Even if it’s raining outside right now.

Winter is finished. And spring? It’s a short season in Utah.

And with the arrival of summertime, I’m starting to sense the annual urgency that comes with peak racing season. The events that seemed so far off when I registered or committed to them, are now almost reality. Training cycles are no longer about getting fit. They’re about being ready to race specific events.

Finally!

And of course, the event that has dominated my energy is the Colorado Trail Race. It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever done. A lot bigger. I have no idea if I’ll be prepared for July 21. There’s only one way to truly find out. But until then, I’ll keep pedaling, packing, reading, and scheming.

The turning of calendar pages has brought doubt, questions, and introspection. Am I really qualified to try something like the CTR? Pfft. Is anyone, really? Probably not, and yet…. After all, it is just a bike race. In fact, it’s almost not even that. It’s just bike riding. And I do that almost every day.

Easy, right?

Resistance is a predictable, but devious, force. It creeps through the shadows, waiting for the right moment to start whispering imminent demise.

“You will fail.”

“Why bother at all?”

“Be happy with what you have.”

I’ve let Resistance beat me before. I’ve let it talk me out of doing, and being, more of the things I’ve always wanted to do, and to be. But I’ve also beat Resistance. I wouldn’t be writing these words, and I wouldn’t be planning to race my bike all summer long if Resistance and I did not fight with each other so regularly, and if I did not also win so regularly. But that doesn’t mean that beating it back gets any easier.

I’m about to embark on something new, different, and uncertain. And like the Colorado Trail Race, I really don’t know if it’s something I’m ready to do. I have no idea if I will succeed. But I do know that the closer I get, Resistance has more to say.

“You will fail.”

“You will fail.”

“You will fail.”

Maybe. But so what? When did failure become so poisonous? Why are we so afraid to fail? There isn’t any way to (eventually) succeed that doesn’t involve failure. So fail away.

“But! People will laugh. And scorn. And mock.”

Yes, they will. Misery loves company. And so do people who have never fought, let alone defeated, Resistance.

I’m going to keep getting ready for the Colorado Trail Race. I’m going to keep riding my bicycle over big mountains. And I’m going to keep ignoring the persistent whispers that delight in things that never were, or will be.

“You will fail.”

No, it’s too late for that. I’ve already won.

The post It’s Too Late For Failure appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

Related posts:

1. Late Fall
2. Check the Boxes
3. Late Afternoon: Moab
4. Refocus
5. The CTR Has Already Started

Yes. And yes.

It’s time to re-imagine the age-group.

Age-groups are an easy way to classify different people. But in the case of bike racing, they are too vague, and do not accurately represent who should be racing against who. Grouping everyone who happens to be between 30 and 39 years old, who calls themselves an “expert” looks fine on paper. But when the top riders in each group all have similar finishing times, there is a disconnect in the way we are sub-dividing racers and the results out on course.

Shouldn’t the racers who most closely mirror each other be racing in the same flights, regardless of age?

I think so. That’s why eliminating age-groups, and installing a road-inspired category system could make racing more exciting for riders and spectators, and easier for promoters and volunteers.

Something like this*:

Open: This wouldn’t really change (except that maybe its ranks would grow). These are the professional riders racing for prize money. On the local scale, these are the riders who have out-paced the Expert groups, or who have been easily winning those races.

Category 1: The top 30-40 percent of Expert riders. These are the guys who are consistently landing on the Expert podiums of both XC and endurance events, or fighting for those spots.

Category 2: The rest of the Expert riders. These riders are competitive, but aren’t winning races, or finishing in the top 1/3 of the group.

Category 3: The top Sport riders. These are riders who are winning Sport races, and are getting ready to upgrade to Cat 1/2.

Category 4: Sport/Beginner riders. Cat 4 is for the riders who may be experienced riders, but are not experienced racers. It would resemble today’s Beginner Class, more than the Sport Class.

*The Singlespeed and Clydesdale classes could carry on as usual.

Why would a system like this improve grassroots racing? Because the races would become more competitive, and more accurately determine who the best racers are, and where everyone stacks up across a broader sample, rather than the arbitrary age groupings. It would make upgrading easier, by helping riders avoid mis-timing the move to a faster category. It would also eliminate the out-dated terms “Expert”, “Sport”, and “Beginner”.

For example, I’ve re-organized the Men’s Expert results of a recent local race, based on time/ability, rather than age. There were 33 total racers in the Expert fields.

Actual results:

Expert 19-29

Expert 30-39

1: 50:46
2: 51:14
3: 52:04
4: 53:00
5: 54:23
6: 55:11
7: 55:22
8: 56:03
9: 56:36
10: 56:48
11: 57:42
12: 59:09
13: 59:41
14: 59:47

Expert 40-49

I separated the 2 categories somewhat randomly, and far too cleanly. I looked for a break in the spread, and one appeared around 56 minutes. So anything faster than that, I placed in Cat 1, everything else, Cat 2. Obviously the actual results would look a little differently, based on where the riders self-sorted. I’m certain there would be overlap. But the point is that instead of 3 pretty evenly matched categories that are spread out on the course, we now have 2 really competitive groups that get to race among themselves in what is (theoretically) a more contested, more exciting race.

For example, The top 5 in Cat 2 are separated by just 30 seconds, instead of several minutes.

Sub-dividing the same group of riders based on time, instead of age, can lead to better races-within-the-race, will eliminate smaller age-based categories, and will help produce more significant race results. And because the steps between categories is a little smaller, it may help diffuse sand-bagging by encouraging more subtle upgrades. Eliminating the age-based micro-dividing would unclog the start-line (fewer groups), and quicken the handing out of awards. It would also make those awards more meaningful to the people who earn them.

Are there shortcomings?

