Front Range Livin'

It's strange to think that less than a month ago I woke up under a tree in Moab staring up at the sky with the river overflowing to my right and the portal trailhead situated nicely to my left...homeless and unemployed.

Less than a month later and Neta and I have both landed full time gigs making more money than either of us has ever made before (not saying much). I'm slingin' bikes to the masses at a new Specialized concept store in some uber nice suburbs and I still haven't gotten over the ease that these people seem to have spending money on bikes. Roubaixs that will no doubt sit in garages until next years MS150 or Ride the Rockies comes about fly out the door pretty darn regularly. It's mega fun just showing up to work and talking about bikes in a city with such a huge outdoor consumer base. I rarely have to turn a wrench or build a bike since I literally have last years pro Europe BMC wrench back in the shop doing things that I didn't even know were possible to bikes and regaling us with stories about Big George during the down time.

Neta and I have a pretty big condo all to ourselves too... to fill up with all the furniture that we don't own. My helpful suggestion to Neta while looking for a place was that we might want to consider a 2nd bedroom so she doesn't have to look at all my gear flying around. Score 1 for the mancave/bikeroom.

And last but not least I've been spending a bunch of time on the bike. My ride to work is right at 10 miles on m.u.t.s. so it's pretty easy to pile on the road miles. I have to drive whenever I want to get my mtb on which is kind of lame but the riding on the front range is still as stellar as ever so it's always worth it. Been riding a bunch with baggy shorted, big hit freeride guys and as I've been telling myself for the last 4 years, I need a bigger bike. The Giant has been rad and I can ride laps to the top of the mountain while those guys push but once we get going down I have to dial it wayyy back. Found a nice sized dent on the Giant's seatstay today, no idea what from since it hasn't taken any big hits but I'll probably keep it around to race on since it's resale is gone and just buy a bigger Pitch or Enduro to attempt to destroy on the trail rides soon.

That's the haps here on the ol' front range. So here's to the suburbs, the riding, being gainfully employed and in a house.

Long Term Stability

Surprise! I'm moving again, to a state with more and bigger mountains and with easier access to home. A longer ski season and still temperate enough to ride all the time.

I've told a few people thus far and the resounding question has unanimously been, "What are you going to do there?"

I didn't realize it for a few weeks (okay maybe months) but I always answered the same. "Well ultimately I want to climb the Diamond on Long's Peak this year, I heard the casual route only goes at .10- but it looks like there's a direct variation that seems a touch shorter and more straightforward that goes at .11-. Also I really miss having a real cyclocross season. I never realized it before but I really enjoy being able to participate in that sport for at least 10 weekends/year. Also I really want to ski better more consistent powder days than AZ is offering... I mean the resort here is great for what it is but I think the possibilities on bigger hills with bigger backcountry bowls are way better for where I'm at right now and maybe even learn to telemark... I mean that's where the real adventure is at."

Did that sound like a big old jumble of ideas that might spew out of a 12 year old's mouth when asked to write about what they are planning to do on their summer vacation in a short essay? It hit me probably a week ago that the majority of my life planning sounds like some variation of the above ramble.

I struggled with the idea for a while, wondering how long my adult self can keep up this charade before succumbing to the ideals that the majority of my peers have already devoted their lives to. You know the whole job stability, reliable car, nice place to live thing. I guess those things could be nice, but at the end of the day I don't see myself being able to pour that much energy into such meaningless things for at least a few (to ten) more years when I already have so much energy being devoted into making sure I get into the backcountry and see the world as often as I do right now.

I think the thing that made me realize this the most was a news article about the economy and the hardships that kids who graduated in my class are having to endure. I was reading about kids my age having to take jobs as part time waiters (GASP!!!) and move back in with their parents after failing to obtain jobs in the field of assistant sports management recordkeeping and racketeering which they had so wisely chosen to do their masters in. Which I honestly blame 1000% on their own laziness. The young, fit and willing can literally show up anywhere in America and work somewhere for something and somehow manage to pay rent.

A year ago I didn't even know that I would be in Flagstaff, I knew I had life goals for the next year of my life. Mainly those goals were to get solid on 5.11, begin to work 5.12, bag some desert towers and ride some epic singletrack. Check, check, check and check. All of which I accomplished after showing up jobless in a city 1000 miles away from home with no connections and just asking real nicely if I can sling lattes part time and maybe sell some backpacks and North Face jackets.

So where am I going with this?

