Sunrise and Evolution

If I have learned anything over the past few months, it's that even after riding bikes my whole life there is always more to learn.

The human body can be both highly specialized and yet hugely adaptable if given a little time. I am a relatively fit cyclist, and I can hold my own against most people my age or even younger. Pit me against runners at a similar fitness level, and I would fail miserably. I simply don't use the same muscle groups or have the built up capillary infrastructure to deliver energy and oxygen to those running muscles.

When I first started riding the Jones, the position changed enough to where I struggled. I felt slow, and my first rides left my muscles feeling sore for about a week. New muscles were being utilized, and my body was trying to adapt. When it did adapt, I felt as fast and sometimes faster on the Jones.

As mountain bikers our genesis and evolution is a complex one. While the origin is often traced back to guys riding old clunkers, the guys who started making the first purpose-built frames had road racing backgrounds. So it's no mystery that the early mountain bikes looked a lot like road bikes. Compare my 1987 Fisher to my LeMond below it:

Short, horizontal top tubes, short head tubes and similar angles. We were forced to use ridiculously long stems to compensate, which made early mountain bikes endo machines. We endured these horrible bikes for quite some time because we didn't know any better.

Eventually someone broke the mold and sloped a top tube. Head tubes lengthened. Top tubes lengthened. Stems shortened. Head tube angles relaxed. The world rejoiced.

Which brings me to my recent experiments, which are all being performed in an effort to relieve some stress on my bad wrist and neck. I never intended for the Surly Sunrise bars to go on a conventional mountain bike. They simply looked cool and I thought they might be fun on my 26-inch travel bike. They sat unused for years.

Pain has a funny way of motivating you, though, especially when you are experiencing that discomfort doing something you love. The success of the Jones has opened my eyes to the "might as well try it" school of thought. I eyed the bars collecting dust in the corner of my office and thought, why not? Even if they are wider, taller and have more sweep than any riser bar I have ever used, why not?

On the first couple test rides around my home, they felt strange but not bad. The cockpit was shorter and much taller, and that alone may have been a deal breaker had the Jones not already prepared me for it. The 15 degree bend was a noticeable improvement, enough to relieve some pressure on my wrist but still feel like a riser bar. They were uncomfortably wide, though.

I used them for a real mountain bike ride today for the first time—23 miles on rolling terrain, mostly singletrack. When I rolled away from the car I actually didn't notice the bars at all. I adapted.



On the trail they were great. The entire ride was so much fun. I was really hauling ass down some descents, probably getting in over my head a couple times. But those big bars just made me feel invincible.

Climbing is certainly more upright, but not altogether horrible. On the few occasions when I felt like going fast I simply bent my elbows a bit and attained a more familiar climbing position. But you can also sit up and take a look around if you want, an option you don't have with a low-rise bar.

In the end my takeaway is this: There are a lot of ways to skin that cat. Striving to be more comfortable doesn't necessarily mean giving up speed and handling. In this case, handling and downhill speed actually improved.

So experiment, try different things, keep an open mind (which hasn't always been the case for me) and have fun.

Later.

A Tale of Two Poachings

Sometimes you just have to poach.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term as it applies to mountain biking, it's the act of riding on trails that are deemed off-limits to bicycles. Yes, it's illegal. No, it's not very responsible. Yes, it makes all mountain bikers look bad. Yes, it could threaten the access we currently have. I've heard all the arguments, and yet I still poach. So why do I do it?

The main reason for poaching is pretty simple: Convenience. Time is in short supply these days. Most every trail close to my home is illegal to ride on, so when I only have a couple hours to spare, it's poaching time. Terrible excuse, sure, but convenience is only part of a complex equation.

Most of these trails see little use by the vocal minority, i.e., the hikers and equestrians. I rarely see a horse on a ride, whereas I see many, many mountain bikers. Seem fair? It doesn't to me. But life itself is not fair, and I accept that, so fairness is only part of the problem.

I don't think I have ever traveled anywhere outside of my home region and ignored a "no bikes" sign. I don't go to Marin County, for instance, and poach a trail. The people who live and ride there have their own land access battles to fight, big ones, and they don't need outsiders screwing things up. In general, I am honest to a fault, and I obey the rules handed down to me. I use my turn signal while driving, return shopping carts to the corral in pouring rain, never run with scissor and sit up straight at the dinner table. Hell, I've never had a speeding ticket.

