Trust but verify: You bike shop might not be the expert you think it is

Black Betty begging for better brakes,
barely before
I almost bailed off a bad-ass bluff

Doing 35 miles per hour while heading down a 10 percent grade into a double-S curve is not a good place for your brakes to fail.

Trust me. I checked.

But after slamming into a retaining wall during the aforementioned brake failure, I'm now an expert on mountain bike brakes. Or at least a whole lot more informed.

"I can fix this once," my surgeon said. "Not twice."

Looking back at that statement drives home my point: Trusting my bike shop was a nice thing, but following my instincts and verifying that trust was more important. After all, my rear brakes failed continuously for more than a year after I purchased my first real mountain bike.

In fact, I brought my bike into the shop to look at my rear brakes about 10 times in that first year.

Then, nine months after my crash and two weeks before my wife and I were heading out on a month-long trip that was heavy on cycling, I brought my bike in.

Again.

Same place I bought it, same place where no one could quite figure out how to fix it – beyond a test ride in the parking lot.

I'm ashamed of the whole sordid affair. I feel dirty. I've been riding bikes my entire life, and I didn't think I was a dreaded "newbie" when it came to mountain bike riding.

But I guess I was, a little bit. And to this day, I'm still shocked I never went to the Google Machine to research my brakes.

Verify, every step of the way

This is a good lesson for all levels of mountain bikers, even experts. Because after time, we tend to trust people. And that's a good thing.

But we need to remember to verify that trust. Especially when we're really busy and all we want to do is hit the trails and reach high rates of velocity while encountering dips, drops, boulders, rivers, rattlesnakes, and sometimes even Satan himself.

Trust is a great thing for people to earn, but if it's unfounded or begins to erode, things can go awry quickly.

Because they were cool, I disregarded my gut feeling that the employees at my shop either didn't know what they were doing, didn't care, or were nickel-and-diming me. That's why you should verify everything your bike shop says and does.

Or you'll end up in surgery, like me.

I'd ridden what I previously thought were mountain bikes for 20 years all around Chicagoland. And I'd ridden what I knew were real mountain bikes in places as near as Colorado and as far as Switzerland. But that was nothing.

I hadn't lived the life of a true believer, like I do here in Asheville, NC, where I'm wasting time unless I'm out on the trails.

So I quickly came to trust my bike shop. Everyone there seemed totally cool, why worry? This led me to foolishly disregard my subconscious when I would ask the important question that Jason, my bike sensei, kept telling me to ask: "Did you bleed my brakes?"

It was always a difficult conversation when I asked that question, because no one ever gave me a straight answer. They had 10 tries and each time, they mumbled their responses.

Know your limits ...at least mechanically

Not to mention, the arithmetic doesn't add up: Hydraulic + system = me out of my element.

Not that I don't try to understand. But I'm a writer, I work with words and stories. If you put a tool in my hand that isn't a keyboard, it just might end up sticking out of my eye socket.

So I need a bike shop. Desperately. Because, while I'm a decent mountain bike rider, I'm a passionate guy. When I find something I love doing, I throw myself into it. All the way.

What else is there?

Then push through those limits

So I'm on a quest to become an expert mountain biker. I live in the right place. My heart is in it for all the right reasons. And I'm almost on the right bike.

I'm fed up with people taking advantage of the trust I place in them. I think I found a new bike shop, but we'll see how it goes. So far, so good.

This is what happens when you treat people like you would want them to treat you. They might just write a long-ass blog post about you.

Not yet, but soon.

Until then, see you on the trails, my friends.

Dear Santa...

A thing of monumental beauty

My instincts tell me this is the right bike for me.

Ha! Still got it baby!

Well, not really. Don't got it yet, but it's coming in 2016. I can feel it.

Living in Asheville: The views

Downtown from... somewhere near the Armory

One of the best things about living in Asheville is the views.

Another visit with the world's greatest parents

I don't think the heavy stuff will come down for a while

My parents, Pop & Kat, are back in town!

We drove through Mills River, Pisgah, and then headed up the Parkway to Graveyard Fields.

Oh captain, my captain

"Science is the captain, and practice the soldiers."

Leonardo da Vinci

Over the past year and a half, it's become obvious that I shouldn't go for mountain bike rides that last even one minute longer than three hours.

Why? I fall apart.

When I'm tired, I get lazy. And when I get lazy, I just...might...crash.

It's a pretty simple concept.

So I'm not sure why every goddamn ride ends up clocking in at something like three hours and 42 minutes. It's like keeping my hand over an open flame for 42 minutes.

Sure, it's fun, the kids love it, and it smells delicious, but it's not really a good idea.

