The Re-Gifting of Christmas Past

It's Boxing day.  Except there are no leftovers to box up.  And no guests to give it to.  The Chick couldn't get a day off until later in the week, so the big dinner is yet to come.
 
We have a new house this year, and our bikes are still new enough.  There's always stuff we want, of course, but nothing we really need.  

So Popeye said, "No presents." 

And I agreed.  "No presents."

Then suddenly, on Christmas Eve, Popeye had a vision. 

A Christmas vision.  Of a Christmas-yet-to-be.

He saw a long Christmas Day at home, with no guests, no toys to play with, no gadgetry to decipher. 

In a sudden urge to change this dismal future, he decided he wanted to go to the mall with 45 minutes to closing.

After receiving a solemn promise that we would be done in time to buy a turkey on the way home, I finally agreed to go shopping.  Not to the actual mall, but rather to the far side of the mall.  The stores that make up the hinterlands of the mall.  Sports Authority.  Best Buy.  Chain restaurants.  A movie theatre.  

Gadgets and restaurants are tolerable to my shopping phobia.  Clothing and shoe stores are not.  Especially on Christmas eve.  

Twenty minutes in.  We are relaxed, under no pressure.  "Just looking," we tell the clerk. 

Others do not have this immunity.  No one is there to shop. Everyone is there to buy, and the sky's the limit.  We find it is fun to observe the feverish crowd, as long as you are not among the infected.

I would have been fine with the simple joy of closing down Best Buy on Christmas Eve.  After all, there would be an hour left to do the real shopping.  That is, to buy a turkey at Publix on the way home. 

But somehow I ended up with a Kindle. 

And Popeye got... nothing. 

Not only that, but all our favorite indulgences dangle right there on the fringes of the mall.  Following this night of witnessing the true fever of gifting, neither of us has the willpower to ignore such carrots of distraction as beer, nachos, a movie.  

Suddenly it was midnight Christmas eve. 

Popeye had changed his Christmas future by officially getting me a present.  He now had a gadget to figure out on Christmas morning, while my big Christmas day project - the turkey dinner - had turned into the simplicity of leftover chili. 

Not only that, but there I was empty handed.  Santa's zero hour!  And no hope of acquiring a decent present to put under the tree (the tree that we hadn't put up) by morning.  

In that time honored tradition of Christmas desperation, I did as so many have done before.   

I re-gifted.

Up in the attic, wedged up under the shelter of brand new trusses still smelling of sawdust, sits a popular present from a few years ago and I clump over the floorboards as quietly as I can to fetch it.  Perfect!  I tie on a nice red ribbon from the wrappings box, and stash it away in the garage for morning. 

OK, so the ribbon that looked red in the attic lighting turned out to be pink in the light of Christmas morning.  The tire was soft, and the sidewalls were a tad yellowed, but it was a hit anyway.  As soon as he got the Kindle set up, he pumped up the tire and went out to play.

How to ride a unicycle:

Start by finding something to hang on to.

Then just be as tenacious as all get out.

With the new Kindle all to myself, I sit down to shop for a book.  I spend 99 cents right away.  No guilt, though.  You never know.  Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse could end up saving us both someday.  It's not the gift but the spirit of sharing it that counts, right? 

Thank goodness we both like chili.
 

 Check back in a week.

He'll have it down by then.

 

 

This is your brain. This is your brain on cake.

Now, that was difficult.  Studying for my annual test.  Blood test, that is.  Once a year the docs like to check up on the basics.  I think it's a little silly, but I go in for the blood letting anyway.  Basically I just humor them.  I figure it doesn't hurt for them to know my cholesterol and vitamin D are fine.  That way they won't bug me the rest of the year.

But having it done two days after cutting into the biggest chocolate cake I have ever had - now that was tough.  I had to put the remains in the freezer, lest frosting overload put my blood in such a state that the doctors actually would bug me the rest of the year. 

December already.  After the birthday, and the birthday check up, it's straight into Christmas mode.  

But it's still early too.  So the noose of Christmas panic hasn't drawn all that tight.  Not yet, anyway.  Time to have some fun with it while there are still some choices about what I want to do, vs. what I have to do.

But first - to put up the rest of the pictures of the Appalachian trip.  October seems so very long ago and far away.  A lot of miles since.  Most all of them local.  

