Saturday, November 23, 2013


As promised on Twitter, my idea for celebrating Adventure Cycling Association’s 40th anniversary. Ask and you shall receive.

40 years is a milestone too epic to honor within the confines of 140 characters. So if you have the time and are open to a little humor, allow me to explain the creative process of coming up with a way to celebrate Adventure Cycling Association’s 40thanniversary.

Step 1: Do a little research.

Established in 1973
Bikecentennial in 1976
Headquarters in Missoula, Montana
Ruby is the 40th anniversary gemstone

Step 2: Think red, Ruby red, like the color of a bike.
Name the bike Ruby. Ah-ha! A red bike named Ruby.

Step 3: Any other Ruby connections? Easy. Kenny Rogers!

Step 4: More research. Find the “Ruby” lyrics.

Step 5: Rewrite the lyrics with a cycling theme. 

You’ve painted up your lugs so folks would stop and look and stare
Ruby are you contemplating riding off somewhere?
The shadow from the bike rack means the sun is going down
Oh Ruby, don’t take your lugs to town

It wasn’t me that opened that old crusty bag of smores
But I was proud to go and do all of our pre-trip chores
Yes, it’s true that I’m not the rider I used to be
Oh Ruby, I’m still runnin’ full Campy

It’s hard to love a man whose legs are spent and cold as ice
And the wants and the needs of a bike your age, Ruby, I realize
But it won’t be long ‘til these legs won’t be spinning ’round
Oh Ruby, don’t take your lugs to town

She’s leaving now ‘cause I just heard her brakes squeak past my door
The way I know I’ve heard them squeak one hundred times before
And if I could move, I’d get my maps and I would track her down
Oh Ruby, don’t take your lugs to town
Oh Ruby, please put your kickstand down 


Step 6: So what’s the big idea? Members submit videos of themselves singing the cycling version of “Ruby”. The best video wins a ruby-colored touring bike with custom lettering that reads, 40 Years of Adventure Cycling 1976-2016.

Second place gets full camping gear.

Third place gets full panniers, racks and fenders.

Fourth place gets a free Life Membership.

All winners will appear on the Adventure Cycling Association’s website and in an upcoming issue of Adventure Cycling magazine.

I took the scenic route but that’s my idea submission. The real idea was to entertain...maybe give a bike tourer somewhere something new to sing while out on the open road or hidden trails or while making camp after a long day in the saddle. 


Saturday, November 16, 2013


This story is fictional. Any similarities to actual events or individuals is purely coincidental.


Three major TV news organizations and FOX have been tracking the whereabouts of retired velodrome superstar Joe Fix. Copy editors for the nation’s leading newspapers have inked their front pages with articles titled, “GET JOE FIX!!!” for years, praising his ability to outrun the competition race after race, year after year, one Olympics after another. Now, after his very first defeat in his storied cycling career, Joe has not only disappeared from the lime light, he has not been in touch with family or friends since his embarrassing showing at the Tour de Ale, a cycling event limited to beer drinking, bearded cyclists riding 30-pound bikes equipped with tires no less than two inches wide.

Television crews and other media photographed Joe Fix as he arrived at the starting line clean-shaven, wearing spandex, sporting hairless legs and riding the latest high-tech, carbon fiber bike money can buy. If this was the velodrome in Frisco, Texas he would have been right at home. Not only was he disqualified from the race, he was laughed at and mocked by those who he thought were his fans and friends.

We recently received an anonymous tip that Joe might be hiding out in a loft above a framebuilder’s shop on the east coast in an attempt to get back to his cycling roots. Positioned safely across the street in a rented apartment, we were able to set up surveillance. The following was captured on tape after our intern posed as a pizza delivery person delivering to the wrong address. Joe Fix was talking to himself as if rehearsing for an upcoming interview. The recording device met an unfortunate fate, finding its way to the elbow of a drainage pipe sometime between midnight and 5:00 a.m. the next morning. We are still trying to think of way to thank our intern for retrieving it.

This is the transcript from what has become known as, The Intraview.


