You don't have to be a Fleck or a Dave (see bike camping posts below) to enjoy good time bicycle participatory ridingness. Two stuffs you might enjoy coming up soon (MPLS local):

1) Bicycle Film Fest is coming up in like a week. Go to it. See movies. Cruise toward the fest on watever bike you choose to ride, joining up with more and more people on bikes as you get closer to your destination. Although you'd never know it by looking at the website, Surly is a main sponsor for the Minneapolis leg. Informations about films, schedules and locations may be found here.

2) Premier fine arts museum The Minneapolis Institute of Arts is hosting Bike Night At The MIA, part of their ongoing Third Thursdays series of events. Bikes, arts, entertainments, even beer, all packed into one spectacular evening. Go to it. The Eye Of Surly Commands you!

I haven’t seen much of southern Minnesota from the saddle, so I decided to ride down to the Dirt Burger hootenanny in Decorah, IA…about 290km southeast of home. The LHT, shod with 700 x 40mm Michelin City tires, was my trusty mule for the trip to and from Decorah. I had my 1x1 shuttled to the event, so I’d have a more suitable mount for the hilly single-track, baseball diamond bucketball, rogue night rides, and derby circle antics.

I left Minneapolis around 3:00pm on Wednesday and rode toward Big Woods State Park, 85km down the road. My route took me on pavement and gravel, over hills and expansive prairies, through strip-mall littered-suburbia and, finally, into farm country. I arrived at the park around 8:30, filled up with water, and hustled to get my campsite organized before the sun completely set. After getting my gear squared away and making myself comfortable under my reflective-tarp lean-to, I cooked dinner, stoked the fire in the woodstove, and watched the incredible lightning show that kept the otherwise-pitch-black surroundings eerily and erratically lit until the wee hours.





My stove weighs less than 1.3kg, including the chimney, so I don’t mind toting it along on my outings. I’m always making modifications, and I look forward to field-testing the unit after each revision. The latest changes include relocation of the chimney to the front of the stove, the addition of a removable 75mm-tall pan at the bottom, and front draft holes. The efficiency of a stove, vs. an open fire, allows me to gather an evening’s wood supply in 5-10 minutes. The 1.5m chimney keeps smoke out of my eyes and lungs. And I can save Esbit fuel tabs by cooking evening meals and boiling questionable water on the woodstove.

I packed up Thursday afternoon and left Big Woods after a 2-hour hike over the park’s hilly terrain. Relentless headwinds kept my average speed low, and I was nowhere near the day’s planned 125k goal, Lake Louis State Park, as the evening light waned. I scrambled for a place to set up camp for the night. But after searching side roads for an hour and failing to find a suitable spot, I decided to keep on pedaling toward the park. It turned out to be one of my favorite parts of the trip.

Traffic was almost nonexistent on old highway 56, the wind had almost stopped, stars filled the cloudless sky overhead, and another incredible lightning storm lit up the heavens southeast of me. The storm kept moving away from me, so I never caught the rain. As I rode down the center of the highway with my lights off, fireflies lit the ditches on both sides of me. Beautiful, quiet, surreal….fantastic. At 1am, I reached the park and made camp in the pea soup fog that hung in the still, moisture-saturated air. Not motivated to set up the woodstove, I made a small fire in the stove’s pan and heated water, in my stainless water bottle, to rehydrate a late dinner. Amp’d from the ride, I couldn’t sleep. So I stoked the fire and drank decaf tea until 4:30am. At 5 bells, sleep found me, and I crashed out until 10am.



After a long hike through the hardwood forest and over the prairies of the state park, I started on the final 77k push toward Decorah. I pedaled for a few hours and stopped for lunch at a small bar and grill in Lime Springs. The friendly locals sent me off on a route that promised to be relatively traffic-free and end on a winding, hilly, scenic section of nice blacktop. South winds hampered my progress a bit, but I managed to roll into Decorah around 6pm. It didn’t take long to find Dirt Burger home base…a troll camp, filled with familiar trolls, under a bridge, next to the river. Perfect.

Thursday’s rain had softened the off-road trails, so Friday’s promised night ride happened on pavement instead of dirt. I didn’t mind, because I knew we’d be riding dirt on Saturday. After ripping down local streets, checking out the ice cave, and visiting Dunning’s Spring Park, we returned to troll camp for a late night of fire, beer, and Maker’s Mark in the company of old and new friends.

I woke up early Saturday morning, because 1) I was really dehydrated and 2) my Golite Hex 3, like most of the tents, was set up in a field with no shade, and it quickly turned into a sauna as the sun rose. I moved my groundcloth and pad outside and into the shadow of the single-pole nylon tipi to get a couple more hours of sleep in the cooler outside air.

