Author: Bill

The weird thing about waiting rooms is the TV. The second hour in the waiting room, I was glued to it. Trying to read the captions to try and figure out what the figures on the screen were saying. To make things even more challenging, the volume was up a little, so I could hear sound. But the sound was out of sync with the text…very confusing. In the end, I didn’t actually understand what was happening, but it was something to stare at. My mind was on someone in the operating room, so I don’t think I could have really been “into” what was going on anyway. My mind was drifting, imagining biking aimlessly through a desolate desert.

As the third hour approached, I started doing calculations. We arrived at 6:30, and it was now 9:30. The first hour, we sat and waited for some IV drugs to take effect. There were some tough moments to handle. There is a risk going into surgery, and we were realizing it as one of us was in a gown and the other sitting to the side. I was the onlooker and felt helpless, and I have to say, I don’t like seeing someone I care about getting hooked up to be “jacked out” of consciousness. I mean, as humans, it’s all we have, right? It’s what makes us alive. My mind was drifting… I needed to focus. I imagined biking aimlessly along in that desert. The damn TV was so easy to look at, but I needed to appear as if I was watching it because I was dreaming of being lost in an ever-ending region of desolation. I looked at the clock – 10:30.

Okay, recalculating. Surgery started at 8…so she had been under for about 2.5 hours. I was worried. All the thoughts of a bad anesthesiologist kept creeping into my head. She is so small…what if? The stress was unbearable, so I stood up and walked over to the window. A long walk, as I imagined getting off my bike now and feeling the hot sand beneath my feet. Walking the bike now to an endless horizon.

In the parking lot, a car stood out. A golden Focus wagon with a Salsa Mukluk on the roof. It looked way out of place, as did the fat tire bike on top. Usually, I would think how cool it looked, followed by a urge to go ride it. But instead, I nervously went back to the couch and started glaring at the TV again. I comfortably slipped back into my dream stare, back on my bike and pushing towards the horizon…somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It was now 11:30 and approaching noon.

A nurse came into view and walked past me. I made eye contact to see if I could garner any information. She walked past me and into the arms of another. This must be her boyfriend. I wished I could hold my girlfriend. I then overheard her mention that one ACL surgery was down and one to go. She sighed, and I tried to soak in all the nuances of her expression to try and figure out what had happened in the operating room. I couldn’t bear it any longer, and full panic started to set in. I slipped back into my stare at the TV and was again transported to my desert…and my bike. My phone rang. It was the surgeon.

“She did very well, and it all went okay. We were able to use a piece of her hamstring successfully. We now just have to wait for her to wake up. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Thanks doctor, thanks for everything.”

I found myself at Adventure Cycling around 6 p.m., gearing up for what I dubbed the “Last Walk” – a whimsical pre-surgery send-off for a friend about to brave knee surgery the following day. Originally, we had grand visions of a cinematic evening, complete with pizza, beer, and the obligatory ice cream chaser. But, as fate would have it, every master plan must face its trials. Our movie dreams were dashed, courtesy of my friend’s sluggish ACL-less saunter. But hey, no biggie.

Most of our evening was engulfed in the great debate of where to munch, but eventually, “da Bridge” claimed victory. As we settled into our seats, reminiscing ensued. I was catapulted back to the halcyon days of plotting grand escapades, possibly including a night in a secluded cabin, our smiles frosted with the remnants of clandestine beer runs.

Now, the eve of the surgery stands before us, marking the end of mobility for my compatriot, yet symbolizing so much more. It’s akin to reaching the peak of the week, a peculiar sort of hump day. Tomorrow, the journey of healing commences following the mend of what’s broken. It’s a bittersweet symphony of anticipation and nostalgia, as we brace for what’s ahead.

Facing knee surgery on the horizon, today was all about soaking up the great outdoors—or at least escaping the confines of the house. It’s not my knee on the chopping block, but I’ve volunteered as tribute to be the makeshift “male nurse” for this knee saga. Sounds heroic, doesn’t it? Hence, today was a mixed bag of a training session—part physical hustle, part strategic planning. The agenda? Recycle like eco-warriors, hit the shops like it’s Black Friday, cycle like we’re prepping for the Tour de France, and then, the grand finale, crack open a cold one. Because, let’s be honest, all heroic quests end with a beer.

