I should learn to ski. Or snowboard. Or backcountry ski, which is somehow different than regular skiing — mainly because you pay more for equipment, don’t ride a chairlift, and are 98% more likely to die (the other two percent is for the people who die when doing regular skiing).
Or I could start cross-country skiing, which has all the effort of backcountry skiing without any of the fun.
I’ve got to start doing one of those things, because then I could be one of the people who, when it starts getting cold, gets all cheerful and says things like, “Bring it on! When you’re in Utah, Winter’s the best season if you’re a [insert snow-based activity here]!”
Seriously, someone said that to me as I was mountain biking on Corner Canyon Friday afternoon, just as it was starting to snow.
He even said the square bracketed part, including saying “open square bracket” and “close square bracket,” which I thought peculiar and perhaps even unnecessary.
Anyway, I need to be one of those people who says that kind of thing, instead of the kind of person who gets that kind of thing said to.
Because, as it turns out, I do not like riding my bike outside in the bitter cold and dark.
I verified this yesterday afternoon.
My Math Skills Are Suspect
Yesterday was cold. Probably not the coldest it will be all year, but cold enough that anytime I went out during the day, I suddenly would discover an utterly compelling reason for not being outside after all. Here are some of those reasons:
I do not really need to take out the trash, because if I put the trash here by the door, one of my kids will probably eventually take the trash out themselves, at which point they will have learned a valuable lesson in responsibility and taking initiative.
I do not actually need to go buy groceries after all, because there is still rice in the pantry. And there’s also a box of Nilla Wafers. Sure, the Nilla wafers are a couple years pass their expiration date and have a rather sharpish smell for Nilla Wafers, but I’m sure they’re fine.
I do not think the fire in my kitchen is very serious, and most grease fires — even the ones that are eight-feet high, like the one in my kitchen — usually burn themselves out in a moment or two.
By 3:45 in the afternoon, though, my cabin fever had reached parity with my cold avoidance. So I texted Dug — I now text everyone, instead of talking with them in person on the phone, because it’s much slower and less personal — asking him if he was at home. If so, I’d bring over the first season of 24 he wanted to borrow.
Dug allowed that he was at home, and that it was a good time to come over.
So I suited up. Base layer. Windfront tights. Gloves. Full-sleeve jersey. And then I rode the approximately eight miles to Dug’s house. Started about 4:15.
Since Dug lives in Suncrest and I live in Alpine, the trip to Dug’s house is all uphill for me, and I warmed up quickly. I was enjoying myself, but my enjoyment was tempered by the following observations:
The snow on the side of the road had been melting, but it was cold enough that I had high confidence in the likelihood of an imminent freeze. Luckily, the tires of my road bike are rock hard, less than half an inch wide, and have no tread whatsoever. So ice on the road on the return trip shouldn’t be a problem.
The sun was going down. Rather faster than usual, it seemed to me. As if it had conceded defeat on its mission of warming anything up that day and was anxious to just get the whole secondary mission of keeping the outside light over with for the day. And truth be known, I have still not gotten used to this “dark by 5:15pm” thing. And hadn’t exactly taken it into account when I started my ride.
It was cold outside. I believe I have made this point before, but some points are worth emphasizing through reiteration. This is one of those points.
As I got closer, I formulated a new plan for how I would get home. It went a little like this: Instead of riding home, I would bum a ride off Dug. After all, I’d have just given him 24 installments of indoor cycling entertainment, along with a brand new jersey. He’d be in a generous mood.
Plans Revised
I knocked on Dug’s door. Then rang the doorbell. Then did both at once, using the door as a percussive counterpoint to the melody I was tapping out on the doorbell.
And yet, nobody came to the door. As I would later find out, Dug and his family all hate me and want me to die, and therefore hid in the basement until I left.
It’s also possible they were watching a movie downstairs and didn’t hear the doorbell / knock. Possible, I say, but pretty darned unlikely.
So. Evidently I needed to ride my bike home after all.
In the summertime, this would be the best part. Eight miles of downhill. Last night, however, it was decidedly not the best part. Because it was dark. And cold. And the wet road was starting to put the “ice” in “dicey.” (I just made that little wordplay up; feel free to use it in your own conversations, as long as you give me proper credit.)
I started the ride down.
