Monday, February 28, 2011

Spring Ahead.

Composting isn't just something that happens in the garden.

We've got a couple lists going right now.  The Summer List of Possibilities, and a List of Favorite Bike Rides. 

Talk about diverse.  Both lists spent the week being turned and churned, plumped up and mulched down. 

I think they need a bit of rest now.  Some time to compost into a reasonably compact pile of notes and ideas. 

Sometimes when you've got a big pile of thoughts, it just takes a week or two to see what's going to grow out of it.  

I love diversity.

And versatility.

Particularly that of mountain bikes.

The Paragon's got a new look. 



From mountain bike... 


... to ladies shopping bike.
   
Two days after I untied the Christmas bow on the Paragon, the Superfly's brakes went belly up.  So the Paragon got drafted for tackling trails on it's knobby 2.2's.

Two weeks and two new tires later (700 x 32's) it became the Paragon of street bikes.  From Bruiser to Slick in ten minutes. 


The rack turns it into a workhorse.  Me and my run shoes can head to the park, with room for loot from the farmers market on the way home. 

But some days, it's all about fun.

While I have been mostly bike shop-free the last few weeks, Popeye has hardly had a moment away from work. By the time he got back from the lab yesterday (yes, Sunday) it was too late to drive to the Econ.

Three hours of daylight left in the weekend. 

February going out like a lion with a big wind from the southeast.    

It's the perfect day for a sure footed street bike! 

Take off the rack, and take off down the bike path.  Out the front door.  Head upwind. 

Did we make it 25 miles to the Inlet before the turnaround time?






Nope. 

But we got 20 miles to the Maritime Hammock Sanctuary hiking trail before turning around.  No riding this trail.  Wouldn't dream of it!  (Besides, there wasn't time.)  With the no-bikes signpost it just seemed like a good spot for a picture.

There are better photo ops along A1A. 

Like Coconut Park.  A water fountain for bottle refills makes it even better.




Downwind is a sleigh ride on slicks. 

We come skidding into home with time left to grill out under the backyard Christmas lights...

...and suddenly it's back to Monday. 

If only composting would happen that fast.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Moab Dreamin' and Dreamin' Up Rides

I'm missing Moab today.

  

We need to go back.




I have unfinished business in Moab.

Slick Rock Trail.   

13 miles of Mars.  Or terrain a lot like it. 

Very steep.  Very difficult.  Very scary.  (And that's just quoting from the guide book.)



Follow the painted line.  That's the trail.  Pictures are deceiving.  Beyond that line, over the edge, is a drop of say, 200 feet.  Those other rocks in the background?  They are a long way off and a long way down.  So.  Follow the painted line.

This is the flat part.  The part where we took pictures.  When gazing up at a steep pitch from behind handlebars, or peering down over an edge somewhere, getting out the camera is the last thing that comes to mind.

Where eagles fly and chickens walk.


Me, walking.  This is why I need to go back. 

(And why it's good to have trustworthy brakes.)

Why am I suddenly thinking about Moab, you ask?

Because I've just been sifting through the bookcase, looking for my favorite guide book of all time.  "Rider Mel's Mountain Bike Guide to Moab".

A GPS is fine and dandy.  But when the spark goes south?  Hardcopy's handy.   

Hardcopy will get you there, no matter how many bars aren't showing, no matter when the Most Amazing Device In The World was last plugged in.

Sand gets into cameras.  Water gets into ziplocs. 

I have fallen on phones.  Dropped them down stairs.  Drown them from kayaks and sprawled in water crossings pocket side down.  Tripped on a root and put my thumb through the screen of my favorite old Nokia.  
  
I have also fallen on Rider Mel's guide book.  It's been dropped on rock with no fuss.  OK, drowning it wasn't a danger, at least not the week we rode in Moab.  But you get the belt-and-suspenders point.

I need a Ride Guide to Florida.

We need a Ride Guide to Florida.

Somebody should write one.  

And if that somebody were to be me, I'd need a little help from my  friends.

So I'm making up a list.  I need to know.

What is your favorite bike ride?  

Doesn't matter what kind.  Road, beach, street, singletrack, safari.  Short, epic, or anywhere in between.  Out of town or out your front door. 

Where are the good rides? 

Because if you like them, I guarantee that a lot of other people will too.  

So, I'm making up a list.  Point the way.

We've got riding to do.     


Wednesday, February 9, 2011

The Gloom 50

According to their website, The Withlacoochee State Forest has been declared "one of the ten coolest places in North America" by the World Wildlife Fund. 

Really?

Well OK, it's about a jillion acres of state forest which, in itself, is very cool. 

