Moving out

New blog here: the skrumble: Living the dream is dirty

This blog space had a pretty good run, but I've let it fizzle out in the last few months. I just finished up with all that silly college shit, so it seemed like a good time to start a new site, which I've been thinking about doing for a while anyway.

I switched everything over to Wordpress, so now the Google doesn't own everything I write.

Anyway, here it is. More of the same and more. If you have Knobby Meats in a link list on your blog, it'd be swell if you could update it to The Skrumble. 

See you on the other side of the internet.

-M

the skrumble: Living the dream is dirty

I bring the cookies

I'm interning at Dirt Rag Mag right now. It's pretty neat, and I'm writing lots of stuff.

Pulp Stiction is my weekly web column, and so far I have two posts up. They're more of the same kind of thing that I write on here. We'll eventually set a regular day for the posts.

Pulp Stiction: A snowbound adventure staring Sixpoint Resin and raw potatoes

Pulp Stiction 2: Mud bogs and gin buckets in Ohio

On my first day in the office, I set up Karen's fat test bike tires tubeless. Which made me a little nervous, because the tires fit the rims really loosely, and I was afraid that they would roll off the first time she rode it. Injuring an editor on the first day of an internship isn't usually a good choice. 

But so far so good. And I got to pose for creepy out of focus face shots:

How to set up a fat bike tubeless

I'm working on some print articles now, and I'll have another web column up next week. It's sweet to be writing about bikes in a semi-professional capacity.

Up the mountain and down the tracks

Last Sunday, Cider Bloch and Chrissy met me in the Pyle for a long fat bike ride.

Actually, I guess I should preface this by saying that I'm riding a fat bike now. It's cool. Really cool. Possibly the best bike related purchase since my first mountain bike. More on that later.

We head out of town, and start the long climb out of the valley. Since Ohiopyle is at the bottom of the deepest gorge in Pennsylvania, some of the biggest climbs in the area are around here. Chrissy has the heaviest bike of the three of us, and looks like she's feeling it.

"How far is this thing?" she says.

"Probably only another six miles to the top," I say. Groans all around.

The road eventually mellows out. Pass some hardscrabble houses, with yards full of sharp rocks and tired horses. A little beagle puppy runs out of a house and tries to sound tough. We laugh at him.

At the next house, we're charged by two fat muts, and a huge rottweiler. Don't laugh at them. They run onto the road, and the littlest and fattest charges Cinder Bloch. Nips the back of his leg.

"You little shit!" Cinder Bloch yells, and sprays water from his bottle. The dog yelps, turns, and runs into the other chubby dog.

After a while, we hit the first top. Drop back down a couple hundred feet, then back up some more. Past a cemetery where cows have their faces in a rusty hay bin. I pull out my phone to check the GPS. Only a little more climbing till we hit the trail. Finally, the top of Maple Summit.

"There's some sled tracks," I say, pointing to a chewed up piece of snowy road.

We turn onto the snowmobile trail. The snow is super slippy, and starting to melt. Cinder Bloch crashes into a snow bank. I laugh at him, then my tires slide out. Nuts. I'm laying on the road.

Drop tire pressure, drop it some more. Then more, till I can squish the big tire to the rim with my finger. Then I can ride. Sweet.

The suns starting to set, and we should probably figure out how to get back. I check the map. Looks like there's a pipeline that drops back down to the river.

"Looks like it gets a little steep," I say. The contour lines are scrunched tight together on the topo.

Cinder Bloch photo

 I start ripping down the pipeline, then the snowmobile tracks stop.

Cinder Bloch photo

Oh shit. I slide my bike sideways, and lay into the snow. The pipeline drops straight down the ridge. And the ridge is really steep.

Cinder Bloch and Chrissy roll up, and we stand looking down the drop.

"Well this'll be something," I say. Click into my pedals, and let off the front brake. I pick up speed, get way behind the saddle. Jesus this is steep. My back tire slides out, the bike goes sideways, but I stay on it. Snow sprays. The brakes heat up and start to scream.

Just don't hit a tree. Stay up. I crash through a pile of sticks, jagger bushes, and more undergrowth. Then I'm at the bottom. My leg twitches a little. Roll down the last drop to the rail road tracks.

I sit down there for a while, waiting. Nobody comes. I yell up the hill. No answer. Damn. I guess I better get my bike and start back up.

Then Cinder Bloch appears. Chrissy a little later. No broken anythings. Excellent.

