Riding the Pooh Trail

I've long been perplexed at the practice of bagging pooh after your pet has laid some cable on a local mountain bike trail. We've all seen it...small brown bags, tied neatly at the top, just sitting there on the side of the trail, looking forlorn and scared. As I ride by I usually think ..."They'll be back for that bag and place it in the trash at the trail head."

But too often I see that same sad bag of pooh lingering for longer than it should.



Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the actual bagging of the pooh; it's far better than the all-to-frequent alternative of letting your horse-sized animal created a new obstacle in the trail for the rest of us to either ride around or through.

Come to think of it, there's one trail that in my corner of the universe has become famous for random animal droppings: Mueller Park.

While this trail is busy with hikers and bikers, it's also seemingly the place to bring your animal to take a hud. Within the first 200-300 yards of trail one can consistently count several piles of fresh mess. Part of me thinks this is the dog just getting it out of his system before the tag-along run with his owner.

But more and more I'm starting to believe this is a place people bring their dogs to pooh.

And I've been unfortunate enough to have ridden through one of these piles. It's been several years, but the memory (and the smell) is still fresh in my mind. And there's nothing worse than hitting a steaming pile of Alpo right at the outset of a ride to keep your anger brewing.

Seriously, can't you people take a stick or a makeshift broom made of pine bows and brush this stuff off the trail where it can decompose quickly and remain out of sight for riders? I smell bad enough after a hard ride with out freshening up with Fido's fertilizer.



I've also seen this phenomenon on paved trails, believe it or not...and on faux paved trails like Slickrock in Moab. Mmmmm....nothing like baked crap being flung about by some inexperienced rider who can't avoid it. And there's surely nothing sweeter than finding out too late that the smell that's following you is on you. And it's the same color as the trail, so it can be hard to miss. And it's going to stick on your tires and jersey for longer than you think.

And don't even think of trying to question my already questionable bike handling skills. I can steer around the pooh...if I could see it. It usually hides in the shadows, caked in a think coat of the same dusty dirt that covers the trail...maybe posing as a pine cone, but always finding its way onto you.

Which brings me back to the little brown bags of pooh. Yes, it's very kind and sensitive of the person who bagged the crap to do so. But I implore you to take your smelly mess with you; whisk away the unbagged dung into the bushes if you run out of pooh bags; and until that dog learns how to pedal or wipe itself, leave the dog at home.


The one dog owner who packs out what his dog packed in (and then let out.)

PETA can bring their team of high poohwered attorneys after me — I will no longer stand for owners and their animals treating our trails as their own outhouse. I demand justice. I demand freedom from pooh. I demand a bright fluorescent dog food that's visible from 50 yards once it's evacuated from the animal.

To all dog owners out there who don't clean up after your animals: May you step in your own pet's pooh. And may it smell. Badly.

Race to win, or ride for style?

As per my daily diet of all things cycling, I was reading along with Cyclingnews.com's coverage of the mundane when I came upon this little snippet by Matthew Cole from BikeRadar.com:

UCI ban skin suits and open face helmets for some mountain bike competitions

The UCI, the governing body for competitive cycling, has made some interesting changes to the rules for the 2009 season and beyond including banning the wearing of "tight-fitting clothing" and insisting that full-face helmets must be worn when racing and practising for downhill and 4X.

The wearing of skin suits has been a point of contention over the last year, notably in the Australian round of the mountain bike world cup. A skinsuit-clad Tracy Moseley (Kona) won the women's race by four seconds ahead of Rachel Atherton (Animal-Commencal), who claimed that the skin suit gave Moseley an unfair advantage.

"Fair enough to Tracey if she wants to do that to win, but for the sport and the longevity of the sport, to wear cool race kit and to make an image for yourself is more important than the odd win here and there," said Atherton.

The image associated with the story, illustrating the skin suit in full flight, can be viewed here.

However, I'm a bit perplexed about the controversy. Isn't winning the race the point of racing? It would seem that using innovative methods to shave seconds off your downhill time would be applauded by others, followed shortly by mimicking said method.

