Ft. Pierce Trail and Grilled Pizza - Perfection and Perfection-in-Progress.

It was the perfect storm.  (Especially since the actual storm was back in Melbourne, and we weren't.) 

The perfect storm, the perfect trail, and back on the perfect bike.

(Perfection does not rear its lovely head too often in my world, so forgive me if I gush.  Much as I appreciated having a decent back-up bike these last few weeks, having the Superfly back was awesome.)

Oops, back to topic - gushing about the trail. 

The perfect trail!

Sorry, SWAMP and Santos. 

Sorry, Mudcutters and Malabar.   

Ft Pierce is like, WOW.

And yesterday, bright and clear and dry, was the perfect day to be there.

There is not one single inch of boredom on this trail.  It's a fast and flowing roller coaster start to finish, and it's a blast.  It will work you, but you won't even notice.  You'll be having too much fun.

My apologies.  The place makes you feel like a kid.  I just did not want to stop.  Not for rest, not for refills, and not to take pictures.  So there are only a couple photos.  You'll just have to (darn it all) go see the place for yourself, right?

This is the cleanest you will ever see a bike of mine.

Thanks, Jason.

Good work - and great cleaning! 

 

Through the gate, and down to the trailhead.

Sunny and dry, perfect conditions.

 

 

Smooooth...

This just may be the only kinda-straight spot.

 

 

Swoopy, smooth AND well decorated.

Dead Wal Mart Bike #2 in tree.

(DWMB #1 was in a bush.)

 

 

 

What's this?  Stopping between laps?

C'mon guys.  Let's go, let's go, already!

 

 

 

Popeye's sock line.

Note - dirt, not sand.

Yet another sign of an excellent trail.

 

 

 

Yes, the trail is finally legal and there's a waiver to sign.   Take the extra minute.  Join the club.  And if you're the type who loves to build, check out the trail work days.  Seems like these guys really have fun with it.  

Ft Pierce Trail
Airborne Mountain Bike Club
http://www.airbornemtb.org/ftp.html


OK, OK.  So much for the perfection part of the day. 

On home for our first attempt at grilling pizza.  (Both Alan and Gene declined invitations to join our experimental pizza party.  I know.  Hard to believe, isn't it?)

Our first grilled pizza ever.  Not so perfect.  But we anticipated that.  And bought extra dough in case of initial failure.  

Actually, it all turned out to much less tricky than we expected.  More messy.  But less tricky.

By pizza # 4, we felt we had it pretty much figured out. 

Prep everything first.

Everything.

Even if it means dirtying every pan, cookie sheet, spatula, knife, and cutting board you own.

Is it not way cool to be married to someone

who worked in a pizza shop in college?

Start with a hot grill.

Spread the dough with olive oil and lay it on. 

Trust.

It starts to puff up immediately, and it doesn't stick at all.

Close the lid on it a couple minutes.

Two spatulas for turnover.

 

 

This was crust #1.

We got braver, and made #'s 2, 3, and 4 successively thinner.

Which turned out crispier.

Which we like better.

 

 

 

I know - sauce from a jar.

And dough from Publix, too.

What can I say?  We were at the trail all afternoon.

 

 

 

Not too bad for attempt #1!

 

From this point, we scooped each pizza onto a cookie sheet and schlepped it inside to the oven to keep warm while we went on to the next one.

 

I think the biggest problem was that the only grill we have is a Coleman camping grill.  It's pretty small, and non-adjustable.  There was some charring in spots on the bottoms.  (Mostly because we wanted to delay taking it off until the cheese was brown and bubbling too, which didn't really happen.) 

But oh, that crispy crust finish! 

Next time, we agreed we'll just save ourselves the time and mess of dragging sauce and toppings and cheese, et. al., out onto the deck (in the wind and rain). 

The new plan is to simply grill the dough first.  Then we'll bring it in, top it, and finish it off in the oven. 

That might just be perfection enough.

 

 

 

Hardtail Appreciation Week(s)

"Feeling strong today, huh?" asked one of the roadies rolling up to the group gathered for the Tuesday Palm Bay ride.

That gets a chuckle from the crowd, including me.  I have no illusions that I could ever keep up with the Tuesday ride's notorious 30+ speeds.  On any bike.  And especially not on Bruiser. 