We jump onto the railroad tracks, and start rolling back into town. One evacuation to let a train rumble by, and a few jarring miles later, and we're back. We go to the pub.

Riding snowmobile trails on the mountain

On New Year's Eve, Cinder Bloch, Chrissy, Colleen and I headed up to the mountain to ride some snowmobile trails.

While we were driving up, I wondered if Cinder Bloch would be able to get his little Golf into the snowy parking lot. A minute later, my phone started ringing.

"Hey, you have four wheel drive right?"

The entrance to the lot is downhill, so he didn't have any trouble getting in:

Colleen's photo

After the crusty Park Service guy helped me push, and gave Cinder Bloch a lecture about the importance of using real snow tires instead of all-seasons, he got back in his plow truck and told me to move the Danger Ranger out of his way. I did. Then we assembled our bikes and hit the snowy trail.

Also Colleen's photo

Cinder Bloch and Chrissy were both on fat bikes, while Colleen and I were on our 29ers.

Colleen's photo, not Colleen's fat bikes

I figured that if we stayed on the packed snowmobile stuff, Colleen and I would be mostly ok. I was mostly right.

We pedaled up Fire Tower Road, then dropped down into some snowmobile stuff. The snowmobilists had left a bunch of rollers on the trail from twisting the throttle. I giggled a little while we ripped down the snowy pump track.

Unfortunately, after almost 2000 feet of descending, we had to go back up. That's where things got less fun on a normal bike. Cinder Bloch and Chrissy spun their beasts up the hills easily. With her low gears, Colleen could still get up most stuff.

On my single speed, I had trouble. Which made everyone else very happy:

Intentionally resting. Photo stolen from Cinder Bloch

We rode down and down some more, then popped out on some frozen pavement at the bottom of the mountain. At which point we realized that we were lost:

Of course I know where we are. I have a map.

Then I remembered that I had a magic phone with the GPS technologies. I consulted it, pinpointed our location, then led the group in the wrong direction. We ended up on County Line Road, which was full of dickheads going to the ski resort. People passed fast and spayed salt far. Since I had been letting air out of my tires to try to get traction all day, I probably had about 5 psi at that point. It made the pavement feel like peanut butter.

We finally made it back to the snowmobile road that went towards the cars. But it was a long climb back, and the snow was starting to soften up. By the second pitch, everyone but Cinder Bloch was pushing:

A long walk. Cinder Bloch photo

After almost an hour of pushing our bikes, we hit the summit. The wind was blowing so hard up Rt. 31 that I struggled to pedal down the hill to Fire Tower. My fingers started to tingle and my face burnt. A few seconds later I made the turn back to the truck.

The ride was a sweet way to end the year. Since the conditions were good, our standard mountain bikes were fine about 75 percent of the time.

To eliminate the times that they sucked, I've got a new project going:

Does not involve handlebar mounted coffee cups.

Unicycling fresh pow

I think I tweaked something in the rotator cuff area of my shoulder durring the Dirty Dozen last month, so I've been taking it easy on the bike.

And hitting it hard on the uni:

Unicycling fresh snow, bro from montana miller on Vimeo.

It's fun. And I'm going to go out and shred some more while the snow is still falling. Happy festive days folks.

Bikepacking out of Ohiopyle

This is recycled from the work blog. Original post here.

The Quebec Run Wild Area is a really cool system of trails to the south of Ohiopyle. I've been looking at some maps for a while, and figuring out a way to ride from town to the wild area on single-track and double-track the whole way.  

So last Saturday I loaded up my pack (the Adventure Satchel XXL) and started the climb out of the valley.

  

The trail that goes into Quebec is a ten-mile piece of single track called the White Tail Trail. My plan was to ride a gravel road out of Ohiopyle, take a trail through some state gameland, hit the White Tail Trail into Quebec, watch a cyclocross race that was going on near Quebec, then camp and ride back into work the next morning.

The climb out of Ohiopyle was pretty brutal with a loaded pack. Since I was on that stupid big gear I race on, I couldn't stay in the saddle. And since I had 35 pounds of camping gear on my back, it wasn't easy to pedal out of the saddle either.

 

But I made it to the top and into the gamelands. A few miles in, I saw about 40 trucks parked in the woods. At that point, I realized that it was the first day of bear season, and I was wearing a woolly black shirt.

