PA, Part Deux

We started with a day at Seven Springs Ski Resort. Kitima is chugging up the steep road that leads to the cross-country trails on top where we cruised around and hit a few rock gardens.

Here Kitima bombs down a trail named Dirt Surfer at Allegrippis which sounds like something you might pay a prostitute to help you perform.

The next day we met a gang of riders at Allegrippis. There had to be around 15 of us at the start. After a short warm-up period on the trails someone shot an imaginary starting pistol and off we went. I sat in with a group of seven or so. It was like a pace line on the roads. A fun, but unsafe, way to ride single track. The leaves had left so you could see our colorful line snaking through corners, climbs and switchbacks. It reminded me of a dragon float at Chinese New Year.

Before I knew it Kalten was down in front of me. I took the low side of the trail, narrowly missing him and a mighty oak tree (it really was just a sapling, maple probably, but by next week if you ask me it will have been a 300-feet tall redwood). A few behind me weren't as lucky. After about an hour I got dropped from the front group once the trails went uphill a bit. Kitima consoled me later with a chilly ale.

Armed with a map by senior cartographer Jim C. (at a price of one Lake Placid 46er ale) we headed over to Rothrock State Park. He didn't have to but Jim added that the map "wasn't drawn to scale." Notice the "beer taps" on the far right of the map.

On the way to the Ridge Trail I splashed around a bit.

We found the beer taps after a few wrong turns, nebulous directions by some locals and plenty of expletives by me. After that we could've used a trail side brew.

A few logs greet you as you start up the Ridge Trail.

You didn't think you'd go to Rothrock State Park in the Keystone State and get away from some stones. There were rock gardens, rock ramps, rock stars...Fred Flintstone would love to ride here.

Kitima strikes a pose.

Innocent start to the trail. One of the most fun trails I've ever been on. The logs and rock gardens are unlike anything I've been on before. I'm already scheming a trip back in the spring to ride more of the park.

Ridge Trail seems to point uphill through a series of burned-out trees from a fire a few years back. It has an apocalyptic feel to it...something out of Cormac McCarthy's novel The Road (also coming to you in theatrical form at the end of November). Do you remember art class and drawing in 3-D? This trail is a line approaching, but never reaching, a vanishing point.

The Serendipitous Scout

"I have two bikes for you," Jim said motioning with his head towards the door leading to the basement stairs and away from the new bikes. He was already walking as if this proposal had never been rejected.

I left Kitima with Matt to discuss the best way to go about embellishing her current mountain bike. Matt had his bike on hand as a show and tell centerpiece and she was taking notes, pointing out parts, asking questions and the last thing I heard from her was a protracted, "wow!" as some carbon doohickey or expertly-machined gizmo was pointed out and explained in detail down to the last gram.

The steps were narrow and creaky and reminded me of the wood on a light-colored spruce violin my fat music teacher used to play in high school. We would taunt his classical sensibilities with requests of The Devil Went Down to Georgia and refer to his Stradivarius as a fiddle.

The planks were smooth from years of tiptoes but were arrayed at odd angles like something out of M.C. Escher's (no he wasn't a D.J.) print Relativity.

At the bottom of the stairs a gallimaufry of odors enveloped us. I smelled rubber, bike lube, mustiness, an aging fontina Val d'Aosta (peculiar, as I hadn't noticed any Wheat Thins upstairs in the shop) and something redolent of a sweaty leather Brooks saddle circa 1972? I took a deep breath.

Before me were what seemed to be an infinite amount of bikes. Most were hanging from the rafters but a few were standing at attention, with others more casually leaning against the rough rock foundation. It was hard to discern though from the sole 20-watt light bulb performing an anemic, Cimmerian, light-unfantastic aria.

"Here they are," he said pointing at two bikes hanging from the ceiling like a fisherman-landed shark strung up on the pier for that hackneyed photograph. If I ever catch a shark I'm going to lay it flat on its belly on the dock as I straddle it while hanging onto the dorsal fin with one hand and grasping a cowboy hat high above my head in the other hand. I think Shark Rodeo was on ESPN 8 the other night; I love the ocho!

Most of the bikes were used, that is they all came with a soul. It seems odd to me that the addition of a amiable ghost of rides-past reduces the value of a trusty steed. Suddenly I felt like I was in an animal shelter and wanted to take all of them home.

One was a 29er full suspension. It is identical to my current ride but a year or two older.

"Who wants a backup ride that's the same as his current one though?" Jim said at some point as I was staring at The Scout. Both were Jim's bikes.

The Scout is made by Origin8 but they do not have models called The Jem, The Atticus or The Boo.

Harper Lee would be proud to know that The Scout is steely, black and strong.

Jim listed the parts spec and I heard some of that, he spoke of the price and the company and I heard less of that. I must've looked like one of those fishes from the bottom of the ocean with huge eyes.

We ascended and for some reason I felt lucky not to have a case of the bends after lingering in the subterranean bike shelter.

I'm going to pick up The Scout in a few weeks after they doll it up and I get back from Allegrippis Part Deux.