Without further ado...

Time to flip the switch and make this venture go live. What do you think of this work in progress? Leave some feedback and keep riding, or reading, whatever your preference.

Oh the places you'll go....

Looking back, I've put a lot of miles in my legs this year. They pedaled over a thousand miles this summer, trained for a grueling metric century, explored the California coast, and carried me through Italy for two weeks.

This was the year I discovered road biking and all the quirks that go along with donning spandex in public places while battling for a few inches of pavement. I learned the etiquette of riding with a group (and that some people have an extreme lack thereof). I also learned that sometimes you have to dodge objects thrown at you from car windows (a beer bottle chucked from a Central Hudson utility truck to be exact), and to always be on the lookout for ill-placed roadkill, curbs, and faux bike lanes that suddenly turn into a curb.

This year my passion for mountain biking led me back to Vermont for a week of exploring and relaxing in one of my favorite places. This is also where I got engaged (out of the blue!) to my best friend and biking partner, who I love more than anything. Now we're in the process of moving in together and found a house to rent. And yes, I've already checked bikeroutetoaster for nearby riding routes and hills to conquer. Once the snow melts we have a lot of exploring to do. We'll also hit the road for Vermont to check out wedding venues (time to talk Manolos), but we'll no doubt find some mud, too.

Time to stir up some more adventure in 2009. These legs are ready for anything.

Winter can wait

I just ordered a pair of these.

Yes, a big, thick pair of cement slabs to block out old man winter's nip as I trudge through the woods in the snow. Every fall it sounds like a good idea to attack winter head-on and ride my way through till spring appears. However, I've yet to find myself pedaling through a snowstorm or even a flurry.

Two years ago, while descending a snow-covered trail that was slowly turning from slush to ice, I slid out, hurling down the hill sideways, until my head finally stopped the show by slamming into a rock. Before long I was convinced that the frozen ground and bare trees were the perfect habitat for a mid-afternoon nap. After a long walk, I finally realized that a few days off didn't sound so bad. At least it
ended with a good excuse to go helmet shopping.

Thanksgiving is sort of the unofficial end of the biking season, as sad as that sounds. I've been pounding the pavement since May, and it's definitely time for a break. Fitness builds with rest, and I haven't taken much more than a week or two off all summer. I was training for events and kept pushing myself week after week. I was reading training books and articles like mad, crunching numbers, and slowly driving myself insane. I was good at ignoring all the little signs of over training.

So as the smell of turkey wafts through the house, I'm reminded to dig in (though I know I'll still be counting my fruits and veggies), take that extra slice of homemade pie, and enjoy the well-deserved break.

A dollar and a dream

It all started when my grandma stopped for a garage sale. The woman could spot a bargain a mile away, and this particular find was perhaps the best dollar she ever spent. She brought it home that day, sent it halfway across the country, and suddenly it was mine.

At just a few years old, I opened the box, pulling out the shiny, bright red tricycle. It was plastic with three jumbo black wheels, complete with fenders and a set of long, silver handlebars. The seat was just the right size, and I did no less than twenty laps around the dining room table that night. The next day, I raced around the driveway, enjoying the sound of the thick wheels crunching on pavement as I quickly pedaled around the sharp turns. Taking the bike down small hills, I felt my stomach giggle on each dip, and I even let my stuffed animals take turns riding shotgun.

I rode the Big Wheel constantly until the day my knees brushed against the handlebars, and soon after, a jagged crack formed in the plastic seat. After several desperate duct tape repairs, the bike was finally retired to the basement. Eventually I moved on to my first real tricycle and remember my grandpa walking patiently along as I peddled down the sidewalk. Soon it was on to training wheels and eventually a ten-speed bike, though I still returned to the red bike occasionally, forced to kneel on one knee as I pushed along.

Now, after twenty years, the bike’s red luster has faded to a dull orange, but it still sits in the basement. My grandparents both passed away, leaving an inheritance, and closets full of garage sale finds, behind. When my check arrived, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with it. At the time, I was riding a steel-frame department store bike, that made a downhill bike feel like a feather. I didn’t have a clue about suspension, disc brakes or special shoes with cleats. I didn’t realize that serious riding meant going beyond pull brakes and grip shifters.

When I walked into the local bike shop to pick out my first real hardtail, I was suddenly overwhelmed. I felt like I was ordering dinner in a foreign country. There were so many interesting shapes and colors, though I quickly learned that these things weren’t nearly as important as frames and components. Within minutes, I was bouncing on several forks and riding over curbs in the parking lot.

Eventually I was introduced to a Kona, and it was love at first sight. It was “radar” green with hydraulic disc brakes, a plush fork and lightening fast shifting. Everything about the bike felt right, and I knew in an instant that we would be fast friends.

I rode into the woods later that day. The soft crunch of gears broke the silence of a cloudless spring afternoon, and I bounced over winding roots and through fresh mud. In the serenity of the woods, I thought of my grandparents, and my mind wandered back through nearly two decades and the evolution of past bikes that eventually made their way to the basement and the garage’s dusty corners. It was a study of life and death and how we choose to spend our time in between. Right now, I couldn’t think of a better way.