Staring out my window here in Missoula, I’m hit with a revelation – nada, zilch, nothing’s missing. Yet, it’s exactly what’s absent in front of me that’s the kicker. We’re talking color – not just any hue, but that vibrant Bozeman palette that makes your heart skip a beat. The scene zooms in on a sunset, bursting with all the makings of a snapshot masterpiece. It tugs at the heartstrings, folks, and it’s downright gorgeous. It’s got layers, pulling you in like a magnet.

But snap back to reality (oh, there goes gravity), and it’s a whole different story. Not a single photo-worthy scene in sight. Might as well hit the road, right? Guess it’s time to create my own adventure, maybe find that missing Bozeman rainbow on the way.

I just arrived in Missoula but not before stopping off at one of my favorite dirt venues. This time of year when most of Montana is frozen and covered in ice and snow Pipestone has always been to go to for a dirt fix.  It stays dry mostly because of the way the weather systems come across the continental divide.  In any case there is enough dirt to satisfy any knobby laden cyclist.

This time around I took the Mukluk out for a frolic in the dirt and was surprised to find out that it is pretty fast … downhill.  The uphills take a hit as expected by you cant beat just rolling across harsh terrain with some fat rubber underneath you.  And …. it is comfy.  Like riding a sofa. 

My turn around was near a box canyon where a little moisture seemed to still be present and if you know anything about Pipestone then you don’t want to be anywhere around moisture.  The sticky clay is so robust it will not even wear off your tires. I have had mtb tires that had Pipestone mud for their entire lifetime stuck to the side walls. And if it gets on your bike … goodbye paint.  Thanks god my Mucky is anodized. Kind of like the sport … sticks to ya.

Ugh, me and procrastination, it’s a never-ending love-hate story. Tonight? Small core workout, easy peasy, enough time to pack for Missoula like a boss. Guess what? Nope. Fast forward to me face-planting on the couch, napping harder than a koala after a eucalyptus binge, and Craig Ferguson cackling on repeat on the TV. Whoops.

But hey, sometimes even unplanned naps work their magic. Woke up feeling like a new me, ready to tackle the week with more zen than a meditating panda. Kinda like watching a storm roll into a valley – yeah, it’s gonna be a slog getting out, but if you squint just right (or maybe through a camera lens), it’s kinda beautiful, you know?

So here’s to embracing the unexpected, finding peace in the chaos (and maybe catching up on my packing later ). Missoula, here I come, nap-rejuvenated and ready for whatever adventure awaits, even if it involves navigating my way out of a metaphorical wilderness (or maybe just unpacking a suitcase of wrinkles).

Farewell to Google, on the Ides of March, 2013. And let’s pour one out for http://www.digg.com/reader. May it rest in peace amidst the digital ether.

Tonight’s ride was a profound metaphor for life itself. This Friday, I’ll be hitting the road to support a friend through surgery, marking the start of a challenging six-month recovery for them. The thought of their swift shift from an active lifestyle to enforced stillness is heart-wrenching. I can only imagine the whirlwind of emotions they’re experiencing. Sure, there’s the parallel of rehab to training—both require dedication and hard work, though the former, I suspect, carries a heavier emotional weight.

My ride tonight began as a testament to perseverance. I chose Olsen Creek from a list of snowmobile trails, greeted by muddy conditions that had me questioning the feasibility of my journey. As I progressed, the snow’s embrace reassured me, reminiscent of the initial denial one faces after an injury—clinging to a sliver of hope that things aren’t as dire as they appear.

However, the trail soon mirrored the harsh realities of accepting and adapting to life’s curveballs. My bike faltered, sinking into an unexpectedly deep rut, a clear sign that my journey—and perhaps my denial—needed reevaluation. Unlike my friend, who bravely faced their reality with immediate action, my instinct has always been to shy away from seeking help, preferring to wait out the storm.

The trek became a mixture of riding and trudging, each step a reminder of the setbacks and small victories that define recovery. Despite the challenges, the journey offered stunning views of the Bridger Range, culminating in a thrilling descent—a reminder of the beauty and joy that perseverance can unveil.

My adventure on snowshoes tonight brought back a decade-old memory, highlighting the indispensable value of the right tools in navigating life’s challenges. Snowshoes transformed my journey across the crusted snow of Baldy Mountain, allowing me to traverse with relative ease, though the ridgeline’s rocky outcrops presented their own dangers.

Navigating this rugged terrain, I encountered a harrowing moment—a literal cliffhanger, saved only by the fortuitous snag of my gear. This experience was a stark reminder of the precariousness of our paths and the unexpected twists that can quickly alter our course.

