Saturday Rides Are Firkin Awesome

 

Last Saturday I had the good fortune to combine wonderful weather (see photo above for proof) + hanging out on a bike with a good friend + great beer. Truly a remarkable day and a warm memory as we struggle through another bout of freezing weather.

I set out from my place in the northernmost reaches of Minneapolis to Jake's house in East St. Paul to meet up with him for a ride. It's a good distance and pretty hilly. My route took me on the East River Road and then to downtown St. Paul and them up, up, up Robert to Jake's. Nice workout and good training for an anticipated hilly ride later this spring. 

I arrived at his house just in time to snag the last of Annabelle's mac and cheese (thanks, Annabelle!) and Jake and I went straight back down the hill to the river and rode along Lilydale road, a section of bike-friendliness that I only recently discovered on a ride with Jim. It was warm, a little messy and beautiful. Jake is an enthusiastic and willing cycling companion and even though he had not ridden all winter, was more than up to the task. I look forward to many more rides with him this summer.

We stopped in at Hiawatha to part ways with a few of our disposable dollars and chew over the topics of the day, but they were very busy so our discourse was limited to the usual pleasantries and not the normal deep philosophical dialog to which I am accustomed when I darken their door. I should hope that "business" does not get in the way of our future mental meanderings.

Jake set a blistering pace up the River Road and threw the Devil Horns of Thirst as he passed by. You see, we were Happy Gnome Firkin Fest bound and the both of us were feeling the throat-itch that only good beer can scratch.

 

Moments later I was able to outpace the thirsty, motivated Jake, but this guy started sneaking up on me having passed Jake. He tried to shield his face from the seeking lens of my camera, but to no avail. As you can see, Summit Avenue was filled with cyclists that day and Jake and I had to weave our way around all of them in our quest for malty goodness. 

 

Finally we made the scene at the Gnome, had many good beers and much lively conversation with a plentitude of good beer folk. I have to commend Nick and his minions for putting on the premiere beer event in Minnesota. I wish I had beer to sell them but since I don't have any cask beers in my book I was relegated to the role of enthusiastic consumer. For me the standouts were the Ola Dubh, Surly 16 Grit and Dark Horse Crooked Tree. Lovely beers, all.

Thanks to Jake for being such a good companion for a wonderful day of biking and beer.

It's Springtime in My Heart

This has been a great weekend for cycling. Maybe the best since last summer.

Jim and I did an epic after-dark ramble that clocked in at 45 super entertaining miles on Thursday night. My very good friend Bert diverted us just long enough to inhale some steamed (which is the new word for fried) potatoes, club soda and beer at the Bulldog NE. The conversation never lagged, many laughs were laughed and once out the door our game, as the kids say, was ON.

Bert retired to the relative safety of his house to get some work done. You see, he's a graduate student and also works at the U. He's a genuinely busy guy with a lovely little girl and a beautiful wife and, for better or worse, an office in the attic. Dude works a lot and when he's not working he's fathering a spectacular example of the toddler ilk.

Jim and I headed back through downtown, having crossed the Stone Arch Bridge. This landmark is one of the best things about Minneapolis and I am struck by how beautiful and wonderful it is everytime I cross it, which is often. We accessed the Cedar Lake Trail near the new Home of the Twins and rolled out Hopkins way. The trail was mostly OK, but quite wet in spots and only a trace of submerged ice slowed us down. Our pace was postively Armstrong-esque.

We tagged the terminus of the Cedar Lake Trail and whipped back toward town and the Greenway. To thwart nocturnal thugs we increased our already impressive speed and Jim begain swinging nunchucks while pedaling no-handed and I shouted at random intervals that "we are packing serious fucking HEAT and we are NOT AFRAID to use it and that we, in fact, really well TRAINED to MAIM and/or KILL any assholes who might try to slow us down and steal our CELL PHONES or CASH CARDS or BIKES". It worked very well as we were not attacked. So if you ride the Greenway after dark, try it. It has worked 100% of the time.

Saturday was the Inimitable Hiawatha Cyclery Ride and it was a classic for the books. Jim made several mid-ride decisions, defended his position effectively against his detractors and those who sought to debate him, and we found ourselves sharing a long table at Kramarczuks, wolfing down sausage, eggs and potato pancakes and washing it all down with coffee and vigorous conversation. Our postprandial cycling took us to the mostly abandoned but conveniently plowed State Fair Grounds via the Inter Campus Transitway. Our group was merry, the wind was at our backs and the ride was eventful in only the best possible ways, except for Monte, who is on my list.

