A Word On Getting Lost In The Kentucky Wilderness

Tit for tat.  I texted Gephrey* over the weekend and asked if he wanted to meet up for a go at Hart’s Orchard.  He said he was game, so we set a time to meet at my house, and I went back to the around-the-house chores I needed to get done for the day.  Well, there’s a little back story.  I woke up early that morning and ran from my house to the base of the hill and back.  4+ miles.  Then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  I’m not sure why I dragged poor ole Djeph into it. He arrived and we rode up the valley toward uncertainty.  I knew the hill.  I’d driven it many times over the course of my life, I’d even bombed down it on the Cannonball a couple of times when I was younger and stupider. But I’d never tried to ride up it. Tom said you lose traction near the top. Wait, Tom tried it?  Yep.  My nearly 60 year old father-in-law is a beast.  He cries pokery, but despite his slow and steady pace, he is the tortoise to many a local hare.  He can really throw down the miles. His account rings true.  I once tried to drive up the ridiculously steep gravel road in my uncle’s 1972 Chevy pickup with bald tires. No bueno.  At the very top I managed to reach the edge of the blacktop with the front tires, but the back wheels just kept spinning in the gravel.  Finally I had to back far down the hill to turn around and retreated.  In a truck! It had rained the night before Jegh and I made our onslaught, so the road base was nice and packed, tacky, and generally just in good biking conditions anyway.  I figured it was our best chance to reach the summit in one go. I led the way, cranking upward toward glory, possibly toward a first ascent of Hart’s Orchard on a bike, and then…my lower back was screaming in agony.  Two days of digging around in a tomato bed and heaving furniture and boxes around as we moved back in to our house left my poor lower core unable to cope. Jhepth continued on.  And on.  And on.  To the top. Top of Hart's Orchard Hill   I got back on the bike and finished the climb with only one stop.  I’d made it at least a third of the way up before putting a foot down.  It’s possible I made it halfway.  Haven’t gone back to discern my true fraction yet. We parted ways and I bombed back home while Dhjeff returned over Furnace to his domicile.  I was beat.  Beat down.  Broken. Crushed into oblivion.  Not only had I run 4+ miles that morning, but I had pedaled the Ute over Granny Moppet to town to pick up some stuff at the hardware store and returned via Steamshovel Hill Road.  Then I attempted Hart’s Orchard at the close of an afternoon of yard work. My partner in climb had suggested getting together the next morning to ride farther.  I said I’d have to speak with the significant and get back to him.  After chatting it up Mandy was cool with me MTBing with Schjeph in the morning as her and Casey were going to ride in the afternoon.  Jeiff’s scheme—a worthy one—was to explore a small manmade lake near his place.  It was surrounded by a mix of oil company land, national forest, and private hillbilly jungle.  The crux was that the obvious way in, from the paved county road, had been blocked by some homesteaders and their house trailer.  What was supposed to be a county road that went all the way up to the lake was barred by a private gate.  We were going to go in the back way. Bright and early I was ripped from slumber by the cruel alarm.  I grumbled something about “why, when my parents asked 7 year old me if I wanted a bike, did I say YES?!”  “When my uncle Terry helped me to learn to ride the stupid thing why did I have that awful silly grin on my face?”  If only I knew that someday I’d be waking up carrying the burden of a promise to go ride with a Monzter…a mountain biking monster that caused the Energizer bunny to wake up in a cold sweat…if only I knew that, I’d have said: “Nope, don’t want to learn to ride that cussed thing. Get. It. Out. Of. My. Sight.” I had claimed I was going to ride from my house to meet Chjeffph at his house.  That morning I sat on the edge of the bed chanting: “holy swearing cuss!” over and over.  Nope, not going to pull it off with this equipment. I’m driving.  Oh, did I say that out loud? I jammed The One in the back of my car and drove out Furnace to the abode of the devil mountain biker.  He had some scheme involving “exploring” around a lake near his house.  I had a feeling the whole affair was going to end in a search and rescue operation.  I couldn’t have been more wrong. We followed our noses—though both informed and savvy noses—out Mountain Springs Road into a place where my mental map had a few holes.  I had a pretty good image of the USGS topo imprinted on my brain, but those parallel dashed lines across the paper didn’t tell me what lay before us. I’d seen too many cases where what appeared to be a road on the map was nothing more than an over grown bench or a creekbed.  