After I made breakfast and moved my shelter into the shade of the bridge, the crew got motivated to ride some dirt single-track…which conveniently started right across the river from where we were camped. The local guys guided us and schooled us on their home turf. The Decorah trails are well-built and well-routed. Tree roots, log piles, steep climbs and descents, and tight switchbacks keep it challenging and fun. The final decent was a sweet rollercoaster ride back to pavement that put a lasting smile on my face.

I filled the rest of Saturday with a much-needed dunk in the river, eating, drinking, a challenging bout of bucketball, a Jedi ride up the bluff to watch dirt-track car racing, a huge campfire, and late-night entertainment by The Skip Bernet and Tuff Russell Musical Love Explosion. I was asleep by 2am, but the party went on for another 2-3 hours.

Waking up refreshed from a well-deserved slumber, I immediately started packing up my stuff in preparation for a ride to meet up with Lynn, Noah, and my in-laws at the home of Lynn’s grandparents, 78km up the road. I needed to be in Ostrander, MN by 4pm, so we could have an early dinner together and complete the 2-hour drive back to Minneapolis by 10pm. It was apparent that the planned 10am group ride to Bluffton, a town which is conveniently located on my return route, wasn’t going to leave on time. So I filled my water bottles, said my goodbyes, and headed out toward Bluffton, solo, under threatening skies.



The light on-and-off showers were refreshing, and I finally got a push from an eastern tailwind. I kept a good pace up and down the hills on Bluffton Rd. At one point, I had to duck into a machine shed for 20 minutes to escape heavy rain, but it seemed like the worst weather stayed south of me. Calories, from a greasy burger in Harmony, and the prevailing tailwind pushed me into Ostrander at 3:45. In a way, it felt good to be done with the ride. It was Father’s Day, and I was happy to see Noah. The shower and clean clothes felt great. And my ass was sore from my time in the saddle. But part of me wanted to keep going for a couple more days.

Bike touring/camping is addicting, and I’m craving more of that multi-day 2-wheel smack. Fortunately, there’s an endless supply in any direction. And it can be obtained year ‘round, if one has the right gear and mindset to seek it.

Every year our extended clan unites in a suitable bike-friendly location to hang out for a long weekend and tool around on two-wheelers. That provides fun for the kids, parents and grandparents alike. It’s pretty cool that I dig my in-laws, so this trip is something I generally look forward to.

This year we downscaled a bit and eschewed meeting in a “bike destination town,” usually meaning somewhere in SE Minnesota or across the river in Wisconsin. Instead, everyone elected to come north from Iowa to the SixOneTwo. Maybe we brag on our trails and easily accessible bike trips too much. All of a sudden we were put on the spot and had to come up with a plan.

A number of Minneapolis cyclists have discovered a spot west of the city – a quaint campground tucked away in Carver Park Reserve. We began making this destination a once or twice-a-year family trip a few seasons ago. The 25-mile voyage is almost entirely comprised of dedicated bike paths. The trail (an old rail bed) bee lines through dense canopy, marshy wetlands and prairie while passing through a few cool old towns that have been progressively sucked into the ‘burbs. But from the trail, you’d hardly know it. It’s very scenic, peaceful riding.

We pitched the idea to the family. They took the bait. A plan was hatched and the days crossed off until it was time to get into gear. Half the clan made it clear they weren’t into camping and opted to book a nearby hotel instead. We stuck to our guns and had no intention of missing the real adventure of our urban excursion – loading everything onto bikes and getting there under our own power.

Now, our immediate family situation has grown a bit since we last pulled this off. Specifically we have an extra kid and all her attendant trappings to add into the mix. But the last time we made this trip the Big Dummy hadn’t yet been introduced. Problem solved. Implying, perhaps, there’d never really been a problem in the first place, merely a misperception.

Basically we had two adult engines, four-year-old and one-year-old living cargo units, clothing, tent, sleeping bags and pads, as well as complete camp hardware for four. And all of it had to fit on two bikes. No issue. We had some room left over. Hell, I even packed a hammock, a rain tarp, two backpacking stoves with fuel AND threw in a 10” cast iron Dutch oven to flaunt the load hauling capabilities of my rig. Don’t forget the camp axe, a kite, extra shoes, swimming trunks and a couple of books.


Ready to roll ...

“The Rig” was my Dummy with Burley attached – a vehicle with combined length only 1 foot shorter than our aging Subaru wagon. This bike/trailer combo afforded accommodation for both kids at once (one in the trailer and one on the Snapdeck). I have a Nice Rack installed up front that held two lighter panniers (clothing, sleeping bag) and a rack-top trunk bag for quick access stuff like first aid, sunscreen and repair kit. Out back I mounted one Adventure Rack on the non-drive side for panniers (kitchen gear and sleeping bags) and the standard Freeloader on the drive side with a Wideloader to stabilize the tent and other gear bags we’d rearrange depending on necessary kid seating. The Wideloader also served to haul firewood once we hit camp.