By the time I got about a third of the way down Suncrest, my fingers hurt. By the time I got halfway down, my eyes had stopped working properly. By the time I was two thirds of the way down, I had started moaning. And by three quarters of the way home, my reaction time had slowed, my face was so brittle with cold that a light tap with a ball peen hammer would surely have shattered it.
Yes, really.
I was so muddled from the cold — and sure, the dark might’ve had something to do with it — that I was no longer sure of where I was. Certainly I must have gotten lost, I thought, because this was taking way too long.
Home Again
But — as streetlights started coming on — I got home. I left my shoes on as I went in the house, because I knew there was absolutely no way I’d be able to get those shoes off with my fingers like this.
So I sat on the floor. And discovered — not for the first time — that the only thing worse than having your fingers numb with cold is when they have warmed up just enough to get feeling back.
Which, I think, is a superb explanation for why, five minutes after I got home, I was rolling around on the floor, weeping in pain.
And as I rolled, I found myself thinking one thing, very very clearly: “I will never ever ever do the Ititarod. Ever. No matter what.”
Eventually, the pain subsided, and a seven-hour-long hot shower (I have an enormous hot water heater) left me feeling just fine.
But I think I may need to buy some warmer gloves before I go riding again. Or better yet, I’d like the weather I had last week — the weather that had me riding in shorts and short sleeves — back.
Because I don’t think backcountry skiing is on the menu this year.
This weekend, we reach an important threshold in the month of Movember: the halfway point. If you’re a member of Team Fatty’s Movember club, your mo should be well on its way to being thick and luxurious.
Here’s mine, as of right now.
This photograph, naturally, prompts the following observations:
My mo can be, at this point, considered complete. It’s as thick as I want it, and the hairs are as long as I want them. In other words, my mo is going into maintenance mode for the rest of the month. Yes, I can evidently grow a fully-formed Tallahassee mo in under two weeks.
The 2010 Fat Cyclist jerseys are here! And they look awesome. More photos on these another time.
I’m becoming pretty good at taking self portraits with my phone.
I’d also like to point out that my mo has significantly changed how I am perceived in public. People yield their place to me when I buy groceries. Women cast sidelong glances at me, clearly considering how they can best approach me (none have actually approached me yet, but I consider that a technicality). My children obey me, often after I have asked them only two or three times.
The mo has power.
Do me a favor and help me in my Movember quest: Donate here. Together, we’ll fight cancer, through the medium of growing embarrassing facial hair.
The Mos of Team Fatty
I am, of course, not the only Team Fatty member growing a Mo. In fact, there are currently 116 of us. Here are photos — along with my sparkling commentary — of a few of us.
Alex S
Alex says, of his mo, “Being a single college student, I am, by definition, always on the look out for attractive women. So far this year has been relatively fruitless.”
“Enter the Mo.”
“After I started growing the ’stache, pretty girls seem to be popping up like pinch flats in a rock garden. Needless to say, Mo isn’t high on most girls attractiveness scales (there have been studies… it’s science). But it’s alright, I hate cancer enough not to care that the Mo is messin with my game (we’ll pretend I have one), though I have devised a brilliant plan for after November. It involves a stick on Mo and some patience, think of it as a fishing lure….”
Fatty’s Remarks: Alex’s mo, after two weeks, has approximately the same density, length, and darkness I get with my daily 5:00 shadow. I salute his efforts, however, and would like to offer him the following advice: grow a mo that is more clearly ironic. Currently, your mo lacks levity and makes you look a little bit like a sad porn star. Which I guess could be seen as a good thing, in some circles. But not in others.
Robert A
Robert is a man of few words, saying simply, “Here is my mo pic – taken by my 3-year-old, of all people!”
Fatty’s Remarks: Robert’s 3-yr-old is a pretty darned talented photographer and has taken a really nice photo of Robert. Further, Robert earns brownie points by wearing his new Fat Cyclist jersey for his photo.
Regarding Robert’s mo itself, the pedestrian “Original Tom Selleck mo in infancy” style of the upper portion is offset by the soul patch / flavasava below. Unfortunately, Robert’s soul patch is not quite symmetrical, with the upward slope of the right side (viewer’s POV) being considerably more gradual than the left side. I understand Robert’s dilemma in this respect, however. Constant trimming of a mo for symmetry’s sake can often lead to eventual complete de-mo-ization of the hair in question. It’s a conundrum, it is.
