As a follow up to my previous post about ski slope fashion, I thought highlighting this skin suit seemed highly appropriate. Any comfort garnered from some of the terrible styles found in the ski world was eclipsed when I laid eyes on this:





Gah!

I don't even want to imagine what that looks like from behind.

Is this the brainchild of that creepy Mr. Slim Goodbody? Or could this be someones attempt at strategy, counting on the competition being too nauseous to actually race?

Regardless of the motives or origins behind it, I pray that I will live out my days without ever encountering this non-skin (get it?!) suit in person. My eyes can only be gouged out so many times.

There are some terrible fashion crimes being committed in the bicycling industry. From tattoo arm warmers to weird faux-skeletal jersey graphics, there is no shortage of gag-inducing cycling clothing.

But I am very happy to report that we cyclists are not alone. In fact, we may even be bested by what I can only describe as the hybrid of winter comfort and hip-hop pop culture. A sort of urbanization of the ski slopes, like Andy Warhol and Warren Miller had a child. A child named Steeze.

For example:



This is the Special Blend Men's Packer Jacket. Never mind the blush-inducing innuendo in the name. The pattern and colors alone are enough to incite uncomfortable, awkward pauses. On a sunny day I could see this coat dishing out searing reflective pain, like having your eyes dug out of your skull with wooden spoons. I wonder if it was intentional to have the coat look like a paper cup, or if that was just a pleasant side effect of having some duuuude design jackets after a day of wreaking gnaaaarly havoc on the hill? But never fear, wearing this coat will enable you to "put in your ear buds, stash your MP3 player in its pocket, open the Underarm zips, and show the beaters how it's done." Perhaps. But while your doing that, the beaters will be deflecting the death rays the Packer is barfing all over the slope, and so will not "see how it's done" anyway.

Or, how about this one:



Behold, another masterpiece from Special Blend, the Ninety Five Down. Nothing says 'awesome' like a coat patterned from the curtains salvaged from an early 1980s Santa Fe motel room. The fur hood liner adds class and function. "The Special Blend Men's Ninety Five Jacket is back and ready to assassinate freezing temperatures. A waterproof shell and puffy down insulation make this jacket a threat to winter’s evil intentions."

It appears that along with freezing temperatures, this coat also assassinated good taste. And if we are going to talk about evil intentions, I'd have to say that anyone who wears this coat in public is intentionally releasing a harmful, perhaps even lethal weapon of mass destruction. Anyone within visual distance of this puffy coat should take great care not to be brought to their knees by the nausea deriving plot hidden within the depths of this travesty.

Another thing that stands out about this coat is that it seems clearly geared toward old guys. Would any teenager or twenty-something wear this? I immediately pictured an older man standing in the lift line, smiling obliviously, wearing this coat, just-out-of-the-box, with the fold seams still visible, while the steezers snicker behind him.

Here is another example:



The concept behind the Novis Mystery Suit is fascinating. "...rest assured that this one-piece leaves beaters and gapers jaw-dropped. Nomis made every single one of these suits differently, so yours won’t look exactly like the one pictured, nor will it look like anyone else’s on the mountain."

Where do I begin? Should I be relieved that my suit won't look like the neo-dance club meets leisure suit throwback pictured on the web site, or terrified that it might be even worse? And why is it that all these fashion crimes against humanity have to brow beat anyone who gags at the site of them as being beaters or gapers? I feel like I should be outraged.

Anyway, let's consider that you did end up with the one-piece pictured above. The obvious benefit to this suit is that when you are done embarrassing the beaters on the slopes, the only change of clothes necessary before you hit the club scene or that hot party in the gondola accessed mountain suite will be to slip on a pair of shoes (these would do nicely). Parties are best attended without ski boots.

The touch of traditional lumber jack plaid combined with the tuxedo-esque front panel and the intense pin stripes will have all the ski bunnies wanting to snuggle. The big dilemma will be whether or not leave it on and look amazing, or step out of it, and into the hot tub full of chicks.

Another one-piece:



I love the jack-hammer wielding worker meets prison inmate boldness of the DC Scope Snow Suit. Anyone in this suit is going to stand out. The road cone orange will reflect off the snow, creating the illusion of being a fireball shredding the mountain. I especially love the built in butt sag. So even if it actually fits your body, you are guaranteed to look your best. And with the added benefit of this being a one-piece, your sag will never slip to your ankles, leaving your hands free while you carve the slopes. Leave the pants pulling for the beaters.