Mom has a rear-mount child carrier on her bike. That allowed us to rotate kids for napping, or to give them a change of scenery when they got cranky. In order to keep a spot open I’d shuffle the forward pannier when needed allowing our oldest girl a perfect seat with generous leg room atop the deck. Her chair was augmented by a homemade backrest – three sleeping pads lashed lengthwise. The Dutch oven, diaper bag and some food and beer we picked up along the way fit perfectly in the back of the Burley. All Mom had to carry was two clothing bags in a BOB trailer and either a kid or a pannier in the rear kid seat. I could have fit it all on the Dummy, and would have done so if only for reasons of pure bravado. But she wanted to do her part. Plus she typically has a knack for keeping me from doing foolish things for no good reason.


Deluxe seating with a questionable view.

With all the gear loaded I have to admit I was a bit skeptical how enjoyable the ride would be. As I straddled the bike and gave our oldest daughter the cue to climb on, the weight on the front fork was what I noticed the most. But as soon as we pushed off into the alley and onto the street I had the same conclusion I always do when I load the Dummy in some funky new and crazy way – it can handle it. And not just handle it okay, but handle it in style. When we turned onto the open bike path I was also impressed with the speed I could carry. A slight, mostly favorable wind helped a bit, but I could easily crank the 200+lbs of kids and gear along at an average of 13-14mph. The look on other cyclists’ faces as we rang our bells and maneuvered the human-powered land train around them was priceless.

We made it to the campground without a hitch. Once camp was firmly staked down, the Dummy didn’t stay parked for long. I used it to take the kids and Mom for laps around the grounds, fetch water, tote wood and pedal 16 miles round trip to restock food and beverages halfway through the weekend. Other campers stared, many even commented and I was happy to discuss the bike with them. I’m sure more than a few were a little freaked out. Perhaps some even thought it was silly.

Convertible family van.

Then again lots of things never cease to amaze me when I spend a few nights at a drive-in campground. I am accustomed to and prefer backcountry experiences. But I am in love with camp life and the art of running a camp, so I’ll pursue those tasks in almost any spot where I can pitch a shelter, cook over and tend a fire. Everyone else around us might have had the impression they were camping, but few really seemed to embrace it. How can you when you center your existence around something as unnatural, technology-driven and wasteful as an automobile?

I’d rise early and get the kettle going. Inevitably a few cars would crank up, campers would drive out and 20 minutes later return with disposable coffee cups and donuts or fast food they’d fetched in town for breakfast. Our neighbors slept in their cars. The party across the way appeared to drive home for the night and return the following day to play cards and sit by the fire for a few hours before driving home again to a familiar bed. Everyone around us used their cars countless times per day for something or other.

Maybe I should lighten up. But I’d take a stab that these words don’t ring hollow among the Surly blog audience – plain and simple, there’s merit in creating an adventure for the sake of an adventure. And achieving that requires a moderate amount of challenge. Getting to a campground in a car is not a challenge (unless packing a trunk tends to freak you out). But getting the whole family there by bike presented some logistical speed bumps. In the end everything fit on the bikes. We belched no carbon into the atmosphere, got a little exercise and created an experience for the kids that was much more fun than being strapped into a car seat for an hour or so. Not only did everything get there aboard bikes, but everything we needed for the whole weekend could be obtained aboard the Dummy.

Human-powered self containment – that’s pretty sweet.

I arrived home on Saturday evening to my beloved family, suddenly realizing that I had been on some magical journey, roused by my son asking me what the heck I'd been doing in Iowa. I suppose everyone who travels to Iowa gets asked this question upon their return, but my guess is that most of them spent their time sampling Amish churned butter and frolicking in fields of corn as tall as giants.

Let's just say this was not my experience. I attended Dirk Diggler, the first ever bike event of any kind held in the state of Iowa. I wasn't even planning to go until, as if by some miracle, my lovely wife gave me what some fellers refer to as the "green light" late on Friday morning. Luckily, I had shown up for work prepared for this rare occasion, having snuck out to the garage the night before after putting the kids to bed to pack my bike and hobo sack.

After pressuring Phil Raitt into abandoning his job duties and his family to attend this unholy event with me, we were headed south on hwy 52 for Decorah, arriving there at around 4:00. Needless to say our first stop was the Whippy Dip.

We got word that a gathering of cyclists was assembled under a bridge down by the river, so we headed down there to find just that. Next thing I remember was this guy falling down in one particularly slippery patch of mud:



Not long after, Johnny handed me my first cool one:

Thank you Johnny...

