Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Idaho Ho!
T-minus 48 hours until Aaron and Kate tally forth westward to spend a week backcountry mountain biking in central Idaho! Bikes are ready, SPOT tracker is blinking, whiskey flask has been filled, and all systems are go!
Friday, July 31, 2015
Race Recap: The Lutsen 99er, or How I Learned to Love My Bike
Hello adventurers,
In January, Kate and I took a little ski holiday up to Lutsen Mountains. I hadn't skied Lutsen in quite some time, so it was nice to get into some larger terrain, and it's a good intermediate step between Welch Village and the Rockies for those in our party who are still gaining expertise.
Anyways, when we were having coffee at the excellent Moondance coffeehouse, right off Highway 61, we couldn't help but note the large wall plastered with photos from a mountain bike race held every summer known as the Lutsen 99er. As you may imagine, this involves racing 99 miles up and around the Sawtooth Mountains. Being in the general spirit of newness that always accompanies a new year, I declared my intention to complete the race, thinking "well, it can't be that hard," and that it would be good prep for the Great Divide.
I did do some due diligence. I asked my brother-in-law, who works for Erik's Bike, and another relative who is way into mountain bike racing, their thoughts on the race, and if my rigid Salsa Fargo Ti would be an appropriate steed. In both cases, I was told, more or less: "Oh yeah, you can do it, no problem. That Fargo is a great bike for this race!" I think we all shared the impression that the race was primarily on unmaintained gravel and forest service roads - nothing to sniff it, but also not super technical.
I was relieved to hear this. People get oddly emotional about bikes, and oddly attached. Once you come up with a name for your bike, you know you've reached a good place. The past year, I've done most of my riding on my All-City, which is a fantastic all around bike that I have dubbed the "Duke of Orange" (pronounced "orahngshe"). After I purchased a fatbike this winter, I went to town riding that thing out and about. Right now, I have it named "Fatty!" - with the explanation mark.
Left behind in the shuffle has been my Fargo. Objectively, it's the nicest bike I own, and when I would tell other bike people that I own a titanium mountain bike, their eyes would widen with jealousy. But for whatever reason, neither that beautiful silvery sheen, nor the fact that I specifically purchased it for the grand adventure that I am always dreaming of, has led to the type of love I thought would have surely developed by now. It didn't have a name. Something had to spice things up. So to try and help our relationship, I decided I would ride it in the Lutsen 99er.
So in the meantime, I did a couple century rides, did the Almanzo 100, went down in the river bottoms and screwed around, yada, yada, yada. To be clear, I am not a good mountain biker. I don't know how to navigate rocks or other obstacles, and actively stop to walk over them most of the time. I just don't have the confidence. While I wasn't so naive to think that I wouldn't encounter some bumps on the 99er, I had no expectation of long stretches of singletrack. While I wouldn't say that I DIDN'T ride, I wouldn't say that I trained either. But I figured, "It can't be that hard - I'll just take my time."
The Race
The Friday before the race, we took a leisurely drive up to Lutsen, stopping at one of our favourite northern Minnesota breweries, the fabulous Castle Danger Brewing in Two Harbors.
Once we finally arrived, there was a great atmosphere at the Lutsen base village where I went to pick up my race materials. Lots of people on mountain bikes, lots of cheerful looking cyclists drinking beer, lots of northwoods vibe. Such was the feel-goodedness that Kate expressed on numerous occasion how sad she was that she was not doing the ride. "Next year," I replied.
The first inkling I had that something was about to go seriously wrong was the next morning, as I lined up at the start with the other 99er participants. Around me were hundreds of men and women with high-tech, full suspension MTB rides. A handful of people were on fatbikes with the tire pressure dialed way down low, but the vast majority were on bikes specifically built for singletrack riding. While my Fargo is a beautiful machine, I was the only person that I could see with a fully rigid, non-suspended bike, and certainly the only person with long distance style drop bars. The drop bars are ideal for long days in the saddle, but don't afford quite the same control over rough terrain. I thought quizzically to myself - "I wonder if this is going to be bumpy?"
