A Late-Breaking Note from Fatty: Bike Snob NYC has wisely elected to avoid leprosy. Read his response here.

There are certain memories that stick with you forever. One of mine is my shopping experience for my first serious mountain bike. I had no idea what I was looking for, but the manager of the bike shop — Scott Calhoun — was someone I knew, liked, and trusted.

“What bike should I get?” I asked.

“This one,” he said, indicating the Specialized Stumpjumper M2.

“Well, what bike do you ride?” I asked.

“This one,” he said, indicating the exact same bike.

That sold me.

Since then, I’ve moved from being the guy who needs to ask a trusted expert what bike to buy to being the guy (notice I didn’t say “trusted expert” when referring to myself) other people ask. I know most of the brands and models, and if I don’t know, I can quickly find out.

I’ve become so comfortable with bikes that I’ve forgotten exactly how strange and confusing shopping for a bike must be to someone looking to buy their first (or second, or whatever) serious bike.

For example, take a look at these two bikes:

You, of course, can probably tell that there are masive differences between these two bikes. The one on top is a singlespeed. The one on the bottom is carbon. The one on top is clearly a ride-around-town bike; the one on the bottom is for serious racing.

But try this experiment: show the above two images to someone who doesn’t know anything about bikes. They will probably note that both bikes are from Specialized. They may think the decals on the top bike look a little bit cooler and that the one on the top comes with pedals, while the one on the bottom does not.

They probably will not deduce that the bike on top has an MSRP of $690, while the one on the bottom has an MSRP of $8500.

OK, to be honest, I also am a little bit dumbfounded at the price on the S-Works Tarmac SL2. I mean, no matter how much awesomeness they add to the bike, it’s still just a Specialized. Isn’t owning a Tarmac SL2 is like having the most awesomely tricked out Toyota Corolla in the world?

OK, I’m drifting away from my point in a big way, here. I need to reel myself in.

Back to Novice Land
Today, I was reminded of how confusing it is to be a rank novice shopping for a new bike, because — once again — I am a rank novice, shopping for a different kind of ride.

I’m in the market for a scooter for Susan. No, not like this:

More like this:

You see, Susan hardly ever asks for anything. And she even more hardly ever asks for anything big. So when she, this morning, said she’d really like to have something that would let her ride around the neighborhood so she could walk the girls to school, or go with us to the park, or otherwise just get around without having to be pushed or driven, well, I was immediately all over it.

Until, of course, I got completely overwhelmed by the price range, feature variety, and incredibly variance in brands and models, even as I could not tell any difference at all between a $700 scooter and a $4000 one.  

I mean, it’s worse than not knowing which scooter brands I should be looking at. I don’t even know what kind of questions I should be asking. I’m like the guy who comes into a bike shop, interested in buying a bike to get in shape, but to whom it’s never even occurred that there may be different kinds of bikes for trails and pavement, and that maybe I should know which I want to do.

Do I want three wheels, or four? I dunno.

How long should I expect the battery to last? Beats me.

Which brands are the most reliable? No idea.

What’s a reasonable top speed? Or should I even care?

Does it even matter whether there’s a light system and traffic signals? I don’t think Susan’s going to take this thing downtown (I’m pretending here that Alpine, UT has a downtown).

What I need is a trusted advisor — someone who can just tell me the right scooter to get, because they know all about this kind of thing.

Which is, frankly, why I’m writing this post. The nice thing about having a few thousand people check in on you you daily is that there’s a good chance someone out there is a mobility scooter expert. So, scooter expert person, supposing that price isn’t really an object, what scooter should I be getting for Susan? (Please feel free to email me and we can go into details.)

And to the rest of you: Thanks. When you bought jerseys or sent in donations, you made it so I can get Susan as nice of a scooter as I think she deserves, without worrying much about cost.

And besides, no matter how nice the scooter, it won’t cost a third as much as a Tarmac SL2.

Well, blogs have something like that, but instead of “chain letters,” they’re called “Tagging.” Generally, the chain letter tag directions instructs you to describe five random facts about you nobody else knows, and then to link to five other (usually topically similar) bloggers, who must do the same thing.

How unimaginative.

First of all, the assigned task — 5 random things about me — asks me to reveal too much all at once. If you want to know five random things about me, just read my blog for five days. Don’t go asking me to give up a week’s worth of material in one post.

Second of all, the assignment is just too darned lazy. It’s like the guy who started the chain just phoned it in. Instead of asking a bunch of pointed questions that would force people to think and respond imaginatively, he took a swig of whiskey, looked at his blank screen, and said, “Well, I need to post something today, but I have no idea what. Wait, I know. I’ll ask other people to write something instead! Now, what should the questions be? Hmmm, that’s a poser. I know! I’ll make them make up their own questions! I’m brilliant!”

And then he fell asleep, drooling into his keyboard, while the keys left a QWERTY impression in his corpulent, veined cheeks.

I may be ranting a bit here.

My point is, the questions could at least be topical — you know, since I blog about biking, the questions could be about bikes.

Third — and finally — the Tag meme should carry a promise of reward and corresponding threat of infamy, financial ruin, and probable dismemberment if you brake the chain.