1. I am moving again and have goals for the next direction of my life.
2. Said goals pertain to nothing but my own well-being and happiness
3. I don't understand why my generation is making such a big deal out of a bad economy when there are things to see and a great excuse to stay poor and untethered.
4. My perception of real life might be a bit skewed from the status quo

So here's to the young, the dumb, the waiters who for some reason moved back in with their parents, new mountains, longer powder seasons and the Diamond (that's a real thing and I am looking for a partner in crime for it)

This is Bat Country

I was somewhere near Nevada, maybe 20 miles from the border, when the drugs began to take hold. I remember feeling light headed and then suddenly there was a terrible noise all around. Like Jim Morrison’s nails clawing down a bottle of Jackie D trying to keep the lizard king alive while Janice Joplin screeched and howled at him about dying young. Bright lights abounded, blindingly searing over the blank desert mountain ahead while I thought to myself, “Fuck man, this can’t be Vegas already. I’m still an hour out.”

But indeed it was that wretched wino filled shit hole of a city I had such fond memories of. Time slipped through my fingers, what had it been? 1 year? The last 4 years of memories of craggin’ in Arkansas had been a trip in itself, likely never to be seen again from like-minded pirates. But less than 1 year ago I was throwing myself head first at god knows what desert mountain with THESE god forsaken stone bandits? And I somehow convinced myself I should come back…

Let me paraphrase, while these young wildabeasts that I was to meet were on spring break from the flatlands I decided to take a spring break of my own and head to the desert for a week to join them in their quest to bag crags and search out how much of the desert dust I truly have in my bones. “For research”, I told my boss. But in all reality it was for the same depraved state of being that we all venture into things that we are never too sure were ever good but we have somehow vanquished into memories of fondness and bliss, maybe due to the booze.

I had plans to see the week out of the back of my van. The party wagon quickly became transformed into a poor man’s desert palace, more luxurious than a night on the far side of the strip but mobile enough to invade those poor yuppie bastards should a band of us pirates decide to infiltrate their basecamp of high rises and $400 rooms.

I want you to feel the full effect of the back of the party wagon. I’m talking about two bags of the North Face persuasion, 35 quickdraws of the sport variety, 1 quilt, 2 thermarests, 2 ropes, at least 50 feet of assorted webbing, puffy belay jackets, Gore-Tex everything, half a dozen of anything I might want to snack on, rigged Christmas lights that never quite worked… Also, a fifth of whiskey, 30 odd beers, and at least 5 people shoved into the back at all hours of the night until I kicked them out screaming. “disperse you filthy animals and take your empties with you.” Not that I needed all of that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious gear collection the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

Regardless we cragged hard, I spent all of my days attempting feeble red-points on things well below a stone worthy Slater. But I couldn’t give up a grade! How could I! Less than 6 months ago I was redpointing hard 11! And now I have been relinquished to a shell of a climber with overgrown thighs from too new of a mountain bike and too great of a ski season, not remembering how to pull evenly on slopers and unable to make my fingers close around crimps. My feet jammed into the wall and slid, listening to $100 worth of rubber slowly disintegrating around my toes whilst I kicked myself, “you know how to place feet, now get on with this before you waste any more of your belayers time.”

Craggin up a chimney

Regardless, I spent my days cragging hard until an impending storm began to take place around the desert peaks. “TO THE STRIP!” exclaimed the small posse I had been cragging with for the last few days and goddamnit I was glad to hear it. “The strip at last. I thought you boys were going to make my fingers fall off and my biceps rupture to an inverted skeletal structure.”

Right in time for the biggest contradiction of spring break history we arrived in Vegas to see the storm in force. The cheapest room on the strip was procured at the Sahara and we set out on our venture. Tallboys of the Tallest varieties dangling from our mitts, spliff dangling from my compatriots mouth nervously looking around like he might see the fuzz at any minute, much like a young man would while emulating Clint Eastwood smoking a green bean at the family dinner table, “get that out of your mouth and don’t let me ever see it again young man!”

Penny slots was the cheer of the night, the waitress at the Belagio hated my hails from aisles away, “DRINK GIRL!” As she looked at us in dismay adorned in our gritty Carhartts, puffy jackets, sunburned faces and disheveled hair while ordering free PBR by the bucket, looking around the room at all the customers she might one day have and their nice suits. I couldn’t help but proclaim, “let’s get down to brass tacks, how much for the ape.” She handed me my drink and failed to return after that point of the night, luckily we were already blitzkreiged enough to be on such a swank hotel’s secutiry watch list and we didn’t last much longer after that. Tossing pennies across the lobby floor of a hotel that you can’t afford to stay, drink or gamble at just waiting for some poor sucker to pick them up while swaying side to side on one of the plushest lobby couches I have ever sat on is truly a great way to play “where’s the climbers” of security work.