JOE: Well this is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into. What are your plans for righting the ship?

FIX: Plans? Plans are for architects. I rely on instincts and feelings.

JOE: So how do you explain the Tour de Ale? How do you “feel” about your instincts now?

FIX: That’s why I’m here. To rediscover my passion for cycling and just be a normal person for once.

JOE: Normal? Care to expand on that?

FIX: Look. The world required me to be a hero; someone who could overcome the obstacles that they could not. When I achieve, a little piece of them feels like they achieve alongside me.

JOE: Is that how you explain the doping?

FIX: It’s not easy to explain but yes. The only way to bring attention to my foundation was to be number one. The world required me to be number one and I met that requirement.

JOE: Are you clean now?

FIX: Yes. They keep feeding me pot roast, dumplings and amber ale. I haven’t felt this good in years. So relaxed. So soft. So…normal.

JOE: But the doping. The world doesn’t see it your way.

FIX: Why is this so hard for you to understand!? If the second place rider, third, fourth and multiple other riders were doping, and I still beat all of them, would you label that as cheating? Doping did not give me an advantage over the other dopers…once the playing field was leveled I still had to rely on my skill and conditioning. Doping will not elevate a last place rider to first. It’s only good for one or two positions. If I was a second-rate rider nobody would have noticed.

JOE: Forgive my normalness but how do you justify the years of lying and cover ups?

FIX: Imagine if you could single-handedly bring attention to a cause and create a movement that grew exponentially year after year.

JOE: But you had teammates. It wasn’t all you.

FIX: It WAS all me. It was ALWAYS about me. The whole point was for ME to win.

JOE: At all costs?

FIX: Of course.

JOE: I don’t know you personally but from what I’ve heard you hurt a lot of people along the way.

FIX: Raising money required bringing attention to the foundation. Bringing attention to the foundation required me to win. I didn’t want it to get out of hand the way it did but it did. I can’t change that now.

JOE: So you admit to hurting people?

FIX: To grow the foundation the world REQUIRED me to win. Even with the doping, I had to overcome crashes and attacks from teams of riders whose sole job was to make sure that I…DID…NOT…WIN. To get in my way, on or off the track was at best, ill-advised.

JOE: So you were countering a multiplied effort?

FIX: Exactly. My team could only help me so much. At some point the decision had to be made to guarantee wins, regardless of the attacks, regardless of the crashes. I just needed that little extra and it worked.

JOE: But you never lost. Don’t you think somebody was eventually going to question that?

FIX: Of course, but until that moment presented itself, my focus remained on winning and growing the foundation.

JOE: You know it does make sense in a round about way.

FIX: It makes perfect sense. How many lives were saved and will be saved because of those wins?

JOE: Probably thousands? Maybe even millions I guess.

FIX: You’re damn right. Millions of lives. Would you sacrifice your medals, your reputation, your legacy, if it meant saving millions of lives? Would you apologize for that? To anyone?

JOE: No. I guess not if you put it that way.

FIX: No is the only answer. I can apologize for doping and hurting people’s feelings or I can apologize for losing, knowing that with every loss, my foundation would take one step closer to losing the fight.

JOE: I’m sorry but I honestly never even considered any of that.

FIX: Of course you never. I risked everything, suffering the greatest defeat so others less fortunate than me could go on winning…living a life that may not have been possible without help from my foundation.

JOE: Do you think time will ever heal this wound?

FIX: Time heals most wounds. Others just get smaller, becoming faint scars and conversation pieces. As time dilutes the negative impact of my actions, people will slowly realize that I did much more good than harm. Now if you don’t mind, this pizza is getting cold.


Well there it is. Maybe we’ve all misjudged Joe Fix this entire time? It really doesn’t make sense that a rider would go through all of this trouble for his own benefit. There was clearly something larger than himself, something the rest of us refused to see.

I feel ashamed as a journalist, telling the world how desperate we are for a hero, only so we could gain attention from the hero's decline. Like a vulture, waiting for an eagle to fall, then picking it apart piece by piece. Unfortunately we failed to realize how great the eagle really was until after our first swallow. 