Here. I’ll show you what I mean.

You’ve Been Tagged!
Congratulations! Your blogging friend at [YOUR BLOG URL HERE] has tagged you! You must now — within the next 24 hours — answer the below questions as a post in your blog, and then tag three other biking bloggers.

Please, even if you know what you were going to write about today or tomorrow, put those ideas aside. This is much more important. For example, Elden Nelson answered these questions and tagged , and he won a Bloggie, confirming that he is the most awesome sports-related blogger in the whole freaking world!

In contrast, Bob Bringhurst failed to answer these questions, after which he developed a serious case of ennui, and his hair grew out to become an unruly mess.

You don’t want this to happen to you, do you?

Fine, then. Answer these ten (fun, easy, and interesting) questions already.

If you could have any one — and only one — bike in the world, what would it be?
It would be my WaltWorks. I love the way that bike looks and rides, and I can’t imagine ever loving another bike more. Seriously, it’s my favorite bike ever. But that’s still a cheater answer, since my WaltWorks — currently set up as a fully rigid SS — can also be set up as a geared bike with a front suspension. And skinny tires combined with the big wheels could make it a serviceable (though not great) bike for getting around on the road.

Do you already have that coveted dream bike? If so, is it everything you hoped it would be? If not, are you working toward getting it? If you’re not working toward getting it, why not?
Yes, I do already have that dream bike, and it’s actually more than I hoped it would be. I’d like to point out, though, that one of the things I love about bikes is that even the most expensive, elegant, beautiful bike in the world still costs less than a Honda Civic. Bikes are one of the very few obsessions in the world where a normal — i.e., not fantastically rich — person can conceivably own the very best incarnation of his dream ride, without breaking the bank.

If you had to choose one — and only one — bike route to do every day for the rest of your life, what would it be, and why?
I would choose Tibble Fork, and I would do so without hesitation. It is really my very favorite ride in the world, and I think I could do it happily every day for the rest of my life. I explain why it’s my favorite ride here.

What kind of sick person would force another person to ride one and only one bike ride to to do for the rest of her / his life?
Yeah, totally. That’s evil on a movie villain scale.

Do you ride both road and mountain bikes? If both, which do you prefer and why? If only one or the other, why are you so narrowminded?
I ride both, because I am a well-balanced and intelligent person, who sees the good in most things. I prefer mountain bikes, though I have definitely hurt myself much more often riding MTB than road. I am suddenly concerned about what this says about me. Still, I like riding MTB better because it’s more fun for me. I am at a loss as to why this is true, but it is.

Have you ever ridden a recumbent? If so, why? If not, describe the circumstances under which you would ride a recumbent.
I have never ridden a recumbent. In order for me to acquiesce to riding a recumbent, I would have to be out of town, where nobody I know could possibly see me. Also, I would have to have a good reason, like somebody offering to let me ride their recumbent.

Have you ever raced a triathlon? If so, have you also ever tried strangling yourself with dental floss?
I have raced one triathlon. It was an Xterra event. The swim nearly killed me. I harbor a desire to go and do an IronMan some day, but I’d want to do it without training for it, just so I could casually mention, “Yeah, I pulled an Ironman off, once. It was no big deal. Kind of tedious.”

Suppose you were forced to either give up ice cream or bicycles for the rest of your life. Which would you give up, and why?
I would claim to give up ice cream, but would sneak it when nobody was around. Impossible to sneak bicycle riding. Too much physical evidence laying around.

What is a question you think this questionnaire should have asked, but has not? Also, answer it.
“How did you get to be so unbelievably handsome?” would be my question, to which my answer would be a modest, “Oh, go on. I’m nothing special.”

You’re riding your bike in the wilderness (if you’re a roadie, you’re on a road, but otherwise the surroundings are quite wilderness-like) and you see a bear. The bear sees you. What do you do?
I’m fairly confident I soil myself. Next, I offer the bear my bike, in exchange for which I get to keep my life. From what I understand, bears like bikes. At least, the one I saw at the circus seemed to.

Now, tag three biking bloggers. List them below.
I hereby tag the following bloggers, of which there are more than three, because I want to get this thing really rolling. And also, because I suspect that most of them won’t do it.

• Bob’s Web Log
• Brad Keyes (who owes me a favor)
• Dug (who owes me a favor)
• Kent’s Bike Blog
• Dave Moulton (who owes me a favor)
• Grizzly Adam (who owes me a favor)
• Unholy Roleur
• Up in Alaska (I’m pretty sure I actually owe Jill a favor or two, but oh well)
• Bike Snob NYC

Oh, and if I didn’t tag you, but you wish I had, by all means please consider yourself tagged.

Or you’ll get leprosy.

No, not the agony of a separated shoulder, though I’ve had a few moments of exquisite pain — usually brought on when I forget, or do something reflexively (like when I tried to catch a wayward frisbee yesterday…not a good moment for me).

The agony I’m talking about is the agony of not riding my bike.

See, I have a big race — The Leadville 100 — coming up in just a few weeks, and now’s not exactly a great time for me to be taking a week or two off the bike.

So I haven’t. In fact, I think I took off a total of three days — enough time that I was confident I could lift my right arm high enough to rest it on the handlebar.

