with his choices and I am happy with mine. I suspect Jan is one of the richer men in Seattle when measured by that scale. I know I'm the richest man is Issaquah.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson

Issaquah WA USA

Why I Don't Buy Expensive Bicycles

2012-01-06T05:03:00.000-08:00

Over on his blog, my friend Jan Heine has a post where he asks and answers the question: Why Ride an Expensive Bicycle? Jan effectively presents several factors that make a higher end bike well worth their higher price tags and the fact that top builders have long wait lists of folks happy to buy such lovely machines attest to the validity of Jan's assertions. And I have ridden many, many miles with friends who are thrilled with their well-crafted machines or who are saving their pennies for their next dream machine and while that's all well and good, I have to confess that I don't foresee myself riding a custom Boxer any time soon or having Ira Ryan build the perfect bike for me. This has nothing to do with the skills of the builders (which are excellent) or the size of my bank account (which is less than excellent) but rather it has something to do with the way my brain works.

Folks who really know me will not be surprised by this. Years ago Jan and I were riding together and he said to me "I'm writing an article on the what makes an optimal randonneuring bicycle and I'm wondering if you'd like to write a contrasting side-bar?" Some might take umbrage at such a question, but I knew instantly what Jan was getting at and I wound up writing a short piece called "More Enemies Than Time" in which I noted that someone like Drew Buck might choose to ride PBP on a vintage Dursley Pedersen not because it is optimal, but because it is interesting. By the way, Jan has a way of speaking that rubs some people the wrong way but that I find delightful since retelling the conversations makes for great anecdotes. For example, once on a brevet Jan and I are riding up Snoqualmie Pass. He looks over at my bike and says, "Oh, I see you are riding those tires," (I was riding Specialized Armadillos at the time), "I rode those once," Jan continues, "and found them unacceptably slow. I'm sure they're fine for you, however." I'm pretty sure that could be taken as an insult, but my hide is about as tough as the tread of a Specialized Armadillo.

Years ago my dad had a great old truck, a 60s era Chevy that he'd use to go on hunting & fishing trips and to haul loads of logs from the back woods. It was beat-up and quirky & most of the time it got us where we needed to go and back again. But when the electrical system finally succumbed to something fatal, he got a replacement truck that to my mind was a little too new and a bit too nice and we stayed away from the really narrow roads where the branches would scrape along the doors and I guess things like that make an impression on a kid.

And so when Jan talks about the aesthetics of a bike and how a lovely bicycle is a joy to behold and will make me want to ride more, I know he's wrong for me. My first thought is about locking the bike up at a rack at the university and how my locking strategy of "lock next to a nicer looking bike" (aka "I'm not out-running the bear, I'm out-running you!") won't work any more. And when Grant Petersen waxes poetic about lugs and how they are so much prettier than a welded joint, I realize that I care about fine lug work just about as much as Stevie Wonder cares about high-definition television.

Jan's performance and durability arguments certainly have validity but like the aesthetic argument, they fall on a spectrum and I stop caring once I pass the point my brain identifies as "good enough." I'm sure that Jan and others have more refined sensibilities but my bike doesn't need a steel frame to be "real." I don't need a carbon fork or a 14-speed hub. I just need a bike I enjoy riding and it turns out I'm not a very fussy guy.

This is not sour grapes on my part, over the years I've given away many "good" bikes and turned down several custom "I'll build you what you want" offers. I like bicycles. I like building them up and I learn something from every bike I ride. I'll change stuff around because I like changing stuff around.

Of course "expensive" is a relative term. To my non-biking friends the idea of spending $500 on a Trek or a $400 on a Dahon is excessive while other friends "get by" with Ultegra components on their titanium "rain-bikes." For me, every bike I've had has been a bargain in terms of the time I've spent in the acquisition and enjoyment of the machine. And if a custom bike by a skilled builder will give you more pleasure than what you're riding, then that sure seems like something worth pursuing. And if that bike you picked up at the Trek shop down the street or the used bike you got at a flea market gets you down the street with a smile on your face, that's good too.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson

Issaquah WA USA

The Very Best Adventures

2011-12-31T07:12:00.001-08:00

Will Shortz is a smart guy. In early 2005 when asked if he had a New Year's resolution he was working on, he replied:

"You know, I don't make New Year's resolutions. If I think of a way to improve myself during the year, I just do it immediately."

That struck me as good advice, advice worth taking to heart and acting on. Note that this is not a lack of resolve, but rather a resolution to act daily with resolution.

Looking back on 2011, I see the results of resolutions. Not big do or die resolutions but intentions that resulted in the actions that filled the days. Christine decided to buy a bike and ride the Oregon Coast. While that trip was wonderful and beautiful, the smile I see on Christine's face every day when she rides her bike is even more beautiful.

In April the idea of riding a bit, every day resulted in my looking more closely at the place I call home and finding the time for small adventures. Adventures are important and adventures happen day by day.

Or in the dark of night. One recent adventure involved riding all night through the longest night of the year with my friends Mark, David, Scott & Brad. Some folks may ask the question "Why?" as in why ride dark roads and trails on a cold night. I could answer with tales from a world made strange and beautiful by darkness, where a herd of elk is glimpsed in a headlight beam, where thoughts of deep philosophic import are shared among friends, where we find a Kelly Kettle can fuse itself to a plastic picnic table even in freezing weather, where true fine dining is found at 3:00 AM in a mini-mart in Fall City and where nothing tastes better than morning coffee after an all-night ride. Those are all answers with their own truth but the truest best answer is the one given by those friends who know the right answer is "Why the hell not?" and ride with you.

And so we ride.

We, who are on the road, must have a code that we can live by. In 2011 my friend Tarik wrote it down and it's good:

1) RIDE BIKES

2) TRY NOT TO BE AN ASS

Words to live by.

I wish you the very best adventures in 2012.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson

Issaquah WA USA

Santa is Just As Real As Bigfoot

2011-12-20T06:11:00.002-08:00

"See, I told you Santa's not real!"

Now I like to think I’m as cynical and jaded as the next guy, but I can’t let this bratty little eight-year-old's comment pass unchallenged as she points triumphantly to the MADE IN CHINA sticker that adorns the head tube of the tiny blue bicycle. Maybe it is the tears welling up in the eyes of her younger brother, eyes that had been filled with only wonder a second ago. Maybe it is the world-weary, lecturing, superior tone of this certain cynical little girl that makes me add her to my own mental NAUGHTY list. Maybe it is the horrified look on the face of the kid’s harried mother that moves me from being a bike mechanic turned bike salesman into something of a story-teller. Maybe it has been a slow Christmas season at the shop and I really don’t want to lose a sale.

Whatever the true story, what I do is open my big mouth. The mom is focused on the little boy, trying to undo the damage wrought by little miss know-it-all’s heartless words, so I direct my words at the small cynic herself.

“Congrats,” I say, “You’ve figured out most of the story.” I am taking a gamble, appealing to the girl's intellectual pride, but when I see a flicker of confusion cross her brow, replacing the wickedly gleeful certainty that was there a second before, I know I have her.

“Of course Santa’s not real,” she presses, “He’s just a lie adults tell to kids. Presents come from Mom and Dad. And stores like this. And China!”

“Yep,” I agree, carefully not contradicting her jaded world-view, “Adults do sometimes lie to kids and I make my living putting bikes together and fixing bikes and selling them to families like yours. That’s all true, but it’s not the whole story...”

The little girl’s BS meter is probably hovering around eight when I start talking, but I can tell a good story when I need to. The little brother stops crying and he and Mom as well as the girl listen as I continue. I have to make this good.

“The whole Santa, reindeer, chimneys, coal in the stocking thing, I mean, come on, who buys that?” Mom is starting to look real concerned at me and the boy is looking confused but the little girl is nodding. I press my advantage.

“But the truth, kid, it’s even wilder than you know. What’s your name?”

“Mary,” the girl replies, unsure where I am headed with this. Truth be known, I am kind of wondering that myself.

“Well, Mary,” I continue, “the Devil’s greatest lie is convincing the world that he doesn’t exist.” The Usual Suspects reference flies right over Mary’s head and Mom shoots me a world-class eye-roll, but I am on a roll of my own and continue. “And the only way Santa can possibly get everything done is with the help of guys like me and little girls like you who figure out that he’s not real.”

Mary is looking good and puzzled now. “But he’s not real...”

“Right,” I said, “He counts on you thinking that.”

“So you’re saying he is real?” There’s a flicker of something other than certainty in Mary’s question. Maybe it’s doubt. Maybe it’s hope.

“Look,” I say, switching conversational gears. Maybe I’m trying to distract her and maybe I’m stalling for time. Maybe I’m drawing on a trick I learned from an old philosopher. “Let’s forget about Santa for a minute, let’s talk about Bigfoot.”

“Bigfoot?” Mary, mom and the boy all ask at the same time.

“Yeah, Bigfoot? Real or not?”

“Totally fake.” Mary is back to being certain.

“Certainly,” I agree, “Made up to sell magazine and movies. And Espresso. There’s a Bigfoot-themed Espresso stand up north on Highway 2. But what does Bigfoot look like?”

“Duh, he’s big. Hairy, with big feet.”

“Yep,” I say, “that’s him. For a completely imaginary creature, you know a lot about him. Now how about a gorilla, real or fake?”

“Real,” Mary replies, “I saw one at the zoo.”

“But a few hundred years ago, nobody had a gorilla in zoo, everybody thought they were fake. Did the gorilla become real when it was captured, or was it real all along?”

“Real all along.”

“Yep and if we never captured one, never saw one, would it still be real?”

“Yes?” Mary doesn’t sound quite so certain.

“Yes,” I reassure her, “and if Bigfoots are very careful, very cautious creatures that are smart enough to mostly stay very far away from men, then maybe those magazines and movies and Espresso stands aren’t entirely fake. A thousand fake Bigfoots doesn’t mean Bigfoot doesn’t exist. Those thousand fake Bigfoots were probably inspired by something, don’t you think?

“I don’t know,” Mary says.

“Neither do I, Mary. Neither do I. But let’s get back to Santa.” I don’t have all afternoon to make this sale.

“If there is a Santa, he can do magic stuff, like fly all around the world in one night and deliver toys everywhere spreading joy. That’s an amazing power. And with great power comes great responsibility.”

“That’s what Spiderman says,” Mary comments, catching my reference this time.

“That’s what Spidey says and Spidey is right.” I agree. “Santa won’t use his amazing toy-making and delivering powers to put hardworking guys like me out of business. I’ve got to eat. And folks in factories making stuff, that’s how they make a living. So Santa helps us out. Santa helps us sell stuff.

“So it’s all marketing...”

“Not quite,” I explain. “Marketing only works if people have money to buy stuff. And a lot of people have a lot less than you do or I do. Maybe they don’t have any money. But if they have something to believe in, somebody who believes in them, then somehow Santa brings them Christmas.”

“Money is tight this year, I’m hoping to sell a few more bikes but if folks can’t afford our new bikes I tell them to try Bike Works where some of my buddies are working like elves to refurbish a bunch of used bikes for Christmas. And just last week a nice old couple were in here buying a couple of bikes for some kids in their church who they knew didn’t have much money. They said Santa told them to buy those bikes. They seemed like really nice people, I don’t think they were lying to me.”

“I still don’t think Santa is real,” Mary insists.

“Good!” I laugh, “He’s counting on you thinking that. There is no way his elves can build all the bikes for all the kids in the world. All the fake Santas in all the malls and all the fake elves in all the bike shops don’t make Santa any less real. Your brother can ask for a bike from Santa, you can ask your mom for a bike from me. Do you think I’m real?”

“I think you’re a very strange man, “ Mary says.

“Yeah, I hear that a lot.”

Mary’s mom comes back later without the kids and buys three bikes.

“OK,” I say as I’m ringing up the sale, “I know the blue one is for the boy and the bigger bike is for Mary, but whose the third one for?”

“Santa,” the woman tells me, “He’ll make sure it gets to someone who really needs it. Merry Christmas.”

RIDE: Short fiction about bicycles

2011-12-16T05:24:00.000-08:00

If you are reading this blog the odds are pretty good you're a fan of bicycles and if you're a fan of bicycles, I think the odds are good that you'll find something in Ride: Short fiction about bicycles that you'll like better than the money you'll spend to buy it. Please DON'T buy it just to get a story from me, I give stories away for free all the time here and my little bit of fiction included in Ride will be familiar to my readers. Buy Ride for all the other stuff in there.

The stories in this collection span the world in terms of settings and scenes. Moods range from the darkest nights to the sunniest of days. Some characters are folks you'd want as friends, some you'll hope to never meet. Each story is a ride down an interesting road and every reader will find his or her own favorite. The book opens with a sucker punch to the gut with Paul Guyot's dark masterpiece "I'm Bob Deerman" and many clicks later I read the final screen of Barbara Jay Wilson's "Red Dot" with a big, dumb smile on my face. And Taliah Lempert's illustrations show that books don't have to be printed on paper to be beautiful.

Currently Ride is available on the Kindle or the Nook for $3.99. Kindle software is available for free on wide range of devices and phones, so even if you don't have an e-reader, you can buy and read Ride. And for those of you who want a real paper book with pages, sit tight, it's coming.

To date I haven't written much fiction but I'm proud to have my story included in Ride. Keith Snyder did a great job putting this collection together and reading these stories has set some more wheels turning in my head. Thanks Keith, for taking us along on this Ride.

Opting Out of the Auto Arms Race

2011-12-14T03:54:00.000-08:00

Decades ago I made the decision to basically opt out of the automotive world. I still live on the same planet as my car-owning, car-driving friends, but I decided that I could manage to move around on this planet without owning or driving an automobile. This has worked out better than fine for me and I encourage people to enrich their lives by getting out and about under their own power whenever possible.

I recognize that there are certainly times and circumstances where the walking shoe or the bicycle is not the optimal solution to a transport problem and in my own life some of my best adventures have involved the bus or the train, a ferry boat, an airplane or a private automobile. But that last one, the automobile, is the one I'm most wary of. I mostly don't fear the bus, the truck, the train or the plane. They are piloted by professionals, men and women who make their living by motion. But the private cars and SUVs that fill every road we build (because if you build it, they will come), those big boxes of momentum are driven by and large by folks whose job is something other than driving. We have taken fragile, error-prone, very human human beings and put them in charge of a lot of mass.

This is the equation that frightens me:

It's Newton's Second Law and it's the law that matters. It's not the speed that kills you, it's the energy of the system. Mass times acceleration as the physicists say. And we, by an large, keep adding more and more massive missiles to our system. We think we'll make our kids safe by wrapping them in a two-ton SUVs loaded with car seats and airbags. But one bus with 40 kids and a trained driver is a hell of lot safer than 40 distracted soccer moms in 40 Escalades. Making streets where kids can safely walk or bike to school? I think that's better still.

Given Newton's Second Law, am I not endangering myself by not choosing the big SUV as I go out on the mean streets of the city? I'm just bringing a knife to a gun fight. Car vs Bike, hell you can do the math, right?

Maybe not.

Here's an interesting stat:

The majority of fatal crashes involve only one vehicle (61 percent).

Think about that.

I did.

I could say that I'm a better than average driver but the odds are I'm not. By the way, a vast majority of drivers think that they are better than average but, of course, on average, they are average. And half of them are worse than average. That's the way math works.

So I'm my own worst enemy. And adding thousands of pounds to my daily motion? I'm better off if I can avoid it. And then there is all that health & well-being and exercise stuff. I like to walk & bike & I don't like to drive. So I don't.

I'm not bringing a knife to gunfight, I've given up my gun because there's a good chance I'll shoot myself with it. Or I might shoot you. Either way, this shooting people, or running them down if we want to get away from metaphor, it's not a great idea. As the computer noted at the end of War Games, "A strange game. The only winning move is not to play."

Yes, I'm just one guy. But I'm one guy not in a car. One less car on the road. And actually, I don't think I was a better than average driver back when I drove. There's at least a 50% chance I was worse. I do know this: I'm better off not driving and I think you're better off with me not driving. So I'm just one guy, but that's something.

I'm happier, healthier and safer since I stopped driving. It's not my place to tell you not to drive, I don't know you or your circumstance. But if you want to drive less, I posted some advice on that subject here.

Gandhi gave the better advice than I ever have when he said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."

I'm not doing battle on the mean streets of the city, I'm making my way in the world at the speed that makes sense to me. I've opted out of the auto arms race, but I still keep on rolling.

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Pounced With Fire on Flaming Roads

2011-12-08T03:52:00.000-08:00

One of the virtues of age, if we age well, is that we recognize our own past errors and use that information to live better lives in the present. We comfort our failing bodies and look with fondness at our scars with the certain knowledge that we are "older, but wiser" and that "experience is the greatest teacher." But I think (but I may be wrong on this) that often the real lesson we gain from past mistakes is not the simple "don't do that" of the mistake itself, but the knowledge that we were and still are capable of error. The best lesson is not that we were wrong then and are right now, it is the knowledge that we may be wrong now as well. Experience, in my experience, is best used to keep the certainty of ego in check.

But I may be wrong on this.

A young Robert Zimmerman emerged from the frozen chrysalis of northern Minnesota to pen the words that still ring true in my head decades later. On my best days I'm still wary of "lies that life is black and white" and I fear that I'll "become my enemy in the instant that I preach."

And so I'm cautious to write these words. Yet I write them because I think they're important.

I preach the gospel of bicycling. There are folks called to far greater service, who speak more passionately about their passions, who are called to greater missions in this great world and whatever worlds may exist beyond this one, but their missions are not mine. We don't always get to choose our missions and of all the things I'm unclear about, I'm the most unclear as to why bicycles seem to shape and fit the core of my being, but they do. As Stephen King said about why he writes horror, "what makes you think I have a choice?"

So I advocate for bicycles and preach, not of salvation in the next world, but of finding a way in this one. I write of trails and traffic, of gears and gradients, of wheels and wonder. I speak of two wheels and balance.

It is balance that I am thinking of today, balancing what I've been certain of with what I'm still learning. Balancing what I've learned so far with what I'll learn tomorrow.

I stop at stop signs. Always. Full stop, foot down.

Except when I don't.

Let me explain.

Here, in the Seattle metro area and Issaquah where I live, stop signs pretty much mean stop. You stop, you wait your turn, you look, you go when it's your turn to go. If you blow a stop sign, you're breaking the social pact, you're putting yourself and others at risk. So I stop, for my good and what I think is the good of all.

But we don't have stop signs at every intersection. But I have also ridden in Portland, in neighborhoods where there are stop signs at every intersection. EVERY INTERSECTION. Most bicyclists don't come to a full stop at these. Most car drivers don't come to a full stop at these. Like the folks at Campagnolo are alleged to have once said of their beautiful but less than effective Delta brakes, "they are not for stopping, they are for modulating your velocity." These stop signs really don't mean stop, they mean slow down. Pretty much everyone in Portland gets that the norm, the social contract is "slow down and don't proceed like a nut." Here in the Seattle area the stop signs along the road through Marymoor Park in Redmond serve basically the same function. Drivers and cyclists both seem to treat those signs as something I remember from my youth, the Yield sign.

If I'm rabidly foaming at the mouth at my fellow road users and berating them for not coming to a full stop at every intersection, for setting a bad example, I should probably calm down and look at the example I'm setting. I should not pounce with fire on flaming roads. I should ride a few miles on their roads and judge not their actions, but my own.

Or consider sidewalk riding. Those of you in the UK call this riding on the pavement and people in places like New York City get livid when cyclists ride on the sidewalk. It is against the law and it is evil, unsafe and wrong.

Except when it isn't.

The city where I live, Issaquah Washington, is east of Seattle located in a valley at the base of the Cascade mountains. We have wide sidewalks in many places, sidewalks that are part of our multi-use path network. Bicycle riders share these routes with folks who walk, skateboard or roller blade. The rule, the social pact again is the one that I think is good: "don't go too fast and watch out for others." If I was putting up road signs, that is what they'd say.

In some cities, the sidewalks are really not made for bikes. In some bad places, the sidewalks are not made for bikes and the roads are made only with thoughts of cars. In those places perhaps the best thing a rider can do is get off the road and walk with their bike on the sidewalk. And then work to make those places better.

I ride my bike as best I can and I try to offer advice to others that will help them in their riding. I'm pretty sure that I don't have all the answers. I used to think I did but I was so much older then.

I'm younger than that now.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

The Return of the Mountain Turtle

2011-12-06T01:55:00.000-08:00

I feel I can best explain the decrease in blog output here by quoting a fellow who recently explained a long, awkward pause by saying "I've got a lot of things twirling around in my head..."

Actually, I've got a several of projects cooking, things that will most likely see the light of day as ebooks. The project that is the furthest along is an expanded version of the saga I first recounted in The Way of the Mountain Turtle. The expanded version will include more detail of my 2005 Great Divide Race and more training thoughts and philosophy. Also included will be the full story of my 2010 Tour Divide effort.

Many of you reading this followed the 2010 Tour via this blog and read the posts as the race unfolded. I also wrote a magazine-length version which, due to a change in editors at the magazine and the vagaries of print publication schedules, never saw print. (BTW I could do an long, colorful venting screed on working in the print world and why I, for one, welcome the digital age where I can sit at my netbook, say "screw it," hit the publish button and reach readers instantly.

In that spirit, I present the article-length version of the story that is going to get reworked and combined and folding into something bigger, something you may be reading on your Kindle sometime soon. But I'm fond of this version and I want to thank all of you who have stuck with my blog for all these years and who help make my adventures possible. I hope your like this story, I call it:

The Return of the Mountain Turtle

=====

Wednesday June 16, 2010

“Slow down,” the waitress at The Stray Bullet advises, “they weren’t here that long ago.” It’s just after 9:00 AM and I’m shoveling in my second breakfast of the day. Cold Spam and chocolate espresso beans were enough to get me out of the bivy, onto the bike at dawn and 26 miles down a rainy, muddy forest road to this cafe in the tiny town of Ovando, Montana. Now I’m inhaling bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, juice and coffee. It’s what they call a “gunslinger breakfast” here, but I’m no gunslinger, I’m a bike racer.

The race I’m in is called the Tour Divide, a 2745 mile sprint from Banff, Alberta to the Mexican border at Antelope Wells, New Mexico. Forty-six of us rolled into the Canadian wilderness last Thursday on bicycles laden for the journey. We don’t have team cars or support crews, each of us is carrying what we think we need for the journey: clothes, camping gear and enough food to get to the next mini-mart. The race follows Adventure Cycling’s Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, hugging the spine of the Rockies and avoiding pavement as much as possible.

Mike Gibney and I rode together for a bit yesterday and again this morning, talking about the race and telling each other lies that we truly believed at the time. We both talked of pushing on past Seeley Lake last night and I’d vowed I wouldn’t burn up time at the cafe in Ovando. Yet we’d both stopped near Seeley Lake and now I’m here having breakfast. The mountains don’t care what I say or what I’ve planned. In the end, the trail tells me what I need to do and I ignore it at my peril.

Mike and I are veterans of the course, most of the course anyway. This is Mike’s third attempt at the Divide and I’d raced the “short” version (2,500 miles from the Canadian Border to the Mexican Border) back in 2005. In ‘05 I’d been the first person to race the Divide on a single-speed bike. Seven racers started that year and four finished. I came in dead last, but first in my unique division.