Let's talk tires
Anyway, what I really want to talk to you about today is tires.

Wait! Where are you going? Guys???

Hang on! I'm going to do some relationshippy stuff!

Damn, I lost half of you. Which means there are about four of us left. But that's fine, because you're the kind of people who care about bike stuff. Or you're dressed up like a clown and hanging out in a cemetery at night, reading this on a cellulartronic device.

We'll get to that tire talk in a moment. First I want to talk about my life-long love for riding bikes.

Second-grade BFFs
Chris Juracka. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was the dude I wanted to be. Man, he was cool. Chicks dug him even in second grade!

Chris and I were semi-tight, but we kind of drifted away. For example, he only showed up at maybe 20 percent of the parties I threw my senior year of high school. Which means he came over 100 times to drink beer and listen to Scott Naples repeatedly play Eddie Murphy's Party All the Time.

"My girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, paaaaaaarty all the time!"

Over and over and over.

Not that there were ever any parties at my house. Not that it was technically "my" house anyway.

Getting back to bicycles, Chris Juracka and I both realized that we loved riding bikes. And doing so together was kind of fun. Especially when riding down a hill that was conveniently located right on our school's property.

What school? The Campanelli Cougars, that's who!

So we formed a bike club. And then young John Miller joined. As we grew older and got into BMX, our crew was a solid five or six strong, depending on the day.

We all rocked nice bikes. Chris had a Mongoose and I rode a Roger DeCoster. I can't remember what kind of bike John rode, but I think it was blue.

Those bikes were nice, but you know what they didn't have? Knobby-ass 29-inch tires, that's what.

Not only are they tough, but they grip the trail like no one's business. And when I'm flying downhill on a road, they hum like a UFO.

So yeah, I love my bike. I love my tires. Together, we are the captains of our destiny.

But I can't find Chris Juracka anywhere.

Official beesness

How's it goin' in there?

If you have an underground Yellow Jacket beehive in your backyard, there are basically three things you can do:

1. Hire a professional
2. Perpetuate the wholesale destruction of our sacred planet by utilizing poisonous chemicals that I'm sure the EPA has robustly tested to make sure they're safe while angry bees latch onto your skin and sink their stingers deep inside your soul
3. Put a bowl over it and call it a day

Which method do you think works best?

Don't get me wrong. I love pollinating bees as much as anyone else.

But these weren't peacenik hippy bees that sat around thinking about how they can best help nature. It was a pack of vicious thugs who were granted the gift of flight and decided to use it for nefarious purposes.

Therefore, glass dome. Game over. 

Hard Times Connector

Two-and-a-half hours into my ride yesterday, it was time to pack it in and point my bike homeward.

So I decided to cut through the Arboretum and take Hard Times Connector to the road that leads toward said home. Where beer was waiting.

Barb the builder

Deckadence

Your wife built a deck by herself last week, right?

No?

Oh. I guess your wife sucks. At least when compared to mine.

Mountain time, island time

Patience, my pet, patience...

Welcome to Asheville. Please don't move here.

I love living in Asheville, but I'm scared this place is going to become the next Austin. When 20,000 people move to your city every month, things can get messed up in a hurry.

Especially if you built your city in a desert. I'm sorry Austin, I want to love you.

But I digress. Because I love Asheville, which, you know, isn't in the desert. It's in the mountains, though it sometimes feels a lot like the islands.

For example, on Thursday, I made my third attempt to obtain a North Carolina drivers license. And once again, it ended in failure. I'll back up so you can enjoy the fun.

• Attempt #1: I didn't have proof of insurance
• Attempt #2: I needed documentation to prove what my middle name is
• Attempt #3: "It's now five o'clock. Only two employees will be left to serve you."

When they made that announcement, I waited for 15 minutes to see how slow things were actually going to become. Answer: Pretty fucking slow. Like, you-should-go-home slow.

So, I decided to go back on Friday. You know, for the fourth time. Which isn't really a big deal, because the DMV is less than a mile from my house.

"Hi," I said. "Can you take me off the list?"

"Are you sure you want to do that?" said the DMV employee.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" I said, trying to be cute and funny.

At this point, the DMV employee just stared at me. Since I'm trained in the art of sales, I knew the first person to talk would lose this little game.

I waited five seconds.

"Please take me off the list."

At that point, I should have followed up with a more direct question, but I thought we were being all clandestine and stuff like that. Like spies, or something. You know, winky-winky stuff.

She just stared at me. We were not playing winky-winky.

The moral of the story is this: Asheville is a lot like an island. Sometimes, things move slow. And the more you try to speed things up, the slower they get.