In medical circles, this kind of behavior is known by two terms:

• Stupid
• Counterproductive

Yes, I knew when I first got back on the bike that I couldn’t handle it. And I knew when I did a ride on my singlespeed road bike last week that my shoulder wasn’t up to the effort it took to row a bike for twelve miles of climbing.

And yet, I did it anyway. I couldn’t help myself.

What I needed was something — some device attached to my bike — that would have compensated for my lack of common sense.

And — face it — you’ve probably done the exact same thing: gotten back on your bike and started riding when your recovery and safety would have better served by your spending quality time with the television.

And that, my friends, is why I’m pleased to announce that I have invented exactly such a device: The Bike Limiter(tm).

What It Is
Available by prescription, the Bike Limiter is actually a set of mechanical devices attached to your bike(s) in key locations (these will be made clear momentarily). The prescription will determine specifically how and when the Bike Limiter works.

How and When It Works
Once attached to your bike, the Bike Limiter either prevents or restricts your bike riding, depending on the permissions and timetable your doctor has set. For example, your doctor may set up your Bike Limiter timetable as such:

• Day 1 - 7: No riding whatsoever. If you do try to ride during this time period, razor blades will spring through the rims of your wheels, slicing your tires to ribbons, and your handlebars will become white-hot, possibly setting your bar tape or grips afire.
• Day 8 - 14: Short, seated rides only, on flat terrain. You are now allowed to ride for thirty minutes or so, but only on flat roads. If the inclinometer notices that you are on a grade of 4 degrees or greater, it will immediately apply the rear brake until you have turned around. If excess weight is applied to the handlebars, they will deliver a painful (but not debilitating, hopefully) electric shock. And after the thirty minutes has elapsed, your seatpost will begin sliding into the seattube at a rate of 1cm / minute (the Bike Limiter uses metric measurements, naturally). If you go offroad (as sensed by excessive vibrations in your bicycle), your saddle catches fire.
• Day 15 - 30: No epic rides. Two hour rides are now allowed. However, if you exceed this allotted time, your front derailleur shifts radically, dropping your chain. If you continue your ride, the rear derailleur does the same thing, but in such a way as to give you horrible chainsuck.
• Day 31 - 45: No stupid technical stuff. The Bike Limiter uses a GPS to validate where you’re riding against a comprehensive topographical map of the world, all rated 1 - 10 by technical expertise required. If you get on a trail of a difficulty greater than what your doctor recommends, the Bike Limiter sets off a siren for three seconds, giving you time to dismount your bike. After that, it releases quick-drying epoxy into your headset, completely freezing out your steering (a highly-effective deterrent to continuing an unwise mountain bike descent.

And it comes with a handy remote-control key fob, so that when you park your bike, you can click to arm it, making for a pretty darned good anti-theft mechanism.

The Bike Limiter is pure genius. As a substitute for common sense for injured cyclists, it couldn’t have a better-targeted demographic.

PS: Pre-order week for the 2009 Fat Cyclist jersey is now over. A big “thank you” to those of you who took the time to place an order. For those of you who forgot, didn’t have the money right now, or just weren’t sure you wanted one, don’t worry: we ordered a few extras. They’ll go on sale when they arrive in early November, and I’ll give ample warning on when they’ll be available.

Also, a big “Thanks” to the guys at Twin Six, who somehow manage to outdo themselves with jersey designs, and then do a great job of managing the influx of orders that comes their way.

PPS: Check out yesterday’s issue of The Toledo Blade. Lukas Kummer is featured in an article about bike commuting, and is looking good in his Fat Cyclist jersey. Way to fly the flag, Lukas!

Dear Travis Brown,

We’ve never met before, but I just wanted to say that I’m a huge fan…of your uncle.

You see, Travis, yesterday my wife and I spent the entire day going from MRI to radiation to radiation marking and simulation and then to meeting with the doctor.

I, laughably, thought that it was my ninja-like skills with dealing with the medical bureaucracy that made all the doors open and appointments fall into place.

I was wrong.

It turns out that it was your uncle — Dr. Richard Brown — who made everything fall into place.

Evidently, after meeting with my wife on Wednesday and hearing her complaints about losing feeling in her legs, he started thinking about her. And worrying. And wanting to find out what was wrong.

From what he describes, it bothered him all that evening. I don’t know if all doctors bring their work home with them, but I’m glad your uncle did.

Anyway, your uncle had his nurses and receptionists make calls and get everything in place, so when I called to demand we get working now on finding out what was wrong with Susan, they were already on it.

So yesterday, acting on your uncle’s hunch, we did the spine imaging and then brought the images on over to him.

There’s a tumor in her spinal cord, blocking the nerves that send to and receive messages from the legs.

Within an hour, Dr. Brown had a plan in place: Susan would get marked up for radiation right away. Then your uncle would stay late that night planning out how the area where the radiation would target. Then Susan would come in the next day (that’s today) and start the radiation. And your uncle would open up the clinic on Saturday and Sunday so she could continue the radiation without losing any more time.

Then he asked why I shave my head. I said it’s to avoid having helmet hair. And that’s how your name came up. He says he’s your uncle, and that you’re a good kid (though I have to be honest and say that I think the whole 69er thing is just wacky).