Then a chill of tomfoolery fell upon the gang, inspiring us to pose awkwardly whilst showing off our tattoos:


Pie Plow materialized from a cloud of smoke with a big load of something (or was it just a dream?):


I'm not saying there weren't some uncomfortable moments. Just sayin':


These fellers looked lost:


Oh yes, I mustn't forget that we rode our bikes. On trails. Really slow.


Jesse rode the log without falling down:


Dirty Cop Rode the trails and only fell down three times (but sadly not while I was taking photos):


Boy howdy did we have us some fun!


There are many other tales to be told, but alas this is about all I can squeeze out right now, so you'll just have to believe me when I say that no one got killed, although I can't say that they didn't come close. It's like my momma always said, "the sharpest light bulb don't fall far from the shed."

I never did know what momma meant when she said that.

The Dirt Burger is officially underway here in Decorah - sort of.

Last night the first installment of yay-hoo behavior commenced with the early arrival of the pre-planning committee, T-Rock, B-Pauer, Pre-Nate-al, and R Dead-to-my-Hart (who wore his best Iowa camoflage - wife beater and no shoes). They showed up to put a scare into some local trout streams before the bike things happen. Although, after seeing the lights come on at the Corner Bar last night, I can't imagine that the local fish are in any great peril - at least not before noon.

Things got off to a proper midwest start with a terrifying display of lightning and bucket-style downpours. Fortunately, growlers of IPA from the Town Hall were smuggled across the Iowa line and that made the "huddling under Rich's hammock" feel less unseemly.

Bikes were assembled and the arduous 1.3 mile (how many kilometers is that Dave?) grind to T-Bock's was made under suddenly clearing skies. We LaBronned Peanuts into one another's Schmitty's ($5.50 a pitcher thank you) and the salty goodness didn't seem to adversely affect the "taste" one bit. Hell Bent for Trevor DJed in a fashion that will likely not soon be forgotten in this quiet town. Neil Diamond went straight into a Judas Priest set that shook the very foundations.

Then it was on to the Haymarket (1.9 blocks) for some true local flavor. In true local style it was already closed. The Corner Bar (an additional 1.3 blocks) had to do and we had fun watching the oh-so-nearly-Amish T-slice get recruited for a game of tippy cup. We concurred that it's been a long time since any of us have needed some sort of challenge to increase the velocity of our drinking.

I headed up the hill shortly after the air horn sounded its second blast and the lights revealed what we had truly stumbled upon. I'm pretty sure I gave the fellers the right directions back to the campground.

Look for more updates as the weekend progresses. Or don't.

-skip

Please don't remember to not attend this event:



-skip

Friday's weather was perfect for a bike ride and an overnight stay by the river. I packed up the Long Haul Trucker with full panniers and the woodstove and attached Noah's Burley Piccolo to its Piccolo-compatible rear rack.

On the way to our campsite, we happened upon two spots where mama snapping turtles were laying their eggs along the trail. They seemed too busy tending to their motherthy duties to really care about us. I told Noah that we should put on our fuzzy duckling sock puppets and wave them in front of the turtles' faces to entertain them while they labored in the dirt, but he wasn't buying it.



The sun was getting close to the treeline, and coyotes were howling nearby as we agreed on an area to leave the trail and look for a place to make camp for the evening. As I was setting up the tent, the little dude's eyelids began to droop. A full day of school, riding 25km, and bushwhacking had wiped him out. After I got his pad inflated and his quilt laid out, he said he was "just going to take a little nap". Noah fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. I tried to wake him for a late snack. No dice. He was out for the night.

Before retiring to my air mattress (Big Agnes Insulated Air Core...thumbs up), I spent the evening in a reflective tarp lean-to...set up to block the north wind and bounce heat back at me ... stoking the wood stove, cooking food, sipping tea, gazing at an almost-full moon, watching fireflies, listening to the critters, and thinking about stove improvements and primitive shelter designs.

The rain started early Saturday morning. Our roomy shelter, a floorless single-pole GoLite Hex 3, allows us to camp rather comfortably regardless of the weather. We cooked and ate breakfast, packed up our stuff, and played 'Go Fish' in the tent while we waited for the rain to stop. Realizing it probably wasn't going to let up, we prepared for the weather at hand. Noah doesn't have good, dedicated rain gear...yet, so I layered him up in a combination of his clothes and my clothes and hoped it would be adequate to keep the rain out until we got home.



We started off in good spirits. The trail was soft and slow, but we made decent progress as the rain continued. Three more mama snapping turtles were on the trail doing their thing that morning. After 12 kilometers, Noah was starting to suffer from the wet and cold conditions. He wasn't going to last another 13k in the continuing rain. But I knew that we could duck under the freeway bridge about a kilometer down the trail. To keep him going, I did my best to assure the wet rat that we were close to some relief from rain.