Yes. Primarily, field sizes. This is especially relevant in Cats 3/4 where the field sizes can be large. But most courses can accomadate a large group of riders. There have been very few instances, in my experience, when the field has overwhelmed the course. If problems arise, adjustments can be made, such as course altering (in the design phase) where possible, or even splitting categories into heats, and then sorting out the overall results later. That’s not ideal, but I think the need for something like that would be extremely rare. The total number of racers at any given event wouldn’t change, instead, only the way we are divided would change.

I realize this might be kicking at pricks. Age-groups are a time-honored tradition. But that doesn’t mean they make any sense, or are the best way to divide amateur racers into flights. There has to be a better way.

Let’s re-imagine the age-group. And by that, I mean, let’s get rid of it.

The post Kill the Age-Group appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

Related posts:

1. Wanna Go Faster?
2. No Leadville. As Usual.
3. Ex See
4. Group Mountain Ride
5. The USAC Hostage Crisis

Just a camera.

I finally made good on countless promises, made while pedaling across the sandstone: “Someday I need to leave the bike home, and just shoot photos for a few days.”

Being alone (although surrounded by tourists at times) in the desert is an experience everyone should indulge in. Especially in the pre-dawn twilight, on the edge of Canyonlands. As I shivered on the rim, waiting for first light, I got to watch the world come alive. The ancient canyons below were silent. All was silent. No wind. No other people. My footsteps on the stone interrupted the morning stillness. A spring storm rolled across the canyon country. The white clouds dropped flurries of desert snow. As the sun rose, the wind picked up. The absolute stillness vanished with the dark.

Throughout the morning the rain and snow came and went. Clouds rolled in and around the towers and arches. The mystery of the desert was amplified by the gloomy storm.

I clicked away. I was disappointed that I did not get a sunrise. But the gloom of the storm was beautiful in its own right. The clouds and the rain lengthened the shooting light. The desert became tawny, clean, and washed.

The previous day I chased the light around Arches National Park. Frantic, and fleeting.

Taking pictures is an entirely different experience from writing. One is laborious and slow. It’s emotionally agonizing, and requires constant editing, re-doing, and practice. The other is frantic, momentary brilliance offset by tedious patience and experimentation. Which is which? Ah, good question.

But the perfect sentence and the perfect exposure elicit the same euphoric burst of energy and satisfaction.

In either case, I get to share to a little of the world I live in. My point of view. My way of seeing the world. And what a world it is! Is there any place quite like Moab, Utah?

“This is the most beautiful place on Earth.”

So claimed Abbey. And I concur.

It’s appropriate that so many painters, writers, photographers, and musicians look to the canyon country for inspiration. Art, like the canyons themselves, is a product of consistent effort; slow, tedious, ongoing. But the results are beautiful, and not always able to be explained. How, exactly, was Delicate Arch formed? The same way Desert Solitaire was written. Little by little, and over several (million) years.

Leaving the bike at home, and wandering around the desert was a welcome breather from all the planning and training, pedaling and riding. It’s good to slow down a little, once in a while. Chasing light, instead of podiums, helped to remind me that the best things in life are worth our best pursuits, our best energies. Taking pictures is about being in the right place at the right time. And getting to that place and time is why it’s so rewarding, and so challenging. And it’s one of the reasons that I think it is worth my time and energy. I’ll let the mathematicians, engineers, and scientists explain away the world. I’m happy just trying to see it in its best possible light.

The next time I’m in Moab, I’ll probably have a mountain bike. And I’ll probably start promising myself all over again to leave it at home, and to explore with the camera, instead of the wheels.

The post “The Most Beautiful Place On Earth” appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

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If you want to be at the top you have to check all the boxes.

— Joe Friel (@jfriel) March 12, 2013

I’ve always been a distractable person. When I was a kid, I used to sit down on a Saturday afternoon to watch college basketball, only to jump off the couch midway through the first half and head outside to shoot baskets in the driveway. The same thing would happen while watching other sports. I’d much rather have been doing something, then watching something.

I’m also a daydreamer. I spend idle time thinking about setting personal records at the Crusher, winning the CTR, or surprise podium finishes at next year’s ‘cross races. I’ve been doing that sort of daydreaming for years. But year after year, event after event, those fantasies remain such. The here-and-now has never commanded my energy the way it should.

In this age of hyper-distractions—email, Facebook, Twitter—I often become paralyzed, content to push off hard work, and instead, just think about being great. The process goes something like this:

I’ll find a good essay about creativity.

Half way through, I’ll get an idea of my own.

I’ll leave the essay, and start working on my own idea.

After the initial creative burst, I get stuck, and return to the original essay.

While reading, I’ll click through a link, check a recent Facebook post for “Likes” and comments, or get another idea that needs immediate attention.

In the end, I just bounce around a lot, and nothing gets fully realized.

My training can suffer from a similar vicious cycle. I achieve some initial results, only to declare myself “fit” and then stop doing the hard things. And yet, somehow, I never improve beyond that. Weird, huh?

I’ve accumulated a lot of half-baked projects. Photo collections, essays, fitness goals, career projections. The items that get my immediate attention are usually the ones that I’m being paid to do (day job) or that involve some kind of social repercussions for failure. For example, looking like a total fraud at a bike race. So I spend my time at my desk, and on my bike. But even those endeavors suffer from my attention deficit syndrome.

And the truth hurts.

I know I can be a better rider. But to be that, I have to check all the boxes. And I don’t always do that. In fact, I usually only check the boxes that are easily checked. Riding a lot is fun. But it isn’t really training. It’s playing. Playing is easy, and although it’s often mistaken for training, it’s not the same thing. Training hurts. A lot. It’s often tedious, boring, and nothing at all like playing. But it’s the only way to get better, faster. Training is also eating right, being lean and light, and getting adequate rest. Empty box. Empty box. Empty box.

Viewed from afar, it’s easy to see why I’ve been getting the same results year after year.

It’s time to start checking all the boxes.

And not just in my training.