Djough and I “biked” up Sterling Road recently proving those dashed lines on the Slade quadrangle wrong. While we were bombing down the rough blacktop road into the enigmatic jungle that skirts the Powell-Estill County line I saw the brown blur of a marker that indicated a Forest road.  “That’s our road!” I called over the roaring clack of my rear hub. “Let’s see where this goes; we can always come back,” Joigh countered.  I nodded in agreement and slammed down on the ole Crank Brothers Mallets. The forest opened up and we saw a cabin off to the left overlooking a small valley below the road on the right.  There were “No Trespassing” signs around the house, but as the pavement degraded to dirt in an instant the road seemed more welcoming than not.  We stopped just a few yards beyond the house and peered down the dirt road into the darkness of the woods. “We could go back to that other road.”  Mjeef offered.  I looked ahead, not really thinking about the road we’d passed.  The one ahead looked fun.  The very beginning of the dirt section was a series of small sandstone ledges.  It looked rough, rugged, and just…FUN. “Nah, let’s check this out,” I replied. He mentioned the signs.  “Those were back at the house.  The road isn’t posted and it looks like it gets a lot of ATV traffic.”  I wasn’t necessarily worried about being caught trespassing.  I’d been stomping all over those hills and woods my whole life.  I was pretty sure I could talk my way out of any mess.  Wish that were true… Anyway, down we went.  The road was damp sand and dirt for a while.  We had to skirt the larger mudholes but were staying pretty clean for the most part.  It had rained the night before and the night before that, so I was expecting a full-on hog wallop before the day was done.  I’d not leave disappointed. The first climb we hit I made it halfway or so, which was farther than Gjaeff, but got hung up on a rock and had to put a foot down.  The finish was a two foot high ledge barring access to the apex of the climb.  Jeff skirted it and I just walked past the obstacle. The next climb he took the main line which turned out to be mud soup, and I snuck right up the obvious ATV detour and almost made it clean (at least in technique).    The final long climb I hung on for the ride, cranking and cranking until I was free of the pull of gravity.  Jeuff struggled with it for some reason, making me feel somewhat redeemed after my poor showing on Hart’s, but it was really one of those low percentage climbs that I made up in fluke mode.  It was a road-cum-rocky-creekbed covered in a layer of light-weight black mud.  I was plowing through the fluffy stuff on top relying on the “traction” of the smoothed and weathered stones beneath.  The mud held the rocks in place, the rocks provided the traction the mud did not, and my legs shut up and let me do my job.  Sha-ZAAM! Zhjeff following where I led I felt good.  Usually I walked where the demon mountain biker bunny hopped and middle-ringed it looking cool and collected. It’s not a competition, but only because Goueff doesn’t do Strava. At the top we faced a fork in the road.  It was only a figurative fork, but there was a literal split in the road.  Both ways dropped steeply away from the apex of our last climb.  We were looking for the old townsite of Pilot. We’d passed a derelict homestead on the way up and I had a feeling we were getting close, but sitting between the two paths I had my moment of wayfinding doubt.   Not my graffiti  I yanked out the ole cellular phone and let satellites in space tell me where we were. After using the handy compass app to orient myself I made the executive call that the steeper, rockier left fork was the golden path. I was afraid if we went right we’d end up dropping into the Woodward Creek drainage and be funneled miles away from where we wanted to go.  After a nice technical descent we discovered where we were: Pilot.  And we both realized at the same time that the right fork was the ATV path we’d teed into the last time we’d pedaled through Pilot.  It was satisfying to have (for the most part) followed our noses and found our way. Pilot, KY   A short ride around the south half of the Pilot loop brought us out to paved Pilot Road and the last leg of our journey.  We stopped to take in some fluids and calories before tackling the final rollers back to the mountain biking monzter’s abode.  I drove back out to civilization with the strong desire to get back real soon to explore even more of that area.  We were right about the brown Forest marker.  That would have taken us right in to the lake where we’d intended to go.   Our route (www.mapmyride.com) * Names changed to protect the innocent bystanders.