Oh, and check out the eye holes on the hood. Brilliant.

And finally:



The Volcom Research Pants. "Earn your doctorate of snowboard science with the Volcom Men’s Research Pant." I had no idea there was such a degree. But I think my 3 year old son has pajama pants that look like the "Guch" style above. But not to worry, because if pajamas are not your thing, the Research comes in a variety of patters. Like the "Yae":



Yae? I think the obvious name for these ought to be Nay.


So remember, as mountain bikers and road cyclists we often find ourselves wearing clothing that normal, everyday people find frightening. Alarming. Horrifying. But we all need to know that we are not alone in our fashion malpractice. While we spin in the comfort of our basements it ought to be comforting to know that ski resorts everywhere are being barraged with the assault on the senses that we litter the roads and trails with during the summer time.

However, I think the real loser in all of this are the resort employees who have to deal with bad style all year. From the summer mountain bikers riding the lifts, to the skiers doing the same in the winter, life must be a constant struggle against a flowing avalanche of nausea and an eye gouging offense against sensible taste.


Exit Question: If you had no choice, which of the above would you wear?

Dewey Bridge. Date Unknown.

I found the above photo in the Library of Congress archives. I tinted, burned, dodged, and cleaned it up a little. There seem to be precious few public photos of the now destroyed Dewey Bridge. But I'd guess that there are albums and film rolls stashed in attics and bookshelves that tell a detailed and vivid history of one of the American West's great engineering accomplishments.

And still, I cloud over in nostalgia when I see the bridge. I miss it. Which seems silly, even ridiculous. My only explanation is that the Kokopelli Trail so consumed my emotional and physical energies that anything to do with it now carries an imbalanced degree of attachment. I feel similar emotions when I see Salt Creek, or Rose Garden Hill, or Entrada Bluffs.

But Dewey was different. Dewey held me in an odd trance, a mysterious sway that was firm in its grasp. Perhaps it was simply because that spot on the trail was so anxiously anticipated. Crossing the bridge was such a milestone, and in itself a very rewarding experience. Even walking across, when not riding the larger trail, had persuasive and gratifying qualities.

It was, to be precise, a very neat feature in the colorful, history laden, mysterious world known as Moab.

I'll continue to search for photographic remnants of Dewey Bridge. And I will probably continue to be overtly sentimental about it. Even before it burned to the ground I considered it one of my favorite Utah landmarks. But now that it is gone, I have seemed to elevate its status even more. Probably overly than needed.

But it seems appropriate, given the zenith of bike riding experience it is associated with.

Robert's Horn and Primrose Cirque. Timpanogos, Wasatch, Utah.

The mountains are enjoyed easily from afar. Those distant, majestic, postcard views that pepper calendars and posters and of course, postcards. From the safe distance of a photograph we can imagine ourselves engulfed among the trees and meadows and rock and wildlife.

And some days I wonder if that is how the world experiences the outdoors - through print and television. A vicarious hike and bike and ski through a land overtly wild, difficult and much to far from the comforts of the RV to actually be a part of. And anyway, who wants to sweat and ache and be covered in dirt?

From afar the mountains are spectacular. But they are merely facades, props. They may as well be painted backdrops in some low budget Hollywood film. Precariously standing with only the rickety support of 2x4s hastily nailed together by some teenaged backlot rat as the only separation between upright utility and horizontal disaster.

In other words, a pretty picture only goes so far in telling the whole story.

The mountain story is a wonderful, ancient tale, one that comes in whispers and in wind. One perhaps different in the details, but similar in its broader ending. Which is a connection, a longing and belonging. Home. Like the desert, like the sea, the Rockies are an ancient, wise, indifferent presence. And to experience them for what they are, one must descend into the belly and into the heart. Rugged, vast, cluttered with undergrowth and loose boulders, thorny bushes and hungry animals, filled with snow light and deadly and beautiful.

Pictures from afar glass over the sharp detail of the surface. Of the dirt.

And yet, those far away horizons are the first that one sees of the mountains. Coming from the flatlands of the prairie, the first sight of the Colorado Front Range must have seemed utterly impossible. The sheer magnitude, grandeur and every other massive epithet of that sight ought to have dropped men to their knees. It does now. It must have then. So, while the story and its details are found within, the treatment is found without.