As long as my record stood I could tell myself that I had been there and done that on the Great Divide, but last year Chris Plesko rode his single-speed much faster than I ever did over these rugged miles. The course is longer now, including several hundred miles of Canadian wilderness that Matthew Lee has raved about for years. Matthew has won this race more than anyone so I took his “you gotta ride the Canada stuff” seriously. Chris gave me the excuse to race, Matthew gave me the encouragement, but it’s the mountains that gave me the real reason I’m back here riding again. I’m convinced the beauty of these places is best seen from the seat of a bicycle.

I’d told myself that if everything went perfectly, if the weather was wonderful and I was feeling strong, I could beat Plesko’s record. A few days on the trail has knocked that thought pretty far out of my head. I’ve already pushed through more snow and mud then I’d seen in all of ‘05. In Canada, the route descending Flathead Pass was at least as much a stream as a trail and the climb up from the Wigwam River involved dragging the bike up a quarter-mile mud cliff. Galton Pass featured about a mile and half of hike-a-bike through the snow. It was all so wonderful and beautiful but not terrain I could speed through. At least 20 times a day, I’d be stopped by some jaw-dropping vista and I’d dig out my camera, trying to pack this amazing world onto a tiny screen.

I’ve managed to return here thanks to dozens of folks and hundreds of acts of kindness. The story of my first time here, something I wrote down and called “The Way of the Mountain Turtle”, inspired amazing generosity in people. Checks for food, bike parts, time to train and all the rest of what is needed to race came not with a bill but with a common message, “Don’t pay this back in cash. Ride. Take pictures. Tell us what it’s like out there.”

What it’s like out here is wonderful. At 6,000 feet and higher, away from the lights of the city, the stars gleam pure and cold. Snow clings to the high peaks and the shaded places on the trail. Bear tracks mark the same mud as my tires. Elk and deer move silent as fog through the trees and watch me pass with wary, wide-eyed wonder. The mountains are doing their best to remind me that racing does not come naturally to me. I’m the Mountain Turtle. I plod. I take pictures. I’m having the time of my life. I summarized my race strategy a few days ago in a call-in to MTBCast where Joe Polk is doing his annual podcast coverage of the Tour. “I start out slow,” I explained, “and then I back off. I think I’ve lulled Matthew Lee into a total sense of security.”

Matthew is hundreds of miles ahead of me, ahead of everyone. Erik Lobeck is damn near as fast as Matthew, blasting out something like a 150 mile per day pace. My average is closer to 100 miles per day, positively pedestrian by Tour Divide standards.

We’re less than a week into the race and already a dozen racers have dropped out. A team from Great Britain, with great plans and great hopes of a record setting ride, were eliminated by bad navigation and a bad knee. Bob Moczynski crashed on the steep Galton Pass descent and broke his collarbone. The air was too cold and thin for Bob Marr’s lungs, the climbs were too steep for Suzanne Marco’s knees. A torn quad here, a twisted ankle there and two more are gone.

But it’s wrong and impossible to dwell only on the hardness of the land. We all knew this would be hard and we’ve been drawn here to test ourselves, to take some of the toughness of the land and make it part of us. Perhaps it takes a wild trail and some damp nights in a bivy to make me really appreciate the wonder of a gunslinger breakfast.

I finish my breakfast and go up to the counter to pay the bill. After confirming for the waitress that the breakfast was the most wonderful thing I’ve eaten in days, she asks me about the race.

"What do you win?"

Time is short and the miles are long, so I give the easy answer, the short one, the lie.

"Nothing," I say, "we do this for the fun." And I head back out into the rain, on down the trail.

=====

Friday June 18, 2010

I’m just turning back onto the route, ready to roll out of Butte when I hear a voice call out “Hey, Kent!” It’s Rob Leipheimer, flagging me down from the doorway of his bikeshop, The Outdoorsman. “We were tracking your SPOT,” Rob explains, “and saw that you’d gone to get a pork chop sandwich.” I first heard about the pork chop sandwich when I saw the Ride the Divide movie on the eve of the race back in Banff and I knew then that I’d be stopping in Butte for a sandwich. Divide racers run on heavy fuel and the pork chop sandwich is every bit as good as it sounds.

Rob and his crew are giving the NASCAR treatment to all the Tour Divide racers, popping bikes in the repair stand and as quickly as possible undoing the damage the miles have wrought. I almost feel guilty that my simple single-speed has so little for them to work on, but Rob pronounces my Monocog Flight as being “smart”. While I munch on some grapes, Rob fills me in on how the others are doing. There’s horrible mud ahead, mud that ripped the derailleurs right off Erik Lobeck’s bike. “His bike was running perfectly when he left here,” Rob explains.

When I’d raced five years ago, the only updates on the race status were via pay-phone call-ins to Joe Polk. I’d call home when I’d get the chance and talk to my wife and she’d give me a few updates as well, but most of the time I had no idea where the other racers were. Back then, very few people along the course had any notion that a few bicyclists were racing towards the Mexican border. Now, things are different. All the racers have SPOT trackers, small battery-powered devices that relay our coordinates to the internet in real time. People follow the race on the web and talk about it on Twitter, Facebook and other online forums. Although cell coverage is sparse in the back country, in towns smartphones and other pocket-sized devices like my Peek Pronto buzz to life with news, weather and other updates. Folks working in bike shops and cafes along the route all know about the race and recognize us from our haggard looks and high-calorie purchases.

=====

Sunday June 20, 2010

The mud up on the Sheep Creek Divide has been the consistency of Play-Doh but the sign proclaiming the area to be “Impassable When Wet” isn’t strictly true. When my wheels won’t turn, I carry the bike. Walking slow is better than stopping. The rain finally stops and the sun finally shines. I roll again.

The skies south of Lima are blue and this tiny farm road is dry. There are cows everywhere and dozens of cattle guards -- bars across the road surface, with gaps too wide for tiny hooves. A speeding bicycle, hitting the bars at a right angle, can cross a cattle guard without incident.

Apparently, very young cows lack mature caution and may tiptoe across cattle guards. A rancher may string barbed wire across a guard now and then, to keep the youngsters with their moms. I discover this fact very suddenly.

The guard is like the dozens of others I’ve buzzed over, but this one also has a vertical pole and a couple of strands of barbed wire. My brain processes this information a fraction of a second after my front wheel hits the wire, in the moments when I am airborne.

The Monocog does a perfect somersault, sticking the landing on the south side of the fence. My own Superman impersonation ends less elegantly as I slam to the ground six feet beyond the bike.

“I’m alive!” That’s my first thought. Adrenaline and amazement pick me up and a very brief survey of my major bones tells me I’m good enough to ride on. Some will call me lucky and some will call me blessed, I count myself in both camps at this moment.

I should be racing on, as a true racer would, but I stop to photograph amazing things. Right now, the most amazing thing is a bicycle, still balanced, perfectly inverted on this dusty Montana road.

=====

Wednesday June 23, 2010

It’s late afternoon and I’m still many miles north of Pinedale, WY when my Peek vibrates to life indicating it has a signal and I have email. My delight at getting a note from my wife vanishes as I read the news -- Dave Blumenthal collided with a truck this morning in Colorado. Initially taken by ambulance to Steamboat, his head injuries are severe enough that he’s been transferred to the hospital Denver. His wife and four-year-old daughter are flying in from Vermont.

I stare stupidly at the screen, the pixels blurring as my eyes fill with tears. I blink, hoping that the words will change, that the words are wrong. Dave is one of us, racing through the high country on the adventure of a lifetime. How could he collide with a truck? There are hardly any trucks out here. There are hardly any people out here. We worry about bears. We worry about the weather. We worry about running out of food or water a hundred miles from anywhere. But a truck? Damn.

Of course it could happen. Things happen. Hell, I’d slammed into a barbed wire fence that was right in front of me.

I can’t stop thinking about Dave but I have to stop thinking about Dave. I have to ride and I have to get to the next town. I have to be here now so I can be there then. I get on my bike. I dodge the ruts in the road, trying to find the smooth line, the line that makes sense.

=====

Thursday June 24, 2010

After enjoying a nice tailwind and a pleasant day of riding, I arrive in South Pass City at 5:25 PM. I grab a cold lemonade from the vending machine, change over to the next map and set out for Atlantic City and the Great Divide Basin.

At an old mine, I stop to take pictures and read the sign. That's where I miss the key words that tell me to turn right at the mine. I just keep going.

Off course.

By the time I figure out that I've gone wrong, I've taken too many turns to trust my backtracking. I find a biggish dirt road and follow it for quite a few miles before a signpost, my map and compass give me back my bearings in the world. The beautiful country with lots of trees and streams confirms the fact that I am far off course. I should be in the dry, sparse lands of the Basin. But I know which way to go now.

Four hours after I’d left South Pass City, I’m back in South Pass City. I grab another cold lemonade from the vending machine that is the only thing active in this dark and tiny ghost town. Remarkably my Peek has a signal here and I’ve got mail. Another note from Christine and the subject line is ominous, “Sad News”. I click and read:

Hey Sweetie,

I am so sorry to pass on that Dave died this morning at the hospital in Denver. He's survived by his wife Lexi and their 4 year old daughter Linnaea. I didn't know him, but I feel so sad.

Love you always,

Christine

I knew Dave, not well, but I knew him from the internet, from his blog and from a brief conversation we had on the first morning of the race. Dave knew what he was doing, he was prepared, at least as well prepared as any of us can be.

Can it ever make sense when a good man dies for what seems like no good reason? I know Dave was a loving, adventurous and generous man. My thoughts and prayers go out to his family and loved ones.

The world is a poorer place because of Dave's tragic death. Death always comes too soon, except for those whose lives are overcome with boredom or suffering. The world is a richer because Dave chose a life of adventure and wonder. We all, too briefly, got to share in the wonder of his life.

I suddenly feel very, very far from home. Until now I’ve felt at home on the trail. The SPOT tells my loved ones where I am and that I’m OK. My Peek sends signals back to civilization. And I’ve known that I have what I need to continue, to get further on down the trail, to get back to my civilized home, where I have more than two pairs of socks, more than a bivy sack for a bed.

The last words Dave posted on his blog before he left were these: “Lexi and Linnaea, I love you both.” Dave knew how to live, knew what was important. I send Christine email, thanking her for passing on the bad news and telling her of my latest wanderings. The last few words are the most important, a lesson Dave knew so well. I sign off for the night with “I love you so.”

=====

Friday June 25, 2010

I’m up at dawn and I’m careful to take the right turn at the old mine. A few miles past Atlantic City, another Wyoming ghost town, a horned lizard scoots across the dry and dusty road and I chase him down to make sure I have a picture.

This is the Great Divide Basin, high, flat country so dry that what little rain that falls here flows neither to the Atlantic nor the Pacific but rather evaporates back to the sky. Once I’m past the Sweetwater River and the Diagnus Well, the next reliable water source is 55 miles away. The next town is Rawlins and it’s a hundred miles away. There is little here but sand, sagebrush, antelope and some very thirsty-looking cows.

Just past 10:00 AM the freehub on my Monocog begin to slip. The freehub is the mechanism that allows a bike to coast. Tiny pawls inside the hub retract when the wheel is spinning faster than the cog, but when power is applied (via the pedals, crank and chain) the pawls engage and the force of my legs drive the wheel.

Normally, freehubs just work. This particular freehub has worked fine for thousands and thousands of miles. But this hot, dusty, washboarded section of road is hard on freehubs. Last year, Jill Homer had freehub problems on this section of road. Fortunately for her, the problems worked themselves out. Commenters on her blog suggested dribbling lube into the freehub body. Not a bad idea. I stop my bike and dribble lube.

It helps, a bit, for a while. But the pawls keep refusing to engage. My legs spin wildly against zero friction. I bounce the wheel, trying to get the pawls to catch. Sometimes they catch and I can pedal for a bit but then they slip again. With each slip, I picture part of the tiny pawl being worn down. When coasting, the hub makes an ominous sound.

There is a final, sickening snap and a thunk and now the pawls refuse to engage at all. I no longer have a bike under me, I have a 29-inch wheeled push scooter.

I’ve seen no humans since I'd left Atlantic City and Rawlins is more than 100 miles away. I have enough food for the trip and enough water to get me to each of the few streams in the Basin, assuming a biking pace. I now have a walking pace with a few bits where I can coast on the descents. The thermometer on my bike computer, which may be overly dramatic, reads 92 degrees. My map describes this area as being “spectacularly desolate” and promises that I’ll “undoubtedly see more antelope and wild horses than fellow human beings.” The grim cartographic commentary continues on to tell me that this is part of the historic Oregon-Mormon Trail and has been described as the “longest graveyard in America.”

I have something of a problem. I walk and push and coast my bike for miles. About 40 miles. The map lists "Emergency bail outs" at miles 47 and 66. The mile 47 bailout involves a 15 mile walk north to a spot of nothing labeled Sweetwater Station. I opt to press on to mile 66 and the turn off to Jeffrey City. From the turn off, it will be another 14 miles of walking, pushing and coasting to get to town.

I’m almost out of water when I’m thrilled to find the trickle that is Arapaho Creek flowing at mile 62. It’s a bit past 3:00 PM. As America sings in that "Horse With No Name" song, "the heat was hot." But I have water now and I know I can make it to Jeffrey City. It will be hours, but I'll make it.

A cowboy named Travis with a big truck and a scruffy dog save me about 15 miles of walking. He is out here checking on some cows and I flag him down and he gives me a ride into town. He looks and acts and walks just like you’d think a cowboy would. He’s got the hat and the boots and the drawl and as we bounce down the road to town he says “don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

I don’t blink but it’s beginning to dawn on me that if a town in Wyoming has “City” attached to it’s name, it’s a good bet that the “city” is a ghost town. I buy Travis a couple of beers at Jeffrey City’s only bar. The bar pretty much is Jeffrey City, unless you count a fossilized Texaco with no gas pumps and no X in the sign and a motel with no cars in the parking lot and no signs of life. Travis explains that Jeffrey City was a uranium mining town, but the mine shut down thirty years ago. Only a few dozen people and a few dogs still call Jeffrey City home.

Remarkably, Travis tells me I can get a room at the motel. I hike over to the motel and follow the instructions on the office door that tells me to ask at the “shop”. I figure the shop must be the busted down Texaco, so I roll my bike over there.

A guy named John and his buddy are at the shop. Yes I can get a room. It turns out the only reason the motel is still here is that it was part of the package deal when John bought the shop. “I never got around to tearing it down and every few weeks I wind up renting a room to some busted down biker!” I tell him I’m happy to contribute to the local economy. “Hell,” he grins, “today you are the local economy.”

I see John has a welder and I briefly explain a way to fix my bike, “We could weld the hub solid, it wouldn’t coast, but it’d go.” John looks at me and passes judgement. “That’s a totally dumb plan,” he declares in a voice that’s solid and sensible. “Sometimes, it’s just time to stop. This is one of those times.”

I could have argued, I would have argued, if I’d thought John was wrong, but I knew he was right. When you walk, push and coast for forty miles you have a lot of time to think.

In the end, the trail tells me what I need to do and I ignore it at my peril. I’ve pushed on through snow and mud. I’ve crashed into a barbed wire fence. I’ve frozen in the mountains and baked in the Basin. The trail has worked to slow me, the waitress said slow down and now my bike has clearly said it’s done.

I’m done for now.

I’ve been thinking for a few weeks about why I ride and why I’m here.

The waitress asked a simple question, “What do you win?” and I think I have an answer now, but it isn’t short or simple. The long, true answer is the one that reveals itself, bit by bit, pedal stroke by pedal stroke, mountain vista by mountain vista. It is the truth found in the distance and at the center of this bit of flesh I call myself. On a tiny trail in a vast world, with my possessions pared down to the minimum needed to maintain forward motion, with thoughts in my head of every kindness shown me, each step that leads me onward, I can answer to the wind, "Everything. I've won all this. I'm the luckiest man alive."

My race didn't end when I hit a barbed wire gate at speed, although with one bit of bad luck, one slightly different landing, my fate could have been the same as Dave’s. Dave Blumenthal had the sudden, brutal, tragic, fatal bad luck. It is his life and joy I remember and his final gift to the world is the haunting reminder that we should love our best in every moment.

My race didn't end when my bike's freehub mechanism gave up and I was reduced to walking and coasting. My race ended in hundreds of moments, moments when a racer would roll on but a tourist would stop and wonder. I knew my race was over when the horned lizard crossed my path and I stopped to chase him down, to get a picture.

I am the Mountain Turtle and in the end, I guess this turtle doesn't race, he tours. And that's OK. For me, it's even better than OK.

The fast folks race to push themselves a bit faster than they know they can go. They find truth and beauty in speed. That’s beautiful for them, but I find my truth rolls slower.

It’s time for me to wander off the course, to rebuild my bike at home.

I’ll be back, but I’ll be slower next time.

I’ll take more pictures.

I won’t be racing, I’ll be touring.

I’ll explore side roads.

It’ll take a long time but that’s OK. I’ll do it in stages. I’ve got the time.

It's a beautiful world. And I've won it all.

Helping a friend in need (by Joe Bartoe)

2011-12-02T09:11:00.000-08:00

Joe Bartoe posted this on the Synaptic Cycles website. With his permission, I'm reposting it here to help spread the word. If you're looking for a lovely gift for the cyclist on your list, consider one of Jon's prints. -- Kent

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Helping a friend in need….

Jon Grant is someone that I met through his work as a graphic illustrator. Someone who I have never met personally, but who I count as a friend nonetheless. He’s one of those rare people that makes you feel like a lifelong friend after a few short conversations. Since I started this business, I have spoken to Jon many times, seeking his input on certain matters and bouncing ideas off him, and he has always taken the time to think about what I’m saying and give me well thought-out answers with a no nonsense attitude. He’s one of the few people that I do business with that I truly care about and I often ask about his family and his kids and how they are all doing, which is why I feel the need to be posting here.

I was working with Jon, trying to get some prints of his original ink drawings onto my online store when I learned that Jon’s young son has been diagnosed with leukemia and is hospitalized. He called me asking me for help to get some sold and to make it happen quick. Jon is a freelance illustrator, and as such, he doesn’t make money unless he’s working. And it’s going to be difficult to attend to work when his son is sick and hospitalized.

It’s for this reason that I have decided to sell his prints and give all the proceeds directly back to him rather than take a share of the profits. I don’t think Jon would want a handout. This allows him to make some cash quickly using his own work.

Jon has worked as an illustrator, designer, and printer all of his professional life. You can see some of his work on this site. He designed my logo and he designed the graphics for the jerseys and windshells that we sell. If you’re familiar with the bikes from Rivendell Bicycle Works, you can find his fine work on a number of their models, as well. He is fascinated with riding and the mechanical aspects of classic bicycles, so naturally, he can’t resist drawing them. We offer prints of his original ink drawings here, a few of which are shown on this page. These prints are offset printed in dense, black ink on white, acid-free, Bristol cover. Printed in USA. These are beautiful drawings and the prints are suitable for framing.

Most of the prints are seven inches square and when archival-matted, they are eight inches square. For the crankset prints, the unmounted prints are nine inches square with archival-matted prints twelve inches square. Costs vary from $25-40, depending on the print size and mounting. We are offering free shipping on all of these orders.

As I mentioned, all proceeds from the sales of these prints goes directly to Jon to help his family while they deal with the illness of their child. If these prints appeal to you, please buy some. The money will go directly to the artist and give him some much needed cash at a time when his family needs it most.

You can view more of Jon’s drawings and purchase prints in our online store.

YouBar: Energy Bars Made Your Way

2011-12-02T06:35:00.000-08:00

While I have long claimed that I am not a nutritional role model and once compiled a list of the various odd things long distance cyclists actually eat, I don't claim that tasty junk food is better than tasty good food. I will, however, argue that the way to get people to eat better food is to make it tasty and appealing. Those of us who travel extensively by bicycle know the value of tasty, well-packaged food that can be eaten while rolling. Over the years I've eaten more than my share of Power and Clif Bars and I've found some I like, some I can't stand and some that I've liked initially and then gotten sick of.

I recently took a gamble on something that intrigued me: a box of custom energy bars from a company called YouBar. YouBar lets you pick and choose what goes into your bar and what stays out. Like peanuts and chocolate? Put them in there. Hate raisins? Leave them out. An interactive web page lets you build the bar and as you go a nutrition label updates showing you calories, fat, protein, vitamins, etc. The page also gives guidance as to how the various ingredients effect the bar's taste or texture.

I say that I gambled on YouBar because you can't make just a single bar. I had to order a box of the things and there are 13 bars in a box. Just as a custom suit costs more than something off the rack, custom energy bars are bit more than your average ClifBar, but I figured I'd take a chance. Of course, I wasn't just gambling on YouBar making a good bar, I was betting on my ability to pick the ingredients I like that would combine to make a good bar. I figured as long as I was ordering, I'd also get a variety pack to see what some of the bars other people had designed as well.

The ordering process was easy and in less than a week I had two boxes of bars. My bar, which I'd decided to call the "Nutty Turtle Bar", actually turned out great. Hey, it's hard to go wrong with nuts and chocolate. The bars taste very good and have a good texture. They come with a good wrapper that is actually fairly easy to open(!) and each bar comes with its own nutrition label.

The custom bars also come with their own reorder code so reordering your perfect bar is simple. I'm working my way through the sample pack of bars designed by other folks and have found some great ones, some that almost work and so far, one dud. I got a little postcard with my order telling me that if I wasn't 100% satisfied with my bars for any reason, the YouBar staff would make me a free order at no charge. I'm not at all dissatisfied with the sample pack, it is worthwhile to me to learn what does & doesn't work.

I'm very impressed with YouBar as a food and as a company. The ordering and shipping was fast and the company communication (email, FedEx tracking, etc) is all top notch.

I don't do a lot of advertising on this blog but when somebody is doing something right, I'm happy to spread the word. I put YouBar in the "good people doing good stuff" category so there is now a YouBar link on the right side of the blog. If I didn't like their stuff, I wouldn't say good things about them, but I do like their bars so I am recommending them. If you go to their site and order anything, enter the coupon code "kentsbike" and you'll get 10% off your purchase. If you do that in addition to your savings, I'll get a 5% commission. I don't think I'll get rich doing this, I'll probably just spend the money on YouBars.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Solving A Cold Case

2011-11-26T08:26:00.000-08:00

For close to five years, my pal Mark Vande Kamp and I have wondered about some odd, white, fur-like stuff we found growing on some fallen branches along the Woods Creek Road. I took a blurry picture of the substance and wrote a blog post describing our ride and the weird white stuff. We couldn't identify the substance, but thought perhaps the internet would yield a solution.

It took about five years, but yesterday, while checking out some links that had lead folks to my blog, I found this.

Ice Formations on Dead Wood -- Haareis or Hair Ice

The photos included in Dr. Carter's post look exactly like what Mark and I saw on the branches along the side of Woods Creek Road. I shot the link to Mark and he agreed with me, what we had encountered those years ago was Haareis or Hair Ice.

It's an amazing world out there and one of the best ways to see the things you might otherwise miss is to get out there using your bike or your feet. But sometimes, those hours spent sitting and typing on the laptop pay off as well. It's kind of like riding a bike, the key is balance.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson

Issaquah WA USA

Invisible Routes (by Mark Canizaro)

2011-11-24T16:30:00.000-08:00

My friend Mark Canizaro originally posted this on his double-secret blog on 11/10/11. I talked him into guest posting it here. -- Kent

Invisible Routes

A friend thanked me today for showing him a new cycling route last week. He said it with a significant amount of surprise. He's a very experienced cyclist. We had ridden a pleasant route on a neighborhood street, bypassing a bad arterial with almost constant conflicts. At the time I had to take some shit for not riding on the really bad street we usually ride on. This is not the first time.

