Man, this new mountain bike is like a siren song, taunting me with knobby tires and the promise of dirt-filled adventures. Problem is, the siren’s got laryngitis courtesy of a surprise snowstorm. Stuck indoors, I’m about as stir-crazy as a squirrel on espresso. So, what’s a restless cyclist to do? Stare longingly at the moon like a lovesick teenager, apparently. Talk about setting the mood for a restless night.
Fast forward to morning, and the sun’s like, “Dude, the moon party’s over.” Turns out, the snow decided to take a siesta, leaving the roads dry enough for my trusty cross bike. Springhill Road saw me and my two wheels in a blur of three glorious intervals, the wind whipping through my hair like a particularly enthusiastic hairdresser.
Now, I’m parked on the couch, refuelling with a smoothie so thick it could double as a helmet (though I wouldn’t recommend it). Today’s ride was sunshine and smiles, but the mountain bike’s siren call is getting louder. So yeah, this post might not be a gripping narrative, more of a “hey, here’s what I did” kind of deal. But hey, at least I stuck the landing with that three-bike theme, right?
The necessity of foot training has become evident, especially with the Grizzlyman Adventure Race looming just weeks away. My training log shows a meager 3 miles on foot in the last four weeks – a clear sign I need to ramp up my foot time. However, that’s not the sole reason for choosing trail running today. Yes, I have a new bike that’s practically begging to be ridden, having already clocked in over 130 miles in just three days, and it’s still yearning for more. But today, Gonzo, my bike, had to stay behind.
The decision was made not just because I need the foot miles, but also due to the blizzard raging outside. As I stepped onto the trail, a Carbo Rocket-fueled grin on my face, my foot sank ankle-deep into the cold, wet slush. It’s going to be a challenging workout, and I kept reminding myself of its benefits.
The room is dark, so it must still be nighttime. I scrambled to find a light switch and stumbled into my bike. Everything fell over, and the entire episode caused some loud noises. I paused to see if anyone in the apartment building would object.
Nothing happened.
I found my training plan on the living room table and wiggled the mouse on my computer to turn it on. What day is it?
Okay, it’s Thursday. Alright, …
All I have to do is core work. It’s a day off from training. I went to the window to look outside.
But it’s not a day off from my day job, and I must try to get to work on time. I go into the kitchen to check the time.
Shit, Thursday is over. I must squeeze in a workout. I’ll need to get up for work soon. And the place is a mess, as someone special is coming to visit tonight.
I can’t precisely recall how many times I paused to make a decision—perhaps around four times. However, this instance was distinct. I was faced with a snowfield that could be crossed but not before nightfall. In previous situations, glimpses of land ahead fueled my hope to push further, tempting me each time. Plus, I was riding Gonzo, my trusty adventure bike, known for its agility and readiness for an all-night traverse over Flathead Pass. This time, though, my intuition urged a retreat, and I heeded its call, turning back towards home.
The journey home was neither short nor effortless. Having traveled 35 miles aided by a robust wind gusting from 40 to 60 mph, the return promised to demand twice the effort. Yet, retreating was the only sensible option.
Seizing a moment’s respite from the relentless wind, I took the opportunity to acquaint myself with my new camera. This gadget excites me, despite its size disadvantage compared to its predecessor. However, the quality of the photographs it captures and the array of tools it offers for artistic expression far outweigh its bulkiness. True, its size renders it impractical for certain races and lighter adventures, but it’s significantly more compact than the cumbersome DSLR I previously owned. Thankfully, it still fits in a jersey pocket.
Armed with a bike capable of reaching Mexico and a camera that, while not minuscule, doesn’t overly encumber, it’s clear there are many more adventures on the horizon.
Yesterday marked the inaugural ride on my new Salsa bike, affectionately nicknamed Gonzales—Gonzo, for short. So, Gonzo and I took a brief jaunt around the urban trails, where I also tackled an isolated leg workout. This exercise proves invaluable for acquainting oneself with a new bike. Trust me, when you’re pedaling up a single-track climb with one leg, you quickly learn the most efficient body positioning. Overall, Gonzo impressed me with its solidity, agility, and speed on descents. Climbing wasn’t as challenging as I had anticipated, though it still doesn’t compare to riding a snow bike.
Our second outing tonight was more intense. We covered 50 miles, visiting every trailhead on the western slopes of the Bridger Range. The details of what transpired during the four hours we were out will remain a secret shared only between Gonzo and me. That bike thrives on adventure, seemingly urging one to embark on hundreds of miles of journeying. I’m not sure I’m quite up to taming this beast yet.