Anyway, Travis, your uncle’s a good doctor and a good man. I thought you should know.

Kind Regards,

The Fat Cyclist

We dropped off the MRIs and went to go get something to eat. While we
ate (parked in the clinic parking lot) they called me back.

How did anyone ever communicate before there were mobile phones?

Anyway, they said what we expected: a tumor on Susan’s spine is what’s
causing the numbness and inability to move her legs.

So they’re doing her hip radiation right now, after which they’re
going to get Susan set up to start radiation on that part of her spine.

What’s really weird to me is that this kind of thing now seems
completely normal. In fact, both Susan and I had the same reaction:
“Oh, good. They can radiate both places at once. That will save us a
lot of drive time and gas money.”

Yes, we are now at the point where we get excited about the prospect
of saving a little cash by consolidating radiation appointments.

You know, you can get good at anything if you practice a lot. This is
true even of scheduling doctor appointments and tests. And that’s why
even though Susan was scheduled to see a vascular specialist on August
15, I got her in to see him yesterday. And that’s why Susan’s getting
a bunch of MRIs right now instead of a week from now.

I’ve learned to navigate the medical beauracracy.

Amazing.

With any luck we’ll soon have a plan fir how to help Susan overcome
the increasing numbness and immobility in her legs.

A couple of weeks ago, a group of us did my favorite road century: the Nebo Loop. It’s got everything: a nice warmup, followed by an incredibly challenging climb — about 18 miles and 5000 feet of climbing, if I remember right. Then a fast, open descent and a 40 mile return on the flats — a good opportunity to talk and work on your paceline skills.

It was really an excellent day. The group was well-matched, the weather cooperated (it didn’t get hot until toward the very end of the ride, and we had a mild tailwind most of the way home), and traffic was minor.

What really stood out for me, though, was my excellent choice in nutrition during the ride.

You see, the day before the ride, I realized I was low on gels and Clif Bars, so I dropped by the local REI on my way home from work (my local bike shop is waaaaay out of the way, so you can all just forget about busting my chops about not going to my LBS to buy Clif Bars).

What’s great about REI is the huge selection of sports nutrition. There must be three aisles full of every conceivable permutation of bar, gel, and powder. I grabbed a cart and started randomly tossing stuff in, thinking maybe I’d stumble onto a great new find.

And then, about halfway through, I ran into that find.

Well, two of those finds, actually:

1. PowerBar Gel Blasts. I figured these were PowerBar’s answer to Clif Shot Bloks. Curious, I threw a couple packets of each flavor — Lemon and Cola — into the cart.
2. Jelly Belly Sports Beans. I bought a couple packets of pretty much every flavor available.

What I Ate
So, back to the ride. Just before the ride, for some reason I gravitated toward the Sports Beans and Gel Blasts. I think it was because the packets sat flat in my jersey: I’ve got enough extra bulk, thank you, I don’t need stuff in my pockets further tightening my jersey.

And so, partway up the ride, I made two very important discoveries:

1. PowerBar Gel Blasts are delicious. Specifically, the Cola Gel Blasts are delicious. They’re the same size as Shot Bloks, sure, but they really taste like cola. And they have exactly the same texture as gummy bears. And they have a cola-flavored liquid center. Kind of like a Tootsie Pop, except Tootsie Pops have a Tootsie Roll in the center, not cola. So I guess actually they’re not very similar at all.
2. Jelly Belly Sports Beans are also delicious. You know what Sports Beans taste like? Jelly beans, that’s what.

I wonder if either of these companies really think they’re fooling anybody. Both these things look and taste like candy. And I’m pretty sure they have the same nutritional value, too. Oh, sure, Jelly Belly talks about adding vitamins and electrolytes, but I’m pretty confident that the boost I’m feeling from these is the sensation of pure simple sugar hitting my bloodstream, not the special blend of vitamins and electrolytes.

Anyway, when we descended down Nebo to the Wendy’s / gas station in Nephi, I got myself a children’s burger (had a hard time finding the burger in there to tell the truth) and a Coke Float.

And then I refilled my water bottles with Diet Coke with Lime.

And you know what? I felt great the whole ride.

Here’s an epiphany: Junk food works great as on-bike fuel.

Wave of the Future
So, to recap, I ate candy, ice cream, and drank soda for most of this very intense ride. But I never would have even considered doing this if PowerBar hadn’t packaged up gummy bears in an expensive foil pouch. Or if Jelly Belly hadn’t put a handful of jelly beans in a cellophane wrapper, called them sports beans, and charged me a dollar for them.

And I’ll bet I’m not alone here. I’m betting, in fact, that you too need to have your favorite junk food rebranded and repackaged so that you can eat it on your next bike ride, and still feel good about yourself.