I am truly baffled by this.

There is finally some talk on the internet about driver privilege. It's about time! I feel like I've been a lone voice for a long time, and frankly not a very effective voice. I'm glad the discussion is spreading. It's time cyclists stopped blaming themselves.

It worries me how many cyclists both fall victim to this kind of thinking, and by repeating it, propagate it further. I know many cyclists, car-free, bike transportation people, who insist on riding on the most unpleasant roads... "because we can". I am very capable of riding in heavy car traffic, I've done it successfully for over 30 years. I know the law well and I know we have a right to do it. A legal right and a moral right.

I passionately believe, as i have for 40 years, that bikes are transportation not toys. I believe... I know that we are equal to (and often superior) to cars. These ideas are becoming more widespread, as they should.

But why are so many cyclists afraid to admit that bicycling is fun?!? Why do so many cyclists make such a strong effort to make their own ride unpleasant? It's like they think we have to suffer for it to be acceptable... just because people in cars are suffering. Maybe they think if they admit that riding is fun they will somehow lose the right to be part of the transportation system? That's an understandable unconscious fear I think we all struggle with. (There's a future blog post in that idea.)

But that concern is based in the cultural idea that we, as cyclists, are doing something inherently wrong and it seems many of us feel we have to pay for that by suffering as much as possible. What's so wrong with riding down a pleasant street instead of jumping into the middle of an angry polluted mob of death machines?

I'm not saying we shouldn't be on major streets, and I don't want to be misconstrued in any way that makes it seem like I'm trying to move bikes down the hierarchy below cars. Bicycles should be allowed on any street and streets through shopping districts should be made as (truly) bicycle friendly as possible. But really, as cyclists, we need to be a lot better at route finding. Enjoying the commute makes cycling more legitimate, not less.

I'm not talking about doubling the distance or anything. On occasion the more pleasant routes are a tad longer, usually they are the same distance -- and even when they are longer, a quarter of a mile here and there seems well worth it to me. (I like riding my bike!) There are a few cases where the nasty route is considerably shorter, but that's rare. And in many of those cases, considering all the factors, I would still advocate for the pleasant route.

I don't understand why cyclists absolutely freak out when a pleasant route is suggested over a nasty one. The resistance is huge. And it happens almost every time I suggest one. I automatically brace myself for it now. They often shut me down before I finish the sentence, like I'm being vulgar, or more likely, breaking a taboo.

They never come right out and say it, but it's clear that many cyclists think there is some kind of surrender involved in riding a quiet, pleasant route rather than a miserable route full of cars. As if it were a moral lapse, a spiritual sacrifice, an ideological flaw, a personal weakness or a political capitulation to commute by bike and actually enjoy it.

Perhaps they have a unresolved feeling transplanted from other modes that commuting, getting from one place to another, is supposed to be very unpleasant, so if they actually enjoy it, they are cheating, not doing it right; might as well just forget it and drive a car. And that's the experienced riders, most new or prospective cyclists, after they get over their surprise that there ARE other routes, react with concern to a suggestion of a residential route for fear that it might be longer or more hilly. I understand that fear, although I think it is misplaced in a couple of ways: it's often not longer and so what if it is!

Strangely I find that when pushed into the more pleasant route, most people prefer it, but they feel very guilty! Time and distance aside, there is just so much more benefit from riding the backstreets. It's better exercise, great experiences, educational and just fun. It is living well.

Sometimes in our car-head, motorist privileged culture people just forget that there is any landscape, any city scape, any neighborhood, any real estate that is not on major streets. Everything else becomes invisible. This is a serious mistake.

So I'm not suffering. I'm not wishing I was in a car and I'm not wishing I was on that highway fighting with cars. I'm enjoying seeing, experiencing, learning about and enjoying my city, the people, the weather, the landscape and my ride through it. I absolutely love experiencing these streets, being a part of these neighborhoods. Being there. It's why I ride.

Chain-L: The Best Chain Lube You Probably Are Not Using

2011-11-16T08:41:00.001-08:00

Francis Bollag is a chain lube evangelist. Francis believes that his product is the best lube you can put on your chain and after having used Chain-L for the past three months, I've come to believe that he is right. He sent me a bottle to review, called repeatedly to make sure I used it and followed up relentlessly to chat about lube. While Francis is a persistent man, that is somehow fitting -- he makes the most persistent chain lube I've ever used.

Chain-L is the opposite of the lubes that promise to be "Clean". It is the thickness and texture of honey and it smells like hell. And by that I mean it smells like hell in the brimstone sense. "Yeah," Francis chuckles in his whatcha-gonna-do New York accent, "there's some sulphur in there. I'm makin' chain lube, not perfume." Francis will straight up tell you that his product is oil, but there is other stuff in there to make it long-lasting.

In the summer, in good conditions, Chain-L didn't seem like anything special, but when the weather turned worse Chain-L's tenacity became apparent. On our Oregon Coast Tour in September, the ocean air and morning fog made the drive-train on Christine's conventionally-lubed Allant chirpy while my Chain-L-lubed Allant remained silent. On the trip, Christine's bike got a couple of treatments with Tri-Flow (still one of my favorite general-purpose lubes) but on returning home, her bike got the Chain-L treatment.

Christine's commuting experience has been quite convincing. It's the rainy season in Issaquah now and she rides back and forth to work in the rain. Her bike sits out in the rain for hours while she works. It's been two months since I lubed her chain with Chain-L and it's still running smooth and silent.

Chain-L is messy to apply and requires a good wipe-down after application but the stuff certainly works. Properly applied it doesn't attract dirt any more than an other wet lube and I've found occasionally wiping down the chain with a dry rag without re-lubing keeps the chain from getting too gritty.

At about $12 per bottle, Chain-L might seem expensive, but given that I have it on four bikes now (my folding Dahon, my Octocog 29er and our two Allants) and I still have 3 ounces left in my 4-ounce bottle, I'd say Chain-L is a bargain.

You may have a problem finding Chain-L at your local bike shop, but I don't think that's as much a fault of the product as it is the nature of the bike business. Most bike shops work with a few big distributors (folks like QBP, SBS and J&B) to get most of their stock and don't think Chain-L is available via any of these distributors. Francis has signed up quite a few dealers via his grass roots evangelism and you can find a nearby dealer by consulting this map. This is actually quite impressive since Chain-L is a harder product to sell than some other lubes. Chain-L requires more consumer education and since the consumer will ultimately use less Chain-L then some competing products, there is little financial incentive for a bike shop to carry it. Sometimes the free-market works against the little guy,

But I sure wouldn't count Francis and his Chain-L lube out of the running. He's won Christine and me over and Ed Pavelka is also convinced. So is Larry Varney.

As of this writing, I have no financial interest in Chain-L (the shop I work at is not in Francis's dealer network...yet), but I sure hope Francis and his lube are a success. I'd like to see a guy who makes such a good lube succeed and I have one other reason for hoping he sticks around. In another year or two, I may need a second bottle of Chain-L.

Update as of 3:30 PM 11/16/11: I guess I'm more persuasive than I thought. Mike, the owner of the Bicycle Center of Issaquah, where I work, just ordered 18 bottles of Chain-L! They'll be in the shop on Friday.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah, WA USA

50 More Good Bicycle Books

2011-11-08T11:30:00.000-08:00

Last week I published a list of 50 Good Bicycle Books and I knew it was nowhere near an exhaustive list. Today I present 50 More Good Bicycle Books and the quality of the titles on this list are just as high (or maybe higher) than the books on my first list. In some cases titles and authors are in the "Oh God, I can't believe I forgot so and so" category and in other cases they are titles or authors sent to me by people saying "Oh God, I can't believe you forgot so and so". And some titles are gems I've uncovered by following other links or tips.

Not every book on this list will appeal to everyone but I think anyone who shares a love of bicycles and bikes will find something of value on this list. This list is presented in the same format and with the same caveats as my previous list.

I don't describe the books, but each title links to an Amazon page with description, reviews, etc. If you hate Amazon and want to support your local bookshop, go find these books at your local store. I am an Amazon Affiliate so if you do wind up buying one of these books on Amazon after clicking a link from here it will not cost you anything extra but about 6% of the purchase price goes to me. That's the main way I keep the bits flowing through this blog, so if you choose to do that, thank you very much.

While I doubt that I'll compile a third list (a hundred books seems like a nice round number) please feel free to continue to leave comments pointing out more good bicycle books.

And now, without further ado, here's my list of 50 More Good Bicycle Books:

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Atomic Zombie's Bicycle Builder's Bonanza by Brad Graham and Kath McGowan

Be Brave, Be Strong: A Journey Across the Great Divide by Jill Homer

Bicycle History: A Chronological Cycling History of People, Races, and Technology by James L. Witherell

Bike Tripping by Tom Cuthbertson

Catfish and Mandala: A Two-Wheeled Voyage Through the Landscape and Memory of Vietnam by Andrew X. Pham

Curious George Rides a Bike by H. A. Rey

Cycling Home from Siberia: 30,000 miles, 3 years, 1 bicycle by Rob Lilwall

Cycling the Great Divide: From Canada to Mexico on America's Premier Long Distance Mountain Bike Route by Michael McCoy

Eat, Sleep, Ride: How I Braved Bears, Badlands, and Big Breakfasts in My Quest to Cycle the Tour Divide by Paul Howard

Every Woman's Guide to Cycling: Everything You Need to Know, From Buying Your First Bike toWinning Your First Race by Selene Yeager

French Revolutions: Cycling the Tour de France By Tim Moore

Full Tilt: Ireland to India with a Bicycle by Dervla Murphy

Ghost Trails by Jill Homer

Heft on Wheels: A Field Guide to Doing a 180 by Mike Magnuson

Hell on Two Wheels: An Astonishing Story of Suffering, Triumph, and the Most Extreme Endurance Race in the World by Amy Snyder

Hey Mom, Can I Ride My Bike Across America?: Five Kids Meet Their Country by John Seigel Boettner

Hungry Cyclist by Tom Kevill-Davies

Into the Remote Places by Ian Hibell and Clinton Trowbridge

Iron Riders: Story of the 1890s Fort Missoula Buffalo Soldier Bicycle Corps by George Niels Sorensen

Journey to the Centre of the Earth by Richard & Nicholas Crane

Moods of Future Joys by Alastair Humphreys

Mud, Sweat, and Gears: A Rowdy Family Bike Adventure Across Canada on Seven Wheels by Joe Kurmaskie

Need for the Bike by Paul Fournel

On Bicycles: 50 Ways the New Bike Culture Can Change Your Life edited by Amy Walker

Richard's 21st Century Bicycle Book by Richard Ballantine

Riding Outside The Lines: International Incidents and Other Misadventures with the Metal Cowboy by Joe Kurmaskie

Rough Ride: Behind the Wheel With a Pro Cyclist by Paul Kimmage

Round Ireland in Low Gear by Eric Newby

Sloane's Complete Book of Bicycling: The Cyclist's Bible (25th Anniversary Edition) by Eugene Sloane

Spokesongs: Bicycle Adventures on Three Continents by Willie Weir

Stealing from a Deep Place: Travels in Southeastern Europe by Brian Hall

Super Grandpa by David M. Schwartz

Ten Lessons from the Road by Alastair Humphreys

The Bicycle Wheel by Jobst Brandt

The Bike Lesson by Stan and Jan Berenstain

The Complete Book of Long-Distance Cycling: Build the Strength, Skills, and Confidence to Ride as Far as You Want by Edmund R. Burke and Ed Pavelka

The Death of Marco Pantani: A Biography by Matt Rendell

The Happiness of Pursuit: A Father's Courage, a Son's Love and Life's Steepest Climb by Davis Phinney

The Lead Goat Veered Off: A Bicycling Adventure on Sardinia by Neil Anderson

The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa by Neil Peart

The Quotable Cyclist: Great Moments of Bicycling Wisdom, Inspiration and Humor edited by Bill Strickland

The Six-Day Bicycle Races: America's Jazz-age Sport by Peter Nye

The Urban Biking Handbook: The DIY Guide to Building, Rebuilding, Tinkering with, and Repairing Your Bicycle for City Living by Charles Haine

The Wind in My Wheels: Travel Tales from the Saddle by Josie Dew

The Wonderful Ride by George T. Loher

Thunder & Sunshine by Alastair Humphreys

Travels With Rosinante: 5 Years Cycling Round the World by Bernard Magnouloux

Travels in a Strange State by Josie Dew

Two Wheels And A Map: A Solo Bicycle Journey Down The East Coast by Bob Neubauer

Wheels Within Wheels by Dervla Murphy

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Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah, WA USA

50 Good Bicycle Books

2011-11-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

Let me start off with a few disclaimers.

This is not an exhaustive list. There are lots of good books about bicycles out there. This list started with me scanning my shelves and saying "Oh that was a good book... and that one... and that one... and then I started quizzing friends in real life and on Twitter and Google+. And then Amazon has this "people who liked X also liked Y" feature that can lead to all kinds of cool things. I finally drew an arbitrary line at 50. If your book or your favorite book isn't on the list, it sure doesn't mean it's not great.

I gave up at categorizing the list. Some books are how-to and some are history. There are books about touring and racing. There are kids books on the list and some biographies. There's at least one novel. A lot of books could fit in more than one category. So I just present the books in alphabetical order by title.

I don't describe the books, but each title links to an Amazon page with description, reviews, etc. If you hate Amazon and want to support your local bookshop, go find these books at your local store. I am an Amazon Affiliate so if you do wind up buying one of these books on Amazon after clicking a link from here it will not cost you anything extra but about 6% of the purchase price goes to me. That's the main way I keep the bits flowing through this blog, so if you choose to do that, thank you very much.

Finally, if you have some great bike books that I've missed, post them in a comment here or email those titles to me at kentsbike(at)gmail.com. If I get enough good stuff, I'll compile a second list.

Here's my list of 50 Good Bike Books:

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100 Years of Bicycle Component and Accessory Design: Authentic Reprint Edition of The Data Book by Noguchi-san

A Dog in a Hat: An American Bike Racer's Story of Mud, Drugs, Blood, Betrayal, and Beauty in Belgium by Joe Parkin

Adventure Cycle-Touring Handbook: Worldwide Cycling Route & Planning Guide by Stephen Lord

Anybody's Bike Book: A Comprehensive Manual of Bike Repairs by Tom Cuthbertson

Around the World on Two Wheels: Annie Londonderry's Extraordinary Ride by Peter Zheutlin

Ascent: The Mountains of the Tour De France by Richard Yates

Bicycle Diaries by David Byrne

Bicycles & Tricycles: A Classic Treatise on Their Design and Construction by Archbald Sharp

Bicycle: The History by David Herlihy

Bicycling Science by David Gordon Wilson

Bicycling The Pacific Coast by Vicky Spring and Tom Kirkendall

Bike Cult: The Ultimate Guide to Human-Powered Vehicles by David B. Perry

Bike Snob: Systematically & Mercilessly Realigning the World of Cycling by BikeSnobNYC

Bike Touring: The Sierra Club Guide to Travel on Two Wheels by Raymond Bridge

Boy Racer: My Journey to Tour de France Record-Breaker by Mark Cavendish

Cycling's Golden Age: Heroes of the Postwar Era, 1946-1967, The Horton Collection text by Owen Mulholland, foreword by Eddy Merkcx

Fallen Angel: The Passion of Fausto Coppi by William Fotheringham

Franklin Rides a Bike by Paulette Bourgeois

Gracie Goat's Big Bike Race by Erin Mirabella

His Finest Hour by David Neuhaus

Into Thick Air: Biking to the Bellybutton of Six Continents by Jim Malusa

It's All About the Bike: The Pursuit of Happiness on Two Wheels by Robert Penn

Joyride: Pedaling Toward A Healthier Planet by Mia Birk

Lance Armstrong's War: One Man's Battle Against Fate, Fame, Love, Death, Scandal, and a Few Other Rivals on the Road to the Tour de France by Daniel Coyle

Major Taylor: The Extraordinary Career of a Champion Bicycle Racer by Andrew Ritchie

Miles from Nowhere: A Round the World Bicycle Adventure by Barbara Savage

Momentum Is Your Friend: The Metal Cowboy and His Pint-Sized Posse Take on America by Joe Kurmaski

Paris-Roubaix: A Journey Through Hell by the sportswriters of L'Equipe

Park Tool BBB-2 The Big Blue Book of Bicycle Repair - 2nd Edition by C. Calvin Jones

Pedaling Revolution: How Cyclists Are Changing American Cities by Jeff Mapes

Racing Through the Dark by David Millar

Sally Jean, the Bicycle Queen by Cari Best

Slaying the Badger: LeMond, Hinault and the Greatest Ever Tour de France by Richard Moore

Take a Seat: One Man, One Tandem and Twenty Thousand Miles of Possibilities by Dominic Gill

Team 7-Eleven: How an Unsung Band of American Cyclists Took on the World - and Won by Geoff Drake

The Art of Cycling: A Guide to Bicycling in 21st-Century America by Robert Hurst

The Art of Wheelbuilding: A Bench Reference for Neophytes, Pros & Wheelaholics by Gerd Schraner

The Bicycle Rider in Beverly Hills by William Saroyan

The Complete Do-It-Yourself Bike Book: Everything You Need to Know to Fix, Maintain and Get the Most Out of Your Bike by Mel Allwood

The Dancing Chain: History and Development of the Derailleur Bicycle by Frank Berto

The Golden Age of Handbuilt Bicycles: Craftsmanship, Elegance, and Function by Jan Heine

The Lost Cyclist: The Epic Tale of an American Adventurer and His Mysterious Disappearance by David Herlihy

The Man Who Loved Bicycles: The Memoirs of an Autophobe by Daniel Behrman

The Rider by Tim Krabbe

The Spring Classics: Cycling's Greatest One-Day Races by Philippe Bouvet and others

The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien

Tillie the Terrible Swede: How One Woman, a Sewing Needle, and a Bicycle Changed History by Sue Stauffacher

Tomorrow, We Ride by Jean Bobet

Travels with Willie: Adventure Cyclist by Willie Weir

Wheels of Change: How Women Rode the Bicycle to Freedom (With a Few Flat Tires Along the Way) by Sue Macy

======

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah, WA USA

Mr. and Mrs. Mountain Turtle's Bremerton-Bainbridge Anniversary Adventure

2011-10-25T03:29:00.000-07:00

If you work in retail sales and service, it's very unlikely that you will get weekends off on a regular basis. But Kent and I have done the next best thing, which is to arrange to take the same two days off every week, so our much anticipated “virtual weekend” is Wednesday/Thursday. Our anniversary fell on a Thursday this year, so we made plans to leave on Tuesday afternoon (virtual Friday) after I got off work for a celebratory three-day bike tour. Our plan was to put the bikes on Sound Transit 554 to Seattle, take the 3:00 ferry to Bremerton and camp at Illahee State Park about four miles northeast of Bremerton, then on Wednesday ride around to Poulsbo and across the bridge to Bainbridge Island, where we would camp at Fay Bainbridge Park Wednesday night. We would then head into Winslow on Thursday, eventually taking the ferry back to Seattle and the bus home. This is more or less what we did, but it's not as simple as it sounds. Permit me to explain.

The bus ride to Seattle and the ferry ride to Bremerton go as planned, but no sooner do we get off the ferry than we are met with orange signs, road construction projects, and a detour. The bridge we had intended to go over is apparently closed. While we stop to puzzle over the map and make a new plan, one of the locals kindly informs us that the bridge is not closed to bicycles, so we are able to walk through the roadblock and over the bridge through the construction, with me chanting my “Don't look down” mantra all the way across. We ride through the residential part of Bremerton on a road marked as part of the Mosquito Fleet Trail. This is a pathway designed to provide a continuous network of trail corridor for bicyclists and pedestrians that skirts the eastern shoreline beginning at the Kingston ferry terminal and ending at the Southworth ferry terminal, connecting all of Kitsap county's cities, seventeen communities, schools, parks, open space, public areas, and 24 historic Mosquito Fleet docks. It's currently a mix of shared road, road with paved shoulder, bicycle lanes, and shared sidewalk.

A pamphlet we picked up on the ferry waxes eloquent about cycling opportunities in Kitsap County, proclaiming it “a bicycle rider's paradise.” It promises that “Kitsap County offers riders from the Seattle area excellent training routes that will keep you sharp and interested, filled with challenging climbs, thrilling descents and spectacular vistas.” It advertises that a “unique aspect of cycling in Kitsap County are the hills. Fixie and single speed riders must have legs like steel springs, or they will shortly.”

I'm riding with plenty of gears, thank the Lord, but I can still vouch for the “challenging climbs” part. Bremerton is extremely hilly, and my low gear is getting a great workout on this tour, as are my feet when I occasionally get off and push my bike upward. As we pass through Bremerton towards Illahee, I imagine that all this climbing must surely give way at some point to flat terrain or even one of those “thrilling descents,” but as we climb, and climb, and climb, I decide this must be wrong and that we are, in fact, on The Hill That Goes Up Forever. We are looking eagerly for a sign for Illahee State Park, but do not see one. However, an amazing thing finally happens, and The Hill That Goes Up Forever turns, at long last, into The Hill That Goes Down Forever. We coast down, and down, and down, and even though it's a nice change of pace from climbing, the thrill is overshadowed for me by beginnings of concern that we have somehow gone past the park. By the time we pass signs for Brownsville, cross a bridge, and come to a marina, Kent is sharing my concern. We have gone too far north on this road.

We dig out the map again, and Kent proposes an alternative to retracing our route, approaching the campground from the other direction. We turn left onto Brownsville Hwy NE, and soon turn left again onto WA-303 S, a very busy, noisy road which fortunately has good shoulder to ride on. Unfortunately, the good shoulder has a way of disappearing into right turn lanes with rather alarming frequency, and we walk the bikes across a couple of busy intersections. At last we turn left onto NE McWilliams Road, and finally right on to E Blvd Ne, which becomes Ocean View Blvd NE, which Kent assures me “will take us right into the campground.”

I really, really want to believe this. The sun is setting, the daylight is fading rapidly, and the air is getting chilly. I have been up since 3:15 this morning and put in a full day of work, taken a bus and a ferry, and ridden quite a bit further than I intended to, and I am eager to find this park and set up camp. So as we continue riding and it becomes clear that our journey along this road is showing absolutely no sign at all of leading us to any park, I am not a happy camper. That is to say, I am not a camper at all yet because we have basically gone around in what I suspect is something close to a big, extremely hilly, circle, and it is nearly dark, and we have not yet found the campground. Kent, despite a better sense of direction and a lot more navigating practice, is as baffled as I am as to where it could possibly be.

Someone recently suggested online that if you can't find a place to camp, you can set up your tent and put up an “OCCUPY (WHEREVER)” sign and you will look like part of a bona fide political protest. I laughed at the time, but I am starting to look at fields, woods, and parking lots at the side of the road with an appraising eye, because I am just about ready to occupy something and hope we don't get arrested. I truly respect private property and would never intentionally trespass, but I am extremely tired and I am hoping to sleep somewhere tonight at some point. If we couldn't find the park in daylight, how are we going to find it in the dark? The Washington State Park website says “Illahee” means “earth“ or “country” in the native tradition, but I suspect that what it really means is “secret place well-hidden from bicycle tourists,” or maybe “park lost in time warp.” So when we spot a lady walking her dog on the other side of the road, I do something truly desperate, something I fear will embarrass my husband no end because it is The Thing Guys Never Do. I stop and ask for directions.