But Mother Goose has assured me that there is a B ride.  As a matter of fact, he says, he and another old mountain biking friend, Phil, are the B ride.  (I don't really know why, since they each show up on bonafide, skinny tire road bikes - with aerobars.)

So, why oh why, am I there at the Tuesday road ride on a heavy old hardtail Trek Paragon 29r named Bruiser?  Even with a B version and two good friends to carry me through, it's just silly.  I expect to be off the back as soon as the warm up mileage is over.

Let's face it.  Everyone needs at least three bikes.  A road bike, a mountain bike, and a commuter.

 

Three bikes, I have.  

 

Killer, the full suspension 29r.  

 

The Madone, all polished up for sale at Krafty's new shop (Village Cycle in Cocoa Village).  

 

And Bruiser.   Good ole Bruiser, bell and all.

Killer, the Superfly 100.

Both shocks sent out for maintenance after Croom.

 

 

For Sale

Madone 5.2.

All carbon frame, 54 cm, upgraded wheels.

And yes, actually made in Wisconsin! 

 

 

 

Bruiser at Turkey Creek.

Pressed into emergency service.

 

 

I have been riding Bruiser for a few weeks now. We are coming to an understanding. I work harder and stand up more. He doesn't bop me in the bottom quite as much.

 

And now, after weeks back in the hardtail saddle, I realize, that with a little understanding (and a lot of standing up), old Bruiser isn't such a bad ride.  He may not be the fastest fella on two wheels, or the most comfortable trail machine out there, but he's been taking me everywhere I need to go.   

 

At first, I admit, I avoided him. 

 

 

The AF base. 

Turn around point for my five mile beach run/stagger.

 

 

Seemed like a good time to begin training for the Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run.  

 

But let's face it, there really is no good time to start training for Wickham.  To resume training, or to continue training perhaps, but to start training...  That just always sucks.  Especially without the joy of the mountain bike to look forward to on off days.

 

I even skipped a night ride just because it was raining, and went to a Tae Kwon Do class instead.  I love TKD, but it's no night ride.

 

Love those iPhones. 

The guys made sure I knew what I was missing.

 

 

Oh jeese, woman.  Just man-up already.  Bite the bullet and dust off Bruiser.  

 

At first, I took him to the easy places, the paved places.  Tropical Trail.  The river road up to Cocoa Village. 

 

On Rockledge Drive.

 

 

Then, bored with pavement, we started out easy. Who knew that smelly, burned out Wickham park, would end up being the gateway drug back into off road addiction?

 

Do you recognize this trail?

 

 

Then we tackled Turkey Creek.  On my own a couple times, easy does it.  And once in the company of Mr. Wonderful, adding a tour of Grapefruit to the mix. 

 

 

 

Another weekend.  Still no shocks for the Superfly.  We head to the relentlessly rooty Econ.   Biggest group ever.  The Full Moon Riders.  Plus some of Popeye's roadie friends - there for the first time ever.  

 

At the start of the Two Bridge Trail.

 

Semi at WOB

 

 

Back to Turkey Creek.  This time seeking the Malabar Scrub Riders with Just Mike. 

 

Mike - who always rides a hardtail.

 

 

It's the Bob's.

Ha!  Found ya!

 

 

2 weeks after avoiding the Full Moon Ride, Bruiser took the New Moon ride like a champ. 

 

We're The Fugawi?

 

I'd like to say I did the night ride without any whining. Oh well.

 

However, without any wine was easy enough - since the post ride beers at Post Road were 2 for 1.

 

LD's, Post Rd.

 

 

Going on Week Three.  Killer's shock parts delayed.  Bruiser is called upon again. 

 

This time it's a trip to FATS.  At least FATS, the Forks Area Trail System in SC, is smooth and swoopy.  About the best place you can be if you're on your back up hardtail.

 

 

 

Big Rock Trail

This just might be the only rock at FATS.

 

 

So it didn't happen without some whining on my part.  OK, a lot of whining on my part.    (Especially during the sprint finish when I finally fell off the back of the B ride.)  

 

But it did happen. 