The rest of the ride through the hunting zone was less than relaxing. When I got to the entrance of the White Tail Trail off of Skyline Drive, I saw more hunters. Since I had no desire to be mistaken for an emaciated bear and shot, I decided to ride the road the rest of the way to the cross race. But at least now I know that the trail to Quebec does exist. It even has fresh blazes. I'll just have ride it when there's less firepower in the woods. But buzzing along Skyline Drive wasn't so bad:  

A couple hours later, I made it to the cross race. I hung out for a while and heckled some people. Especially Cinder Bloch, whose bicycle choice was a little suspect:

Photo by Fred Jordan

Then I started the long climb back up the ridge. I made it to my camping spot above Uniontown just before dark, and got a little fire going.

I knew it wasn't going to rain, so I didn't bring a tent. I sat next to the fire and looked out at all the bright lights a few miles below. Ate two pots of Ramen, burned up all my firewood, and drank the contents of the flask I brought along. I was hoping that I would be drunk enough to sleep all night without noticing the cold (see simulated summer.)

That worked for about two hours. Then I woke up. It was 25 degrees, and the wind was ripping across the overlook I was sleeping on. I wrapped my ground cover around myself, hoping that it would keep some heat in.

It didn't. But it did keep some moisture in, and soaked my sleeping bag.

I drifted in and out of shivering sleep for the next few hours, then at 4:30 I decided to get up and start riding back to town. The sun was starting to rise when I got back to Skyline Drive, and the morning was bright clear. 

Pretty, but bright clear mornings are cold mornings. I thought my fingers were going to freeze and snap off as I descended the mountain back to Ohiopyle.

When I got back to town, I spent a long time thawing myself out in front of a little oil heater before I opened the store. Overall, it was a pretty good mini-bikepacking trip, even though hunting season kept me from riding all the trails I planned on. I ended up riding 45 miles the first day, and 15 the next morning. Not a bad little adventure from the front door.

The Dirty Dozen

Another year, another 13 hills down (one of the hills was actually closed for construction this year, but I made up for it by doing Canton twice.) I rode a single speed again, because that's all I have. Although it was my third time doing the ride on a single, it still hurt. Shocking.

Unfortunate photos were taken of me looking like some sort of dwarven monster:

Photo by Mr. Newman of the Bicycle Times 

I think it's the pants. They make my legs look short.

Relatedly, my tiny girlfriend also completed the ride this year. Those pants don't make her legs look short, her legs make her legs look short:


 Since I'm so darn proud of her, I'll defer the race reporting to her blog space.

Not Dead Yet

The Dick speaks, the people listen. It's not a Knobby Meats post, but I did finally get the opportunity to do some writing on the internet again. With mildly terrifying beaked baby shower bears:

School is absolutely crushing me this semester. Many papers have been written, books read, and computer screens shouted at. Which leaves little time for bicycle riding or writing. But at least it's almost over. And I'm doing my first cross race of the season this weekend:

I'm sure that Old Man Pflug and Older Old Man Shogren are quaking in their boots.

Revenge of the Rattlesnake/ Rattlesnack 2012

It's been a month since I've posted. Nuts. School has been especially time consuming this semester. But anyway, Revenge of the Rattlesnake (Or as the liability form put it, Revenge of the Rattlesnack)

"How rough is that course?"

"Pretty rough. Standard Davis riding," said the Birdman.

I figured that meant that it was pretty rough. And standard riding for West Virginia. I underestimated a little.

"Go!" I sprint down a bumpy dirt road next to the river. Spinning as fast as I can, but I still can't quite keep up with the front group. On the first section of single track, riders bunch up. I hop onto a few wooden bridges, try to make some hairball passes, smash my chainring into some rocks.

The group is cracked apart now. I'm riding with JPok, Big Henry Spreng, and some other guy. As one rider makes a mistake, we do the shuffle. None of us can get away from the rest. Everybody keeps saying that it's way drier than usual, but the rocks on the trail are still soaked and slimy.

Some mountain laurel snags my handlebars. I try to ride through it. It swings my bike to the right, and I slam into the soft dirt. Dammit. My pack of three starts to ride away. I jump up and chase after them. Can't let those guys go.

The guy in front rides into a shallow looking mud puddle. His bike stops, buried up to the hubs. He gets off, and sinks past his knees. Almost loses a shoe. Perfect. I hop off my bike, skirt the puddle, and attack up the steep run-up.