The first ten or so miles were on pavement, and went easily enough. I was feeling strong, the weather was beautiful, and I snickered to myself as the more efficient Fargo sped up climbs past the MTBers on their inefficient full suspensions.
And then, the pavement ended. And the semi-maintained forest service road I had expected did not appear.
Instead, I found myself riding over what I would best describe as a scree field - the unfortunate summertime underpinning of all those delightful northern Minnesota winter ski and snowmobile trails. The type of trail that I would never ride recreationally, for fear of not being able to navigate. For those of you unfamiliar with bicycle suspensions, the purpose is generally twofold. First, the suspension helps keep the tires on the ground, which of course increases stability, efficiency, and performance. Second, it improves rider comfort by damping the impact of going over so many bumps, thus saving the rider from any number of ailments in his/her hands, arms, back, legs, etc.
I was devoid of any of these benefits. While punctuated by brief respites on gravel roads, the next 50 or so miles consisted of myself and my bike flinging ourselves headlong down narrow, winding singletrack covered with rocks the same way barnacles might cover a pier. I can honestly say I was terrified. When I did have a few merciful miles of gravel, I simultaneously contemplated the sorry state of my existence, while dreading the pink arrow directing me back into the woods. Physically, I was exhausted, not so much from the pedaling, but from the brutal bounce of my bike over the terrain, which jackhammered from my wrists through my entire body. Mentally, I was beyond fatigued from trying to read the lines in the trail, to best navigate the obstacles without hurtling myself over the handlebars. Emotionally, well, let's just say I regularly shouted out strings of expletives cursing those who I deemed had wronged me, or led me through 99 miles of apocalyptic hellscape on such an ill-equipped bike. Spiritually, I questioned why the good Lord would let His children suffer in such a fashion.
At mile 60, I stumbled into a rest stop in what I think is the worst condition I can ever remember being in - some sadistic combination of what felt like the worst hangover I've ever had and a full body ache that was akin to a constant electric current. I have little doubt that if I had been given the opportunity, I would have quit then and there. That option not being available, I sat in a heap, forcing stale PB&Js down my throat while desperately trying to glug as much gatorade as I could. Slowly, painfully, I straddled my bike and pressed on.
I wanted to blame the bike. After all the money I had spent, how could it treat me so unkindly? How was I supposed to love a machine that was actively causing me so much misery? Slowly, as I regained some semblance of humanity between miles 60 and 70, I realized that the bike was as unhappy as I was. Like me and my lack of training, it lacked the preparation to travel over such extreme terrain. Like me, it was doing its best. Despite all the punishment I had inflicted on it, the mud sprays, the rocks, the grass stuck in the derailleurs, the bike had not quit.
At this point, I resolved that I would not quit either. I would finish the race. Whether it was some misguided sense of pride, or the promise of free Fulton beer at the finish, or some sort of cosmic "fuck you," I pressed on. It wasn't easy, as I dealt with at least 10 more miles of singletrack, an extreme bonk around mile 90, and a grueling 250 foot climb to the finish line. But, nearly 10 hours after I had departed, I finished.
I was told later by Kate that when they saw me coming up the final hill, I looked as if I had been suffering with pneumonia for days. There was active curiosity as to whether I would survive. Once I finally got the long awaited beer, I was so exhausted that I promptly spilled it all over myself. I wasn't hungry, wasn't thirsty - I just wanted to collapse.
The Aftermath
It turns out I unwittingly turned myself into something of a folk legend - at Voyageur Brewing in Grand Marais post-race, I actually overheard a table of racers talking about that guy that was doing the 99er on a rigid Salsa Fargo, and what a BAMF he was. Also, about how much he must be hurting. I coolly acknowledged to them that I was, in fact, the rider in question, and yes, I was in fact hurting.