Robert Greene writes in his book Mastery:

By nature, we humans shrink from anything that seems possibly painful or overtly difficult. We bring this natural tendency to our practice of any skill. Once we grow adept at some aspect of this skill, generally one that comes more easily to us, we prefer to practice this element over and over. Our skill becomes lopsided as we avoid our weaknesses.

People are like rivers, we like the path of least resistance.

I don’t want to be distracted anymore. I don’t even really like the things that distract me the most, anyway. Facebook is a junkshow. Twitter is stale. Even Instagram, my distraction du jour, has limited value (although it’s still free from the things that ruined Facebook). And so I’ve been resisting the urge to indulge in the absurdities of the Internet. It hasn’t been easy. Routine is routine. The noise emanating from The Mob can be alluring. Nevertheless, I’ve narrowed the list of websites that I regularly visit. I’m trying to train better. And I’m working on my own projects in earnest, instead of dabbling here and there on just any idea that flitters through my brain.

Greene, again:

To attain mastery, you must adopt what we shall call Resistance Practice. The principle is simple—you go in the opposite direction of all of your natural tendencies when it comes to practice.

Instead of doing the things that come easy, over and over again, I need to practice my weaknesses. I need to do the things that hurt, are frustrating, and that I usually like to avoid. I need to experience pushback in my practice and my training. If a workout doesn’t hurt, it’s not a workout.* If I’m not struggling at the keyboard or behind the camera, then I’m not learning anything.

*Recovery, excepted, of course. But how many times do I put off real training for more “recovery”?

Mastery is a slow process. I like to make it even slower by being undisciplined and lazy. Instead of sitting still and watching, I want to play. The urge to stay comfortable is often irresistible. It’s really easy to get by checking only the boxes that I like to check. But if I want to change, I have to do things that I don’t like to do. I’ve never met anyone who stands on podiums who skips boxes, or who plays all the time.

I’ve tried to get by for a long time doing things just well enough. I’ve made a lot of excuses. I still make them. “I’ve got a job, 5 kids, I’m busy.” They are terrible excuses. “It’s only amateur racing.” “It’s just a hobby.” “I write and shoot on the side, just for fun.” Baloney. Garbage. Weak. I despise mediocrity, and yet, I’ve been steeped in it. In many ways, I define it. And I’m ashamed of that, because I know I can be better. And that’s all I want. To be better. To be my best.

And the only way to do that is to check the boxes. Do the work. Stop worrying about all the excuses, the distractions, and the reasons that I might fail.

Maybe this new focus is one of the reasons I am finally getting serious about the Colorado Trail Race. I’ve fantasized about doing it since 2007. I’ve put it off because I know that it isn’t an event that I can finish just checking the convenient boxes. I’ve known that getting ready for the CTR would be painful, tedious, and consuming. I am going to have to be mentally, physically, and emotionally sharper than ever before. My hope is that I will become a better rider (and writer/photographer) through that process. By ignoring the voices of distraction, and narrowing my focus, I believe I can be better (at everything) than ever. Check. Check. Check.

Time to get to work.

The post Check the Boxes appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

Related posts:

1. Off the Bottle?
2. The Backcountry Times
3. No Leadville. As Usual.
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I could have spent Friday night watching college basketball, or at dinner with my wife. I could have been warm, comfortable, and entertained. That’s how my colleagues, friends, and most everybody else spent the evening.

But not me.

Instead, Ty and I were riding our bikes through the dark, cold, high desert, and into unknown territory. I was underprepared for the cold. We had underestimated the difficulty of the route, and were becoming increasingly concerned about our plans to spend the night in the mountains. When we reached the only possible short-cut, an un-maintained dirt road that dropped 4,000 vertical almost instantly, we dove out of the high country, and down into the outskirts of Scenic, Arizona.

Despite the lower elevation, I shivered away the night in my light, but inadequate shelter.

Why?

Why didn’t we stay at home? Why didn’t we gather at a sports bar with every other middle-aged American to watch basketball? Why were we in the desert; cold, hungry, and a little bit lost. 45 miles behind us, and still 60 more to go.

Eh. Why not?

I spend most of my life comfortable. Too comfortable. I work at a desk. I live in a nice home. I drive a dependable car with a good stereo and cruise control. I eat when I want to eat. And I’m rarely too hot or too cold. Life is soft. Life is easy. And while that’s perfectly fine, I think it’s important to be uncomfortable once in a while. Most of human history is a tale of hardship and want. I have it easy today, because people before me, didn’t. They carved the modern world from the bedrock. They discovered how to harness electricity, irrigate fields, and feed massive populations using agricultural breakthroughs that made wheat, rice, and corn household staples.

The modern American can benefit from the joy and relief that comes from a brimming water tank in the middle of the desert. After a night in the dirt and among the creosote bushes, he can better appreciate his king-sized mattress and central heating. A little hunger, cold, and physical exertion, coupled with geographical insecurity, can help a man remember his priorities, and add a layer of perspective to his hurried world of artificial, self-imposed busyness.

Ah. More than all those bromidic lessons, we went into the desert to have fun. To have a little adventure. And to prepare for the much bigger, more ambitious plans that are looming on the horizon. And we did have fun, despite (because of?) the discomfort.

The Arizona Strip is vast and empty. And it’s also surprisingly beautiful. Its variation is plentiful, from low scrubby blackbrush, to piñon pines and snow covered peaks, the region extends far deeper than the monotone plains visible from I-15. Beyond the roadway, among the folded canyons and tablelands, is an amazing world. Desert, mountain, plateau. Running streams, wildlife, and enough acreage to last a lifetime of exploration. Who knew that the Grand Canyon-Parashant National Monument even existed? Not me. Not until I had pedaled through a small corner of it, wishing for daylight, not only for the heat, but also to illuminate the views that I knew we were missing.