Which brings us back to my local trails. Over 30 years ago, my friends and I graduated from BMX bikes to the then-new mountain bikes. We left jumps, berms and 45-second BMX races behind and embraced singletrack and grueling multi-hour races. We began riding the horse trails around our two local lakes, and having a blast. We had miles and miles of it at our disposal, more than we could ride in a weekend. We saw the occasional horse, and it was no big deal. But within a few short years, the all-too-familiar circle-slash signs went up. To my knowledge, there was no discussion or public forum, no debate. Just a knee-jerk reaction to complaints from horse owners. Case closed, never to be opened again.

For people who came to the dance late, they see a "no bikes" sign and shrug their shoulders. They never knew any differently. Those who were there in the beginning feel that something was taken away from them. For me, today, it is this: The Good Old Days.

For many years I obeyed those signs, obeyed the law. I rode the boring, short, multi-use trails and looked longingly at the fun stuff across the lake. I drove for an hour or more to do legal rides. Finally, I really lost my way. I rode a damn road bike. The horror.

Then one day you reach a point where you start yearning for those Good Old Days. You're spinning along on the paved bike path, and you think, "What if I slip down Shady Trail, just this once?" Nobody is around, it's near dusk, and you go for it. And it's as good as you remembered it. Better even. At that point it is all over. You are a poacher.

So before you point toward me, perched high upon your horse (or worse, your bike), calling me the problem, know this: I am just a guy, a tax-paying guy with a job and a family and a mortgage and a yard. I'm just stealing little pieces of my past, little pieces of the miles and miles of enjoyment stolen from me, little pieces of The Good Old Days.

Most of the time, when you choose to poach, things turn out just fine . . .

Back in my racing days, we had a team single speed ride on Tuesdays starting at the fish hatchery. We were a competitive bunch, so the pace was fast and painful and often dangerous to others. Many of the trails we used were not especially legal. This combination could, on rare occasions, lead to problems.

One day I showed up for the ride after a long absence. I had raced with the Rio Strada team for seven years, but my participation had tailed off greatly due to a number of outside factors. I pulled into the parking lot apprehensive about my ability to keep up after the layoff.

The 3:00 start time came and went, and only Curtis and I were there. This left me feeling a bit uneasy, as Curtis was coming off a fine cyclocross season which saw him place 11th overall in the Master A class. I, on the other hand, was finishing up a fine season of, well, absolutely nothing. I was hoping for a little pack fodder to hide among.

For the first time in eight years, I raced not a single time all season—not a criterium, road race, nor a mountain bike or cyclocross event. Without any racing under my belt that year, and nearly all of my riding being done solo, I again questioning my fitness as we saddled up. I told Curtis, "Take it easy on me, Racer-Boy."

Whereas I usually start out my single speed rides with some spinning on the flat, somewhat boring (but legal) multi-use trail on the south side of the lake, the team ride jumps right into the illegal stuff by traversing the cliff near the dam. This is the toughest climb of the entire ride, steep and rocky and loose, and it's right out of the parking lot. Curtis flew up it, his spinning tire spitting rocks backwards into my spokes. I barely hung on, thinking this was going to make for a long day.

As we descended down the backside, I easily caught up. Coming from a road racing background, Curtis simply isn't the descender I am.

The next few hills yielded the same result: Getting killed going up, catching back on going down. We were really flying, and I was very uncomfortable with the ungodly pace. It hurt. I tasted copper and lunch was lurking right behind my tongue.

On the next hill I went around Curtis and gave it everything I had to crest the top first. On the descent, a long winding one, I really let it go and put some time into him. This worked well, and was to be my strategy for the remainder of the ride. Using the gap, on the next climb I was able to climb comfortably at my own pace. And so on.

The trails were completely empty except for a couple other riders near Beal's Point. Curtis asked them if they knew they were riding on illegal trails. They didn't get the joke, but Curtis and I laughed anyway. Nope, no runners, hikers, horses or dogs. It was nice. A great afternoon for poaching. No harm, no foul.

On the way back I started getting my legs, bringing the hammer down on the climbs, descents and everything in-between. I was hurting Curtis a little bit, and it felt good. He said, "Take it easy on you? Take it easy on ME!" I felt a bit more confident that I could still ride with these guys who raced all year.

Sometimes, when you poach, things go terribly, terribly wrong . . .