Flight of the Krampus

Haha!  Still on the run from the proper authorities.  I’ve covered considerable distance on my fat tired steed. Considerable.  For all you “investigators” out there…if I were you I’d widen the search from about 78 miles out to about 450 miles; a nice big concentric circle.  Yeah, I’d stop looking close to my house.  Obviously I’ve gotten pretty far afield and there’s no use looking near home.  And I haven’t been going in to work either, nor composing these blog posts from my office computer. In fact, I was at Skullbuster yesterday.  That’s a long way from home.   I didn’t think anyone would look for me in rural Scott County.  I evaded capture long enough to sample the fine riding to be had in the woods between Stamping Ground and Sadieville and to put my get-a-way bike through its paces. Skullbuster.  My father-in-law once (or twice) called it “Skullcracker” and that immediately invoked my movie quoting Rain Mania.  I’ve never been able to think about the Scott County MTBing area without hearing the voice of fictional principal Richard Vernon saying: “The next time I have to come in here I’m crackin’ skulls!”  For the most part I had the place to myself, which was good, because I didn’t want to get caught for stealing the Krampus and cracking Jack’s skull.  I saw one guy in the parking lot airing up a tire, but I bolted before he could get a good description, flinging up dust and detritus in his face as I tore away down the narrow paved road toward the trail with only a look over my shoulder that said: “Don’t mess with the bull young man, you’ll get the horns.”  I then had the entire trail system to myself until I was almost back at the end of my ride when I passed two jersey guys heading in. They startled me like non-poisonous snakes in the trail.  I scowled inwardly knowing they were going to crush my Strava record for the day.  It’s okay, I plowed both of them off the trail, and last I heard they were screaming as they tumbled down into a briar-choked ravine.  That’s one ruckus I don’t want to describe, sir. Anyway, I really liked Skullbuster.  The character and scenery are constantly changing as you ride through heavy understory, open forest, hardwood and evergreen stands, open fields, along streambeds and over undulating and varied terrain.  The one common thread through the whole system is the trail surface.  Skullbuster is a rocky, rooty place where my speed could find no purchase.  The trail is fraught with roots throughout.  It’s frictive properties slowed me down to a 13 hour Leadville pace.  Also in abundance are tight squeezes between trees; pinch points where there is the distinct danger of busting your knuckles for certain, and potentially your skull as well if you don’t clean them precisely.  Since the Krampus has such wide bars I had to cut most of them down to fit through, so you are welcome. One thing Skullbuster also has in spades is trail ambiance…maybe you could call it trail culture.  The signs and icons along the way make the ride more than interesting.  At the Blue Loop junction there is a skull.  I don’t think it was human, but it could have been from one of those people characterized as “horse-nosed” I guess.  I might have been besettled with dread at the stark brutality of a cracked up skull on the side of the trail, except, in my newly attained status of “hardened criminal” and potentially “armed and dangerous” (It’s only legal in two states, and this ain’t one of them) I waved a hand dismissively and pedaled on through the Blair Witch-esque landscape. Then there is the “Skullbuster” mailbox. What I’ve heard is that the name comes from a local church where the lintel of the door was so low that congregants often cracked their crowns.  Of course that could be bunk to disguise the real danger to mountain bikers who ride without helmets. Signs are posted to let you know about sights along the way—the names of ponds, a cemetery, and my favorite: the “hog waller.” Of course, I would have called it the “hog wallop” if I had made the sign.  Wouldn’t I be outstanding in that capacity? The cowbell hanging from a low branch over the trail was a nice touch.  Clangy goodness always inspires cyclists to ride faster.  I had plenty of motivation to ride fast as Roscoe and Flash were in hot pursuit.  Well, probably. Speaking of…about 8 miles into my ride I started thinking about how I used to seek out trails like this as a kid on my steel framed banana-seat tankcycle.  I remember bombing down a path through the weeds in a huge field out beyond the suburb where we lived in Ohio.  The local kids called it the “Dukes of Hazzard Trail.”  At some point the developer had excavated flat homesites on a long downhill grade.  We rode across those, dropping down 3 to 4 feet at the edge of every lot.  Then you could turn around and climb back up to the ragged street end of our neighborhood.  When I was a freshman in high school they finally built out that neighborhood.  Back in those days I sought out scrappy dirt trails to wrestle, like a wee Andrew Clarke (not that one!) efficiently tackling a roughshod hoodlum John Bender. But ‘ware the surprise switchblade of inattention.  As a kid I went down, breath effectively knocked out of me, more often than I care to recount.  Never a busted skull though… I hit a stride somewhere beyond mile six or so.  I was finally comfortable rolling over the roots, whipping through the tight spaces, and staving off my weariness with growls of determination.  The trail stretched long.  I was racing the definition of “long lunch” (truth be told, I’ve not been on the lam at all, that was a complete and total fabrication designed to throw off the scent of my true demented and sad, but social sin of playing a skotch of hooky), and I was getting a little bored with having my teeth rattled so.  I like mountain biking, I do, and I like it primarily because it does jounce me around and rattle my teeth in a highly proprioceptive kind of way.  But enough is enough!  I hadn’t had lunch, I was desperately hungry, and it was far too warm yesterday for soup.  The world being the imperfect, screw-dropping place that it is, I had to ride myself out of my Krampus-thieving fantasy and back into the la-la land of reality.  It seemed unwise at this juncture in my career to flaunt personnel policies too much.  Of course, I had my “professional development” spin in my back pocket just in case.  My mile 6 – 8 reverie deepened into a endorphin-flooded, trance-like state where I hit a state of FLOW despite the growing hollowness in my legs and the crustification of the surface of my skin (it was HOT yesterday!) and I began pondering all I’d heard about Skullbuster and filtering through my own experience with the trails.  Yes, it was a rocky, rooty place.  But you could get around that by finding within yourself some quintuplets of power and throwing up a ladder to their nursery-room window and snatch one.  They got more than they can handle after all.  Once you got that Nathan Jr of experience you could find your speed and Skullbuster would be a fantastic place to ride.  FLOW was there; elusive, but present.  Ghegh was somewhat disinclined to load up the MTBs on the vehicles for the indignity of being hauled to a far-flung trailhead in Scott County, but I think it would be worthwhile to spend a good long day cracking bones there. I was fortunate enough to find myself within striking distance yesterday and couldn’t pass up the opportunity.  I’m glad I did.  It was a painful gauge on where I’m at in relation to the Mohican (I suspect the trails there are similar) and Leadville. So when the Dick Vernon in my brain says, concerning my potential return to the place of the skull: "You might learn a thing or two about yourself.  You might even decide whether or not you'd care to return."    I say: “excuse me sir, I can answer that right now. That'd be yes.”   Happy 1,000th post!