Sean Y
Says Sean of his Mo, “Yeah, I know I look like Morgan Spurlock now… but in fact he was part of my mo’ style inspiration.”
Fatty’s Remarks: Actually, I had no idea who Morgan Spurlock is until I searched on his name, and then I said, “Oh, the Supersize Me guy.”
And now I know who Morgan Spurlock is, but I contend that you look nothing like him. However, I will say that when I first saw your photo, I did say, “Holy smokes! Kevin Spacey’s joined Team Fatty and is growing a mo!”
With regards to your actual mo, I applaud the shape and length, but am going to recommend Rogaine to help you with density.
But back to the Kevin Spacey thing. Seriously, check out this photo of Kevin Spacey side by side with you. To augment the likeness, I have added your mo to his photo.
Separated at birth? Well, obviously.
Dave B
Dave is not just a man of few words. He is a man of no words whatsoever. However, from this photo we can still learn quite a bit about him. For example:
We can see that his sense of irony is quite high, based on both the mo itself and the arching of his eyebrow. A word of caution on that raised eyebrow, Dave. If you keep it raised pretty much full time, eventually your forehead will have permanent wrinkles in that pattern. Trust me, I know.
We can see that Dave is a very short man, requiring a stepstool to get to the sink in his kitchen.
Based on personal experience, I’d say that Dave has about three years left ’til he radically alters his hairstyle, in the form of a combover, hair plugs, or shaving his head.
We can see that Dave grows mo hair every bit as thickly and quickly as I do.
Nice work, Dave.
Henrik H
All the way from Denmark, Henrik H says, “Don’t open this picture in front of children or easily scared pets. You have been warned. I guess I’m not able to grow a proper mustache, it’s looks like I’ll end up with a crazy Joaquin Phoenix type of beard. Or perhaps a Sam Elliot, now that’s a proper mustache!”
Fatty’s Remarks:Holy smokes!Ze Frankhas grown a mo and joined Team Fatty!
I mean, seriously, I didn’t honestly believe that Sean is Kevin Spacey, but Henrik is the absolute spitting image of Ze Frank. Down to the bugged-out eyes and everything.
I’m a little bit conflicted on Henrik’s mo. For one thing, it’s not a mo at all. It’s a beard. You’ve got a good canvas there, Henrik, now it’s time to begin the painting.
For another thing, I don’t know who Sam Elliott is.
Charisa W
Charisa says, “I know, I know, I’m a girl so I had to have some help with my “stache” — but I think it looks pretty darn good!! I have a bit of trouble when riding my bike though — sometimes it tries to fly off my face. I’m sure you can’t relate to this, but it’s a bit frustrating!”
Fatty’s Remarks: I recommend a good strong epoxy. That will keep the mo in place. Trust me on this.
I’ll bet it’s a real pain to eat soup with that thing, though. And the aero drag has got to be a problem on race days.
Finally, you may want to consider trimming that thing. It’s getting a little bit out of control, frankly.
Otherwise, full marks. Both the color and the fluffiness of that mo are exceptional. That is a mo to be reckoned with.
A Note from Fatty:Meet Ted A, today’s Team Fatty Movember Model. I like this photo not only for the Mo Ted’s got started, but for the clues to his life he’s helpfully provided in the background. For example, the toolbox. And the beer. And the flowery curtains.
Says Ted, “Here’s the beginning of what promises to be an eye-popping marvel of bristly goodness.”
Indeed.
Fiscal 2010 Fall Moab, Fruita Edition: The Video
I love having a helmetcam. My VIO POV 1 makes it easy to get record hour upon hour of video (Disclosure: I have no relationship at all with VIO, and bought my VIO POV 1 on amazon.com, getting no special discount for it). I was tired of using the BMX brain bucket I bought as my first helmetcam mount, though, and last week bought a new helmet for the purpose.
Unfortunately, the positioning of the lens still needs a little tweaking. I can see that now. It points up a little too high, making it so it films too much sky. Which washes out a lot of the shots.
Still, I like this video. Especially since people seem to have become so used to the camera on my head they no longer think about it.
Leaving them free to dance in the parking lot without concern of whether it’s going to make the reel.
Yeah, it made the reel.
PS: This video surprised me in one way. I really, truly, and honestly remember there being a rock wall to my left when I crashed, but the video shows very clearly that there was actually no cliff to my left at all — the rock I hit with the left side of my handlebar was free-standing. It’s funny how inaccurate memory can be.