When we reached the bridge, Noah helped me get a fire going. I usually let him start the fires now, so he can practice using the fire-starting tools...waterproof matches, butane lighter, flint/steel, or magnifying lens...from his ever-evolving survival kit. We quickly removed his wettest clothes and got him into some dry socks and a dry sweatshirt. The frowns quickly turned into smiles as he warmed up by the fire, sitting on a broken wooden chair, while waiting for his noodles and hot cocoa. Appropriately, we also made a hobo pie, on the fire, for dessert. Two hours passed under the bridge. We were warm and relatively dry, and we had some calories in us. Plus, the rain was letting up a bit. It was time to make the final push for home.



Energized from our layover, we enjoyed the last leg of the ride. Noah and I arrived home about an hour after our departure from the bridge...wet, dirty, tired, and happy that we'd made the decision to play outside while most of the city hid from the elements.

"I can't do with any more education. I was full up years ago."
-P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters


1) The lovely and talented Ms. Bloggins, chief of zoology and potentate at the International House of Cornflakes of NE MPLS, sends a review of a book I have not read (Pedaling Revolution: How Cyclists Are Changing American Cities by Jeff Mapes) but which, after reading the review, I would like to. The article, by David Byrne (yes, that David Byrne) is itself well formed, smart and neat. He writes, "Toward the end of the book, Mapes gets into debates over bike lanes (are they ­really safer?), safety rules (should cyclists have to obey stop signs?) and traffic ideologies (should cyclists claim a full space in a lane, or stick to the edge of the road?) that only an obsessive or an advocate (hello!) is likely to be interested in. But the debates he presents may end up helping us all."

2) The lovely and talented Ms. Bloggins also forwards this warbling chickadee. Take the opportunity this sunday between 11 and 2 to absolve at least your bike of its worldly sins and transgressions even if you yourselves cannot overcome your foul mouths and bad attitudes. "Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration, don't fail me now." -Jake Blues

3) Hippie lawyer, albino sasquatch and all around good egg, M. Moore esq. sends word that, "New Belgium Brewing is bringing their “Fat Tire Tour” to Parade Stadium in Minneapolis this July 18th. There will be a bicycle parade around beautiful Lake of the Isles ON A CLOSED PARKWAY! Yes bikes will rule the road for a couple hours anyway. This is a family and charity event and proceeds will go to MORC, The Greenway Coalition and Bicycle Alliance of Minnesota. New Belgium is estimating that 3000 riders will show up, I think they are a little low, this will be “the place to be on a bike” on July 18th."

4) The place to be two days before that will be Minneapolis Institute of Art's Tour de Force, a ride to the museum from One On One Studio, with valet (oo lala!) bike parking provided by Freewheel MPLS when you arrrive at the museum, allowing your worry free enjoyment. Partake of refreshing Surly beer (no relation) prior to the ride, get in a nice evening cruise with like-minded gentry, and upon arrival watch the 1948 Italian Neorealist movie The Bike Thief, dig on music by Kid Dakota, tour the art within, and potentially win 'prizes' from Nutcase helmets, Twin Six graphic apparel, and even a Surly bike. The flier has even more stuff listed on it too. As a wise man once told me: Art is a fart in the park after dark. Class up. Formal attire, though not required, I would consider apropos.

5) Hello God It's Me Johnny and I have lately been locking ourselves for days on end in the climate controlled, flourescent, deep rock bunker in the bowels of Surly Intergalactic HQ, which is located next door to the First Church of Corrugated Aluminum and directly across the street from Ted's Fine Shelves in the scenic Oxygen Riche district of the planet Pluto (technically no longer a planet). Theoretically the mission is the frankenstein-like creation of a possible product offering. I've been typing manifestos like they're going out of style, angrily striking keys with plastic shattering determination such that I have had to have my keyboard replaced 4 times. Johnny's been rubbing his hands together and making that Mwa-ha-ha-ha! laughing sound a lot. His latest intrabasement email memo to me (our desks, mind you, are 4 meters apart) reads in part, "I think whatever we come up with should have a lot more braze-ons. What’s that for? Pump. What’s that for? Spokes. What’s that for? Firecrackers. What’s that for? Final Solution. Huh? I mean the final solution to me getting wasted on Tequila. Ok, cool, what’s that for? Spare tight pants." Though only begun, I remain confident that we can keep drinking until something makes sense. Even the most absurd theories have occasional anomolies of pattern which look sufficiently like they originate from intelligent consideration. Meanwhile, the list supplied at one of the more recent Surly staff meetings shows projects being worked on by Dave and Nick which we hope will make bike nerds drool and paw at the glass. Lots of ideas in the firing tube. Some later, some sooner, all good.