Incognito Trip Report: On the Run From Johnny Law

I did it.  I saw a Surly Krampus and I couldn't contain myself.  Here's the text I sent my wife from parts unknown:

"Went by bike shop to get some gels.  They have two Krampi.  Well, had two. I'm actually on the lam with one now.  Will you call the shop and make sure I didn't hit Jack in the head too hard? I'll call you with further instructions. No funny stuff!"

I managed to make it...well, I'm not going to tell you how many miles...yesterday and I'm out of gels and in need of assistance.

Wait, no, I still have a few gels (remembered there would be a record of the total number that law enforcement personnel could use to calculate my distance [1 gel=X calories, X calories will carry man who weighs Y and fat bike Z miles]) and I scavenged some empty packets from the LBS garbage can.  Or did I?

This Krampus is like a dream though.  I haven't had to stick to roads or trails at all.  It just rolls over everything!  But that old lady that was run down by a cyclist at Veterans...no, that wasn't me trying to throw off pursuit.  I may or may not be headed south in the clothes I was last seen wearing.  And you don't know what color my hair is today or will be tomorrow.

Before I chose a final line of flight I poached a couple laps on the new trails in Versailles.  Those words rhyme in Kentucky.  I did a circuit of Vet, Cap View, Vertrailles, and Skullbuster.  Since I'd never be able to show my face around the Bluegrass again I decided I should at least ride the four Crown Jewels of mountain biking in Central Kentucky one last time.

Now I guess I'll spend my days throwing off the scent with random Strava segments pointing at no place in particular.  Tell my wife and kids I love them!  The Krampus made me do it!

Oh, this is my 999th post.

Bow to the Creator (Of Erroneous Strava Segments): Or, How I became KOM All Over Eastern Kentucky

I'm on a Strava segment-creation mission. It's apparent to me now that more people ride bikes in Powell County and the RRG area than I'd previously thought. Strava tells the story. So my goal is to get the segments created in sensible ways.

And crush them.

Gioff and I had a fantastic ride on Saturday. We visited four counties, getting as far east as Morgan County, and we covered 80 miles through some truly amazing rural areas.

I met Jhogh at the mouth of Cat Creek at 6am and we headed east. It had been an interesting journey to that point for me. The night before the ride we got home late. Since "home" still meant (we moved over the weekend) my sister's extra bedroom it's often difficult to keep up with/find my cycling gear.

I spent considerable time the night before trying to find my gloves and light mount and get everything together. I never found the light mount. That was problematic since we were meeting at 6am in Rosslyn. I would need to leave Clay City a full hour and a half before sunrise. I remembered that Mandy had used to light for Nada Tunnel on the Gorge Loop, so I thought maybe the mount was still on her handlebars on her bike at her parents'. It was after 10pm and they are notoriously early resters, so I decided to wait until the morning to go over to avoid being mistaken for a thief or pet abductor.