Eventually we had to pedal up into (and out of) Mesquite, Nevada, and then up Old Highway 91 and through the low desert Joshua Tree forests, Woodbury Desert Study Area, and over the endless rolling hills that mark the northern terminus of the Mojave desert. Up, down. Up, down. And then, at last, Down, down, and into St. George, where the car (and In N Out) was awaiting our return.

2 days. 3 states. 107 miles. 11,500 vertical. Good numbers. Better memories. Lasting lessons.

Each of us is a little bit more prepared for the Colorado Trail. And each of us is eager for our next trip into the blank spaces of the map.

And I’ll trade an evening watching sports for those empty spaces every time.

A tip of the hat to Dave, for the route beta and GPX.

The post Arizona (s)Trippin’ appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

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USA Cycling is tired of race promoters ignoring them. Instead of creating a race-friendly system that promoters can easily implement into their existing events, and using product superiority to woo grassroots races into the fold, USAC has decided to take a more nuanced approach: threatening promoters by trying to hold pro riders hostage.

“‘1.2.019 No (professional) license holder may participate in an event that has not been included on a national, continental or world calendar or that has not been recognized by a national federation, a continental confederation or the UCI.”

I love when professional racers participate in the same events that I do. I really mean that. It’s a thrill. However, their potential attendance has no impact on my decision to enter an event. The heart and soul of mountain bike racing is the grassroots. Both promoters (many who are racers themselves) and racers. Having pro riders at the start-line is nice. They add prestige to the event, and as an amateur, it can be really exciting to have a chance to compete against (in the most nominal sense) Olympians, National Champions, and veterans of the European Peloton. But without  amateurs and weekend warriors paying entry fees, there is no mountain bike racing.

In 1969, Curt Flood, a standout center fielder for the St. Louis Cardinals, refused to be traded to the Philadelphia Phillies. He wrote then: “After twelve years in the major leagues, I do not feel I am a piece of property to be bought and sold irrespective of my wishes. I believe that any system which produces that result violates my basic rights as a citizen and is inconsistent with the laws of the United States and of the several States.”

Bike racers, like all of us, should have the right to earn a living in any way they can. If that means racing at events that happily ignore USAC, and it’s layered, arbitrary, and expensive rules, then so be it. The freedoms of association and movement are fundamental human freedoms. Professional mountain bike racers are not the property of USA Cycling. Competing for money (or other goods, and in any industry) is a right that each of us possesses, and isn’t subject to the whims of governments, associations, corporations, or any other self-appointed authority. Each of us is free to pursue our own best interests.

Flood’s subsequent appeals, and (unsuccessful) legal challenge to baseball’s Reserve Clause eventually led to the free agent culture that dominates mainstream sports today. Athletes are now free to pursue the best contract they can find, and teams are free to pay that athlete whatever they can afford. Flood’s efforts changed the way that owners treated athletes, and are still relevant today.

USAC’s recent devotion to a little enforced (and completely idiotic) rule is not just about pro riders’ ability and right to earn money. Indeed, it’s a threat to promoters, using pro riders as leverage. It’s a cheap tactic to stifle competition, typical of an increasingly irrelevant group of bureaucrats, cronies, and thugs. USAC, who can’t compete on the open market, is trying to force promoters to buy their products. But USAC is misunderstanding the market (naturally). Having pro riders at local events is great, but it’s icing. A bonus. They aren’t the customer base. We are. And USAC is only making it more obvious why we don’t have any use for governing agencies in grassroots racing at all.

Consider some of the great mountain bike events right here in Utah, all of them non-USAC sanctioned:

The Park City Point 2 Point has sold each of its 350 spots in under 8 minutes, 4 years straight.

The Crusher in the Tushars sold all of its 350 spots last year, and its 500 spots this year.

The Intermountain Cup XC series has drawn healthy fields for more than 20 years.

Two weeknight XC series have drawn well for more than a decade.

The Utah State Championship Series is selling out its races.

The Mount Ogden 50/100k has grown in each of its years.

It’s blessedly easy to fill a spring and summer with events in Utah. And I can do it without worrying about license fees, authoritative course officials, or arbitrary jersey rules. The competition at these events is stiff, the courses are well designed, and each of us is treated like a high-end pro by volunteers and event staff. Our local races are world-class events. Pro racers participate in many of them. But the grassroots riders are filling out the rosters. Even if USAC succeeds in its dismal mission to bully pros into its own events, non-USAC races will continue to thrive.

In many (unintentional) ways, promoters of non-USAC sanctioned bike races are like Curt Flood. They are proving that the market for racing can thrive without oversight from afar, and that racers are fully capable of choosing which events to race, based not on status or prestige, but on cost, event-type, proximity, and word of mouth. In other words, racers and promoters have created a new market, and have made everyone who participates into free agents of a sort. Where I race is up to me.

The drivers of growth, and the channels funneling tomorrow’s professionals are races and series like the Intermountain Cup. It wasn’t very long ago that Utah’s top riders, now winning national races, were lining up just like everyone else at the Sundance Spin or Desert Rampage. Some of those riders still line up at the Intermountain Cup. But not anymore.

Bullying promoters into using USAC services is no way to win the hearts and minds of a faction that already views USAC (and other cycling governments) with an indifferent disdain. It’s also no way to help existing professionals prepare for international events. If USAC wanted Americans to succeed at the World Cup level, it would encourage our best riders to do everything they could to achieve that success. Even if that means racing at non-sanctioned (gasp!) bike races.

Pro racers ought to keep ignoring USAC’s advice, and continue to race where they want to race. USAC can’t fine everyone. And if they can’t fine everyone they can’t fine anyone. Promoters who are running non-USAC events should keep running non-USAC events. After all, USAC only has power that we allow them to have. They can kick and scream all they want, but if we continue to ignore the tantrums, while racing at (and promoting) great races, their influence will shrink into the void—exactly where it belongs.