So when life slows down, go with it. Jump on your mountain bike, ride some trails, and then go back and try again the next day. Like I did Friday at the DMV.

It works a lot better that way. License, obtained. Though they won't mail it for another three weeks.

Not that I'm counting.

The hills are alive, with the sound of fairies

Doe, a deer, a female deer...

Just a typical Saturday morning in Fairyville. Kids apparently hanging out in Austrian meadows.

Fa, like rockets in the sky...

Water-propelled rockets flying high into the sky.

Which brings us back to doe!

Everyone joining the fun. 

You know, Saturday.

Gotta go. My 8-year-old friend is delivering my afternoon lemonade.

The koozie collection rolls on!

Koo, koo koozie

Once again, I'd like to remind everyone that I was forced into becoming a koozie collector.

That said, I love my new koozie! Here we are having fun in the sun on Hilton Head Island. Well, one of us. You know what I mean.

What's your deal with koozies? Love 'em or hate 'em?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Happening now

As my dear friend Wolf "Don't call me a shrimp" Blitzer would say, "Happening now, spring!"

In pursuit of positivity

Yup



I was at the grocery today when the dude ringing me up started a conversation with me. He was a really cool guy and I enjoyed talking with him.

When there was a lull in the conversation, I pointed to his "End the Fed" t-shirt and asked, "Hey, how'd that go for ya?"

Yes, I'm a smartass. But I was involved with Occupy Wall Street in Chicago. So I know what it felt like in 2011 when we thought we were going to get some real traction and maybe, just maybe, arrest a few of the people who perpetrated the greatest theft of wealth in history.

Remember that? Remember the fall of 2008, when all the financial scams came home to roost at the same time? When the people who really run the show told the people we elect to govern us that if they didn't give the Fed and Wall Street what they wanted, they would declare martial law.

What a country!

But my new friend wasn't having any of my negativity. He said that things take time and we need to keep the pressure up.

"Did you see what happened in Chile?" he asked. "Students won the right to free higher education!"

I told him I did see what Chile had done and how exciting that is. But deep down inside, I've already given up on this country. Most of the people I know who have done enough independent research and taken different perspectives into account arrive at the same conclusion.

At this point, I really want to start listing some stuff that the great American myth has completely rewritten, but I'm not going to. Because a few years ago, I realized that I'm never, ever going to change anyone's mind. And if I do include the list, some people out there might throw the laziest two words out there that they believe wins the argument: Conspiracy theory.

Unfortunately, the people who do that apparently don't know the definition of the word conspiracy. So, just for shits and giggles, here it is. Conspiracy: A secret plan by a group to do something unlawful or harmful.

Happens every day.

Here are three great examples of conspiracies:

1. Fluoride is good for your teeth
• It's a neurotoxin, like lead or arsenic
2. We needed to invade Iraq after 9/11
• Bullshit
3.  Christopher Columbus discovered America
• If you believe this, the Internet can't help you

But enough. The point is to embrace the truth while remaining positive. Easier said than done, right? But just when I expected it the least, and said something snarky, along came a young man to remind me that we need to remain positive and keep up the fight.

Oh, Asheville. You're just a bunch of Hippies.

Which is fine. Because you do know the Hippies were right, don't you?

Rivers rum

Old school

This water wheel is not located in Asheville. We're headed down south again – to a rum distillery – for today's post. So put on your Speedos and your drinking hats, here we go!

As soon as we arrived, I fell in love with the River Antoine Rum Distillery. The little outside plaza feels almost European, with a two-story brick house covered in flowers thrown in for good measure.

Located on the northeast coast of Grenada, the distillery pumps out some serious rum. Like, seriously. There are two flavors: 69 percent and 75 percent.

The good folks at Rivers make the 69 percent for people who want to bring some rum home with them. It seems you can light the 75 percent on fire, so it's not allowed on airplanes.

"Rivers" as it's known locally, hasn't changed its process since 1785, when the waterwheel was built. The wheel turns a thing, which turns another thing that turns yet another thing, ultimately crushing sugar cane, the main ingredient for the rum. As far as I could tell, it's all about water and then things turning.

Rivers uses the sugar cane husks as fuel for the fire, so nothing is wasted. Except for the people drinking the rum.

Here we see how the water wheel makes the little thing turn the big thing, which crushes the sugar cane. Rivers crushes the sugar cane twice, to make it magically delicious. ...Which it kind of isn't.

Let's just say you either love it or you don't.

They leave the sweet juice to ferment for a while in large tanks and then something happens with a giant fire that's always cooking. At this point in the tour, I had become focused on the main goal of the trip: Tasting Rivers rum. So I wasn't really listening that much anymore.

