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 ...

Quadrathaloning in Winter

In no official capacity -- as in sponsors, check points, water stations, sobriety tests, etc. -- I pulled off the "Whitefish President's Day Winter Quadrathalon" yesterday. According to Wikipedia, a traditional quadrathalon consists of swimming, kayaking, biking, and running. Variations can include mountain biking or roller blading. Mine was a little different ... at no point was there any aero equipment, paddles, Roller Blades ...

Part 1: The bike up.
Rig up the trailer, throw the hiking gear in, lash the snowboard down. Cody looked sad. Either he was bummed because he wanted to come and wasn't or he was bummed because he thought I was going to make him come. Cody vs. the trailer vs. coming with me on bike trips is still a point of contention.


I made it, 7.5 miles, 1,600 feet of climbing. It was slow going: I rode my 'cross set up, knob tires and a 38x23 low gear, while dragging about 40 pounds behind me. I feel like I got as many "Right on!"s as I did "You're an idiot!"s from the cars going by me up Big Mountain Road.

Part 2: The hike.

Trade the bike for boots, two wheels for two feet, snowboard on my back, 2,300 more unpaved, snow-packed feet to go. Going up!

On the way up, I only got one "Get a pass!" and no "You're going the wrong way!"s, less than usual ...

Part 3: The snowboard.

Summit! That's Canada back there. Hell of a view on a cloudy, windy day, eh? The ride down was okay; it was icy and my legs were tired.

Remember: All this up for one run down ...

Part 4: The bike down and the drink.
Descending back into town, 7.5 miles, 1,600 feet, at about 40 miles per hour with about 40 pounds of gear in a rickety trailer trailing behind me was a little sketchy ...


Before heading home, I stopped at the Great Northern Brewery and celebrated my "victory" with a pint of the great Good Medicine.

So my quadrathalon didn't include kayaking, swimming, or roller blading, but Big Mountain Road and Big Mountain, about 3,900 vertical feet, conquered, bike, boot pack, snowboard, beer, in winter, below freezing, lots of snow, without car or ski lift!

Man, we're literally half-miles away from civilization ...

Ben and I hiked up Columbia Mountain, near Columbia Falls, to see the Columbia Falls.


T-shirts in February? Right on.


It's more impressive in person. Come visit?


Ben titled this "Weird."

Happy "Too Fat for Love" Day!

"Too Fat for Love" wasn't so much a Pittsburgh tradition as it was something we traditionally talked about.

We love bikes, none of us had girlfriends, and, mostly, Valentine's sucks. The plan was this: Valentine's weekend, ride 20 miles to Cici's Pizza in Robinson, Pennsylvania, gorge ourselves on their $3.99 "pizza" buffet and salad bar, then ride home. This was how we'd celebrate the "holiday."

Girls suck, Valentine’s sucks more, the $3.99 "pizza" buffet rules. The name was appropriately inspired by Steve K.'s love for Motley Crue.


"Too Fat for Love" 2009.

The Saturday evening before Valentine's, me, Steve, and Brad "Urban Velo" Q. rode out of the busy city and into the busier suburbs, psyched for pizza, hating on girls, bellies ready. We flew through traffic on busy, suburban roads where cyclists are rarely seen and probably never on February evenings. It was a typical Pittsburgh winter night, cold and damp, perfect for a ride.

We met a few friends in Robinson who'd wimped out and drove. We smuggled beers in and toasted them under the table in soft drink cups while families around us gorged themselves, our Valentine's muse their going out to eat with the family on a Saturday night. To justify the trip in terms of us being "healthful" cyclists we each ate at least a plate of salad from the salad bar and slices of "desert" pizza -- desert pizza has apples on top.

After, we rode home, bloated and buzzed, decked out in blinky lights.

That was two years ago ... today-ish.

Ben and I celebrated "Too Fat for Love 2011" last night at Jersey Boy's pizzeria in Whitefish. We walked; I'd ridden 45 miles earlier in the day. Two veggie slices and a beer was $8. There was no salad bar.

The scenery's changed and some friends have moved on, but the feelings are still mostly the same: Girl's are still a pain, Valentine's will always suck, pizza rules, always has, always will.

Happy "Too Fat For Love" Day! Keep the tradition alive.