The scheduled Sunday ride was supposed to be in Georgetown. Scanning the dead and dying bikes strewn across the garage, I decided that I didn't have a running machine up for the task. Georgetown is rough—trails maintained by motorcycles, basically. A rigid single speed and a cyclocross rig were the only living soldiers; neither was going to cut it.

I woke up on Sunday morning and saw an e-mail from Dave. It said the ride had been changed to El Dorado Hills due to the freezing temperatures that would make Georgetown miserable. Sweet, I'm in.

I scrambled to change the gearing on my 29er single speed to accommodate the ride at Brown's Ravine, a trail I've poached maybe three times in 15 years. I grabbed some food, changed clothes, and flew down to the pizza place where we park.

Due to the cold, the group was small. It ends up being me, Craig Peterson and a tatted up dude named Robert on single speeds, with Dave opting for his old Merlin geared bike. We took off and it was a little cold, but nothing like the temperatures we would have dealt with up in Georgetown.

Everyone agreed to a slow warm-up, but almost immediately Craig P. broke the truce and put the hammer down. I jumped on his wheel. Craig is a strong rider, but I was pretty much sitting in comfortably. Even so, we put a big gap on Dave and Robert, who actually stuck with the warm-up plan.

The trail was in prime condition from the rain on Friday, and we railed through the turns with seemingly endless traction. We regrouped at a crossroad, and Robert took the lead followed by Craig, Dave and me. We were going through a long series of downhill left turns followed by gradual uphill right-hand bends, over and over. So fun. Robert bobbled on one of the short, steep climbs, and Craig passed him. This would prove to be our undoing.

We continued in this order for a couple miles. I was actually spinning along very comfortably in back, enjoying the ride for the sake of riding. Sometimes it's nice to just cruise along with a slower group and not feel like puking.

Suddenly I came around a corner to catch the beginning of a discussion that was quickly escalating to an argument between Craig and an equestrian. She was in her early sixties, I'd say, with three dogs in tow. Craig had moved off the trail, to the downhill side, and issued a good morning. What he received in exchange was not quite as pleasant. Within moments there was a cussing and pissing contest involving who had been riding the trail longer, who did more for it, and who was more wrong—us for riding the trail or her for letting three dogs run wild. Since Craig lives right up the road, he rides the trail often, and claims to clear poison oak every spring, fix washouts, etc. She admitted to never doing any trail maintenance, giving Craig more ammunition against her, but this only pissed her off more.

The argument lasted for some time, and the old woman was really dishing out the profanity. Craig and Robert responded in kind, and quite frankly it was embarrassing to witness. Robert finally had enough and continued on. Craig finally did the same and issued one last "fuck you" as he rode away. Well, this riled her up again and she took that damn horse right down a steep ravine and up to the trail again, cutting Craig off. She positioned her horse right in front of him and said, "I could crush you right now and nobody would care because you're illegal."

Craig said, "Yeah, well I could shoot your fucking dogs because they're off a leash."

More arguing, more cussing. We tentatively went around her and tried to ride again. This time she decided to chase us while trying to call someone on her cell phone. Unfortunately, I was at the back and the fucking horse was running right up my ass. It was scary. I could actually feel the ground shaking beneath me and feel the horse's breath on my neck. I couldn't believe how fast she was riding that horse on the narrow trail.

After a couple minutes of this, I'd had enough. I was getting mad. What the fuck did I do to her? I hadn't uttered a word to this point. I started to brake and hoped she wasn't serious about stomping on someone. Thankfully, the horse did stop. I tried to talk to her, tell her this wasn't really a constructive way to spend a morning, but it didn't work. She only had eyes for Craig, and rode around me in the weeds, taking off in pursuit. I took off after her.

Riding behind her, I saw her feeble attempts to get a cell phone signal out there. Finally, as we neared the road, she registered a signal and stopped the horse. I blazed by. I knew I had to get back to the guys to warn them about the call she was about to make. Not a half mile later, I was descending down to the creek that runs under Salmon Falls Road, when I saw a ranger getting out of a truck. He told Craig and Dave to stop. Robert was nowhere to be seen. As I pulled up, the ranger, who looked like he was rousted from bed, asked, "What's this about you brandishing a gun, son?" Craig, who is normally pretty quiet and laid back, went off. You could almost hear the capillaries bursting in his eyes.