For example:

• Sports Coke. Really, this just needs to be regular Coke, but with less — or no — carbonation. In a year or so, they can come out with Sports Coke Lite, which will really be Diet Coke. It should come in Accelerade-ish bottles, with the wide mouth openings, so we can chug it (and more easily pour it down the fronts of our shirts). This is a billion dollar idea.
• Reese’s Sports Peanut Butter Cups. You know what has lots of protein? Peanuts do, that’s what. They should maybe also throw in some rice puffs into the mix so they can claim they’ve got an ideal protein / carbohydrate blend. They should probably also tweak the packaging so it has a straw built in, allowing you to slurp the melted chocolate / peanut butter mess straight into your mouth. By the way, I’ve got a great idea for a commercial for this: A mountain biker is eating a chocolate bar while riding. A roadie is eating from a big tub of peanut butter while riding. At the juncture of the road and trail, they collide, hilariously. Helmets askew and collarbones popping out of their jerseys, they engage in the standard Reese’s advertising pitch, but with a twist: “You’ve got chocolate in my rear derailleur!” Sure-fire winner. I guarantee it.
• Snicker’s Sports Bars. Oh, wait. That’s already been done.
• Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Sport Chunk: Ben & Jerry’s needs to start collaborating with Camelbak to come up with a little freezer I can wear on my back. Because I promise you that during the months of July and August, if I could eat ice cream while riding my bike, there is no price I would not pay. Ben & Jerry’s wouldn’t even have to lie about the ice cream being good for you, really. I think I’d be suspicious of ice cream that’s supposed to be healthy; I’ve tried fat free ice cream before: yech. I want the good stuff; I just need a way to carry it with me.
• Johnsonville Sports Bratwurst: OK, I have no idea how Johnsonville is going to try to convince me that there could possibly be a sports bratwurst. But I’d love to see them try.

Really, this is just the start. I’m guessing there are more than a few of you who wouldn’t be adverse to Budweiser Sports Beer. Or Sports Cheese.

Or — hear me out here — Sports Mayonnaise.

Hey, a man can dream, can’t he?

I call it:

“The Day I Hated Brad”
Ten-or-so years ago, Brad, Rocky, Alan (a friend of Rocky’s) and I planned to ride the Kokopelli Trail as a two day ride. We planned to ride from Moab to Dewey Bridge the first day, camp there, and then continue to Colorado the second day.

Unfortunately, it rained the night before.

A lot.

Waking up and looking at the standing water in the parking lot, I recommended we forget the epic, go back to sleep, and in a few hours go for a ride on Slickrock, which would be dried out by then.

Rocky and Alan were right with me. In fact, I think they admired my courage. I had been the brave one, saying what everyone else was thinking — that riding a big mountain bike epic after a big rainstorm was not a good idea.

Brad was astounded. We had planned this ride for weeks! We were prepared! The trail was probably fine!

And then, finally, he said, “Let’s just try. If it’s no good, we can always turn around.”

Rocky, Alan and I caved. In the face of such enthusiasm, how could we not?

Had I known what the day held in store for us, of course, I would have simply murdered Brad on the spot, hidden his body, and gone back to bed, and then gone for the aforementioned ride on the Slickrock trail later this afternoon.

And I would have been justified in doing so.

The Beginning of the Climb
The Kokopelli trail begins at the Slickrock trailhead. With three of us (i.e., everyone but Brad) casting a wistful look back at the ride we’d prefer to be doing, we began the ride up Sand Flats Road.

Here’s the thing about Sand Flats Road: There’s a lot of it that isn’t sand at all. Oh sure, there’s plenty of sand, but it’s not all sand.

There’s also a considerable amount of clay.

Usually, you don’t even notice the clay, because it’s all hard and baked and easy to ride on. In fact, it’s much, much easier to ride on than the sand. So, on the 362 days of the year that it doesn’t rain in the hot Moab desert, clay is an awesome riding surface.

On the other three days of the year, it’s a bad riding surface.

I need to be clear, here. By “bad” riding surface, I don’t mean that it’s suboptimal. By “bad” riding surface, I mean that it was actually wicked and spiteful. And quite possibly evil.

And in short, we each had to frequently stop, scraping mud from our bagel-esque tires, scraping mud from our deraileurs, scraping mud from our pedals, scraping mud from our brakes.

You get the picture.

After an hour or so of this — during which we had traveled perhaps a dozen yards — I announced that this seemed like enough. We could turn around now and still get in a good ride on the Slickrock trail, then go get dinner at the Moab Brewery. The day was not too late to salvage.

Brad — who, I’d like to point out, had never done this ride before and had no idea of what was ahead of us — insisted things would shortly get better, and we should go on.

Brad must be a Jedi or something, because his mind trick worked. We went on.

Wherein I Become Mentally Scarred for Life
About 90 minutes later than we had originally  planned on it — which is to say, we were going about half as fast as we had expected to — we got to the point where you turn off Sand Flats road and onto singletrack.

Ordinarily, this is one of my favorite parts of the ride. While almost all of the rest of the Kokopelli Trail is on wide dirt roads, this feels a little more like mountain biking.

But not this day. After the night’s rain, this trail — no, let’s call it what it really is: “ravine” was in some places a soupy mess. In other places it was a running stream. In still other places, it was the exactly perfect material for making adobe bricks, complete with straw already mixed in, so as to make the binding compound stronger, as if that were somehow necessary.

Within yards, our bikes were completely immobilized. The only way to continue was to shoulder our bikes and trudge on, hiking for four miles uphill in alternately slippery and sticky mud…in our bike shoes.