Sunday, November 3, 2013

BEAR TACO...first rough draft

Sometimes a writer just needs to lose their AP Style Guide and Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style and just type, letting their thoughts and desires flow from their brain, down into their finger tips and onto the screen. When you’re smacked in the face with inspiration, just sit down and bang it out.

If you notice that I start too many sentences with “I” or start and end them with a preposition, I chalk it up to poetic license. It’s not proper, I’m aware of it, but I’m also not getting paid to do this and don’t have the benefit of a professional copy editor. Jumping between past and present tense? Guilty as charged. It is what it is. Just push all of that aside and enjoy the story.

The mixing of fact and fiction.

Bear Taco Facts:
I was born in Winona, MN and raised in Rochester.
Snowball fights do turn into rock fights when the other side packs their snowballs with rocks.
We ate icicles all the time.
I did break my collar bone jumping a frozen gopher mound.
I currently reside in Georgetown, just north of Austin, TX.
I have made the drive up I-35 from Texas to Minnesota, both as a passenger and as a driver.
My dad does work at the Mayo Clinic and commutes on a bus from Winona.
I do owe my parents a lot of favors.
There is a “rock” overlooking Winona known as Sugar Loaf.
I was raised in a Czech household.
Barges really do make those sounds when passing in the night.
Based on internet searches, Robe Lake Lodge in Valdez, Beaver Sports Bike Shop and the Bristow Group are all real.
I am 40-something.
Based on an internet search, Bristow Group’s final contract in that area expires next May.
Brown bears can reach 1,500 pounds with four inch claws.
I have never been to Alaska but would like to visit at least once in my lifetime.
I have been known to have nightmares about bears.

Bear Taco Fiction:
Pretty much everything not mentioned above.

I got a little carried away with this one so grab a coffee and lose yourself in my rough draft of Bear Taco.

Alaska in February; what can I say? The first 10 years of my life were spent in southeast Minnesota; born in Winona…raised in Rochester, I’ve made my share of ice forts. If you want to know how a snowball fight turns into a rock fight give me a call. We ate icicles for after school snacks. I broke my first bone jumping a frozen gopher mound while sledding behind our house. Yeah, I snapped a collar bone but you should have seen the sled; shattered. It was so epic, they say the Rollingstones wrote a song about it. In short, I thought I knew cold. We’ve had some history together but nothing like I experienced in Alaska.

New product launch test riders live a charmed life. I’ll admit that things have been pretty cozy since writing my first review of The Chub, Australia’s answer to the fat bike, so I thought it was time to get back in touch with reality, fore-go the convenience of an assistant and plan my next trip all by my lonesome.

To help re-acclimate myself to cooler temps, I would need to spend some time in my home state. Splitting the continent right up the gut, I took I-35 all the way from Austin, Texas to Rochester, Minnesota. 1,100 miles later, my timing was spot on, arriving at the Mayo Clinic just in time to pick up my dad for lunch. This logistics thing isn’t so bad after all.

My dad usually takes the bus, commuting in from Winona. I would be returning many favors by being his chauffeur for once. We arrived in Winona with Sugar Loaf reliably keeping a watchful eye on the Mississippi valley below. Snaking our way up the winding driveway, we were greeted by my mother who just put the finishing touches on dinner. Dumplings, sauerkraut, brown gravy…growing up in a Czech household has its advantages.

Since this was a weekend visit, the bike stayed packed, as did my laptop and assortment of wool. For two nights I insisted on sleeping on the patio. Overlooking the Mississippi, I was lulled to sleep by the sounds of barges passing in the night. The water slapping then gently falling onto itself, the lights and the inevitable horn blast, I really miss that. My job was to convince myself that cold is just a number, a state of mind. If I was to survive Alaska, enduring a few nights on the patio in Winona was a mandatory prerequisite.

Sunday arrived in a flash. My parents surprised me by making all of my flight and rental car arrangements. We said our good-byes and before I knew it, I was boarding a flight from St. Paul to Anchorage. My bike would make the trip via UPS.