And as we hailed a cab back to our own hotel, where the seedy and unruly were truly found I once again heard my close compatriot whisper into the cab driver’s ear, “less than $10 across town and I have a great tip for you.” Unfortunately that goddamn animal didn’t speak a lick of English. And as we arrived back to the great 1950’s staple of the strip I once again heard the same murmur but this time in my ear, “As your attorney, I advise you to take a hit out of the little brown bottle in my shaving kit. You won't need much, just a tiny taste.”

Vegas 2011.

(Dear Mom/Aunts/Whomever else is too old to have seen or read Fear and Loathing… It’s a play off a book/movie. So calm down, my generation gets that it’s not real)

The Goat Man Cometh

2011 race season is knocking on the door and I'm getting pretty amped. Which is pretty dope since I haven't been amped proper for a race season in a few years. I think it's a combination of a fresh scene, fresh scenery, new people and an excuse to keep racing sport class.

I am really relishing in the happenstance that has become my racing as of recent. It seems that living up high and riding only marginally is much better training for the 3/4 level than living down low and training hard. Breathing easy and never being out of contention of a top 10 when competing with all of the Phoenix crew has been great so I am very stoked to start racing seriously this season...err as seriously as Slater gets.

For those out of the loop the Fisher is long gone. It was my most loyal companion the last 4 years and served me very well. It proved that it could rail corners and blow freewheels with aplomb, it saw too many hard miles for any bike with such little maintenance given to it yet still refused to crack a downtube like the rest of her production run sisters.

AA at Big Poppi ordered me up a XTC 29er 1 to race on this season and I am beyond excited. The XT/SLX 30spd group will be beyond the nicest component group I have ever bought and the Fox fork felt beastly the last few times I have demoed one so I have very high hopes that this bike will blow me away and show me that piloting one of the first production design 29ers is not an ideal way to operate in 2011.

Murdered out

Back to the race season. Apparently the big race scene starts here in January in PHX and the series just continues down there til it gets hot and then snakes it's way back up into the mountains chasing the cooler temps til the summertime. So that's pretty cool, something like 11 races total. I've been laying down hard road miles since I ordered the Giant in an attempt to come back into form enough to justify this bike and a race entry fee.

It's working pretty well though. I went and rode mountain bikes for the first time in a month last weekend, it was mid 70s and sunny and everything went great. I borrowed Johnny G's old Cannondale hardtail for the ride. It was a sketchy bike down there to say the least. The front shock was blown, I haven't been on a little wheeled race bike since 2006 and I felt like I was falling over the front wheel the entire time. I rode with all of the local shop rats, a few of my fellow backcountry outfitters and the local big shot tri-coach and... I didn't get dropped, didn't hurt too bad, and was right there at the front on the pavement group sprint back to the cars (I have no idea what we were sprinting for but it was still fun to mix it up).

1996 called, it wants it's sketchy excuse for a mountain bike back

Everyone else was either on a 29er with a 100mm fork or a 5" fs beast, I looked very out of place on this bike trying to bomb sketch desert downhills with these guys. But I lived to tell the tale, rode some gnar brah super secret "locals only" trail and got to watch 12ish guys absolutely shred in the desert.

So here's to the race season, the desert, sketchy riding and borrowed bikes.

The Race Flyer

The Masses: "Slater, all of your stories are about climbing and we don't understand what you are talking about anymore."

Slater: "Hold on. I'll go race a bike, drink a bunch of cheap beer and recant my tales amongst the internets."

I've wanted to tell this story for a while, I've had a few chances that seemed fair enough. But this one seems the most opportune for myself. I want a cautionary warning, this is long. This is 10 years worth of tales wrapped into a blog post. It might be worth reading, it might not be. But if you've been reading the climbing non-sense leading up to this you can probably hang on for a minute.

Last weekend marked my 10th season racing cyclocross bikes. First off I would like a moment of recognition for my former neighbor Steve Songer for indelibly ruining this sport by handing his 12 year old neighbor a race flyer and teaching him how to dismount on the 2000 nationals cross course. He might have thought he was doing the sport good back then by distracting a 12 year old from building 6 foot tall dirt jumps behind his house (that were probably ruining his view of the park) and putting that kid in spandex, but little did he know that kid would turn into me.

This tale starts back farther than I care to admit for as slow as I am. But I was indoctrinated into the sport of cyclocross in September of 2000. I had been racing mountain bikes for a season and did well as a junior, I can remember climbing the ski hill at Snow Creek and getting lapped by Steve Tilford when he was still humble enough to race local mtb events. But I didn't really know what I wanted to do with the sport. I loved BMX racing, I loved the pain of MTB racing and I didn't know anything about road bikes besides the fact that the dude who lived 2 houses down had a dope Litespeed and Lance Armstrong had just finished dominating his 2nd tour.

