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.

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.

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.

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!





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.

Woo hoo! Back in the saddle, baby!

I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle

Wow. That was a long three months.

But it's over. And I promise to be more careful. I swear. A lot. Maybe too f***ing much, but that's not the point.

So, while out on my first ride since wiping out so bad I needed surgery, I decided to take my second or third selfie ever. I was so excited, I sent the picture to my two favorite biking buddies – even though I haven't seen one of them in 20 years.

Not that he needs to get his *ss down here right now or anything like that. (Cough, cough. Turn. Cough. Cough.)

The other recipient of my wonderful selfie was my bike sensei, Jason. His response was awesome.

"Keep the rubber side down, my man," he said.

How true. Because the last time I was out on my bike – three f***ing months ago – the rubber side was above my head. Then below it. Then above it. And then below it again.

Then 10 feet away in a bush.

As I said, it was a wipeout. But that's all in the past, baby. Onward and upward! Because all that matter is that today, I was able to get back on my bike.

Therefore, I leave you with a what may become my tagline: Where your helmet.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Oh, Billy BaRue...

This is a big one Billy

Son of a...

I recently returned from my six-week, post-surgery appointment with my surgeon. While he might be a genius, I did not like the words that came out of his stupid, stupid mouth hole.

Essentially, he said, "For guys like you, this is the most dangerous time. You feel great, your flexibility is back, and you're strength has returned. So you want to fly down another mountain."

True, true, true.

And TRUE.

"But," he continued, "if you take a shot to your shoulder right now, it will completely undo everything we just reconnected. And I might not be able to fix it."

Of course, as I was writing this, my roommate from college – plucky rider Brian Mears, who himself had a downhill incident with a tree that wouldn't get out of his way – sent me the following picture. It's the shoulder of a friend of ours who used to ride semi-professionally in Europe.

I'm going to start a bike team 

called "The Clavicles"

Clearly, said shoulder has seen better days.

As a highly-respected doctor on the Internet, I can tell you that's a broken shoulder. And that pin. Holy shit, it's a big one. It also looks like the surgeon left a few needles in there.

Rookie.

Hello... hello...hello...

Is there anybody out there?

There'll be no more, "Ahhhhhhh"

...But you may feel a little sick. (Continuation of Pink Floyd lyrics from above, yo.) Especially after I tell you what Cricket, Barb, and I found on a wonderful hike over the weekend.

Cricket started licking something on the trail. After he refused to leave it alone, Barb went to investigate. Turns out, it was a bloody helmet.

Actually, it was a piece of a bloody helmet. I'm hoping the reason the helmet shattered into 50 pieces was because people were riding over it and not because there are helmets out there that explode upon impact.

Based on all this, I keep asking all my friends who ride an important question, "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

Each and every time, the response is laughter. Maniacal laughter. Because if you have a certain disposition, and you experience the hard work of biking up a mountain, followed by the adrenaline rush and exhilaration of flying back down that mountain, you're hooked.

And you're screwed. Pun intended.

Therefore, today's blog post ends with a plea: For the love of god, always wear a helmet!

I don't care where you're riding, for how long, and if there's only a 0.003 level of difficulty, wear a helmet. If you don't, you're an idiot.

I'll still love you, even though you'll most likely be a drooling idiot.

The number one way to become a real cyclist

All smiles

...before the pain blocker wore off

Apparently, you're not a real cyclist until you've destroyed your shoulder.

Check.

In fact, as of Friday, September 6th, I broke my first bone! Now that I live in an area quickly becoming the new U.S. hotbed for mountain biking, it was hilarious to note the lack of reaction to the complete destruction of my shoulder - not just from other riders, but from all my healthcare providers as well.

My favorite nonresponse happened at the urgent care center right after my accident. I told the Physician's Assistant that I had seen a bunch of Patrick Swayze movies where he - or one of his friends - pops his shoulder right back into place.

"It looks really easy," I said. "I'll stand facing the wall, and then you smash my shoulder against it. Done and done."

She lifted my shirt, took a very quick look, and then laughed.

"That's not happening," she said. "This is series three. All your tendons are disconnected."

"No Patrick Swayze?"

"No Patrick Swayze."

So now I'm a real cyclist, but not a Patrick-Swayze-ripped-body-cool-hair real cyclist. Maybe that's just setting the bar too high.

Before we close out, I have to give huge props to my current, noncelebrity wife, Barb. She's been wonderful.

