kula-fish

I got the opportunity to finally take out the Kona Kula 29er that the Kona Rep was good enough to leave with the shop for another 2 weeks, so yours truly could get out on it. I feel so special. I'm no Industry guru, but here's my three cents:

I was not real excited about the somewhat upright rider position, felt like I wanted to flip the stem and put on a laid back seat post. Any sustained climbing I struggled to get over the bars for leverage...strike that up to an unfamiliar bike maybe. Kona has a deep freeride heritage, so the positioning I suppose could be due to that. I also had commuted on it for a couple days before taking it out on the trails to get a feel for it and make sure everything worked properly (at least as well as could be). One thing that stood out on the daily ride, was how harsh the rear end felt. That could be a combination of many things I suppose (saddle, seatpost, the ingrown hair on my right ass), but there it is. 29er tires do roll better up hill over rough terrain and down hill in any terrain. They do feel a bit sluggish climbing, but make up for it in the ability to roll better over root and rock, so effort used between 26 and 29er is probably a wash.

That said, once on the single track it really hooked up. Not sure if it was tires, contact patch or that geometry that I was complaining about before coming into its own. Since riding with someone else I got to ride the same section of trail (Gonzo - fast and swoopy downhill) on the 29er and also on a 26er. The Kula 29er felt tonnes more stable and fast; this may have been the bike, the tremendous condition of the trails or the beer I had at the top of our climb giving me a bit extra courage. It was the fastest I've ridden the section.

By the end of the day I was in love with the bike. I was afraid I wasn't going to be able to not be a bit coloured in my opinion, since the bike had a few component issues; some things were less than perfect even though the bike operated without problem. First off, Hayes brakes are crap! They bite like crazy, but drag like no other with no real adjustment. I tried several times to center them with no luck. They howled and squealed, surely scaring off any tempted mountain lion for the duration of the ride. Ran over enough scat to be certain of felines in the area. I'm also not a fan of the new XT shifter pods. I was expecting a nicer feel. That's nitpicking, I guess, since the full XT setup worked flawlessly. Not crazy about the Reba, it felt more like just a spring than active suspension. And despite perfect dish on the front wheel, it was a half inch to the left of center in the fork. The Raceface crankset was really stiff, and I don't mean laterally in the good way, but the bearings. It didn't spin freely at all. It's hard to determine what was in need of love and what was just a poorly executed part.So if I'd my druthers I'd drop the fork, brakes and crank at least. That said, the Kula Deluxe 29er as a whole (its geometry and handling) was sweet.

And then, after 3 hours on the bike, we fished at that same lonely reservoir as before. My two companions each caught two cutthroats whereas I caught none. I can't complain in lieu of the day as a whole.

giro on the poudre

That's pronounced pooter I guess.

I used to watch the Tour on my computer at work while, "ahem", working. Found a live feed in Czech or Scandinavian or summat, and English audio from Eurosport. Well, the Giro's on and I've no digital cable, too expensive, so I implemented my old formula. However, today I found one site that does it all for you. How cool, you pick your video and audio source and you also get other crap. Here tis':

Pop Up TV

Or this

Steephill

The live feeds from RaiSport suck, I suggest the NRK from Norway the bigger bite the better. It's on first thing in the morning, about 6am-9 Pacific time, so my Midwestern friends are just settling into their cubicles then...tempting.

peace of mind

If a ride is defined by what happens between the first pedal stroke and the last, then yesterday was near the top of all time rides for me and the embodiment of everything a ride should be...at least a ride that should happen more often than we are likely to make occasion. No riding for distance or speed or personal goals for personal validation, but simply for...for...I dunno...read on and see what I mean...

My bike looked a tad out of place in the back of the pickup sandwiched between suspended knobby monsters. Most of my gear, believe it or not, is still en route via the brown santa back from service in Trans-Iowa - that is: mountain shoes, clip pedals, pack and helmet are packaged with my bike. So by default, 'Ol yeller complete with slicks, cruiser bars, platforms, one gear, corks in my bars and fenders was my stead up la vallee. Okay, so not epic or challenging, which was really part of the enjoyment. It's been a while since a ride was taken in the spirit of slow inhalation of the outdoors as the only goal.

A feller from the shop, Dan, had called me for a ride up a logging road to a reservoir for some trout fishing...how could I refuse? 5 miles of slight undulating climbing, protected from traffic by locked gate at the start, to a reservoir nestled in a dimple surrounded by forested hills. With our chosen brews in our packs with poles and some food we headed into the green. 5 of us in all rolled at giddy speed up the gravel road to our destination. With the afternoon heat beating its last we settled for a beer and snack while baiting our rods lakeside. Wildlife abound: rough skinned newts, bald eagles and a plethora of birds and other fauna lent music and entertainment to our lazy casting.

