That Time I Did a Fat Bike Race

I hadn't planned on doing any fat bike races this season, but it popped up somewhere online: night race at Targhee. I'm a sucker for novelty, and a night race meant I could still ski all day. It was cheap, there was some cool swag, and a quick browse of the pre-reg showed enough friends to make it worthwhile. Done. Oops.

It was already dumping on the day I registered, and the Tetons proceeded to get another two or so feet that weekend. The race was sounding less appealing on Friday when I and just about everyone I know charged the Ghee all day. But Derrick, the new owner of Fitzgerald's and a strident fat bike evangelist, had already kindly promised me a bike. The gauntlet had been thrown, the smack had been talked. All the bar-fly fat bikers were going to give me hell if I bailed. 

On Saturday we went out for a tour with friend and long-time local Billy. He showed us around a new zone and the snow was phenomenal so we took another run, and another, and another, despite protesting limbs and encroaching deadlines. Afterwards I picked up the Farley from Fitzy's and rode it home, overheating in my ski clothes, groaning from tired legs, and freaking out because I was late and hadn't even charged my night light yet. I ran around the house in a toxic cloud, trying to eat, get my stuff together, figure out when the race started, and breathe through the stress. It didn't help that it was snowing heavily and I was scared of the treacherous drive. 

Only picture I took of our tour...forever ascending

Our relationship survived my unpleasantness somehow and we made it up with plenty of time to spare. The crew at the Ghee was also scrambling to deal: the heavy snowfall stymied attempts to groom the intended singletrack loop and even the shortened two mile course required attention. I figured out attire (shell jacket over t-shirt, wind pants over thermal bibs, balaklava, safety glasses, and Sorels, an outfit not approved by the bike nerds but which suited me just fine) and joined the other racers in trying to practice the tough initial climb and descent. The soft snow was extremely challenging and unpredictable. At the bottom everyone milled around squeezing each others' tires and letting air out in their own. "Is three PSI too much or too little?" "Anyone have a pressure gauge?" My tires were plenty big and squishy and I was really starting to enjoy the shit show. 

We lined up and started, and carnage ensued. On the first descent people flopped around like spawning salmon and I fishtailed all over but stayed upright somehow. Commuting every day and messing around in the neighborhood have given me a better idea for what snow will and won't (mostly won't) permit. If you ever brake, or lose focus, or tense up, or shift your center of gravity the wrong way, you will IMMEDIATELY be punished. Over the four mile race I came off the bike and slogged a lot but never wrecked, which I attribute to 50% good body English and line choice and 50% luck. 

The start, before the fast people completely smoked us
Race pics courtesy of Grand Targhee 

The relentless snowflakes sparkled in my headlamp and I lost track of where I was on the course, wrapped in a bubble of light and quiet and warmth, focused completely on the tire tracks in front of me. Tyler heckled me just as I've taught him: "Go faster! Stop walking!" and Sophie yelped as I pedaled (or trudged) by. 

Trying to maintain a straight line

Four miles took almost an hour but I was pleased as punch at the end. We all hung out at the fire with beers in hand, rehashing the brief ordeal and waiting for the long race to end. A couple people, Derrick included, reported flat tires, which I'd thought was the one thing you didn't have to worry about on a fat bike, but I guess when you're running tubeless at 3 PSI and the tire burps...well. We talked about how ridiculous the skiing would be the next day considering the current rate of precipitation. Awards were announced and I won (the short race). 

I was shellacked the next day when I tried to charge more powder, but I was glad I didn't bail on the slog fest. The borrowed bike performed flawlessly (thanks to Fitzgerald's) and the race was great despite the conditions (thanks to a heroic effort by Andy Williams and crew). 

Snow Days

Stoked

Much to my delight, my weekend brought with it a solid eight inches of early season snow and all the absurd activities it entails: a stroll through the wonderland; spontaneous and heated friendly fire; a polar bear plunge; a pedal boat redneck yacht club in sub-freezing temps, complete with bloody marys.

Stupid? Fantastic

Redneck yacht club

The next morning the Adventure Team headed out for a challenging snowshoe into Desolation. After we crested the brutal climb of Cathedral Bowl, the novelty wore off and we trudged through deep glades to Gilmore Lake. I sometimes forgot to look around at the crazy beauty because I was distracted by the heavy-breathing monotony of pushing through a foot of powder. The trees on top of the ridge were rimed with ice and the sky cast a somber light on the half-obscured Crystal range. Duffy and I were dressed in a lightweight athletic manner that felt great and fleet-footed on the move but did not permit a pause of any more than a minute. I'm still figuring out winter wear, which is essential when I want to be able to go uphill and downhill in comfort.

The flingage factor is high with snowshoes

!!!!!

