03.20.2008 | 8:17 pm
Somehow, at some point, I stopped worrying about separating my private life from this blog. Mostly, this is because I am lazy. It was too much work to remember to not talk specifically about my real name, my wife’s name, where I work, or where I live.
In short, I am as open with my identity to pretty much the same extent as Bike Snob NYC is guarded with his.
And yet, there is one member of my family I believe I have never mentioned.
The cat.
Everyone, meet the Nelson family cat. Her name is Kisa. "Kisa," by the way, is Finnish for "cat." Kisa is a resentful cat. Ostensibly belonging to my 12-year-old son, this cat (which I have nicknamed "El Gato Stupido") does not like anyone in the family except Susan. Kisa follows Susan everywhere, earning an occasional angry swat on the nose from me when she nearly trips Susan up. (It’s not cute to trip someone walking with a broken hip. Plus I really like to swat the cat on the nose.)
This cat is as large as a raccoon, with similar coloring, while exhibiting the playfulness one expects from a cat nine times her age (i.e., 27).
If I Had My Druthers
I bring up the cat mostly to point out that I consider this cat a perfect example of what a mountain biker doesn’t want in a pet.
Mountain bikers should have dogs. And dogs, clearly, should have mountain bikers.
The only reason we don’t have a dog is because Susan has explained to me that if I were to get a puppy (and I would definitely want to start with a puppy, so I could raise it in the ways of mountain biking), she would be the one taking care of it day in and day out, while I’m away at work. This is a fair point and I do not dispute it, and so we do not have a dog.
Yet.
Even though it’s kind of a shame and should maybe even be a crime that a guy who loves mountain biking and owns a truck doesn’t have a dog, too.
Good Dogs
The reason I want a dog is because I’ve been mountain biking with friends who bring their dogs along. Provided the dogs have learned the cardinal rule — yield to descending bikes — dogs are invariably the most popular member of the riding group.
Seriously, it’s a privilege to have the dog choose you to hang with, even for part of the ride. It makes you feel like there’s something inherently good about yourself. In reality, of course, it could be nothing more than that the dog finds your stench intriguing or figures you look like the type to share your water bottle. Doesn’t matter. The dog doesn’t offer an explanation, and you don’t ask.
A long time ago, the first guy I ever went mountain biking with — Stuart — had a terrific dog for riding. Her name was Daisy. She ran back and forth during the climb, policing the group, and then made a game of staying out front as long as she could on the downhill.
But when you got close and wanted her to get out of the way, all you had to do was hiss at her: "Tsss tsss tsss." She’d find a way to yield, immediately.
I know so little about dogs that I don’t even know what kind of dog it was. Short tail, short hair, blunt nose." A really good dog.
What I Would Want In A Dog
I actually hadn’t thought about getting a dog in quite some time until a couple weeks, as we were driving to Disneyland. We split the drive into two days so we could spend the night at Susan’s mom’s.
Susan’s mom has a very good dog. She’s not sure of the breed, except that it’s half St. Bernard. I would wager that the other half is Yellow Lab, since the dog — his name is "Pal," a good name for a dog — looks like the largest, most barrel-chested Yellow Lab you’ve ever seen.
I was thinking that Pal would be a good mountain biking dog, until I thought about the fact that I like to climb. I’m not sure Pal’s built like a climber. On the other hand, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a dog really have to work to keep up with a mountain bike on the climbs. So maybe a big dog would be just fine.
The fact is, I don’t really know what are the most important qualities a dog needs to have to be a good mountain biking companion. The list that occurs to me sounds kind of like a bizarre "personals" ad:
- Must tolerate heat well
- Must be able to last for a three hour ride
- Must be social (I don’t want it threatening other riders or other dogs)
- Must have short hair (I am not going to take the time to brush out brambles from long hair after rides)
- Must be able to handle the climbs
What kind of dog is that? I don’t know, really. Maybe it’s a Lab. I’ve always liked how friendly they are. Maybe it’s a German Shepherd. Maybe it’s an Australian Shepherd (I watched an Australian Shepherd competition once and was astounded at how capable they are).
What’s the best kind of dog for mountain bikers? I’m guessing some of you have strong, informed opinions on this.
Comments (120)
03.19.2008 | 10:01 pm
I always like it when readers send photos of themselves wearing the Fat Cyclist jersey.
But I think I like this one most of all.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is a photo and caption in the "Why We Ride" section of the latest issue of Road Bike Action magazine.
What an awesome reason. What an excellent setting!