PPS: For those using iPhones or other non-Vimeo-using-browsers, I also uploaded a version of the video to Youtube, which you can see here — at least, until they pull it or strip the soundtrack.
PPPS:KanyonKris has made a good video too, with lots of footage from the first day’s ride, before I got there. See it here.
Yesterday, I should have had a video to post. Really, I should have. But here’s the problem: I let my helmetcam record, mostly nonstop, for most of two big, beautiful rides. I let it record until the 8Gb card was full.
Which is to say, I recorded around six hours of video.
That’s a lot to sift through.
And then there’s the problem that whenever I start trying to extract chunks of video, I wind up just letting the video play and play, reliving the ride instead of editing it.
All of the above is my list of excuses for why:
I did not post a video yesterday.
I did not post anything at all yesterday.
I still do not have a video to post today.
So, today a description of the weekend. Tomorrow — hopefully — a video.
Adapting
I love certain traditions, and don’t like to see them change. For example, I go to Leadville every year for the Leadville 100, and I always try to get the same room at the same hotel. And go to the same restaurants. And do the same ride the day before the race. And catch up with the same people.
Fall Moab is like that, too. It’s the Core Team going to Moab sometime around the beginning of November. We ride Slickrock, Gold Bar Rim, Amasa Back, and Porcupine Rim. We spend a lot of time in one place, taking turns working on technical moves.
It’s a great formula. Why would you want to monkey with it?
Well, we started changing the formula when we all fell in love with Gooseberry Mesa (and surrounding trails), near St. George, Utah. To suit our collective craving for this incredible network, we decided that “Fall Moab” was a description of an event that centered around the Core Team getting together to ride in the Fall, not necessarily a description of location.
In other words, Fall Moab could be in St. George.
And if in St. George, why not elsewhere? Like Fruita, Colorado, for example?
And the fact that I have family in Grand Junction (which is next door to Fruita) made Fall Moab in Fruita very attractive. I could drive the girls down to Grand Junction (the boys are too teenagery to want to go), leave them with Kellene (thanks, Kellene!) for the weekend, and — abracadabra — I’ve got a weekend with the guys.
Camping
It used to be that we always got hotel rooms for Fall Moab. Then, a few years ago, we tried camping. And it’s been camping ever since. Now, I’ve been accused of not liking camping, but that’s just not true. I love camping. It’s just the trying-to-sleep-on-a-cot-in-a-cold-sleeping-bag part that has been a problem for me in the past.
As I’ve mentioned previously, however, that is no longer a problem. Thanks to the miracle of Ambien. Seriously, that stuff is magical. 5 milligrams and a cold sleeping bag turns into a warm, fluffy bed with lullabies playing softly in the background.
And since sitting around a fire, listening to stories (believe it or not, I primarily listen — I’m not much of a storyteller in person) is likely the most time-tested form of entertainment there is, I think I’m safe in saying that people are hardwired to enjoy it.
Really, the only way it can be better — and more primal — is if you’re eating a lot of meat while you’re sitting around the campfire.
Which brings me to bratwurst.
My Favorite Tradition of All
I love good bratwurst — and by “good bratwurst,” I mean “any bratwurst, properly prepared.” And you know what? I love preparing bratwurst.
I was looking forward to brats — both the preparing and eating — so much, in fact, that I skipped the second ride of the day, instead preferring to go to the store to buy everything I needed to make the brats: bratwurst, a pot and tongs (I forgot to bring my own this time), beer, a couple onions, Gulden’s spicy brown, mayo, and a bottle of worcestershire sauce.
It’s a small shopping list for such an incredible meal.
Then, I love opening and pouring — in rapid succession — 12 cans of beer into a pot. Love the smell of brats boiling in a stew of beer, onion, and worcestershire sauce. Love the way they darken on the grill, gathering the smoky taste and crisp skin.
But of course, I mostly love how a brat tastes, served with Gulden’s spicy brown mustard (and for me, mayo, which I understand is a minor sacrilege) on a slice of Kenny’s homemade bread. Everyone sits around the fire, eating and talking. It’s mellow and perfect.
And with 40 brats made for 15 people, running out is unlikely.
I tell you what: The post-ride brats feast was my favorite part of the trip this time.