I finally drop the little group. Solid. Benji is the only single speeder still ahead of me, and there's a big gravel climb coming up. Should be able to catch him there.

Down the Mountainside, Meatside, or Morningside descent. It's so rough. Thousands of little sharp rocks. If I don't pedal, my bike bounces to a stop.

There's a guy fixing a flat. "Need anything?" I ask.

Then there's hissing, and I feel sealant spray onto my leg. Shit. I stop next to the guy, and we fix our flats together.

People start passing me. JPok goes by. In 3rd now. Then Gunner, then Dahn Pahrs. Damn. This is serious now. Don't panic. You can make up the time. The bead of my tire flops off the rim, sealant covers my gloves. Fuck. It's cool. You're fine.

I inflate the tire, and start down the trail again. I have the pressure in the tire up so that it doesn't pinch flat. Riding the thing is almost unbearable now, I'm bouncing around so much. Some guy squirms in front of me and crashes into a log. I swerve left to dodge him.

Onto the gravel road climb. I go as hard as I can. I've gotta make up some time. Near the top, I can see Powers. Turn onto the single track, and keep climbing. It's slower going now. I'm really regretting not putting a smaller gear on.

Finally hit the top of the climb. And lose the trail. Son of a bitch. I walk around in the woods in circles for a few minutes. Where the hell is it? Betsy rides up behind me.

"Betsy, I can't find the damn trail."

"Oh, well it has to be around here somewhere," she says. Sue Haywood is right behind her. "Sue, where's the trail?" Betsy isn't at all distressed. She sounds like she can't find a spoonful of sugar for her tea.

"Right here," Sue keeps riding. The trail is on top of a weird spine on the outside of the stream bank. Of course. We're riding through a gently descending stream bank now. Every time I get some momentum, a big mud puddle or pile of rocks stops me. Betsy and Sue are rolling down the hill, and I can't keep up. They're just floating away. I sink into another mud hole. God this is discouraging. How are they rolling so much faster?

Now I'm alone in the woods. I'm still moving forward, but probably not very fast. My bike keeps bouncing to a stop. And bouncing to a stop. And sinking into a mud hole. Such slow going.

Apparently there was a section of smooth trail at some point. I don't remember it.

I ride another hour in a half-daze until I hear a rider behind me. That wakes me up, and I hit it. Four miles to the finish. Back across the bridges, through a trail that doesn't actually have a clear path. I'm just riding through the woods, connecting yellow blazing to yellow blazing.

I roll across the finish. I'm so sore, I can barely get off my bike. My back feels like it's going to explode.

Not a good race. But I wasn't the only one with issues. Cinder Bloch dropped out 15 miles in. The Birdman broke his shoes, another set of Crank Brothers pedals, and had to use a rock to fix both. Mayor McCheese had four flats on Mountain/Meat/Morningside Trail, all within the space of a hundred feet.

So you may wonder, who didn't have issues? Dahn Pahrs. Dahn Pahrs had no issues. Or, in his words: "DAHN PAHRS! WIN! Glad Dahn Pahrs skipped Peanut Butter Festival, because Dahn Pahrs the fastiest here!" Bastard.

I learned a few things from that race. Don't bring a used bicycle to Davis. It will break. Brand new equipment only. "Pretty typical" in Davis means extremely jarring. Not super technical like Michaux, but way more of a beating. Hellbender's burritos are good, but I still don't like Mexican food.

And burning pallets makes most of that ok:

The Return

Back from the long road trip. When I got back into Ohiopyle, there were 5500 miles on the trip odometer. Going up to Vermont for Single Speed USA wasn't quite as on the way as I thought it would be.

But it was a good excuse to wear my favorite foam banana:

It was a neat trip. I was on my bike riding new single track for about three hours everyday. I did rides in Vermont, the Adirondacks, the Front Range, Winter Park, Salida, the Monarch Crest, Crested Butte, Fruita, and of course, Breckenridge.

Here are the links to my Breck Epic stage reports over on Dirt Rag:

Stage 1
Stage 2
Stage 3
Stage 4,5, and 6

Breck Epic was a great time. Staying in the condo with a dozen or more (I can't remember what the final math was) other dudes was fun, even if it was a little smelly. I almost miss waking up every morning to the sound of Cinder Bloch throwing dishes around and Don Powers hacking up phlegm.

Instead of feeling burnt out after all that riding, I'm more excited to shred the proverbial gnar than ever. Mountain bikes are fun.


