New Post?

I guess it's time for a new post. Staleness. Everyone hates it. You like stale bread? Stale cheese? Me either. Why is that? I guess it's the stimulation. We like new things. Especially when it comes to socks. Nothin' like sliding on a new pair of socks. Which is extra nice when the old ones smell like stale cheese. But what does stale bread and cheese have to do with stimulation? Absolutely nothing. Two different things. Look, here's a new post. It's probably not as good as slippin' into fresh socks, or fresh bread (can you slip into fresh bread?), but it at least should be better than stale cheese. Right? No? Well then bugger off. And oh, no new socks for you this christmas.

Now that you bring up christmas, above is a picture of where we live taken from our living room. Kind of hard to get into the christmas spirit when it's sunny and like 60 something. Well, it's not sunny and 60 something in the picture, it's a sunset after being sunny and 60 something. Clarity is important. Anyway, that whole christmas thing is a little weird when backgrounded by palm trees and surf shorts. I mean where in the hell is that hick St. Nick supposed to land that non-FAA approved sleigh (hello, where's Homeland Security in this whole thing? Seems like Osama Been Shoppin' could easily fly his own sleigh right into my chimney and nobody would give a damn) when there's no snow here? Maybe fat belly St. Nick rides a surfboard in these parts? A nice 10 footer, rudolph up front dodgin' sharks, those little freakin' elves paddlin' for their sweet little lives. Tiny little wetsuits for those dudes. Look like seals to a great white. What a tragedy huh? If those little elves were slung around like rag dolls in the jaws of a 15 foot great white, right off the beach here just before they were about to make landfall. Ever see Discovery channel? When that great white just skims across the water and snags that little seal? Tragic indeed. I mean for both those little elves and the seals. Best not to think about it really. Best to just raise a glass and give thanks that you're not a seal. Or an elf chained to santa's sled for that matter. Poor bastards probably not covered under disability.

But I digress...

So here in Marinland the bay area cleanup continues from the oilspill. The captain claims his gauges were screwy, the Coast Guard claims the captain was screwy, or that the Chinese crew was screwy, or that both were screwy, but it seems they ALL were screwy and the whole thing got screwed. The mayor here, Gavin Newsome, is a real piece of work. Just google this guy. What a joke. He took a trip to Hawaii DESPITE the fact that he knew the oil spill was huge. And the cleanup continues.

But the real reason to post this time was to pay homage. Homage to mountain biking. Okay, if you haven't been following this blog (what's wrong with you?), then you wouldn't know that I got called out. On my last post I was taken to task for some things I said regarding cyclocross and mountain biking. Check the last post and the comments then come back here....Okay, now you see it. WELL, I laid it on thick for sure, and I knew it would have to be real thick to get someone to stand up and say, "Wait, you're a mountain biker, have you no shame?" And someone did. The very person I had in the back of my mind when writing the post, though I thought some other individuals (names kept confidential) would say something to it, but they were either just too slow, or they didn't give a hoot. I knew Adam would give me sh*t for sure for what I was saying, I just thought someone else would chime in before him. I could see him standing back in that dark corner as I stood up on that soapbox preaching, his arms crossed, and I would expect others closer up to protest, but he moved forward and grabbed the mic. And bless him for it baby Jesus. Bless him for it.

His comments gave me a kick in the pants. But before we get into that I have to say one thing. His whole tack on me being the rider to watch was a bunch of horsepucky. This is the same guy that when we were in Squamish (oh how I love thee), and he was on his antique 3-inch suspension bike from what?, the time when 8 track was hip, I think he still has an 8 track in his Subaru (no he doesn't, but I wish he did, that would be so cool, flip it over brutha, flip it over if you want the rest), and we come on this party of four, locals, older than us, 6 inch "big hit" bikes, body armor, full face helmets, the full Northshore get-up, and Adam says, "Is this the way to Black Viper of Death trail?"

I'm in my party shorts, a t-shirt, but on my brand new 4 inch travel bike, the most suspension I'll need for the rest of my life, right? The old man in the group, the alpha male, looks at us, our clothes, then our bikes. Then he says, "The double black diamond eh? Oh yer on the wrong bikes fer that one. You need some big hit bikes." Yup, that's what he said. Well knowing Adam for some time now, and knowing a little how his mind works, inside my head I'm saying Easy now bro, easy. Adam looks at the ground, his bike, and says, "Huh, well does this trail go somewhere fun?" He points straight ahead instead of up to the top of the hill where the Black Viper lurks, and the alpha male says, "Oh yeah, this trail is fun. But there are logs, ladder bridges, big boulder drops, but you can ride around them. We're headed that way, you can follow us if you want."