To cap off a perfectly wonderful weekend of riding I was the delighted recipient of a question by my son Jasper. 

"Dad, do you want to go for a bike ride?"

Why, yes. Yes I do. I cannot explain to anyone, especially him, how that question makes my crusty, jaded heart skip a beat with joy. There is nothing— I repeat NOTHING—that brings me greater happiness than a bike ride with my family. We pedaled off toward the local park, played a bit on the gear therein, and returned home, triumphant. I snapped the photo at the top of the page at the end of our ride, the newly Daylight Saved Sun low in the sky. You, gentle readers, are reading the words of a deeply happy and completely satisfied man.

The New Rig

Despite attempts at holding myself back to get closer to spring and snow, ice and salt-free roads, a new bike has taken form as if by it's own volition.

Jim, Mark and Kevin at Hiawatha Cyclery worked together like a small pack of hyper-intelligent saleswolves to tempt me into finishing this bike ahead of schedule. Putting the final nail in the coffin of my restraint, Kevin opined that "it's easier to beg forgiveness a single time, so you may as well finish the damn thing." He was, of course, referring to the story or stories I would have to tell my wife. She is a kind, generous and understanding woman who knows that despite my girth and lack of hair, I am nothing more than a 6 year-old when it comes to bike stuff. So she is cool with it. I think.

I had explained to the Hiawatheans that I was going to get the frame now (an excellent deal on "blems" from Rawland) and finish it later. Well, one thing led to another. Jim just happened to have a freshly built 650b wheelset on hand, just happened to have the right size compact double crank, an installed-once Thomson stem for a song, etc. etc. You get the idea.

I wanted a bike that would be well-mannered on the road, comfortable and capable of handling fire roads, gravel and mild off-road duty. I think I've got it!

The bike is a Rawland Sogn with disc brakes, On-One Midge Bars, a sweet looking Shimano R600 crank, 650b wheels with Schwalbe HS315 2" tires and all the other bits to make it work. I finished the shellac this morning and am about to get it messy with a long and winding ride somewhere out there.

Epic Winter Rides

It's been a while since I've rapped at 'cha, but I've been busy riding and not jabbing.

Last weekend, the Mighty Jim and I hit the road on a cold but dry Sunday afternoon and buzzed in and around St. Paul. I hit at least two new-to-me trails and a beautiful and heretofore unridden (by me) road in the river bottoms of St. Paul. How could I have missed these gems in all my years of Twin Cities owning-the-trails?

We shot up the Gateway Trail following a very nutritious and delicious lunch at the Bulldog Lowertown, got distracted by the Bruce Vento trail and before you can say "suburbs are da bomb" we were in lovely Vadnais Heights. A quick survey of the gruesome Hwy 61 road shoulder action put us back on the trail heading south back into St. Paul, where we boldly forged onto Lilydale Road and then up the bike trail toward the Mendota Bridge.

I sketch for you the broad strokes and not the amazing subtle details of our trip. That neither of us had planned a real route but were open to the experience of simply riding was a treat. We tracked and backtracked, veered and leered, discussed the finer points of edible underwear (in the platonic, dialectical abstract, of course) and enjoyed the basic, delightful act of putting one pedal in front of the other, over and over and over. We both saw things we'd never seen, ridden roads we'd never ridden and ended the day, dare I say it, exhausted and sated with the completeness of it all. For me, the second best winter ride of the season.

The best winter ride of the season happened mere hours ago.

Overnight the Twin Cities received a generous 4-6" of fresh snow. Temps in the teens and brisk northwesterly winds made it feel plenty wintery. Only three of us showed up for the ride and as we lit out from Hiawatha HQ, Jim set a brisk pace with seemingly no regard for his personal safety. In the first mile I struggled to keep up but soon found my groove and my fear of digging into the snowy tarmac dissipated. For the rest of the ride I was ready for action and held my own with Jim and Cippolini(o).

As we pulled onto the virgin, untrammeled snow of the Minnihaha/Ft. Snelling Trail, our trials seemed over. The moderately deep snow, without the bastardizing effects of car or foot travel, was easily navigated. It was a unique, wonderful experience to glide over a cottony cloud of snow, noiseless and velvety smooth. Cippolini(o) later told us that from behind he could see our pedals and feet hit the snow ever-so-slightly. Our tracks made it appear like we were running over the surface of the freshly fallen snow, barely making an impression.