The post The USAC Hostage Crisis appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

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I haven’t been very subtle about my Colorado Trail ambitions. My last two posts have focused on the race, and my preparation for it. I’ve been telling anyone who will listen about the race, and all my various gear choices. I’ve sent 2,379 emails to Ty, my neighbor, and fellow CTR hopeful.* But having my thoughts be dominated by a ride like the Colorado Trail Race shouldn’t come as a surprise. The only way I can get prepared for, let alone finish, anything that is this far beyond my previous experience level, is to become utterly obsessed with every detail about the endeavor.

*It’s all his fault anyway. He’s the one who pushed me from doing the CTR “someday”, to doing it now.

Getting ready for the Crusher, The KTR, the Dixie Lite, and even cyclocross and cross country racing, has kept me awake many nights in the past as I’ve pondered gear choices, route descriptions, elevation profiles, weather patterns, and training strategies. The mental and emotional focus can be tiring, but it’s also a lot of fun.

What have I gained from all this recent studying?

I’m not sure, yet. It’s all been book-learning so far. However, I have gathered, weighed, and packed most of my gear. The base kit—everything except food and water—is nearly complete. The only possible variations that remain won’t be worked out until I’ve actually tested some of my ideas. The short term weather forecast will also help determine a few last minute changes. But overall, my base kit is finished. Unless it isn’t.*

My criteria for choosing gear has been simple: find the lightest piece, for the lowest price. So far, budget has trumped weight, although I’ve been able to find some very nice gear for very nice prices. There’s nothing quite as satisfying to a dirtbag as finding high-end gear for low-end prices. I’ve also been able to use a lot of gear that I already had, which is nice.

I’ve listed the total weight for the commonly weight-analyzed items, and although I do have total weights for everything hidden away on my spreadsheet, I haven’t included them here. I’m not being secretive, I just think some of the details will change between now and July, and that the weights of tubes, lube, and other mundane bike necessities are all pretty standard. It’s also worth noting that while this list is CTR-centric, most of it applies to any bikepacking route.

*Feel free to make any suggestions for improvment.

Bike

This year I am riding a 2011 (but only recently built) Cannondale Scalpel. Currently it weighs about 22 lbs with beefy 26-inch wheels and tires. I am planning to use a lighter set of 650b (27.5) wheels and tires for the majority of my riding and racing. It is built with a mix of SRAM XO and Cannondale SI components, along with a couple of my own additions from Thomson, Ergon, and Enve. Riding the tiny wheels after years on a 29er has been fun. I like the bike, but we’ll see how I feel about it (or any other bike) on or around July 26th.

Bike Bags

The primary difference between backpacking and bikepacking is (obviously) the bike. Instead of having to carry everything on their backs, bikepackers can let the bike shoulder some of the weight. And the best way to do that is with lightweight bags. The days of panniers and racks are over. Bike bags have become the established standard in multi-day touring, are much easier to obtain than they were a few years ago, are durable, waterproof, and fit on just about any bike—road, ‘cross, or mountain.

I’ll be using an array of bags, hand-made by Alaskan Eric Parsons at Revelate Designs. Eric is a pioneer in the bike bag world, and his gear is over-the-top nice.

Handlebar: Sweet Roll w/ small pocket add-on

Stem: Mountain Feedbag

Top-tube: Jerrycan

Seat post: Pika saddle bag

Total weight: 1.8 lbs.

Backpack

I’ve narrowed my backpack choices to two: the Wingnut Enduro or Camelbak Volt. The Wingnut is a proven winner. I’ve used it on many long rides and multi-day trips. It’s light (16oz.), large (18L), and is 100% waterproof. The wing pockets make fishing for food on the go ridiculously easy.

The Volt is another possibility, although I don’t have one, and have no experience with one. But the lumbar reservoir (which I’ve liked in the past on other packs) and the smaller volume have distinct appeal. I tend to fill any available space in my pack, so a smaller volume could help me leave unneeded stuff behind, or move more weight to the bike and off of my back.

Sleep System

An integral part of any multi-day gear list is the sleep system. It consists of three primary pieces: shelter, bag, pad. The variations of each of these items are vast, and like most outdoor gear, is subject to a triangle of compromise. When it comes to sleeping in the wilderness, pick 2: comfort, lightweight, cheap. However, modern advancements in materials are slowly eliminating that compromise, making affordable, light, and comfortable gear a lot more attainable. It’s pretty easy to build a 3-piece sleep system that is waterproof, comfortable, and under 3 pounds.

An event like the Colorado Trail Race (or any multi-day race) has an added element of compromise: speed. Going fast means going light, but it also means keeping everything very simple. The fastest CTR finishers have spent less than 5 hours in their shelters each night, often making due with nothing more than an emergency bivvy and a down jacket. They sacrificed comfort (and some safety) for the simplicity and light weight of a just-good-enough sleep system*. Finding a place to hang a hammock, or futzing with a tarp and stakes at 2AM, after 20 hours of riding isn’t simple. When I’m done riding each day, I want to crawl into a waterproof tube, and sleep.

*Just-good-enough probably kept the pointy end of the group moving, instead of spending time trailside, snoozing away the chance at a record finish. Which is one reason why they are at the pointy end. Hmmm.

Me? I’m going to try and get the best of both comfort and speed from my system. (Duh!)

Bivvy: Rab Storm. I found the Rab Storm Bivi at the bottom of a clearance bin at my local gear shop. The price was right, and so was the feature list: waterproof, breathable, and lightweight. At 16 oz. it is  8 oz. lighter than my fully-featured, and very comfortable OR Aurora shelter. But giving up a little extra comfort in the sack in favor of shedding 1/2 a pound on the trail is an easy tradeoff. And it’s not as if the Storm is exactly minimalist. It zips closed, and is fully waterproof. I don’t anticipate missing the added features (bug net, pouch, Gore-Tex) of the Aurora.