I confess, I just tried to think of a better reason to ride, and I can’t.
In fact, I hereby defy anyone to offer a better reason.
I’d offer a T-shirt for the best reason, but I think I’ve hit my giveaway limit for a while.
Thanks, Kyle, for scanning and sending this in!
Comments (60)
03.19.2008 | 6:06 am
A Note from Fatty: I’ve got a new article in BikeRadar today. You can read a snippet below, or click here to read the whole thing.
Dear Mr. Mellow Johnny,
I am writing to complain about an experience I recently had when I visited your store, shopping for a bike. I have no complaints about the decor or cleanliness of the store itself; it seemed quite pleasant.
My complaint has to do with the service I received.
As soon as I arrived, I saw one of your employees and approached him. "I’m looking for a bike, Lance," I said. I knew his name was Lance, by the way, because his name tag said so.
Well, I don’t mind saying that Lance looked me up and down with the coolest, most appraising look I have ever seen. "What kind of bike?" he asked, after an uncomfortable silence.
"I hear good things about the Specialized brand," I replied. "And I’d like to get something really nice, so I have as much as $450 to spend."
You will be as shocked as I was, Mr. Johnny, to find that this Lance character turned around without saying another word and walked away.
The nerve!
Click here to continue reading "A complaint to Mellow Johnny’s Bike Shop" over at BikeRadar.com.
PS: Both Susan and I were amazed at the huge number of nice comments to yesterday’s post. Thanks to all of you who have been — and continue to — pray, meditate, think good thoughts, and otherwise show kindness.
Comments (32)
03.17.2008 | 8:42 pm
I’ve got a poser of a question that very few people could answer. Which is more dreadful: the eve of your first six-month course of chemo, or the eve of your third?
On the night before your first-ever injection, you’ve got the terror of not knowing what’s ahead of you for the next six months or so. That’s pretty bad.
On the night before the beginning of your third six-month course of chemo, on the other hand, you’ve got the terror of knowing all too well what’s ahead of you for the next six months or so. Is that worse? Who knows.
Neither of them is great, that’s for sure.
Anyway, Sunday night was not a great night, especially considering that on Monday, in addition to Susan starting chemo, I’d be finding out what kind of surgery my wrist was in for.
A Piece of Good Luck
Considering Susan’s chemo and the shape my wrist was in, I had pretty much relegated my riding season to just goofing off. Forget training. Forget dieting. Just have some fun.
So imagine my astonishment — and delight — when the wrist surgeon checked over my wrist, read my MRI report, checked my wrist some more, double checked the MRI, did some X-Rays, and then said, "The radiologist who did this report was a little overeager to find problems. If you had sustained the kind of injuries described here four months ago, your wrist would be collapsing in on itself right now."
He continued, "But your wrist is very strong. Unusually strong," he said. "In fact, you may be the most awesome specimen of manliness I have ever seen," he concluded.
OK, I made up that last part.
Still, his point was that while I was sore, I have a reasonable range of motion and excellent strength. He gave me a brace and prescription for some serious anti-inflammatories and told me to come see him again in six weeks. "Soft tissue often takes a lot longer to heal than a broken bone," he said. "Give it some time."
No surgery for me!
Susan’s Visit to the Oncologist
"Hey, I don’t have to have surgery," I told Susan over the phone, as I was driving home. I was taking over with the twins (getting them off to school) while she took her turn at going to the oncologist.
Then, strangely, just moments after I got the girls out the door and was getting ready to head to the office, Susan came back in the house.
She was screaming.
I ran over to her, imagining the likely news that would be making her scream — more surgery? a stronger dose of chemo? something even worse?
No, something much better. I could tell as soon as I saw her huge smile.
"I don’t have to start chemo!" Susan yelled. The tumor markers in her blood work continue to be low. Susan is in less — not more — pain in her bones, indicating things are going well there. The oncologist says Susan’s doing better than expected, and there’s no need to start chemo right now.
Again: Susan’s doing better than expected, and doesn’t need to undergo chemo right now.
I’ve been blindsided by news before, but never by news this good. Suddenly, instead of expecting another summer of fatigue and pain, Susan has a summer of feeling good, of walking, of having hair, to look forward to.
Suddenly, I can see how it could very well be possible that we’ll be able to take that trip to Italy in 2008.
We’re aware, of course, that this is just a delay — eventually, Susan will have to start chemo again. But being able to wait for months — maybe six months, hopefully more — just feels like a huge gift.
Huge.
