Day: February 27, 2025

Last night was meant to be routine, just another winter ride with Hendrix, my trusty mountain bike. I’d outfitted him with studded tires, those sharp little metal teeth designed to bite into ice and packed snow. Yesterday’s attempt at a “spring” adventure had left me soaked, so I figured winter biking was still the way to go. Simple math, right?

Wrong. So wrong.

What awaited me wasn’t the familiar crunch of packed snow but something far more treacherous, deep slush. That in-between state where nothing works right. Not winter, not spring, just… shoulder season limbo. Turns out even the most aggressive studs are useless when you’re essentially pedaling through a 7-Eleven Slurpee. With each rotation, my tires spun and slid, finding no purchase in the soft, wet mess. My usual trail had transformed into a battleground where momentum died and balance went to die.

I stopped about a mile in, sweat already soaking through my base layer despite the chill. Leaning against a pine tree, I pulled out my phone, the screen illuminating with a notification, another automated memory from last summer. Perfect timing, universe. Just perfect.

These days, I can’t escape the memories of sun-drenched skin and dusty trails. Every time I feel even a hint of sunlight breaking through the clouds, something inside me aches. That deep, visceral yearning for summer hits like a physical pain.

What makes it worse is this photo project I’ve foolishly committed to, “getting caught up” on organizing last year’s images. Talk about self-inflicted torture. I’m sitting here in my cold house, surrounded by gray skies, scrolling through hundreds of photos from when I worked remotely from Homestake Pass. Those glorious days when I’d shut my laptop at 4:30 and be on the trail by 4:45, riding every single day like it was my job.

The images from my first e-mtb ride to Delmo Lake are especially brutal to look at now. The sunlight filtering through pine branches. That perfect berm on the downhill section. The way the lake reflected the sky. God, I can almost feel the warmth, the smell of pine and dust, the sensation of earned sweat rather than this damp, chilled discomfort that clings to me now.

Those were the days. NOT NOW, as my caps-locked inner voice keeps reminding me.

After my slush-fest disaster, I trudged back home, bike propped awkwardly in the back of the van for the return journey. My partner looked up from her book as I stumbled through the door, dripping melted slush all over our entryway.

“How’d your ride go?” she asked, that hint of knowing amusement in her voice.

I considered lying. Considered some elaborate story about how I’d conquered the elements. Instead, I just sighed and said, “Well, I got out into the woods.”

She waited for more, eyebrows raised.

“I guess some of my own words of wisdom might work here…” I mused, peeling off my soggy gloves. “This too will pass.” I couldn’t help the smirk that formed. “Haha, get it? Pass? Homestake Pass?”

The joke landed with all the grace of my bike in today’s slush. She stared blankly, then returned to her book with a slight head shake.

“Nevermind,” I muttered, but found myself chuckling anyway.

Later that night, as I hung my still-dripping gear in the shed, I realized something. This frustrating in-between season, it’s just a passage, not a destination. Just like that muddy, slushy trail, life has its transition periods where nothing seems to work quite right. But the beauty of a passage is that it leads somewhere. In this case, toward those sun-soaked days I’m so desperately scrolling through in my photos.

We can’t always be in the perfect season, with ideal conditions and epic rides to Delmo Lake. Sometimes we’re just slogging through slush, making terrible puns, and waiting for better days. And you know what? There’s a strange comfort in that shared human experience, the waiting, the yearning, the laughably bad attempts to make the best of things. This too shall pass, just like S L U S H.

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This post benefited from the use of Claude for proofreading and structural input. The author remains solely responsible for the final content and its accuracy.

Ah, the classic tale of plans gone awry, leading to unexpected adventures. “What should we do today?” Mo’s question hung in the air like a frisbee waiting to be caught. And me? I was simmering in a pot of frustration, stewing over our scrapped camping plans and the looming evening obligations—a friend’s birthday group call. Given my choice, I’d choose to escape the confines of home for bike ride in the woods.

I was feeling the Grrrrr. My response to Mo was a masterclass in trying not to sound like a grumpy cat. “I don’t know,” I said, each word dripping with a thinly veiled irritation that I hoped sounded more like indifference. However, as my anger began to deflate like a poorly sealed camping mattress, fate steered us to Milltown, MT, just a skip away from Missoula.

With our gravel bikes in tow—mine affectionately dubbed Orca, and Mo’s known as El—we set off on the path to Milltown Park Confluence Area. The state park, with its gravel bars ripe for exploration and a pedestrian bridge arching over the Blackfoot River, was the perfect antidote to my earlier mood. The ride toward Turah, Montana, was therapy on two wheels, a balm for the soul that only biking can provide.