“Excuse me,” I call out to her across the road. “Can you tell us how to get to Illahee State Park from here?"

Happily, Kent does not ride on past pretending that he doesn't know me. The lady assures us that we are going in the right direction, though we still have a ways to go. “You stay on this road until it turns into Illahee, and you'll go up a hill,” she says. She continues with concise, helpful directions involving a fire station on the right and a left turn towards the water to which we both listen carefully.

We thank her and get back on the road, which does indeed turn into – drum roll, please – the Illahee Road that we were on nearly two hours ago. And we are indeed going up a hill. That “thrilling descent” that we enjoyed much earlier has now, depressingly, morphed into its alterego, the “challenging climb.” But it's heartening to know we're going in the right direction and even better to have a landmark to look for. It's completely dark by now, but at long last the yellow sign for the fire station shows up in the darkness, and we cross to take the left turn. It's at this point that we realize why we never saw a sign for the park. The sign is on the corner, but it has quite literally fallen down on the job, and quite naturally, we weren't looking for it in a clump of bushes at ground level! We also realize that our Kitsap County Bike Map, useful as it is for finding bike routes, lacks sufficient detail to find anything off the routes, and shows the park to the west of Illahee road, when it is in fact situated to the east of it.

Tired as we are, the collapsed sign is too good a photo op to miss. Kent takes a picture, and we finally finally follow the road down into Illahee State Park, climb yet another big hill to the campground, and ride into the first site we find. It isn't actually all that late, but it is pitch dark in the woods, so we leave the bike headlights on. Kent goes to register, and I dig out the tent and begin to set it up. When Kent returns, we finish putting up the tent and use a small light to collect fuel for the Kelly Kettle. I dig out mattresses and sleeping bags while Kent cooks our dinner of Mountain House Beef Stroganoff and boils water for coffee and cocoa. We eat by the romantic light of two little tea candles and are soon settled in for the night.

When we awaken, we find the sun rising through a green forest of tall evergreens and enormous ferns. The park is beautiful, and except for the hosts, we seem to be the only ones here. We fire up the Kelly Kettle for coffee and cocoa, and dig out bagels, sausage, and cheese for breakfast. While we are eating, a squirrel stops and eyes us curiously. Kent lures him over with a couple of Peanut M&Ms. The little fellow is cautious at first, but after one taste, he's completely hooked. Kent gives him a couple more M&Ms, and I offer up a walnut from my trail mix, but eventually we decide that enough is enough and it's time to explore the park. We're walking away from our site when I turn back for the satchel that sits in my bike basket, uneasy about leaving my ID and bank cards unattended. And as I approach our campsite, I notice a small bushy tail hanging over the edge of our food pannier.

“You!” I exclaim indignantly, startling the squirrel. “Repaying our generosity with theft!” The furry little culprit takes off in a hurry. I'm mostly amused, especially since all the food is actually still there, unnibbled by Bushytail. I seal up the pannier and secure it inside the tent before grabbing my satchel and heading back to explore the park with my husband.

The wooded campsites are beautiful. Eventually we hop on our bikes to explore further, riding through the forest to a couple of nice group shelters, and into a clearing with a great view of the water. We contemplate riding down the steep hill to the shore, but the thought of having to climb back up inspires us to be content with the view. I mean, going down a big hill and having to turn around and climb all the way back up? Haven't we been there, done that? Like, just last night?

We ride back to camp, pack up, and are soon on the road again, retracing the route we took yesterday, then moving on to further “challenging climbs,” “thrilling descents,” and even some “spectacular vistas” on the roads toward Poulsbo. It's a beautiful day to ride, cool and sunny. The trees are amazing shades of green, rust, gold, and deep plum with occasional stunning flashes of fiery red. Sunlight sparkles on cold dark blue water as we ride along the shore of Liberty Bay.

Poulsbo is a wonderful and welcoming small town with bike lanes on its roads and an abundance of bookstores, bakeries, and small shops. The blue and white “Velkommen til Poulsbo” sign, the Norwegian flag hanging from an upstairs window, the colorful Viking ship mural on the side of a building, and shop windows featuring gnomes and other Scandinavian memorabilia attest to the town's pride in its Norwegian heritage. I love books and bakeries and I am Norwegian by marriage, so I quickly decide that this is my kind of town. We lock up our bikes and wander around, stopping for lunch at an espresso place called “Cups.” Before leaving, we stop at Sluys Bakery to stock up on goodies for my bike basket.

Sluys Bakery is home to the famous Poulsbo bread. Family owned and operated since 1966, they proudly “continue the tradition of baking the way grandma used to.” The display of pastries and cookies in the large front window is mouth-wateringly amazing, and the aroma inside heavenly. A crowd has gathered around the cases, and I take my place in line while Kent waits outside. On the wall is crafted “Giv os idag vort daglige brod” (“Give us Lord our daily bread”), and I smile to see this line of a familiar prayer so appropriately and artistically displayed. A few minutes later, I leave with a small bag containing a butterhorn, a cinnamon twist, two “Trollhouse” cookies, and two Halloween cookies. We retrieve our bikes and are on our way out of town, heading for Fay Bainbridge Park.

Between us and Bainbridge Island, however, is the Long and Dreadful Bridge. Actually, it's called the Agate Bridge, but bridges creep me out and in my mind this one is long and dreadful, and given its proximity to “Little Norway” I would not be at all surprised if there were trolls lurking under it, too. Happily there is a sidewalk, and not a troll in sight, so we walk the bikes across. It's extremely windy up there; at times I'm struggling to keep myself and the bike upright, fearful of falling over into the oncoming traffic. But eventually we make it safely across, get back on the bikes, and continue onto Bainbridge Island. This time Kent knows the way to Fay Bainbridge Park, having camped there on a previous trip, so we do not get lost and are able to arrive in daylight. There is “tent only” camping in the upper part of the park, but we ride down to the beach and decide we're willing to pay the higher fee to camp down there by the water. It's very beautiful and peaceful, and we choose a site with overhanging trees that offer a sheltered space to set up our tent.

Kent is the expert camper, but in our adventures together I have learned bit by bit to make myself useful. We've settled into a good rhythm for turning a campsite into a temporary home, going about our ritual tent raising, unpacking, and fuel gathering with quiet joy in the beauty around us and one another's company. There is plenty of daylight left to walk on the beach, and we wander along the shore hand in hand for awhile. On returning to camp, we boil water and open up the bakery bag. I savor the butterhorn with tea while Kent munches on a Trollhouse cookie with coffee. We decide we're really not that hungry for a hot meal tonight, so I break out the sausage and cheese to munch on as well. While we are eating, a couple of deer wander by and disappear into the woods.

We return to the beach as darkness is falling. Across the water, the lights of Seattle, Edmonds, and Everett glow through the mist like a distant ring of shining jewels. The air is damp and the cloudy sky hints of rain, and eventually we return to the cozy warmth of our tent and sleeping bags. During the night, the rain begins to fall. We have never actually camped in our Big Agnes Seedhouse SL2 in the rain before, but it passes the test with flying colors. We stay snug and dry and warm as we fall asleep again, listening to the rain.

By morning, the rain has receded to a drizzly mist. We fire up the Kelly Kettle, enjoying its cheerful flame as it boils water for our breakfast. While we are boiling (Kent is fond of showing off the Kelly Kettle to curious visitors and explaining, “We don't cook; we boil”), the park attendant drives up in his truck. He explains that they only charge $5 for each bike and that he is giving us a partial refund for the full site fee we paid yesterday. He adds that he hopes we'll come back, and that they will always find a spot for hikers and bikers even if the sites are full. He's curious about the Kelly Kettle, giving Kent another opportunity to expound on its many fine features before he returns to his truck. We decide we're now hungry for the Mountain House dinner that we didn't eat last night. We take that, our thermoses, and food pannier over to the group shelter to enjoy our anniversary breakfast out of the drizzle. Hot Chicken and Noodles and hot drinks hit the spot on this chilly, damp morning. The cinnamon twist and another cookie complete the feast, fortifying us to break camp and head out on the rainy road.

While riding in the rain isn't my first choice, it's not so bad if one is dressed for it. Our Patagonia TorrentShells do a good job of keeping the upper parts of us dry, and our lightweight nylon pants shed water pretty well. (We have rain pants, but it doesn't seem to be raining hard enough to justify putting them on, and I'm working hard enough on all these “challenging climbs” that an extra layer of weight and warmth on my legs is unappealing.) I normally have a hard time finding pants that fit comfortably, but I like my Mountain Hardwear Yuma Convertible pants so well that I bought two pairs and wear them most of the time whether I'm riding or not. Keen Newport sandals and wool socks are a winning footwear combination for us in wet weather. Wool insulates even when wet, and the socks dry much faster in sandals than they would in shoes.

Arriving in Winslow, we make our way around more road construction and over to Classic Cycle, the old home of my Trek Allant whose purchase is related in an earlier post. We look around the shop, chat with Jaime a bit, and leave with Classic Cycle caps, an anniversary present to each other. We wander along the Waterfront Trail to Pegasus for coffee and cocoa, then head for the ferry. The ferry ride is peaceful and pleasant, and we are soon back in Seattle, heading up the hill to the bus stop. Once again the bikes are on the bus, and we are on our way home to Issaquah. Later on, over a candlelight dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, we'll talk over the wonderful adventure we had in this hilly and beautiful part of the world, and the wonderful 27 years we've shared with each other, and look forward with love and joy and great anticipation to the years and adventures to come.

Not Turtle Enough For Your Turtle Club?

2011-10-17T05:21:00.000-07:00

Years ago, hell decades ago, when I was in elementary school, I took a test. I only remember one question from that test and I remember it because I got it wrong. The question showed a picture of a crayon that was broken into two pieces with the caption "The crayon is broken in half" with check boxes for TRUE or FALSE. I checked TRUE only to have it later explained to me, that the two pieces of the crayon were of different sizes. The crayon was broken in TWO, but it wasn't broken in HALF.

At the time I thought the question was needlessly tricky and while it enraged my elementary sense of justice, I now see that single question as a pivot point in my education. While I still think the most valuable lesson I took from that day was an enhanced suspicion of authority figures, it was also the time when I truly saw the power of words. We can't talk about mathematics without talking. While in conversation we might say a crayon is broken in half, that is only mathematically true if it is broken into two perfectly equal pieces. We can only accurately say that the crayon is broken in two.

I mention the broken crayon because I want to question the language which has grown up around a couple of trends in the world of bicycles: The Slow Bicycle Movement and the somewhat related Cargo Bike Movement. While I think that we are at a wonderful point in the history of bicycling, where a wide variety of bicycles are available and we have reached the point where bike shops and customers are realizing that bicycles can be used for more than racing in France and looking like Lance, I worry that some genuine enthusiasm has tipped over into unintended exclusivity. Words and actions carry meaning and sometimes the message we think we are sending is not the one that is seen or heard.

First off, I think the biggest problem with the Slow Bicycle Movement is its use of the word slow. Now this may sound odd coming from a self-proclaimed Mountain Turtle, a man who rides with his wife as part of Team Turtle and someone who has often advised folks to Hasten Slowly, but there is a difference between not having to go fast and being slow. I work in a bike shop and I can tell you that very, very few people come into a shop saying "could you please show me something that is very slow and heavy?" They may not be interested in racing but slow is not a good sales word. "Comfortable" is a good word, as is "practical", "efficient" or "well-suited". But "Slow" is not great word to use in the shop setting. Not only does "Slow" turn off those seeking an expand their cycling experience beyond racing, it also does little to encourage the pedestrian to become a cyclist. The pedestrian is already comfortably slow without the complication of extra machinery. If a bicycle is to appeal to the pedestrian, it must rationally deliver a promise of some increased speed or comfort. You can deliver the message that riding to work is not riding the Tour deFrance without making the leap to a bicycle that is as massively overbuilt for daily use as a typical American SUV.

The SUV of the bicycle world is the cargo bike and I have no complaints that cargo bikes exist. I have many friends who own and sell cargo bikes, who live happy, car-free lives thanks to cargo bikes and that's all well and good. But when those same well-meaning friends insist that my life would be so much better if I had a cargo bike and that then I could do those Costo runs and haul 150 pounds of dog food home, I think that maybe one size doesn't fit all. I'm still pretty happy not going to Costco and sticking with bikes that I can haul up the stairs to my second floor walk-up apartment.

We have to be careful not to tell people that they are not turtle enough for our turtle club. While it's great to say that you don't need special clothes to ride a bicycle, often that message is eclipsed by the powerful images presented by Tweed Rides and Copenhagen Cycle Chic. As my wife recently commented to me after reading the latest issue of Momentum Magazine, "I don't know if I'm fashionable enough for biking slow."

I'm not asking for people to give up their cargo bikes or stop dressing snappy if that's the way they roll. But the wonder of our time is that we have all these options available to us and they are just that: options.

Lycra is not needed, neither is tweed. Your bike can be carbon or steel, aluminum or titanium. Your tires can be skinny of fat or somewhere in between. Cargo bikes can haul lots of cargo but any bike can haul something. And some of those lightweight bikes, they really haul. One size may not fit all, but there are many sizes and types of bikes out there and they fit many.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Learning To Ride A Bike

2011-10-12T09:38:00.000-07:00

If you know somebody, big or small, who doesn't know how to ride a bike, I have some advice for you. This is not original advice, but I like to think that's what makes it good advice. It's the sum of what I've learned in working with people, big and small, watching them wobble and doubt and become bike riders.

Step one: Forget the words "It's Easy." It's not. Not for the person who doesn't know. It's hard. Remember when you learned to walk? No, you don't (unless you've got a really, really good memory). You were a tiny kid and a lot of your brain had to get engaged in the work of learning to balance and move your legs and shift your weight and all of that. You learned by trial and error. That's not easy. It involves trials. It involves errors. But babies do learn to walk. That doesn't mean it's easy, that just means it can be done.

Step two: Kindle desire. While it is important not to minimize the effort involved in learning to ride a bike, it is at least as important to the joy to be found in two wheeled travel. The slim volume Franklin Rides a Bike does a great job of explaining to anyone, regardless of age, that while learning to ride bike is a challenge, riding a bike is great fun.

Step three: Don't use training wheels. The main action in Franklin Rides a Bike involves Franklin ditching his training wheels. Training wheels actually inhibit acquiring the key balancing skill required to ride a two-wheeler.

Step four and beyond: Stop reading this and check out my pal David Mozer's site at:

http://www.ibike.org/education/teaching-kids.htm

The techniques described there work well David has done an awesome job of explaining things.

Riding a bicycle is a wonderful thing and learning to ride is a once in lifetime milestone.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Big Agnes Seedhouse SL-2: A Good Tent for Bike Touring

2011-10-05T06:11:00.001-07:00

While the many of the joys of travel come with the motion of it all, the wonders revealed beyond the next bend in the road, great satisfaction is also found in stopping, declaring "this is the place" (at least for this night) and staking a claim on a small piece of earth. While a tarp, bivy or a blanket of stars may be enough for the most minimalist of trips, a good tent is a haven. A few pounds of mesh, fabric and poles become a bit of home at the end of a long day. When the world seems too wide, the wind too biting, the rain too much, the tent is where you rest, reflect and recharge. Tomorrow you pack it up and move on again.

Christine and I are compact people who like each other and we find our Big Agnes Seedhouse SL-2 to be ideal for our needs. The Seedhouse is very light (a bit over three pounds) and it packs small. In the picture below, the tent is strapped to my bike's rack above the panniers and underneath the U-lock and cable.

The main body of the Seedhouse is mesh and we've pitched it without the fly on summer nights when our only concern is protection from bugs.

The Seedhouse is free standing and the mesh body clips to a shock-corded frame. The frame is a series of short aluminum tubes permanently connected by shock-cords and it basically self-deploys when you unfold it. Unlike some other tents I've owned, there is no threading of tubes through narrow nylon sleeves and no loose parts to lose. Another advantage of a free-standing dome-type tent like the Seedhouse is that you can pick the whole thing up to move it or to shake out any dirt you may have tracked into the tent.

Because the tent is free-standing, it doesn't strictly need to be staked out but because silnylon is a slippery material and the tent is light, wind or a less than perfectly level surface can result in unintended tent migration, so staking the tent down is a good idea. Christine recounts the excitement of waking up in a moving tent in our Journey to Wood Creek.

The Seedhouse SL-2 is a small tent, with plenty of room for one person and enough room for two people to be cozy. The tent is just wide enough for two Therm-a-Rest pads (or people) to fit side by side (some campers may prefer to sleep head to toe).

There is a bit of room for gear inside the tent and the staked out vestibule is a big enough dry zone to store packs or panniers.

Campers who want a bit more space should check out some of the larger tents made by Big Agnes or the slightly larger, slightly heavier and very well-regarded MSR Hubba Hubba. Whatever tent you get, get one that sets up quickly and easily, gives good protection from bugs and rain, is big enough for your needs and is no heavier than it needs to be. For Mr. and Mrs. Mountain Turtle, that tent is a Big Agnes Seedhouse SL-2.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Waldport Oregon's Green Bike Co-Op

2011-09-30T07:51:00.000-07:00

Christine and I saw many beautiful things on our bike tour of the Oregon Coast. While the rocks and waves are breath-taking, the little town of Waldport is home to something really beautiful, "ugly" green bikes.

As luck would have it, Rick Hill stopped by the SeaDog Bakery just as Christine and I were leaving and I got to chat briefly with him about the green bike he was riding. Rick is a retired teacher who now runs Waldport's amazing Green Bike Co-Op.

Rick Hill, enjoying a coffee outside the SeaDog Bakery in Waldport, OR

The Co-Op not only provides free bikes for anyone to use around town, it offers repair classes for teens and adults and long-term bike loans for low-income folks. Founded by John Mare' in 2006, John and various adult and youth volunteers currently maintain over 100 bikes in the green bike loaner fleet. This is an amazing resource, especially when you consider that Waldport is not a big city, the population of this coastal town is just a bit over 2000 people.

The bike share program works on the honor system, if a bike is tied up with a yellow rope, it's in use. If it's untied, it's free to use. Use the bike as long as you need it and when you are done, leave it untied in a public spot. John and the other volunteers sometimes move the bikes around to keep them distributed but mostly the system just works. Volunteers keep the bikes in working order and each bike bears the disclaimer "RIDE AT OWN RISK".

I asked John if they ever had bikes go missing and he replied "Sure," he said quickly adding "but that just means somebody who needs a bike got one, and that's the whole point."

John and his team of volunteers are busy with the wrenches and green paint, keeping things rolling in Waldport. This is a beautiful world, made a bit more beautiful thanks to the hard work of some good people and some ugly green bikes.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Team Turtle: No Need For Speed

2011-09-22T13:08:00.000-07:00

Christine and I did not rush through our tour of the Oregon Coast last week and we will not rush through the telling of the tale. Fans of my wife's writing will be happy to know that she jotted down notes each night of the trip and she said to me "it's gonna be a book, I had so much fun..."

The trip was wonderful, easily the best bicycle trip I've ever been on. We started out with the riders of the Amgen People's Coast Classic, a bunch of really wonderful, caring people. My friend Tai has organized one heck of a great ride and what we saw of the food, accommodations and support were all first rate. But while the Amgen riders were intent on covering the full length of the Oregon Coast in six days, Christine and I set our goal more modestly: we'd cover what ground we could at an unhurried pace. Our camping gear, the many parks along the way and our friend Michael gave us that luxury. Michael had agreed to pick us up on Saturday "wherever you end up."

While deciding to ride with the weight of panniers, camping gear and food probably slowed us some, Christine and I never doubted we made the right choices in how we tackled this ride. We made it to the mid-day stop with the group (admittedly at the tail end of the group) but when the clear sunny weather turned to headwinds and fog as we crept along the Manzanita Cliffs we were very glad to have both warm jackets and long pants with us. We couldn't help but wonder if the speedier, less encumbered riders had frozen their lycra-clad butts on these roads!

Christine gamely rode over the biggest bridge she'd ever ridden and climbed the biggest hills she'd ever ridden. She'd walk when she had too and she's more nervous around traffic than I am but I have so much fun riding with her.

My friend Hughie and a friendly local had both suggested Manzanita and the state park at Nehalem Bay as wonderful places and we verified the truth of both of these claims. While the Amgen riders were going to camp in Tillamook, Christine and I realized that our motto of "Half the pace, twice the fun" implied covering fewer miles per day. We were totally OK with that and I called Tai from the park at Nehalem Bay, wishing the rest of the Amgen riders the best ride ever and telling him that Christine and I would be on our own adventure for the rest of the week.

The Oregon Coast is a beautiful place for riding and the state publishes a wonderfully detailed map (PDF available here). The map gives details of terrain, the shoulder width of the road and the locations of camping spots. In many of the state parks, hiker/biker camping is $5 or $6 per person and even if the park is "full" a hiker or biker will not be turned away. Touring in September, past the peak of the tourist season, we never encountered a "full" campground but we did see quite a few other touring cyclists.

Our second day of riding revealed more of the wonders of the coast including an intricately carved wooden bench at Barview and a wildly rocky island.

A six mile jog inland north of Tillamook led us past dairy farms (despite appearances, this is not where they grow giant marshmallows!) to the lovely county park along the Kilchis River.

Our general pattern for the days would involve at least one stop at a cafe, bakery or coffee shop in the morning or some time during the day and at night at camp we'd fire up the Kelly Kettle. We used the kettle to heat water for all our camp suppers (Mountain House freeze-dried meals or Kraft Easy Macs) and for tea, coffee and hot cocoa. We also used it every morning for making our hot breakfast beverages.

On the third day, over a wonderful second breakfast at Muddy Waters in Tillamook, we had to make a decision.

The map and locals told us that the Three Capes Scenic Route would take us to Cape Mears and Cape Lookout but the road is very steep with a poor surface and many places with very little shoulder. Staying on 101 and then cutting over on Sand Lake Road would take us to the third cape, Cape Kiwanda on a better road with gentler grades. We'd already learned that pretty much all of Oregon is beautiful, so we opted for the nicer roads.

This section of 101 and Sand Lake Road were lovely and we got to see more of those cows that make all the wonderful cheese that makes Tillamook famous. Some of the farms we passed have been in the same families for generations and the Tillamook County Creamery Association is a farmer-owned co-op. I know some of my vegan friends justly rail against factory farms and the awful conditions some animals are subjected to, but I have to say that the cows of Tillamook county seem to be well-treated and well fed.

The U.S. Forest Service Park at Sand Beach is beautiful and while many of our fellow campers were there to run their ATVs on the dunes to the north of the lake, the campground itself, the lake and the beach were very quiet and peaceful.

On the fourth day we continued southward.

The Pelican Pub in Pacific City is located on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. It was too early for lunch, but we had to stop to enjoy the blue skies and the amazing view.

Further down the coast, we stopped for lunch at a friendly little place in Neskowin.

Taking our map's advice, we turned onto the low-traffic, very scenic Slab Creek Road. On the wooded road we passed a mom cycling to the school a few miles further on with an empty trail-a-bike. Christine thinks of herself as slow but I pointed out to her that she passed somebody. "Yeah," Christine said, "but she has a trailer." Christine had panniers, a sleeping bag and a Camelbak so I think that evens things out.