Cooler yet, the Croom Tract of 20,000 acres contains, by my quick (possibly imprecise) addition, around 24 miles of hiking trail, and 34 miles of equestrian trail. 

For those of us riding a poor man's pony, Croom offers up 60 miles of off road bicycle trail, plus access to the longest rail trail in Florida, the Withlacoochee State Trail: 46 miles of shady, paved riding each way.  

More quick addition. 

That means anyone with a mountain bike has access to 152 miles of riding, straight out of the campground.  152 shady tree lined miles, all without encountering a single car.

The campgrounds too, are a surprise.  Huge, and mostly empty.  Shaded by oaks, lined with cypress, and dripping with moss.  

Another surprise.  First come, first serve.  Honor system.  Drop your money in the iron ranger.  Go pitch your tent.  

In that tent, a hundred feet from Silver Lake, those who can, sleep soundly to the croaking of baby gators all night long. 

Except when nature calls for a step outside. 

The croaking stops. 

Silence.  

Disturbing silence. 

I stand perfectly still, listening hard.  Moss dribbles listlessly overhead. 

How many hundreds of the little croakers can a Florida lake hold?  Not to mention more mommas and daddies than I care to think about. 

Every one of them goes instantly silent when I step from the tent, doing their own listening.

They know I am here.

Top ten coolest places?  Maybe.

Top ten spookiest?  For sure.




Saturday morning.  What light there is, is gray.  Woods and trees.  Dead leaves blowing.  Just enough moss, scattered green palmettos, sand, and sinkhole terrain, to remind you that no, it really isn't a gloomy November day in Maine. 

But the Croom 50 is a good long chunk of singletrack.  It doesn't repeat much, if any.  That alone is reason enough to suck it up and ride in the off-again/on-again, rain.  

A little rain here is a good thing.  Packs down the sand.  This is our best weather yet.  

No thunderstorms.  No tornados.  No icicles in my pony tail.  


Riders gather at Parking Area #3 for a civilized 8 to 9 AM start.

I think I saw this same tandem at San Felasco.  Not so many tight turns here, but enough to make you wonder how they do it!

One of my favorite things about this ride is that, unlike Felasco, they actually give you a map.  A wonderful paper map.  Low-tech reassurance.

I like knowing where I am in the grand scheme of things.




Croom is a well marked ride.   

In the end, I never once consult the map.  But you never know.  If it's cold enough, or you've just plain had enough, you may feel a need to find your own bailout. 

As we drive in to register, Popeye catches a glimpse of Blownfuse and Tranny riding into the trailhead.  Cap'n Bligh and Mudcutter Jim got their start at the crack of eight as well. 

On our own, Popeye valiantly keeps me company for the first few miles, but around mile nine, after he pulls over to wait yet again, we agree that it's time for him to get going and have some faster fun.  After one last check of my brakes, he flies off the front, out of sight in a New York minute.  

I am not alone for long.  Cap'n Bligh and Mudcutter Jim flag me as I ride right by them, weaving through the press of dismounted riders at the mile 12 SAG. 

I stop only long enough to see who it is, and say back over my shoulder, "Now you'll have to catch me!" 

One of the other perks of the well-marked Croom 50 is that there are arrows indicating optional routes.  Red for hard, yellow for easy. 

By mile 15, I get that wild hair.  I am just bored enough with the gentle sandy climbs and the twisting woodsy flats, to take the next red-arrow trail.  

(Later, Cap'n Bligh tells me I rode The Drunken Monkey.) 

The Drunken Monkey is fun!  Up and down, around and through, a long, washed out gully, and then a big sinkhole.

No.  A huge sinkhole.  


Lower half, center: Rider in white descending into the sinkhole.


Center photo, just right of the tree:
The same rider (white dot) climbing out.

A vast sinkhole. 

Red trails - wow!  Certainly not boring. 

But red trails take effort.  More effort than I ought to expend with a dismal history of leg cramps and 30 plus miles to go.  Two weekends at Grahams Swamp may have retrained my flatlander perspective on sandy climbs, but it's no substitute for real hill training. 

Once back on the main trail, I chasten myself,  "Don't be doing that again."    

Mile 19.  I say, "You OK?" to a rider picking his bike up out of the dirt to my left. 

The rider turns around.  It is Cap'n Bligh. 

The derailleur of his new Santa Cruz Tallboy is bent hard left, and jammed fast into the spokes. 

More help arrives.  Between two anonymous SWAMP club members and the two Mudcutters (Cap'n B, and Jim, who rolls up a few minutes after me) they manage to disengage the derailleur from the spokes, but the hangar snaps off on the first attempt to bend it back to a workable angle.  Oops. 