Arriving at Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport, the first order of business was to secure the rental and make my way to Robe Lake Lodge in Valdez. Just as planned, my custom fat bike was waiting for me at the main office.

The log cabin style accommodations, a view of Robe Lake and the Chugach Mountains all reminded me of home. I was going to be fine. It was in the teens already so I would definitely be sleeping indoors…maybe leaving the windows cracked open just for fun.

Waking around 11:00 am, I took a deep breath and exhaled…watching the vapor kiss the ceiling fan before reaching room temperature then dispersing into nothing. First stop, continental breakfast. No cheese curds? Where are the breakfast tacos? As a Texan with strong ties to Minnesota, my cravings are all over the place. The second order of business was to reserve some hot tub time…9:00 pm should do. Not too early, not too late. I have a feeling this adventure is going to push my 40-something physique to its limits.

When you travel as much as I do, it can be a challenge flopping around as the constant fish out of water, always feeling your way around unfamiliar streets and landmarks. My immediate goal was to locate Beaver Sports Bicycle Shop. They were holding the frame and fork proto-type that would eventually morph with bits and pieces from my bike. At this stage of production it was still un-named. I was honored to be involved so early in the process. There was a repair stand in the back, the carbon frame already clamped in place and poised for wrenching. I felt right at home.

“The bathroom is over there…coffee is by the cup only. We’ll keep the door closed so you won’t be disturbed.”

This is what bike dreams are made of. I was getting a red carpet treatment that I neither expected nor deserved. With my chin planted firmly in my palm, leaning on the workbench as brake cable fragments pierced my elbow, I grinned and nodded, acknowledging their hospitality with a simple yet sincere, “Thank you.” Seconds later my eyes latched on to a stack of magazines, about 10 or so, each opened to one of my articles. The magazine on top had a note attached that read, “Please autograph.” Little did they know that I felt the same way about them. Without them I would have nothing to write about.

No sooner had I removed myself from the bench, a helicopter made an appearance behind the shop, blowing snow and debris through the opened back door, flipping the magazine pages so violently, they broke the staples’ grip before the entire stack surrendered and scattered into a disorganized mess on the shop floor. I clawed my way to the threshold and caught a glimpse as the chopper faded into the mountains. It was the Bristow Group. The news had reported this morning that their last mission under contract in this area would require them to assist in tracking and locating the beast that had been terrorizing this area for the last two months. 1,500 pounds and four inch claws. They were tracking a brown bear.

The chaos created by the chopper was followed by an empty and haunting silence. I walked to the front of the shop and it was completely dark and void of anything that resembled life; like an old west saloon, abandoned right before a gun fight. That’s exactly what it felt like.

It would be awkward to continue the build in the shop all by myself, so I headed to the back to retrieve my things. Not wanting to leave the place a complete mess, I picked up one of the magazines and thought I would sign at least one copy. As I reached for my bike luggage, the remaining light was completely snuffed out. I looked up and there she was, an angry brown bear, head down and what seemed like gallons of saliva puddling on the floor. When our eyes met, I could almost hear the bear thinking out loud, “Let’s do this.” My response? “Give me something hard to do!”

As this greasy sow shuffled forward, she stood up just before reaching the repair stand, her fur was outlined with a subtle glow, compliments of the sunlight reflecting off the snow out back. A split second after going back to all fours, I could have sworn she kicked that door closed on purpose. All of that time changing flats in the dark would pay off today. With a lock ring removal tool close at hand, I slashed into the blackness with a fierce right hook, then back again, missing the first time, but snagging her jugular with the second swipe. Soaked in her blood, the thick skin and coarse fur ripped that spanner right out of my hand.

Suddenly weakened, she showed me her ivory and curled her lips in defiance. She wasn’t going down easy. I quickly introduced her to a rusty chain whip, slamming it upright between her chin and snout, putting her tongue and teeth on permanent display. With one weapon eliminated, the claws were next on the list. My left hand was already gripping a Landing Gear BMX fork just seconds before her backhand grazed my chin. I’ve always liked that Landing Gear font. “Stop day dreaming!!!” I inhaled the blast of air created by her paw, then planted that fork deep into her chest, squeezing between two ribs and finding its way into her lungs. Perfect landing. She fell limp at my feet as if to thank me for ending her pain. Exhausted from the adrenalin rush, I whispered to myself, “You’re welcome.”