The light issue thwarted my plan to ride from Clay City. I considered riding to my in-laws house in the pre-dawn darkness holding the light with one hand, but the sound of a deluge in the darkness underlying that of my alarm at 4:40am convinced me I needed to drive there and ride with a properly mounted light. Finally I was on the road headed east for my rendezvous with Geph. The rain stopped before I headed out, but the roads were all wet.

I only waited for J'ff about five minutes and we headed straight out along highway 15 toward Nada as we hashed out a plan. After crossing into the Gorge we cautiously descended the wet road to Grays Branch. It was quiet in the Red River Gorge as we started up Tarr Ridge Road from the river bottoms to Tarr Ridge proper. The ascent was easier than I expected. I'd driven it many times, but had never biked up it.

We continued into Menifee County through rolling ridgetop farmland out to 460 south of Frenchburg. At 460 we were caught in a short rain shower, but it didn't amount to much. Both of us agreed the weather wasn't detracting from the ride. From 460 we headed south, through the stunning scenery beyond Pomeroyton, Maytown, and almost to Toliver. Just before Toliver we headed west once again along the Red River where is still passes through farmland Un-Gorged. After reaching 746 we made a short, fast descent to the river bridge at the upstream end of the Upper Red River Gorge. We stopped there for a few minutes before cranking out the rollers over Calaboose and back into semi-civilized territory east of Campton.

Upper Red River from the 746 bridge

Zheff set a good pace into town and as we cruised through downtown he commented that he'd never been to Campton before. Of course he blinked...and I refused to turn around and go back so he could see it. It was probably good we moved on because Cheph wanted to peruse a "yard sale" in the parking lot of the Marathon food mart at Pine Ridge. He bought a hand planer and a stationary bike, and I picked up two cane bottom chairs. They were a bit awkward lashed to our sporty sport bikes, but how can you pass up a good deal?

The yard sale haul would have slowed our descent from Zachariah to Slade except I made that part up. We were way ahead of schedule so we texted the...ladies (see Demetri Martin)...to let them know we'd just ride on through Slade instead of meeting them at Miguel's Pizza like we'd planned. There we'd eat pizza and trade off the kids so Mandy and Casey could go ride.

I pulled and Zhepf pushed, calling out “car back!” way more consistently than I do. It’s obvious he’s been the more social rider and me the more anti-social. We literally flew, with angels wings, all the way to Slade. Flew. Sha-ZAAM!

After Slade I could feel the miles dragging at my body, but my legs kept cranking. Djeff made the comment that once we parted ways we’d both slow way down. I agreed, but I wasn’t so sure I was going to slow. My ride all the way back to Stanton down the broad river valley was flat. Of course Jeugh still had to climb up and over the highest rock in the county. Poor Jeff.

Then we did part ways, after a fantastic ride around the Outer Loop of the Red River Gorge, and I knuckled down a gear, settled into my drops, and cranked along at 17-22 mph until I coasted up the 27% grade of my in-laws drive-way. I looked at my phone: 80.0 miles.

From Bowen on the skies threatened…lo, they followed through on what had seemed hollow threats all morning long. A nasty drizzle settled in as I plodded toward warmth and dry clothes, soaking me thoroughly before I reached the Promised Land. Once I uploaded my Strava track I found that two days prior (at least) three guys from Michigan also traced many of the roads we’d just pedaled. One of those guys also did Leadville last year. This is a story I’d never have known save for Strava. Then I set to creating some meaningful segments.

 

Later on Saturday I was driving to the house with a load of stuff from the storage building and saw a man and a preteen boy riding what looked like nice road bikes over Steamshovel Hill. I gawked. I didn’t know who they were, but they looked to be local, not jersey-clad out-of-towners. Things are looking up in the Red River Valley. Oh yes, the bikes be a-comin’.

Pointless Post About Pointlessness

As I wasn’t trying to come up with a post topic this morning an idea popped into my head: I’ll write about the bike ride I’m planning tomorrow.

In the past I’ve considered that maybe people don’t want to read about things I’m planning on doing.  But I’ve thankfully shoved that thought under the couch where it belongs.   I mean, if I didn’t write about things in the future then I wouldn’t have compiled a gazillion posts called The Leadville Chronicles Saga.  I’m considering binding all of those posts into a coffee table book.  Since we don’t have a coffee table at home I think I’ll have to pedal peddle them out on the internet.

Yes, I’ve discovered the joys of strikethrough this morning.

Anyway, I feel guilty that a large portion of my blog is all pontification, while a less than equal part is reflection and analysis, while an equally less equal third portion is all prose and an attempt at dry wit.