Single speed conversion commences.  
 
2 SWAMP, 2 Mudcutters
 Single Speed Conversion While U Wait!

I feel bad not waiting around, but somewhere around twenty minutes, and on the second go-round of chain shortening, I decide I had better get going before I cool off too much.  I am no mechanic, for sure, and have no tools to contribute that they don't already have themselves.  I also assume - wrongly, as it turns out - that Cap'n Bligh will bail from the ride at mile 24, the next SAG.

After passing up the final bail-out point at mile 35, company on trail becomes scarce.  The rain sets in for real.  After the final SAG (where, correct me if I am mistaken, they are doing shots?), I ride all the way to the end seeing exactly one other rider.

My Gloom Fifty is done.

Cruising the parking area, looking for Popeye, I get distracted by a tiny teardrop camper with a huge attached canopy.  Popeye finds me straddled over the bike, quizzing the owners, and patting their dog.

That camper got a lot of attention.  I swear, it was so compact, I could pull it with Killer.  Later, we sit down to lunch next to two women who were also taken with it.  I never thought to take a picture, but I found it online later.



Popeye has waited for me before digging in to the lunch.  Turns out he finished his 50 by riding in at the same time as Cap'n Bligh, who stayed the course til the last bailout and ended with 35 miles.  Mudcutter Jim rolls in from his 50 by the time I have gotten into dry clothes, and Sailor is there asking how it all went. 

I stand dripping, taking stock, already knowing what to say.  No cramps, no fatigue, no blood, no shaking or quaking... 

All good!

Good to be done. 

And really good to be done, feeling like doing a little more.  

That night at the campfire, with the wind picking up and more rain on the way, the discussion of campers resumes. 

Cap'n Bligh and Sailor spend months camping every year.  They have a neat and tidy (and enviably dry) "Cassita", which they tow behind a Honda minivan.  I marvel at how they always seem to have everything they need close at hand, whether it's a hatchet, bike tools, or a jar of jam. 

Of course, I'm not sure if that's due to having a camper instead of an Elephant full of plastic boxes and Publix grocery bags, or just Sailor being ultra organized.  

I suspect it's a bit of both.

But with a tent on the ground and rain in the air, I might yet be convinced.

Sunday morning.  The predicted sunshine does not show.  Cap'n Bligh's bike is broken.  Jim has already packed and headed out to find himself a plate of bacon and eggs along his drive home. 

We give up on the idea of riding the rail trail, and join the others in packing up.


Take one last look around...

Pose for one last photo...



And call it a weekend.

Well, almost.


There is the matter of re-packing, once everything dries out.




Friday, February 4, 2011

Headed for Croom

Heading over for the Croom 50 tomorrow.  Planning to camp. Predicting rain, naturally!


Had an hour today, perfect for a "llama ride" up Tropical Trail.


2 new young ones!


They're multiplying!  I count eight alpacas now.  They are really fluffy.

On the way south, gray skies lure me into mosey-mode. 

Two cyclists on road bikes pass with about three miles to go to Mather's Bridge.  The tall guy up front has no luggage and no troubles, but the girl in back has a seat post rack with a pack that looks unzipped.  Her bike is also adorned with blinkies down both sides of the seat stays, and she is wearing a reflective vest.  I've seen that look before.

Randonneurs!

I catch up to tell her her pack is open.  It isn't that hard to do, even on 2.2's.  

She is stretching her back, and weaving ever so slightly.

"Looks like the end of a long day for you guys?"   

The girl pants, "You talk," to the guy up front.

(Wow, it has been a long day.)

150 miles.  Started in Titusville, SR 50 to Orlando, somehow to New Smyrna, then down here. 

There are too many cars to ride alongside long enough to hear more, so I drop in behind and bide my time until I can ask more questions.  I sincerely hope they don't have to ride back to Titusville tonight.  There's not much wind, but what there is, is out of the north.  I consider inviting them for dinner, or at least offering my cliff bar.

Unfortunately for my inquisitiveness, the light is with us.  They peel off, with a wave, heading south toward Eau Gallie, and I don't get to satisfy my curiousity.


I have a soft spot for distance folk.  Distance running, distance cycling, call to me.  Too bad it's a calling that takes so much time.


Maybe I can talk Popeye into putting the Cross Florida on the spring list of possibilities.  It's not randonneur distance, but it's a start.

Of course, I'd cheat and ride Killer.  Full suspension for me! 

And lights.  And a vest. 

And blinkies, lots and lots of blinkies.

I am a cockroach of the road.

Ok, I just like saying it.   I am a cockroach of the road. A year or two ago an Austrailian study came out where over 50% of drivers sai...