PS: Oh yeah, the wrist surgeon says my x-ray shows I have a good batch of arthritis in my left wrist. That will go well with the batch I’ve got in my right shoulder.
Comments (163)
03.16.2008 | 5:43 pm
A Note from Fatty: Last Saturday, I got a chance to take my new Superfly out for its first ride. I will now give my first impressions of this bike, but want to be certain I’m fair about it. So, for the first time ever, today’s post will be in point / counterpoint format.
Point: My New Fisher Superfly Feels Just Like My Old Paragon
by Elden Nelson
Even though last Saturday was cold, the wind was blowing, and it was starting to snow, I went on a mountain bike ride. I just had to. I really wanted to try out my new Superfly, which had been sitting in the garage for the two weeks since I’d bought it.
Well, after my first ride, I’m happy with it, but I can’t yet say whether I’m in love with it.
For one thing, it’s a light bike — under 23 lbs, according to Racer’s scale — but I didn’t really feel like I was climbing all that strongly. I guess I kind of expected a "shot out of a cannon" experience, but instead I got a "drop into the granny gear" experience on the climbs.
Next, I guess I expected the Fisher 2.0 geometry to be some kind of wild revelation, but instead, I felt pretty much the same as when I do when I was on my old Paragon. That’s not a complaint — I really loved the geometry of the Paragon and was frankly a little bit concerned about having it change too much.
And then there’s the fork. Truth be known, there wasn’t much in the way of trail to give a suspension fork a real test; I had to stay on low trails where the snow has melted, and there’s nothing very technical ’til you get up higher, so it’s hard to say whether I’m very happy with the Fox fork or not. I can say that it feels peculiar to have suspension again, after having gone without it entirely last year. And I was able to ride without a lot of wrist pain, which maybe means that I should actually be giving this suspension a very positive review.
I don’t want it to seem like I’m giving the Superfly a negative review. I’m just — so far — unable to give it much of a review at all. I’m sure that once more trail is clear (or when I sneak away to Moab for a day of riding, if I just can’t stand the wait), I’ll be able to give a more comprehensive rundown of what I like — and don’t — about the new Superfly.
Counterpoint: Elden Nelson is a Fat, Out-of-Shape Goofball Who Is Totally Unfit to Pass Judgement on Me
by the Gary Fisher Superfly
You, gentle reader, may be surprised to learn that — like humans — carbon fiber has hopes and dreams. Most carbon fiber hopes to grow up to be a really light, sexy road bike.
Not me. I wanted to be a mountain bike. I love dirt. I love technical rock ledges. I yearn for wet roots at the apex of a sharp hairpin turn. I dream of cross country racing.
As you can imagine, then, I was pleased to find I would become a Fisher Superfly. I would be on the vanguard of mountain bikes, from geometry, material, and wheel size points of view!
As I was built, I became increasingly excited. My cranks, front derailleur and saddle were all upgraded. I was built with expert attention. I was ogled by envious bikes and people as I sat in the store.
And then — to my chagrin — I was brought home and left in the garage for two weeks, without so much as a cursory ride.
Then, finally, Elden — who has a nickname of "Fatty," for crying out loud — took me out for a ride Saturday. Even before he swung a leg over me, I could tell the dude was about twenty pounds overweight.
Within the first few turns of the cranks, it was clear that he was not going to exactly test my limits. He dropped into the granny gear on the first climb — a climb that screamed for the middle ring, third cog.
Then, on the next climb, he crosschained. What a dork.
If his climbing was sad, though, it was at least offset by his comical descending. He dodged every rock and rut as if my fork were not perfectly capable — eager, even — of absorbing them, no questions asked. He kept his fingers on my brakes at all times, feathering them to slow down when he should have been pedaling to go faster.
This guy is as timid as they come, I tell you.
After a short two-hour ride on fire roads and wet singletrack, Elden took me home and put me, unceremoniously, back in the garage. Did he wipe me down and clean me as befits a new, top-of-the-line mountain bike? He did not. He just parked me on his bizarre do-it-yourself PVC pipe rack contraption (tacky), and left me — caked with mud — to dry off.
I do not want to seem judgemental, but I am far too nice of a bike to be ridden by this appropriately-named "Fatty."
PS: A few people have called my attention to The Awareness Test. This is the best PSA I’ve ever seen. Go take a look and tell me how you did (I did poorly, to my shame). (The comments section of today’s post contains spoilers, so don’t read today’s comments until you’ve taken the test.)
Comments (42)
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