As for now, it’s time to rest. Despite the excitement of the new bike, I’m not yet in a state of bliss. Traveling to Missoula has left me sleep-deprived, my apartment is in disarray with belongings yet to be unpacked, and my training plan demands another 5.5 hours of effort tomorrow. To add to the pile, my new camera arrived, and I simply haven’t had the moment to explore it as I’d like. Oh, and today I turned 46.
Again with the travel from Missoula to Bozeman to only have to work 8 hours and then come stumbling into a empty apartment. At first feel I am overcome with joy to finally be home. But as I put my butt on the couch and try to watch Craig Ferguson I am overcome the desire to ride the new bike … oops. I let the cat out of the bag. I have a new bike. The future is bright with 29er titanium goodness.
So my big question is what the hell are the mirrors for anyway…just for the viewfinder. No matter, who cares about the details. I don’t need no sticking mirror.
2 workouts today. Yes, I am back into that training phase that has be going out for a double training ride separated by 4 hours of recovery. I really pulled it off today too. The last time I was doing these I had a job here in Missoula that was so stressful I never had a chance for recovery. Now with my new job at MSU I can work 7 to 3 and get in long recovery rides which allows me to do the important two a day training on the weekends. With full rest between them they didn’t hurt so bad. I even found myself able to think on my rides. Yea … go figure. What did I think about? Well the camera situation. And how much quality time i now have. This give up photography thing is really working.
Now I am on a roll and looking to cut other frivolous projects. I would love to widdle (how do you spell widdle) it all down to just biking and eating. Biking and eating … starting to sound like the Tour Divide isn’t it. What’s next? Blogging and online presence?
Here I am, somewhere in Montana, settling into my role at Montana State University. The vibe’s different from last week’s remote work hustle – now, I’m aiming for a blend of productivity and personal time. And, against all odds, I’m knocking tasks out of the park. Just stepped outside for a ride, despite the downpour. Bozeman? Missoula? The lines are a bit blurry in the rain.
Reaching the ridge, I was struck by a stunning scene – a fiery sky like none other, above what I think was the Gallatin Valley. Caught between awe and the instinct to bolt before the storm hit, I stood frozen, watching this mesmerizing dance of red and dark clouds. The moment was fleeting, soon replaced by snowflakes.
Home at last, after what felt like an age, my hands too numb to even open the door. A hot shower brought me back to life after my mini odyssey.
What a ride! Started on the M Trail, venturing through the Bridger Foothills into a landscape that shifted from dry paths to waist-deep snow. Every turn brought more beauty, and oh, if only I’d remembered my camera. The mix-up of Bozeman and Missoula? Just part of today’s whirlwind adventure.
I went to take a photo of a scene during a recent ride and discovered that my camera was not working. I carry a small pocket camera that takes great photos. I also have a DSLR, but it is so big I never take it anywhere. So now I need a new camera. I have found one, and it is $700. I am ready to pull the trigger. Then I pause… why do I want to take photos so badly… and most importantly, why do I have to have a quality camera?
I am backing out of the purchase, at least for now. I think I will go on a journey to see why I have let cameras dominate my life. They cost money, and dealing with the results is VERY time-consuming. In one ride, I can take 300 photos, and then it takes me 4 hours to sort them and find the ones I like. Then I like to process them and share them in blogs and online. I waste so much time on something that is not my job. It makes me no money. Why do I do it? Do I use it to hide from other things? Is it an expensive distraction? Am I hiding behind a lens?
So I am thinking about not taking another photo for one year. This way, my photography fast will uncover my true desires and passions. I will understand more why I do it as I withdraw from it. If in a year I still want to do it and can rationalize why, I will pick it up again. This will either make or break my blogging. I mean, I am not a good writer, so I don’t know if I can pull off blogging without visual aid. But then again, this blog’s purpose is therapeutic for me, like this one, helping me to try and understand my passions.
It is early, and already the sun is hitting upon me so hard I think that it is summer. I decided to take off my coat and all winter-specific gear to stay cool during the next 3 minutes. My first set of intervals was up the US West Trail, and they went quite well. The usual uncomfortable suffer feelings followed by a little rest to dream of a world where that was the last time I would feel that way. Then, without hesitation, I would do another, much to the total opposition from my body and mind. I hate the uncomfortable feeling of going anaerobic.
As I approached the end of my ride, I crested Jumbo Saddle. My grin was as wide as the horizon. I just had to suffer through the hard times to enjoy this moment.
There are times I really don’t want to do something, like go see a friend’s show. I mean, I am not into Brazilian dance, right? But after going, I found another appreciation for other ways of doing things. Later, as I drove back home, I had a grin as large as the setting sun on the horizon.
This weekend, I missed a big race I was looking forward to, but I wouldn’t change a thing. Just have to get through these hard times and look forward to next year.