And together they create a world where men are humbled, beaten down, mortified and terrified. But also a place where one can rise, overcome, conquer (at least for a moment) and exalt.

And that contrast, that paradox, is why I love the mountains.

Possibly my favorite way off the mountain and back to the chairlift at Sundance is Hill's Headwall --> Freddie's --> Last Chance. Today the skiing was soft (ish) and pillowy. Well, as much as it can be on runs that are cut up by a multitude of turns. But that is one of the reasons I like this particular chain of runs - they get skied less. They are tucked away at the far end of the boundary. Snowboarders have a hard time getting there because of the short cat track traverse. And anyway, it does not make for a good spot to sit down in a massive group and talk about shredding the mountain.

Which reminds me, I watched a boarder from the lift "ski" at least 400 yards down the hill...sideways. He never made a turn. Just skidded down the hill scraping the snow down the mountain as he went. He then settled gingerly into the pack of seals awaiting him at the bottom, where he sat down and no doubt, described shredding the mountain.

But I digress.

In fact, I skied the entire day with Keith who is a snowboarder. And he is good. He actually...turns. And he does it well. Nice, even, swoopy turns. He doesn't hog crawl along cat tracks, and you rarely see him scoot around like a wounded elk. And although he may have felt an innate urge, he resisted ever joining the many sit-ins we witnessed. All that these pow wows were missing were drums and a group bong.

Dude.

But, alas, I digress once again.

One of the first things I noticed when I skied this year, after nearly a decade away, was how many snowboarders there are now. At least 1 of every 3 people are boarders. And probably more than that, maybe like 1 of every 1.3, of the kids ages 13-19. When I last made turns, boarders were still an anomaly. Most resorts still hated them. Keith says he wants to buy Alta, and turn it into a "board only" resort. If he counts skis as boards, then I think that would be a great idea.

I've noticed a lot of other things. Helmets are cool on the slopes now. And so is plaid and faux denim. Skis have huge tips, get skinny in the middle, and then have huge tails. Oh, and the twin tip is all the rage. You know, so you can spin 360s on the groomers.

I must sound like an old man talking about how great the days of wood bindings and safety straps were.

But I actually like the new style of skis. And indeed, when I finally own a pair of my own, they are going to be gigantic. 108mm at the waist huge.

But back to Freddies. What a great little shot. Its short, but well worth the turns. On a big powder day you can launch into it, landing someplace far below the drop in, splash through the fluff, make a turn or two and end up laughing a snow covered laugh as you glide the cat to Last Chance. It really is one of my favorite spots on the mountain.



Much has changed. But Hill's and Freddie's are as good as I remember.

Here I am today, cutting the semi-soft powder on Freddie's:




To finish off the day we booted up to the top of Marmot Gulch, which was once lift served. The run itself is an old Sundance classic. Steep, narrow, and more often than not an icy trap. At least as I remember it. But today it had untracked powder, which made our hike to get there all the better. It was an exhausting, fitting end to the day.

I ought to be ashamed. I live in the Wasatch. And I can count on one hand the number of ski days I have had in the last 10 years. Two of those days happened in the last week. After a childhood of skiing as often as possible, I entered into an adulthood of...not skiing. There are a myriad of reasons for that happening. But they are slightly irrelevant now. Because it only took a couple turns for me to realize how much I missed skiing.

And so, now I need to remedy that.

After a lot of emails and google searches and forum reading, I decided that the ideal ski for me would be an alpine touring model that would be suitable at the resorts, and in the backcountry. After all, there are only so many skin tracks that I can follow on my snowshoes before I realize that those making the tracks are having all the fun. On the way down.

As I researched the skis and boots I started to get that gear-lust taste in my mouth. I know you have been there, and know what I am talking about. You fall asleep with gear specs running through your mind. You spend unhealthy amounts of time on eBay, Steep and Cheap, and google looking for that perfect price on the perfect gear. Your every thought is consumed by the quest, the chase, and the possibilities that the new toy will open up. Whether a bike, skis, shoes or a watch, the feeling is the same. A mix of urgency and child-like impatience.