6)


7) How do you use your Big Dummy? Send me a brief letter and a photo. I can be contacted by using your computer machine to write to andy@surlybikes.com.

8) Don't forget, 1x1=11. That only happens..uh...let's see carry the 8...square root that beeyotch...once. Quantities are limited, and the ride is sublime.

9) Pew! Pew pew!! (laser sounds)


"I just sit at the typewriter and curse a bit."
-P.G. Wodehouse on his writing technique

Lately I haven't so much been getting rad as I have been getting dad.





-Skip

The hairiest of Surly, just barely.

There are two Surly employees you've probably never heard of. This does not mean they are not doing important jobs, quite the contrary.

Meet Gigi

Here we see Gigi testing our Endomorph tires for sidewall durability and wet weather performance. After this test we also learned that dog blood shows up suprisingly well on an Endomorph. Gigi didn't care. Gigi belongs to Johnny. They both enjoy product testing, being aggressive, whining when left alone, drinking beer, and humping. Johnny's spring project has been teaching Gigi to ride in a trailer and wear a backpack. Discuss.

Meet Wilma

Wilma's pretty good at nosing her ball in everyone's crotch until you throw it for her. Andy falls for this most often...not a suprise. It's worth mentioning that Wilma's only got front wheel drive, as she lost one of her rear legs as a puppy. So, when Andy tossed the ball a little too close to Nick's cube wall, Wilma did the ultimate butt powerslide into the wall while trying to stop. The wall moved about 6 inches, the dog freaked, and about 30 cans toppled to the floor. Retriever that she is, Wilma started picking up all the cans and delivering them to us. Good girl.

Stock update.

We just received some fancy new things. Black Steamroller frames and complete bikes are in stock and they look real nice. You can order one up today from your favorite local bike shop.

Fruita. Sounds delicious just saying it. But when you venture westward, go there and place your feet on the pedals, wheels in the track and ride; when you feel the moisture sucked out of your body; when the dust creeps in and the taste of the trail permeates your entire being; when you find yourself alone at twilight with the western desert on fire before your very eyes and a few miles of beautiful, empty trail still ahead; when you replenish at days’ end in the company of friends old and new AND the next day presents a chance to do it all over again – only then will you realize this place is magical.

I am no gonzo MTBer or gear geek. Sure, full-squishy wonderbikes are de rigueur in Fruita (and the rest of the MTB world for that matter). I suppose they’re nice. Maybe I should ride one sometime. But, you see, I love my 1X1, thank you.

This was my second time in Fruita for the Fat Tire Fest. My first trip out I almost took the bike with its rigid fork and all. Some friends talked me into installing a Reba. I can fully appreciate that slice of technology, but it never crosses my mind to bemoan a single gear. I don't find myself wanting to curse my way up the occasional steep climb I’ve had to hop off and walk. Admittedly, I chuckle to myself a little when a rider is trailside with a geared bike upside down trying to fix some drivetrain snafu. Sure, I help out, but after I gently rub it in that I haven't been experiencing any derailleur problems ...

Some folks I’ve talked to dismiss singlespeeding as a dying fad or an outright exercise in futility. While I’ll admit I pride myself in learning to do well many things others regard as senseless or impractical, I’d argue the Zen-like joy of singlespeeding is neither. But I don’t need to convince you. Even though sometimes it seems to me that most of those left in the singlespeed mountain crowd have moved onto exotic materials and custom frames, I figure they’re still grooving for the same reasons. They’re grinning too when they fly past a geared rider on a climb or ride up on someone’s fully suspended arse on a descent.

Fancy singlespeeds that cost more than all the cars I’ve ever owned sure look purdy and I bet they ride nice, too. But I’ll happily spend my money on beer and more bike bits. The 1X1 rocks – still, after all these years. I was reminded of that yet again in Fruita a couple of weeks ago. If you get the chance to go, do it. Just don’t be afraid to run what you brung.

A view from Rustlers, the perfect casual wind down loop before heading back to the car.

Brother Nick showing us all how it's done aboard the Karate Monkey. On and off the trail, he was on his game all week.

You can check out more photos. (Sorry ... titles coming soon.)

Special thanks to Troy and Sarah, as well as the entire staff and crew at Over the Edge. Your hospitality, friendship and kindness are a big part of what make this grand industry of ours go 'round.

