Ignoring The Facts

I find it amusing sad how long I can ignore the fact that spring and summer are gone and now fall is on the cusp of doing the same. Looking down the trail and seeing nothing but brown, bare trees is sort of a repeated slap in my fat face to wake up and smell the decaying bung of autumnal death and keep riding as long as I can. For soon winter will be bending me over a barrel of dark cold ass depression and thrusting its unprotected frozen phallus of hate in my general direction.

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This fact was made all the more real today when at the ride’s end I stood in the parking lot talking to some friends and was getting hit in the face with a smorgasbord of gusting wind, leaves, rain, sleet and snow. Then the sun came out. Michigan weather is as psycho as mountain weather…. we just don’t have mountains.

You Probably Race

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If you open up a drawer–any drawer–and find a gel flask, you’ve probably raced some mountain bikes*.

Or you are just an unorganized doofuss like me that throws your shit wherever and then spend hours looking for it in the time leading up to a long ride or a race. Note that there is no cap for the flask. I am pretty sure I saw it on top of the dryer in the basement.

*OK, you might not race mountain bikes but you do SOMETHING equally as cool yet unpopular and misunderstood by the general U.S. public: ultra runs, adventure racing, cross-country skiing, etc.,

I Know A Guy (Not Denzel)

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I know some people who know some people that rob some people. – Huggy Bear

Actually, I just have a friend who was looking to unload these super fresh XTR pedals he acquired for a “Holy shit! Even I can actually afford that!” price. I LOVE me some XTR. Yeah, yeah, XT shit is good and I dig it the most, but when a good XTR opportunity knocks, I do my best to answer and fork over money.

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Vintage Motor Paced Racing

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Apparently motor-paced racing was all the rage back in the early 20th century. I’ve seen a few photos from races here and there, but this one has to be one of my favorites. I’m not sure which subject I find more interesting and/or odd; the 10-year-old kid in his underwear, racing a bike with 14 inch wheels or the steely eyed, leather clad, Oliver Hardy looking motorcyclist who appears to be on his way to a Judas Priest concert as he straddles the fuselage like it’s a giant, metal phallus.

It’s been said that racers could get up to 60 miles per hour, I’m not sure how fast this little dude was going, but I am certain he would have kicked my ass.

Now cue up the song below and imagine Oliver singing it.

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Crush Pasta

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I love pasta and I am done trying pretend that I don’t, or that I can eat Primal or Paleo for more than a week or two before I realize that life is too short to not eat pasta (or beans for that matter). I’m sorry, but Italians have been eating the stuff forever and Italy has produced some pretty freaking legendary cyclists– none of which I recall being fat in their racing days. So as I often say on this blog (and in my daily life) “fuck it.” Or in this case, “Fuck it, I’m eating pasta.” Moderation and miles on the bike seems to work best for crushing pasta and not having to move up a belt size.

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