One last bit of time travel then, before getting down to the business of Christmas, and charging head on into January's Tour de Felasco. 

So back to DuPont. 

Even with Northstar gone, and her in-head GPS gone with her, we manage to find the covered bridge on our own.  And a whole bunch of waterfalls. 

After about a zillion miles of leafy climb'y horse'y trails, we end with Ridgeline and one long, swooping downhill.  Worth the trip right there.

High Falls

 

Sometimes it hard to tell where the trail is.

 

 

And then for a little variety, a hike.

 

We decide to drive up to the Blue Ridge

and walk to the top of Mt. Pisgah.

Looks far, but it's only 1.5 miles.

 

 

 

 

 

Once again - The view is worth the climb.

 

 

So much for Tuesday.  It would be cool to try and connect with Scrub Jay up in Raleigh, but with the hasty non-planning, we have already run ourselves out of time. 

 

On Wednesday, it's down from the heights of North Carolina for our meet up with Sailor and Cap'n Bligh at super swoopy Jack Rabbit on the Georgia border.

 

No one is allowed to get lost at Jack Rabbit.

Signs at every decision point.

 

 

 

 

Cap'n Bligh and Popeye.

Loop #2 for Popeye.  Loop#1 for the rest of us.

I believe the discussion may be something about

there being a cooler back in the car.

 

 

The next day, Sailor and the Cap'n head back to Florida to switch from mountain biking to boatyard mode, and once again we are on our own for a day before meeting our friend Sara at Blankets Creek.

 

From the Jack Rabbit area, it's a quick drive to a spot where the Appalachian Trail crosses the highway.  We decide as long as we're here...

 

 

 

 

Popeye probably would have kept going all the way to Maine, but I was bored. 

 

After a couple hours, up and down, down and up, the leafy shuffle got old quickly for me.  Trees and leaves.  Leaves and trees.  Even when we topped the climbs, there was no reward, no view.  Only more trees and more leaves.  Geeze.

 

View from the top.

 

A couple hours of that, and I was more than ready to find a real hike, with some real climbing, and a real view.    

 

Which turned out to be something real touristy.   

 

But it's touristy for good reason.  If you're going to be on foot, who wouldn't rather see Tallulah Gorge?  It's worth seeing. 

 

Tallulah Gorge is gorgeous. 

 

 

 

There's four hundred-something steps to descend, and climb back up, in a couple different places, with a cool suspension bridge crossing the gap.  So the three mile hike around the rim and down into the gorge is not quite as sissy as it sounds.

 

 

And here, unlike Dick's Gap, the view is worth the climb.    It's even worth the extra hour of car time.

 

And speaking of time, I am out of it once again.

 

It may be next year before getting back to this.  

 

So, just in case the Christmas crunch takes the last bite of my December, I'll say it now.

 

Happy Winter Solstice.  Longer days and shorter nights to come.

 

 

 

DuPont to Dauset, part 2 - not

Local trail feeling stale?  Wait a few hours.  It gets better.

Seriously.  Try a night ride.  On a dark, dark night.  Preferably with a bit of mist hanging in the air.  Make sure it's off road.  Or maybe in stealth mode.  Through the back gate of a park that closes at sundown.

 

 

Especially if the powers that be have already made the park a little scary-looking.   Even in the daytime.

Is that three burns this year so far?  Or four?

C'mon,  even scrub jays can't live on charcoal.

 

October in N.C.

Darn.  But I wasn't finished with October yet.  November is rushing me.  And it's a sure bet that December will be even worse.  Oh well, if ever there were two months to get over and done with it is these two, right?  

Present time.  December 5th.  I just discovered this feint at posting, saved from 3 weeks ago.  I might as well have written it today. 

Last night was a Tuesday night.  Another loop of the Park in the dark.  Still stinks of charcoal too.  The only real difference - this time we are joined by Semi.  And we get yelled at by a ranger when we try to shortcut too near to the $5 (or is it $10 for admission now?) holiday light fest along the paved section of the park. 

I totally agree with the ranger that it is dangerous to be in that part of the park at night.  There's electric cords strung all over the place.  There are tourist types paying more attention to the lights, and cranky kids in the backseat, than driving.  Not a good night to be anywhere near the road.  So we demurely head back the way we came in.  And duck into the dark protection of wooded singletrack at first opportunity.  We even dismount for the log crossing.  You really can't be too safe. 