I couldn't figure out why Christine was not downshifting as we climbed. She was still on her middle ring as the grade increased. I guessed it was close to a 6% climb through the trees.

"Are your shifters working OK?" I asked, trying to be helpful.

"Yes," she hissed through clenched teeth, "my shifters are working."

"Can you see what gear you're in?" I further pressed, thinking perhaps she was unaware she still had lower gears to shift into.

"Yes!" Christine fumed, "I can see what gear I'm in. I'm sorry I'm going so slow on this flat road but I'm doing the best I can!"

"Uhmm, this isn't a flat road. This is the biggest climb of the day."

"What!?!"

"We've been climbing for miles. I think we're near the top."

"I was saving my low gears for the climb. I was waiting for the big climb."

"You're on it."

With a click she shifted to the granny gear. "I just thought lunch had made me very sluggish."

"Nope." I explained to her about the phenomena called the "false flat" and how the lack of long sight-lines in the woods make it hard to sense the lay of the land. "Any time you think you want to downshift, do it," I advised, "low gears are there to be used."

We looked for, but never saw, the Neskowin Creek Campground. Perhaps it is on the main road or perhaps it doesn't really exist, so we pressed on to Lincoln City and the state park at Devils Lake.

Rolling into Lincoln City at rush hour is not an experience I'd recommend. The main highway in Lincoln City is very busy with no real shoulder and the suggested alternate off the main road doesn't turn off soon enough to avoid the traffic squeeze. Fast moving cars had us retreating as quickly as possible to what slender bits of sidewalk we could find and the hilly side route was really not much of a respite either.

While Lincoln City did not place high on our list of favored places, it does have a state park right in the center of town. And Devils Lake is pretty.

At the hiker/biker site we met Chuck, a young man traveling from Arizona to Portland via longboard. Chuck manages to cover as much ground per day kicking his way along as we do pedaling!

Dawn of the fifth day was lovely with the sun rising over the lake. A heron, a beaver and I shared the quiet moment before the city woke.

Our camp breakfasts consisted of granola bars, tea or coffee and some sausage and cheese on a bagel. While this would be more than enough to get us rolling down the road, it wouldn't take much of an excuse to get us to stop at a likely spot for a "second breakfast" or an early lunch.

This morning the excuse was a bit of rain. We'd stopped at a small market to get some more food, some instant mashed potatoes for dinner and a nice big bag of peanut M&Ms for my on-bike munching. It was raining when we came out of the market and I explained to Christine that whenever it is raining and there is a coffee shop nearby, the weather is telling you to stop for coffee. Pointing across the street at Captain Dan's Pirate Pastry Shop I said, "I bet they have coffee there."

It turns out that Dan and Kathy have not only coffee but the best turnovers I've ever eaten and a quirky pirate-themed shop. It's a place that's fun for kids of all ages, even though it's rated Aargh!

Our plan of waiting out the brief rain worked perfectly and we rolled on down the coast. Picture postcard views revealed themselves with astounding frequency and we stopped often to marvel at the beautiful interplay of wind, water, rock, trees and sunlight.

The tiny town of Depoe Bay claims to have the world's smallest harbor and while it looked like a fine place to linger, we rolled onward down the coast.

Christine is happiest when the road has a good shoulder or a bike lane and northern part of the Otter Crest Loop is a great example of such a bike-friendly road. The road features a single southbound lane for the cars and lane for bikes. Since there is no northbound traffic on this stretch of road it completely avoids the heart-stopping "two motorhomes plus a bike squeezing onto one tiny road" problem.

Today's big climb crests at the scenic Cape Foulweather, which we could see rising up in the distance.

Christine had no illusion today that the road was flat and she geared down and turtled upward.

The weather at Cape Foulweather proved to be surprisingly good and we lingered there a while, taking in the view and checking out what may be the world's most picturesquely located gift shop.

Christine jokes that the SLOW signs are the ones that she has no trouble obeying.

Newport was much nicer than Lincoln City when it came to routing cyclists through town.

The bike route directed us onto quiet streets that featured artsy little shops and restaurants. If we'd needed a bike shop, Newport has one.

Christine is not a fan of big bridges, but the bridge in Newport features a great sidewalk.

The evening's campsite is South Beach State Park, just south of Newport.

At the hiker/biker site we see familiar faces, Jerry and JoAnne who we'd first met back at Nehalem Bay. They are headed down to California.

The sandy beaches in Newport are a result of the jetties that stick out into the water. The jetties block the wind-driven waves and sand deposits over time, forming the broad beaches.

Day 6, our final day of riding, began with a bit of excitement. I'm careful to tree my food in bear country, but I'd grown complacent on this trip and the raccoons took advantage of that complacency. They used their clever little hands to unzip my panniers and handlebar bag and stole the bagels, the cheese, the sausage and all my M&Ms! Jerry and JoAnne came over to commiserate (they'd used their BOB trailer as an anti-raccoon fortress) and offer up some of their food, but the roll-tops of Christine's panniers had resisted the raccoons so we did have some granola bars and Christine's munchie mix to get us on down the road.

It was another stunning day on the coast. Seal Rock attracts photographers and artists from around the world and even my cheap little camera captures some of the majesty of the morning.

Waldport reveals itself to be yet another quirky coastal town and we wisely stop at the SeaDog Bakery. Jeremy is friendly and for reasons I don't understand, wears a chicken cap. There is a chicken theme going on and the bakery features egg cartons on the walls. I do know that Jeremy makes some of those eggs into a really good breakfast. We also replace much of the raccoon-raided supplies with baked goods from Jeremy's place.

South of Waldport there are still more beautiful coastal views.

We stop at the small town of Yachats to pick up a few things for supper and then roll to our final campsite at Carl Washburne State Park.

The campground is on the inland side of 101, but a beautiful trail winds through the woods and leads to a wide wonderful beach. Walking with my lovely wife I know there is no better place I could possibly be.

Our friends Michael and Jennifer come and pick us up the next day and haul us back to Portland. We thank them as best we can with a bit of money for gas and we buy them pizza and tell them stories of our trip, but trips like this are always gifts that can never fully be repaid. The next day Michael rides with us to the Amtrak station and Amtrak and Sound Transit get us back to Issaquah. We are so thankful for the friends who made this trip possible and all the wonderful people who made the Oregon Coast such an amazing place to ride.

In the course of six days we rode 205 miles. This was the longest tour Christine has done to date, but we are already plotting our next journey. Those wheels, you know, they have momentum, and once you get rolling, it can be hard to stop.

We're paused for now but we'll keep 'em rolling.

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Pictures from the Oregon Coast, Going Home

2011-09-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

Pictures from our final morning at Carl Washburne State Park and the trip home. Huge thanks to Michael and Jennifer who drove out from Portland to fetch us at the end of our trip and put us up in their home. The next morning Michael rode with us to the AMTRAK station. AMTRAK and Sound Transit got us safely and comfortably back to Issaquah.

Pictures from the Oregon Coast, Day 6

2011-09-20T22:09:00.000-07:00

Pictures from day 6 of our tour. Our last day on the road ended at Carl Washburne State Park, about 14 miles north of Florence.

Pictures from the Oregon Coast, Day 5

2011-09-20T20:07:00.000-07:00

Pictures from day 5 of our tour. The high point of the day was Cape Foulweather, where the weather was surprisingly good and the views were fabulous.

Pictures from the Oregon Coast, Day 4

2011-09-20T14:17:00.000-07:00

Pictures from day 4 of our tour. We took the Slab Creek Road south of Neskowin and stayed Wednesday night at Devils Lake State Park in Lincoln City.

Pictures from the Oregon Coast, Day 3

2011-09-20T08:38:00.000-07:00

Pictures from day 3 of our tour. We stayed Tuesday night at the very appropriately named Sand Beach U. S. Forest Service Campground.

Pictures from the Oregon Coast, Day 2

2011-09-20T08:09:00.000-07:00

Pictures from day 2 of our tour. We stayed Sunday night at Nehalem Bay and camped Monday night at Kilchis County Park.

Pictures from the Oregon Coast, Day 1

2011-09-20T07:38:00.000-07:00

Christine and I just got back from a wonderful week of bicycle touring on the Oregon Coast. The whole story will take a good bit of time to tell, but for starters I'll be posting some pictures from the trip.

Thanks so much to everyone who helped us make this trip possible and stay tuned for more pictures and a stories.

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Val Kleitz Memorial Cargo Bike Ride

2011-09-06T07:12:00.000-07:00

"Have you seen Val around recently?" The question might sound like an odd one, coming as it did at the start of Val's memorial ride, but the speaker was my friend Joe and Joe believes things that not everyone else believes. For example, Joe believes that the world would be a better place if a lot more bicycles looked like this:

I wished I could honestly say "Yeah, Joe, I was riding with Val just yesterday" instead of thinking that cancer sucks and it took my friend away a few weeks ago and I really don't think I'll be seeing Val again any time soon.

It turns out I was wrong about that.

Because Val is everywhere here today. Sure there's the life-sized cardboard cutout of Val that we all get our pictures taken with, and there's Val's bike the Dread Nought being strongly ridden by Val's widow Connie and there are the numerous Val-tribute mustaches but there is something more, something that is the pure essence of Val.

Val could fix things. He wouldn't tell you your bike was too old, too heavy or too weird to do something, but he could tell you what you might do to make it better. Heck, he'd be happy to show you what to do to make it better. And he'd build things. He built bikes, he built rides, he built thousands of friendships.

And about a hundred of those friends are here today. And we're all riding.

We ride and we eat and even though there will always be this sadness in our hearts, sadness that our friend has ridden onward to somewhere we have yet to go, the joy of this day, this ride and the rides yet to come is overwhelming.

"Ride Well," Val advised. And we do.

I miss my friend, but you know I've seen him at least a hundred times today.

Ride well, Val.

Team Turtle Update: Riding the Oregon Coast

2011-09-01T12:03:00.000-07:00

photo by Bjorn Simpson

Even though we've yet to ride The People's Coast Classic, the ride has already shaped our summer. Christine has her bike and she's been biking to work every day. We've gone on wonderful day trips and a lovely overnight tour. But everything has not gone perfectly. Christine worries that she is not fast enough and may not have the endurance for the full ride. Our friend Michael, who had been planning on joining us for this trip, has an immovable work commitment the week of the tour. Life seldom goes as planned but we adapt to conditions and roll onward.

I explained why we are doing this ride back in May and since then we've managed to raise some money for this fine cause, but I had hoped we could raise much more. My friend Tai assures me that "You've both done fine. This is a rough year for fundraising and you've done a lot to get the word out about the ride." He also wants Christine not to worry about her speed or endurance, "Ride and see," he says, "a lot of folks are not fast and we do have support vehicles." So we will ride and see. But we also have our own plan if our pace turns out to be too turtlesque. We don't want to burden the ride.

Oregon has a beautifully detailed Oregon Coast Bike Map and it describes many camping options along the route. Christine and I love camping, so we are bringing our lightweight camping gear with us. If we do not keep pace with our companions, we'll adapt. Our friend Michael has generously offered to retrieve us from wherever we wind up on Saturday Sept 17th. We will ride & take pictures and do our best to document this lovely part of the world.

We know the ride will be beautiful and any funds we raise are going to the Arthritis Foundation. There is still time to pledge and the cause is a good one, so if you'd like to go to either

Christine's Page

My Page

your contribution will be most appreciated.

Stay tuned to this blog for updates from the coast. Thanks for all your good thoughts and keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

The Kelly Kettle

2011-08-28T05:20:00.000-07:00

On some of my fast & light bike trips, I forgo the comforts of hot food at the campsite and I live off cold snacks in camp and I get my hot food and coffee at mini-marts when I pass through town. But one of the great pleasures in life is having a hot beverage early on a cold morning or a hot meal at the end of a damp day, so more often than not I bring two pieces of somewhat more than minimal gear with me on my journeys: a Kelly Kettle and a 16-ounce Thermos. I've mentioned these items in passing in some of my tour posts over the years, but I often get asked about the kettle so I figure it deserves a post of its own.

Long before anyone invented the Jetboil, Irish fishermen were using a handful of twigs and a Kelly Kettle to quickly boil water. A detailed explanation of how the kettle works can be found here, but a diagram doesn't quite convey the wonder of this device in action. It only takes about five minutes for water to go from icy cold to a full boil in the kettle. Air gets sucked through the bottom vents and the conical shape creates a vortex which makes the fuel (twigs, paper, pinecones or whatever) burn very efficiently. The kettle gets a rumbling roar going and a jet of flame shoots out the top.

On a trip a few years ago, my friend Mark inadvertently brought the wrong kind of alcohol for his soda can stove, but he was able to cook his dinner thanks to the vortex action of my Kelly Kettle.

The Kelly Kettle is not really a stove, it's a device for boiling water but hot water is really all you need for many back country meals. On a typical trip I'll boil up one batch of water and use that to reconstitute a freeze-dried meal, pouring the boiling water into the food pouch which is wrapped in something insulating, like a sleeping bag or my wife's wool hat. While the food is soaking up the warm water, I run a second batch of water through the kettle and when it's boiling, the water gets poured into the thermos. The thermos water gets used to make instant coffee, cocoa, tea or whatever and water stays hot in the thermos for hours.

While the Kelly Kettle is bulkier than some stoves, I don't have to worry about packing or running out of fuel. I do tend to carry some dry paper, twigs and a small candle in the empty space of the kettle in case I wind up camping in a complete downpour and can't find any dry fuel, but I've always been able to find enough dry fuel to get the kettle going. A stiff wind, which tends to decrease the efficiency of most stoves, has the opposite effect on the Kelly Kettle. Wind blowing into the lower vents and across the top of the chimney amplifies the vortex effect.

The Kelly Kettle is one of those wonderful old things that works well and is very satisfying to use. My kettle's storage bag is a bit battered and the inside of the chimney is blackened with soot but I've used the kettle for years now and it'll probably still being going strong decades from now.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Portland Design Works Cosmic Dreadnought 110

2011-08-24T04:41:00.000-07:00

For the past couple of years my favorite bike headlight has been the Planet Bike Blaze. While the Blaze is still a fine light, my friend Dan at Portland Design Works recently sent me a care package containing what is now my new favorite bike headlight, the Portland Design Works Cosmic Dreadnought 110. Now let me pause to make this clear: Dan is a friend of mine and he gave me this light. As a blogger & a bike shop guy I get stuff. Manufacturers are looking for exposure and feedback and I'm looking for things to write about. Do these freebies bias me? Probably, it's human nature to think kindly towards people who give you things. So, take that caveat into account. Also remember that this blog pays my enormous coffee bills via those little Amazon links so I've got an incentive to get you to buy stuff and this could all just be a big Jedi mind trick to get you to buy things. Welcome to capitalism! Keep your eye on your wallet.

Where was I? Oh yeah, buy the PDW Dreadnought, it's awesome!

Seriously, the Dreadnought is a lot like the Blaze. Here is a PB Blaze next to PDW Dreadnought:

While both lights use 2 AA batteries, the Dreadnought is a bit smaller and lighter. The clamps on the lights are similar enough that each can fit in the bracket of the other, but the PDW clamp is a bit more solid. Changing the batteries is a mater of twisting the head on the Blaze, while on the Dreadnought a screw on the bottom of the light holds the battery compartment closed. Since I've had my Blaze pop open one occasion while I was riding, I think the Dreadnought's battery arrangement is better.

While the Blaze is available in 1/2, 1 and 2 Watt versions (I own every one of them!), the Dreadnought uses a 1 Watt Cree XPE LED. Like the various Blazes, the Dreadnought can be set to High, Low or Flash modes and the package lists the run times as 10 hours on high, 15 hours on low and 25 hours on flash. I have not tested this, but experience tells me these times are probably optimistic. That same experience tells me that the run times of the Planet Bike and Portland Design Works lights will probably be very similar.

The beam pattern of the lights is also very similar. I tested the One Watt Dreadnought against the Two Watt Blaze, expecting the Dreadnought to be overwhelmed by superior fire power. The photo below shows the Dreadnought's beam on the left and the Blaze's beam on the right. Both lights are set to High:

I don't see much difference. Repeating the test with the One Watt Blaze, the Dreadnought was the clear winner.

I still think the Blaze is a good light, but the Dreadnought is a bit better.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

A True Tale of Bike Geek Love

2011-08-21T18:45:00.000-07:00

Longtime readers of this blog will have deduced that I am rather fond of my wife Christine and that she is also rather fond of me. This past week she has been out east visiting her mother and brother in Rhode Island while I have been working here in Issaquah, building bikes, fixing bikes and selling bikes. I miss her and she misses me, as evidenced by a recent note which she concluded with:

"I miss you so much. I miss my Allant, too, but not nearly as much as I miss you."

Shortly before she left on her trip, Christine's bike hit a bump and her otherwise excellent Planet Bike Superflash Turbo Tail Light popped in two and the important lighty bits went bouncing away unnoticed. Later when I did notice the damage, I replaced the light with another from my light stash and secured the light extra tight with a rubber band cut from an old bit of inner tube.

But Christine & her Allant deserve better, heck they deserve the best, so today I purchased a welcome home present for her, a bright and lovely Portland Design Works Danger Zone Tail Light. Because nothing says I love you quite like a really, really bright tail light.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Laser Lite Lane: A Tail Light with Lasers

2011-08-19T07:09:00.000-07:00

I recently got to test the most interesting bicycle tail light I've ever seen, the Laser Lite Lane. The Laser Light Lane is more than a normal LED tail light, it uses a laser to project a virtual bike lane behind the rider. In addition, the Laser Lite Lane uses tilt sensors to blink the LEDs and the appropriate lane stripe to indicate the direction of a turn.

I mounted the Laser Lite Lane on my Dahon, waited until dusk and had my son Eric shoot the following video, which demonstrates the key features of the light:

The following video (supplied by the manufacturer) demonstrates the tilt-activated turn signal feature:

My pal Mark Canizaro and some of his friends made this video showing the Laser Lite Lane in action on the streets of Seattle:

Mark and I both agree that the light really needs a more versatile mounting system. The mount is designed to fit on a seatpost and while it worked fine on my Dahon, on Mark's bike his rear rack blocked part of the laser projection. Also, many riders use a seat bag under their saddle. A mount or a variety of mounts that would let the light be mounted directly to a rack or seat stay as well as a seat post should be a top priority for the people behind the Laser Lite Lane.

The tilt-turn signal feature is something I found myself using most often when I was stopped at an intersection. By tilting my bike in the direction I intend to turn, the signal worked great. When riding however, a cyclist actually tilts the bike in the opposite direction when initiating a turn. You can see this happen in Mark's video. I think this would just confuse a following driver. It would be nice if there was an option to turn off the tilt signal or manually activate the signals to indicate direction.

While the lane does project behind the rider, I'm not sure the current power levels of the lasers are enough to mark the lane in a truly meaningful way in an urban environment. Riding with other riders, conventional LED tail lights such as the Planet Bike Super Flash or the PDW Radbot seem to provide a more effective means of letting drivers know that there is bike on the road ahead.

I think there is great potential in the Laser Lite Lane and I look forward to seeing the product evolve. Anyone interested in buying a Laser Lite Lane can send email to
info@3xlll.com. The current pricing for a single Laser Lite Lane is $149.00 US and a distributor kit consisting of two Laser Lite Lanes and a set of flyers and brochures is $199.00 US.

Keep 'em rolling & stay safe,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Photos from Trek World

2011-08-18T09:36:00.000-07:00

Last week I was in Madison & Waterloo, Wisconsin for Trek World, the annual Trek dealer show. Some of the most impressive things, like Trek's testing lab & the high-end carbon assembly areas, are photo embargoed so no photos of that stuff. This slide show is basically a dump from my camera phone of all the things I could take pictures of. In some cases the lighting is poor and my photographic technique is bad, but I figure any pictures are better than no pictures.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah, WA USA

Concept Bike: The Trek Sasquatch

2011-08-12T07:50:00.001-07:00

I saw a lot of very nice bikes at Trek World, bikes that are actually in production and available for purchase at your local Trek dealer, but I also got to see some cool "thing we're working on" projects which may or may not ever be available for purchase. The Sasquatch falls into this latter category. When I originally posted the above photo on Twitter, one person asked "Why is there an axe on that bike?" That is clearly the wrong question for the target market. Speaking as someone who would love to own a Sasquatch, my immediate thought on seeing the bike was "Why doesn't my bike have an axe on it?"

Madison B-Cycle Bike Sharing System

2011-08-11T10:25:00.000-07:00

I just got back from the lovely town of Madison, Wisconsin where I was busy getting the inside scoop on what Trek has in the works at an annual conference called Trek World. While I was there, I got to check out Madison B-cycle, the city's bike sharing system. The system is pretty slick.

As a Trek World attendee, I got a complimentary 7-day access pass to the system but I did have to register a credit card because the credit card becomes the key that identifies a user to the system. Also, the system is optimal for short trips and to encourage this, trips under 30 minutes are free. If I'd opted to keep a bike for a longer period, that usage would be billed to my credit card. Using the system for a couple of days, I only did the short trips and never incurred any fees.

If you go to the B-cycle website, you'll get a full explanation of how things work, so I won't fully explain it all again here. What I will say is that the system works well, the bikes are fun & functional and the system is very easy to use.

There are a bunch of places where you can grab a bike, and maps showing you where other stations are and giving someone like me, who was new in town, a good orientation of where things are at.

The kiosk is like an ATM. Slide your card in follow a few prompts and in 30 seconds you have a bike.

Once you've swiped your card and made your choice, the racks unlocks the bike you've chosen.

The bikes feature a three-speed hub (fine for fairly flat Madison), a quick release seat clamp so you can easily adjust saddle height, full fenders, tough tires, a basket and a bike lock. The bikes also have a an electrical generator built into the front hub. If the bike is rolling, its lights are on.

You can return the bike to any B-cycle station and every time I returned a bike, I got a nice email informing me the return really worked. I never had a problem finding a bike when I needed one but I did ride by one completely empty rack at one point in my visit.

The B-cycle was a great asset to me as a visitor to the town. I got to see more, do more and have more fun in Madison than I ever could by walking or driving. If you ever are visiting a town that has a bike share system, check it out.

I'm very happy that Madison has a B-cycle system so I could keep rolling while I was in town.

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
now back in Issaquah WA USA and thinking we should get a B-cycle system here.

Journey to Wood Creek

2011-08-06T20:55:00.000-07:00

Dawn is breaking through the darkness of tall evergreens. I am nestled comfortably in the warmth of my sleeping bag, somewhere in that drowsy, contented place between dreaming and waking, when I become aware of two things: Kent is stirring beside me, and our tent is MOVING. “Yikes!” Kent yelps. “The tent is sliding!”

Last night we pitched our free-standing Big Agnes Seedhouse 2 in a very small not-quite-flat space near the edge of a 20-foot drop down to the rocky edges of a waterfall, and we are slipping toward that edge with alarming speed. I have visions of us falling, zipped inside the tent, crashing down against the rocks. Adrenaline kicks in, and I come fully awake, wailing incoherently, bracing myself and jamming my foot against a rock in an attempt to pin the tent to it, while Kent grabs hold of a tree root, trying to halt our downward slide. Gravity is not our friend at the moment, and I am very scared.

