My step-father Pops’ lovely wife Sweet Liza enjoys good food, good wine, and traveling, among many other things. Pops and Liza got married seven years ago, and I was the best man at their wedding. When I was researching the history of their relationship while working on my best man’s speech, Liza told me that when she agreed to his hand in marriage, there were two things that he could forget about ever doing with her. One of those things is bowling. The other is camping. “No bowling and no camping, that is the deal,” she said. Pops agreed, and although he’s been to many amazing places with Liza, including Germany, China, Portugal, and Belize, he hasn’t been to a single bowling alley or campsite since he said “I do.” I don’t care so much about the bowling, but his renouncement of camping, however, considering Pops’ background, is a shame.
Many years ago, when I was a kid and Pops was married to my mother, we would go camping every summer for two weeks at Camp Seguin on the coast of Maine. Without fail, at least one of those weeks would involve fighting the boredom caused from sitting around inside our tent waiting for the rain to stop. My little sister Boo, who is seven years younger than I, provided little relief from the long, dull days waiting for the sun to come out. She had no interest in pulling the long legs off a Daddy Long Legs spider and teasing her would get old or get me in trouble. Mom would just lie there and read, propped up with a few pillows, happy as could be. She would occasionally try to explain how, with a book in your hand, you will never be bored. Be that as it may, her words did nothing to change the mood of her 10-year-old son.
So, being the great step-father that he was, between his long naps, Pops would be my playmate. He wouldn’t, however, participate in torturing insects. Instead, he would play Cribbage with me, and he would play with me for hours. After the fun of playing cribbage wore off, which for me was after about 20 minutes, he would continue to play Cribbage with me. On one particular rainy camping trip, we played no less than 21 games in a row. Eventually, after we couldn’t stand the thought of one more game, we left the campsite and made our way to the Rec Hall.
The Rec Hall at Camp Seguin was more of a wreck of a hall than a Rec Hall. When you opened the creaky rusty screen door, a deep, dank, musty smell would welcome you like a ghost butler vacationing from his duties at the haunted mansion. Inside the walls of the dilapidated green building were a few card tables, an old couch, a shelf with random board games with pieces missing, and a row of dusty books, and in the middle of the room was a ping pong table with wobbly legs and a faded, sagging surface. As decrepit as it was, it stood, indomitable, like an old work horse named Bourbon, with one more harvest left.
To get the thing in playable condition, we would use a few bingo chips to level it out and we’d cram a magazine under the clamps to tighten the net. After searching around for a while, we’d always manage to find at least one ping pong ball that wasn’t cracked. All ready to go, Pops and I would play ping pong for hours and hours, and we would actually have fun.
To think that he doesn’t camp any more is hard to imagine. I asked him recently if he ever misses going camping, and he said, “No, I don’t.” He then continued, “Besides, it would always rain whenever we went. But I did enjoy all those hours we spent together playing Cribbage and ping pong.”
We went camping a lot growing up because we weren’t fortunate enough to have a camp. We were never “going to camp,” we were always “going camping.” There is a big difference. I have friends who go to camp, and I’ve been invited many times to their camps. Every time I go, I never want to leave. Camps are great, and someday I hope to have a camp of my own. When I do, I’ll give it a name, something like Camp Here-We-Are, and I’ll furnish it with an exposed wood-framed couch with tweed cushions and a coffee table made from an old wagon wheel. There will be bunk beds in the bed rooms that will be too short to stretch out in and too narrow to roll over in, yet will foster the most amazing sleep.
In the kitchen, an iron skillet will hang on a nail next to an old-fashioned fireplace popcorn popper. On the wall in the living room I’ll tack up a brown paper bag with the outline of a large fish and an inscription that will read something like “Uncle Bruce’s Rainbow Trout, 5 lbs 2 oz, June 18, 2019.” In the front yard there will be a hammock hanging from two tall pine trees, a badminton net, and a bird house. Down by the lake, tied to the dock, will be a rowboat with rusty oar locks. Just offshore will be a float, floating. I’ll make sure there’s a cribbage board and a deck of cards, of course, and with any luck, there will be room for a ping pong table. Once everything is in place, I’ll invite Pops and Liza to stay for the weekend. After all, the deal was “no camping,” not “no going to camp.”
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wear a Helmet Folks! A PSA From RJB
My memory isn’t the greatest—I can’t remember what I wrote about in last month’s column or what I had for breakfast last Tuesday—but I can clearly remember certain events in my life, and one that is still quite vivid is the day I learned to ride a bike, way back in the golden summer of 1978. I was five years old, everyone had lots of hair, and “Fly Like an Eagle” was on the radio.