“This,” I told Brad, “sucks.”

“Are you kidding?” asked Brad, brightly. “This is a total adventure! I’m loving this!”

We eventually reached the pavement part of the ride, which I have never been so glad to reach. On previous Kokopelli rides, we’re usually just getting warmed up — been out a couple hours, just getting into our endurance groove.

This time, we had been out six hours.

“The math is impossible,” I told the group. “We won’t make it to camp before dark. We need to turn around.”

Rocky and Alan nodded their heads, a chorus of consent. Brad, however, said, “We don’t even know if it’s been raining on other parts of the trail. It could be totally dry. Besides, this is fun!”

Seriously. He said it was fun.

Brad Strikes Out On His Own
So, in a testament to how weak-willed the rest of us were, we pressed on. Things weren’t so bad as we rode on the pavement for several miles, climbing up to Beaver Mesa. The only difference, being, of course, that we were much more exhausted and demoralized than we had ever been before.

Except Brad. He chattered on happily about what an awesome time we were having.

I believe Brad may have been on drugs.

When we reached the top of Beaver Mesa, the paved road ended, yielding to a good gravel road.

This good gravel road lasted for nine inches, approximately. It, in turn, yielded to brownie batter.

We were instantly jammed up. Wheels wouldn’t turn. Drivetrains were completely obscured. And since we were about to begin another climb, followed by a descent that would leave us committed to a night huddled in mud — because, as I mentioned, there was no way we were going to make it to camp — I decided to try convincing Brad, one more time.

“Brad,” I said. “We’ve got another climb here, in horrible mud. This will be followed by a treacherous descent, with cliffside exposure, through mud. Then we’ve got to ride through Fischer Valley — which will be muddy — and climb and descend Seven Mile Pass. In the mud.”

“Brad,” I pleaded, “This is the last place we can turn around and make it home and still have a chance of not sleeping in the mud tonight.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Brad, cheerily. “I’ll ride on ahead for a couple miles and see if the trail improves.”

“Whatever,” I replied, exhausted.

So Rocky, Alan, and I waited, dejectedly trying to get our bikes into rideable condition. Then we waited some more.

And then, just to mix things up a bit, we continued waiting.

Finally, I — as the person responsible for bringing Brad out on this maladventure — rode on, hoping that I could catch up with him.

As I rode, I bellowed, every few seconds, “Brad! Get back here!”

The Sensible Thing
And what do you know? It worked. Brad came back. “Is it still muddy?” I asked.

“Yep!” he replied, brightly. “But I didn’t finish the climb, so I don’t know if it’s muddy on the downhill.”

What Brad didn’t understand, of course, is that the climb continued for another six miles.

“We’re going back to Moab,” I said.

“But,” he replied.

“Not another word.” It was high time I took a stand. “We’ve got three hours of light left and the most technical part of the whole ride is in front of us. And it’s muddy. We’re going back.”

Dejected for the first time that day, Brad agreed.

We took the pavement back to Moab. Rocky, Alan and I, relieved at the certainty we would not be huddling together for warmth in a cave built of mud and sticks that night, were much happier.

Brad was glum. He had been having a great day, until this sad reversal of events.

Afterward
It took Rocky and me years to forgive Brad for cheerfully dragging us through 80 miles of mud. I don’t know if Alan ever forgave him. Alan’s not the forgiving type.

Of course now, Brad and I are about as good of friends as friends can be. In fact, ten years later, Brad and I still both tell this story.

Brad, of course, tells it a little bit differently than I.

PS: 2009 Fat Cyclist Jersey Pre-Order Week Continues: This is Day 2 in the 2009 Fat Cyclist Jersey Pre-Order week. Get details on the jersey here, then order the men’s jersey here, or the women’s jersey here. Thanks.

I don’t love this new jersey any more than any of the other designs. Even though the primarily black jersey is almost unbearably cool. Or that the Clydesdale silhouette on the back makes me start singing Johnny Cash every time I see it. Or that every single one of them has the "WIN" mark, in pink, big and bold on the right sleeve, and the "Team Fatty Fighting for Susan" in the collar.

And then there’s the accent color stitching.

Oh mercy. I can hardly wait for this new jersey to arrive.

Pre-Ordering: One Week ONLY, Starts Today
If you — like I — want to make sure you get the new Fat Cyclist jersey, you definitely will want to pre-order yours, and the pre-ordering starts today. As in now. As in, you can click here to order a men’s jersey, or click here to order a women’s jersey.

Why pre-order? I’m glad you asked.

Last year, we didn’t do a Fat Cyclist jersey pre-order. We just ordered a bunch, and then when they came in, we put them on sale.

They sold out almost instantly. A lot of people had a hard time getting the jersey size / gender combo they wanted.

This time, I don’t want that to happen.

So,  for this week only — July 14 through July 20 — you can pre-order your jersey, ensuring you get exactly the right size / gender combo you want.

On July 21st, the Twin Six guys will place the order. Sure, they’ll order some extras, but I wouldn’t count on getting one of those.

