Seasonal depression ...

It hasn't hit 50 degrees yet in the Flathead this year; the 10-day forecast does not forecast a 50-degree day. There's still about a foot in our yard. It feels like it's never going to melt. The seeds are ready to be sowed; our garden has been mentally plotted. Motivation to do anything awesome has been hard to muster. I'm sick of road riding; I'm sick of cross country skiing; I quit hiking the mountain three weeks ago. I really want to hike, but the snowshoes are retired for the season. I hate whining about the weather, but, well, it's broken my spirit today, 38 and raining for the fourth straight day, spring break ...

I haven't shaved in three months, though, so my beard looks sort of awesome ... to me.

"Biking" vs. Biking

I'm in "deep preparation" for the Tour of Walla Walla. You know, base miles, intervals, hill repeats, lactate threshold time trial efforts, mid-ride chocolate syrup shots disguised as an all-natural, nutritional supplement, frequent naps, compression socks with Crocs, etc., etc. Incredibly enjoyable, but boring bike stuff; the stuff my admittedly lame Cat. 3 dreams are made of. My pal Pete, on the other hand, is getting it right. Pete began pedaling north out of Whitefish last week, plans to be in Fairbanks, Alaska, by early June, and will then hike and ski Mount McKinley. Oh, and then he'll ride from Fairbanks to his parent's house ... in Michigan. Eat your heart out, Danny Chew.

I encourage you to follow Pete's adventures at his Blog, Pedalin' Pete.

"Just a fool with a bicycle dream, with a goal to ride it." A dream so "foolish" his parent's took out a life insurance policy on him ...

More discovery, less bike ...

Also, the Polson Speed Wagon Classic is two weeks away. Most epic race in America? I'd put a dollar amount on that. Check out totally-legit Missoula photographer Tom Robertson's photos from last year's race. So sick; I'm psyched.

Bikes ...

Pedaling isn't worth writing about.

Homebums ...

Years ago, when I lived and worked on the east side, I picked up a hitchhiker near Babb, Everett, in his words, a "homebum," a classically-trained-guitarist-turned-backpack-busker. I was never sure why he was walking south out of Babb or how the hell he'd even got there in the first place; I guess it didn't matter. We became fast friends: a ride to the next town turned to two weeks of him sleeping on the couch in the cabin. We hiked Glacier when I wasn't working; he walked Cody as a "favor" to me while I worked. I grubbed him food from the employee dining room and stole him socks and a belt from the sporting goods store where I worked. He invited me to ride the rails with him to Washington. He told me Cody would be fine to ride, too. I didn't hesitate to say no even though I wanted to; I knew my place in all this. One year later, I came back out here, and I found my place in all of this ...