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.