 

Heavy old Bruiser, wearing hand me down fat tires, and an I-Heart-My-Bike bell.  Just a plain old back up bike who turned out to be about the best, most reliable, all purpose pony anyone could ask for.  

 

Hardtail commuter, turned mountain-roadbike, turned hero.

 

Who would have thought he had it in him?  Certainly not me.

 

 

Croom 50, 2013. Full of surprises.

When you ride the wrong way on singletrack, you meet two kinds of people.

The first kind yell, "Hey, you're going the wrong direction!"

The second kind say, "Oh no, am I going the wrong way?"

I realize suddenly, my day has been full of contrasts right from the starting line.

Here are Popeye and a few friends from the Space Coast Velo road group ready to head out.  Although Popeye and Blown Fuse are old hands, a couple of these guys are pure roadies.  One has never even been on a mountain bike before. 

No matter what I personally think of grown men in matching outfits, I totally give them extra credit for being willing to try something different from the Saturday morning paceline.

"Catch you later, guys," I say, as they take off. 

OK, maybe I am being vain, but I believe I might just be able to catch them later.  One or two of them, anyway.  My inner tortoise is confident that even the most super-fit rabbit will find a borrowed mountain bike to be a very different animal from a road bike.  

After the Space Coast boys have taken off at Velo speed, I go to look for the handful of mountain bike/hasher guys from Melbourne who are here somewhere. I might be able to hang with them - for a little while anyway.   

 

Here they are. Some of our friendly neighborhood mountain bike guys, dressed like, well, mountain bike guys.

While the key to pacelining is sticking with the group, the key to mountain biking is riding your own ride. 

No one else can make a trail easier for you.   No one is going to pop your front wheel over that log for you, or fly over the handlebars for you when you hit that patch of sand.  Basically, the only reason to have others along mountain biking, is in case you go over a cliff. 


With my baggie full of Endurolytes, Ricola, and Airborne tablets, plus two extra bandannas (i.e., snot rags) stuffed into my camelbak, I fully expect to be on my own much sooner than later.  No cliffs in sight, at least.  I feel so crappy that I even grab a map, in case I need to find a bail out point later.


What I am riding now, this wrong-way business, is purely guilt mileage.  There's really no point in going back. 

I am of no practical use to the hasher dude a couple miles back with the cut in his leg.  He has four other friends already with him. 

Riding to look for the access road that was supposed to be a quarter mile up the trail, I have some vague idea of maybe being there to flag down the ambulance that was supposed to be on it's way. 

I see no road at a quarter mile, so I keep going.  There is no road at a half mile.  Or at 1 mile.  It has to be here.  Sooner or later.

I watch the trail and the computer closely.  2.3 miles up the trail from the stump where Pooh took the hit to his leg, there is a burst of situational overload.  Simultaneously, the trail crosses a fire road (finally!), the phone rings, and someone blows by me shouting, "See ya at the end, Vicky!" 

I look at the phone.  Road or no road, I have no explanation as to why I didn't turn around sooner or stop and make a call. I get in this forward mode sometimes, like a kid who doesn't want to put away his toys or come in for supper.
 
It takes a minute to answer the call and sort through the input. 

This is (duh) the wrong road.  The guys are way behind me - back at the road I obviously missed.  And the rider blowing by could not have been one of the hashers catching up as I first thought.  So it must have been our Mudcutter friend, Jim Malone flying solo on his single speed.

The idea of backtracking against a steady tide of riders is not appealing.  "I'd be happy to come back,"  I say into the phone, "if you really think there's anything I can do to help?"  And I would be too, if I could think of anything at all to do. 

I was expecting a quick release.  A nah-we-got-it-under-control, or something of that sort.  Because they do.  I am sure of that.  

Is it my guilty conscience or is there just a tiny hesitation at the other end?  "No, no, I don't blame you," my hasher friend says, "I wouldn't want to ride upstream either."

"OK," I say, even though I am pretty sure it's somehow not the integrous response he expects.  "Then I'm going to keep riding." 

It's dumb to go back, right?  

Over and over I pull off the trail leaving plenty of room, so as not to impede any one's forward progress.  Turns out, going back doesn't take much focus, really.  Less than going forward, in fact.  There is plenty of time to think about...  I don't know...  how dumb I'm being?    