One fish caught, a few others tossed back or not hooked...a newt for me, unharmed and returned to the water after a friendly inspection (I'm curious, can't help it). Plenty of adult imbibing, inhalation of semi-high mountain air and an understanding of what drove Steve Potts humming into the wilderness on his klunker, fly rod in hand. This lake was anyone's for the taking, an evening and a lake to yourself for 20 minutes worth of a beautiful ride up a logging road. Had to put down my pole for a bit, realizing I was spending far to much time staring at the water, besides I wasn't catching anything anyway. I thought to myself and then asked aloud later, "Do you ever look around and say to yourself, I live in this place?"

When all the unimportant melts away and you take a moment to focus on the swaying of a tree or blade of grass, the humming of a bee or song of a bird that innocent amazement can creep in...and that thought "I live in this place."

crepuscular

bored...rough draft of some brain mischief...

I strode down the cobblestone promenade, numbness and fatigue flowed over every inch of me like an analgesic cloud, which made my movements soft and loose; it was as if all my stiff cartilage had been replaced with jelly and I was a marionette. Hard beams of yellow light shot down from the tall street lamps lining either side of the corridor. Like jaundiced conical pillars they guarded the road from that most seedy of dark beyond. Keep your feet on the road yon precious umbrella twirlers and bowler capped fellas, for outside disease and amputations of all sorts (physical, mental, social) may happen. With insomnia comes a numbness to fear, willingness, almost an eagerness for danger, as death would be relief. With a shit grin, a weak veil over desperation, and a small prick of curiosity for that which I hadn’t seen I wobbled into the black.

From a distance the storefronts were like searchlights bleeding all their life out side by side onto the street in front. The antiquated low lamps along the road were no competition for the scintillating glare of the shops; missing most of their companions, either wholly or only in part, the streetlights were nearly invisible. It was a pathetic sight, this forgotten borough of a once greater old city, dark, cold and damp as it was; dead, save for the thriving new industry. Figures would seemingly appear out of thin air and vanish just as quickly as they moved furtively in and out of the light. There must have been thousands, but upon closer inspection it was the same few patrons pacing up and down the walk. Some stood transfixed like deer in headlights. Others leaned coolly against walls or postboxes, taking pretentiously thoughtful pulls from dying cigarettes. As I closed the distance to the old town, the light sources revealed themselves first as slivers, opening slowly to rhombuses and finally big rectangular windows as I faced them squarely vomiting their contents onto my retinas. Enclosed in the shops were arranged the strangest of zoos. Women in boxes sat sweaty and grotesque under the sick flickering of fluorescent bulbs hanging loosely from cheap metal fixtures above their heads, making them look like green skeletons loosely covered with withering paper bags. They slouched without a care, cigarettes dangling inevitably from boney fingers, ashing everywhere, burning holes in their clothing and their rugs. They no longer labored for attention, long since disabused of the notion of pride and genuine want of men, who now perused them outside like hungry wretched tomcats with matted hair and a stench you could see hovering about them. Love and decency squashed by each of their eager footsteps toward the younger, healthier of the flesh bazaar – fictitious fortifications of their own desirability, stretched thin as the surface tension of a soap bubble over reality, but for this fantasy you must pay. Crudely tattooed with red lipstick on one woman’s bulging stomach read, “It could happen 2 U”.

Suddenly struck with the urge to defecate, I burst heavily through the front door of the nearest shop and strait to the back where I was certain the restroom must be. There was but one room. Its door was much like any other public bathroom door, but without signage. Cramped now with urgency, I thrust the door quickly open and it banged loudly as hit heavily on the tiled wall behind. This was the place, although the first stall door I tried had only a chair over the open sewer pipe and no toilet. The second was the same. The third was a challenge, but I finally prized the door open. It was a large handicap accessible space complete with handrails labeled with black magic marker “Grab here and go deep!” There was a toilet, but to my surprise someone was on it, fully clothed while another body dashed quickly behind the door. All I saw of him were his fingers holding the door on himself, a shield of annonymity.

Her head was like a pumpkin and lit obliquely from above, so that each bulbous feature washed out in the light and every dimple, crease and socket was a vacuous cavern while her eyes flickered like icy flame between it all. She cackled as she rolled back on her mass and spittle rose in dry tallow bubbles from the corners of her mouth when she did so; an evil smile that makes the skin crawl and the body recoil for fear of touching her reek. Tattered were her clothes, stretched threadbare over her lumpy and folded expanse. Then the stall door closed shut again and the moaning re-began with her shadowy customer. My mistake. The next stall was unoccupied.

I lifted the furry lid and rested down on the clumped pink shag of the seat. Then the trouble began. With such activity in the next door, it was difficult to settle into comfort enough to make. Further exacerbating my problem was the codeine a well-intentioned friend had administered for daily intake before bed in aid of getting me to sleep. Its only effect was stiffening my bowels near the point of constipation. Another hitch in the plan was the wet yellow roll on the hook. With apparently no other option the question became: Which is worse, a shitty ass or a pissy ass? I chose neither and left with one less sock on my feet. Thin and filled with holes it wasn’t much of a sacrifice anyway.