At this point Dave jumped off his bike and pulled Craig away, while I slipped in to diffuse the situation. Although the lady told him that shots were actually fired, I explained exactly what happened. The Ranger nodded knowingly, like this lady was a constant pain in his ass. Or maybe he was humoring me because he thought we did have a gun. I wasn't sure. Still, he clearly intended on giving us citations and we knew it. I think the fine was $500 back then.

Craig said OK, have a nice day, and started RIDING AWAY. The look on the ranger's face was priceless. He couldn't believe it, and he stood there frozen. Then Dave said the most brilliant thing: "Let's just ride back to Falcon Crest, get in the car, and go home."

Well, we were actually parked on the opposite end of the trail in El Dorado Hills. Dave and I slowly rode away and Ranger Rick didn't immediately come after us. However, I did see his radio come out.

Once out of sight, we regrouped with Craig. We agreed to ride up to a point where we could jump off the trail before Falcon Crest, where the posse was surely assembling, and come back on the road.

So we were riding along, and out of nowhere the psycho horse lady came flying in again. It was like something out of a bad Western movie. She was pretty mad that we kept getting away. She said, "If the fucking rangers won't do anything, I will!" She then started snapping limbs off of trees and throwing them at us. The situation had reached the point where all we could do was laugh.

We took off again in a hail of tree branches and put some distance between us. If she stayed within sight of us, it would make positively identifying the "shooter" very easy. Without her, we were just three guys poaching a trail. The terrain was flat and fast, and the horse couldn't keep up as well as in the tight woods. Craig suddenly took a hard left and went right off the trail and over the embankment towards the lake, diving behind a bush. I looked back and realized that she didn't see him bail. I let Dave ride for about a quarter mile before I whistled at him to pull over. She stopped briefly to ask us if we give up yet, and I said, "Nope, just stopping for lunch." She looked up the trail and headed out in pursuit of Craig, who was now actually behind her.

Dave and I sat there for a few minutes and shot the shit. All of the sudden, a new ranger on a horse appeared from the direction the lady just went. Dave and I quickly turned around and high-tailed it. We were hauling ass and the ranger was losing ground. He pulled his radio out, so he was probably calling ahead. We were getting boxed in.

I told Dave to hit it hard and look for a place to bail. After about a half-mile, we came to a faint cross-trail. We headed uphill and it became too steep to ride. We ran up the hill cyclocross style to who-knows-where. We ran under a line of trees and shrubs, and came to a barbed-wire fence. We ran along it for a while until we saw a break in it. We ran through and found ourselves on someone's ranch. We rode on a dirt road until we hit an asphalt road, which we took towards where we thought Salmon Falls Road might be. It ended up being a gated community, and we rode through it to a chorus of dogs barking; it was like they knew we were on the run. Residents looked at us like we were already in orange county jail jumpsuits. We found the gate and of course it's closed. And of course it's six feet tall with spikes on it. I carefully hopped over. Dave handed me the bikes and followed. An old lady watched us from her garage and pulled a cell phone from her robe.

Dave and I rode for a while on the road until we saw the Deputy Sheriff cruising slowly behind us. Luckily he was combing the woods to his right, so he didn't see us yet. I ducked down a dirt driveway and Dave followed. We hid behind some bushes and thankfully he drove right past us. We then decided that we preferred park rangers over El Dorado County Sheriff's Deputies, so we rode up to a trailhead and continued back on the trail where the first ranger stopped us. Screw it, we weren't going to miss the best part of the ride.

The last few miles were uneventful, and we didn't encounter a soul. Knowing we likely escaped a fine, arrest or being stomped to death made the curving ribbons of trail that much sweeter.

When we arrived back at the cars, Craig was there and Robert had just pulled in. Rob had ridden non-stop and went all the way through Falcon Crest to do the Sweetwater Trail before riding back on the road—a nice ride. He never saw a soul or knew of the chaos we were dealing with.

It was a wild day and I probably left out some details. One thing I do know is Brown's Ravine is one of the best single speed trails in the region. I had forgotten how great it is.

Sometimes you just have to poach.

Friends First

I took the Canfield out for a 35-mile ride today and had a great time. Finally.

When I first built the bike I liked it OK, but didn't love it. My main complaint was the steering never quite felt right. The front tire wanted to wash out in high-speed turns, leaving me a little nervous about committing to a long-term relationship. We agreed to remain friends and hook up whenever I wanted to ride a strange bike.

I rode the bike last week and it was OK. Fun and playful, but she still tried to throw me to the ground on occasion. Still, I thought maybe we could make things work.

