Toute Neige

HeavyFKNbaseYo

Grouse

Whoooosh.

sackson hole, whying

Sackson Hole, Whying

These things turn.  Leaves. Wheels. Paths.  Screws.  I play with the allen nut on a brake caliper and realize suddenly that I've always just turned a few screws and hoped for the best. Tuning bikes, I'm beginning to recognize, is like tuning a guitar: there's finesse, the ear. You have to find the sweet spot. You have to pay attention to things, man! 

There's only so much you can learn from a manual -- for the rest you have to use the Force, to go by feel.  That would likely explain the bruises.

Things dry.  July was relentless, unforgiving.  Now the trails are damp again with pockets of slop and schmeaze.  But there's the hint that, yes, dry is possible. The sand and needle cradle of single-track crunches and hums lightly beneath the tires. The heart begins to wake up.

Few people are out midday, which is fine by me. More often than not these days, the ride is solitary. An hour or two here and there. The occasional rumbling downshift of a sand/gravel truck punctuates normally quiet hum of the forest.

Rhythm comes from conscious distraction. It's put on from without until it begins to work its way to the core. You have to observe it in the periphery -- if you look at it directly or analyze, it suddenly dissolves, like a drop of ink in water.  At least that's how it seems to work for me.  An instant of self-satisfaction almost always results in connecting solidly with a tree.  I try to let the ego fall away.  Funny thing about ego: as soon as you think about not thinking about it, it's already too late.

There's not much elevation gain here, and what there is is merciful. Depending on the pace of the climb. A whopping 960'. My temples throb from choosing the hard and stupid, yet much faster route. Someone's laid out some blue tarps to control an invasive plant.  I often feel like an invasive species in the woods. Some little piece of Ireland broke off, got dropped in Iowa before spreading back east and sending out shoots in Vermont.

Things turn. Revolutions. Cadence. The descent falls away, the best of it arcing through pine and hardwood in wild swoops, enough to pump and groove with the occasional out-of-the-saddle scramble up an incline before leaning into the next turn.  For snowless, this ain't so bad.

The ride is its own reward.  I'll probably head back tomorrow.

schwinn traveller ss