And then, you and I can sit back and wait for our jerseys to arrive in early November. This will be your most awesome Fall-weather jersey ever. And I daresay it will be your most awesome Spring and Summer jersey, too.

Oh, and the jerseys will come in plenty of time for you to give them as Christmas gifts, for those of you who actually think that far ahead (Susan usually has Christmas gifts planned out for the whole family by April; I tend to start thinking about Christmas gifts just in time to fly into a panic).

Details
Here are the answers to some of the questions I’ve been getting about these jerseys.

• Cost: The jerseys will cost $US70.00 during this pre-order event. The price will go up for people who buy jerseys after they arrive. Note: even though your jersey will be shipped when it arrives this autumn, you will be charged for the jersey when you place the order.
• Sizing: For men, the jerseys fit about like a similarly-sized t-shirt, but a little snugger. If a Large t-shirt fits you tight, for example, you may want to go with an XL jersey. For women, plan to buy the same size jersey as you would a women’s t-shirt.
• International Availability: You can buy jerseys outside the US, but of course you’re going to have to pay a little extra in shipping. That shouldn’t hurt your feelings too badly, though, since the weak dollar currently makes buying anything from the US the deal of the century.
• Accessories: Yes, we’re looking into bike clothing that goes with this jersey. We haven’t locked any of that down yet, but of course as soon as we get even remotely close, I’ll note it on the blog.
• 201: The "201" on the left sleeve goes with the Fat Cyclist Clydesdale logo. Since 200 pounds is the traditional threshold for being in the Clydesdale category, this jersey goes to 201.
• Inside the Collar: The text inside the collar reads "Team Fatty Fighting for Susan." This is in support of my wife, who’s fighting metastatic breast cancer (and who is starting three weeks of radiation on her right hip today, by the way). When you buy a jersey, you’re contributing to Susan’s "WIN" fund, which I use to pay medical bills and do fun stuff with Susan and the kids. So you’re not just looking awesome; you’re actually doing something philanthropic. That’s just your way.

As Long As You’re Ordering…
I want to point out that Twin Six really goes out of its way for me when it does the Fat Cyclist jerseys. For one thing, they are really cool about honoring my input into the design process. For another thing, they have basically put their other projects on hold while they prioritized my jersey design. And for the final thing, doing this pre-order thing is kind of a pain for them, but they’re doing it anyway because I asked them to.

So, if I may, I’d like to recommend you support their business. It’s easy. When you buy your Fat Cyclist jersey, look around their site at the other Twin Six jerseys and T-shirts. If you see something you like, add it to your order.

By the way, the other stuff you order will be shipped right away — Twin Six isn’t going to make you wait for the rest of your order ’til my jerseys arrive.

For example, since it’s Summer, you may want to consider some of the new Twin Six Women’s Sleeveless jerseys: The Argyle, The Mistress, and The School Girl.

But only if you’re a woman, for crying out loud.

PS: Since my wipeout on Wednesday, I haven’t been on a bike at all. I’ve decided that, this evening, if I’m strong enough to put the new tire my road bike needs on, I’m strong enough to ride tomorrow. On the road, on the flats where I don’t ever have to stand up and pull on the handlebars.

PPS: I’ve started using Twitter, just to see if I like it. Basically it’s a place where I can leave random one-sentence thoughts. Click here to read it. If I decide I like it, I’ll incorporate it into my blog sidebar. Let me know what you think.

I knew just the ride for a quick ride, too. From my house, I’d climb Hogg’s Hollow, then up Jacob’s Ladder. Then — instead of caving in to the temptation of dropping down Ghost Falls and riding the fun singletrack in Corner Canyon — I’d just cruise back along the high dirt road and drop back down Hogg’s Hollow.

I have done this ride or a variation of it so many times I sometimes no longer even think about the trail as I’m riding. I let my mind wander. That’s one of the perks of riding alone; you have time to think.

I Should Just Tattoo The Word “Jinx” On My Forehead
Yesterday, as I climbed, the subject I chose to think about was what I planned to write about for this blog today. Specifically, I was planning to write about how, somehow, I have finally become a fast, confident downhiller, able to keep up with my friends. Heck, even occasionally be the fast guy.

Fifteen years into riding, and I suddenly seem to have acquired a new skill. It’s surprising and interesting (to me), and well worth several hundred words of self-aggrandizing navel-gazing.

Of course, by doing this, I jinxed myself as effectively and thoroughly as if I had gotten off my bike, built an altar, sacrificed a convenient animal (like maybe a small lizard — there are lots of small lizards on Hogg’s Hollow right now), and begged the god of bike crashes (St. Beloki, I believe) to please please please favor me with his attention.

It All Happened So Fast
I didn’t ride Tuesday — lots of doctor appointment stuff with Susan — so my legs felt fresh on the climb and I got to the top of Jacob’s Ladder quickly and still feeling fresh.

I was in the mood to show off — to myself, since nobody was around — this newfound downhilling confidence. So I blasted down the first twisty section, hardly touching my brakes, letting the scrub oak brush against me, feeling good as it scratched my skin.

This opens up in just a few short feet to a loose section, with jagged granite jutting out through the trail. On a rigid bike, I always feel out of control, but have learned that if I keep my arms loose and stay back, the big 29″ bike wheels will roll over practically anything.