From tourists, that is.

Part #2, coming soon. 
OK. 
Coming eventually. 

DuPont and Dauset. Like Chocolate and Cheddar.

Chocolate and cheddar. 

Separate, but equally awesome.  

Much like a two part, mid-October bike trip. 

The main course, four days of mountain bike trails in North Carolina, sharp and biting and steep. 

Then on the way home, the hills of Georgia, smooth and easy.  The perfect dessert.

 

 

When the Critter Sitter hears we are going to North Carolina,

she sends her own photo of the Blue Ridge from the week before.
Wow.

 

 

On Friday we load up and get out of Dodge. 

 

Destination #1:  DuPont, North Carolina, and the cabin that Northstar and Tom have rented for a long weekend.

 

DuPont State Forest is pure cheddar.  Sharp and tangy, all autumn'y orange and yellow.  With just enough serious bite to get our attention and keep us coming back for more each day.

 

The cabin is cozy.  It's difficult to leave in the morning.  Especially when the thermometer on the front porch tells us that it's 38 degrees as we eat our breakfast.    But the sun is brilliant, the leaves drift down like orange snowfall from a very blue sky, and by mid morning it's perfect.  Shorts and sleeves, and arm warmers put away, by afternoon.

 

The camera flattens the landscape no matter what I try.  No way can you feel the burn along with us from these pictures.  But believe me, it was all I could do to keep the pedals turning.  And ignore the lung-fires burning.  No stopping mid-climb to take photos.  Sorry. 

 

Without exception, every DuPont trail we ride has it's share of lung-burning bite.  But the reward is usually a sight beautiful enough to take your breath away all over again.  Once you had a moment to clear the purple spots from your vision and refocus, that is.

 

 

Cedar Rock Trail.

Popeye and I are new to DuPont.

Thankfully, we have Northstar,

expert guide to the good stuff.

 

 

 

No, I didn't beat Popeye up this climb in time to take his picture.

He rode most trails twice, waiting for the rest of us to make it.

 

 

 

Before picture.

They don't paint the rock to mark the way like they do in Moab.

They leave rock cairns instead and trust people not to trip over them...

Oops, sorry.

 

 

 

Water crossing on the way to see Bridal Veil Falls.

Do not be deceived. 

The water is deeper/faster/colder/slippery'er than it looks.

 

 

A kid runs up to us when we get off our bikes at the water crossing.  "My dad lost his shoe!" 

 

"Wow," I say, checking out the current.  (The shoe is likely half way to Savannah by now.)  "Sorry to hear that."  Someone is going to have a long rocky walk back to the trailhead. 

 

Do we really want to do this?   If you lose your footing in this current, you could lose more than a shoe down the slippery rocks and all the way to the next bend. 

 

 

Bare feet for the crossing.

 

 

 Not one of us gets dunked, drops a bike, or even a shoe.  Sissy stuff right?  Although I come close.  There are a few teetery moments on one foot after the bike dips into the current and drags me, braced in a standing skid on numb feet, for a yard or so downstream before fetching up.  Whew!

 

Later we chat with a helpful local rider.  He says the trick is to take extra socks.  If you wade across wearing socks, you won't slide on the mossy rock.  You will stick instead.  (Wouldn't make it any warmer, though.  Just sayin'.) 

 

The famous Bridal Veil Falls turns out to be worth the climbs and the crossings. 

 

There's a trailhead for the last bit populated with hikers, but they look benign enough, so we trust leaving the bikes in the bike rack to walk out to the base of the falls.  There' no telling how old this facility is, but for some reason Northstar and I both think it's funny when our 29r's won't fit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the many trails we ride on Sunday

goes past a huge, unused lodge from the DuPont era...

 

 

 ...to a perfectly still Lake Julia.

 

 

 

End of a great day.  Pack em up.

 

 

Down the 10mph squiggles of East Fork Road to the cabin...

 and then back up again for the final highlight of the day - supper!

 

 

 

Uh oh.  Look at the time.  The vacation report is going to have to be a two parter. 

 

It's nearly night. 

 

Specifically, Tuesday night. 