The morning light and new snow transformed the ruins of Ft. Snelling in the most flattering possible way. Limestone masonry and snowy leafless trees stood out vividely against the backdrop of the mighty Mississippi/Minnesota River valley and the blue sky, shot-through with fast moving gray clouds. We all agreed that it was a striking and comely sight.

Beauty and reflection fled before the gruesome sight of an un-cleared Mendota Bridge trail. Passing snowplows had left in their wake a dense, wet-concrete snow that was largely impassable. Jim resolutely walked his bike across the entire span. Cippolini(o) and I alternatively waked and rode, pushing hard against the snowy mortar, lucky to move at all. It was a long slog across that bridge, made longer by the incessant and obnoxious noise of fast-moving highway traffic.

Once clear of the damned bridge, we made good time on the back streets of Mendota Heights and West St. Paul. It was a hilly, sometimes treacherous slide back down toward the river, but we all three managed to stay upright. At one point, Cippolini(o) saw an elderly damsel in distress and we dismounted to shovel a large driveway. As we rode away, the object of his largesse called out that we were "angels". Jim and I both took that as carte blanche to indulge ourselves in, as Jim put it, "impure thoughts" later in the day. My karma surplus evaporated within a few minutes as I selfishly scooped a blueberry kolache from the warm grasp of a fellow patron of Jerabek's New Bohemian Coffeehouse. Not literally, mind you, but I knew that she wanted this last blueberry treat as did I. To the speedy went the spoils, and my delight in it's deep purple splendor was diminished not at all by it's ill-gotten origin.

Onward and upward into downtown St. Paul and then up Grand Avenue. Using every available freshly-shoveled sidewalk we made our way riverward. We passed by the compelling sight of two dozen large cherry-pickers fully erect and bedecked with the Stars and Stripes. Was it a protest? A celebration? A memorial? We postulated but did not seek confirmation. I choose to believe it was a memorial in honor of a fallen comrade.

Inevitably we found ourselves back at Hiawatha Cyclery. It was an epic ride, varied and fun, tough and satisfying. I enjoyed the scenery, company and the fact that we did it all with loads of fresh snow on the ground. As much as I'm ready for this winter to end, today was a good day and a day that can only happen in the white, icy depths of winter.

A Beautiful Weekend To Ride

Last Monday was, without a doubt, the darkest day of riding all winter. Howling artic winds, low temps and the awful feeling that it will always be so infected my usual bike joy.

No so this weekend.

If you rode your bike in the sunshine, moderate winds and balmy temps and still hated riding, then you, friend, are not ever going to enjoy riding in the winter.

The top photo shows my lunch stop on the Martin Olav Sabo Bridge in Minneapolis. That's a bahn mi sandwich from Quang—without a doubt the best $2.60 lunch in town.

The other photo shows my trusty Owb (Orange winter bike) near Coon Rapids Dam. Some of the trails there are currently in the service of cross-country skiers (who, despite lots of snow, were nowhere to be found) and therefore rough and ready, but Owb and I prevailed.

It was just such a damned pretty weekend for riding.

Counting The Miles

It's been an extraordinarily bikey month so far, February has.

Following my very late night return from a work-related event last night (this morning, really), my monthly total stands just shy of 100 miles, all but 2 miles on a fixed gear. For the first time all winter my legs are sore and that's a good thing!

I'm sure I'll lose track of the miles soon, but for now it looks like I could break 300 for the month, if I keep it up. I'm just a little proud, if not smug, about the whole thing.

Still, I do not recant my earlier anti-winter sentiments. Still sick of it.

A Cold-Assed Mother Humper Of A Winter

Did a relatively short ride today of around 20 miles.

Not so much fun.

Others may enjoy the winter riding this year, but today's 8˚ and 20 mph NW winds seemed personally insulting to me. The frozen tracks of other bikes which made my rear wheel dodge and buck like an electric bull at a Texas roadhouse were, well, deeply offensive. The less I say about my nearly frost-bitten fingers the better, but one can scarcely imagine the level of outrage it elicited in the deepest regions of my reptile brain.

Oh, and I'm good and goddamned sick of white. White on the ground, white on buildings, white on my bike, white on my hat, white everywhere. Sick of it.