Minutes later the chopper, shop owner and a few customers returned. The proto-type review would have to be rescheduled. I left through the back door but not before cutting away a sliver of bear skin as a souvenir. My bike fiction has already elevated me to legend status in cycling circles; I didn’t need this incident to add to my legacy. It just wouldn’t be fair to the other journalists.

On the way back to the lodge I stopped by a Taco Bell hoping to get a little taste of Texas before calling it a day. Arriving at the lodge just before 9:00 pm, my swollen feet carried me to my cabin and eventually to the hot tub. At last, I found myself in a human soup bowl, soaking my tendons and loosening a stiff lower back. I dug around for my tacos and discovered they forgot to throw in the salsa packs. As a master of improvisation, I reached for the slice of bear skin, squeezed it tightly in my hands until the fat succumbed to my body heat and ultimately gravity, seasoning the taco meat in the process. Bear grease is not your ordinary salsa, but this was no ordinary adventure.

I’ll return one day to complete the review. Maybe by then they’ll have a name for that proto-type.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

BEAR TACO...unedited, unfinished

I don't get any comments on here so I'm not sure if anyone is enjoying my fictional bike stories. 

Here's one I started but never finished...never been to Alaska so this will take some research to complete. 

Title: Bear Taco
Inspired by Beargrease, a fat bike offered by Salsa Cycles. Can you guess the ending based on the title?

Alaska in February; what can I say? The first 10 years of my life were spent in southeast Minnesota; born in Winona…raised in Rochester, I’ve made my share of ice forts. If you want to know how a snowball fight turns into a rock fight give me a call.
We ate icicles for after school snacks. I broke my first bone jumping a frozen gopher mound while sledding behind our house. Yeah, I snapped a collar bone but you should have seen the sled. In short, I thought I knew cold. We’ve had some history together but nothing like I experienced in Alaska.

Factory test riders live a charmed life. I’ll admit that things have been pretty cozy since writing my first review of The Chub, Australia’s answer to the fat bike, so I thought it was time to get back in touch with reality, forgo the convenience of an assistant and plan my next test ride all by my lonesome.

Need the following to complete…

Name of major airport in Alaska
  1. Robe Lake Lodge, within city limits
  2. Mile 6 Richardson Hwy, Lake House Rd
  3. Log style
  4. Overlooking Robe Lake and Chugach Mountains
  5. Continental breakfast
  6. Hot tubs
Name of bike shop
  1. Beaver Sports Bicycle Shop, Valdez, AK

Name of helicopter flight service near Valdez.
Type of bears in Alaska
  1. Brown, 1500 lbs, 4 inch claws


A few years ago I was bitten by the fixed gear bug. I scooped up the first old Schwinn road bike with horizontal drop-outs that I could find and built my first fixie.

If you have ever wondered what attracts riders to fixed gear bikes, hopefully these images will answer that question. It's all about taking something cluttered and complex, and making it simple and pure.

I'm not exactly Bob Osborn so please forgive the poor photography.

A 1978 Schwinn Sprint serves as the clean slate. Let the fun begin!

The only substantial purchase was the rear wheel and tire/tube combo. 
The rest of the bike is nearly all stock. Ignore the ugly seat. The idea was a low-budget build so I kept the pretty stuff to a minimum.

So much little time.

That's better! Yes, the original handlebar was chopped and flopped. 
So clean and simple don't you think? over-rated.

That's the original chain ring getting a big hug from a nickel plated chain.

Cover your eyes...this stuff is nasty.

Another Schwinn saved from the trash heap.
Where have you been all my life? 
Why did it take me so long to rediscover my passion for bikes?

Again, I'm not a photographer but this pic doesn't look too bad. 
Location is downtown Georgetown, Texas.