Except for that moment at 4 a.m. last night when I heard her mumble, "This is going to be fun."

That wasn't helpful. Speaking of not being helpful, where the hell is my celebrity girlfriend Rihanna when I need her? I'm starting to think about breaking up with her.

Although maybe I shouldn't be so rash. She's out on tour, so she's really busy. Or maybe she's waiting until I'm done smelling like surgery.

Holy wipeout!

Right shoulder, wrong

After working diligently all day yesterday, I hopped on my bike late in the afternoon. I climbed a wonderful 1,300-foot peak called Spivey Mountain. As I've mentioned before, the ride takes 20 minutes to go up and two minutes to come down.

Yesterday, I was on pace to make it down in about 1:45. But in the end, it took more like 15 minutes.

I've ridden Spivey about 10 times now. Unfortunately, that familiarity made me think I could handle a wicked turn at about 31 mph. Nope. I came all the way across the road, skidded into a ditch, hit a two-foot embankment and flipped through the air.

Get on you bikes and... oof!

See the arrow? My speed drops for the left-hand turn, then I wipeout on the sharp right-hand turn. Everything after that is the drive home.

Luckily, my awesome wife bought me one of the best helmets out there, so even though I clearly landed on my head, my brain is fine. So even though I landed on my head, my brain is fine. So even though... uh oh.

My new headshot!

My right shoulder, however, is a grade-three mess. I guess I'll need surgery. Though I'm still hoping a miracle worker will shove it back into the socket.

After returning from urgent care, I sent a text to my friend, neighbor, and bike sensei, Jason.

All I said was: "I suck."

He was over five minutes later to check in on me. Jason was already aware of what happened, so it was great to talk about the details with an expert.

"Yeah, you came into that turn too hot," my sensei told me.

That's for sure.

Ironically, 48 hours prior to my wipeout, Jason was out riding in Pisgah Forest - an area many are describing as the new mountain bike mecca of the U.S. - when one of his friends went down hard. Dude broke his clavicle.

Yikes.

Big shout out to my new friend Jerry for refusing to let me ride out of there, throwing my bike in the back of his pickup and driving me home. He even wanted to take me to the hospital. 

That's what most people are like around here. They're not in a hurry, so they have time to help others.

The people are just one reason I love it here so much. Obviously, I also love the mountains. And I still love Spivey Mountain. I'll be returning soon, perhaps with a little humility, but for sure with 100 percent functioning brakes. We're not going to talk about that right now.

The Inaugural Madeline Avenue Bike Parade!

Get on your bikes and ride!

Holy cow! What a wonderful time the first Madeline Avenue Bike Parade (MABP) was! Even though my celebrity girlfriend Rihanna wasn't there.

While planning the MABP, my current, non-celebrity wife and I started coming up with perfect scenarios in our heads. Barb's big dream was that we would formally close the street. You know, making the parade safe and all that jazz.

Ha! Reach for the stars baby!

...Now grab that end of the table and help me move it into the street.

Spring's bike has a cheeseburger ding-ding!

My big idea was going to be an awesome opening ceremony - complete with a wonderful speech and a crowd-pleasing ribbon cutting. It didn't happen. Because as soon as we blocked off the street, Eli took off like he'd been shot out of a cannon. 

For about 10 seconds. Then he wiped out.

"Well, we got that over with nice and early," my friend Matt said.

Funny because it's true. Although, probably not so much if you're Eli's parents.

Spring and her cheesy burger bell

As someone who's a little too into biking, I've always admired those people who go the extra mile and get a little bell to let people know they're coming.

When flying down narrow trails or giant downhills, I've recently taken to just yelling, "Coming through!" a few times. 

When your vision is a bouncy mess because you're speed down a trail full of rocks, tree roots, and drop-offs, it seems a lot easier to just yell "Here I come!" than slam into a tree to slow down.

Am I right? Yes. I am.

Lookie-Lou Avenue

You can't have a parade without a crowd. And this was an awesome one.

It's magical

We even had wizards!

Tyler, daughter, Molly,

and the former President of Collyforni

Again, I'd like to thank everyone who participated. Riding a bike is a pretty important thing, especially these days. If we can encourage each other to ride our bikes as much as we can - instead of hopping in a car - we're headed in the right direction.

Even when it's uphill.

Biking is delicious

The family that mountain bikes together...