 

Time to stop sorting through photos of the blue sky days and golden leaves of two weeks ago, and come back into the twilight present of mid-November and early darkness. 

 

Time for our first inaugural time-change-Tuesday night ride. 

 

The time change means changing up the evening workouts.  To replace the summer Tuesday road ride, we decide on a Tuesday fat tire night-ride for the winter months instead.  

 

At 6pm, Popeye will begin his commute northward from work on his Fuel.  I will ride my Superfly south from home, then over the bridge.  The plan is to converge routes at the library on Pineapple, and head toward the spooky, dark, charred trails of Wickham Park from there.   

 

Sounds fun, right?  

 

(As long as I don't think too much about the last episode of the Walking Dead, it will be, anyway.)

Parmesan crispy. Cheddar crispier.

parmesan

cheddar

Craving salty?  Yeah, me too.

At first I thought of melting some cheese on an English muffin or a slice of rye, but then I thought, why bother with bread?  It's the melted cheese I really want.

First time ever making Parmesan crisps.  Took a couple rounds.  Ran out of Parmesan, used up the cheddar, but I think I got it now.  

If you want real instructions, Barefoot Contessa, Giada, and Epicurious, all have super easy, step by steps to follow.

Basically you melt spoonfuls of grated cheese on a cookie sheet lined with parchment, in a moderate oven, say 375.  At about five minutes, turn on the oven light and keep watch.  Take em out when they reach a color that pleases you. 

Larger shavings piled high, make bigger, chewier clumps.

First attempt. 

What not to do if you want delicate.

 

More delicate shavings, finely grated and spread out a bit, make more delicate crisps.

By the time I got that figured out, the Parm was gone.  But it worked exactly the same with some Cabot Seriously Sharp Cheddar.

For that crisp and salty craving...  perfect.

I am going to have to get out for a ride now.  Otherwise there will be no report on how to store them and how long they keep.  They'll be long gone instead.

Shopping procrastination.

The old washing machine churns away oblivious to its swanky new laundry room. The dryer grumbles along beside it, doing the same old work, no matter the surroundings. 

The new dishwasher is quiet - for a dishwasher. 

No!  Bad kitty.

Pepper runs out of the bedroom and leaps to the kitchen counter (where the crock pot is just starting to work up a sweat).  

The new robot vacuum comes steaming out of the hallway after her and thumps into my chair leg.

The vacuum is named Rover.  I started out calling it Rosie.  Like in the Jetson’s.  But dog like, it always seems to be barging around the house after the cat, no matter where she runs to hide.  

Pepper would normally run outside through her new ChubbyKat door, but the automatic sprinklers are on.  She settles for a watchful crouch behind one of the rickety old bar stools instead.

So, the day's housework progressing nicely, lots of noise and motion. As if the chores are checking themselves off the list. Which, in a way, they are.

The toughest chores on the list have no automatic timers, though. No robotic wheels. No clickers.  No autopilot.  And unfortunately, no check marks either.

Shopping. 

(The heirarchy of Ugh, in geometric progression.)

Food shopping - not so terrible. 
Furniture shopping - could be worse. 
Clothes shopping - OK, it's worse. 

Ugh.  Ugh times Ugh.  Ugh to the power of three.  

I would a thousand times rather write any kind of meaningless essay than go shopping. 

Which explains where I am - typing at the dining room table - instead of searching for a desk/work-table for the newly designated office/sewing/guest room.

If I didn't have my run shoes in the car for a stop at the park on the way home, I am not sure I could convince myself to go at all.

So why the shopping phobia? 

I have no explanation.  Not a good one, anyway.

 I do not like the act of acquiring things.  Even necessary things.

Because if you don't get it just right, then you have not only wasted your money, but you must go back.  And back again.  Until you do get it right.

Too much pressure and no joy.

I already know going in that what I want is impossible to buy. 

Because it doesn't really exist.  

Bike jerseys that fit, and have pockets. Pants that don't have to be taken in at the waist. An old farm table small enough to fit in the guest room, yet big enough to lay out a whole quilt.  And bar stools.  Sleek and modern for me, yet cushy with backs to lean on for Popeye.

So, who cares?  What's the point of writing this?

Shopping procrastination.  Duh.

So...  

Have I mentioned the new (to me) pavement-dirt-beer-taco ride in Sebastian on Friday?  

