the misty mountain of despair

Four days of near perfect weather, and when I finnally have time to do a long ride, I'm greeted with this:

(If you're from W. PA, you may have mistaken this for a picture of the sky, but its actually the first result for 'grey' in google images. If you hail from some sunnier part of the world, this is what Western PA generally looks like from October to August)

I checked the weather, and rain was predicted all day. After considering my situation while I drank some cereal and ate my coffee, I decided to ride anyway.

It was about 45 degrees and grey when I left Greensburg, so as expected, the mountain top was grayer, five degrees colder, and shrouded in fog. I pulled on all the wool I had at my disposal, and headed off into the mist.

I took to loop trail, and tried to take it easy through the giant puddles in an effort to stay semi dry. My tactic work for seven minutes, at which point it started to drizzle. Abruptly, the drizzle turned into a down pour, and I was thoroughly soaked. I no longer bothered to avoid the puddles.

I rode the length of the mountain across Black Bear Tr. and down Hobble Bush. After climbing up Fish Run, I rolled onto the fire road and headed for the turn pike. The rain had slowed, and at that point I thought I had a chance of making it to Hidden Valley.

From Drop Box

I made it to the turnpike cut, and rolled down to the bridge that crosses the road. It was noticeably colder on top of that ridge.

On the other side of the bridge, I remounted my cycle and started climbing up the treeless snowmobile trail. I thought to myself, "Well at least it isn't raining while I'm out in the open." Literally 30 seconds later, it started to pour again. The wind picked up, and it felt like the temperature dropped ten degrees. The Laural Mountain side of the turnpike was cold, but the Hidden Valley side was absolutely brutal. I plugged along for fifteen more minutes, but when the rain showed no sign of stopping, and my drenched feet ceased to have much feeling, I decided to turn back.

I really just couldn't stomach riding another 25 miles of this:

From Drop Box

(Those are not my footprints. Apparently there was some other idiot trudging about in the wilderness.)

I recrossed the turnpike, and realized that I had at least another hour of riding before I could sit inside the nice warm Grumbler.

From Drop Box

Why must it keep raining?! Bwaaa


I pedaled back to the single track just as fast as I could, thinking that somehow a small trail would be warmer than a wide road. In retrospect, I have no idea what made me think that. When I finally got back onto Fish Run I hastily changed into some dry socks and pulled on some warm gloves. In about five minutes my dry socks were as wet as my wet socks.

I decided to ride back to the car on single track, thinking that pounding over a few miles of rock gardens would revive the feeling in my feet. Again, I have no idea where that logic came from. I rode part of Black Bear again, but when I realized that the pools of water on the trail were cooling my feet exponentially more than the rocks were warming them, I rolled back onto the fire road.

I turned off onto Summit Trail, and took it back to the parking lot, where I was greeted by three chickens:

From Drop Box

Overall, it was a freezing, wet, and miserable 3 hour ride. But that doesn't mean that I didn't love every second of it.

Of course, when I returned to Greensburg, it was sunny:

From Drop Box

Screw you November.

Its been 50 degrees and sunny for the past four days, and I have not been able to do anything more than ride around town. But some stuff came up that was much more important than riding bicycle, so I got a few days off.

Assuming that its still nice tomorrow, I'm going to get an early start and head up to the mountain for a nice long ride. I'll start at Laurel Mountain Ski Resort, pound my way through 10ish miles of rock gardens, then roll on some fire roads to take me over to Hidden Valley. Once I hit Hidden Valley I'll either ride down 31 and take the trails back up, or just ride some of the single track around the resort. I have not ridden those trails since I lived up there over the summer. I do miss them so.  

Last time I did the ride (before the Stoopid 50 in June.) I stayed on the fire roads and it took me about 4 hours. The route I have laid out in me little head should be about half rocky single track and half fire road. I'm guessing it will be about a 6 hour trip if I ride down 31, 5 hours if I don't. Unfortunately, my watch, though a very snazzy color, does not count hours in stopwatch mode. I'd love to take my electric fly swatter and repeatedly slap the person that thought that was a good idea. A stopwatch that only counts to 60 minutes is figgin retarded. So I might not know how many hours it takes me, because a few watch programmers were complete morons.

After I return from the mountain I'm heading out to Boyce Park to take the lady bear on her third mountain cycle ride (and now she can't back out because its posted on the interwebs for all to see.)

to the mountain

I rode home from class at 9:30 on Wednesday night and packed up the Grumbler for a trip to the mountain. I figured that if I slept on the mountain, I would be able to wake up early enough to squeeze a ride in before work at 10:00 in the AM.

At 11:00 I arrived on the mountain top and pulled the Grumbler into an out of the way parking lot, then crawled in the back and went to bed. I soon discovered that the grumbler was about 8 inches to short for me to stretch out in, and spent the remainder of the night vainly trying to extend the length of the vehicle by pushing on the hatch. Strangely, jets flying overhead were the only noises I heard all night.

When my alarm beeped at 6:00, I expected to emerge from my sleeping bag into a smiling sunny world that was ready for riding.

It was still dark. Apparently it doesn't get light until 7. Who knew.

I started boiling some water to make coffee and ran around the parking lot to try to get warm.

From Drop Box

mmm....hot water

The sun finally rose, and I prepared myself to ride. It's no Westfalia, but the grumbler doesn't make a bad bed:

From Drop Box

I rode over to the interminably rocky Wolf Rocks trail to do a quick loop. The temperatures were in the mid 30's, but the sun was out so it was actually comfortable when moving. I headed onto Hobblebush and followed the winding path down the mountain through a damp pine grove.

When I turned onto Fish Run, I was hit with a debilitating coffee-induced call of nature. Wiping with dry leaves makes a man realize how much he actually needs in the world. I reworked this little boulder field about four times before I could make it look like I knew what I was doing:

Oh I do love me rocks.

I got about 90 minutes of lovely riding in before I had to head out, so sleeping on the mountain was definitely worth it.

rampage season

I must breath a sigh of relief, for it is finally Rampage season. Rampage season is the time of the year when I get sick of flatting a race tire every single damned ride, and install a large and thickly cased Rampage on the back of my bicycle. And what does a Montana do during Rampage season? I'll show you what he does: (watch the whole thing. I swear its worth it.)




Ha! I just stole 66 seconds of your life.

Unless of course you skipped the video, and in that case the jokes on me. Anyway, the above video faithfully shows what it feels like to almost clear an obsticle on a SS, only to realize at the last second that the gear is too high, and the speed too slow. And leaves are slippery. Before anyone asks, yes, I do do think that orange and purple match.

Self shot videos are a new addition to the knobby conglomerate, and they may become more prevalent on the blog because they require very little effort and are much more practical than self shot riding photos. (Anybody wana hook a brotha up with a helmet cam?)

Its furry animal killing season in PA, and on my way to the trailhead in Apollo a sign reminded me that I was about to enter the dangerzone.

"Hunters Welcome!"

The sign itself was not that unusual, but its placement was. It was hung on the wall of the local six pack shop. Guns, cheap beer, and an itchy trigger finger. What a combination.