The Karhu Team 100/Line Prophet has caught my attention. But others have me giddy as well. All this is reminding me about when I got more serious about mountain biking, and I started to understand the differences between bikes and shoes and tires and so forth. Its a great feeling, discovering a new sport.

But it won't compare to that first powder shot.

The only question is whether or not it will be this year, or next.

Exit Question: Which backcountry ski do you use/recommend?

I did not get into the Leadville 100. Of course, I did not apply, so not getting into the race is no surprise. Each year, I think about sending in an application. I see the pictures of massive groups of riders, the throngs of people cheering and the celebrity bike stars. And every year I think that at long last, I will apply for the race.

But I never do.

The idea of a lottery system has always turned me off. Especially the fact that for repeat racers, the lottery is no lottery. More and more racers are becoming grandfathered into the race, which leaves less and less room for first time riders. I don't fault the riders. But if the lottery system is designed to promote diversity among the field, having the same racers year in and year out seems counter intuitive. It would seem that given this method of selection, at some point there will simply be no room for any first timers.

This is not meant to be an anti-Leadville diatribe. From all accounts the race looks fantastic. It is well run, and the town creates a real sense of event and accomplishment. I like that. And in fact that is one of the aspects of the race that is attractive to me. But, every December I grow cold to the process and neglect to send in an application. I can't exactly say why. But each year I have the same internal argument. Eventually the desire to race at Leadville fades and I start to look into August alternatives.

I just don't like the lottery system. And that dislike does not come from being rejected. I have never applied for the race. Maybe it is the random nature of the lottery. Perhaps it is the preferential treatment given to anyone that is deemed worthy of such treatment. Or, more accurately, maybe I am just a curmudgeon about the entire process. Perhaps I need to lighten up.

But I still don't like lotteries.

It would seem that each year, as the snow melts and the dirt is slowly, slowly exposed that the horizons start to become more and more prominent. I cast my gaze from the here and now to the distant, possible, unknowable future. Whereas the fall is a time for reflection, the early spring is the time for divination and prognostication.

And so as I look forward to the heat and the dirt and the trees, a more clear picture is starting to emerge from the fog of winter and the basement. I am beginning to feel that competitive edge that has been so elusive for far to long. I feel that twitch in my legs and that impatient anticipation, both consorts to an ever growing desire to finally, at long last queue up to a start line.

How long has it been?

It was the fall of 2007 when I last had any serious proclivity toward moving quickly. And even then it was fading. Physical and mental entropy were crowding out the energy of accumulation, leaving me worn out and aching. And it would seem that the trouble all started when I hit the dirt on the Mid-mountain trail. Which leaves me wondering if it could really take 18 months to recover from a crash. Perhaps not. But there is no doubt that that crash lead to and attributed to the forthcoming decline.

By the time 2008 rolled around I realized I was hanging by a thread, clinging to the notion that somewhere inside of me was the rider I was used to being. And then I turned the wheels around on Sandflats road and floated into oblivion. But there is a perspicuous, unambiguous difference to the outlook I have today.

Indeed, horizons once lucid in their detail that became lost in the haze and brume of an obscure, indefinable sense of "off" are now, again, blessedly clear.

What does it all mean? I have no idea. Except that seeing what I now see is not so different than when familiar faces greet one another after a long and extensive absence.

Component overview:

Van Dessel Ramble Tamble single speed.
Size: Medium
White Bros. Rock Solid carbon fork.
Bontrager Mustang Wheelset.
Avid Mechanical BB7 front brake, Hayes El Camino rear brake.
Bontrager Race Lite crank, eccentric bottom bracket.

$900

The other parts are pending. But the bike will be complete when sold. Shipping is free to the lower 48.

The Ramble Tamble can be built as a single speed, geared, or a Rohloff bike.

e-mail if you have questions.

For more details on the frame geometry click here.

My sister and I went out for a brief snow ride on Saturday. It was her first such ride. We came to a descent, and I decided to talk her through how to ride it.

ME: This is like riding down sand. It's a lot of fun.

HER: OK.

ME: Just lean back and hang on.

HER: That's what she said.


In the end, she rode the hill, while I flipped over the bars when I hit a harder-than-it-looked snowbank. Expecting to plow through the snow, I ended up just super-manning over it.

And as if that was not enough folly, the trend continued last night when I double flatted.

On the trainer.

Exit Question: What is your most ridiculous bike-related mishap?