Look! No hill!

I'm extremely proud of my wife. I love her to death. (Hers, not mine.)

A year ago, she was fresh off of shoulder surgery. Watching her go through that experience, I would advise anyone to do as much rehab as they can before "choosing" to have a surgery that will really, really f*ck them up for at least six months.

Possibly a full year.

But it gets better. Look at her now, riding a real mountain bike in an area that's quickly becoming the mountain biking mecca of the US. Go Barb!

Unauthorized image

The only issue we face as a team is this: I always get into trouble for not perfectly describing all the hills and then communicating exactly how Barb's body will react to them. Mostly because it's her body, not mine. And mine has become friends with these hills.

Here's a sampling of some of our riding dialogue:

"Is it a big hill?"

"Yes."

"Big for you?"

"Nah."

One minute passes.

"It is a big hill!"

"Ok, then it's a big hill."

"Why are you lying to me?!!"

I love my wife. And I love riding with her. But I hope that someday, someone will be able to explain to her that the flattest stretch in the greater Asheville area is approximately three-feet long - and it's not my fault. 

By the way, this next hill isn't really a hill.

When the going gets dumb, the dumb turn PolPro

Obviously, this is an epic PolPro fail. But for those of you who don't ride bikes, you'll get a feel for what it's like to go around 40 miles per hour.

On a god damn bike.

This is Spivey Mountain, which is about three miles west of our house. It took me 19 minutes and 40 seconds to climb up and two minutes and 40 seconds to fly down.

Good stuff, indeed.

With 1:04 left, you'll hear me yell, "Woo!"

That's a shout-out to a few guys I passed on the way up.

One of my favorite things about Asheville is how you can just start talking to people. No one gives a shit if they don't know you, they'll just jump right into a conversation. I don't know if it's the mountains or what, but you're able to form immediate friendships here.

I'm sure I'll be seeing those guys again. At both 0.5 mph on the way up and 40 mph on the way down.

"Famous" Asheville road signs

The folks on this street?

Total knob gobblers

As usual, after working diligently all day long, I needed to get out for a ride around town.

And, as usual, I saw a bunch of hilarious stuff. Today it was mostly road signs.

So I thought to myself, "Hey Scoop, why don't you share these funny road signs with the world? ...Or at least the eight people who visit your blog."

So I did.

What's it like this way? 

Eh

If you take Gobblers Knob until it turns into a dirt road, which is immediately, you want to keep your eye out for old man Johnston's bath tub. He's usually in it, so yell hello if you see him.

Most likely, he'll be fully clothed - and fully loaded. Same same for his gun. So be polite.

And never stop pedaling.

I'm not making this shit up

"After you take a left on Soso Way, take a right on Four Wheel Drive."

"Oh. I drive a Nissan Sentra. Do you think I'll make it?"

"Make what?"

"Make it down your street."

"Four Wheel Drive?"

And so on... 

Friday: bikin' around the hood

After working diligently last Friday, I decided to reward myself with a post-work bike ride around Asheville.

West  Asheville yard art

Early in my ride, I passed by the yard art pictured above. Pretty cool, no?

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an older gentleman sitting out on his front porch, watching the suns start to set.

I Immediately wanted to take his picture. But alas, I have a hard time with that. 

Traveling as much as my wife and I do, we know you should always (yes always) ask people before you take their picture.

No matter how sneaky you think you are. Yes, this means you. You never know when the process of taking someone's picture is going to actually steal their soul.

In fact, I'm sure that technology is already out there. NSA, I'm looking in your direction.

More yard art

Worried about all this, but still intrigued by his appearance, I actually turned around and rode back up a giant hill, only to decide I would have ruined the older gentleman's sunset. Or somehow upset him.

But who needs an image when you have words, right? 

He looked like an old guy, sitting with his legs crossed on an unpainted wooden chair that's probably been on the porch since it was built in the 1950s. He gazed westward, contently watching the sunset over his neighbor's towering green trees.  

He wore jeans that hadn't been laundered lately - per Asheville regulations - and what I can only imagine was a blue flannel shirt, even though it was about 85 degrees outside. 

That's the cool thing about getting old: flannel in the summer. 

Also the name of my next studio album.

Sidewalk art

Natural art

For a few months now, I've been semi-obsessed with capturing an image of downtown Asheville from one of the mountain tops that surrounds the city. I've seen many of these images, but I can't figure out exactly which hill to climb.