But, no. Atherton is more concerned about the integrity of the fashion of the sport than winning her bike race. In her words, "to make an image for yourself is more important than the odd win here and there."

The odd win? The last time I checked winning was the point of racing; it's what the sponsors pay you for. Then again, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm so out of touch with this particular discipline of cycling to understand that winning isn't important, but how you look is important.

And to some extent, I agree, looking good is important. For instance, there's the unwritten code of cycling by Pezcyclingnews's Josh Horowitz.

It's not meant to be the final word on everything related to cycling attire, but it helps put things into perspective.

Having said this, I realize there are situations that call for a pair of baggy shorts and a loose fitting jersey. Fine. But don't tell me that you'd rather be the best looking loser on the downhill circuit than be on the podium on a regular basis.

My theory: Atherton's muffin top prohibits the use of the skinsuit. And that's okay, just don't whine when you lose. And a note to the UCI: Don't cave to fashion and outlaw the skinsuit. Why not take a stand and outlaw something that would actually freshen up the racing. Like eliminating race radios in all road bike events.

Now, I admit wearing the skinsuit on the downhill bike is a throwback to John Tomac, but when did winning become uncool? Maybe it's European and I just don't get it.

Something that is cool, and is coming to a backyard near me, is my latest Trojan Horse. I'm using the very clever, and effective, ploy of improving my son's BMX skills to get my parents to allow a replica of this track to be built on their property. Both his bike skills will improve, and hopefully so will mine. At least that's the plan.




(For more info on the epidemic, visit Lee's website.)

I imagine hours of summer fun with my son carving the corners, doubling the rollers, and just generally enjoying the fun of cycling. It'll be a place where the latest component or bike toy won't matter; where there is no finish line or points series standings; and where if I want to break out the road kit and skinny tires to spank the pants off of my 7-year-old, there will be no governing body to intervene and ban my attire.

That is, of course, as long as I'm wearing the right colored helmet and my glasses are outside the straps.

A bird in the head is better than two in the bush

Continuing the theme of great fall mountain biking and the stories that go with them, here's part II in the Remembering the Good Times series. 

Some people have all the luck. Some people just have all the good stories. Take my good friend, The Man with Two First Names, for instance. For 10 years I've been regaled by his tales of mishaps, bruh-ha-has, workplace debacles, and clever plots. But it's his biking stories that ring the truest. 

Example #1: Descending Mueller Park trail, perfect weather, trail conditions are good for speed and a large pine hen sits squarely in the trail. As the TMWTFN approaches, the bird flies up ahead of him, seemingly leading him down the trail; kind of like its sounding the warning to all oncoming traffic. 

But just as this appears like a gesture of good will, the bird turns and attacks, latches cleanly onto his head and neck and hangs on for several seconds. TMWTFN actually had to brake to a complete stop and reach back and punch the bird several times to make it release its death grip on his head/neck.  And of course no one was willing to help; everyone was immobilized with laughter.

I can't explain what he looked like, so I'll use a series of photos to illustrate it; you pick the one(s) you like best and begin to visualize.

Ordinarily we all have a good story from a favorite trail or destination, but TMWTFN has many stories from many trails.

Example #2: Same trail, Mueller Park, dead of summer, middle of the day. Hotter than the desert in Africa. As he's climbing up the trail, he meets a runner escorting an elderly man down  the trail who is dehydrated and desperately needs water. Really, this man may have been closer to death than I can reasonably emphasize.

Being the kind-hearted giver that he is, TMWTFN immediately dismissed the old man's needs and told him he'd lived a good life and that dying the wilderness was many a man's wish. Soon, the runner and the fellow cycling companions (who were even more kind-hearted) coerced him into sharing the water from his Camelbak. 

So he graciously holds the hose over the dying man's mouth and drips a few drops of water from the bladder into his parched mouth. "No, not like that!" insists the runner..."you've got to let him get a good long suck on that mouthpiece for him to get enough water."

Here's what was sucking that mouthpiece.