Next, there’s a quick drop — no more than 12-14.” Normally, drops make me nervous, but I have done this one so many times I didn’t even really think about it.

I should have thought about it.

Instead of dropping and rolling, my front wheel planted itself, becoming the fulcrum in a catapult. The rest of my bike quickly figured out what my front wheel was up to and happily took on the role of the lever.

And what was my role? Well, I was the payload, naturally.

I flew out and over my handlebars, landing on my head and right shoulder. And yes, my right shoulder is the one that separates easily and really needs to be repaired with surgery.

My primary memory of the moment of impact was of the sound. It was a distinctly ugly sound. A crunch. Like something was giving way.

Of course, I screamed.

Then I stopped screaming, because I realized — quite rationally, I think — that when you’re mountain biking alone, nobody can hear you scream.

I hopped up, adrenaline surging. My helmet felt weird. My glasses were askew. My shoulder hurt so bad that if I had had an audience, I would have resumed screaming.

My knee was a bloody mess. I didn’t have a camera — nor a phone, which would have had a camera but which also probably would have perished in the fall — but I did take a picture of my knee when I got home.

A Little Bit of “Me” Time
What really got on my nerves, though, was that my iPod shuffle continued, during what was clearly a painful and serious moment, to pipe a fast Pete Townshend song into my head.

The iPod should know better. I popped out the headphones.

With the adrenaline rush in full effect, I nearly got back on my bike. But my shoulder stopped me.

My right arm didn’t work. This would make it difficult to ride the 7/8 of the technical downhill still in front of me.

So.

I took off my helmet and sat down, giving myself over to the inevitable adrenaline shakes.

Once those subsided, I stood up, using — without thinking — my right arm to help.

Nearly blacking out, I sat back down.

It was time to reconsider how I was going to get home.

After my vision unclouded, I started thinking. It didn’t take long to come up with a plan. I’d walk my bike for the difficult part of the trail, then ride — if I could — to the dirt road. Then, instead of dropping down Hogg’s, I’d climb up to the Suncrest road and ride the pavement home.

Then, since that plan took roughly thirty seconds to come up with, I had time to think about more things. For example:

• I probably wasn’t going to get that early morning road ride in.
• I may not be a good bet for the Tour de Donut, either. Which is a shame, because I was coming up with a really good plan for it, involving giving the twins turns riding laps with me on it. Give them their first race experience in a really fun way.
• The sound I heard on impact might have been my helmet, because it was crushed.
• I am a 42 year old man with four kids and a sick wife. I can’t afford to be injuring myself like this. I don’t need to be a fast descender. I need to be a safe descender.

I don’t know how long I sat there, giving myself this self-evaluation, but I’m going to guess ten minutes. Maybe thirty.

Eventually, I stood up, lifted my bike, and found that if I moved my shoulder slowly, I could move my right hand up to the handlebar.

I then executed my plan, which turned out to be a good one. Once I got past the part of the trail that had lots of granite poking out, I was able to get back on my bike and gingerly coast down the singletrack, braking the whole way.

Once I hit a branch with my shoulder. That nearly brought out the scream. And once I hit a good bump — a small tree stump — and the jolt brought such a strong wave of pain that I started laughing, causing another part of me to wonder if I was now officially in shock.

Decision Time
I got to the road and then pedaled home, studiously avoiding potholes and bumps in the road. Then I walked in and announced, “I am going to need a camera and a ride to the hospital.”

First, though, I needed to get out of those shorts and jersey. They stank.

I took a picture of my knee and then climbed into the shower, where I cleaned the grime out of my cuts as best as I could, and took a count of everywhere I was cut up: right knee, head, backs of both hands, right hip, all up and down my back, right butt cheek.

And then I stood in the shower for a while, trying to make a decision. Should I go to the emergency room?

It’s not an easy call to make. What if I were just bruised? How embarrassing. But what if I didn’t go and something was really badly wrong? That would be stupid.

Finally I decided I’d rather be embarrassed than stupid, so my sister Kellene gave me a ride to the emergency room. There, they asked me my pain number. Oddly, I had just recently re-read an old post of mine and the comments thereto, so decided to go with 7. A strategic maneuver.

Friends in the Right Places
As I got led back to a room to wait my turn, I saw Mike Young, a good guy, very fast cyclist, and — as luck would have it — an emergency room doctor. I called out to him, telling me he needed to fix me up so I’d be good in time for Leadville (just a month away).

Mike was off-duty, but he came and took a look at the X-Rays and grabbed my shoulder in ways that made me whimper.

I have — no surprise — a first-class separated shoulder. Not much can be done about it. Mike says that there’s a good chance I’ll be able to do Leadville.

Kellene took me home, I pilfered some of Susan’s pain medication, and went to bed.

This morning, I’m stiff all over. When I want to move my right hand from the keyboard to the mouse, I have to use my left hand to lift and move it.

Worst, though, is the likelihood that this wreck will get into my brain — all wrecks get into my brain — and my hard-won, newfound ability to downhill is almost certainly gone.

I shall forever be Captain Timid, king of the slow, middle-aged downhillers.