Two Bikes, One Crash
I brought two bikes with me this trip — my Waltworks SingleSpeed, and my geared Gary Fisher Superfly. The Superfly was an afterthought. Just a “Well, I’ve got room for the bike, why not bring it?” kind of thing.
I was glad I did, though. Because during the first ride on Saturday (I missed the Friday rides because I didn’t want to head out ’til my kids were out of school) — Gunny’s Loop and Holy Cross — I crashed my Waltworks pretty thoroughly.
Specifically, on a very tight section of singletrack with a rock wall on one side and exposure on the right, I hit my left handlebar grip on a rock that was jutting out. This of course wrenched my wheel left and I hit the cliff wall. Then, following the “equal and opposite reaction” principle, I bounced and fell right.
I landed on a ledge to the right of the trail, while my bike continued on down to the next ledge, about five or six feet below. I banged myself up about as much as you’d expect: scrapes and bruises, but nothing serious.
My bike, on the other hand, needed some work. The front wheel was seriously out of true (not a horrible problem since I’m using disc brakes), and the saddle is destroyed. Also, the splines on the rear hub hesitated for about 3/4 a turn of the cranks before catching.
If I’d brought only one bike, it would have meant hours of work — work that I don’t know how to do, frankly. As is, however, it meant that I rode tentatively for the rest of the ride (for whatever reason, after I crash, I am simply unable to get back into the spirit of aggressive riding for the rest of the ride), and then swapped bikes.
A delicious luxury.
The Trail
Another way this edition of Fall Moab differed from previous iterations is the way we rode. Which is to say, these trails were new to most of us, and so we didn’t feel so much of a need to try to find unusual or oddball “moves” to make them fun. The first time you ride a trail, it’s nice to just experience its flow.
And the trails we rode had excellent flow. High desert singletrack, with rocks and ledges to make the course interesting and challenging.
Which brings up a crucial mountain biker’s dilemma: which is objectively the best surface for mountain biking: high desert singletrack, or forested mountain singletrack?
I have a sense that the answer is, “Whichever you happen to be on right that moment.”
What a weekend. I declare 2010 (Fiscal) Fall Moab (in Fruita) a success.
PS: Everyone in the group agreed: my brother-in-law Rocky (Kellene’s husband) was the ultimate tour guide, selecting cream-of-the-cream-of-the crop rides for us on this trip. Thanks, Rocky!
PPS: If you’re with Team Fatty for Movember, why don’t you email me a photo of how your mo is going? I think I’ll start posting a “mo of the day” with each post.
I know I said I would be back Tuesday, but I just wanted to post three important items that occurred over the weekend.
First, I became officially recognized as the Best (Freaking) Blog in Utah, according to the Social Media Club of SLC.
OK, actually, I was one of several blogs to receive this award, but I have a difficult time sharing glory, and I have an even more difficult time understanding how multiple blogs can share an exclusive superlative. So I’m going to persist in thinking of myself as the best, as opposed to among the best.
Also, my head is going to swell up and explode, due to self-congratulatory self-importance. Better stand back.
Big thanks to my friend Jeff Hadfield, who — as he did with the Bloggie — accepted the award on my behalf. I would have been there myself, but I was busy driving to Fruita for a weekend of mountain biking with the Core Team. I believe I was somewhere between Price and Green River when Jeff accepted the award.
Second, Movember is going just swimmingly for me. Check out my progress on my “Tallahassee” Mo, as of my first shave of the month last night:
Yeah, I think this one’s a keeper.
Here’s another shot I took of myself, trying to simultaneously get a good look at the tricky-to-shave bottom part of the mo, smile, and see whether I was pointing the camera correctly:
All ready to be institutionalized.
If you would like to support my efforts in growing an outrageously awesome mo while raising money and awareness for the fight against cancer, do me a favor and donate here.
Or, if you’re thinking of joining the Movember movement yourself, why don’t you join Team Fatty? As you can see, I’ve grown this much mo in just one week. Surely you still have have plenty of time in Movember to grow your own.
Third, last weekend was the annual Core Team’s Fall Moab event. Which we held in Fruita, Colorado this year. I took hours and hours of helmetcam video, which will take hours and hours and hours to convert and edit down to something you’ll want to watch.
As a teaser, though, here’s an unretouched photo from the trip.
Alex S
Henrik H