I pull off trail, waiting for a group of three, then five more, to come through. 

Although I'm kicking myself because there's no good reason to be doing it at all, somehow what started as guilt-mileage evolves into just-plain-stubborn-mileage.  I never saw a road, dammit.  And dammit, I am going to keep going back along this stinkin' trail until I do see one!  Once again I recognize forward mode.  Only this time it's taking me backwards.

And finally, about 3 miles back, the singletrack swings fairly close to some quiet, narrow pavement.  Pavement that, away through the trees, looks a lot like rail trail.  According to the computer I am nearly a mile past the offending stump anyway.  It is time to concede that I am not going to see the correct road.   But it still doesn't explain why I never met the others. 

I stand over the bike, trying to reason it out. 

The rider with the cut leg would have gotten a ride out with the EMTs.  The guy he drove over from the coast with would have gone back to the parking lot for the car, taking the extra bike, or maybe coming back for it. 

But why didn't I meet the other three anywhere on the trail in between? 

Three guys.  Flat out gone.  Disappeared. 

Six bonus miles.  One unsolved mystery. 

At least I found a road.  It's probably not the right road, but the sight of it breaks the stubborn streak.

It feels good to go with the flow again.  Good to finally pass the spot where I had turned around.  Hooray.  New territory. 

If I had seen the Easy/Hard cut off sign for the Drunken Monkey, believe me, I would have chosen Easy.  But like the access road, if it was there, I missed it. 

The first hint was a cool little straight-up whoopty-do and I was just thinking to myself, "That's OK, this is going to be fun!"

Then I saw Velo kits standing around at the side of the trail. True, I had expected to catch some of them eventually, but nowhere near this soon.  Someone must be hurt.  But which one?  They are all laughing. 

Then I realize that Ruben, sitting on the ground, is laughing, but also wincing at the same time. 

I remember Ruben from last April. He was the first of them over the finish line at Cross Florida. 167 miles in 8 hours. 

He has never been on a mountain bike before today. 

The story gets filled in quickly.  Ruben went over backward on the steep little climb.  Popeye and Jimmy had ridden to the next sag for help.  The sag guy is already there, with his truck parked on a fire road, a short haul away through the woods. 

Popeye and Jimmy get back while the rest are getting Ruben up.  He can't put weight on his right leg.  He smiles, even through obvious pain, when they prop him up on his bike.  

Jimmy pushes, Popeye takes the extra bike.  The rest of us follow.  I guess I am following this time because Popeye is there.  And the rest of the guys?  Turns out they all rode over together in Jimmy's truck.

Getting a push to the sag vehicle.

 

 

Finally.  In the sag truck.  Still smiling!

 

 

I hope, when his fractured pelvis heals up 6 weeks from now, that Ruben will consider mountain biking again.

 

Another tally is in order. 

 

One hasher hurt at mile 15.  One driving him home.  Three more disappeared. 

 

One roadie hurt at mile 20.  Three more taking the bail-out, in order to drive him home. 

 

Two riders left. 

 

The biggest contrast of all. 

 

One of the slowest mountain bikers around, left to finish off the second half of the Croom 50 with one of the fastest. 

 

I would have told this rider to just go on ahead.  Except I knew he wouldn't.  Because he's just that kind of guy.  And he's also my husband, Popeye.     

 

I daresay it was probably just as painful for Popeye to slow himself to my pace as it was for me to step it up a notch for him.  Well, maybe not just as painful, considering he was riding along, no hands, down the trail while I spent the miles mouth-breathing along behind. 

 

The day grew colder and windier by afternoon, but somehow I still needed to get rid of the layers I had been comfortable in all morning. 

 

When there was no more room in my camelbak for both the extra layers and a refill, Popeye somehow stuffed my jacket and tights into his pockets.

 

Toward the very end, we come upon Gobbler.  Some poor directions back to the trail after Pooh's injury, had left him with less than 50 miles.  So Gobbler had gone right back in to finish his fifty.  Which was pretty much the only thing all day that didn't surprise me. 

 

The three of us finish by mid afternoon.  

 

Popeye and I have nearly identical mileage. 

 

Mine: 56.07. 

His: 56.38.  