Since building the Canfield I have dabbled with plus-sized tires on the Surly Krampus and DB Mason. On the Diamondback especially, I came to appreciate the combination of slack head angle and fat tire. The huge contact patch felt sure-footed, especially at very high speeds.

Because of my experience with bigger tires, I decided to replaced the Canfield's front wheel. The old one utilized a Mavic TN 719 rim, which measures a puny 19mm inside width. Even when paired with a relatively large Maxxis Ardent 2.4 tire, the result was less than confidence inspiring.

The rim was replaced with a Race Face ARC 35 which, as the name suggests, comes in at a 35mm width. Paired with the same Ardent tire, set up tubeless, the result is a much bigger tire. Huge in comparison.

A number of things happen with this setup. One, you get more air volume. This increase in volume and running tubeless allows you to lower the air pressure significantly. The wide rim also changes the tire's profile, putting more rubber on the ground.

The difference was amazing. I pushed the bike hard in corner after corner and it handled wonderfully. I am pleasantly surprised at how much difference a simple wheel swap could make. I don't want to get ahead of myself, but I think she could be the one.

Shiny new wheel before the abuse started.

Folsom Lake.

Near Dyke 8.

Here I am doing at least 60 miles per hour.

Here's the brand new bridge built for the Johnny Cash Trail. They did a great job.

So, a really great ride and fine way to spend my day off. I am looking forward to adding a matching rear wheel and riding this bike more often. I just hope she doesn't think we are exclusive now. I am a 10-bike kind of guy.

Later.

Renewal

There hasn't been any activity on this blog for a while. The focus has been elsewhere, on things that matter much more in the grand scheme of things than writing about riding a bicycle, things that take time and effort and sacrifice. Things that make it so much easier to simply post a picture and a few words on Instagram.

We have been participating in youth baseball nonstop since last December—from winter training to late winter tournaments, through the spring tournaments, into Babe Ruth League, summer tournaments, Babe Ruth playoffs, All Stars and the recently concluded high school fall program. Back in July my son played 17 games in 30 days. It's been a very busy year.

Saturday was his last high school game until spring. The end. No mas. I felt like I could finally exhale and relax for the first time in a while.

Today I decided to take the day off (cough, cough) and get a good ride in. I left from home and rode a 35-mile loop incorporating about every surface you can think of.

Even though it's fall, and the state of most living things is in decline, I couldn't help but feel a personal sense of new beginnings. It felt good to go spin the pedals with no particular place to be and no need to rush. I took a real camera and stopped to snap a picture whenever the mood struck me. I rode hard sometimes and cruised others. I finished up mildly fatigued, but not destroyed. It was a great day.

I'll let the pictures and captions tell the rest.

Later.

Here's the route. Click to enlarge.

Northern California fall means cooler temps and bone dry trails.

Still a little smoke from all the fires in the distance, but last Thursday's rain did wonders for our air quality.

After a long, very hot summer, the water level in Folsom Lake looks good.

Power line corridors and bike trails go together like peas and carrots. 

Singletrack dead ahead.

New York Creek trail.

Wild Oaks trail.

Brown's Ravine. Damp soil. Actual moisture!

More Brown's Ravine.

Lonely foothills road.

Deer Valley Road.

Farm road.

The Sierra Nevadas to the east.

Fat Bike Forecast

Our fat bike correspondent Roger checked in with the fat biking conditions out at Folsom Lake.

"Conditions are mostly sunny with 100% chance of wood."

Mixed Company

Yesterday I went for a ride out at Granite Bay with a few family members. We didn't go far, we didn't go fast, but I really enjoyed myself. Sometimes I forget that it's nice to actually ride with other humans.

Here I am bringing up the rear:

Phillip finishing a downhill:

Joel rocking the fat bike:

Roger (a little out of focus):

Joel in the obligatory distance shot:

Roger finishing up the last climb. Downhill time!

Towards the end of the ride, Roger commented that we were all on different wheel sizes. It wasn't too many years ago that there was only one wheel size. I bought my first 29er in 2004, and I thought it would be the last real technology jump for mountain bikes.

The bicycle industry has come a long way since then, and quickly. You can buy a bike tailored to pretty much any terrain you can think of, and the tire choices are mind boggling. Just when I thought I had seen everything, plus bikes came along and completely changed the way I ride. And surely more great ideas are on the way.