 

I know what you’re asking yourself right now.  Is he going to write about the ride tomorrow?

It’s been raining for a few days.  Well, that’s not true, it actually didn’t rain yesterday and was quite nice, however, the ground was sodden making for a sad mountain biker.  I was so sodden, I mean sad, that I just didn’t even have the gumption to subject the Dogrunner to the indignity of being hauled on the back of my car so I could do a road ride at lunch.  Instead I ran at the park after work while Boone warmed up for his baseball game.

Whilst running I had a thought. 

Oh, you want to know what it was?  Well, it was about the future, so I’m not sure it would be appropriate for this blog.  Are you certain?  Okay, I’ll just keep it to myself.  What?  Well, for Pete’s sake speak up!  A vocal minority doesn’t like seem to like reading about things I’m going to do. Oh, there’s more of you?  Well, it’s my blog after all.  You don’t have to shout.  Oh, you’re not my readers. It’s just the voices in my head…

Tomorrow the plan is to wake Jeff up really early with cymbals and firecrackers and a bucket of cold water and go do an 80 mile ride upon the blacktop (what we Appalachans call pavement) and return before noon so our significant others can also get in a ride.  I’ve really enjoyed being back here and just going out for fun rides.  Unfortunately most of my rides have been for training purposes and have been the epitome of hellish suffering upon the bike.  Not really.  If I’d suffered more I wouldn’t be so absolutely freaked out that the Mohican is only 21 days away.  I’m kinda lazy that way.

 The route I have in mind is Stanton up through the Gorge over to Beattyville and back to Stanton via Furnace Mountain (named so because it burns).  However…logistically Jeff and I probably need to end up in Slade because the cyclo-ladies are planning on doing the Gorge Loop.  I gotta rethink this.  So yes, not only have I blogged about a future event, but I’ve now changed my mind about said event before ending the post and I’m not going to go back and rewrite the post.  I’m a stream-of-consciousness kind of guy.

And what was the thought I had while running yesterday?  Well, I like biking because it allows me to cover a lot of ground and see a lot of terrain in a shorter period of time.  In Kentucky the good conditions for mountain biking are less frequent, and even for road biking the weather is less than cooperative (die Bill Meck!), but for running…well, I will run/hike in any conditions.  I don’t mind rain, snow, ice, heat, tornadoes, volcanoes, meteor strikes…it’s all good.  And if I’m running I’m covering a lot of ground faster than I could walking.  And without a bike, helmet, clicky shoes, a tool kit, etc, etc.  The simplicity is appealing.  Just me, my shoes, a pair of running shorts and my iPhone.  For Strava...

Shut up!

I’ve though those ultra-endurance runners that do Leadville are crazy.  I’m not saying I’ll ever want to run Leadville, but I’m thinking I can get into running more heavily to stay in shape.  Obviously that will have to begin after biking in Leadville this year.  For now I’m committed to my saddle time.  For now I’m a cyclist above any other hat I might choose to think about wearing in the future.

The Long Bike Back

Instead of posting a long monotribe (singular of diatribe) I'm just going to direct you to this site.

Here's the blurb:

Pearson Constantino was preparing to fulfill his lifelong dream of bicycling across the United States when he was hit from behind by an SUV.  Despite his helmet, Pearson suffered serious and permanent injuries including a shattered femur, a crushed vertebra, and a head injury.  The Long Bike Back, a feature length documentary, follows his grueling recovery and his inspiring ride across America with his brother, Pete, advocating for road sharing and improved bicycle infrastructure and legislation. 

People don't like to think or talk about the reality that cyclists can get hit by cars and injured or killed.  Having been a full time bike commuter and an unapologetic utility cyclist I have had more close calls than I care to tally and have read about and seen evidence of more collisions than should be happening in modern society.

Somebody needs to address the marginalization of cyclists, and our society needs to fully embrace the idea that bikes are more than toys and have a legitimate place on the roads.  It seems this effort supports that fully.

Rusch Hour

This is for Tommy:

 

Someday I'm going to do the KTR.

PMRP...You Up!

Sometimes I come up with insane ideas.  There was this time…well, a lot of times actually…that I went hiking all alone, miles from nowhere, with no itinerary left behind, no food, little water, only little ole me…  Then there was the time I convinced Mandy and our Thankfully-Ex-Idiot-Brother-In-Law to paddle Big Sinking Creek at bankfull in Discovery Otter kayaks (flatwater boats).  It was Class II and classic!  Once I talked a client to bike a few miles out FS 9b (Indian Creek Road) when it was closed due to a landslide so we could climb the pinnacle route Minas Tirith.  We had a blast. 