Now I have to be more honest, the man didn't look exactly like this...he was older and had fewer teeth.

The loud slurping and sucking and drooling that was occurring at the expense of the Camelbak's mouthpiece made nails on the chalkboard sound like a lullaby.

And while this gesture may truly have saved an old man from dying, it scarred several other men for life.

Needless to say, the mouthpiece was instantly incinerated and someone else spent the day dehydrated instead of the old man.

These stories aren't meant only for your entertainment, however; there's a life lesson to be learned here.

No matter how many birds get stuck in your hair and neck, or how many disoriented bums have to suckle from the teat of your proverbial Camelbak, it's always better than being shat upon by a impatient pigeon with lower GI distress.

Rubber side down.

Remembering the good times

There's something about this time of year. Like many cyclists, I slow down a bit before ramping up my "winter training program" — which is short for watching TV while straddling my road bike mounted on the trainer. This is different than summer training which consists of watching TV while straddling my sofa while my bike is mounted to the top of my car.

Aside from beautiful weather which is ideal for mid-day weekend rides, this time of year is great for reminiscing on the glory days of the past....the past years' races, the great group rides of the past, and the epic 4-day benders in Moab or Fruita. 

So while spinning the local singletrack on my mountain bike this week, I was reminded of the last big mountain bike race I entered. When I say big, I don't mean important, I mean long and hard. Let me add as a disclaimer that I didn't really know how to train for racing when I entered this race. But I don't think this would have changed the outcome anyway. The bike race was the now defunct Brian Head Epic 50/100.

To begin with, let's look at the finish line photo, compliments of my good friend and riding buddy The Motivator.

You may not be able to see the look on my face, and if you click on the photo you may still not realize what the look I have on my face really means. What you can see here is me using sign language to communicate exactly how I felt when I crossed the finish line. Let's backtrack for perspective...like that Seinfeld episode in reverse.

Thirty minutes before this photo was taken I was a scant 5 miles from the finish line, lying under a pine tree in the fetal position trying not to vomit. As I shook, shivered, and dry heaved, the gleeful onlookers posing as race fans could be heard debating the merits of approaching me and offering help. They eventually decided to let barfing cyclists lie and have a good laugh at my expense instead. A wise choice. Eventually I got up and rode on.

Thirty minutes before that, I was puking string cheese on my new carbon handlebars. A new way of looking at the term "cheesed off."  String cheese was the only thing that sounded edible at the last feed zone, so I pounded a few and went on my merry way. I was looking forward to a cold, flat Coke, but unfortunately my race support had gotten thirsty and drank it. Bet Lance never had to deal with Bruyneel rifling through his mussett bag of pastries and beverages.

Thirty minutes before that I was walking my bike up the steepest part of the trail talking to myself in the second, third and fourth persons.  And waiting for that elusive second wind. 

At this point I should have given up, thrown in the towel and accepted the DNF like a man. But I couldn't. I couldn't let the race best me. I couldn't let string cheese best me. I couldn't let those single-speeders with aluminum cans on their hubs best me. I couldn't let the crappy pre-race meal best me. And I refused to let the barking dogs that kept me awake ALL NIGHT before the race best me. So I kept pedaling...errrr....walking.

Fast-forward again to the finish line photo: shortly after I crossed the finish line, saluted the camera, and fell off my bike, I resumed the fetal position and prayed to Santa Claus to ask the Easter Bunny to help me from blowing my lunch all over my many fellow two-wheeled soldiers. 

But my faith in Santa Claus wasn't strong enough, and this is what ensued.

To add insult to injury, someone from the resort who I couldn't focus on clearly because of the tears in my eyes had the nerve to ask me to "please not throw up on the grass." And while I couldn't respond coherently, I do remember The Motivator having my back, telling the woman to let me have a few minutes to puke my guts out in peace. 

It took four hours in a dark basement for me to feel good enough to get in the car and drive the four hours home. All told, the four hours it took to ride the course, the four hours in the dark basement, and the four hours in the car home were the longest 12 hours of my life.