But in the end, I don't think it matters that much. We all rode vastly different bikes on this ride, and everyone finished with smiles on their faces, just like we did back in 1984.

Later.

Compromise

I finally finished building the Monocog. After a couple rides I have decided it's a keeper. You know, until I decide it's not.

There are a few parts, both new and old, worth talking about.

I really like the Salsa Rustler bars. The 11-degree bend is much nicer that the typical eight or nine degrees of other bars. The 29.5" width is about perfect for single speeding.

Up front is a Maxxis Ikon mounted tubeless at 20 PSI. Great volume, fast rolling, supple casing and good traction. My new favorite tire.

The frame utilizes a 26.8mm seatpost. Although I owned a Monocog before, I had forgotten about the weird size. I dug around in the archives and found this old Suntour XC post.

I originally bought the post when I built up my Ibis in 1986. It also ended up on my Fisher Procaliber and Bridgestone MB1.

Old Race Face square taper cranks. I swore I would never use square taper cranks again, but it's all I had. They work fine, and so far no creaking or clicking.

I took it out on a 31-mile ride yesterday and had a great time. Conditions were perfect for going fast, the damp soil providing seemingly limitless traction.

Water on the rise.

This bike beats the Waltworks in almost every way except for climbing. I'm never going to like climbing out of the saddle with a suspension fork, but at this point I feel it's a necessary compromise. My wrist (and old body in general) can't take the pounding of a rigid fork anymore.

The upside is once you crest a climb, the fun starts. Even a mere 80mm of travel from a 10-year-old Reba makes a huge difference. It's smoother, faster and cornering traction is better because your front wheel isn't bouncing around.

It sure is nice to see water in the lake again.

I'm now left wondering what to do with the Waltworks. On the one hand, it will fit my son in a couple years. On the other hand, it's outdated and limited by the very short fork; it will always be a rigid bike. Time will tell, I guess.

Later.

Single Life

Today I took the newly reconfigured Waltworks out for a two-hour ride. I was a little apprehensive because I haven't been on a single speed in quite some time. Would I be fit enough? Single speeding isn't very enjoyable when you're walking up hills.

I needn't have worried about my fitness. Unlike my 42-mile ride on Friday, which I struggled to finish, I actually rode really well today. I was shocked at just how good I felt. Maybe all the riding lately is paying off.

The bike has completely changed with the new 38mm riser bar. Both the rider position and the handling felt great. The 30-inch wide bars slowed the steering down a bit, but the bike may have been a bit too quick before. As I have mentioned previously, the bike has a 72-degree head angle, which is pretty steep. I felt comfortable enough with the new handling to blow by a guy riding a full suspension bike on a downhill. That was pretty satisfying.

I noticed something interesting after riding a few downhills on this bike. It was the smoothest ride of any bike I have been on lately, yet it has narrow tires compared to the Niner and Krampus. So what's the deal?

I suspect the quality of the tubing is the main difference. The Waltworks frame and fork are made from True Temper OX Platinum and are designed specifically for my weight. The result is the kind of ride quality you hope for when you fork out the dough for a custom ride. It's also the lightest bike I own by far. It seems like a light bike moves more freely underneath you, isn't as jolting when you hit a bump.

The Krampus is made of a generic 4130 chromoly tubing, and the frameset has to be designed for anyone who might buy it, which might mean a 300-pound dude. It's simply not going to have the same ride quality as my custom bike, even with plus size tires. And it's a tank.

The Niner is aluminum, so it is stiffer than a steel frame by default. That said, it rides pretty well. Aluminum bikes have come a long way.

In the end there is obviously more to making a rigid bike ride well than just cramming fat tires in it. If that were the case, the Krampus would ride like a Cadillac.

Anyway, I had a great time on the single speed and I can't wait to ride it again soon.

Later.

#2 Pencil

Today I did the same ride as last Friday. After taking a bit of a beating last week, I went with the Canfield over the Niner.

I started early, and the trails were nice and empty. The weather was cool and overcast due to the overnight delta breeze bringing the marine layer far inland.

I haven't taken the Canfield out for a while, and at first I had to relearn how to steer. The slack head angle and long travel fork combination is a lot different than what I normally ride. The front tire washed out on me a couple times early in the ride. Once I got used to the bike, that seemed to go away.

As little as a year ago, I thought a 120mm fork was overkill for this area. But injuries and age are taking their toll. I can't ride a rigid bike every day. At the very least I need to use this bike more often to protect my hands. I also remembered how much fun this bike is.