It is true that I was unprepared. It is true that my Fargo was not the ideal bike for me to ride. But like I alluded to, despite the adversity, both myself and the bike pulled through. We held it together. While I was trying desperately to navigate in and around the rocks on the trail, I was reminded of that scene in The Empire Strikes Back, where Han Solo pilots the Millennium Falcon through the asteroid field outside of Hoth, trying to evade the Imperial Fleet:
I won't claim to be as good a pilot as Han Solo, but at long last, I came up with a name for my Fargo.
The Titanium Falcon.
In January, Kate and I took a little ski holiday up to Lutsen Mountains. I hadn't skied Lutsen in quite some time, so it was nice to get into some larger terrain, and it's a good intermediate step between Welch Village and the Rockies for those in our party who are still gaining expertise.
Anyways, when we were having coffee at the excellent Moondance coffeehouse, right off Highway 61, we couldn't help but note the large wall plastered with photos from a mountain bike race held every summer known as the Lutsen 99er. As you may imagine, this involves racing 99 miles up and around the Sawtooth Mountains. Being in the general spirit of newness that always accompanies a new year, I declared my intention to complete the race, thinking "well, it can't be that hard," and that it would be good prep for the Great Divide.
I did do some due diligence. I asked my brother-in-law, who works for Erik's Bike, and another relative who is way into mountain bike racing, their thoughts on the race, and if my rigid Salsa Fargo Ti would be an appropriate steed. In both cases, I was told, more or less: "Oh yeah, you can do it, no problem. That Fargo is a great bike for this race!" I think we all shared the impression that the race was primarily on unmaintained gravel and forest service roads - nothing to sniff it, but also not super technical.
I was relieved to hear this. People get oddly emotional about bikes, and oddly attached. Once you come up with a name for your bike, you know you've reached a good place. The past year, I've done most of my riding on my All-City, which is a fantastic all around bike that I have dubbed the "Duke of Orange" (pronounced "orahngshe"). After I purchased a fatbike this winter, I went to town riding that thing out and about. Right now, I have it named "Fatty!" - with the explanation mark.
Left behind in the shuffle has been my Fargo. Objectively, it's the nicest bike I own, and when I would tell other bike people that I own a titanium mountain bike, their eyes would widen with jealousy. But for whatever reason, neither that beautiful silvery sheen, nor the fact that I specifically purchased it for the grand adventure that I am always dreaming of, has led to the type of love I thought would have surely developed by now. It didn't have a name. Something had to spice things up. So to try and help our relationship, I decided I would ride it in the Lutsen 99er.
So in the meantime, I did a couple century rides, did the Almanzo 100, went down in the river bottoms and screwed around, yada, yada, yada. To be clear, I am not a good mountain biker. I don't know how to navigate rocks or other obstacles, and actively stop to walk over them most of the time. I just don't have the confidence. While I wasn't so naive to think that I wouldn't encounter some bumps on the 99er, I had no expectation of long stretches of singletrack. While I wouldn't say that I DIDN'T ride, I wouldn't say that I trained either. But I figured, "It can't be that hard - I'll just take my time."
The Race
The Friday before the race, we took a leisurely drive up to Lutsen, stopping at one of our favourite northern Minnesota breweries, the fabulous Castle Danger Brewing in Two Harbors.
Once we finally arrived, there was a great atmosphere at the Lutsen base village where I went to pick up my race materials. Lots of people on mountain bikes, lots of cheerful looking cyclists drinking beer, lots of northwoods vibe. Such was the feel-goodedness that Kate expressed on numerous occasion how sad she was that she was not doing the ride. "Next year," I replied.
 |
| Oddly cheery at the start. |
 |
| I did not lack for blind confidence. |
The first ten or so miles were on pavement, and went easily enough. I was feeling strong, the weather was beautiful, and I snickered to myself as the more efficient Fargo sped up climbs past the MTBers on their inefficient full suspensions.