Or the Malabar Scrub Sanctuary ride on Saturday morning in partnership with the mysterious new BMBA organization? 

Or that there was a full moon hash on Saturday night? 

How about the tiki torches burning bright above pale, white sand under a wide, white moon?  

Have I talked at all about the muddy goo aroma of the car after the Econ on Sunday?

No?

Seriously, I have to get going.

But I'll put off the inevitable a few more minutes and see if there are at least some pictures I can put up.  How's that?  A bit of extra procrastination for me. A few of my lame phone snaps for you.  Sweet deal.  For me, anyway.

 

The new work space-to-be.

Friday night.  Old view.  New dock.

Malabar Sanctuary's Road-to-Nowhere.

Execpt that it does go somewhere.

About 8 miles of decent, twisty, single track - and new bridges.

The local fat tire crowd.

Good turnout.  Probably fifty.

Saturday night.  

The hares setting up tiki torches on the riverbank.

 

Sunday afternoon. 

The Econ has gone down five or six feet since last week.

All trails passable, if a bit sloppy here and there. 

 (The bump on the right end of that log is a baby gator.)

Inspector Gadget.

 

 

 

Popeye, ready to get going.

Is that a glow in the dark necklace still hanging on your seatpost?

 

 

 

Northstar wins the clean up contest.

 Far less muddy than the rest of us,

plus the best pedicure.

 

 

Monday - already?

 

  

 

 

No tubes, no pressure. Econ, Turkey Creek, Wickham, and Econ again.

1999...    The group has gone on ahead.  Semi is waiting for me, the lagger, at the top of a rooty ridge along Turkey Creek.  I get off - again - and push my brand new Klein hardtail up to the spot where he stands over his bike.  He reaches for my front wheel.  

"What?" 

His only answer is to lean down, unscrew the presta valve, and pssst, let a long puff of air out.  Hey!

"There, now maybe you'll be able to stay on your bike."

In all the years since, no one has ever given me a better piece of advice for staying upright on rooty, sandy trails.  Just one little pssst, but what a difference.

Mountain biking for us the last few weeks has been sparse to not at all.  Crazy house project.  So when Northstar got a new 29r a few weeks ago, Popeye and I jumped at the excuse to take time for the Econ.  

We start out on the straight and narrow and proceed to the rooty and twisty. 

Tom in front, Northstar behind him.

Northstar feels as if her new bike should be making a bigger difference over the roots and logs.  "I know 29rs aren't magic or anything," she says, rolling up behind me, "but do you have any advice?" 

Who?  Me?  Advice?   

Besides the flat out surprise at being asked, I just don't have much experience at giving advice.  I am pretty lame at it, in fact.  (I am too busy trying to keep myself on the trail, there's no time to pay attention to anyone else.) 

I just don't know what to say to help her out.  She's been nursing an injury for a month.  But she has been injured before and she knows she's in for a recovery ride.  She's ridden the Econ a thousand times, so the terrain is no surprise either.  What is surprising, at least to me, is that she is not feeling the 29r magic.  How can that be?

Switching to a 29r really is a kind of magic.  It should roll over just about anything you point it at without nearly as much need for the rider to lift the front end up and over.  For those of us with less than Charles Atlas shoulders, it should feel like a vacation.  I just can't immediately think of one single reason why she isn't feeling a big difference from her old 26. 

But suddenly Semi's old bit of Turkey Creek wisdom pops into my otherwise empty brain and I reach out to feel her brand new front tire.  Rock hard.  "Let some air out.  Here, feel your tire, then feel mine." 

Yet another reason to never give advice.  It always backfires somehow.

I reach down and give Killer's rear tire a demonstration squeeze.  Instead of the expected slight give, it practically collapses under my thumb.  Whoops, too low.  Way too low.  (Thanks to Stan's No Tubes it is holding, but sooner or later it will bottom out on a root or a rock and could damage the wheel.)  

My friend gives Killer's tire a (squashy) squeeze for herself. 

"Well, not that low of course, but you get the idea" I say quickly.

Her husband shakes his head as I mumble something about more rubber on the ground.     

The mountain biking part of my brain is apparently as dried up as my Stan's.  We've been so preoccupied with the new house that I have let 6 months go by since re-upping my tire sealant.  Rookie mistake.   How can you tell someone else they are running their air too high, when you are clearly running yours way too low?