Yet, as the day stretched on, a nostalgic whim struck me. How splendid it would be to pedal all the way home, reminiscent of days when spontaneity was our only compass. Ignoring this instinct, we veered off course to revisit the haunts of our past rides—the legendary TNR Woody mountain route. But as we arrived at the crossroads of Time and Space, everything had changed. The once welcoming access road was now barred by a stern “No Trespassing” sign, and the familiar escape routes from Woody had transformed into a tableau straight out of a dystopian novel—a Republican stronghold, complete with evidence of tank-piercing ammunition and the macabre sight of boiling deer heads.

Caught between nostalgia and the reality of change, I realized that even the familiar streets of Milltown had evolved. The day took an unexpected turn, morphing into a strangely captivating journey. Despite the occasional moment of bike-pouting, my Milltown ride became a celebration of past friendships, the therapeutic power of cycling, and the beauty of the ever-shifting landscape of time and space.

This is part 5 in a series of blog posts that I am dedication to my favorite photos of 2009. Today’s inductee and now a resident in my “Mountains” photo album is “Montana“. I took this photo April 12th, 2009 at 6:28 AM just 28 minutes from yesterday’s photo. I was headed to Butte to see Bob and go riding and Montana welcomed me with beautiful mountain scenes. I like this photo because of the colors and the stark whiteness of the mountain tops that interrupt the color. I called it Montana because it is these scenes that brought me back home to Montana many years ago.

I got up this morning to hit the trails first thing before it warmed up. The sun was just starting to make an appearance when i went outside to check conditions. It was freaking warm and the birds were out chirping. I feared mud and slush.

I reached the trails up to Pattee (MoZ Trail) and found them bone dry. Coming back I ripped the downhill so hard South Sentinel was surprised to find its shorts down around its ankles. Embarrassed it shrug me off its slopes.

In the interior of Pattee and Crazy (what we call em) it was ice and real firm snow. Perfect conditions for screw tires. I had a blast and even climbed Sentinel to salute the city below for the second weekend in a row. I sit now at Green Hanger, doing laundry, and contemplating tomorrow’s 5 hour ride. Want to go? Call.

Montana from Wiki, “The western third of the state contains numerous mountain ranges; other ‘island’ ranges are found in the central third of the state, for a total of 77 named ranges of the Rocky Mountains. This geographical fact is reflected in the state’s name, derived from the Spanish word monta

Headed to the South Hills, that’s where the adventure took me tonight! I embarked on a journey via Lower Miller Creek Road, looping back via Miller Creek Road itself. Before rolling back into town, I took a detour down Garrett Street and meandered around the South Hills, really soaking in the vibes. And speaking of soaking, the weather decided to throw a little tantrum halfway through, serving up a fine drizzle. It’s like the sky just couldn’t hold back its enthusiasm for my outing.

Well, well, well, folks! Bill here, and I’ve got a little health update to share. No, I’m not claiming to be 33 years old, but guess what? My resting heart rate this morning decided to take a trip down memory lane and clocked in at a spry 33 beats per minute! Now, that’s a number I haven’t seen since my 20s when I was lightning-fast on two wheels.

But what does this heart rate revelation mean? Could it be a sign that I’m about to turn back the clock and regain my speed demon status? Or is it a hint that some ailment might be lurking in the shadows? Ah, the mysteries of the human body!

Last night, I hopped on my trusty bike for a leisurely two-hour spin. But you know what? It felt like I was pedaling with the grace of a three-legged mountain goat. Yep, I had one of those rides where my form seemed to have taken a coffee break, and tiredness crept in. Good thing I’m in a resting week, right?

Now, here’s the kicker, my friends. I’m throwing out an open invitation. Who’s up for a one-hour single-speed ride today? If you’re game, give me a shout or shoot me a message. Let’s hit the trails and see where our bikes take us.

Howdy, y’all! It’s your favorite pedal-pusher, Bill, strapping in for a breezy two-hour jaunt down Route 200. Got my eyes on the prize: hitting the lodge by 8 PM sharp for our little pow-wow tonight. Catch ya on the flip side!

…Fast Forward Two Hours…

7:50 PM: Just wheeled in from the frosty escapades on Blackfoot, sliding into eChat with seconds to spare. My fingers? More like frozen fish sticks than anything human, and trying to type is like waltzing across a keyboard in ski gloves. It was chillier than a Yeti’s icebox out there, folks.

Kicked off at the crack of 5:30, soaking up every last ray of sun. About 9 miles short of Bonner, I bumped into a gang of road warriors – and I’m not talking about cyclists. Picture this: 15 rams, lined up like they own the place. And from the tales I’ve heard, these guys could give a junkyard crusher a run for its money.

Seeing them hog the road, I wasn’t about to play chicken. Some daredevils in cars just whizzed past, not giving a hoot. One joker even honked at me, like I was the one causing a traffic jam. I sent them the most cordial “how do you do” with my frostbitten finger as I could. After a Mexican standoff with the woolly blockage, I zipped past and made it back in the nick of time.