Well that dude who lived 2 houses down from me handed me a race flyer after I started hanging out in his driveway talking bikes with him. Come October I had somewhat learned about cyclocross through the internets and Steve. This is how my first race went...

12 year old me: I would like to enter the juniors race
Jeremy Haynes: Well I'm a pompous asshole, lemme give you shit for five minutes about how you don't have hair on your legs so you don't need to shave yet and then we can fill out an entry form
12 year old me: ok....
Jeremy: Holy shit you have a lot of hair on your legs (I still think Jer might be gay for commenting on a 12 year old's leg hair)

Needless to say that race got me hooked. It was 40 degrees out and I was wearing my only pair of cycling shorts coupled with a long sleeve KU cycling Tshirt. I finished right behind Theresa Jarsemkoski on her brand new white and red Redline. I could barely clip back into my Nashbar brand clipless pedals and my 30lb Fuji was agonizing to lift over the barriers. Jeremy Haynes screamed encouragement like I had never heard before from the sidelines, donned in his Bontrager sweater and goofy hat, "eye of the tiger baby."

Less than a month later I was registered for cx nationals, the first held in KC. It was a bust for me but the experience of the race was beyond good. It was cold, an ice-storm had left the course that I had ridden no less than 50 times un-rideable and it made 2008 nationals look like a cakewalk as far as I'm concerned.

That next season we transformed LBCR to the Museum Cycling Team, I had jerseys for both. I got to watch Steve and everything else I liked about that team disappear to different teams, they decided to go hit up KCBC and then form Team X/360. I watched it happen and as an aspiring junior I knew I wasn't going many places without a piggyback. I can still remember the next season. I assume teams were starting to talk about re-organization, and if not than certain people just did great things for me.

I can remember the phone ringing while I was at the kitchen table doing god knows what as a 13 year old and I can remember my mom asking me to come take the phone from her. But whatever happened after that I have no idea. Jeremy Haynes had called my house and wanted to know if I wanted to race for the new Boulevard/Midwest Cyclery Team. As a kid I felt about as pro as it could get. He wanted my kit sizes and commitments, and I was as down as it could get.

The next few years I sandbagged it out. I was a 5'11 14 year old and just kept entering junior races and taking the wins (as long as they started around the same time as the C race). I was pretty damn good at racing against the Men's C and collecting a prize wherever I ended up... not gonna lie it was normally pretty well.

But eventually Dean Parker showed up with a neighbor kid of his own... Chris Hall. And that kid started battling right quick. We all know how that story ends up. Cat 1 license v Cat 4 license...circa now.

I caught a case of the "fumes" pretty hard around the same time that he showed up. The car fumes of things that sprint faster than 28mph and the perfumes that are prettier than a new Cannondale. I still showed up for races once in a while, I never did well but I was always stoked to come out early and help pound stakes. That's what cross was built on, or what I always thought it was built on. Pound stakes, shake the homeless man off the bench, race before the cops show up.

10 years later and you get a founding father of god knows what kind of Bad Goat cross team that resembles the old Midwest/Boulevard crew but with an entire team less than 29 years old and enough CO2 generated kegs to power an atom bomb (is that what those run on...), race promoter, series organizer and general team of miscreants.

I always thought this story was worth sharing since there aren't that many kids who came up in the true hay day of KC cross racing. I could tell you about last weekend's race, but it wasn't more than another round of top tens, or the last 5.12 but this is better in my opinion.

So here's to the dudes who made the KC cross scene rain hard... at least for me. Cheers, Steve and Jeremy.

The Story of the Weekend

My weekend was overall un-eventful (continue reading if you will). But I have a story that makes me chuckle, bluegrass and wine. So let the tales regale your eye parts.

Sunday was my only day off from work last week so John, Matt and I went to the pit for a day of sport craggin. We had a pretty darn good day. I warmed up on a solid 5.10d, retrieved the leftover anchor via a 5.11C direct next to said previous route and then watched John Boy try and flail up the 5.9 pocket pull Popeye. John never got to the top and we had to lower him about 10 feet from the anchors. I told both Matt and John prior to the route that I had no desire to climb the damn thing again so one of them would have to finish it and get the gear back. Well Matt cleaned it up after John and came on back to the dirt.