Sleeping bag: I’ve used the Lafuma Warm ‘N Light 600 down bag for the last several years, including on the Dixie Lite. It’s a great summer bag. It is, as its name implies, warm, and light (35 degree, 21 oz.). But (and this question plagues everyone), I have  been wondering if I could find something lighter. There are, obviously, lighter sleeping bags available, but they fail my budget test. The compromise? The SOL Escape bivvy from Adventure Medical Kits.

At 8 oz, the Escape weighs 13 oz. less than the Warm ‘N Light 600. It’s advertised as water-resistant and breathable. Reviews are upholding that claim. Last year’s CTR winner used the Escape as his primary shelter en-route to a record setting finish.*  I strongly considered using one as my shelter this year, but will instead use it as my sleeping bag. Will it be as comfortable as a down bag? Probably not. But used with the Storm Bivi, and my sleeping pad, I will stay warm and dry.

*The Escape didn’t get much use. He finished the race in just 3 days, 23 hours, and 38 minutes.

Sleeping pad: A good sleeping pad can make the difference between a lousy sleep system, and one that helps you get the rest you need in-between 20 hour days. The new trend in ultra-light pads is thick, but light. I’ve retired my 3/4 inch Therma Rest Pro-Lite 3 (which has served me well for several years, and will continue to serve my kids) in favor of the 2.5 inch Big Agnes Clearview Air Pad. It’s fat, affordable, really light (11 oz) and longer than my Pro Lite. It’s the one piece of my sleep system that I consider a luxury. I want to be able to rest at night, and this pad is going to help me do that.

All three items will be rolled into a small dry bag, and stowed in the Sweet Roll.

Total weight: 2lbs, 5oz.

Clothing

A multi-day trip requires a few extra clothing items, beyond the normal riding shorts, jersey, and gloves. Any route where wide variations in the weather are probable (like the Colorado Rockies) will lengthen the clothing gear list a little. However, eliminating redundancies and paying attention to item weights can shorten that list, and lighten the pack.

Down vest: The Montbell UL Snap Vest is one of my favorite pieces of gear. I’ve used it while mountain biking, ski-touring, summer and winter camping, and backpacking. It’s one of the few items that I include in every over-night pack. It will be an important part of my CTR sleep system, adding warmth to the entire set-up, or doubling as a pillow if the temperatures do not require it to be worn. It can also be slipped on while hiking and riding during cold snaps or early morning high-speed descents. At 5 oz. it has the highest weight/usefulness ratio of any of my clothing.

Wind shirt: Useful while riding, in light rain, or as an add-on during cold nights in the bivvy. I use the Brooks LSD Lite Jacket. It’s hooded, and only weighs 4 oz.

Rain Suit. I have one demand from a rain suit: keep me dry. And be light. So, two demands. And cheap, it has to be cheap. Which makes three demands. Cheap, light, dry. The DriDucks Frogg Togg UL meets all three. The entire suit (hooded jacket and pants) weighs less than 11 oz., costs about $20, packs up nice and small, and most importantly, keeps water out. It isn’t very durable, but the set I’ve had for 5 years is still hanging tough, although it will probably be replaced this summer.

Long underwear: The last thing I want to do after a long day of pedaling is sleep in my chamois. A nice set of long underwear will not only let me hang my shorts on a tree to dry overnight, but also help keep me warm during the night. Paired with my sleep system, and down vest, I should be cozy on all but the most extreme summer nights. Plus, I can always pull them on during the day if needed. Silk underwear in the mountains? Heck yes!

Hat: A merino wool or synthetic stocking cap is a must-have. At only 2 oz, it doesn’t weigh much, but can add a lot of warmth when needed.

Other: warm gloves, waterproof socks, sleep socks, arm/knee warmers, vest, base layer.

Tools

Riding a bike on a multi-day trip is a little like bringing along a temperamental significant other. That is, it’s going to be high-maintenance, require a lot of attention, and weigh down your pack a lot more than if you had left it home. But there are benefits (to the bike) as well. Chief among them, wheels. Rolling is faster, and a lot more fun, than walking. Helping to keep the bike rolling is a long list of tools and parts, many of which will hopefully stay tucked away for the duration of the trip in some forgotten pocket.

Spare tube x2
Patch kit
Lube
Sealant
Derailleur hanger
Master link x2
Tire boot x2
Multi-tool (bike)
Multi-tool (knife)
Brake pads (set)
Pump
Zip-ties (various sizes, 10 total)
Duct tape
Tire levers

Lights

Fenix lights are small miracles. I’ll be riding the CTR with two Fenix PD32 flashlights. The PD32 runs on two CR123 batteries, and will burn at 130 lumens for 8 hours (315 lumens for 2 hours). Each light weighs about 4 oz. with batteries. I’ll have one on my helmet, and one on my bars. I’m really impressed with these little lights. They are better than most of the bike-specific offerings from the major players in the market. I’d use 2 of them in a 24-Hour lap race as my only light source with confidence. Where were these during my solo-24 days?

Helmet light: Fenix PD32

Bar light: Fenix PD32

Rear flash: Princeton Tec Swerve

Mounts: Twofish rubber/velcro

Camp light: Brunton Double Back

Total weight: 11 oz.

Navigation

Most bikebacking trips require a GPS, or detailed route knowledge. Or both. GPS technology has come along way in the last 10 years. Units are easier than ever to load tracks and maps on to, they are light, affordable, and really capable. Most of them include a lot more features than just GPS. My favorite units over the years have always (and forever?) come from Garmin. My multi-day choice is no different. And while I tinkered with carrying my trusty Edge 705 on the CTR, I decided on the AA powered eTrex 30. Either way, I was going to be carrying batteries, but with the eTrex, I don’t have to bother with a AA powered charger or the shorter run time of the Edge.