Today it was back to shorts and a t-shirt as I ran a quick out-and-back in the disappearing slush. The only sounds were the plash of snow melting and the distant buzz of sawyers amassing their winter reserves. Along with the smell of baking pine needles and the crunch of bike tires on decomposed granite, the ethereal combination of snow and warm sunshine is a California feeling that will linger long after I leave.

The Siren Song of Deseret

So we went to Utah because I heard they might have pretty good snow or something, forgetting that the last time I came through I almost didn't leave. It's a dangerous place, Utah. It's so easy to dismiss it because of the chokehold LDS has on every level of government, to scoff at the solemn silence of the big city on a Sunday, to be annoyed by the absurd and arbitrary rules hampering alcohol production and sale. We went to a tasting room without taps (no kegs allowed), had to purchase an entree each (no drinks without a meal), and could only have two tasters in front of us at any time. At the liquor store you can't buy "real beer" refrigerated or in six packs, and the walls are papered with morality literature.

And yet.

The Big and Little Cottonwood Canyons saw some light snowfall before we arrived but the locals bemoaned the conditions; at Snowbird, where Tyler's brother scored us cheap tickets, there's no chance of beating the powderhounds who ruthlessly track out every inch of the mountain with their fat plush skis.

And yet.

Best day of skiing yet. Ever. Words cannot express. Chasing Tyler and Ben all over a mountain that was all steeps, cliffs, trees, and all of it cloaked in deep, light snow that had me wallowing and falling and grinning. I was a better skier by the end of the day. Another day we went to Canyons, a massive Park City resort with practically none of the terrain or snow that made Snowbird so sublime. We rolled with a posse this time, having joined forces with Joh and Jamie, as well as a friend of the Nelson boys. Instead of pushing and progressing, we had a more chill day of bopping around, doing some sidecountry, ducking ropes, roasting groomers, and being generally pretty obnoxious.

Doing some light hiking with the JTs

And now on the drive home, as much as it makes me cringe to say, we've hashed out a plan to move to Utah next winter, because it's really hard driving back west without some intention of returning.

On Skiing, Part II

Now that I can get off the chairlift without thinking about it, now that I know how to carry my sticks and how to ratchet my boots as tight as they'll go and how to easily navigate the entire mountain and name every lift on sight, it's on to the real stuff. According to EpicMix (the Strava of the Vail people) I've gotten in 25 days already, which means enough substantial hours on the slopes to have this thing sort of figured out.

What I'm convinced of already is that a: I'm spoiled rotten, and b: groomers suck. We had a snowless, warm week and I had to drag myself up the hill, convinced the snow would be just terrible. Tracked out and bumped out and scraped down to a mean layer of cement. Never mind that there were still feet upon feet of the good stuff, and still caches of untouched powder hiding in the trees. The last couple of days brought wicked cold temps and a nice dusting up top and everything was better again. So yes, a couple months of Tahoe snow has ruint me. And taught me unequivocally that groomers suck. Groomed runs are to road biking what tree skiing is to mountain biking; groomers are very fast and covered in people who are making unpredictable and potentially dangerous moves. The trees are hushed and underpopulated and challenging, and I love to explore every possible option and turn, making my untrammeled way between boulders and treewells. It's nice to go out alone and listen to music and chase new lines and to be distracted only by the litany that plays in my head: torso downslope, poles forward, flex into your boots, feet together.  

Every pause is worth a gasp
Pic courtesy of Will Snaith 

I think I could get better at this than mountain biking, because I don't feel limited by the same fears that plague me on two wheels. This new obsession is alarming in the context of larger life though, because the last thing I need is another criterion limiting my choice of locations and jobs. I got a resort job thinking ski-bum living was a whimsy to mark off the list, but this might be something I need every winter, and that makes me nervous. And strangely exhilarated.  

An Addendum

this weekend it was raining at lake level and i was antsy as hell so i dragged tyler and katie and bert the dog up to luther pass and ran around in my new snowshoes while they skiied and it was too beautiful to articulate.

Aftermath of a White Christmas

Yesterday I went for a snowy bike ride and today I went for a snowy run, and I was tickled to follow my own tire tracks down the trail.

Maybe the only cool thing about lingering snow is that it works almost as a census taker. In town you call tell who doesn't drive very often by the sheets of snow on their cars; some people have pristine yards, proof that they either don't have children (or a sense of child-like wonder) or that their children were too preoccupied with new Christmas video games to bother with sleds and snow pants.

In the woods you notice that for some reason Upper and Lower Sycamore are the most heavily traveled trails; that lots of people are trying out their shiny new hiking poles or xc skis; that there's some fascinating carcass or excrement down below Mountains-to-Sea that has all the dogs investigating; that only one person has been dumb enough to ride Grassy and she was running a Captain in the front and a Sauserwind in the back. Best of all, you see evidence that families make full use of the forest--and each tiny set of bootprints trudging behind grown-up size steps, with paw prints dancing in and out among the human, is a little love letter to Pisgah.