Here's where the gettin' gets good. It was a well known fact from the minute that we got into the car that I would be laying down a fatty onsight attempt on True Value, which is a stellar 5.11a that is very overhung and not my kind of climbing style at the moment. But for some reason after John Boy got lowered off his 5.9 bail he thought that he should just walk back to the car.... with all of my quickdraws hanging off of him. Matt and I thought that he was taking a piss or petting a skink or whatever the hell he does in the woods. So we continued to flake the rope and tie in, sure that he would show back up.

Well he did show back up, around bolt number 5 of this 9 bolt route. I have 6 draws to start the climb, it required 9. I decided that I could just make 2 alpine draws out of the webbing and lockers in my pack and run out the last bolt to the top.

Here's why it sucks (but is still funny) while I was building this draw out of lockers, I only remembered to construct said lockers but not unlock them. The crux move on this route is about 10 feet above the last bolt, and if you count the roof as vertical feet it would have been a solid 15 feet to the last bolt (30 foot fall before rope stretch). So I hit the crux and am hanging on a 3 finger sidepull with maybe one toe solid on the roof bottom, I pull the rope to clip and when I go to clip absolutely nothing happens because the gate will not come undone. I am at my limit and I start screaming at Matt "TAKE, TAKE, TAKE!" as I start running down the wall in what I am sure will be an ankle breaker.

I live through the ordeal and have to pull the crux 3 times. Once as the original clip, once to retrieve the original and once to place a new unlocked draw. All the while John Boy shows up smiling halfway through the crux and offers to "throw my draws up to me." It was by far the most strenuous .11a of my life and I am beyond frustrated that I didn't onsight, but it will still fall clean. Hopefully in the next week.

So here's to your weekly wine rant, walking off with my g*darn gear and making due with whatever is left in the pack.

The Mountain Life Proper

I've been waiting a while for a week like the past, one that really embodies the spirit of the mountain. A stellar realization of what one can truly accomplish and be at elevation if you will, and I think the last week finally made the good stuff rain hard. Not to downplay the epic tales of mountaindom that have precluded this, but they really can't touch what has been happening these last 7 days. So sit back, crack a cold one and enjoy the yarns that I intend to spin.

So I went to work at Babbitt's Backcountry last week. It's the "Sunflower" of Flagstaff minus the bikes. I'm back to doing what I love and working with like minded pirates. Mind you it's no career but careers seldom come with this many accounts to pro-deal. So I can deal for now.

Over the weekend I worked the three day long Flagstaff bluegrass festival "Pickin' in the Pines" at my coffee shops vendor booth. It was a solid 12 hour day everyday. And by solid 12 hour day I mean I hung out, sold food, drank a lot on the job, and got to party down in the outdoor amphitheatre proper when the good music was playing. I raged to Nolan McKelvey with my white boy dancing and led a charge up to the stage for some dancing with the Seldom Scene. Every night that I left the amphitheatre I wandered back downtown to find out what band was playing a side gig where and explore the bluegrass bar scene. Not a lot of sleep but soooo good.


Regardless of the whole sleep situation I took Monday and Tuesday off to go climbing in Paradise Forks. I got hooked up with this old school trad climber named Stan and I was beyond stoked to start trad-climbing again. Paradise Forks is one of the most gorgeous places I have ever seen and the whole canyon was empty except for some Europeans who had traveled specifically to climb the stellar hand-cracks. Nobody around Flagstaff trad-climbs and it's kind of an anomile. This town is surrounded by old school trad areas that are beyond amazing, but all the kids my age want nothing to do with anything that isn't 5.13 sport climbing or V8 bouldering... or approaches longer than 5 minutes.

I'm not much of a crack climber, and by not much I mean I have no crack climbing form. I was desperate for a micro-crimp or an edge to pull on but all these cracks had to offer was jams upon jams. It was described by everyone as "Indian Creek without proper ratings." You see back in the day the rating system stopped at 5.9. So anything that was hard was just called 5.9+... and we climbed a lot of 5.9+. I spent a solid two days after that excursion not being able to lift my hands above shoulder height, my feet were bloody from attempting to jam my tiny sport shoes sideways into cracks and I was mentally exhausted. But G-Dang I had more fun craggin' at the Forks than I have had since I started climbing. I know where my future in this sport is and it lies in tiny finger cracks and TCU's.

Our Austrian climbing associate sending hard on the stellar Paradise Forks hand cracks.

So that's how you live the mountain life. You shuck and jive as a North Face shill, sling the lattes at bluegrass festivals, party hard with the band whence the festival comes to a stop, and crag at the most scenic old school canyon in the southwest. Now you'll have to excuse me, I have to go sort gear for another day of redpointing 5.11 at Jack's Canyon.

So here's to livin' the life proper.