GPS: Garmin eTrex 30

Digital Map: Colorado Topo 2011 from GPSFileDepot.com

Paper map: Colorado Trail Pocket Atlas by Erik the Black

Total weight: 7 oz.

Safety

Staying safe (alive) in the mountains requires a combination of the right gear, and the right mindset. I’ll have a small first aid kit, and a SPOT, but I’ll also have everything else I’ll be carrying. My clothing, sleep system, lights, navigation equipment, food, water, and tools, can help prevent (or get me out of) a dire situation.

Tracker: SPOT II Tracker

First Aid: LifeLine 1-person trail kit.

Cord: Paracord bracelet

ID: RoadID dog tag

Total weight: 9 oz.

Water Treatment

I like water filters. But after I broke the handle on one in the Uinta mountains, I’ve wondered about an alternative, especially for ultra-light packing. Tablets are light, but take a long time to work, and taste terrible. Filters (yes, I still like them) aren’t super-light, but will remove floaties, and they work quickly. Is there an in-between? Something that is light, works fast, and can clean up the water a little? Of course there is! It’s called UV light. Pairing a SteriPen with a small funnel-filter to remove chunks (which is entirely my preference. The SteriPen can be safely used without the filter) is light*, fast, and doesn’t alter the taste of the water.

Filtration: SteriPen FitsAll filter

Purification: SteriPen Adventure Opti

Storage: Camelbak 3L bladder + Nalgene 1L collapsible bottle

Backup: Iodine tablets

*Light. Get it? Ohhhh, it hurts.

Total weight: 15 oz.

Hygiene  

I’m a dirtbag. I can go a long time without brushing my teeth or showering. But if I don’t have to, well, I’m not going to.

Toothbrush
Toothpaste
Lip balm
Sunscreen
Floss
Dehydrated wipes
Bug spray
Chamois cream
Toilet paper
Cash/Credit/ID

Camera

What, you thought I was going to leave the camera home? No way. I’m bringing my favorite point and shoot, the Sony RX100. I’m also going to bring a mini-tripod. For an extra 3 oz., it’s well worth the weight for the chance at some long exposure pictures.

Total weight: 14 oz.

And there it is.

A long list of stuff I will carry through the Colorado Rockies, along with about 4 liters of water and 8,000 calories of food.

All bundled up, it looks like this:

I think it’s about time to start testing all this book learning with some pedal turning. Just as soon as I get back from the Caribbean, of course.

The post Bikepacking Gear Bonanza appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

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I woke up in my bed. It was still February. Still winter. And the Colorado Trail Race, still months away.

I walked to the window and peered outside, surprised to see that it was not raining.

I’m amazed, and a little bit disturbed, at how quickly the CTR has engulfed me. I’ve been kept awake at night by gear comparison tables, maps, and the ride reports from other racers. The ride reports might be the most useful resources available for someone trying to wrap their mind around a Colorado Trail through-ride. They might also be the most effective deterrent. As I read, I ask myself, “do I really want to do that?” In the past, the answer was always an easy, unprovoked, “no, not really.” But not anymore.

Privately (and publicly) committing to an event that requires homework, along with the normal physical preparation, has a strange cementing effect. The question is no longer “am I going to ride in the race?” Instead, it’s “how am I going to get ready for the race?” Ah, how indeed?

Reading, of course. But also doing. That is, strapping the bags to the bike, and pedaling.

Alas, it’s still winter. Sort of. There hasn’t been much snow to speak of over the last few weeks. And the temperatures have been mild. I’ve started to see cyclists on the roads. The sun is hanging in the sky a little bit longer every day. But winter isn’t finished. There’s still more snow, more skiing, more cold. And that means more time obsessing over trail maps, gear tables, and the experiences of other people.

I coasted into the parking lot at Waterton Canyon. It was well past midnight, I had just finished a 20 hour blitz. My hands and feet were numb. My legs were heavy and worn. I was wet with sweat and rain. But I was smiling. I had done it. The Colorado Trail—all 470 miles—was behind me. I was a CTR finisher.

I was dreaming again. But not in my sleep. Daydreaming. Visualizing a moment that has become the sole motivation for every session on the indoor trainer, every repetition with the weights, every interval, and skipped dessert. It’s the same daydream that helped me arrive in Fruita, Park City, Eagle Point, Old Pueblo, and countless other finish lines.

Every pedal stroke, and every mile that I ride and race gets me a little bit closer to Denver. The Colorado Trail Race is not 480 miles, it’s far longer than that. The trail to Denver started in my basement weeks ago, and will pass through the deserts of St. George, the hoodoo of Moab, and up and over  the Wasatch and Tushar mountains. It will be glorious and tedious. But already some of that is behind me. And already, it’s too late to turn around.

The post The CTR Has Already Started appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

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In the 5 years that have passed since then, I have made the same declaration every winter. “The CTR, this year.” And yet, I’ve never made it to that start line. Why not? Oh, I have my reasons. Some of them are almost legitimate. But mostly, I’ve stayed away from that race because it scares me witless. But every year the ambition returns because the very things that scare me about the ride, are also the things that I love most about it. 480 miles and 60,000 vertical of remote, rugged, high-altitude,  self-supported, Rocky Mountain nirvana. OK, maybe not nirvana. But even a glimpse of that should make the slow-motion hike-a-biking and assiduous pedaling worth the effort. Right?

And so, I’ve run out of excuses. In 2013, it’s the Colorado Trail or bust.