Standing atop Baldy Mountain, amidst howling winds and swirling snow, I reflected on the day’s adventures and the parallel journeys of recovery and exploration. It was a moment of gratitude for the ability to move forward, a celebration of resilience in the face of adversity.

This ride, like life, was a testament to the power of perseverance, the beauty that lies beyond the struggle, and the unwavering hope for a stronger comeback, both for my friend and myself.

On this day in history, Back in the mystical land of ’04, I found myself perched on the edge of destiny, with the “2004 EFTA Race Schedule” in hand. Picture me, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to etch my name onto the unforgiving terrain of cycling lore..

Mondays, right? They’re like a whirlwind that picks you up and doesn’t bother putting you down gently. So, today (or should I say yesterday? No, it’s still today) was a marathon. Kicked off the day bidding adieu to someone, prepped for work, raced against time and still clocked in late, danced the nine-to-five scramble, and floated home in a post-work haze. Then, in a classic plot twist, remembered my workout just in time to procrastinate and doze off on the sofa, with Craig Ferguson providing the soundtrack to my unintended nap. Realized my workout guilt, tackled it, checked in with someone, wrapped up the sweat session, and then—boom—crashed into bed like a log, unaware of my own crash landing.

Now, caught in this weird pre-midnight time warp, I’m trying to piece together the day and wrap up my usual routines. Shower? Ha, who’s got time for that? And then, like discovering treasure in my own home, I stumbled upon a box in the hallway. Oh yes, the cavalry has arrived—my Action Wipes, but not just any; the brand spanking new ones with the upgraded formula and multipack glory.

Here’s the scoop—these wipes are rocking a 100% natural, plant-based preservative, making us trailblazers with a fully natural, body wipe multipack. Sure, other wipes might flirt with 97-98% natural claims, but we’re here to win the game. Why the upgrade? Simple, to combat the bacteria baddies that might sneak into the pack, ensuring every wipe remains a hero until the very last one.

Why haven’t others jumped on this bandwagon? Because good intentions come with a price tag—$60 an ounce for the chemical stuff versus $200 an ounce for our natural goodness. But hey, your skin deserves the best, free from synthetic nasties and harsh chemicals.

And let’s not forget the Cananga odorata (Ylang Ylang) oil—my personal scent superhero. It’s exotic, it’s sensual, and it’s the secret behind that “why do I feel so good?” sensation. Added to strike a perfect harmony with the preservative’s citrus vibes, ensuring the new multipack smells just as heavenly as the singles.

So, no shower tonight? No problem. A swift Action Wipe refresh, and I’m feeling minty fresh, ready to dive back into dreamland. Hats off to Martha for this genius solution to end a chaotic Monday.

So there I was, updating my social sphere with, “Almost hitting the pavement. Wouldn’t say no to hitching a ride,” on both Twitter and Facebook. Lo and behold, within the span of a quick coffee break, a Ford Focus rolled up. Behind the wheel? Only the most charming lady you could imagine, greeting me like we were long-lost friends. Sure, I might’ve made it back on my own steam, but let’s be real – when I fired off that update, my knee was throwing a tantrum, and I was bracing myself for what felt like an epic trek back, capped off with a cautious bike ride home. The drama? Courtesy of this morning’s misadventure up on the ridge.

Mission: Baldy Mountain

The day’s agenda was straightforward: pedal from my doorstep to conquer Baldy Mountain. It turned out to be a rollercoaster of emotions. One minute, I’m all gung-ho about summiting, the next, it’s looking grim. The turning point came when optimism was at an all-time low. I hit a peak, gazed over at the Baldy ridgeline, and… yeah, not happening. The only way forward was to wade through neck-deep snow for a good quarter mile to reach the clearer ridge, followed by a lengthy traverse. But, plot twist: I forgot my snowshoes. Classic me. So, I turned tail.

Stony Retreat

Then, as if scripted by Murphy himself, disaster struck. My foot crashed through the snow, burying itself up to the shin, and all my weight shifted forward. The snow crust might as well have been concrete, giving my leg a jolt that screamed “something’s wrong.” Luckily, I managed to clamber up to the ridge and hobble down its stony backbone with all the grace of a newborn deer.

Trek over the North Bridgers to Hylite

The ridge, swept by the wind, spared me from some of the snow, but as I neared my snow bike’s hiding spot, I was breaking through the surface left and right. My knee began to voice its displeasure, and I took a few unscheduled dives. My leg was definitely not on board, shocked and weak, utterly indifferent to the stunning day or the breathtaking view of the Hyalite region, with Baldy taunting me in the background. Nope, my leg was staging a full-on protest, embodying the essence of “angry leg.”