So as I carved tacky ribbons of trail and took extra long hits on nature's crisp morning air this week, I said a little prayer to Santa Claus asking him to thank the Easter Bunny for allowing me to first, live through the awful experience, and second, finally get that race cancelled from the race calendar once and for all.

Good times...good times.

Hot dogs and a healthy lifestyle

Most people ride their bikes for two reasons:

1. To be more healthy/enjoy their exercise
2. To get from "A" to "B"

So when I sidled through the gym area of the fitness center where I shower each day and saw a woman on an exercise bike eating raw hot dogs as she pedaled, I was in awe.

For a few minutes after this sight I had to tell myself that I actually did see someone mowing through a whole package of cast-off, chopped-up, pig parts squeezed into edible casings whilst they exercised (at a very meager pace, I might add).

I'm not an exercise snob...I don't believe you have to achieve optimal heart rates and pulmonary function to be successful, but this was just down right confusing.

Like trying swear off the hooch while renting a studio apartment above your favorite tavern.

So after I showered and dressed, I walked past this person yet again, just to be certain I had seen said wieners being consumed by aforementioned woman.

Let's just say it's a good thing I didn't rinse and repeat or I would have missed her cramming the last dog down her throat.

And that started me thinking about what I eat when I ride. So I did a little research and here's what I found. (No offense intended to the good people at Oscar Mayer who make July 4th and baseball games beautiful and who make my kids happy when they see the bus.)



Calories in Oscar Mayer beef frank:


That's 147 calories in one dog...with 1/4 of your saturated fats. Based on a 2,000 calorie diet, a whole package of 10 dogs would just about leave room for only two Chocodiles for dessert.

And to be impartial, I also looked up one of my ride-time snacks of choice, the Strawberry-Banana Powergel.



I wouldn't exactly put hot dogs in the same category as Powergel, but there's clearly a difference in the outcome here. I might go through 200 calories an hour with bars, gels, etc while I'm training. But to consider a package of hot dogs in my jersey pocket while training or commuting made me want to scream at the carpet. Kinda like this video did.

I've eaten my share of unique snacks on rides, and in the end, it's just preference. If it gives you the energy you need to compete, or succeed, chow down. But for the love of college football, mix in a bun or something.

A foreword & the fine white line

Just to set the stage, and to complete the formal introductions necessary when one starts to confess addictions: I like to ride my bike.

Vital stats:

1. Working stiff who likes to pedal...wherever, whenever, whatever is available
   
2. 33 years old
3. 6 feet, 160 lbs.
4. Obligatory wife, 3.2 kids, and a station wagon with a canoe strapped to the top
5. All the usual idiosyncrasies of a guy who rides 48 miles round trip for a commute everyday (i.e. hates cell phone using teenage girls driving with lap-dogs and sunglasses better suited for shielding bugs on a Harley than shading eyes from the sun's rays; wishes street sweepers worked harder; thinks former Salt Lake mayor Rocky Anderson should have to ride Beck Street every day to get to his office as punishment for taking so long to put in a bike lane, etc.)
6. Like to race, even though I never win
7. My small stable of bikes includes a road bike, a f/s mountain bike, a single speed mtn. bike, and a comfy cruiser (has a bell but no flag). I need more bikes.

In the coming days, weeks, and months I will talk about:

• bikes
• bike racing
• bike riding
• random musings
• other things

This will not be an attempt to compete with or mimic more serious and meaningful bike blogs like the pre-eminent Bike Snob NYC. And I don't have any really good causes to take up and share, like the always inspiring and entertaining Fat Cyclist. I just want to write something that isn't part of what I do for a living.

And partly because of this: Over that past three years my wife has started riding, my son started racing, and I've decided all the world's problems would be greatly reduced if we all road bikes. (It's sure brought harmony to our little piece of the universe.) Less anger, better health, fewer cars on the road (and better roads to ride on), and a better perspective from everyone on the issues of bikes vs. cars.

That fine white line that separates the two seems to be getting thinner....