SO we do. Adam right on their ass. And when they stop to do some trail work, we exchange pleasantries and they point us in the right direction, to where all the big hit trinkets are. Adam drops into the black diamond trail and off we go. Needless to say he was riding all the logs, the ladder bridges, the big boulder drops, all on his bike that wasn't supposed to be able to do it. And he did it with finesse. Which goes to show that it ain't the bike, or the technology, but the rider. Plain and simple. Here's the thing. Adam and I started mountain biking together what, like right after Bush War I? I don't know. Something like that. But we learned on the east coast on some technical trails so we kinda got a head start, though I stopped riding for a long time. Usher in the 6 inches of travel, more gadgetry, and poof, you've got this bike-makes-me-a-better-rider marketing blitz that took over the mountain biking industry. SO that's what people buy. Bikes to make them better riders.

Adam kept riding over those years on what was probably considered an "old school" bike in terms of travel, and he rides all that Northshore amusement park stuff while others sit sidelined watching, looking down at their bikes, thinking about their bank account and the 30+ pounds of bike they just bought and have been draggin' all over creation and back. Scary thing is now Adam's bought himself a bike with 4 or 5 inches of travel (used of course), so I don't even want to know what kind of stuff he's riding now.

So that's the long way of saying don't listen to him. Listen to me. It's better for your health. It's also a way of saying that his comments got me to give the cross bike a much needed rest and break the mountain bike out of the stable for a little trot. Ironically, Marin has very little "legal" singletrack to ride. Most of the riding here is "fire roads." Not the kind of fire roads like up in the Northwest. There are no rusted pickups flying up and down them with meth heads behind the wheel lookin' to tear-some-sh*it-up. No vehicles at all are allowed on these fire roads. Which is nice. But singletrack's where it's at and I think the local mountain biking community got together, pitched a bitch, and the county planners/park agency looked around at their assets and said, okay, we'll let you have China Camp. That's where I went yesterday and it was glorious.

Here's this park that has hand-built singletrack, right on the bay, all of it forested with Live Oak and Madrone. There's a 4.2 mile singletrack trail that pretty much rides along the water the whole way, swerving back and forth, up and down, just throwin' you into a good ole time. There's even a Redwood grove you ride through, and I love that part so much. The riding isn't technical really (sorry Adam), but just good, downhome cooked rolling singletrack through trees that is just fast and fun. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout.

It has been some time since I got on the mountain bike and let me tell you, it was a rip. The thing about all this new/more suspension is that it doesn't make you a better rider, it makes the riding more fun (and it's probably saved my ass once or twice). Riding a mountain bike with 4 inches of suspension front and rear is kind of like eating a cream puff, or a napoleon. If you have one laying around go get it now...okay, now take a bite. See that there. That's what it's like. Light as air. At least that's the way it is on my bike. That baby just seems to float and it feels like riding on clouds. Which is the exact opposite of riding that cross bike, which is more like riding on, well, rocks. And roots. And really hard stuff.

So they both have their thing, which means you need a full quiver of bikes, which is okay I guess, as long as you sell one of your cars. I guess. Well it's Saturday and the trails are calling. What should I do today? Which new trail should I explore? Let's have a look at these maps. Maybe that one right there, Bolinas Ridge. Right on the coast. Runs along a ridge. Hmmm....Here's to hopin' you get out today for a little ramblin'...keeps the bones well greased and the doctor lookin' for things to do.

Hit me with some comments people. It puts a smile on my face when you talk to me. :)

The eagle has landed! I repeat, the eagle has landed!

Well I'm just going to go ahead and post without a picture because I can't wait any longer. Di's got the good computer because she's in North Carolina, where the cigarette tax is only 49 cents per pack and gasoline is 2 something. 2 SOMETHING! I haven't seen gas at two something since what (?), Clinton was president? Cheap gas and cigarettes. The beauty of the south. Oh, and the cuisine of course.

SO she left me the jalopy computer that can't handle pictures. Yeah I know. Look, this one you have to tap the top three times, rotate it in a counterclockwise fashion until it starts to glow, and point the screen to the east before it will even think of starting up. I want a Mac I want a Mac I want a Mac. Sorry. Lost it there.