Downtown Asheville is hiding in there somewhere

So, I rode up the most logical hill. It took about 20 minutes. And yielded the image above.

Close, but not the one I was hoping for.

At least the ride down was a blast. Winding my way through the trees, I made it back down in about two minutes. 

I suppose after five months here, that's my big theory. A biking theory. Any hill you climb, just lop a zero off the end of the time it took you to do so and that's how long it will take to get down.

For example:

• 20 minutes up, two minutes down
• 50 minutes up, five minutes down
• 10 beers up, one beer down

Once again, thanks for stopping by. Don't forget to purchase an FYiA commemorative cheese plate in the gift shop on your way out.

The Asheville Tourists

Missed again

Those of you out there who know me well - assuming there are people out there - know I can be a little obsessive.

So I spent the entire week doing PolPro testing around the neighborhood. I reached speeds previously unheard of on a bike. I think I might have even broken the sound barrier, since windows were shattering as I sped down the winding hill on Bear Creek Road.

Yesterday, I rode out to Bent Creek again. (Note the obsessive behavior). Luckily, I remembered the new rig for the PolPro.

Then I had an epiphany - not only should the PolPro be shoved into the rig upside down, I should clip it to my backpack upside down and bingo! Right?

In theory.

Turns out, the camera - really an iPhone, shhh - was in selfie mode. Therefore, all five kickass videos of world-class trails feature a close-up of my chest.

Blackness.

So I give up. Let's talk about last week's Asheville Tourists game instead! 

The Tourists are the minor league team for the Colorado Rockies. And what a bunch of fine lads they are. Though they lost four to two to the Delmarva Shorebirds, they went down swinging.

Doesn't matter. The game was a blast. Check out this video of how much fun my neighbor's kids have running the bases after the game!

Oh. That's right. I don't have a few days to try and figure out why I can't upload videos to blogger.

Which really means I can't convince my friends to figure it out.

So let's talk about the Tourists!

And let's...get...some...runs!

The PolPro is dead, long live the PolPr...

It was a really beautiful day today, so I rode back to Bent Creek and hit the trails again.

I found a series of downhill dips that was so awesome, I had to strap the PolPro (Polish GoPro) onto the front of my backpack so I could share my ride with the world.

Or the three people who read this blog. But in theory, the whole world.

As you can see, the PolPro still isn't quite ready for the market. Just as things were getting interesting, the PolPro came loose, bounced off my handlebars, and shot into the mud on the side of the trail.

Coming back up the trail a few minutes later, I started thinking the PolPro was gone. For good.

Then I thought, "Why don't I just call it?"

Then I remembered the PolPro was my only phone. And it actually belongs to my employer.

Luckily, I found it. It was less than a foot from a giant puddle.

Awesome.

How was your day?

GET ON YOUR BIKES AND RIDE!!!

Getting Bent

Fine, it's Bent Creek Experimental Forest, not Bent Creek National Forest. Same same.

Also, I'm aware that my Polish Go-Pro needs a little work on image stabilization. And I know there's no ending to this fine film, as I had to trim it to fit.

But help me remember, how much does your subscription to this blog cost?

I love you too.

Sssssssssssssssssssssss

Happier times:

Barb at Doc Brown's BBQ truck

Well, the day is upon us. It had to come. I'm finally going to break bad on Asheville!

Ready?

What's with all the fucking flat tires around here?!!

Seriously. I've been to the bike shop three times already. I like everyone at my new place, but...

The last time I headed over there, Barb asked me, "What's the definition of insanity?"

"I know," I said. "I'm getting rid of this bike. Let me just go talk to them and figure things out."

The mechanic who worked on my bike - the first and third time - was nice enough to tell me that the other guy worked on my bike - the second time - did so on his last day in town. He didn't like it here and was moving back to Phoenix. So he tightened a few things, put in a new tube, and called it a tune up.

When I returned, again, the good mechanic was smart enough to notice that the inside of my tire was corrupted, so the steel mesh it's made out of was probably poking the inner tubes and causing me to go flat. Repeatedly.

Usually when I'm at the furthest point from home.

But the new tire should have hooked me up. Off I went!

Until the next flat.

So technically, I still love Asheville. I just hate my demonically possessed bike.

Wait, I just thought of something else I hate about Asheville. Apparently, when you move here, the elastic on all your underwear fails.

WTF is with that?