It seems a bit ironic, because up until now we have been having an idyllic adventure. We left Issaquah yesterday early in the morning, with our camping gear loaded on our Trek Allants. It was a picture perfect summer day, with beautiful sunshine and clear blue sky. I had actually managed to make it up the hill out of Issaquah without stopping for the first time ever, and we rode comfortably to Preston, through Fall City, then turning right on SR-202. We stopped to buy a small bunch of Rainier cherries for $1.00 at a roadside stand. After a short stretch along 202, we turned onto the quiet and pleasant Fish Hatchery Road, where we were greeted by a lady with her pug, and caught a glimpse of kangaroos. Fish Hatchery Road parallels the Snoqualmie River and then turns to rejoin 202 for a very steep climb up to Snoqualmie Falls. I stopped a couple of times to walk, while Kent pedaled along behind me all the way up.

Snoqualmie Falls is worth the climb. The waterfall is magnificent in the sunshine, and we are close enough to feel a bit of the spray from the overlook. We watch for a while, then find a bench in the shade to rest and refuel with trail mix and cherries.

Leaving the falls we turn onto Mill Pond Road which has a short, busy section. Big trucks roar by, and I am relieved when we come to a lovely quiet section beside a small lake. A bit past the lake, we arrive at the bottom of stairs leading up to the Snoqualmie Trail. I am doubtful about my ability to carry my loaded bike safely up the stairs, and Kent volunteers to carry both bikes (chivalry is not dead), handing me the camera so I can take pictures of him “being rugged and manly.” We enjoy the view of the river from the small bridge at the top of the stairs, then roll forward onto the Snoqualmie Valley Trail -- packed gravel and very pleasant riding -- all the way to North Bend. We stop at Scott's Dairy Freeze for lunch – a burger and chocolate milkshake for me, clams and chips and a chocolate malt for Kent, and an order of onion rings to share. Then we're back on the trail, arriving a couple of hours later at Rattlesnake Lake.

This beautiful green lake, set against the backdrop of Rattlesnake Mountain, is a popular spot for families in search of summer fun. Kids and grown-ups alike float on inner tubes and other inflatable toys in the water, or stretch out on quilts and beach towels, enjoying picnic foods and drinks. We rest in the shade of a tree, watching a cute little girl in her pink dress and sun hat wander around clutching the leash of her equally adorable Basset Hound named Lily. It's a bit of a toss-up as to who is taking whom for a walk, but they both seem to be having a good time. Eventually we get up to walk around the edge of the lake, stopping to read about the wildlife and the submerged city of Moncton, and to take pictures by a waterfall at the edge of the trail.

Rested and refreshed, we head up onto the Iron Horse Trail and ride along the gravel surface in search of a place to camp. The climb is not steep, but it is pretty relentless, and after an hour or so I am really starting to hope we will find a campsite soon. We explore the grassy open space at Ragnar, which is pleasant but has no water nearby. It's a very warm, sunny afternoon, and we've used up quite a bit of the supply that we started out with, so we were hoping to find a site with water along the trail. Kent thinks we'll find something “just a bit further up” around Garcia, so we head back to the trail and ride on. As the climb continues, I keep on gearing down until I am barely moving forward at all. I am trying to be a good sport about this, but it has been a long climb and there is no part of my body that is comfortable at this point. My shoulders ache, my hands ache, my butt aches, my legs ache, my feet ache.

We pass several groups of rock climbers, and I suddenly find myself riding out onto a trestle overlooking an impressive chasm. At least, I would be impressed if I were not terrified of heights. I'm rolling across, trying to follow the classic piece of advice, “Don't look down,” but unless I shut my eyes completely, the “down” hovers at the edges of my peripheral vision. Vertigo sets in. I cannot orient myself in space or feel any connection to the ground beneath me, and I start to scream. Kent assures me I am safe, and I know this in my head, but I can't feel it. I focus on his rear wheel and manage to make it across, where I collapse and try to breathe deeply, apologizing profusely for freaking out. Kent reassures me that it's fine, that “the trestles are freaky.” He also assures me that Garcia is “just a bit further up.” So on we go. There are more trestles, and I get off and walk across them. We finally reach Garcia, but there is no place to camp, no place at the side of the trail that is not steep rock. We ride on, and Kent moves further ahead to scout out possibilities while I plod, and plod, and plod, along in my low gear.

The trail is beautiful, my mind can barely hold all the richness and beauty of the day's experiences, and my bike is generally a joy to ride. But it's been a long day of riding for me nevertheless, and I am rapidly reaching a place where I can barely keep turning the pedals. My mind's soundtrack is playing an African-American spiritual:

It was inch by inch that I sought the Lord;

It was inch by inch that he saved my soul . . .

Keep inching along, keep inching along,

Jesus will come by and by.

Keep inching along, like a poor inchworm,

Jesus will come by and by.

We'll inch and inch and inch along,

And inch by inch till we get home . . .

Oh, trials and trouble on the way,

But we must watch (for a campsite!) as well as pray . . .

It's perhaps a bad thing for a lifelong Christian to be looking forward to supper and sleep more than the coming of Jesus, but I have to admit, I am getting to that point. This poor little inchworm is tired, and – did I say tired? – make that “exhausted” -- and running out of energy to inch forward any further. Finally I come to a stop, get off my bike, and start walking. Exercising different muscles for awhile helps, and at least I am continuing to move.

Kent rides back to me a few minutes later, and reassures me again that we'll find something “just a bit further up.” “This is why so many of your friends don't want to go camping with you,” I mutter darkly, smiling to take the edge off my words. “Your definition of 'just a bit further' is different than any normal person's.” He offers to go back to camp at Ragnar, but I tell him firmly that there is no way I am going over those “freaky” trestles again tonight. No “freakin'” way.

Eventually, we arrive at a little sign for “Wood Creek” where it appears that we can actually get off the trail. We venture into the woods up the hill (of course, it would be “up”) and find a small, sloping space with just barely enough mostly flat space to pitch the tent. I'm a little concerned about the steep terrain, but it has taken us so long to get here, and I'm really not anxious to hit the trail again. And in a weird kind of way, this place is beautiful. Impossibly tall trees surround us, giant silent sentinels that I imagine Tolkien's Ents would find congenial, somehow sinking roots into the steep slope. And there is a waterfall tumbling over the rocks to the ground far beneath us, and a short climb over a log to a spot where we can actually reach it. The idea of camping by our own secluded waterfall is enchanting. Kent hauls the bikes in from the trail and sets up camp while I move gingerly along the slope collecting fuel for the Kelly Kettle.

Kent fires up the Kelly Kettle while I open packages of Easy Mac into a small plastic container. The water boils quickly, and Kent pours it over the macaroni. “I need something to insulate this,” he announces, so I move carefully over to my bike and dig my wool hat out of a bag. It works perfectly. While I'm at it, I extract my spork from my Camelbak to stir in the cheese sauce. In a few minutes, we're digging into mac and cheese, a tin of smoked trout, the rest of the cherries, and chocolate. It tastes wonderful, the view of the trees and the waterfall is magnificent, and the company can't be beat. I am a blissfully happy inchworm, and amazed that I have actually inched along as far as we have come today.

The space for the tent is so small that one of us is going to have to sleep with our head over a tree root that is sticking out under the tent. I don't mind taking the root, but Kent insists (as I said before, chivalry is not dead). Darkness falls quickly in the forest. We settle into our sleeping bags, and are soon asleep. I wake up occasionally during the night, hearing the sound of water and thinking it must be raining, then I remember that wonderful waterfall . . .

“Yikes!” “Eeeeeeeeek!” -- that wonderful waterfall that we are starting to slide down into, as early morning light filters through the trees. I've got my foot jammed against a rock, fighting panic and clinging to Kent, and Kent is holding tight to the tree root.

“I think you have to get out so we can move the tent,” Kent says. “I'll hold onto the root.”

I don't want to release my hold on him or take my foot off the rock, but I know he's right. We have to get out of this predicament, even if it means risking further slippage. I nod, trusting him to hold on for both of us, and scramble out of my sleeping bag to unzip the tent, pitching my jacket and sandals out ahead of me, climbing out, grabbing the tent, bracing myself against a log, digging my heels in, and holding on tight to the tent. Kent climbs out after me, and we secure the tent back in its semi-flat space. We carefully crawl back into our sleeping bags, joking about falling for each other and inclinations and so forth, and Kent eventually dozes off again, but I'm wide awake, and happy just to rest, looking out at the sunlight filtering through the trees, and giving thanks that we've survived a bit more excitement than most folks prefer on a camping trip.

Eventually we get up, fire up the Kelly Kettle, and enjoy hot beverages, bagels, and granola bars. We break camp and are back on the trail by 9am. It's another beautiful day, a really good day to be alive and not crushed against rocks at the base of a waterfall. I am determined not to be such a weenie about the trestles today, and as we approach the first one, I take a leaf from Jan Karon's Mitford books, and invoke “Philippians 4:13!” Her main characters are all good Episcopalians who know that this Biblical citation is for “I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me,” and when confronted with any challenge from the sublime to the ridiculous, they go around chirping “Philippians 4:13!” at each other. It is actually fairly annoying, exceeding my saccharine tolerance at times, though I generally enjoyed the books. So I spice it up a bit as I roll across the trestle by punctuating my Scriptural citation with a bit of profanity. With each turn of the wheel, I settle into a rhythm. “Philippians 4:13, damn it! Philippians 4:13, damn it!” It certainly won't put me in the running for sainthood, but it gets me across the trestle! Yes! And every trestle after that! Woo-hoo!

We continue on down the trail, and catch a glimpse of a raccoon scurrying across, pausing to perch on its hind legs and look at us curiously. He seems to be out late for a raccoon; these nocturnal critters are normally back home fast asleep by dawn. I wonder if he's been out partying, maybe sneaking in after curfew? “But Mom, it was so cool; I saw two humans on the way home, riding funky two-wheeled machines! And the one with the mustache, on the black machine, pointed a little shiny rectangular thing at me, but I got away.”

Speaking of the funky two-wheeled machines, the Allants have performed superbly on this trip. They handle fine with the added weight of our gear, and are very comfortable to ride on the packed gravel trails. And in case anybody is wondering, Trek isn't paying me to say so. We just really do love and enjoy our bikes, like lots of other people. And the fact that they are so similar makes it easy for us to ride together, despite the fact that Kent is a much stronger rider.

We coast along happily on the trail, enjoying the downhill trip home that is the sweet reward for all our climbing yesterday. I don't think inchworms really undergo metamorphosis. But as I zip along on my Allant under the trees with Kent beside me, smiling, and sunlight shines down on us through the green canopy overhead, my spirit soars, and I think that I just might be flying.

Link to Map & Directions

Join the Bike Alliance for Five Bucks!

2011-07-29T08:26:00.000-07:00

Click the picture to embiggen the poster and get the details. Use the coupon code 5BJOP3 and in the comment field tell 'em Kent's Bike Blog sent you.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Why I Bought A Trek Allant

2011-07-27T03:52:00.000-07:00

Do you remember all those nice things I said about the women's Trek Allant back in March? It turns out they are all true. My lovely wife loves her lovely Allant and she gets this positively radiant smile on her face every time she rides it. And she rides it often. It's a nice riding bike, practical but not sluggish and, as she says, "very fun to ride. It likes to go."

Christine's bike got me thinking more about the men's version of the Allant. It's a good bike for this hilly, wet part of the world with its full fenders and wide range gearing. The swept back handlebars and ergonomic grips make for a comfortable ride. It comes complete with practical touches like a rack, a kickstand and bell.

Maybe all the practical considerations are what make the bike add up to something that just makes sense to me. Maybe it is that sense that appeals to my sensibility. But there is something in the Allant that makes me smile every time I ride it, that makes me think, "Yes, this is a very nice, very fun bike. It likes to go."

And my wife, my beautiful, wonderful, wise wife, said "If you want it, you should buy it." So I did. As Christine often says, "I married well."

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

For Sale: Fixed Gear Snow/Ice Bike

2011-07-20T17:44:00.000-07:00

I know most of the U.S. is broiling in a heatwave right now and at this instant it's almost looking like summer here in Issaquah. So probably nobody is thinking about snow. And this is probably the worst time of year to sell a winter bike. But I have a new bike in the incoming queue and not enough money in the bank. My bad timing can be your gain. If you want a fun machine for winter riding, I have a deal for you!

I originally wrote about Special Ed here and I explained why I think fixed gear bikes are awesome on ice here. While I stand by those words, I need to clear out a bike to make room for my new bike (details coming soon!) It's time for Special Ed to move on. Here are the details:

The frame is a 16" Specialized Stumpjumper made of butted Tange Cr-Mo.

The tires are 26*1.9" Nokian Mountain Ground carbide-studded tires with plenty of life left in 'em.

The drivetrain is a low, 34 tooth ring with a 20 tooth rear fixed cog, The cranks are Shimano Deore, so you can easily swap to a bigger front ring if you want taller gearing.

This is not exactly a hipster machine, it comes with functional front and rear brakes.

It also comes with big Mongoose pinned BMX pedals (good for biking in boots).

The saddle is a Salsa labeled WTB Rocket V.

The grips are Ergons with some sort of generic bar-ends.

The bike comes with a Blackburn mountain rack and custom ugly coroplast fenders.

This is an awesome foul-weather bike but really my Octocog can deal with everything I need to plow through these days. So Special Ed needs a new home. If you have room in your heart and garage for a new bike and a spare $200 in your wallet, this special bike can be yours. If you can pick up in the Seattle area, the bike is a flat $200 and I'd prefer to sell it locally. If I have to ship it, I'll charge you shipping costs plus an extra $25 to box the bike.

Summer won't last forever, so get your winter bike now! A few more pictures of the bike can be seen here.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Sasquatch Pedals: The Ergon PC2s

2011-07-20T05:51:00.000-07:00

First off, it's disclaimer/disclosure time. Ergon grips and an Ergon backpack were key pieces of gear on my 2010 Tour Divide ride and the Ergon company helped me out with a pro-discount on the Ergon gear I used on that ride, so I'm inclined to think kindly towards those folks. Jeff at Ergon recently sent me a set of their new PC2 Ergonomic Contour Pedals and once again I'm impressed with Ergon's engineering and execution.

These are BIG pedals. Shown below are the PC2 pedals above my old set of Shimano Deore XT pedals.

Christine dubbed the Ergons "Sasquatch Pedals" and, as usual, she's come up with the right words of description. The PC2 pedals are available in two sizes, the PC2 S for people whose shoe size is 42 or less and the PC2 L for those of us who where shoes size 43 and up. The pedals I have are the PC2 L model. And they are huge.

While the pedals are big, they are quite lightweight. The word I would use to describe them is "plastic" but the pedal manual (yes, these big pedals come with an extensive manual) tells me the pedals are made of "weight optimized composite synthetics" so I'll amend my description to "very nice plastic". The pedals turn smoothly on what the manual assures me are "exclusively developed, ultra flat and maintenance free polymer journal bearings made by Igus® in Germany." Since I've only had the pedals a short time, I can't comment on their durability.

The PC2 pedals are not actually flat, they have a 6 degree twist in the surface to follow the shape of the forefoot and an inner stop guides your foot naturally into the proper position for good power transfer. Rather than spikes, lugs or any kind of a cleat, the PC2 pedals use a 3M material similar to the grippy surface of a skateboard deck to keep your foot in place. It all sounds rather gimicky but the pedals ride wonderfully.

The pedals have a narrow Q-factor (they sit very close to the cranks) and you will need an 8mm Allen key to install or remove them instead of the traditional 15 mm pedal wrench.

The PC2 pedals are designed to work with "normal" shoes and my Keens (which I wear everywhere) are a great match to the PC2s. I feel very connected to the pedals. The pedal has such a big surface it supports your foot without the need for a stiff soled cycling specific shoe.

I've been happy with a variety of flat pedals on my various bikes, so I don't "need" to put Ergon PC2s on all my bikes (and my budget effectively precludes that possibility). And if asked "What pedals should I buy?" I'll still probably answer with a long-winded "it depends". On my folding bike, I'll keep my folding pedals and on a more classic bike I'll probably have something more traditional than the PC2s. But when I'm headed out to Bigfoot country on my 29er, I'm riding the big Sasquatch Pedals, the Ergon PC2s.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Moving On (Christine's Allant Story)

2011-07-17T17:50:00.000-07:00

In his commencement address to the Dartmouth graduating class of 2011, Conan O'Brien quoted Nietzsche's famous statement that “That which does not kill me makes me stronger.” And he added, perceptively, that “What people who quote that should remember to emphasize more often is that sometimes it damn near does kill you.”

Last spring, my pursuit of a nearly lifelong dream, after a year of intense concentrated work that seemed to be going perfectly, was brought to a sudden and devastating halt. It damn near killed me. Because I am a responsible adult, and genuinely grateful for the many blessings in my life, I kept on going, one day at a time. But inwardly I was walking wounded, haunted by the door that had closed on me, or at least – and perhaps more frustratingly -- nearly closed, wondering if it was worth one more effort, or if investing more time and energy was simply an exercise in futility. Not a day went by that I didn't second-guess myself, didn't cycle through circuitous, twisting inner paths fraught with bewilderment, anger, grief, and loss, only to arrive nowhere. It took about 75% of whatever energy I had just to get out of bed in the morning, which didn't leave a lot for anything else.

This went on for months, until one day last fall, when I walked through downtown Issaquah past the Bicycle Center where Kent works and happened to glance in the front window. I stopped, and thought, “Cool bike!” Comfortable looking, practical, appealing in a vintage sort of way with its faux wicker basket on the front, it made me smile. I had not smiled spontaneously for a very long time.

Over the next few weeks, I found myself walking by the window a lot, drawn to the bike in a way that I could not explain. I reminded myself that I have already have a bike which I actually like a lot, and I really don't ride all that often. I noted that the bike's $569 price tag was a significant challenge for someone with a part-time retail job. But I kept on walking by and looking in the window anyway. Walking to work in the early hours of the morning, I'd imagine myself moving on down the road ahead, riding the green bike with the basket up front.

In mid-November, with the approach of Christmas, the bike in the front window sported a festive big red bow. I stood in front of it like the kids in the movie A Christmas Story looking in the department store window at all the toys, and found myself whimsically thinking:

What I Want for Christmas

What I want for Christmas is a 15 inch Trek Allant, olive green with a step-through frame and a basket and fenders and a kickstand (and a thing that tells time) . . . I think everyone should have a really cool bike. I don't think a blender makes a very good Christmas present.

Of course, not being a kid, I knew that I would not be getting this bike for Christmas. Kent and I have always chosen to pay for things as we go and to use our one credit card only for genuine medical or family emergencies. Winter is the slow season at the bike shop and I love my husband way too much to ask or hint for presents that we can't afford. But I did some quick calculating, and figured that if I could save $10 a week for a year, I would be really close to being able to afford the bike. I skipped my after-work Starbucks stops that week and started the Bike Fund.

The Bike Fund, like any economic enterprise of late, had its ups and downs. I was able to boost it with extra hours in Safeway's floral department before Valentine's Day and Mother's Day, and with a check my mom sent for my birthday. There were setbacks when Kent woke up one morning with “searing pain in one of my fangs” which inaugurated a series of dental adventures, and the ever-popular April 15th found us owing a substantial sum of money to the federal government. (How this could possibly be so, for people on retail hourly income claiming zero withholding exemptions, is one of life's little mysteries). But I figured that what I had saved once, I could save again, and I persisted.

In March, we were invited by Kent's friend Tai Lee to ride the Amgen People's Coast Classic, a 300-mile ride along the Oregon Coast in support of the Arthritis Foundation. “We could be Team Turtle,” Kent explained. “We would go slow.”

“I can definitely go slow,” I told him. “I'm in.” Kent planned to do the ride on his Dahon Curve. I planned to do the ride on my new Trek Allant, a plan I did not share with my darling spouse, anticipating “You don't need a new bike” and “We don't have the money” responses, both of which were inarguably true.

I continued to build the Fund, working extra hours when I could. A spring sale event called “Trekfest” offered $50 off on the bike, but I wasn't quite close enough to my goal to take advantage of the deal. And I was quickly realizing that I was not the only woman to form an instant bond with the lovely green bike. Women's Allants were selling like hotcakes, Kent reported; they were rolling out the door as fast as he could get them in and build them up. I suspected sales were probably spurred on by some guy blathering on his blog about what a wonderful bike it is.

By the end of June, I had finally reached my goal. I would have the bike for the summer, in plenty of time to train for the ride in Oregon. The time had come to tell Kent about my purchase, since I would of course be buying the bike at the shop where he works. I was sitting at the table when he came home for lunch – and told me, conversationally, “We are completely out of Allants. We can't get them in.”

“Oh, no,” I said, dismayed. This was a development I had not anticipated. I had figured that if the bike was not in the shop, it could be ordered from Trek. But even though I frequently cut my high school economics class to sit in on journalism and write copy for the yearbook, I did absorb the basic concept of supply and demand. When the demand exceeds the supply, this is a good thing for the supplier -- until the supply runs out, which then becomes a problem for everybody.

“Why 'Oh, no'?” Kent wondered aloud. “Did you want an Allant?”

“I've been saving for one since last November,” I confessed. “I can't believe I finally have enough money, and the bikes are all gone. Will you be getting more in?”

They would, but he wasn't sure when. First it was going to be the first week in July, then the second week, then they really didn't know. But a conversation with the Trek rep revealed that there would be no more 2011 Allants. The next ones in would be the 2012 model, possibly in a different color, possibly with other changes.

“Maybe we can find one,” Kent said. “I could call around.”

“Why call,” I wondered, “when you can Google?”

I got on my computer and searched for Trek dealers in the Seattle area. Classic Cycle on Bainbridge Island has a great website, which advertised that they “carry all sizes of Allants all year around.” I called them and asked about the one I wanted. They had one. I put a deposit on it and said I would come in the next day.

I reported my find to Kent, who waxed enthusiastic about Classic Cycle and assured me that he did not mind me buying the bike at another shop. In fact, he was as excited as I was, and we made plans to leave early the next day for Bainbridge Island. The day started out overcast with light rain but began to clear up as we took the bus to Seattle and the ferry to the Island, and walked to Classic Cycle in downtown Winslow. Jaime, whom I had spoken with on the phone, greeted us and showed me the Allant. She was very knowledgeable, helpful and friendly as we chatted about the bike. I took it out for a test ride behind the store, verifying that yes, this is as much fun as I thought it would be. She showed me various options for carrying stuff on the bike, including the basket and a rear rack. I got the rack, but decided to wait on getting anything else for awhile. Kent came over and outed himself as a mechanic at a Trek shop in Issaquah, to which Jaime responded, surprised, “Then what are you doing here?” We explained that I had intended to buy the bike there, but they were sold out and couldn't get any more. We admired the shop and the wonderful museum bikes display, and after some more conversation Kent and I ventured out into downtown Winslow while they installed the rack on my bike. We made our way through streets being dug up for renovations, settling on the Harbour Public House for lunch. We ate fish and chips, talking, looking out at a profusion of pink roses, blue skies, and bright sunlight on water.

Finally we wandered back up to Classic Cycle, picked up my new bike, and headed home on the ferry and the bus. On the ferry, I tried to explain why I wanted this bike I didn't really need. Kent said “Sometimes those are the kind of things you really need to do.” I thought, not for the first time, that I really married well.

