End Of An Era

My beloved, historied 9:Zero:7 fatbike changed hands tonight.  I'd be a super loser blogger if I didn't post up about it.  And I'd prefer not be a super loser blogger.  So I am.  Posting up about it.  Hereby.

I think maybe the first time I posted about my fatbike obsession and corresponding increasingly intense fantasy was just a little over three years ago, here.

I say fantas'y' instead of fanta'sies' because I truly thought that I was going to acquire this bike and set it up and use it to do one, specific trip across the state on the John Wayne Pioneer Trail, in order to mark my 50th year of existence, and that I would then be done with it and cast it off.  Stupid as it now sounds.  That fabulous trip did indeed happen and is verbosely documented for your use as an effective sedative starting here.

What happened afterwards was something I did not expect.  Through my ownership of this strange beast, my imagination over the possibilities was infused with a thousand volts, and at the same time I became acquainted with other like-minded weirdos who turned out to be totally into bizarre rides and events and trips that were just so freaking FUN!

I could totally bore you to infernal hell with my incessant written ongoings, but let's do us both a favor and let some pictures do the talking . . .

So fast forward to this evening and the question that is probably on your mind:

"You freaking nut job, if you loved this bike so much, why in the hell did you sell it, dork?!?"

Fair question.

And the answer is, I'm not sure, exactly.  What I do know is that the adventure I had with this bike was so fantastical, and so pure, and was somehow so naturally and perfectly concluded for me, that I don't want to taint the magicality of it all by having it sit in my basement or garage for the next five years and look at it and step over it to get to the cordless drill and start to resent it and lose the love that its memory holds.  Sorry for getting all goofy sentimental over a damn bike, but it's pretty true.  I don't feel like this about most bikes, but this one, well, there was a bond.

Well, I must have done something right in my life, somewhere along the way, because as karma would have it, the bike is now in the possession of a rather super cool dude named Dan.  The gross, makes-you-feel-dirty process of selling a bike you love over Craigslist was so-gratefully avoided through the intercession of a friend, Mister Bihl, who connected me with Dan, a reader of this blog, and someone who therefore appreciates a little of the history of this particular bike.

Dan The Man

From this point forward, it's totally his bike and there are no expectations whatsoever.  We actually had that conversation, which is very cool.  My sincere desire is just that he has as much fun with it as I have had.  And that the bike treats him as well as it has me.

As for my fat future?  I don't know.  I think there's about a 90% chance that I'll be riding on fat rubber by the end of this year.  I'm keeping my set of Knards in the shop, in a pretty prominent in-my-face location.  To maintain the connection.  To keep me from drifting afar from the fat principle.  But I don't really even think it's necessary . . . I think I'm hooked.  I have a pretty wonderful stashed nest egg of cash that will enable me to act, when the answer is clear.  And when I can actually justify purchasing a bike, given that I don't currently spend time riding one.  The only question that probably remains is what incarnation my next passion will assume.  There's a 10% chance it could be something totally non-fat.  Or 2%, even.  By this time, you recognize that I don't possess much restraint in terms of my ability to keep things to myself, so I will inevitably keep you posted, like it or not.

Big 'N Little

(The following blogpost is being intentionally presented in gender-neutral format, so as not to hinder your imaginative freedom.)

B:  "Hey."
L:  "Whattup?  Can I call you Big?"
B:  "Just hangin'.  And sure.  If I can call you Little.  So whattup with you, Little?"