Unfortunately, I tasted the 75 percent first, so I couldn't taste the 69 percent. Holy rum! My mouth and chest were burning for the entire 20-minute drive home.

As usual, Barb and I fell in love with the place. We bought three bottles of the 69 percent rum. Our plan was to drink one and then bring the other two home. One for us and one for my parents, who were lovely enough to be staying at our house and taking care of our unlicensed petting zoo while we were drinking rum.

Apparently, we had a good time drinking the first bottle of Rivers, though Barb could smell when I opened it in another room. So we decided we were not bringing any home. We gave one bottle to our newest friends Chris and Jim. What happened to the third bottle is any one's guess.

Sometimes, you have no idea. That's Rivers, baby. It's rumtacular.

Yes, it snows in Asheville

Peanut trying to go sledding

It isn't much, but it is snow. Or, as I like to call it, really cold water.

Speaking of which...

More really cold water

Found him!

And he's watching us

...from a distance

Next up: Elvis and then Morrison.

The boat builder

Boat builder, boat builder
Build me a boat...

For more than a year, I've kept this blog focused on Asheville. But now in its second year, I feel like it's time to branch out into my other favorite places in the world. I can't help it.

Should I start another blog? Or – dare I say it – is it time to join the Tweeterverse?

Christ on a cross. Another existential crisis has begun!

True Caribbean
The impetus for my latest psychological distress is the trip Barb and I just took to Grenada. Holy shit. This was the best trip we've taken in a long, long time.

The problem is that Grenada passed the test: I can definitely live there. I think Barb might be able to as well. And the people are so great, they actually bump Thais and Balinese to second and third nicest people in the world.

So I have to write about it, right?

My first Grenada post is about the boat builder in Darvey Bay, on the north coast of Grenada. The boat builder skips to the front of the line because my newest best friend Chris requested a boat builder blog post ASAP. I think my other newest best friend Jim would have agreed, but he was still over on Bathway Beach drinking rum. Or at a party somewhere.

Fun fact: Chris and Jim are by far my favorite drinking friends. Ever. They're also in their mid-70s. Go for your life, mates!

Back to the boat builder. He's a very nice man who – wait for it – builds unbelievable boats. Which is a good thing. After all, it would be pretty weird if you're called the boat builder and you actually build lousy banjos.

I used to take notes when I traveled, but it made people really nervous. So I stopped. Therefore, I couldn't remember the boat builder's name. Chris has visited with the boat builder a few times and had drinks with him, so I asked what his name is.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Chris said, thinking about it. "Yeah..."

"Let's just call him the boat builder," he finally said.

The boat featured here is 28-feet long. It's made out of pine and cedar. The boat builder bends the wood with clamps and sheer strength.

Barb the boat inspector

The really interesting thing is how the boat builder actually builds his boats. Or how he kind of doesn't build them. The young guy on the left in the picture above – who actually looks like he's the one doing all the work – is a fisherman who commissioned the boat. While working on his projects, the boat builder has the owners work with him on the boats so they become extremely familiar with them. 

As someone who grew up on boats, that's a great idea. Because shit always goes wrong on boats. Always.

And when you're a few miles out in the ocean and a storm is whipping up, that's not the best place to think to yourself, "Hey, I wonder how this whole boat thing works?"

That's it for today, my friends. But don't worry, FYA will be talking about Grenada more in the future. Probably a lot.

Because that place really floats my boat.

Save Coral Bay!

Save Coral Bay!

(Photo courtesy of Daniel Joel Pinto)

Sometimes, people with money and power go too far, and the community fights back. This is one of those times.

So here's my letter to the Army Corps of Engineers. You can find out more at Save Coral Bay on facebook.

Dear Mr. [redacted]:

I hope this note finds you doing well. I’m writing to express my opposition to the proposed marina in Coral Bay Harbor, St. John, USVI – a project of “The Summers End Group, LLC.”

My wife and I visited Coral Bay for the first time in December, 2006. Coral Bay’s beauty and tranquility immediately captivated us. We have returned every year since then.

However, if the Summers End marina is approved, my wife and I have no plans to return. Since we love St. John dearly, we will continue to visit – and bring friends – but we will avoid Coral Bay. It makes us sad, but not as sad as a giant concrete monstrosity that is being forced upon the community. In fact, this entire fiasco makes us wonder if we should find another island that isn’t planning to pave paradise.

Here are the reasons I oppose the Summers End marina:

The economics don’t make sense

I have an undergraduate degree in economics and a master’s degree in business administration (MBA), yet I fail to see how the proposed marina would actually help Coral Bay’s economy. First, as is easy to see in social media, the people who live in and are regular visitors to Coral Bay do not want a “mega marina.” Any jobs created for the long-term would be mainly service-oriented, seasonal jobs.