Already the gear-gazing and route-scouting are happening. My Google search history from the last few days looks something like this:

“Colorado Trail Race bikes”

“Clean water on the Colorado Trail”

“SteriPen vs filter”

“Weights and burn times of Fenix flashlights”

“Colorado topo maps”

“Calorie content of Hostess Little Debbie snacks”

“Can I ride a moto at the CTR instead of a bicycle”

The rest of the summer is  starting to fade into the background. The tunnel vision that has aided (and ailed) me in the past is being focused on Durango, Colorado, and the ribbon of rock and dirt that winds and climbs its way to Denver. I’ve never attempted anything this ambitious. But I think I’m up to the challenge. I can ride slowly for a long time. I enjoy being at altitude. I can carry on conversations with myself for days. And I like pain. Well, I don’t like pain, but I can tolerate an unhealthy amount of it. Pushing a bike, while tedious, is still better than pushing papers around a desk. Anyway, isn’t that what ski touring is, just hike-a-bike practice?

Ralph Waldo Emerson said to “always do what you are afraid to do.” I think there’s wisdom (and insanity) in that.

I was afraid of 100 mile races.

I was afraid of 24-hour solo racing.

The Kokopelli Trail Race scared me.

The Crusher and the Point 2 Point still scare me.

And the CTR? Terrifying.

And yet, I know that the CTR is an event I need to do. From the minute I first read about it in 2007, I knew that I was going to try it. Between now and July 21 I expect to bump up against reality more than once. I’m a working stiff with 5 kids. I don’t win bike races. I eat cheese and cake (not at the same time) more than I should, and I like sleep more than intervals. Nevertheless, I’ve confronted my fears in the past, and beaten them.

The dragon of Resistance will be busy. He’ll do everything he can to help me find a new excuse to “wait until next year.” But next year is this year. It’s right now. So, I’ll let the dragon fly at will. It’ll all be in vain however, because I’ll be too distracted by GPS tracks, elevation profiles, and learning the business hours of the stores in Silverton, or Leadville, to let doubt cloud my ambition, or fear paralyze my legs.

I am going to ride the Colorado Trail Race.

But I’m not going to ride the trail just because it’s hard. I’m heading to Durango (and then on to Denver) because I want to know what it’s like to spend 5+ days traveling through the mountains on my bicycle. I want to watch the soft glow of a new day illuminate 14,000 foot peaks in pale orange, pink, and red. I want to see the iconic wooden trail markings, ride across the sky-scraper tundra, and float (and bump, barrel, and hike) through thick forests, grassy, flower-addled meadows, and a vast array of topographical indulgence.

I’ve been on the Colorado Trail before. But only briefly. In that short time, the trail got into my blood (and a little of my blood, into it), and has been circulating impatiently, urging me to return in earnest, and to ride the entire route. Or try to, anyway.

I want to know what so many other riders already know. Asking questions, reading stories, and looking at pictures have helped acquire a little bit of that knowledge. But looking isn’t doing. Even more than knowledge, I want experience. I want this experience. And there’s only one way to go get it.

It’s still winter here in Utah, but I’m ready for another summer of dragon chasing and slaying. I’m looking forward to being a pin on a map, and a crackly, tired voice on a podcast. I can already see the long views, smell the wildflowers, and taste the cold water. I’m dreading the pain, and the nausea, and the hard choices. I’m craving the simplicity of riding my bike all day, every day.

Long live the Colorado Trail. And long live the foolish quest to through-ride it on a mountain bike.

The post Colorado Ambitions appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

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It’s also really easy to want the world to end.

The daily news is saturated with war, famine, disease, and danger. Fear is the currency that governments use to buy our obedience. The national message is steeped in imminent demise; economic, social, and physical. The perpetuation of war (and its moral equivalents) is the engine of the State. We are mere pawns in the game of thrones. Our ongoing misery is regrettable collateral damage. The plight of the individual is, of course, subservient to the health of the State.

Our hopes and dreams, our ambitions and goals, our lives, are enabled (we are told) by the benevolence of aristocrats. As long as we do our part, we are granted a little time and money to pursue something other than paying taxes and waiting impatiently for death.

Overstated?

Maybe. But not by much.

Nevertheless, there is an escape. And it isn’t elaborate or expensive, nor does it require overbearing (threats of) violence by the State.

Our escape is the outdoors. Bikes. Skis. Boots.

Self-propulsion.

Government isn’t entirely responsible for our plight. We, after all, created the government. But we also busily, and happily, burden ourselves with undue grief and sickness. We are addicted to pain killers, anti-depressants, steroids, artificial virility, and the social validation that each new wonder-drug promises. Instead of living lives of adventure (however one might define that), risk, and spontaneous delight, we instead trudge through our days afraid, malaised, cynical, and sick. We are easily entertained, artfully distracted, and barraged with mindless information.

But the mountains and the deserts can change us.

We don’t have to accept the top-down deception that athletes, politicians, and the social elite insist we endure. Professional athletes cheat. Politicians lie. Hollywood is brimming with hypocrites. Big deal. Instead of feigning outrage at the (perceived) injustice, why not simply ignore it altogether? Stop being persistently offended. Too many days are wasted in thralls of manufactured despair. Instead, go outside and unplug the white noise and finger pointing.

People are wild and unpredictable. People are explorers, innovators, inventors. People are not ungulates, nor are they lemmings. We have been designed to adapt and thrive in open, free, environments. We are most happy, as individuals, and as societies, in the blank, empty spaces of freedom. In those spaces we replace the fear of demise with the optimism of experience. There we learn to ignore the aristocrats and to embrace our own greatness. No anti-depressant can match the deliverance of a mountain top, or canyon bottom.

Moving oneself through forests of aspen and spruce, or across the tabled, tawny desert scrublands is empowering. Confidences grow, ills disappear, and we rediscover the primal spirit within each of us that begs for big skies and rugged horizons. People are like rivers; we run best un-damned.

Before we decide to succumb to the unhinged determinism of doomsayers and soothsayers, let’s each go for walk in the woods, or ride our bikes through the desert. It’s impossible to be pessimistic about our Earthly plight in the expanse of nature.

Live free.

Be happy.

Go outside.

The post Be Happy. Be Free. appeared first on Grizzly Adam.net.

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