P
Paladin
Guest
Geez Louize! says Adam. ?I did a hard road ride yesterday, and rode the trails both days before
that. I?m rock climbing almost every night, I?m thrashed!? Just bring your dang singlespeed, ya
whinin weenie.
So old Jim stops by, throws his bike in my truck and we book it down to Adam?s little hovel he rents
for when he?s in town.
Get the gear ready. Its about 55degf, clear, with the sun falling down west, just becoming jacket
type conditions.
So Adam trots out wheeling this custom, Santa Cruz, titanium singlespeed! Whaaaat?? Well, I knew the
truth, but he had Jim going for awhile. This was his old diamondback frame resurrected as an SS,
with a SC sticker on the downtube. Looked pretty cool, what with clear-coat over the sandblasted
frame. So the two of us are rockin the SS world, Jim?s on his antique Bridgestone, and away we go.
They nominate me to lead, so after doodling around and adjusting my brand new gay roadie shoes, I
choose a very stout series of small hills to get us up to the major trail system. Adam?s standing up
and hammering everything, still in that honeymoon stage of singlespeeding before your knees tell you
in their own subtle way to take it easy. Well, he chooses the wrong line, stops to the left side of
the last obscene pitch, and I pass him by, struggling and huffing too hard to gloat. Adam asks for
my spare lung. Go buy your own from Nashbar.
Separation anxiety occurs as Ad wants to ride for a couple more hours, but Jim and I only have an
hour left before domestication reels us in. So we head down to Military Reserve, while Ad heads up
to Sidewinder, fame and fortune. Did I mention he?s pushing a really heavy ratio on that fake
Santa Cruz?
Jim and I rock down this narrow track full of water bars, ruts, off-camber corners, and we?re flying
low, grinning like baboons. We dump out onto a dirt road, tool down it awhile, then cut left, cross
a creek, grind up the bank, and stop at the base of long, mutha of a hill. I tell Jim, it may look
bad, but there?s one consolation. O? What is that, O great Paladin? It *is* bad, says I. So I
chuckle at my joke, saddle up, salute the flag and prepare to die.
This goat-track is about half a mile long, and is steep. (Didn?t they know about swithchbacks??) I
see a trail marker halfway, and think, if I make it to that, I?ll die happy and just walk the rest
of the way. But I?m gruntin & groanin, pulling up so hard on my bars, standing the whole wonderful
way, that I pass the sign and keep humpin the leg of that hill. My guts start to hurt, my vision?s
going screwy, but some stupid a$$hole that sleeps with my wife keeps pedalling. I finally crest out
on top, find a clear spot, lay the bike over and try to pass out. Death eludes me, I wave to a
couple hikers on top, and wait for Jim, who comes ambling up, easily spinning in his granny
wondering what?s my problem.
From there we take an unused singletrack around the left-side of the last hill in this system, and
climb the back. By now I?m about out of gas, but comfort myself in knowing that exertion and oxygen
deprivation have transported me to my happy place. Drooling, muttering and grinning big, we crest
out again, and can see for miles in all directions.
Down this gnarly sucker to our left, wiping my skinny butt on the rear tire, we make it down OK. Do
we cross the creek and add another hour? Naaah, we?d better get back. So we?re humming along just
peachy down this wide canyon trail, with the creek to our left, cut left into the jungle grove at
Military, and fight through some technical sweetness, to come out on the big cement culvert area,
where I?m greeted with a friendly sight. I almost run smack into a pair of truly fine b?hines.
Whaat? It?s two cute gals bending over in tandem, right in front of
me. I guess stretching for their run. Whatever. Maybe Adam hired them to cause me to wreck. Haaah!
No way, Hozay, I slowed down out of courtesy to them, and then rode the waterfall drops down to
amaze and dismay the adoring fans gathered around. Or not.
So we try to shortcut it through the fed psych hospital, but some Jack Nicholson looking dude runs
us out of there. Gay roadie back to Adam?s house about 3 miles away, just as the sun finally gives
it up for the day.