Anyway, to catch you up to speed, we left Big Sur and that wonderful cabin where I could've spent the rest of my days, disappearing forever in that Redwood forest, on that deck, with the warm winds, the swaying trees, the gurgling brook down there in the valley below, the crickets at night. I could have sat right there for eternity. Now accepting donations for the Jason Sits on Big Sur Deck Forever-a-thon. I could put a cam there and turn it into a reality TV show. Or a web thing. You could check it whenever you wanted and there I'd be. Sittin'. Drinkin' my tea. Readin' a book. Look the bathroom was outdoors. Of course I'd be readin' a book.

From there up to wine country, Sonoma to be exact, where we spent the remainder of our roadtrip riding our bikes through wine country, stopping here and there at the various wineries, tasting, swerving back on home in time for dinner. Did some mountain biking up there as well. Found out later there was some bouldering in the area. Anything else you need for a vacation spot? It's a pretty cool thing to have a little slice of the Mediterranean right here in America. Weather and all. If you haven't been it's highly recommended. Oh, don't bring your Visa because they only accept American Express.

Lastly, we cooled our heels, shut the van down, emptied her out, and opened the door to our little cottage here in Sausalito, our final resting spot for the next six months. Pretty wild living in a place that tourists take the ferry over to see. We have a view of the bay from our living room. The fog horns on the ships are loud enough to almost wake you up. From our front door you can ride right into the birthplace of mountain biking (was that Joe Breezer that just walked by?). The Marin Headlands are pretty much our backyard playground now. Just think of miles and miles of rolling coastal hills, the Pacific Ocean on one side, the bay on the other, Mt. Tam the predominant feature, everything from eucalyptus groves to sandy beaches, and I mean miles and miles of it. All of it protected. All of it with trails and fire roads that you could spend days riding from one end to the other. Literally. There are bike/hike/horse campgrounds dotting the area for those who wish to traverse it. Take out a map and check out the part of Cali just north of San Fran where the Golden Gate bridge reaches over the bay. Now you see it. All the way up to Pt. Reyes National Seashore. That's our local open space. Not bad for a farm boy like myself.

Before Di left town we cruised over to Stinson Beach, home of the Great White shark bite capital of North America or something, and did some bouldering. Yup. Right on the beach. Boulders, waves crashing, sunshine. Di was bouldering in a bikini top (no pics of that!). I think it was like 70 degrees that day. Best time we've had bouldering in a long time. And did I mention that's also right here in the Marin Headlands, our backyard playground? So little time...

So I decided to go and get myself a Surly Crosscheck. What's that? Oh, a cyclocross bike. Why? Well, back when the earth was created, what, 6000 years ago? Right. After the Roman gods and the Greek gods finally got their way with the whole grape thing, on the eighth day of creation, in an 11th hour decision, the little-talked about Cyclocross gods finally got their way. They were granted one place on earth to put their playground. And so they chose the Marin Headlands, or the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, as their place for their cyclocross bliss parties. Yeah, I know. You're thinking wait, Marin is the birthplace of mountain biking. Yes, but it was made for cyclocross, just like I just told you. And here's the thing. I love it. I love the bike (pure steel baby). I love the idea of it. I can't wait to go out again (tomorrow?). You know why? Cyclocross requires you to actually ride your bike. With control. And to pick your lines meticulously, not just carefully (or carelessly nowadays with all the "big hit" bikes out there). There's a certain level of class and sophistication when you're riding a road bike with skinny nobby tires on the same trails you would with your mountain bike (okay, maybe not ALL the same trails you would mountain bike, but then again, I think I'm at a point in my life [age?] when I'm starting to ask, if it's THAT technical, should I be riding it all?). Makes my mountain biking side feel like a knuckledragger.

When I'm on my cyclocross bike I feel like I should be listening to Vivaldi, maybe sipping a little wine, wearing a Campy hat. It requires a certain level of attention to detail you don't have to have on a mountain bike. Most mountain bikes these days allow anyone to go out and nearly traumatize themselves and everyone else on the trail. They seem to allow for way too much speed in the hands of way too clueless riders. Just my experience. I can't just bomb down hills on my cross bike like I can on my mountain bike. No mam. I have to pay careful attention to what I'm doing. Control my speed. Respect my tenuous relationship between tire, dirt, and my uprightness. Call me a snob, or better yet, an old curmudgeon (oh, I like that, do it again). Here's to riding a road bike on the dirt! May all those who know honor the sacred vows of the covenant, and forever grin holding the sweet secret revealed in the land of Cyclocrossatopia. Long live the brother-sisterhood!