Reflecting on it, that social media shout-out did snag me a lift home, but all things considered, it was a solid day. Guess it’s time to take “angry leg” out for another whirl this arvo – wish us luck!

“I don’t know, I am spitting up blood and have asthma …”

— Rebecca Rush 2014

Okay, confess. Who else’s childhood involved precariously balanced towers of playing cards, mismatched Legos, and anything else vaguely rectangular? Yeah, me too. So, when my inner architect suddenly craved a Jenga showdown, the quest was on. Bozeman, our mountain haven, promised adventure, not just aisles of plastic blocks. My map app scoffed at my “scenic route” suggestion, but hey, who needs traffic lights when you have meadows bathed in sunset?

We weaved through backroads, dodging grazing cows and marveling at the Madison Range blushing pink in the evening glow. Every twist and turn felt like a scene from a Montana postcard, complete with the soundtrack of crickets chirping and tires crunching on gravel. We even spotted a majestic bald eagle soaring overhead, reminding us that nature was playing its own epic game out there.

Finally, after navigating a maze of one-way streets and side-eyeing suspicious squirrels (those little buggers are ruthless Jenga thieves, trust me), we reached the holy grail: Target. Pronounced “tar-gae,” of course, with the kind of fondness reserved for good deals and the promise of finding anything your heart desires (or in this case, desperately needs).

The toy aisle greeted us with a symphony of plastic clatter and flashing lights. But alas, no Jenga. Our tower dreams seemed destined to crumble like stale cookies. Undeterred, we embarked on a guerilla search mission, interrogating employees with the urgency of seasoned detectives. Each “Nope, sorry” felt like a Jenga block tumbling from the stack.

But then, just as despair threatened to swallow us whole, a ray of light! (Okay, maybe it was just the fluorescent aisle lighting.) Nestled on a dusty shelf, amidst an army of squeaky stuffed animals, sat our Jenga hero. Victory! We snatched that box like it was the last life raft on a sinking ship.

Back home, amidst the aroma of campfire stew (okay, maybe slightly burnt, but that’s another story), we built our tower. Each block, a testament to our backroad odyssey. Jenga pieces clattered, laughter echoed, and the night pulsed with the thrill of victory. Turns out, the real treasure wasn’t just the game, but the winding road that led us there, the shared adventure, and the sunset that painted the sky in shades of triumph.

So next time you’re craving a good game night, remember, the best adventures are often found off the beaten path. Embrace the detours, savor the backroads, and who knows, you might just stumble upon your own version of Jenga (pronounced “jen-gah,” but seriously, who says it that way?). And hey, if you find yourself in Bozeman, feel free to join the quest. Just beware of the squirrels. They’re onto us.

On this day in history, ‘Hey Zeph! Want an Action Wipe?‘ I asked, after cleaning the blood from my shin.

— Saved by a Package, 2013

I learned today that the 24 hour race in West Yellowstone will probably not be on my path this year. Sometimes though you just have to hang your head out the window and enjoy the ride. I am bummed … sure. But for every bad gulp of cough medicine I have a endless amount of good health. What is that you say?  I cant hear you.  The wind. It’s blowing in my ears.

“On This Day”

— Read my other posts in history today.

Time to gaze into that mirror and take a good long look at where we’ve been, where we’re at, and where this crazy road might just lead us to next.

Now, I ain’t gonna lie, the future looks kind of bright. I done went and made myself a decision, put a fancy-schmancy training plan in place and everything! But here’s the catch, folks – I ain’t got no race goals this year. Nope, not a one! They just ain’t doin’ it for me no more, you feel me?

So instead, I dusted off my trusty ol’ LW 24 solo plan and slapped that sucker right on my docket. Can’t have me lookin’ like a plumb fool at Spokane this year, now can I? But that’s just the warm-up act, baby!

Later on down the line, I’m fixin’ to invest in a shiny new 100 mile personal best plan. Gotta see if this old dog can’t teach himself some new tricks and beat that Butte 100 time of mine. If anything, it’ll get me primed and ready for my real new obsession.

We’re talkin’ big ol’ fat tires in the frozen wilderness, multi-day stage races (the unsupported kind, none of that sissy stuff), and bike packin’ like nobody’s business! And the grand-daddy of ’em all? The Susitna 100, baby! Gettin’ jiggy with it in the Alaskan wild!