Could be I’m a tad on the grouchy side today. There’s a fair chance of that, seeing as how during my entire ride, I found myself pining for the solo race I’d ambitiously penciled into my weekend plans. On paper, today seemed ripe for a bike adventure. That’s what I told myself as I bid farewell to Lincoln Hills, setting my sights on conquering the Rattlesnake. And for a while, it was all sunshine and rainbows, or so I thought. Even as I pedaled through mud and slush, optimism had me believe I could emerge from this challenge with both my dignity and bike intact. However, as I ventured further into what I’ve now dubbed “the trail of mandatory single-track sorrows,” it dawned on me that I was in for a soaking of epic proportions, with my bike likely to suffer a fate akin to a battle-worn chariot. I managed to dodge the grim reaper on what felt like a slushy slope designed for ice skating rather than biking, but by the time I was homeward bound, the day’s ride had officially plummeted from “adventure” to “misadventure.”
Missoula, in its whimsical way, seems to have a talent for humbling the human spirit. Today’s escapade put more wear on my bike than six months of daily rides in Bozeman could ever dream of. Such is life around these parts, it seems. Today felt akin to bouncing back from an injury – moments of deceptive progress suddenly undercut by petty setbacks, grounding you once more. Yet, deep down, there’s that flicker of hope that enduring these trials will somehow steer you back to a sweeter slice of life. Or at least, to what one imagines that sweet slice to be.
So, it’s been another one of those cold, wet days that make you wonder if the sun’s taken a personal day off. This morning, I poked my head out, thinking maybe I’d find some greens to munch on. My spot, just a stone’s throw east of Carriage Way in Missoula, Montana, is something out of a storybook. I’ve got this quaint little porch pad that gives me a front-row seat to the world through a massive window. There’s something almost magical about lounging in the tall grass come evening, watching a couple get lost in the latest SOA episode on their laptop. Ah, to live a day in my yard.
Oh, by the way, the name’s Peter. And before you even go there, no, I’ve got zero ties to that celebrity bunny with a penchant for trouble. My days? Well, they’re dedicated to guarding the Templar Tu Yer, a sacred temple that’s pretty much my life. And it’s not just any life—it’s a fantastic one in this yard.
To keep the temple looking sharp, I’ve enlisted a dynamic duo: Chad and Hank, the chipmunk brothers. Around these parts, chipmunks aren’t just your garden variety—they’re bona fide munks. Chad’s the one who makes sure our grounds could grace the cover of “Better Homes & Gardens,” while Hank… well, let’s just say he’s not your average chipmunk. Tipping the scales at 200 pounds, he’s the best friend you could ask for—unless you’re a black bear looking for trouble. Last year, I witnessed him give one such unwelcome visitor a lesson in humility. Thanks to him, our yard remains a peaceful haven.
Truly, life is a gem here, surrounded by our precious temples and tall grass, with the bonus of having human dramas unfold right before our eyes through the big window. I’m already wondering what tonight’s show will be.
Shifting gears to a different slice of my life, it was like deja vu all over again today. Our rendezvous was classic—same place, same “hey, how’s it going?” followed by the grueling trek up the “gut” of the trail. Nothing had changed. Or so it seemed.
Perched between Sentinel and University Mountain, the air buzzed with the collective excitement of my crew. The onset of a new season of Thursday Night Rides was like a balm, almost as if we’d time-traveled back to the good ol’ days. Being reunited with everyone was a gentle reminder of how sweet life can be, echoing the same sentiment I cherish daily in my own backyard. Here’s to more such moments, both in the wild and the comfort of home.
Returning to Missoula can sometimes feel like walking into a grayscale photograph. Today, the outside world seemed to wear a cloak of grey so dense, I half expected it to weigh me down if I dared to step out. It looked downright unwelcoming, a far cry from an invitation for any sort of activity. Yet, after a bit of internal wrestling, I managed to break free from the grip of my cozy indoors.
By the time I got out, the clock had already laughed at my initial plans. I had dreamed of spending over five hours biking, but this tardy departure turned my grand plans into a mere nudge to get at least some air and movement. A “quick and dirty,” if you will. Just something to shake the cobwebs loose and take a few deep breaths amidst the whirlwind of thoughts from the past few days.
My Muckluk and I ventured into the Rattlesnake area, hopeful for a slice of better conditions. Instead, our journey was a dance through mud and slush, painting us with the day’s palette. Familiar trails rolled under my wheels – Mandatory single track, Turkey Trail, Shampoo, Spring Gulch, and Stewart Peak. Each one a brief visit, a “quick and dirty” endeavor with boots on the ground for about 80% of the journey. But hey, no worries.
Just a quick and dirty… well, more of a slushy adventure, really.
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.”
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.
Boneshakerbike 