On one of the rocky drops on my second lap, I took a bad line, but stayed upright. The fork bailed me out of a bad decision.

Riding a rigid fork is like writing in pen; you better be committed because mistakes can be permanent. A suspension fork is like a pencil; it can erase mistakes.

After being a long-time pen user, I might need to start using more pencils.

Later.

Tough

Yesterday I took my Niner out to Granite Bay to try out the new wheel and tire combination on the trails. The frame is an older Niner EMD, which sat around unbuilt for years. I bought it to be my race bike, but I never got around to doing any racing. I finally built it up a couple months ago using a Salsa Firestarter steel fork and many of the parts from the Salsa Fargo I sold. Until yesterday it had only been used for mixed-terrain rides around my house.

I have always preferred the way a bike handles with a rigid fork. For most of the riding I do, suspension just isn't necessary. I also like climbing out of the saddle, and the bobbing of a suspension fork drives me nuts. And to be honest, riding without suspension (and going as fast as others) has always made me feel tough. Until yesterday.

After only 30 miles of riding, my back and hands were toast. In my defense, the trails are pretty beat up right now. What used to be an easy loop where you could take beginners is now quite technical in places. I think as suspension travel increases, speed also increases, and speed tears up trails.

I don't know if it's age catching up with me, or simply the combination of an aluminum frame and rigid fork, but I am very sore today. My back is usually pretty solid, so I am a little surprised.

As far as the tires go, I have never had better traction. The wider rims really change the profile of the tire, increase the volume, and allow you to run lower pressures. The sand over hardpack is usually quite slippery at times. On this ride I usually have a couple close calls with the front tire washing out, but I didn't break traction even once. I am sold on wide rims.

The only pictures I took were of the "lake." The drought continues, and I can't believe how low the water is. The shoreline should be up near the trees on the left:

The dam isn't doing much work these days:

This morning, as I flexed my sore fingers, I eyed the Rockshox Reba sitting in the corner of the garage and accepted the fact that it needs to go on my bike. I ain't so tough anymore.

Later.

Rock Crawl

With May looming, I knew I would be spending much of coming month on the road and cyclocross bikes trying to crank out the miles. I decided to take a low mileage bike out for a little fun, and nothing gets lower mileage than the fat bike.

I wanted to see what the south side of Folsom Lake had to offer, so I parked on Sophia Parkway and rolled into the park entrance across the street. I made a beeline for the water and then turned northeast, heading towards Brown's Ravine. The first section was rocky, flat and not exactly picturesque. It wasn't until I hit a trail covered in flowers that I was prompted to pull out the camera.

I have lived here for a long time, and I can't recall ever seeing this much springtime color. It looked more like something you might see in Tahoe.

As I progressed north, the terrain became rockier and steeper.

I enjoyed the challenge of climbing up and over the rocky hills, picking my way through the minefields. The loose shale clinked under my fat tires like broken glass.

At this point the steepness of the shoreline made the going tough, and it was time to turn around.

It was a fun little ride, and the terrain was quite a contrast from the sand and granite featured on the north side of the lake, which is much more fun on the fat bike.

Later.

Fat Jenny

It's been a long time since I have posted. In life, it's easy to create a habit, either good or bad. I decided to let a few days go by without posting, and the next thing I knew almost three months had passed. Time to break the habit.

Way back in the summer I bought new, wider wheels for my Pugsley. Then I needed new cranks to accommodate the wider rims and tires. That started an incompatibility chain reaction, which eventually caused a complete upgrade to a 10-speed drivetrain. With all the old parts then sitting in a pile, I realized I only needed a frameset to build another fat bike. I bought an extra small Pugsley frame and built it up, so now Jenn has a fatty.

This morning we went out to Folsom Lake for her first fat bike ride. The water level is pretty dismal, but it made for some interesting terrain. Here Jenn rides on the surface of Mars.

This egret had little trouble fishing in this landlocked puddle. Like shooting fish in a barrel . . .

We rode along the lake shore for a while. The dirt, mud, sand and rocks were no problem.

It has been difficult to get Jennifer to ride in the dirt over the years, but she didn't hesitate on her Pugsley. The fat tires are confidence inspiring from the first pedal stroke.

When we made it to Granite Bay, we looped back to Beal's point on the trails.

It was a fun ride and I think Jenn really enjoyed the fat bike experience.

Later.