And the road riding here. You should see this place on a Saturday afternoon. Cyclists rule the roads here. All the twisting, turning back roads of Marin draw em' by the thousands it seems. That's the other thing about the cross bike (again, pure steel baby!), throw some slicks on it and I'm off. The little road riding I've done here has woke up the old roadie in me. I haven't had that much fun riding on a road since I can remember. Probably since the country roads of Howard County, MD.

SO that'll about do it. I think I'm gonna go hop on the bike, climb up onto the ridge on "Morning Light" trail, connect to Alta, down to Rodeo beach (pronounced rode-AYo, not like the horse and bull torture game cowboys play), back up onto the sea cliff above (that's the Golden Gate behind me, looking north nothing but rolling, green, coastal hills and the Pacific Ocean), and see what other discoveries await (oh look, there are some horse riders down there in the valley on Bobcat trail). On the way out and back to the cottage maybe I'll stop at a little cafe, sip an espresso, and watch the gulls fly overhead, ponder the aesthetic possibilities of a Brooks leather saddle on my new ride, or maybe some Phil Wood hubs. Or maybe just the salt sea air instead. Yeah, let's just smell the wind and watch the water, shall we?

I'll get some pictures up when the real computer makes it back.

UPDATE:

Well I guess I could change the name of this post to say that yeah, the eagle has landed, and now he's all covered in oil. Or I could've ended it with smelling not so much the salt sea air, but the fowl, piercing smell of rank oil. In case you haven't heard there was an oil spill here in the bay area. I did go for that ride and descended down 800 feet from the ridge to Rodeo beach and when I got there the place was crowded. News trucks, fire trucks, police, park rangers, curious citizens, and surfers with downcast eyes shaking their heads in disgust, were there looking out over the Pacific. Men in yellow plastic suits and rubber gloves walked the beach shoveling black sand into plastic bags, picking up dead birds, doing their job. If you've never witnessed an oil spill it is a tragic thing to see. It's one thing to see it on TV, read about it in the newspapers. But to see it in person...

I climbed back up onto the ridge and headed north a little bit and looked out over the ocean. As far as I could see an oil slick covered the water below. This is where the Marine Mammal Center is. This whole coastline is a marine sanctuary. How many marine mammals will die? How many birds?

A container ship (carrying what? Lead paint toys from China? Soccer balls? Flatscreen TVs?) struck the bay bridge and poured thousands of gallons of oil into the water. Apparently the Coast Guard screwed the pooch on this one and under reported the amount of oil spilled. You'd think with all that new money thrown at them since 9/11 they'd be able to do their job. Guess they were busy waiting for Osama to paddle his pretty blue kayak from Pakistan to come and take us all hostage, turn us into commies.

Forty miles of coastline have been affected by this spill. Eight beaches have been closed. 58,000 gallons. Here's a dead, oil covered bird: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/object/article?f=/c/a/2007/11/09/MN3TT959H.DTL&o=4

Slow response by the Coast Guard? Try glacial. Try what-the-hell-did-we-give-you-all-that-money-for slow. Guess this is the price we pay if we want to drive our cars. Get cheap beer. Play video games. Wear jeans. Furnish the new kitchen. Wait one minute, I'll be right back...sorry, that was the UPS guy delivering my replacement lenses for my sunglasses. Well look at that, Made In China. Well whooptie frickin' dee. Do I get a choice in this matter? You can't find American made replacement lenses. Not since some died-in-the-wool, blue-blooded, god-fearing, patriotic, tax-evading American CEO decided to move his operations to slave labor land, decrease his costs, beat the sh*t out of his competition. Semper Fi. Oorah.

That's the beauty of the "free" market system folks. We get to buy our stuff from way over there for real cheap. REAL cheap. And some corporation gets to pass the buck. Hand me another slice of apple pie. Tell me about the purple mountain's majesty. Just make sure I get my cheap crap.

But the real costs, the real costs lay floating right out there my friends. They've got to get passed somewhere. What will they add up to? How do they affect our collective bottom line? I guess we'll find out.