Every time we hit Route 12 down to Idaho, there’s this waterfall we never miss. It’s not like I’m some water wizard, but checking out the waterfall’s flow kinda became my quirky ritual to guess how soggy the spring’s gonna be. This time around, it was more of a trickle than a torrent. Made me think, “Hey, might be a solid omen for the Grizzlyman Adventure Race next week.”
Speaking of gauges, that race is my personal litmus test for how I’m shaping up each spring. When that starting gun pops, I’m all systems go, trying to catch a glimpse of the frontrunners. Fun fact: the pros get a one-minute head start, but spotting them just a stretch ahead got me thinking, “Time to reel ’em in.” Worked like a charm last year, had me feeling top of my game.
Halfway through, it’s just me and this elite squad of four pros, a stone’s throw away. I’m out there in the desert, hitting the gas, aiming to shake off anyone bold enough to tail me. But then, my so-called “surge button” starts to feel more like a dud. Despite hammering on it, my lead starts slipping, and one by one, the pack I’d overtaken began to overtake me.
Turns out, my new bike and I were still in the getting-to-know-you phase, particularly with the gears. “No biggie,” I thought, “just need a sec to catch my breath, then I’ll blitz past them again.” Right on cue, the lead guy wipes out on a turn, and we all zoom past. “This is my moment,” I tell myself, ready to dominate.
But then, my surge button goes on strike. Click, click, click… Nothing but clicks.
Boneshakerbike 
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