Paladin
that. I?m rock climbing almost every night, I?m thrashed!? Just bring your dang singlespeed, ya
whinin weenie.
So old Jim stops by, throws his bike in my truck and we book it down to Adam?s little hovel he rents
for when he?s in town.
Get the gear ready. Its about 55degf, clear, with the sun falling down west, just becoming jacket
type conditions.
So Adam trots out wheeling this custom, Santa Cruz, titanium singlespeed! Whaaaat?? Well, I knew the
truth, but he had Jim going for awhile. This was his old diamondback frame resurrected as an SS,
with a SC sticker on the downtube. Looked pretty cool, what with clear-coat over the sandblasted
frame. So the two of us are rockin the SS world, Jim?s on his antique Bridgestone, and away we go.
They nominate me to lead, so after doodling around and adjusting my brand new gay roadie shoes, I
choose a very stout series of small hills to get us up to the major trail system. Adam?s standing up
and hammering everything, still in that honeymoon stage of singlespeeding before your knees tell you
in their own subtle way to take it easy. Well, he chooses the wrong line, stops to the left side of
the last obscene pitch, and I pass him by, struggling and huffing too hard to gloat. Adam asks for
my spare lung. Go buy your own from Nashbar.
Separation anxiety occurs as Ad wants to ride for a couple more hours, but Jim and I only have an
hour left before domestication reels us in. So we head down to Military Reserve, while Ad heads up
to Sidewinder, fame and fortune. Did I mention he?s pushing a really heavy ratio on that fake
Santa Cruz?
Jim and I rock down this narrow track full of water bars, ruts, off-camber corners, and we?re flying
low, grinning like baboons. We dump out onto a dirt road, tool down it awhile, then cut left, cross
a creek, grind up the bank, and stop at the base of long, mutha of a hill. I tell Jim, it may look
bad, but there?s one consolation. O? What is that, O great Paladin? It *is* bad, says I. So I
chuckle at my joke, saddle up, salute the flag and prepare to die.
This goat-track is about half a mile long, and is steep. (Didn?t they know about swithchbacks??) I
see a trail marker halfway, and think, if I make it to that, I?ll die happy and just walk the rest
of the way. But I?m gruntin & groanin, pulling up so hard on my bars, standing the whole wonderful
way, that I pass the sign and keep humpin the leg of that hill. My guts start to hurt, my vision?s
going screwy, but some stupid a$$hole that sleeps with my wife keeps pedalling. I finally crest out
on top, find a clear spot, lay the bike over and try to pass out. Death eludes me, I wave to a
couple hikers on top, and wait for Jim, who comes ambling up, easily spinning in his granny
wondering what?s my problem.
From there we take an unused singletrack around the left-side of the last hill in this system, and
climb the back. By now I?m about out of gas, but comfort myself in knowing that exertion and oxygen
deprivation have transported me to my happy place. Drooling, muttering and grinning big, we crest
out again, and can see for miles in all directions.
Down this gnarly sucker to our left, wiping my skinny butt on the rear tire, we make it down OK. Do
we cross the creek and add another hour? Naaah, we?d better get back. So we?re humming along just
peachy down this wide canyon trail, with the creek to our left, cut left into the jungle grove at
Military, and fight through some technical sweetness, to come out on the big cement culvert area,
where I?m greeted with a friendly sight. I almost run smack into a pair of truly fine b?hines.
Whaat? It?s two cute gals bending over in tandem, right in front of
me. I guess stretching for their run. Whatever. Maybe Adam hired them to cause me to wreck. Haaah!
No way, Hozay, I slowed down out of courtesy to them, and then rode the waterfall drops down to
amaze and dismay the adoring fans gathered around. Or not.
So we try to shortcut it through the fed psych hospital, but some Jack Nicholson looking dude runs
us out of there. Gay roadie back to Adam?s house about 3 miles away, just as the sun finally gives
it up for the day.
Paladin