We brought the bike upstairs to its new home, then went to the Bicycle Center where Kent bought me a basket and inner tube. Later we biked over to REI and Target to look at lights. Finding a front light that would work with the basket was something of a challenge, but we settled on a small Coleman light that Kent attached to the front of the basket with zip ties. Since I am married to a guy who describes himself as “obsessed with lighting,” I didn't need to buy a taillight. A Planet Bike light dug out of the stash at home works just fine. With a cable and lock attached to my rear rack, the Allant and I are ready to commute to work in the morning.

As I am drifting off to sleep, I realize that for the first full day in nearly a year and a half, I have not thought about that long-ago devastating disappointment, not even once. This has been a wonderful, amazing day with the person I love most in all the world, full of interesting places and people, full of adventure and beauty and possibility. And the bike that I looked at in the window and rode in my imagination for so many months is sitting in our living room, ready to ride for real anytime I want. Perhaps some things aren't meant to be. But then again, perhaps some things are.

An epic adventurer recently observed that “You can do everything right and still not get what you want. Accept it, move on, learn.” Early Friday morning, long before dawn, I get up for my very first bike commute to work. Kent is with me, testing out his new “taillight with frickin' lasers.” We carry the bikes downstairs, turn on their lights, and head out into the early morning darkness. “This is fun,” Kent calls out to me as we ride through dark, empty streets toward the Issaquah Safeway. I zip comfortably along on my Allant, smiling, and call back, “Yeah, it is!” I'm moving on down the road, at home in the darkness, knowing dawn will soon break over the mountains to the east. In my mind's eye, that old barely-still-open door appears. I close it gently, and see myself riding away.

Some Tour Divide Questions & Answers with Justin Simoni

2011-07-14T16:17:00.000-07:00

Each year the Tour Divide provides an epic venue for riders to test themselves and their machines across thousands of mountain miles. In a year of record-breaking snow-pack, Justin Simoni met that challenge with courage, determination and a wonderful attitude of gratitude and resolve. Now back in Denver after weeks on the trail, Justin agreed to answer some questions about his ride.

When did you first hear of the Tour Divide and when did you decide to attempt it?

Fixie Dave (Nice)!

At the very beginning of my love affair with bicycles, I got word of a bike shop in town (Salvagetti) that seemed very friendly and was all about helping people get set up with the then somewhat obscure and fringe "fixed geared bicycle" that seemed appealing to me. I had just gotten rid of my car - my automative career lasted less than two years and hot-shot skateboarder friends in town were transitioning to becoming hot-shot fixed gear riders. I was retiring from skateboarding myself as well as a car-centric lifestyle. The shop's real focus at the time was having you bring in a bike you've found used that may need a little love and fixing it up with new components and making sure you really fall in love with cycling, too. The shop's owner, Scott, would tell you what to look for depending on the project you had in mind. Terms like, "track ends", "horizontal drop outs", "top tube lengths", entered my nascent cycling vocabulary.

Also working at the bike shop was this great big, friendly man named, Dave Nice. If you've met him, you can understand how hard it would be to miss him again, even in a crowd of thousands. In our introductions, he mentioned he was racing his mountain bike across the country in the Great Divide Race. Oh, and doing it fixed - no coasting, no gears.

"That's absolutely crazy." I remember saying to him. Scott, the owner of the shop and Dave snickered just a little, probably having heard the same response a number of times. Fixie Dave was one of the first to accept the challenge of racing your mountain bike across the country and it was exciting and tear-inducing to hear about his (mis)adventures. He garnered a fair amount of local coverage from his attempts, which I would read. The race stuck in my mind, growing year by year as I found out that I myself had a real love for taking bicycles on very, very, very long rides.

I also happened upon Kent Peterson's collection of articles - long before he moved into using a blogging platform, about his randonneuring career. Who knows how I got there, but five years ago, if you had searched online about fixed gear bicycles, it was a sure bet you'd wind up on either Sheldon Brown's encyclopedic site on all things bicycle or Kent's site of his reports doing such rides as the Paris-Brest-Paris. Kent's narrative of his own successful single speed recording setting Great Divide Race was the first written that really, I think, described the route in total. His photo of the Breckenridge Ski Resort from Boreas Pass struck a chord with me. I thought, "I've been right *there*, this race is in my back yard!". It made the race seem real to me.

So when I realized I love bikes and I love to ride bikes for weeks and weeks and once I played around with racing - mostly alleycats and the odd-cyclocross race (on a fixed gear, of course!) it seemed reasonable to me if not a little illogical to everyone else that I could take on a cross country mountain bike race. Getting all the moon and stars align to be available and to be in top physical condition to take on the race was all that was really needed.

How did you prepare for the Tour Divide?

One could write a book on preparing for the Tour Divide, but I really focused on fitness. Tour Divide racing is a multi-disciplinary venture. Not only do you need to ride your bike all day, you need to know how to camp ultralight, there's navigation strategies and it doesn't hurt to know how to elegantly communicate with a wide spectrum of different people. Still, making sure my body could take the torture of the length of the race itself seemed the highest priority.

I had already amassed a fairly large portfolio of month+ tours in some incredible parts of the world as well as smaller jaunts here and there. I felt transitioning from a routine of riding a touring bike all day and stealth camping at night for months on end, to racing a mountain bike all day and bivvying at night wouldn't be too hard. My tours would always turn into a race with the clock - doing a few hundred mile days in a row fully loaded to catch the plane back home just became the norm of my tours.

The summer before this year's race, I was rehabilitating myself from a leg injury, so I did more hiking than riding. The hikes would become marathon in length and my hiking partner and I bagged over a dozen 14ers. I would then transition my fitness into cycling the 100 miles to the trailhead of some of these mountains, with all my hiking and camping gear in a BOB trailer, summit the mountain and then ride the 100 miles home in a three day weekend.

That transitioned into finding off road routes to more interesting and technical climbs and all of a sudden, I was "bikepacking" without even knowing the term existed. It become fairly clear that my setup of a Surly Crosscheck fitted with the fattest tires I could put on, whilst towing a trailer was becoming a little obtuse. Learning about the ultralight setups of riders doing ultra endurance bike packing races was sort of a revelation, coming from a touring background.

This past January came around and I took a few days to write my personal Letter of Intent to send to the organizers of the Tour Divide, which spelled out what I wanted to accomplish and why and I focused a lot of my training to the goal that was then 6 months away. I'm not an expert on athletic training, but basically I started at the gym working on my body as a whole with high intensity work and slowly transitioned into long long bike rides, which transitioned into multi-day bikepacking rides. The last practice ride I did was a small part of the GDMBR itself. I think the trick of training doing enough to be in good physical condition without doing too much where recovery takes forever, which would limit you riding the long miles you probably need. Who knows? If I had a coach, I'm sure I'd be a lot faster.

One of the things I had to do to prepare for this race was, you know, learn how to ride a mountain bike! It was only in April that I purchased the bike I was to race on. I hadn't ridden a mountain bike since I was a teenager - a hand-me-down Miele. The rest of time I just rode what I had. I'd ride my fixed gear in everything, or my road bike up countless mountain passes - even took my touring bike for a spin here and there. Whatever I was in the mood for. I started trail running a little bit and snowshoeing with my hiking partner up a couple of 14ers with various amounts of success.

During the winter, I also became a major armchair mountaineer and became enthralled by stories of climbing The Eiger, or Fitz Roy or some of the major ice routes around the world. These men and women seem to be able to take on the most incredibly nasty and dangerous conditions. Like ultralight bikepacking races, there was a movement not so long ago to streamline equipment from the traditional method of laying siege to a mountain which literally took dozens of personnel and months to "attack", towards a two person team with minimal gear to get up much more technical routes much, much faster. Speed became their main tool to accomplish these exceptionally technical routes. The parallels in techniques of these two sports really stuck in my head.

I also read a lot of books about personal struggle and survival; Shackleton's Incredible Voyage, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's book, "Wind, Sand and Stars" about crash landing in the middle of the Sahara Desert while attempting to set a speed record, Laurence Gonzalez's books, "Everyday Survival" and "Deep Survival", which really goes into some good theory on how to keep your skin while doing something like a adventure race like the Tour Divide. As well as a good smattering of Edward Abbey books. All these books really helped me make intelligent choices while in the more isolated parts of the Tour Divide. Kept me thinking straight when I was extremely isolated and attempting going through very out of condition parts of the route.

I would wager the training for the race took around 30 to 40 hours a week, around 1200 miles of riding a month on various surfaces, with various bikes, going at a variety of intensity. I just kept it fun and interesting. The one thing I didn't do was enter any races. I haven't raced a bike in years to be honest - not much of a racer! This is no small chunk of time and there was an incredible amount of sacrifice made.

You transform yourself into living this monk-like existence: Wake up, ride for 9 hours, eat everything in sight, get enough work done to sustain; do it again the next day. Don't forget to rest. I started missing my friends - it felt like I was living abroad, while living right at home. The riding was certainly the best part of it all - if that wasn't fun, there would be any real reason to do it at all! Since I was so new to mountain biking and I live fairly close to so many trails, every outing was a time for discovery of trails and tracks on terrain I thought I knew quite well. Becoming more intimate of my environs felt special. I knew areas by the roads that went by them, to the dirt tracks that went through them, to trails that went up to the highest parts.

When did you first decide that you were going to attempt the original, non-modified route?

Well, I think everyone was intent on doing the standard route, until the rumors of incredible snowfall - twice as much as the norm, a one in four-hundred year winter in the mountains rang true and talk of reroutes started. It was only a few weeks before the race that the organizer started spec'ing out the reroutes and sending out the notices about them. The Wyoming reroutes didn't come out until days before the race.

I'm sure they were trying to keep reroutes to a minimum and only make the calls if absolutely necessary. Tough calls for sure, and most likely the right ones. If you *only* prepared for a border to border mountain bike race, you weren't prepared enough for what was in store for you without these reroutes. My physical preparation already included tons of snowshoeing, hiking and running - and lots of reading about backcountry survival.

With that type of experience, it seemed like madness not to do the actual standard route - six months of major training and investment of some fairly expensive gear. When you get into a good form you sort of feel like you can take on anything.

I did a four day practice ride along part of the actual GDMBR in late May, riding from the Frisco section to Salida hoping to pass over Boreas Pass, which was absolutely snowed in, from the point the road turns to dirt at the trailhead, to the Selkirk Campground on the other side. Before heading out towards Breckenridge, I stopped inside a Recycled Sports store and asked,

"Got any snowshoes?"

"Yeah, maybe in the attic..."

They had two pairs, so I bought the pair that had a guy that looked like me in the logo - big bushy beard, crooked smile - told them I was going to attempt cycling across Boreas Pass - pushing the bike, wearing the snowshoes if needing to. They wished me luck. Most of the locals thought it would be fairly impassible - *I* thought it was going to be impassible, but the worst that could happen would be that I would have to, at some point, turn back and take a paved alternative and have a pair of underutilized snowshoes to haul back home to store until next winter.

I think about 9 hours after I started hitting snow, I came out the other side of the pass and road down to Como, hit South Park and its major headwinds and a few days later, was in Salida with a slightly bushier beard and crookeder smile and a deeper understanding of what the snowed in parts of the routes would be like and good practice on techniques on how to get a loaded down bike through that type of snow.

So, I proved to myself that it was doable, albeit quite slow to get over a snowed in pass. Why the need of the reroutes at all? I shared some of the photos of making it through online, looking for a buddy to do the standard routes with me, but no one was 100% interested.

What was your moment of greatest doubt?

There were two points where I felt major doubt.

The first was in Sparwood at the point of the first reroute. I was with a group of riders in the virtual grupetto, most of whom had camped at Elkford the night previous. We were gathered at the A&W, eating breakfast.

Decision time. I could either go Left into the Canadian Flathead or go Right onto pavement for an easy border crossing. I still had not found anyone interested in doing the standard route with me - I was looking for partners more for safety than anything else. Even though a vast majority of the riders on the Grand Départ thought packing snowshoes was an essential part of their kit, the, "snowy" Elk Pass on the first day was really no big deal - more mud than snow and riders were literally given away their 'shoes to the residents of this little Canadian town.

Staring intensely at my map, studying the Canadian Flathead Section and knowing that the snow line was at an incredibly low 4300 feet, I could get a rough estimate on how many and how long the snowed-in parts were: three very, very long parts. Probably random patches of snowdrifts in heavily shaded areas. Not even a clue on the sorts of condition of the road that wasn't under snow could be like - completely under water? Deteriorated to be unridable, being unmaintained since last summer? All to take on alone in a very bear-saturated part of the country, with no real chance of seeing a large amount of people, or anyone, since, well, everyone else would be snowed out, too. Walking in and walking out was sincerely your only choice, unless you have a major 4x4 vehicle with a winch and about the same amount of time as I had to take it on foot to manually dig yourself a track.

I decided to go for the Canadian Flathead, thinking that one only takes a single turn at this game called, "Life" and at worse, I would simply admit defeat if the track got too impassable and backtrack. The pull of adventure was also way too strong to ignore.

If you listen to my first call-in stating my intentions, you can hear my voice wavering on the decision I made - it was a gamble and even though I wasn't a true GC contender like Kurt Paul or Jefe, I was intent on putting in a good time and much of that was put into major jeopardy by taking the Hard Way. I was extremely nervous as I made my way South to Flathead Road and saw snow on all the low laying peaks. "What am I getting myself into?", was a thought that crossed my mind once or twice. It seemed as if the entire 130 miles of the Canadian Flathead that I needed to cross could be under snow. I just had no idea. It could have been a major, major blunder. It could have been my race - think about training so intensely for six months and ending such a race in Canada! Embarrassingly for sure.

The second point of major doubt was in Idaho, where I was up against yet again, a major reroute around the Wyoming high passes. Just like the Canadian Flathead, this reroute changed the personality of the whole race significantly. Not knowing the area personally, I sought the advice of a local owner of an ATV rental shop, that just so happened to be sharing a building with the Subway sandwich shop. With the Chevron on the other side and a lodge across the street, that was town. I was interested to see what gear he had available, just in case something caught my eye that I could utilize. I told him what I was intent to do. He tried his best to persuade me not to.

"These passes, you're looking at 10, 20, 30 miles of snow!"

"Uh-huh."

"This is major bear country, you're going through."

"Yup."

"30 miles could be 50 miles, there's just nothing else over there."

After the Canadian Flathead and going through the snowy passes in Montana - which were much, much more technical - and dangerous, I was on a natural high that I could take on anything.

Something he sold caught my eye - a large pool float inner tube, with a covering where the donut-hole in the middle was. I told him that maybe I'll pick one of those up, find some rope and make a harness. I could then put my bike in that and instead of pushing my bike 30 miles, pull it 30 miles. And oh - did he have any rope laying around?

With the best of intentions, safety seemed to be a top concern for this gentlemen and his clients, he tried to shoot down my idea of pulling a make-shift sled with 50 pounds of gear 30 miles across something like Union Pass. This time I listened. I take a local's experience and advice very seriously and if this guy says it's impossible... maybe it was? I studied my maps a little more and realized that I was indeed, out of my mind. I dashed off an email to Matthew Lee basically stating that I've met my match, that it was a fun ride, but from now on, I'll have to take the reroute through Wyoming - oh well.

Within minutes the Subway store got a call from Matthew, looking for a dirty mountain biker and the worker gave the phone to me. Matthew was pretty certain I could do it. One thing stuck out from all the things he said,

"They don't know who you are."

What I realized is that I also forgot who I was and - of course I could do this! To have someone like Matthew also have the belief that you can accomplish something makes a big difference. I think we can all relate to someone just believing in who you are changing the outcome of your life. That outside perspective can help, especially when you're a little phased from such a killer effort and have just had a delicious Subway sub. Sometimes you are your worst enemy. Matthew never told me to do it - but he told me he believed it was possible and that's all I needed, just a little coaching from the guru.

I stopped by the Chevron and bought some more peanut butter and was on my way across the first snowed in Wyoming pass, just like that. The ATV rental guy was a little more than impressed. He himself turned from a disbeliever to someone that really wanted to see this thing happen and became both an ally and a major source of resources for me to utilize - I took over his office area, his computer and his phone. I couldn't have done it all without his help. That sort of story often repeated itself in my race.

What was the best surprise of your ride?

The race is so multi-dimensional it's truly hard to pick out a best or worst of anything, but the amazing people I met along the route was a complete surprise. The support you feel with everyone's excitement made a huge difference in my race.

What was the worst moment?

The worst moment was most certainly the morning I got off the bus back in Denver, home. I thought, "Here I am, back in my safety zone". Taking a month to get somewhere and having it take 12 hours to make it home, easily with a simple cheap-fared bus ride was just a little depressing. Long bus rides like that alone are never really ever much fun.

Did you have any exciting animal encounters?

The most exciting animal encounters were the bear prints on the road up Flathead Pass - the first really snowed in pass. There wasn't one part of the track that wasn't covered in them. The forest is so dense up there, that all the animals take to the road to travel themselves. If there wasn't bear prints, there was bear scat, if there wasn't bear scat, there was the scattered plume of some animals fur or feathers from a successful kill. The pattern was sustained through the entire snowed in part. I didn't even have bear mace.

Became pretty exiting once the daylight faded and I was taking on the route in the dark. A few actual bears were seen, but nothing that I would call a direct encounter. I sang too loudly and too off-key for most anything to even want to get too close to me.

What was the best moment?

The entire race was one of the most incredible adventures I have ever done and I'm not one to shy away from a spontaneous and often ill-planned romp through unknown territory of either the inner or outer landscapes of the universe.

That first night in the Canadian Flathead again was truly special. I had made it to the Forest Service cabin with tired muscles and a major sigh of relief, knowing at the very least, I didn't have to deal with sleeping outside with an off-the-scales bear presence and a large collection of chocolate and peanut butter treats. The area was absolutely vibrating with bear energy. All alone in this vast, mostly untouched wilderness, in this small cabin alone, not even knowing when the last visitors could have been, having enough wood to build a roaring fire in the stove to last the night - even being able to use it to toast the bread to my peanut butter sandwiches and dry out absolutely everything I brought in my kit. Just me and Miss May on the cheesy girly calendar tacked to the wall. Only thing to read was the various names and dates carved throughout the interior of the cabin. Wondering where everyone else must be on the route and what they were facing. And sadly, knowing I'd have to make my own escape from this refuge as early as possible, if I was myself to get across the border the next day - having two more snowy passes to get through, a lot of unknown territory and that bit of insanely steep "singletrack" that connect two roads on the route to deal with.

How much night riding did you do? What kind of lights did you use?

I did quite a bit of night riding. An early day for me would start at 7:00am, so to get an honest day, I would ride until past midnight. I also encouraged myself to not end a massive snow trudge in the snow itself.

In hindsight, I'd limit the amount of night riding to the minimum as there's simply just no way to go as fast at night than during the day, especially if you don't know the route intimately. Too many things are against you to make good headway.

The only exception to this was if you wanted to beat the heat in the southern part of the route. I tried, pretty unsuccessfully, to change my sleep schedule to have siestas at 12:00pm to 4:00pm in New Mexico and a major stumbling point was a wonky sleep/wake routine.

For the equipment itself, I just had a blinky light for the back of my helmet and some Black Diamond head torches for the front. Nothing fancy or special, probably picked them up on sale at REI one year - took 3 AAA's each. If I was hitting a mountain pass at night, I would ziptie one of them to the top of my helmet and wear the other around my forehead, so that I had as much light as possible in front of me. This technique was mostly used in Colorado - my fastest state by far. After the snowy passes of Canada, Montana and Wyoming, the familiarity with the Colorado terrain just seemed, even with its lofty passes, to be the easiest part of the route and the last real chance to make up any time.

How much camping vs hotels? What are your thoughts on each kind of experience?

I motel'd it far more than I would have ever thought I would. I can literally sleep anywhere so the appeal of a warm bed and comfort wasn't really the reason - I don't sleep in a bed while at home. During the 6 months leading to the race, I would either sleep in my bivvy, or sleep in what I usually sleep in, a hammock strung up diagonally across my room!

But, again, the snowed in passes seemed to change the game of this race significantly. Trudging up a snowy pass at .6 mph, rather than riding up it at a safe 8mph and trudging down a snowy pass at... .6mph rather than a good 25mph clip takes a lot of time, but also energy out of you. Instead of playing an intelligent game of keeping in constant motion and reserving your energy - cycling smart for the long haul, trudging through unknown amounts of wet snow is a tiring full-body activity that can easily leave you spent. Resupply points also turn from a 12 hour ride to two to three days of mixed riding, hike-a-bike and snowshoe trudge. To say nothing of the damage the bike takes on in those conditions.

So at some points, I simply needed to take some 1/2 days to recoup. Checking into a room, cleaning all my gear, drying the gear, dropping the bike off to get what parts that needed replacement replaced, fueling up from not resupplying for two/three days - it's nice to have a home base to do this, especially when you don't really have an extra pair of anything to wear while washing what you do have - I went with a bare minimum clothing kit, really, just because I also was bringing the snow trudging kit with me. Epic times!

How did you handle the transitions from wilderness to town?

Some of the most intense memories I had were coming into town. The rerouted section between the safe haven of Helena and Butte was one of the hardest sections I had to deal with, not because of the amount of snow, but generally the absolute crazy deterioration of that 4x4 track. Everything was thrown at you, snow drifts, quick sand, mud, rocks, rivulets everywhere, everything. I rode into Butte around midnight in a rain storm. Going from rough 4x4 track to interstate highway was interesting enough, but seeing the spectacle of so many lights that make up even a smaller city like Butte was absolutely breathtaking. The lights coming out of the Canadian Flathead, which I also got out of finally in the middle of the night had the same other-worldly feel to them, but we're talking about a factor less of lights.

Other than that, towns were a spirit-lifting sight. They usually equated to the thought of getting food and a little shelter from the elements, if not only temporarily. And when I say, "town", it could have been as small as the Clark Store - not many elements are needed to be a wonder in the Tour Divide: some sort of food and some sort of person to buy the food from. If they had the holy trinity of the Tour Divide: Bacon, Burritos and Coffee, all the better, but as Jill Homer says, bikers can't be choosers.

Breckenridge was a little whacky, just because it was in full-on summer season so there were a few instances of running into more easy going people in vacation mode. Really, I never had the feeling of being too dirty to interact in town. After awhile dirt becomes simply protective, "Road Patina" and once you tell people you're doing the Tour Divide and maybe explain a bit to them what that means, you sort of get Carté Blanche on your appearance - people are just in awe.

What wound up being your favorite food?

Many foods became favorites! Sometimes just having food was enough to fall in love with it. Peanut butter - a giant, pound and half jar of the stuff got me through between Pinedale and Rawlins, straight through the Great Divide Basin. My budget in Wyoming was pretty tight, so all I ate essentially was peanut butter and bread I sourced from restaurant kitchens. They'd sell me an entire huge loaf made from a local bakery for cheap. Adding jelly in Pinedale was a revelation.

Chocolate of all shapes and forms was an instant spirit raiser. Once it got hotter, chocolate in thin colorful candy shells ruled the day. Jelly Bellys were my favorite pure sugar fix - much more plentiful on the route than I would have thought and the only food that I almost sent myself via Post Office general delivery. You can take a few minutes, popping two Jelly Bellys in your mouth with a coffee bean to get a major little boast in energy.

I am and always will be a coffee junkie and just having coffee available made for a better experience. I got into the mode of always ordered a Chili Relleno if one was available. The best pie I've ever had was at Pie Town - the Apple Piñon pie made my day and it wasn't just because the next resupply point was across the Gila, and not because I was tired and not because the road leading to Pie Town was essentially a flattened sand dune - it was just a really good pie. Really greasy messy breakfast plates were essential. Anything in Burrito form. Bacon.