It's nearly 4 am. What to do? Park bench and a sunrise.

When I finally did make it into work around 6:30am, alone in the low fluorescent hum of my cubicle, I took the other sock off and put it in my jacket pocket. Perhaps soon the other sock won’t be singular in its martyrdom. Somehow this has become my routine, this getting to work before all, except the oldest janitor who can be heard tickling about with his bucket, unseen, far off down some hallway. I’m not sure I can even remember when the sleeplessness began. Being tired can be torture enough, but my tolerance has grown to acceptance and it no longer bothers me. One thing I haven’t been able to get used to is the complete physical discomfort; I feel sticky, my eyelids are heavy, slow and greasy, my body is hot and cold all the time, and my mouth seems almost sour – something I can taste even over food.

What do I even do here? I sit in front of this computer. Mindlessly plucking at the strings of my instrument. Blurry figures with muffled voices move in and out of my grey-carpeted prison. I’m not sure if I please them or fulfill my duties since I’m unaware of what the voices of these talking heads are trying to convey. They don’t sound angry or irritated; they are in fact empty of all emotion to me. I am still getting paid, so everything must be okay. As I said, I’ve no idea how long it’s been like this. It may just be a matter of time.

i got raped by the rogue nation

Jess and I tripped to the coast for a little site seeing. Cape Perpetual was our destination, in the Siuslaw National Forest: from thundering beaches to old growth forest it has it all! It still seems a bit surreal that this is where I live and that settled in this verdant valley of orchards that is Willamette I could be eyeing wind bent pines along the rocky coast within an hour; Oregon truly is diverse - desert, rain forest, mountains and ocean side.

A SIDE-NOTE: A RANT: A WHALE OF A SIDE-RANT: We planned a stop at the Rogue Brewery on the way home for an early dinner, since by law all breweries in Oregon have to serve food we (or I at least) thought with such quality beer must come quality food. However, allow me to warn, twas SHITE. For $13 I ordered fish tacos and got a little pile of shredded lettuce, what looked like dusty shredded Kraft cheddar from a bag, and what amounted to 4 Clif ShotBlok sized pieced of fish to spread among 4 silver dollar sized flour tortillas. Now, being from the Midwest and an American there is a deeply bred in belief that one ought to get a sedan sized hamburger for $1. I am not of that mind, I understand good food doesn't need to come in gargantuan proportions, and I'm willing to pay a bit for it, but this was an insult. $14 got us two apricot size crab cakes...another surprise. Sure we were being financially brave, but we're still new to this west coast dining, fresh seafood business. Jess got no better for her money, a similar amount of fish on a bun of the fastfood species, and no not even sesame. And to add injury to this pathetic showing, they had the audacity to charge us $5.50 per beer, something we weren't expecting. For christ's sake, it's their fucking beer! I can buy a 6-pack of Rogue for $7 at any liquor store. What the hell is this? Paying for the privilege of eating at the brewery that had the strange antiquated patina of a long forgotten theme park. One minor saving grace of the dive was a view of the harbor, allowing me to feed with salivating eyefuls my sailing dream. Don't waste your time if you're in the area. And for me, I'm done with Rogue Beer; used to love it, however it was clear that they're nothing but a soulless exploiter of a market demand for decent beer. That isn't to say their brewers aren't skilled or don't care, it just seems to me that someone upstairs doesn't. "Here, we make good beer with clever names, if you want to be cool and in the know drink it fuckers!" No thanks and nevermind.

On with a photo poop of the happier portion of the day.

Devil's Churn.

On the rocks of Devil's churn.

All over the rocks.

Waitin' for the tide to come.

A few moments after Jess' confident stridulations to the water's edge, she came scampering back laughing with waves licking at her heals.

Shoulda brought a bottle of wine.

Camera died before we went to an overlook, the highest on the coast. You could see for miles...I'll go back sometime soon and bring back pics.

i'm tired

More often these days I groan when asked to go for a ride. I shouldn't, but I don't want to ignore the facts. I still love bikes and biking, but no longer feel the need to ride for riding's sake. I want to mix it up, ride when it sounds fun, not because I guilt myself into it as a method of holding on to fitness. To that end I got fitted for some shoes. Long time since I've run. Even longer since it's not been in trail runners. I got me some shoes that feel like pillows on the feet. Running is much less a time suck in order to retain fitness (though completely different than cycling of course). However, when your only goal is to ward off obesity and keep a somewhat healthy lifestyle - ignoring of course the copious amounts of beer, baked things and coffee - there's no quicker way.

So now I run for fitness, and ride for fun. I thought that is what I was doing before, but it never felt like it...who knows, with this new approach perhaps I'll feel like riding more.

"what's all this shouting, we'll have no trouble here!"

Rolled over in bed last night to an excruciating and loud pop in my chest, then all pain was gone. It seems I pinched something, not sure how, but there it is.

On another note, Ironman was definitely decent.