But that’s putting the cart before the buggy, because I truly believe that during the years it will take to noisily pound 1,333 pilings into the harbor will destroy the environment and pleasantness of Coral Bay. Simply put, my wife and I will no longer visit Coral Bay if the marina project goes forward. During our nine visits to the area, we have brought 11 people with us. For the most part, we ate meals in Coral Bay and shopped at the groceries there.

How many other people like my wife and I will not return to Coral Bay if the marina is approved? That’s a very important question.

I think the mass exodus of tourists will have a horrible effect on Coral Bay’s economy. And what of those mega-yachts? How many large marinas are already within 10 miles of the proposed project? I don’t know the exact answer, but there are many. In fact, some have many empty slips. I just don’t see any pent-up demand for a massive marina in Coral Bay.

That said, a smaller project that truly shares information with the community and partners with it to create something everyone can enjoy – not just extremely rich people – would probably serve as a better project that both residents and regular visitors could enjoy.

The environment will suffer

In the water, the construction will destroy the sea beds. This will have a negative impact on the dolphins, turtles, sharks and rare corals that live in and around Coral Bay.

The pristine waters of Hurricane Hole, within the Virgin Islands National Park, are just one bay away from Coral Bay. The potential impacts to this unique and priceless resource should not be ignored for the sake of development.

The community will suffer

On land, the amount of construction equipment needed for a project of this scope will push the small community of Coral Bay to the edge. Based on the proposed pictures I’ve seen, the accompanying noise and debris for a marina this large will make Coral Bay pretty much uninhabitable for years.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I hope that this letter, and others like it, help you make the decision to stop this project.

Sincerely,

Scoop Skupien

Guys, we need to talk about hell

Some like it uncool

Now that I'm sharing this photo, I'm mad that I didn't stop to take a few pictures last summer. You see, while riding my bike, I encountered quite a few "Angry Jesus" church signs. Fire and brimstone stuff.

There was one in particular that made me think, "Wow, Jesus Christ (amen) is f*cking pissed off! I better get out of here!"

Then again, the way the guy went out, you can't blame him for being a little angry. Am I right?

AVLersary!

Any day on your bike 

is a good day

Exactly one year ago today, my wonderful wife and I arrived in Asheville, NC. We moved here for many reasons, but the big one for me was the fact that I could no longer handle Chicago winters.

Even back in grade school, I remember looking at maps and wondering why I lived in a place that made me extremely uncomfortable for more than half the year. Where “the air hurts my face,” as a recent meme on facebook explains perfectly.

To put it mildly: I hate cold weather. It sucks. F*ck cold weather.

So I was thrilled when the predictions were correct and it was 53 degrees today. Blue skies, sunshine, world-class mountain biking a few miles away – a perfect day to hit Bent Creek!



First hour?

Five measly miles

Over three long hours, I only covered 23.6 miles. But as you can see above, I was climbing for almost the entire first hour.

Oy.

Up, down, up, down,

fast, slow...

I took the North Boundary fire road almost all the way to the top of the ridge. Then it was time to have some fun. So I shot down Green's Lick trail. 

Holy mother of god, what a good time. It was a little muddy, but at this time of year, I'm used to frozen tundra, so I was laughing as the mud hit me in the face. 

Ha ha ha! F*ck you mud!

I love the fact that I can ride year-round here. That said, I don't like getting all sweaty while riding up a mountain and then flying down it while drenched in sweat. Then there are all the leaves that cover all those obstructions. Oh yeah, and the ice at higher elevations.

Can you believe that? Note to self: You carry five different hats with you when you ride in the winter, shut up you whiny little b*tch. And you're best friends with the greatest shoulder surgeon in the world, so don't worry about it.

Therefore, it bears repeating: Get on your bikes and ride!





Dogs are totally awesome

Hey! C'mon! Let's go!

Recently, Cricket and Lula's cousin stayed with us for about 10 days. Her name is Lucy. She's a puppy, so she likes to run around.

Luckily, Cricket likes to run around too. And chase other dogs. A lot.

One day, they chased each other for about 45 minutes. Then they came inside. For about a minute. Then they went back outside and chased each other for 30 more minutes. It was incredible.

Holy schnikees, do I love dogs.

In fact, I'll go out on a limb and say the only person in the world who loves dogs more than me is a shy fella who goes by the name Kirby Delauter.

Muddy day at the creek

Time for a bath

My tires were caked in mud. But riding home gave them the opportunity to clean themselves by shooting that mud in my face and up my backside.

A good time was had by all.