And then, the pavement ended. And the semi-maintained forest service road I had expected did not appear.
Instead, I found myself riding over what I would best describe as a scree field - the unfortunate summertime underpinning of all those delightful northern Minnesota winter ski and snowmobile trails. The type of trail that I would never ride recreationally, for fear of not being able to navigate. For those of you unfamiliar with bicycle suspensions, the purpose is generally twofold. First, the suspension helps keep the tires on the ground, which of course increases stability, efficiency, and performance. Second, it improves rider comfort by damping the impact of going over so many bumps, thus saving the rider from any number of ailments in his/her hands, arms, back, legs, etc.
I was devoid of any of these benefits. While punctuated by brief respites on gravel roads, the next 50 or so miles consisted of myself and my bike flinging ourselves headlong down narrow, winding singletrack covered with rocks the same way barnacles might cover a pier. I can honestly say I was terrified. When I did have a few merciful miles of gravel, I simultaneously contemplated the sorry state of my existence, while dreading the pink arrow directing me back into the woods. Physically, I was exhausted, not so much from the pedaling, but from the brutal bounce of my bike over the terrain, which jackhammered from my wrists through my entire body. Mentally, I was beyond fatigued from trying to read the lines in the trail, to best navigate the obstacles without hurtling myself over the handlebars. Emotionally, well, let's just say I regularly shouted out strings of expletives cursing those who I deemed had wronged me, or led me through 99 miles of apocalyptic hellscape on such an ill-equipped bike. Spiritually, I questioned why the good Lord would let His children suffer in such a fashion.
At mile 60, I stumbled into a rest stop in what I think is the worst condition I can ever remember being in - some sadistic combination of what felt like the worst hangover I've ever had and a full body ache that was akin to a constant electric current. I have little doubt that if I had been given the opportunity, I would have quit then and there. That option not being available, I sat in a heap, forcing stale PB&Js down my throat while desperately trying to glug as much gatorade as I could. Slowly, painfully, I straddled my bike and pressed on.
 |
| Blessed gravel section |
At this point, I resolved that I would not quit either. I would finish the race. Whether it was some misguided sense of pride, or the promise of free Fulton beer at the finish, or some sort of cosmic "fuck you," I pressed on. It wasn't easy, as I dealt with at least 10 more miles of singletrack, an extreme bonk around mile 90, and a grueling 250 foot climb to the finish line. But, nearly 10 hours after I had departed, I finished.
 |
| Yay. |
 |
| Dirt Tan |
The Aftermath
It turns out I unwittingly turned myself into something of a folk legend - at Voyageur Brewing in Grand Marais post-race, I actually overheard a table of racers talking about that guy that was doing the 99er on a rigid Salsa Fargo, and what a BAMF he was. Also, about how much he must be hurting. I coolly acknowledged to them that I was, in fact, the rider in question, and yes, I was in fact hurting.
It is true that I was unprepared. It is true that my Fargo was not the ideal bike for me to ride. But like I alluded to, despite the adversity, both myself and the bike pulled through. We held it together. While I was trying desperately to navigate in and around the rocks on the trail, I was reminded of that scene in The Empire Strikes Back, where Han Solo pilots the Millennium Falcon through the asteroid field outside of Hoth, trying to evade the Imperial Fleet:
I won't claim to be as good a pilot as Han Solo, but at long last, I came up with a name for my Fargo.
The Titanium Falcon.
 |
| On to the next. |
Monday, July 27, 2015
Megamoon
Hello adventurers,
A fantastic website Kate and I have come across - Bikepacking.com - recently posted this short film about an English couple that decides to bike the Great Divide for their honeymoon. As the (estimated) one year countdown until our expedition has passed, I'd highly recommend the 19 minutes out of your day to share in their story.
Hoping to have more content posted on a regular basis in the next couple months. In less than a month, we're road-tripping out to Idaho to spend 7 days bike touring in the Boise and Sawtooth National Forests!