The whole biking phenomenon changed the way our family looked at transportation.  Mandy and I biked the kids a lot of places most people wouldn’t consider.  As a family we’ve biked to and from church on Sunday mornings.  We’ve biked to nighttime events.  We biked to the start of Stage 6 of the 2012 USA Pro Cycling Challenge.  I’ve transported Beanie to the babysitter on my way to work via the Xtracycle.  We even did a short family bikepacking trip in Wyoming.  I wanted to find a from-the-front-door family bike tour that was feasible.  I think we would have done that in Colorado this summer, and I think in Kentucky it’s just a matter of me mapping something novel and doable.  

We had this plan to do the recent Powell County Kiwanis Natural Bridge 5k at Natural Bridge State Park in the eastern end of the county.  We’ve been running to get ready, and by “we” I mean Mandy.  I’ve been primarily riding to condition because I’ve got these stupid mountain bike races coming up this summer. 

I hatched this scheme that I would ride my bike to the starting line, run the race, and then ride away in glory and infamy.  Well, that didn’t happen.  A perfect storm came along and I made the executive decision not to ride to the race, but I did still tentatively plan on riding with Jeff after the race.  So I hitched up The One to the undignified position of being hauled on the back of my car.  First thing Saturday morning we headed up to the Skylift area where the race was staged.

Jeff’s wife was also planning on running the race.  They hauled Jeff’s bike (nickname unknown) to the race and he planned, as did I, of heading straight out afterward for mountain biking glory as our respective running chicas sensibly drove home after the 5k.

However, while Mandy, Casey, and I ran the 5k, Jeff just stood on the sidelines, legs all fresh, cheering for me to RUN FASTER.  Haha. 

I knocked out a respectable (for me) 28:00 finish.  Considering the course has one long hill and is not the zero grade I’ve been training on—and my lack of event specific training—I’m happy with that time.  I was third in my age group (35-39) though I could have been second.  I just didn’t realize there was another 35-39 year old ahead of me and also the guy my age directly in front of me.  I decided since I’d paced the guy in front of me the whole race I wasn’t going to sprint past him at the very end and take first from him.  But I should have…

They gave a medal for second and a cool trophy made by a local potter for first.  I was third.  Next year I’m crushing my age group…wait…next year I’ll be in the 40-44 and those other guys will still be in the 35-39.  I got a chance!

Anyway, Jeff was rarin’ to go afterward.  I changed into my MTBing garb in the restroom there at the putt-putt golf and we headed out for parts sort-of unknown.

I say “sort-of” because at one time they were 100% known to me.  Time has passed and conditions have changed.  Jeff and I had scouted the descent into Sand Lick not so long ago, and it almost crushed my soul (as if that were possible), and so I hinted at a run up Sterling Road, the east side of that same ridge that was the fun climb on my go-to bike loop from Slade years ago.  I hardly had to mention it before Jefe the Jammer was like, “Let’s do it!”  He didn’t know what he was getting himself in to.  But I don’t think he cared either.

We pedaled easily up the Graining Block Valley along highway 11 from Slade.  Once we reached the turnoff I saw evidence that Uncle Sam had been molesting his charges again…boulders and a huge berm blocked the old pull-off.

To get onto Sterling Road from the highway you first have to cross the creek, either by wading, or by walking across the old I-beam structure of a bridge that’s about fifteen feet above the shallow water.  It’s plenty wide enough, but somewhat awkward whilst lugging a mountain bike.  I told Jeff if he would just ride across I would immortalize him on iPhone video.  He opted not to go for the fame and glory.

Once established on the west side of the Middle Fork of Red River we began tearing it up, blazing up the road toward the crest of Big Bend ridge.  Well, that’s what we intended to do.  Instead we spent a good long time wallowing over berm & trench barriers (tank traps) that were spaced about 100’ apart for the entire 1.5 mile section.  We averaged 1.4 mph on a 6.9% grade.  And it wasn’t because my 5k runnin’ behind was slowing us down thank you very much!  Nope, tank traps, deadfalls and briar thickets enhanced our mountain biking experience.  At one point Jeff said in reference to the popular Skullbuster area (and I totally believe him): “I’d rather be doing this than driving to Georgetown!”

The old road was so overgrown he remarked at one point: “People aren’t even walking in here.”

“Well, except for us mountain bikers,” I countered.