I know, I know, big plans for an old-timer like me. Here’s my retirement plan, my escape from the mind-numbing monotony of goin’ round and round in circles for 24 hours straight. Don’t get me wrong, I still want to hit that 333 mile mark first, just to prove I can. But after that? It’s fat tire freedom all the way, baby!

Ah, the morning ritual, my friends! You know, the one where you’re not waiting for that pesky alarm clock but rather the sweet beep of your trusty heart rate monitor. Today, I was playing a game of “Can I beat my own heart rate monitor?” Spoiler alert: I usually do. But not today, my friends, not today.

I was expecting that little beep to chime in when my heart rate dipped below 40 beats per minute. But alas, it seems like my body had other plans. Maybe I’m a bit fried, or maybe I just need to embrace the idea of some well-deserved rest. So, what did I decide to do? Well, I considered going back to bed and then casually driving to work. Yep, that sounded like a solid plan.

But hold on to your helmets, because my mind decided to take a detour. Suddenly, I found myself standing between towering granite canyon walls, the wind whipping down a narrow monolithic groove, and my face already frozen from the chill. It was like a blast from winters past in New York City, and I couldn’t help but wonder why the air felt so bone-chilling.

But there I was, right in the middle of it all, climbing through powdery snow toward the summit. And let me tell you, folks, I was in my element. I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be, basking in the beauty of the moment. In fact, I even had that fleeting thought: “I could die a happy person right now.”

And then reality struck like a bolt of lightning. I woke up from this mountainous reverie and realized I was running late for work. Darn it! Time to kick it into gear and get moving.

Oh man, talk about a winter wonderland adventure this morning! The snow was just pouring down like crazy when I decided to brave it on my trusty “fatty.” Pedaling my way to work, I found myself on my special snow bike route, and let me tell you, it felt like I was smack dab in the middle of the Togwotee Winter Classic, battling it out with the elements. I mean, the snow was coming down so thick, I couldn’t see a thing around me. And there I was, just pushing through, half hoping that once this wild storm decided to take a breather, I’d magically find myself chilling in the majestic shadows of the Tetons. A guy can dream, right? Check out the RBB Blog.

Rolling into my humble abode tonight, I swear the world was spinning faster than usual. Felt like I’d gone ten rounds with a six-pack of Cold Smokes. By the time I stumbled through the door, my head was on a merry-go-round, and my stomach was the ticket collector, eagerly waiting to show me the exit. Trust me, if I dare to stand, I’m just a ticking time bomb ready to redecorate the apartment in ‘Eau de Lunch.’

Hence, this blog entry’s gonna be short and not-so-sweet. Picture me, battling something wickedly akin to vertigo, the kind that usually hits me on sky-high mountain ridges, leaving me feeling like I’m duct-taped to the side of the Grand Teton. So, here I am, sending out an SOS from the floor. Somebody, throw me a lifeline—or at least, pass the bucket.

“she is running … holy shit”

— Spectator at Togwotee Classic 2018

Oh, let me take you back to that quirky blog post of mine, dubbed “S.O.L.O.,” a little nod to the lone adventurers and occasional racers among us, spiced up with a dash of leisurely dawdling when the journey turns homeward. Let me tell you, today was a textbook example of those days, but with a twist – my partner in crime, Mo, was along for the ride, turning our trek back into an epic tale of camaraderie.

We kicked off our day at the crack of dawn (or what felt like it) at Towgotee Pass, soaking in vistas that had been playing hard to get until now. Trust me, the place is a stunner.

Following our scenic appetizer, we meandered through Teton Valley, and boy, does that place put Bozeman in perspective – like a giant next to a toddler.

Our hunger pangs led us to this gem in Driggs called Lemongrass Vietnamese. My taste buds are still sending thank you notes – absolutely scrumptious. And what better way to digest than by immersing ourselves in what I fondly call the “water of the gods“?

Now, I’m back home, gearing up for a grass-fed beef cook-off and an SOA binge. Ah, living the dream. And the cherry on top? The need for my personal ad is officially a thing of the past.

We finally rolled into the Lava Mountain Lodge deep in the heart of Teton Park, Wyoming, way past my bedtime. The roads? A nightmare straight out of a Stephen King novel. The journey? An epic saga, clocking in at around 7 hours. Now, here we are, trying to burrow into bed, but who can sleep? I’m practically vibrating with excitement over my first snow bike race tomorrow.