A fantastic website Kate and I have come across - Bikepacking.com - recently posted this short film about an English couple that decides to bike the Great Divide for their honeymoon. As the (estimated) one year countdown until our expedition has passed, I'd highly recommend the 19 minutes out of your day to share in their story.
Hoping to have more content posted on a regular basis in the next couple months. In less than a month, we're road-tripping out to Idaho to spend 7 days bike touring in the Boise and Sawtooth National Forests!
Friday, February 6, 2015
Back on the Bike
Hello adventurers,
Aaron here. Well, it appears more than a year has passed since we've posted an update on our Great Divide preparations. Now, lest you assume that our plans to tackle the GDMBR have been cast aside by work, so-called adult obligations, or other such silly ideas, let me respond to that with an emphatic "NO!"
2014 - The Year That Was
2014 was an interesting one in terms of GDMBR prep. It lacked the new car smell of 2013, what with the gleaming pair of Salsa Fargo Ti's shimmering in our garage and the initial burst of excitement that comes with any foolhardy idea. The GDMBR was still out there, but very much in the back of our minds rather than the forefront, and to be perfectly honest, we did not prioritize any multi-night, or even overnight, bike trips.
I think we prioritized cycling in other ways. In April, we took a trip to America's self proclaimed "Bicycle Capital." We simply had to compare.
Much biking was had.
We watched some football.
Beers and donuts were also consumed:
So let's be real here - we did pretty much the same things on a weekend in Portlandia as we would in a weekend in MPLS. Is the bike infrastructure impressive? Sure, it is - gotta give credit where credit is due. Is it superior to that in Minneapolis? I think that's debatable.
On my end, I had a job change in midsummer, and my new office's location in downtown Minneapolis has made it incredibly easy to more fully commit to commuting by bicycle. I'm pretty proud to say that over the first two months, I only drove my car once or twice - the rest is by bike. Along with commuting, I tried to be more intentional about using my bike as a vehicle, and to prioritize trips around the city by bike.
 |
 |
| If you have to paint it on a building, isn't there some insecurity here? |
We watched some football.
 |
| Go Thorns! |
 |
| Futbal, not football. |
Beers and donuts were also consumed:
 |
| Voodoo. |
 |
| Blue Star |
 |
| Deschutes Taproom. |
On my end, I had a job change in midsummer, and my new office's location in downtown Minneapolis has made it incredibly easy to more fully commit to commuting by bicycle. I'm pretty proud to say that over the first two months, I only drove my car once or twice - the rest is by bike. Along with commuting, I tried to be more intentional about using my bike as a vehicle, and to prioritize trips around the city by bike.
 |
| Clearly, the work commute demands a more stylish helmet. |
At that same time, I lost a little in terms of riding for the sheer sake of riding. While I did partake in the 100 mile Fulton Gran Fondo last May, that was my only significant ride of the year.
 |
| Sold my Trek road bike this year, so the Space Horse is doing double duty. |
I did some mountain biking in Lebanon Hills in June, and as is my wont, traveled much faster than I probably should have on a level of trail I probably shouldn't have been on. The highlight would probably be the fleeting moment of flight that I experienced hurtling through the air, untethered from both earth and machine, before landing in a bed of thistles. Unfortunately for public decency, the scene proved rather macabre, and more than one frightened onlooker glanced at me in horror as I biked back to my car with my left shin consisting of a pulsating mush of torn skin, dirt, and thick red blood. Oh, you wanted to see the scar - sure thing!
 |
| Tis' but a flesh wound. |
I eventually got back on the bike, and spent a great afternoon exploring the MN River Bottoms:
 |
| I got dirty - trust me. |
 |
| Just need to keep breaking it in. |
Kate and I met my good friend Benjamin and his spouse for some Nordic-festing and bike riding around Decorah and along the Root River Trail in southern Minnesota.