L:  "My rider person wants to dump me.  Totally blows."
B:  "Feel your pain, Little.  Me and my rider person, I thought we were seriously down.  I feel like a chump saying this now, but at one point in our relationship I couldn't have even fathomed pondering the question that I am now compelled to ask, which is, How Deep Is Your Love?"
L:  " Yeahs, I know. I'm starting to see how it is, though.  You put your ALL into the relationship and this is what you are left with.  At this point, I'm left to wonder, How Can You Mend A Broken Heart?"
B:  "Isn't that a song or something?"
L:  "Wha??"
B:  "Nevermind."
{Pause}
B:  "So whadya do?  For work?"
L:  "Well, it's not steady, but when I can get it, I devour tarmac and spit it out my ass.  You?"
[B spends several, long, awkward moments processing this crudely-presented foreign concept, this alternate reality.  At long last, he/she does the best he/she can.]
B:  "So . . . does your rider person ride you . . . fast?"
L:  "Never fast enough.  Always blames it on me, though."
B:  "Harsh.  Sorry, Little.  If it makes you feel any better, my rider person could stand to lose more than a few pounds, but always blames it on me."
L:  "Figures.  These rider persons . . . they're all the same."
B:  "You know, . . . I'm in this support group . ."
L:  [Abruptly cuts Big off] . . . "I don't have time for that bullshit!"
{Pause}
B:  "Sorry."
{Pause}
{Pause}
B:  "Little, uhh, can I just say, that, uhh . . . you're kinda sexy, in your own way."
L:  [Blush]  "Funny.  I was just thinking the same thing about you."
{Pause}
B:  "Hey, you wanna hang out for a while?"

Spokane Bike Swap

I hung out there all weekend, with Glen, John, Matt and Justin.  At the Elephant And Friends booth.  I unloaded a buncha gear and to my credit, the only thing I acquired was a few pics . . .

No, it did not sell.
My dreams of pedaling feathery carbon fiber machinery acrost the tops of clouds will remain dreams, then.
For now.

None of the other fats sold, either.

Justin, attending to some merchandising fine details.

Eric (L).  Elephant And Friends' best customer, hands down. 

John and I are pretty sure we saw Hank escorting a fancy, late model, two-niner, double boinger rig through the swap exit and towards his car.  Hmm.  Just in front of the 24 hour race at Riverside.  Jeez, like that guy really needs to get any faster.

Moar

If the last post was not your thing, just disregard this one.

But if it in any way stirred your soul, this slideshow will probably bump the needle on your tach by at least a coupla hundred rpm's.

Jeez, it's totally redlined mine.

Purely Fantastic Stuff

This.

Orcas Island Getaway

Designed specifically for your viewing pleasure, what follows is a four-part, easily-digestible summary of the bike-centric high adventure that was had over these last four days.  A vastly more descriptive and thoughtful account is here.

1. Ferry Wait

2. Camp

Camp was hard.  Only hard men could accommodate the particularly harsh elements that we faced.  Day after day.  After day.

(Meanwhile, Betsy waited out these boyish antics at the Rosario Resort.)

Mr. Speare sure knows how to wrangle the camp grub, does he ever.

Hydration station.

Clean, wild beasts, waiting to be tamed.  And dirtied.

3. Actual Riding

Purely gratuitous porn shot.  Forgive me.  We do love our bikes, don't we.

Business end of an ungulate.  One of about a thousand (ungulates, not ungulate butts) we saw over the course of two days on the island.

Mr. Eberly, obviously enjoying the 4.4 mile casual-jaunt-of-a-climb to the top of Mt. Constitution.

Or maybe he actually felt like this.  Or wait, maybe that was me.  (It was me.)

Mt. Constitution would offer us none of its fine views on this fogged in day.

But we didn't give a krap.  We were here to ride, bitches!

Betsy directed my attention towards this fine stand of trees.  As a diversion, I now understand . . .

. . . so that she could jump-start her descent and leave me eating the mud from her tires.  Women.

On the second day, we were treated to these scarce views, just under the cloud cover.

And we only had to climb our asses off and then ride to the very edge of death, to get them.

The investment in this trip was substantial, but the riding was just fantastic.  All of it.

As I get older, and time and energy get more and more scarce, I am so very willing to sacrifice quantity for quality.  Damn, did this trip ever nail that priority.

4. Other

Waiting in the Orcas Medical Center while Betsy got X-Rayed and checked out by the "best doctor in the history of the universe!"  So grateful that her injury wasn't worse . . . not sure how we'd have all gotten off the side of that gnarly mountain.  That said, it's a badass sprain and I wish you a quick recovery, Bets.  Jeez, you rocked this whole gig so hard.  I am in awe.

Bikes were righteously dirtied, in the end.

There may be certain reports filtering through about how a certain group of hardass dudes took refuge in a cush hotel that offered Wi-fi and good beers on tap.  Those reports are patently false.