If you’re itching to get a glimpse of where this chilly showdown went down, hit up the map link. Till we meet again, keep your digits toasty and those wheels spinning!

Imagine it’s 2004, a year that could easily be marked by the antics of shock jock Howard Stern, whose show has been abruptly pulled from the air in six major markets. This move has fans in places like San Diego, Pittsburgh, and Fort Lauderdale, among others, up in arms, accusing the powers that be of censorship. Yet, if we pause for a moment and consider the context, this situation might be less about quashing free speech and more about responding to a broader demand for cleaner airwaves.

This era is also freshly marked by the infamous Janet Jackson Super Bowl halftime show incident, which has become a focal point for national discourse on broadcast decency. Clear Channel’s decision to suspend Stern seems to align with the fallout from that event, highlighting a growing concern over what’s being piped into homes via radio and television.

The plot thickens when we learn that Clear Channel’s move coincides with John Hogan, head of Clear Channel Radio, speaking before a U.S. House subcommittee. In an almost ironic twist, broadcasters themselves have proposed significantly increasing fines for on-air indecency. Hogan’s comments suggest that these steeper penalties would serve as a clear warning to the industry to clean up its act or face hefty financial consequences.

The crux of the matter, however, lies in the delicate balance between regulating content and preserving freedom of speech. While no one is rallying to save “Bubba the Love Sponge” from obscurity, the broader implications of tightening controls on broadcast content raise concerns about potential overreach and the erosion of free speech rights.

Yet, as we navigate through the quagmire of what’s considered “decent” or “indecent,” it becomes clear that a one-size-fits-all approach to regulation may not be the answer. Instead, empowering audiences with the tools to filter content according to their preferences emerges as a more nuanced solution. Networks’ initiatives to promote tools like the V-chip and enhance the visibility of TV ratings represent steps toward giving viewers more control over their media consumption.

So, in the midst of debates over Howard Stern’s show and the future of broadcast decency, the key takeaway might be the importance of choice and personal responsibility in media consumption. In a landscape as diverse and complex as the media ecosystem of 2004, fostering an environment where viewers have the means to curate their own experiences could be the most forward-thinking approach of all.

It’s February 27, 2004, and I’ve stumbled upon a piece by Geoff Baker, a sports journalist for the Toronto Star, that’s too good not to share.

So, Michelle Dumaresq, a champion mountain biker from British Columbia who was assigned male at birth but competes as a woman, has been through the wringer and back. Imagine having to hit the gym extra hard just to keep up with your day job as a metal worker because hormone treatments have zapped your strength. And here’s the kicker: those robust legs everyone thought would give her an edge? More of a hindrance in the biking world since the muscle mass isn’t what it used to be.

That’s why Dumaresq is practically doing cartwheels over the International Olympic Committee’s (IOC) expected announcement tomorrow. They’re rolling out new guidelines that’ll let transgender athletes compete in the Athens Games this summer. It’s like the universe is finally throwing her a bone, saying, “You know those advantages folks accused you of having? Yeah, not so much.”

Now, Dumaresq herself won’t be hitting the Olympic tracks—mountain biking’s not on the menu there, and she reckons the number of transgender athletes eyeing Athens could be counted on one hand. But, she’s onto something bigger: a secret society of transgender athletes who might just step into the Olympic limelight, given half a chance and a dollop of official recognition.

The tale of athletes transitioning genders isn’t new. Flashback to Polish sprinter Stella Walsh, 1932’s gold medallist in the women’s 100m, who was posthumously discovered to have been assigned male at birth. Then there’s Hermann Ratjen and Ewa Klobukowska, who also stirred the gender identity pot in their Olympic days. The IOC, it seems, is ready to lift the veil of secrecy and open the doors wide.

An IOC spokesperson, Emanuelle Moreau, hinted at a pow-wow happening tomorrow in Athens. They’re mulling over guidelines for transgender athletes’ participation, which could go either way—more chin-wagging or laying down the law.

Not everyone’s throwing confetti over these developments. Critics argue that this could skew the playing field, giving those assigned male at birth a leg up over female-born competitors. An earlier suggestion was to let trans athletes compete if they’ve “lived as a woman” for two years, surgery or no surgery. But it looks like the IOC is leaning towards the full monty: surgery plus a year’s wait.

Michelle Dumaresq has seen her fair share of podium protests and cold shoulders from teammates who couldn’t wrap their heads around her journey. But for her, this isn’t a game of gotcha. It’s about making a life-altering decision and sticking by it, critics be damned.

So, as we gear up for what might be a game-changer from the IOC, let’s not forget the human stories behind the headlines. It’s about understanding, acceptance, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of mountain biking magic.