It was on this date in 1927 that Charles Lindberg landed The Spirit of St. Louis at 10:22pm on Le Bourget Field, thirty three and one half hours after takeoff from Roosevelt Field in Long Island, New York, completing the world's first transatlantic flight. 300 people in New York witnessed his takeoff and thought they had seen a minor miracle occur, since his plane was so heavily laden with fuel it almost didn't make it off the ground in time to clear a string of telephone lines at the edge of Roosevelt Field. Upon landing, however, a crowd of 50,000 gorgeous women and 50,000 short, creepy men with pencil-mustaches and baguettes rushed his plane in jubilation (causing him to cut the engine post haste lest members of the teeming throng be chopped to mush by the propeller), and carried Lucky Lindy off the field on their shoulders. This feat was astonishing in its day, a marathon for Lindy and the marker of a major advance in industry and technology. Notable for our purposes is that airplanes were invented by bicycle mechanics.

It was a scant 25 years to the day later that a little baby was born sporting a mohawk, lots of gold jewelry, and tons of attitude. Mr. T turns 57 today. As Emily pointed out, I pity the fool who don't know that.

The completion of a new stove, early last week, prompted me to pack up the Pug and take the scenic route to work, incorporating an overnight stay along the river en route.

The Pugsley was definetely suited to the low spots on the trail where river juice and a previous day’s light rain had turned the riverbank soil into slick, brown gumbo. Epic Designs frame bags, an Old Man Mountain front rack, and minimalist, modified Axiom panniers gave me ample room to securely carry all my gear over varying terrain.



When the sun dipped behind the horizon, I found a sweet site, 200 meters from the trail, and set up for the evening.

Once again, my Hennessy Hammock was the chosen shelter, because it's a dependable vehicle to sweet dreams. It took me a couple years and some long, cool, sleep-deprived nights to figure out how to stay warm in this shelter when temperatures hover in the freezing range. But after a lot of experimentation with many kinds of insulation, I’ve found that the use of Hennessy’s Undercover and Underpad, in conjunction with top and bottom quilts, creates one of the most comfortable beds I’ve used out of doors in the spring, summer, and fall seasons. A form-fitting, purpose-made underquilt is on the upgrade wish list.

The newest stove, measuring 15cm in diameter x 30cm high, was positioned near the base of one of the trees supporting the hammock. I made this woodburner from three large coffee cans: 2 for the firebox, 1 cut apart for the door and miscellaneous bits. The firebox separates into 2 parts, so I can store my chimney, full Klean Kanteen, and rolled-up sitting pad inside it during transport. The internal pressure from the stored items keeps the stove from collapsing or denting when it is strapped to the top of my bike rack. It features an almost-airtight firebox, due to a close-fitting door and spotwelded construction, and a baffle to keep the flame from shooting directly up the chimney.





Like my other stoves, this one is designed around the following criteria:

* Low weight
* Fast, tool-free assembly
* Construction from low-cost or free, easy-to-find materials
* Easy to transport on foot or bike
* The means to boil water in a Klean Kanteen
* Accommodations for my 130cm-tall roll-up stainless chimney

I’m not concerned about the stove’s ability, or lack thereof, to boil a liter of water in 5 minutes. I simply want to heat a small shelter or protected outdoor space with a small amount of wood, compared to an open campfire. If I get 500ml of water boiling in 20 minutes, I’m satisfied. The light and heat given off from one of these low-budget units adds to the camping experience, not unlike an open fire, while giving me the ability to control the combustion rate, focus the radiated heat, route the smoke up and away from my lungs, and keep the sparks confined to the firebox and chimney.

The first firing was a success, but I have some fine-tuning and reinforcing to do before the next outing. This isn’t the perfect stove, of course. It is, instead, a fast, inexpensive way to test design concepts in the field. The construction and design of the next stove will likely be much different than the current one. Eventually, I’ll settle upon a list of specifications and features that will warrant the purchase of durable materials and justify the time investment required to build a stove that will last a number of years in the field.

Good weather and an understanding spouse have allowed me to camp out one night per week for the last 4 weeks. I don’t need to disappear for a week at a time. The 24-hour outings satisfy my desire to test/tweak my gear and enjoy some quiet time in the woods, without drastically disrupting my home and work life. If the weather forecast doesn’t drastically change, I’ll be back out there in a couple of days...making fire and geeking out on the design of the vessel that harbors it.

When my friend told me he was getting married on the same weekend as the Fruita Fat Tire Festival weekend, I questioned his choice to even get married.

"Would you get married on the fishing day opener?" I asked

"Hell no" he replied

"Then what's your problem, don't you know that's the most Fruitarded weekend of the year?" I scolded

"Can you grow a beard and get a nice suit for the wedding?" he asked

"Sure, anything for you, except the beard part" I responded. And I accepted the fact that I'd miss Fruita that year. As it turned out, the wedding was awesome, but it was three years until I finally got back to Fruita.

Sov, Fleck, Pieplow and myself were enlisted this year to go stone-cold rep our crap for the weekend. You know, really cram our product down the throats of unsuspecting people. Tell them our 0.3% carbon technology tubing will make them look faster and ride hipper.