Colleen was nice to have along, and she even stayed awake to keep me company for the 36 hour haul from Stowe to Boulder. Most of the time:

And she was almost tall enough to see over the steering wheel. With a booster pillow:

A big trip like that isn't possible without a bunch of friends, so before I get into the meat of the trip I should do a quick thanks list:

Josh the Bushwaka Matta, Sam Pro-Meat Scissors Morrison, and Anna Mudd for harboring us. Don Powers for paying the security deposit on the condo, and everybody else for letting us have a reduced rate for sleeping in the hallway. Mike Mac for letting me race Breck Epic. Kas at Wilderness Voyageurs for letting me take off for the busiest month of the year. It's pretty cool to work at a place where the management understands. And Industry 9, Ergon, Twin Six, Niner, and Cycle Symphony for helping with equipment. Swell stuff, swell people.

I'll get some trip posts up at some point. And yes Meat Scissors Morrison, I know I owe you a worship post.

Sam Morrison, Pro Mountain Biker

Few more races this season. The last race of the Michaux Series is coming up. Since I raced like ass at the Curse right after my staph infection, I'm 20 minutes back from 1st overall in the series. Unless my competition is forced to shower with a garden hose for a few months, I'll have trouble making that time up.

After that, the Month of Mud starts. Registration has entered the digital age and is up on Bike Reg this year.

The last race of the series is the Super-D/ Super-XC/ Race-With-a-Big-Downhill-that-Requires-Occasional-Pedaling-by-XC-Weeny-Standards-but-an-Unbearable-Amount-of-Pedaling-by-Gnar-Huxster-Standards-Race. I'm pretty sure that we're getting a band to play at the Falls City Pub after awards, so it'll be a party. Bring party pants.

Breck Epic Tomorrow

Breck Epic starts tomorrow. 11 of us are checked into the single speed frat house in Breck, and the other two will be here later today.

I'll be posting results and updates after every stage on the Dirt Rag site: dirtragmag.com

When I get back to Pennsylvania at the end of the month, I'll have some stuff to write about the rest of the long road trip.

Infections

After Stoopid 50, I was feeling strong. Then I got a bad staph infection and spent a week sitting on my ass.

The following is a little gross.


When my shin looked like it was growing an inflamed baseball and started to jiggle as I walked, I decided it was time to go seek some professional advice. I went to Med Express the next day.

The nurse came in to see me and asked about my medical history. I looked over while talking. She was writing down everything on a napkin. Confidence inspiring.

Then the PA came in, and informed me that the little staphs had built a megalopolis under my skin.

"It's very hard," she says while squeezing my infection. "I can either try to drain it, or give you some antibiotics."

"Well what would work best?" I ask.

"Oh, it's really up to you."

"Up to me?" Seriously? I came here for treatment, not choices. I could get information that general from the internet. "What do you recommend?" I say.

"Well, we could do either one"

Damn her. Not helping. But I'm paying $115 dollars to be here. I better get my money's worth and have her slice something.

"Fine. Just cut it open," I say.

She moves me to a different room, and pulls out a tray full of shiny sharp things.

"Ok. This'll pinch," she shoves a needle into the middle of my infection. It feels like she's driving a piece of hot rebar through my leg. Then she does it again. And again. My toes clench. And another needle. Jesus. And another one.

"Thanks for not kicking me in the face," she says. She looks excited. "Now I'm going to start draining it." she picks up a scalpel. I can't watch. I turn my head and grab the rails of the bed.

Now she's squeezing on my leg. I've never been in so much pain. Squeeze squeeze squeeze.

She almost giggles. "Ok! Got some out. Do you mind if I save some of your pus?"

I nod weakly. There's blood all over the chair. She wipes some off my flip-flop, slaps a bandaid on my shin, and sends me home. I can't walk for the next three days.

Although I'm not totally sure how I got the infection, I'm guessing that it had something to do with the sub-optimal hygiene conditions of my home:

Or with the garden hose we use as a shower:

The Impending Long Drive

Only two weeks left until the big Breck Epic via SSUSA in Vermont road trip. The little red truck, (which I'll refer to as Uncle Beefwagon from now on), isn't ready to go. It needs some care. It'll be spending next week in the shop.

My New Zealandish girlfriend is finally back from her four-month vacation, so we were able to try camping in the custom bed-in-bed that I built.

Much nicer than sleeping in a tent on a pile of rocks.