 

(I'm so sure Gobbler has his fifty that I don't even ask.)

 

Back at the parking lot, Popeye has my bike in the car before I can even locate my bag of dry clothes.  Then he hands me a beer with the cap already twisted off.  

 

Dry clothes.  Cold beer.  Bonus miles.  Breathing through my nose again.  Life is good.  

 

In spite of the late hour there is plenty of salty-good pasta left at the venue.  A park ranger sits down right behind us and chooses to ignore our beers.

 

You just gotta love mountain biking.  

 

Especially if you love surprises.  

 

 

The Miracle of San Felasco. Tour de San Felasco, 2013

"So, when are you going to write about San Felasco?" came a question during the Saturday ride.

Oh.  Well, I wasn't going to write about San Felasco.  Nothing happened.

Unless of course, you count the most astounding condition to ever occur in the ten years we've been doing this ride.

Mid January is always freezing in Felasco. 

Only this particular Saturday in January, it wasn't freezing.  It was warm.  How warm was it?

It was so warm that...

Mike was not the only one in short sleeves.  Just-in-case jackets were left in cars, or even at home, instead of tied to Camelbaks.  Heads were shaved.  Beards were trimmed.  

I still wore socks - don't get me wrong - it wasn't summer.  But it did get up in the seventies.  The seventies!  It was the Miracle of San Felasco that I've prayed for - for years.

Now who doesn't believe in global warming?

 

Look Ma!  No arm warmers!

Or toe warmers, or jackets, or tights, or balaclavas...

First before any ride details, I feel it's best to be honest about the REAL reason everyone rushes to sign up for the San Felasco ride. 

One might think that it has something to do with tight, winding singletrack through quiet and beautiful forest.  Or climbing the challenging Conquistador and chowing it's namesake cookie at the sags.  Or maybe it's the linking of 62 miles of harmonious off-road trail that only happens once a year.  Or maybe it's the killer chili they serve at the lunch stop.  (OK, no, it's not the chili they serve at the lunch stop.)

The REAL reason everyone rushes to sign up for Felasco is to get in on the group rate at the Cabot Lodge.

Big central lodge fireplace,

lots of friends, free beer. 

Cheers, Mike!

 

 

 

What the heck is that?

A scary little souvenir, picked up by Semi on a hash ride.

Is he really bringing that along with him? 

And why?

 

 

 

For once, I remembered to take a few photos during the ride.

 

 

Mister Bill Kelly. 

Aka, Mother Goose.

 

 

(I am grateful that Bill already had the name Mother Goose, cuz it could have been mine after Killers new brakes screeched through all 50 miles of forest a couple years ago.)

 

 

Just Mike,

going so fast I nearly missed getting him in the shot.

 

 

 

Gobbler,

who grew a beard this year

to keep him warm.

(At least I didn't buy that beard hat I thought about.) 

 

 

Chicken soup or chili?

The choice is clear.

 

 

Apparently no one was harmed by the lunch this year.  And in case of trailside delay, equal opportunity PortaJohns were provided.

 

Pink!

 

Definitely an "A" for effort from the Felasco organizers.  Although a PortaJohn by any other color still smells like a PortaJohn.  Nice try, though.

 

Apparently Semi's little souvenir didn't do him any psychic harm either.  After lunch, Gobbler and I caught up with him and Kurt just before the decision point for extra mileage.  (And well before the cut off hour of three o'clock.  No excuse there.)

 

Somehow I got talked into doing the bonus mileage.  Or talked them into doing it.  Or something.

 

 

OK, Kurt and Semi wouldn't have been off their bikes

if I hadn't yelled,

"Stop!  I want a picture of that tree!"

Thanks for waiting, guys.

 

 

Anyway, the bonus miles were cake, just so you know.  Nothing like last year.  If you chose to bail at 35 or 50 you missed a couple of hills but nothing like last year's cramp-clutching climbs. 

 

Oh.  Except for that one invisible hill.  Meadow climbs at Felasco.  Ouch.  Kind of like a ghost grade on a rail trail.  It hardly even looks like a hill, so why am I going so slow? 

 

And ow!  Why are my calves suddenly mooing and refusing to work?

 

Oh well, since I'm stopped, might as well wait and see who that is coming up behind. 