 |
| Fun! |
I bought a fatbike. I'm not going to apologize about it. I love this thing.
 |
| In the River Bottoms, below Cedar Ave. |
 |
| Thug life. |
 |
| Ride down frozen Minnehaha Creek. |
The fatbike also lets you catch winter sunsets such as this:
Here's the thing about the fatty - it has opened doors for me to types of riding I would never have done otherwise. Commute in the snow? No problem. Singletrack mountain biking? No problem. Riding over those logs, rocks, curbs, small children, just because you can? No problem. It's slow as hell, kind of awkward to handle, super heavy, and you can't wipe the grin off your face pedaling it.
For her part, I think Kate wished she would have spent more time astride the saddle. Instead, she focused much more on her running activities, and as I understand it, was quite pleased with herself. At the same time, Kate is MILITANTLY opposed to driving of any sort, so it was fairly predictable which way she would go when I suggested we either (a) bike or (b) she drives.
2015 - The Year That Is And Shall Be
2016 = GDMBR
2015 = Now
2016-2015 = one year
As the calendar turned to 2015, its slowly been dawning on us that the time is nigh to get real. Next summer, we're riding 2,700 miles from Canada to Mexico. We better figure our shit out, fast.
So that's what we're doing! The highlight is most assuredly going to be our weeklong tour of the Idaho Hot Springs Mountain Bike Route in September! Maps have been purchased, dates have been set, methods for shipping bikes investigated, and we're stoked to do some serious Divide prep. We're treating the IHSMBR as the proving grounds, in effect, for our Divide trip in 2016. Similar terrain, similar altitude, and the goal is to take the same bike setup out to Idaho that we will set out with from Banff a year hence. We're going to see what works, what doesn't work, how far we can bike per day, if we don't kill each other, etc. Plus, the IHSMBR has the benefit of crossing multitudes of hot springs and some of the best trout streams in the country. So yes, a fly rod will be in my kit!
What else has been going on? Both of us are committed to more long distance riding. I am signed up for the Fulton Gran Fondo for the second consecutive year. Kate and I are planning to do the Almanzo in May, which is a 100 mile self supported gravel ride through southern Minnesota near Spring Grove. And, in a moment of "better me!" styled new year hysteria, I signed up for the Lutsen 99er, which is (you guessed it) a 99 mile mountain bike race through and around Lutsen, MN. If you can't ski, you may as well bike, right?
We've also been stocking up on gear and pimping out our bikes. We bought a SPOT tracker device, which is a GPS beacon to help folks back home track our progress, and also can be used to call for help in case of an emergency.
We're investigating different gear setups, and deciding what other sort of bags we may need. I think the two of us are planing on upgrading certain components on our bikes - for example, upgrading to carbon bikepacking forks and going to a tubeless tire setup. Kate got a Salsa Anything Cage HD for Christmas, so she's totally set!
We're investigating different gear setups, and deciding what other sort of bags we may need. I think the two of us are planing on upgrading certain components on our bikes - for example, upgrading to carbon bikepacking forks and going to a tubeless tire setup. Kate got a Salsa Anything Cage HD for Christmas, so she's totally set!
Basically, our plan is to get all Xzibit on this and PIMP OUR BIKES!!
The Ride
The Divide is still out there, approaching ever closer. One thing that has been helpful is to read accounts of others who have done the GDMBR, either racing the Tour Divide or otherwise. A few books we've enjoyed thus far:
- Eat, Sleep, Ride by Paul Howard
- Be Brave, Be Strong: A Journey Across the Great Divide by Jill Homer
- Dividing the Great by John Metcalfe
- Cycling the Great Divide: From Canada to Mexico on North America's Premier Long-Distance Mountain Bike Route by Mike McCoy
It's helpful to read how other people deal with and react to the Divide and its many challenges, but ultimately, this journey is our own. I am excited to see where 2015 takes us.
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