The summit ridge was hard won, and eventually we were cruising along Big Bend Road grinding the gravel unfettered.  It had cost us a lot, and it was another cut to the heart of a once hillbilly mountain biker.  While Sand Lick seems salvageable, Sterling Road is a lost cause.  The damage the Forest Service wreaked in there wasn’t the killing blow, but the neglect over the past few years has made the road almost impassable with obstacles.  It would take far too much to bring it back to any kind of usable condition.

However…the day was not lost.

We continued on south out of Big Bend and down from Leeco to Fixer in the Big Sinking Creek drainage.  We were headed toward the Pendergrass-Murray Recreational Preserve (commonly known as the PMRP), a tract of land owned by the Red River Gorge Climbers Coalition (RRGCC).  I was once a member of the Coalition and had been elected to the first Climbers Advisory Council in the history of the group way back in the day.

Some climbers with a predilection to go upon two wheels had planned, designed and built a mountain bike trail near the world famous Motherlode climbing area on Bald Rock Fork.  Bald Rock Fork’s confluence on Big Sinking Creek is a few miles south of where we dropped into the valley at Fixer.  Jeff and I cranked on down Big Sinking until we reached the mouth of BRF and we then headed up into the heart of the Southern Region (climber parlance).

I had a general idea where the trail was.  I didn’t know the exact location, but I knew the area well enough to know where it wasn’t.  I found the obscure singletrack fairly easily and Jeff took the lead.  It’s a good trail.  Oh, it’s not built to IMBA standards, but it’s better than some other “mountain bike trails” I’ve been on in Kentucky.  The only pressing criticism I have is that of maintenance/traffic.  There’s at least a full fall/winter season of leaves and detritus on the bench.  That’s okay; Jeff said he’d go back ASAP and rake the whole thing.  I agreed an impromptu, unofficial, volunteer trail day was in order.  TBA.

It’s a decent little trail.  It’s not a beginner trail, but it’s not ridiculously hard either—evidenced in my being able to ride it.

After an out-and-back run we were faced with a return ride back up Big Sinking, a climb up to the ridge and then a decision: over Pilot to Jeff’s abode or down Middle Fork back to Slade and a call out for SAG?

I didn’t think I had it in me to do the double ridge crossing and traverse of Pilot Road it would take to get to Jeff’s house.  I knew if I could climb out of Fixer I could coast most of the way back to Slade.  I’d done it before.  In my head it seemed like less miles too.  But I wasn’t sure.

We parted ways at the bottom of Fixer hill, Jeff heading for home and me heading back to Slade for a rendezvous with my SAG crew.  Fixer Hill? 

Hey! I’d be getting a Strava segment I’d not expected at the least.

The finish to our 35 mile epic was bittersweet.  I was stoked to see a new trail, but bummed that an old classic was destroyed for no good reason.

 

One relatively open section of Sterling Road

 

Near the top of the climb on Sterling Road

 

Heading downstream on Bald Rock Fork

(30 seconds after putting my phone away I crashed into the water)

 

 

Dying in the Orchard

In Colorado I had a testpiece MTB hillclimb: the gravel road on North Table Mountain I called The Mordwand. I found other respectable and harder climbs in the area, but The Mordwand became my benchmark. I'd planned on being KOM on it as part of my Leadville training this year. Well, obviously I can't incorporate it into my daily commutes anymore.

The good/bad news is that recently I've remembered a gravel road climb in my hometown that will serve as a suitable and not so comparable benchmark: Hart's Orchard.

The Mordwand is 0.78 miles in length with 428 feet of gain: a 10% average grade. The crux section of the climb is 0.2 miles long with 226 feet of gain for a whopping 20% average grade!

Hold on to your hemorrhoids kids! Hart's Orchard is 0.34 miles in length and gains 469 feet, 41 feet more than Mordwand, in less than half the distance of the Colorado testpiece. 26%!!!

 

 

The good news? Yes, I promise there is good news. It's not the pack of dogs that dwell in wait at the base of Hart's. The good news is this: 2 miles.

The base of Hart's Orchard Hill is 2 miles from my driveway. So when I expire in the shade of one of the few apple trees that remain in the ridge top orchard they won't have far to haul my dead carcass.

Once we get moved back to our house it will be easier to go throw myself at Hart's Orchard for a quick self-destructive workout. Stay tuned True Believers!

[One last addition, the map above shows the crux climb but unless you turn around and head down from the highpoint shown--which I DON'T recommend--there is still a bit of climbing to get to your highpoint: here is the complete climb]