 

Photos flatten.

Kurt on invisible hill.

 

 

Gobbler and Kurt come climbing up after me.  I take a still of Kurt, and try a video of Gobbler.  I'll spare you the video, no offense to Gobbler.  There's just not much that's longer or more dull than watching someone grinding up a hill that you can't even see.  (But it did give me time to massage out the calves.)

 

Here are a few shots from the Friends of San Felasco website.

 

Some of our group rolling out in the morning.

Me and Mother Goose.

 

 

 

Popeye on the Powerline climb.


And first to the cooler.

Jeff at finish.

Didn't even need the glow sticks.

 

 

So that's about all I got when it comes to the ride.  Not much to tell, really.  No injuries, no crashes, no hypothermia.  And minimal PortaJohn contact.  The Miracle of San Felasco is complete.  

 

Easy rides make boring stories.

 

Just don't ask about the on-after.

 

Cheers!

 

Balm Boyette and Alafia. In with the New Year. Out with the Inner Chicken.

Years of slams and bams and hard landings.  Sliding off bridges.  Clawing back up over cliffs.  Shredded menisci, a torn retina.  Cracked ribs, broken bikes, broken glasses.  Knocked down, knocked out, gashes so deep I have seen my own bones. 
   
But when you love mountain biking, that's just how it is.  It's only pain.  You recover.  And ride again with joyous abandon.  

Until one day, you don't.  One day, hanging at the brink of a drop, that old sneak, self preservation, butts in and says, "Damn, this could really hurt." 

Using those brakes, though.  That's when the hurting really begins. 

Even while it's keeping you from another knock to the head, fear hurts you.  There are worse things than bruises.   

All week I'd been secretly dreading the ride at Balm Boyette on New Year's Day. 

Only the fast guys were going.  And me.  

While other trails push my panic buttons one at a time, Boyette pushes all of them at once. 

Where Ft Pierce is a little roller coaster, Boyette is a big one.  The Econ has high, level edges along the river.  Boyette has high, inside, dirt walls forcing you to skirt along rocky outer rims.  Where Turkey Creek has long plank bridges over a slow flowing creek, Boyette has narrow lanes of cement block up and down sharply banked drop offs.  

I rehearsed a scenario in which I confessed to Popeye that I didn't want to go.  I watched in my mind's eye while he drove off with his fast friends and I stayed home.

How great would it feel though, if I could keep up?  If just this once, I rode all the hard stuff?  Went down those steep rocky chutes I always avoid?  Not like the old days, pitch-poling down them, but swooping the Ridgeline, and maybe even conquering the old fear of skidding off bridges.  

Nice goal.  But there it is again, that pesky reality of hitting the brakes and holding back just as a trail turns fun. 

I reason my way through it.  There's plenty to ride at Boyette without having to go over a cliff.  What I couldn't ride, I could always walk.  Even if it meant bruises to my confidence that would smart every bit as much as the real bruises once did.  In the end, I knew I would go, worries or not.    

The week before Christmas, TriLady visited from Colorado.  We rode the Econ, and all it's edges, in gathering gloom on the shortest day of the year.  The next day we went to Ft Pierce, and zipped up the smooth new approach to The Big Dipper.  Three times around.  All I had to do was follow her line, each time dropping in without brakes, and even catching air on the joyous swoops back up. 

TriLady departed, stuffing her Fuel into the rental Yaris.  Popeye and I prepared for the boat parade and nearly forty guests, which was a little scary too, but turned out fine. 

Once the boat parade was over, we had the freedom of our days back.  We rode Turkey Creek.  I hung back, determined to get the bridge phobia out of my head.  With a white knuckled grip on the bars, I pedalled the long curving bridge so slowly that Popeye, waiting around the bend, assumed I had walked after all.  Riding carefully, no sudden moves, a bit of shaking, but somehow it gets done.  The next time around, it's almost easy.

On the final morning of December there are a couple tempting rides going on, but sometimes you just know when you need a rest day, and we take one.  We do the bourbon tasting at Pie-Man and Scout's that night, but we leave early.  The alarm is set for five thirty for the trip to Boyette.

The zip-wham of fireworks, softened by bourbon, wakes me at midnight.  I remember to say Rabbit Rabbit.  I don't remember making a wish.