The downside, especially with stopping for food is that you can't be too into enjoying it, you kind of need to shovel it into your mouth and keep going. The Tour Divide is not a Tour of Table Manners, sadly.

What did you learn (bad or good) about your equipment? What would you improve & what would you keep the same?

Having bought my first mountain bike in April, I have little to base any comparisons upon. But, that same bikes shop I initially went to to get advice on my first bike was still around, actually absolutely flourishing and their raison d'être was simply to make you love and fall in love with cycling. In all those years - and this is a oft-repeated story of many of their customers, I never bought a bicycle from them, just a pile of parts and some wrenchin' time. But, when it came to the Tour Divide, I knew they knew what I needed, especially since they had a former multiple veteran on their history's roster.

I told them "Hey I'm doing the Tour Divide! What bike should I use?!" And they pointed and said, "That one." A 2011 Kona Big Kahuna. I did a little bit more research on bikes - what others were using, why, how much all these things were going to add up to - and especially the availability of everything and a few months later I went back to my local bike shop and said, "OK, let's get it!" And that was that. I knew that the shop curated the equipment they brought in to worked well with the local terrain and in the Front Range you have single track that goes up and then goes straight down. You need a pretty lively and aggressive bike and I really enjoyed knowing this thing was a freakin' bronco.

I was a little apprehensive about using it for the Tour Divide, but it worked out great. I think it's been shown that a wide variety of bikes work out great for a spectrum of different riders.

That bike was kept pretty stock - put my favorite saddle on, the pedals I'm familiar with and a slightly longer seat post - that's it. If I was to do it again, I may not have opted for a 10 speed setup - Tour Divide bikes just take a major beating, especially when you ride in conditions where you may just skip the day if you were doing a day ride. Perhaps a more robust groupo could have been found that wasn't as finicky as my setup became after mile #2,000, after everything gets really worn in and nothing can be replaced, without replacing everything. Single Speed? Internal Hub? Fixed? Belt Drive? These are all tantalizing alternatives.

You did this ride on a pretty low budget. What's your best money-saving tip?

For tips, a good comfortable bivvy/sleeping bag/pad sleep kit will cost you the same as two nights in a fleabag motel in a tourist trap town - so get one, peanut butter and bread (find flat breads, tortillas, etc for packability) can take you hundreds of miles and lube that chain daily, if not twice - three times if you can. A major cost penalty in my race was replacing worn out parts.

If you do the race, always be a good steward for the race - never forget to tip at a restaurant, don't leave a mess in the bathroom when giving yourself a 5 second paper towel bath, never snub a fan that may be following you and don't do questionable things while out on the track, even though you're racing - don't litter, don't blatantly camp where you shouldn't, don't go into private property, etc. Just basic things. Having manners is a way to save yourself in the future. If we all get a reputation for being unsavory while racing, the locals are not going to be so friendly while we visit their towns.

I really could have raced the race cheaper than I did, but perhaps not as sustainable, if that makes any sense. I bought my bike at my local bike shop, since I'm a loyal customer - could have gotten it online cheaper or used various shop hookups to get it at a lower cost, but nothing like that really felt right - if I had payed my dues and earned the respect of a company that wants to help me with gear costs, that would be a different story, but this is all a new thing to me.

Being a part of a community is far more valuable - the wrenches helped me understand my machine, the shop itself rooted for me during the race. Knowing I'd come back and be able to have a few rounds of beers with all the wrenches and sales people and the owner was good inspiration while being in the dumps.

Other than that, it's just the way I already live my life. I was already living without a car free, so bikes were how I got around anyways. The place I live in is small and shared with a few people and close enough to downtown and the resources I need. Most of the activities I do are creating stuff or interacting with people and/or their projects - lots of artsy activities and not a life of consuming. To deal with the major amount of food I ate while just simply training for the Tour Divide, I bought a huge, 25lb bag of brown rice and each meal just became "rice with..." and then something a little more exciting.

One of the main reasons that mountain bikes never really appealed to me was that the mountain bikes I see daily are perched on top of cars. In my location one needs to drive 10-30 miles to a trailhead, before taking a ride. At least when training for the Tour Divide, that extra 20 - 60 miles per ride was perfect training. Another tip Dave Nice may also give you, as he himself had his home base in Denver for a few years.

In some ways, on the Divide you are very isolated, but in other ways you are very connected to people. What are your thoughts on that?

A major appeal to me about the race was the isolation - and I was more than thrilled to be über-isolated when taking the standard routes - as much as I love being around and interacting with people, being alone is how I recharge myself. As isolating as some of those sections were, going on a bicycle tour in a foreign country that you're learning the language of, while riding through is a much more isolating situation.

As for being connected, I opted to have a SPOT GPS, but for the most part I tried to forget it was there. It always caught me off guard when I get super fans of the Tour Divide on the side of the ride yelling, "Go Justin!" or the bike shop all ready for my imminent arrival. The former brings your spirits up, the latter saves you a bunch of time - the bike shops all along the route were incredibly accommodating helping you get tuned up in a very busy time of the year for them. Many of the people who you would speak to would then follow you throughout the race. Perhaps that's one of the ways I got a such a strong fan base.

What kept you going through your toughest times?

Times were tough?! Perspective I guess - you're racing this race and sincerely, it's the greatest race in the world, with this wonderful network built around it, be it the community of internet fans, the towns and its locals you go through, the bike shops along the way, the other racers - it attracts a special breed you know - to the organizers and everyone that puts in so much of their selves towards the race. It's a complete privilege to be out there doing what you're doing. I felt I owed it to people to race a good race and give it my heart and soul. There were incredible days and there were not so incredible days, but there never was a day that I completely lost my cool for more than five minutes. If things were miserable, again the perspective that pain is temporary helps greatly. Coffee tastes phenomenal after getting out of a tough section. Living this monk-like lifestyle while training, I didn't have a girlfriend at home to miss, but solitude is a place of strength for me. But, seeing my Brother, who lives on the route in Breckenridge and who I haven't seen in over a year was a huge help to get through Colorado and into New Mexico.

I did also bring along music and intense and emotional situations like racing in the Tour Divide really makes you feel very connected with some of the lyrics and moods that you listen to. It could have been a simple playful song by Joanna Newsom I could let part of my mind wander into while trudging up yet another snowy pass in the early early morning, or some dance music on those huge tracks of road in the Great Divide Basin or South Park. I have to thank Johnny, Joey, Dee Dee and Tommy Ramone, who's discography of simple songs I think I sung out loud and completely off key with ad-libbed in lyrics to fit the situation I was in (mostly, about bears) for getting me through the Canadian Flathead section.

New Mexico dealt you some wild cards. What were your thoughts on the final day on the trail?

My last day in New Mexico is where I crashed my bike going down a bumpy hill and had to take myself out of the race to visit the ER.

Canada, Montana and Wyoming were hard areas to get through, with all the snow trudging and the rest of the mixed terrain. I passed into Colorado with so many friendly faces and familiar terrain, it seemed by far to be the easiest and fastest section to get through. New Mexico, on the other hand was a solid test of all my experience during the Tour.

I knew going into the state that the heat would play a very large role in my success or failure. In the northern sections, I could snowshoe in bike shoes without socks for hours on end, seemingly oblivious to the cold, bivvy at the top of a snowy pass in alpine conditions while it rained and snowed around me and chuckle about how I had a touch of hypothermia that night in the next call-in, but heat on the other hand was a desperate problem.

I did my best to stave off dehydration, bumping up the water I could carry to around 1 1/2 gallons and trying to be smart about not riding in the hottest parts of the day. But, I still wanted to blaze through New Mexico as fast as possible. I probably took the beginning part of the state - a fare bit of just road, too fast - I just felt unstoppable. When I finally got to dirt again, I was at less than 100% to deal with it all. The road to Pie Town was miserable and the Gila in total was just something I was trying to get through as fast as I could. I lost perspective that I had almost three weeks of constant riding under my belt with 0 rest days and I was then asking my body to perform even harder.

Water really just didn't quench my thirst and I was always nervous about where the next resupply of water was, hearing from North Bounders I past that windmills were dry and pumps locked up.

Food also didn't satisfy - I just never got much feedback on my body on what it wanted and how much of it was needed, so it was just this guessing game of how to properly handle my body.

The intensity of the sun was also an issue, as I'm faired skinned, but I did my best with high quality, high SPF sunscreen, along with sun covers.

Gear was also beginning to fail at an astounding rate. The bike's drivetrain was just in bad shape, and select gear combinations seem to work, while others just skipped the chain and made me lose my speed. Small annoyances that turn into large ones when you're going through symptoms of heat exhaustion and trying to race a time trial. It all became a little too unreal when my pedal exploded, North of Cuba and not really having a bike shop to service it with a replacement until Silver City - the last bike shop on the whole route. I bought a replacement pedal at a Walmart, but when changing out the broken pedal, I managed to break my multitool in half - the pedal was just stuck in so tight into the crank. If it wasn't for a piece of rope I found on the road I used to tie the broken pedal to my shoe, I'm not sure what I would have done, really. And of course, this is when you finally get that flat from all the thorns you keep hearing about, your sleeping pad springs a leak and your shoes are just not all that comfortable anymore.

So my final *day* on the trail actually started out on a good note - the day before, I wisely took a half day, knowing that I couldn't do the little CDT singletrack section to Silver City safely without being completely hydrated and completely rested and completely good on food. The Gila section was tough, for all the reasons I listed. Instead, I took the 9 mile penalty and went off route to Lake Roberts to have about five enormous meals, plenty of water and to get plenty of rest. The next day I felt focused and out of that strange heat exhaustion daze, I left early to beat the heat and felt fine. Finished the section at around 10:00 am without too much trouble. The trail seemed a little loose because of the type of dirt that it's made up of, erosion seems to be a long term problem I mentally noted, but that's it. I also was looking forward to getting into Silver City, checking the bike into a shop to give it a good cleaning and a fresh set of pedals and hanging out for a good four hours until around 4:00pm, eating another few meals and planning my last attack of 120-odd miles to the border that I was planning to do between 4:00pm and 4:00am. There was just a few more miles of dirt and a few more miles of pavement to pedal away. No problem. I mean, look what I had already done!

Where I had my accident was just after the CDT section. There was a bumpy downhill and I just managed to hit a good bump - it felt like a dirt jump, at a good clip, got airborne and landed in a bad way, destroying the front wheel and hitting my shoulder pretty badly. Plenty of people had taken the same road without incident, my bike has never failed me, especially when the route got technical, so I can only say it was operator error. There was a turn coming up, so I wasn't even trying to go down at any break-neck speed, I was just making sure I didn't miss the turn. There was a major emotional meltdown, embarrassingly, amongst strangers who had stopped to take me to the ER where I realized that the race - ever so close to being finished was now over in a different way. But like everything, perspective helps and I was glad I wasn't hurt more than I was, the bike can be repaired and there's always another time or another adventure. It wasn't crying Sour Grapes, that would be denying the very focus of my entire year, but rather accepting that what happened has happened. You can do everything right and still not get what you want. Accept that, move on, learn. The Tour Divide was the most incredible ride of my life - the crash only made it even more unique and amazing to me.

How are you healing up? How is the bike? Is there anything your fans can do to help you out with medical bills or other expenses?

The diagnosis I got at Gila Regional Medical Center was good news and the care they gave me there was absolutely wonderful. While waiting for the doctor, they brought coffee and I watched a little of the Tour de France! The doctor showed me the X-ray, which showed no broken bones or dislocation, just a bad sprain which should just heal up on its own. I was amazed as the pain I felt during and after the crash was the most intense I've ever felt for anything in my life, but the doctor explained that this also was a good sign, if I had a clean break of a tendon or bone, it wouldn't have hurt quite as much.

Thankfully, because of my previous issue I had with my leg (which was also bike-related), I had saved up for health insurance, which I had kept. Crappy health insurance, but beats having nothing. There's a little I'll have to pay for the copay and a lot for the X-Ray I'm sure, but I don't have the final bill, yet. I was transported to the ER by a fish and game police officer that just so happened to be in the area I had my accident, so no ambulance or helicopter ride to pay for. I was really, really lucky. The human body is a surprisingly resilient thing. I was also kind of happy I had put in some solid gym time in training to build up my entire body, instead of just working on pedaling.

Bike is still currently in Silver City - I opted to have it sent later, since the shoulder injury prevents me from really lifting anything for a while. I didn't even want to figure out how to get it on and off the bus I was riding home. I'll rebuild the taco'd front wheel and replace the drivetrain eventually and we should be good to go for another round of adventures. I can't say I haven't thought of a few trips in some out of the way places I already want to take.

I can't possibly thank the bikepacking and Tour Divide community enough for their intense interest in my race, in their support to my fundraising project - as well as the fundraiser for Dave Blumenthal and his Daughter's college fund. You've all collectively already have done so much for me, I already feel severely indebted to all your kindness and selflessness you've given to a relative unknown member of your community that just decided to take a road a little less traveled and found it to be a most delicious way to race the race. I'm more interested in seeing if there's anything that I can do to help anyone else's projects within the community.

As I said in my final call-in the love and support shown to me makes me aspire to just be a better person myself. This is an unfair and unjust world we live in - filled with imperfections and compromises and it's truly difficult to exhibit the amazing qualities I've personally seen and felt. You've all given me some amazing hope. Thanks, everyone. Your support of my ride has even touched members of my family that haven't been as close as I we all would probably like to be and the race has really started bringing us all together in mutual support - it could very possibly be this amazing catalyst for us all being better to each other. Big stuff.

I will keep people updated with my recovery, but I think it's just a matter of time and rest - and some good coffee to be drunk. If complications come up, I'll certainly let the community know and ask for guidance.

What's the next adventure?

Ha! I think for a while it'll be fishing with my best friend at Turquoise Lake up in Leadville and having a beer or two, while keeping a look out for bald eagles. Catching up with friends. Figuring out my next art project, getting my screen printing business organized, becoming reacquainted with my instruments for the marching band I'm in and sincerely writing a 5 year life plan. It may be time for me to go back to school, or move away from Denver to somewhere else. Who knows? Sometimes, adventures have months of preps, sometimes it's more like a few hours notice. Both types are delicious. Probably try my hand in being the best partner I could possible be in a romantic relationship - now that's something that's filled with unknowns and danger!

There's obviously other adventure races I'd like to take on with a bicycle. The Colorado Trail Race is really attractive, as I could simply pedal to the starting line, but it's really questionable that I and my bike will be mended up in time for the start of this year's race in a little over two weeks.

Looking a little more into the future, my snow trudging and love of cold-weather encounters during the Tour Divide makes me think that the Iditarod Trail Invitational in Alaska is right up my alley. It's a costly venture, so careful thought would be needed to be done if that's really what I want to do. If I decide to go for it, I'd sincerely live part time in the Colorado Mountains in an old cabin I'd take over, completely off the radar and feed this myth of this crazy guy with a bright red beard that spends all this time alone practicing cycling like a monk practices a martial art, preparing for cycling half way across Alaska and the like.

I don't have enough perspective to say if I'd do the Tour Divide again, but if so, I'd continue to respect it as a race and try to put in a good time - perhaps under 20 days? Maybe attempt to yo-yo the course? Is that even possible?

What is your advice to folks thinking about riding the Divide?

Respect it. Respect the facts of the race - how long it is, the conditions you'll be thrown. Respect the community built around it and respect the towns you go through. It's simply not an easy race. Be a steward of the race itself while racing it. Be prepared physically and mentally and follow the old adage of, "know thyself". Be prepared to do more than just ride your bike 16 hours a day, there's just a whole lot more to it. The Tour Divide is unlike anything else - it's special and fragile. Be ready to deal with surprises and remember to keep a positive attitude and get ready to love being cold, wet and isolated most of the time.

A Few Pictures from Classic Cycle

2011-07-14T05:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Christine and I rode the ferry from Seattle over to Bainbridge Island. Classic Cycle on Bainbridge is a full-service modern bike shop that is also home to a large collection of classic bikes and bike memorabilia. I took a few pictures with my phone while we were there. Click on any of the pics to embiggen them.

I could've taken a lot more pictures and spent many hours looking at all the cool bike stuff in this shop. Anyone anywhere near the Seattle area who has an interest in bikes and bike history will find it well worth the trip across the water to Classic Cycles.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

My Swiss Army Knife Has No Corkscrew

2011-07-09T20:05:00.000-07:00

In my early college days I had a moped. It was a silver thing with pedals and a 49cc engine that burned a gas/oil mixture. While the machine could technically be pedaled, it was hefty enough that I'd pretty much pedal to get it going, pop the clutch and fire it up. It would buzz to life like slightly pissed off metal bee hive and if I had a long, downhill run I could maybe reach speeds of 30 miles per hour. I was never asked to join the Hells Angels.

While I had a lot of fun with the moped, I ultimately sold it. I suppose many people would view the moped as underpowered and trade up for a true motorcycle or a car, but my issues with the machine were not that I found it lacking, but that I found it to be too much. Too much noise, too much weight, too much hassle. I had to buy gas for the machine & insure and license it. The bicycle was simpler and more suited to my nature.

My nature, however, is certainly not minimalist. I like gadgets and stuff. I like looking at cars and listening to Car Talk. But I know that I'm much happier not owning such complex machines. I've managed my life in such a way that I don't need to own or operate an automobile and I'm quite happy on that road less traveled by. Your mileage may vary.

While I value versatility, there's often some tipping point that triggers something in me that says "Too much!" In the case of the Swiss Army Knife, it's the corkscrew. I don't drink wine. I don't foresee the need to open Chardonnay under fire. It's not just that I don't need the corkscrew, its presence on the knife bothered me. So I hunted around and found the Swiss Army Knife I like, the one that has the stuff I really use, the one without a corkscrew. (Actually those clever Swiss make many different knives, many without corkscrews.)

The digital equivalent of the Swiss Army Knife is the Smart Phone and the main thing that bugs me about the phones, the corkscrew that sticks in my craw, so to speak, is the phone plan. Fred and Carrie skewer this perfectly in Portlandia:

The whole "we're going to lock you into a cell provider for 2 years and charge you when you go over this limit" thing was far more than I was willing to deal but I found a way to bypass that. Like my knife without a corkscrew, I have a phone without a plan. I surf the web. I check my email. I send texts. I update Twitter. I play MP3s. I watch movies. I listen to podcasts. I navigate by GPS. I take pictures. Heck I even make calls now and then. But I pay zero per month. Zip. Zilch. Nada. It works for me but it may not work for you. Your mileage may vary.

I bought my phone at Target but you can get the same phone from Amazon for less than $150 these days. It's an Android LG Optimus V. If you want you can turn on the cell functions for $25 per month but if, like me, you live in a WiFi rich environment, you really don't need to. I have Wifi at home. I have Wifi at work. I have Wifi at the coffee shop and the library. Heck, we have it at some of the parks here in King County.

Yes, I'm not always connected. I'm OK with that. Incoming calls go to Google Voice. I use Fring for outgoing calls. All my texts go thru Text Plus. And as soon as soon as I intersect with one of those zillion Wifi spots, my phone grabs everything it needs in terms of connectivity.

I thought I'd turn on a month to month phone plan if I needed it and it turns out I don't need it. I don't need a motor on my bike or a corkscrew on my knife. And I don't need monthly service on my phone.

Keep 'em rolling,

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA

Road Surfaces, Chip Seal & Rolling Resistance

2011-07-06T05:18:00.000-07:00

John Howard noted that the bicycle is a curious vehicle in that its passenger is its engine. Because of this fact, the bicycle rider is immediately and intimately aware of the resistance or ease offered up by various road surfaces. While the motorist or cartographer may find road surface to be a minor detail, one to be noted with a bit more pressure on the gas pedal or slightly different line on the map, those of us who turn the pedals to roll our wheels grade our roads on a much finer scale. Roads are not merely paved or unpaved, smooth or rough, they are complex characters revealing their true natures when the rubber meets the road.

It is not surprising that the driving force behind the early movement to create smoother roads were the bicycle riders. Beginning in the late 1870s and continuing for the next half a century, The Good Roads Movement preached the Gospel of Good Roads. If we were to whisk one of our cycling forefathers and his highwheeler forward in time to show him the world we've built upon that vision, he would no doubt be amazed but might just as likely to gaze upon eight lanes of cars stuck in freeway traffic and inadvertently quote David Byrne, "My God... What have I done?"

While some may argue that we have in fact paved paradise and put up a parking lot, we nonetheless seek to smooth our way in the world. While I can and do love a rough road or a trail too tough for any wheel, I also must admit that I'm a sucker for a smooth stretch of highway. I guess that makes me human.

While smooth asphalt is good for going fast, smooth concrete is better. I'd love to see somebody with a Watt-meter put some numbers down to back up my assertion, but my legs tell me it's true. It's not just your tires, it's the road your tires are on.

My friend Jan over at Bicycle Quarterly has done some great studies relating tire pressure, construction and road surfaces and anybody remotely interested in the subject would do well to read his magazine. To overly simplify a complex subject, it's complicated and high pressure tires are not always your best, fastest or most comfortable choice.

Somewhere between gravel and pavement is a creature feared by bicyclists, the chip seal road. Chip seal is a base of soft asphalt overlaid with crushed stone aggregate. Cyclists dislike chip seal because it is a rough ride and it tends to be slow going. Somewhere years ago I found a reference to trucking companies actually factoring chip seal roads into their fuel calculations because it's higher rolling resistance affects mileage. Cyclists tend to feel the roughness via their hands and butts while the resistance is felt in their legs.

Chip seal is often used on roads with low traffic volumes, the ones cyclists often tend to favor. In a conversation with a DOT traffic engineer I learned that a road can often be maintained with chip seal at a cost about 1/8 that of a full re-pave and while the lifespan of chip seal is less than full asphalt repaving (about half) the cost savings are what is driving it's continued usage. In today's tight economic times, the traffic volume guidelines for which roads get asphalt paving and which get chip seal have been revised upwards. While a few years ago only roads having traffic counts below 2500 cars per day might get chip seal, now roads having as many as 10,000 cars per day may be chip sealed. (I'm recounting this from memory and my exact numbers may be wrong, but the basic message is this: many more roads are getting chip sealed these days.)

I also learned that there are grades of chip seal and while the finer aggregate costs more per ton, it is often the case that in the field the engineers have to use less aggregate with the finer grade stone. This results in a smoother road for drivers and cyclists with a final cost that is the same or less than if the locality had opted for the cheaper, coarser aggregate. So if you are a cyclist and you hear of chip seal projects upcoming in your area, try to make sure the project uses the finer grade of aggregate. Also, often the road repair doesn't need to extend the full width of the road. Chip sealing the main traffic lane but preserving a strip along the road shoulder both saves material and gives cyclists a smoother defacto lane. The photo below shows a portion of US Highway 20 (the North Cascades Highway in Washington state) where the chip seal has been applied in this manner. While the state DOTs tend to be aware of these considerations, that is not always the case in local municipalities so it's important for local cyclists to do what they can to express their concerns in the planning stages of local repaving projects.

Roadie or Mountain bike, triathlete or tourist, we all ride on roads or trails. And the routes we travel don't just happen, we make them happen. On my best days, I remember to do my bit to keep things rolling.

Kent "Mountain Turtle" Peterson
Issaquah WA USA