But you know, that's really not our style. Sleep deprivation, long rides, leaving the party late, comparing the # of turds for the day with your friends, laughing until it hurts and keeping Tater from giving you whisker kisses are pretty much our style. I'll just let the photos do the talking. But if you ever get a chance to ride your bike in Fruita, do it.

Nick's Fruita photos here

Although riding season doesn't exactly stop around here despite approximately 5 months of very long, very cold winter, it is not without some sense of relief that locals look forward to the warmer temperatures which are only now beginning to stir.
Some of us couldn't wait and headed to Fruita, Colorado, for the annual Fruita Fat Tire Fest, where the trails call your name and the sun shines almost daily. I was not among that group this year, however, and will let them recover and then (hopefully) regale you all with stories of high times and epic rides.
The rest of us will have to keep our eyes open for coffin jockeys and dream about upcoming nourishment for our cycling selves.




While you're dreaming your little dreams and planning all your summer daze, consider that the organizers of the LynLake Festival in uptown MPLS request the honour of your presence. They highly encourage bike use in and around their section of the planet, both for the event and in general, and this is something I think we can all agree is a good idea. If you have tried to drive in uptown any time in the last decade, you will appreciate why this is a worthy goal.


For you art lovers out there, a little birdy told me recently that world class art museum the Minneapolis Institute of Arts is planning a shindig mid-summer involving a group ride to the museum, followed by drinks and movies. And of course you are encouraged to stop in and feed your soul by perusing their collection of staggeringly beautiful works of fine art, an experience you should try and work into your regular routine. The more you see it, the more you understand it. The more you understand it, the more parallels you will find in explaining your own existence. Not bad. More on this as developments warrant.

And don't forget the Bicycle Film Fest, which promises not only many new and kick ass bicycle related movies, but also the chance to show your colors at one of the most comprehensive cyclist gatherings in these parts, drawing everyone from casual cyclists to hardcores of all stripes. In itself, this is beautiful to see and be part of. Local dates not yet announced, but again you will find details right here as we know them. Stay tuned.

Soon, my chickadees, soon.

Friday’s warm temperature prompted me to take most of the day off to pack up the Pug with camping gear, ride kilometers of dirt trails, and set up camp at a stealth shoreline spot as the sun set behind the trees shrouding the trail.





I like fire when I camp. It’s one of the things that creates an enjoyable night in the woods. But it’s dry here. So I brought the paintcan stove to keep my fire in check. The stove was set up near my hammock, in a wet area, to further diminish the chances of starting grass or brush on fire. In addition to reducing the risk of starting an unwanted blaze, the stove heats water in my Klean Kanteen. It allows me to use less firewood, while enjoying more focused heat and sucking in less smoke than I normally would with an open fire. When properly elevated, the stove doesn’t leave burn marks on the ground. And the ashes are easily spread or buried, so I can leave the campsite looking like it did before I arrived.



As my evening meal (Mountain House seafood chowder) was rehydrating in its foil pouch, I searched my cooking kit to discover that I’d neglected to repack my folding Ti spork after I’d washed it that morning. The thought of eating dinner and Saturday’s breakfast without a spoon pushed me to find a replacement for the missing utensil. While combing the site for a piece of wood that could potentially become a spoon…with a bit of whittling, I glanced over at the empty Boddingtons beer can lying on the ground in front of the Pug. From that can came this…



I folded the sharp edges over and crimped them down with my Leatherman pliers to avoid tongue and lip lacerations. The finished product isn’t pretty, but it worked. No spoon-induced mouth injuries to report.

Other than the lack of a spoon, my cooking kit served me well again. The 500ml pot holds everything I need to boil water for a couple of meals. I can include 3 additional Esbit solid fuel tabs inside the pot, if the handkerchief lives outside of the pot. 6 Esbit tabs will typically boil enough water to make 4-6 meals, depending on my entrée choices and my desire for tea or coffee with my meals. Of course, I heat water in the Klean Kanteen, if there’s a fire ablazin’. More often than not, I use less than 50% of my allotted fuel on a trip. I’m not limited to Esbit with this kit. A small alcohol stove and 150ml of alcohol fit inside the pot in place of the solid fuel tabs and stove. Alcohol is cleaner and faster than Esbit, but it’s more temperature-sensitive. Esbit is less prone to flare-ups, and it won’t spill...a plus when one is forced to cook in a vestibule due to unfavorable weather conditions.







One key to low-hassle, impromptu overnight camping trips is knowing the limitations of your gear. After years of refinement, my cooking kit is a known quantity. It rarely changes, and if it does, the change is a subtle upgrade. Plus, it’s physically small, so I can always find a spot for it in a backpack, frame bag, or pannier. Down the road, I hope to build the same confidence in the rest of my gear.