We get to Boyette a half hour early.  Following Popeye, forgetting to shave speed, I shoot completely off a curve in the trail before we even hit any hard parts.  We meet up with his fast friends and head for Ridgeline. 

There are plenty of challenging trails at Boyette, but Ridgeline is the real reason we have all driven two and a half hours. 

There are a few riders standing around at the head of the trail, but the guys in our group don't hesitate.  One by one, they swoop down and back up the first three drops, then disappear around a bend.  I follow, taking the first two drops, having fun with it, then fetch up at the top of the third, looking down over the edge.  It's way steep. 

I claw my way back up the swoops I just came down and check the map for a way to meet the guys at the other end. 

Along the way I find an edgy trail along the water and take it at my own speed.  The Superfly pops over the roots no problem and stays  right on trail. 

A gator floats, watching, eyes just above the bright green scum.  It is no where near the size of those at the Econ. 

I see a side loop that the guys had mentioned.  On impulse, I take it.  There are a few tricky spots and it is rough from disuse, but I grind my way through, only setting a foot down once or twice. 

When I get to the end of the side loop, it suddenly occurs to me that I am doing all right.  I'm two for two.  And if I don't get myself back to Ridgeline today, it could be another year before the next chance.  

It's not that bad.  I don't do it all, and I take the bypasses when offered, but I do more of it than I ever thought I could. 

At the top of an especially steep drop I hesitate out of habit, and lean out to look over the edge. 

Did you ever see that portrait of the young, beautiful woman?  The one that, with a blink and a shift in perception, you suddenly see an old, ugly woman instead? 

In that instant, peering over the edge of a drop at scary old Boyette, with a blink and a shift in perception, I suddenly see the Big Dipper at Ft. Pierce instead.  I line it up and just go. 

At the end of Ridgeline, I am waiting when the guys finish their second pass.   I add nothing to the discussion of what trail to do next, but ride in slow circles waiting for their decision.  

I am savoring a new sensation, a tiny little flicker of returning confidence.   And when they take off for the Abyss, I fall into place at the end of the line and go with them.  When I finish, they are waiting.  I dare to consider that maybe I am not so hopeless as I expected to be.  In fact, I even find that once or twice, I am not the only one they have to wait for.

And with that I would have been happy enough with my day.  An impromptu New Year's resolution unvoiced and unexpected, but accomplished nonetheless, by early afternoon on the very first day of the year. 

But these are Popeye's friends.  Roadies first, mountain bikers second.  These are the guys who can do the Cross Florida in 8 hours.  The question is not whether to ride some more, only whether to ride more here, or head to Alafia and ride more there.

When we pull into Alafia, I don't wait for the guys to get organized.  I tell Popeye I'll check back in an hour, and I am off and riding.  I have a loop and a mission in mind.

First to North Creek.  Edgy trails, narrow and tight, banked along a series of shady gator holes, gooey and still.  Killer rattles over the wooden bridges, long and straight, and of no concern to a veteran of Turkey Creek. 

North Creek

Can you see the gator?

Me neither.

(But it's there.)

Next on the agenda comes Rock Garden.  Signs with arrows point the way to "easier" or "harder".  For the first time ever, I choose "harder".  I don't clean them all.  I walk down one and avoid one other, but it's more this time than any other here. 

I make it through Rock Garden, and head for Bridges.  There's a 30 foot wooden entry bridge across a deep gully, then a series of swooping whoopty dos in decreasing amplitude all the way to the end.  My previous solution to riding this trail was to skip the bridge and the first (highest) drop by pushing my bike up the dirt bank about halfway through, and riding the progressively easier dips to the end.  

The bridge is wider than Turkey Creek, and the first big drop is no Big Dipper.  I pedal right by the two guys standing over their bikes at the top looking down, and just go.  And go, and go.  And from there to Roller Coaster, and go some more.   

I have far exceeded my check in time, but when I get back to the car, Popeye isn't there either.  No doubt still out effortlessly riding Moonscape or some other black diamond trail.   

I rinse under the outdoor shower, and sit on the tailgate in dry clothes, eating a salty ham sandwich.  I'm glad I came. 

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.