Warm Night Air

Of course my last post was about not riding in the dark. Because this one is about riding in the dark. No, I didn’t change my mind. I had company.

It was a balmy 68 degrees yesterday afternoon when I received an offer to ride later that night with my favorite roadie-turned-backpacker (“It’s great off-season cross training!”) -turned-roadie friend.

We set off after the sun had set and rode into the darkness to meet Justin on his commute home. The 15-mile ride felt effortless as we filled up on the unseasonably warm night air. Lights blinked, pedals spun and conversation flowed.




It was beyond enjoyable, undeniably refreshing—and not nearly as terrifying as I had imagined.

The Darkness

My daily commute to meet Justin ended with Daylight Savings. Why? Because it is approaching pitch blackness when I would start my ride. And I’m scared of the dark.

In year’s past I’ve tried to continue the commute into winter, but it’s not enjoyable. In fact, I’m rather terrified to ride my bike alone at night. It’s not the cars that worry me. (The lights on my bike are plentiful and insanely bright.) It’s fear of the unknown: Who’s hiding in that 9-acre stretch of shadowy woods? What will emerge from behind that hedge?

Perhaps I am the only one who thinks about these things, save for my dad who likely passed on the paranoia to me. Really, I think he used to scare himself with his “ghost of Captain Benny” bedtime stories. But, I digress.

This year, my transition from starry sky to cellar is made a bit easier by a recent acquirement—a like-new CycleOps Club Pro 300PT with power tap.


It looks fairly appealing to ride, no? Certainly more appealing than my bike looks sitting in the trainer.

Let’s just hope these looks aren’t deceiving.

Show Off!

It’s been raining. Every weekend. Forcing us indoors to accomplish things we’d rather put off. When it looked like we were about to cross off even more tasks on our ‘to-do’ list yet again this past weekend, we made the call. We would ride—rain or shine.

Cabin fever shoved us outside on a thirty-or-so-mile road ride. Sure it was wet, but the rain cooled us down from the unseasonably warm temperatures. (In case you are unfamiliar, “warm” in Philadelphia and surrounding counties = HUMID.)

The ride was good. The company was even better. And the scenery was phenomenal. Mother Nature is such a show off this time of year.



Heck, I’d flaunt it too if I looked like that!

Leaving Las Vegas

A funny thing happened on my ride last night. I started to miss Las Vegas.

OK, funnier things have happened during my daily commute to meet Justin. Like the time we tried to stop a Possum from walking in circles. Or the time we bumped into Laura and Dan for the first time when my face was three times its normal size due to poison ivy—the only thing I took home from the Fair Hill race. Heck, even the time I ran over a dog was funnier than this. (I was on a bike and the dog escaped without injury.)

Perhaps the word I’m searching for then is “strange,” not “funny.” It was certainly strange for me to miss Las Vegas. In the past four years I’ve visited Vegas just as many times—for business and pleasure—and never once regretted coming home. Why was this time different?

Maybe it was because I was there for North America's largest bicycle trade event and show. Maybe it was because scantily-clad women and kitted-up cyclists mingled on casino floors. Or perhaps it was because after-hours parties consisted of the first-ever Interbike Tweetup and a bike polo tournament behind the Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino. Or because the biggest cyclocross race in America took place a few short blocks away from our swanky hotel.

Whatever the reason, during a crisp fall ride I found myself reminiscing about my recent foray into the seasonless, seedy city. And was kind of sad to be home.

Blood, Sweat and Beers

This is the second time I’ve returned from vacation and neglected my blog. I apologize, and offer an excuse (or three). I spent the last week playing catch up at work and at home, riding daily to meet Justin on his commute home before daylight savings strikes and “recovering” from what can only be described as the best event I’ve ever raced (and I use that word loosely) in.

On Sunday, September 20, Halloween came early in Durango, CO. Single Speed World Championships descended upon town and locals were treated to all sorts of costume-clad characters. SSWC custom dictates dressing up, and our crew (perhaps a little too) eagerly joined in.


At the crack of noon—or was it 11:00?— pros and novices alike assembled at the start line with more than 1,000 others, hung over and hankering to play in the dirt for 25 miles. To the townspeople lining the street we looked like a circus, I’m sure. But looks can be misleading. And in this case, looks are downright dishonest. Sure, Kelli Emmett may line up next to you in an ensemble straight outta Lieutenant Jim Dangle’s closet, but she’s here to race. Point proven by her third place finish.


Yeah, the course was hard, intensified by the extreme elevation gain, hike-a-bike sections and looming thunderstorm. But when 1,000 racers surge for the trail at once, we were assured plenty of “standing room only” occasions. I spent this time getting to know my neighbors and snapping photographs of the breathtaking scenery. (Harder than you might imagine while pushing a bike uphill.)


What seemed like a lifetime later, I made it to the top of the mountain where there was a party in full swing. A few people shoved plastic cups of beer in front of me as I pedaled by, and one friend I hadn’t seen in years begged me to dismount and drink up. After talking for a bit with the party-goers, other spectators shouted to keep going so as not to get caught in the storm. I heeded their advice and continued to roll my rigid 29er over the rocky crest. A look to my right assured I had made a smart (though unpopular) decision to ditch the party early. Dark clouds inched ever so close to the race. Additionally, one false move on the bike would’ve surely put me over the cliff.


By the time I reached the bottom, outside circumstances (such as the party stop) and my own meager skills got me cut off at the midway point. But I didn't care. I reconnected with Justin, who’d flatted in his purple unitard, and had one wacky conversation with Jacquie Phelan, who asked for my last name, then spelled it (correctly) and told me what it meant in Italian. Really.




The winners (guys: Ross Schnell; girls: Heather Irminger) didn’t get a cash-prize, or any prize, for that matter. They got a tattoo, once again, as SSWC custom dictates.


**Our good friend Justin Steiner took this charming shot of Heather Irminger receiving her winning tattoo.

King for a Day (or Three)

We came from all over, many of us cutting the work week short and driving through the night, to converge in a small mountain town nestled in the Green Mountains of Vermont.


For some of us, it was the third year in a row we hauled mountain bikes, massive amounts of gear and microbrews to East Burke. For others, it was the first time they would experience the best trail network in North America.

With more than 100 miles of rolling singletrack, Kingdom Trails is a mecca for mountain bikers—and a destination I’ve frequented yearly since discovering it. This year, ten or so of us met in the tiny town with aspirations of frolicking in the dirt and forgetting about life for a while.


We frolicked. We forgot. We bought a thee-day pass for $25—a small price to pay for first-rate trail maintenance, markings and mapping—and while there was no shortage of trails, we were on borrowed time. We made the most of our limited stay in the Northeast Kingdom by making it our job to hit the greats: Sidewinder, Webs, Kitchel, Pastore Point, Heaven’s Gate, Tody’s Tour…

The riding is phenomenal—hardpacked, fast and filled with pine forests, hairpin switchbacks and the occasional maple syrup tube.


We went to celebrate the long weekend, waning summer weather, endless miles of singletrack and more.

I recommend you make the trip too—even if you have nothing to celebrate.