I shut up, my credibility blown.  As is my big chance to pass along the best Florida mountain biking advice ever.  

I sigh in resignation, and get out a CO2.  Being tubeless has definite advantages.  A couple of puffs and good to go again.  At least I can catch up quickly and (try to) pretend it never happened.

We have moved.  Hooray!  We are mostly unpacked.  Hooray!  We can go riding again.  Hooray! 

And we do.  Friday night, Saturday morning, and Sunday afternoon.  Three days in a row.  Not bad for a two day weekend.

Thanks to TriLady, I have some practically new tires in reserve. 

Thanks to Popeye's highly developed organizational skills, they were actually easy to locate, even after moving twice in 10 months. 

And thanks to Stan's I can run them with hardly any air.  Because Jolly Jeff Rogers is back from California for a few days, and the old Intersil gang has cooked up a Friday ride at good old rooty, sandy Turkey Creek. 

Just like old times.  Only not.

Once the rough and tumble new trail in town, cut by Semi and friends a dozen (or more) years ago, Turkey Creek now seems a little sissified.  But not for the reasons you'd think.  The big oak and palmetto roots might be a bit worn in places, but there's still plenty of 'em.  And the sand hasn't gone away either.  The trail still alternates from creekline to scrub, technical to boring. 

The sissification of Turkey Creek seemed to happen as we replaced our old bikes over the years.  Without tubes, the guys don't worry about pinch flats any more, and I don't worry about careening off the palmetto roots and into the creek.  Full suspension takes away the old energy suckage of standing up for every bump.  Big wheels roll over most anything you aim them at.

So how do you make the same old haunt of Turkey Creek more exciting?

Ride it when it feels old and haunted.  

After dark.    

I don't get down here often any more.  The dry parts of the loop are still fast and fun.  But there's been a lot of water under the bridge lately.  Literally.  It's the rainy season. 

Plus, I forgot about the new bridge.  

I pull off trail abruptly and let the guys ride by.  One by one they are out of sight as the bridge takes a turn to the left around a big spooky tree.

I stand on the bank.  There is not enough traction in these new tires - or in the world - to get me to ride this long winding bridge through the swamp at night with the rain falling like tiny globs of spit from the sky.

I get off to walk.  The flowing water makes no sound.  Nothing splashes.  No frogs croak.  There is no moon.  The dark is even deeper than the creek.  The water sweeping by just under the long, narrow boards will be leaving it's mark on the trees for tomorrow.  

There could be anything outside the narrow cone of light from my headlamp.  I think about last season's finale of the Walking Dead.

But of course it is the thought of gators that really livens my step.

The guys are waiting up the hill.  "Where were you?" someone asks.  

"Had to stop for a picture," I say, not lying, but not confessing how spooked out I am either.

The rest of the loop goes fast.  I wish we could stay and socialize but Popeye has his way-too-early Palm Bay ride in the morning.  I get up sorta early myself, skip my intended bridge repeats, and ride Killer to the park instead.

Nearly forgot.

They burned Wickham again a couple months ago.

(on behalf of the gopher turtles and scrub jays)

Regrowth happens quickly.

Then back to the Econ on Sunday.  Finally a perfect weekend.  3 perfect rides, and no worries, about shrubs or swales, or builders or  boxes.

Back to the Econ

Turkey Creek is not the only place the water was high.

The high water mark is shoulder height.

See the dried grass and sod wrapped around the tree?

Back home again.  It's Monday.  The new backsplash tile is stacked in the garage and the cabinet guy is on his way over - again.

I am thinking of a quick road ride in the meantime, but the ever organized Popeye has put my road bike in the attic (where, I cannot argue, it belongs).

The sure-footed 29r is the perfect street ride anyway.

I walk out into our clean, new garage and locate the pump.  But before I up the pressure to 30 or so for my pavement ride, I give Killer's front tire a squeeze. 

There is a nice springy feel of "give" under my thumb.  After three trail rides in a row, I know it's just right.  There's really no need to check the gauge. 

(Except that now I am curious about the number, so I do.  It is 15psi, in case you are curious too.)  

But all I really need to know is that low pressure is perfect pressure.  In more ways than one.