For my fifth birthday, which is in February, my Dad gave me a brand new blue and yellow Huffy with a number 5 stamped on a plastic card hanging from the handlebars. For three long months, while number 5 sat in the basement, I could only sit on it and imagine riding it. I finally started riding it for real in the spring, with training wheels, and when it came time to try riding without them, my Dad made a promise that he would take me out for an ice cream cone if I could complete two full-pedal revolutions. That was enough of an incentive for me, and on that day I took my first two complete pedal revolutions while rolling on two wheels. While attempting a third, I abruptly crashed to the ground and scraped my knee. With tear streak lines still visible on my dirty face, the black raspberry ice cream cone that I enjoyed later ended up serving two purposes: reward for my successful ride and pain relief for my sore knee.
Luckily, when I crashed, I didn’t land on my head, because like every kid on a bike back in the ’70s, I wasn’t wearing a helmet. And for the next six years, I rode my bike around the neighborhood, into town, into swimming pools, through the woods, over jumps, and down the steepest hills I could find going as fast as I could, and not once with a helmet on my head.
It wasn’t until the hair-sprayed summer of 1987, after we had moved from a house in the neighborhood to a house in the country, that I finally was ordered to wear one. Our new house was set back from a busy road that the locals used to make good time, so my parents insisted I wear a helmet when I biked on that road because of the high speeds of the cars and trucks flying by. Apparently, the possibility of being hit by a fast car or truck was the only good reason to protect your head back then. But at least it was a start in the right direction, and look how far we’ve come. Today, kids are wearing helmets even before they start riding bikes. Strapped into a bike trailer, surrounded by a metal roll cage, they’ve got helmets on. I have no problem with this, and although fitting a baby with a helmet is similar to bathing a cat, only not as fun, I am always willing to help parents out because I understand how important helmets are. They are truly the seatbelts of the bicycle and should be worn at all times.
I can say that at least once, a helmet saved my life. It was the cargo-pants-wearing spring of 2003, and I was 30. I was riding through town with some friends on our way to a little zone of mountain bike trails, when I went to do a routine wheelie drop off a four-foot retaining wall onto a parking lot. Before we left for the ride, I had noticed a small amount of shock oil accumulating just below the crown of my fork. I assumed it was due to a bad seal and so for that day’s ride at least, not too big of a deal. What I later learned was the leak was due to a crack in the stanchion tube, and so for that day’s ride, it was a really, really big deal.
When doing a wheelie drop, you ride a wheelie off a drop so that when you land, your rear wheel hits the ground first. If you attempt a wheelie drop, it is imperative that you get that front wheel up before you lift off, or you’ll plummet like a dive bomber. It is equally critical that the stanchion tubes of your fork aren’t cracked. All was going perfectly well for me until my front wheel touched down. In an instant, my fork snapped on both sides just below the crown. My front wheel rolled off in the direction that I should have gone, dragging my fork with it, leaving a trail of shock oil and coil springs. It happened so fast that when my face hit the pavement, my hands were still firmly gripping my handlebars. I had just done the equivalent of a sailor dive from a four foot high ledge onto a parking lot.
I was knocked unconscious, and when I came around a few seconds later, my helmet, still strapped to my head, had a narrowly-skirted-death-sized dent in it. My entire face was a swollen, bloody mess, with bits of pavement sticking out from my multiple wounds, and for the next few weeks, I looked like something that crawled out of a swamp in the middle of a bad horror movie. As far as trauma to my head, I’m pretty sure it was minimal, since my memory is just as bad now as it was then. After a few days, I felt good enough for an ice cream cone, and after a few months, my wounds were mostly healed. I now have only a really cool tear-shaped scar next to my left eye to show for it and a simple but significant word to the wise: Always wear your helmet!
For my fifth birthday, which is in February, my Dad gave me a brand new blue and yellow Huffy with a number 5 stamped on a plastic card hanging from the handlebars. For three long months, while number 5 sat in the basement, I could only sit on it and imagine riding it. I finally started riding it for real in the spring, with training wheels, and when it came time to try riding without them, my Dad made a promise that he would take me out for an ice cream cone if I could complete two full-pedal revolutions. That was enough of an incentive for me, and on that day I took my first two complete pedal revolutions while rolling on two wheels. While attempting a third, I abruptly crashed to the ground and scraped my knee. With tear streak lines still visible on my dirty face, the black raspberry ice cream cone that I enjoyed later ended up serving two purposes: reward for my successful ride and pain relief for my sore knee.
Luckily, when I crashed, I didn’t land on my head, because like every kid on a bike back in the ’70s, I wasn’t wearing a helmet. And for the next six years, I rode my bike around the neighborhood, into town, into swimming pools, through the woods, over jumps, and down the steepest hills I could find going as fast as I could, and not once with a helmet on my head.
It wasn’t until the hair-sprayed summer of 1987, after we had moved from a house in the neighborhood to a house in the country, that I finally was ordered to wear one. Our new house was set back from a busy road that the locals used to make good time, so my parents insisted I wear a helmet when I biked on that road because of the high speeds of the cars and trucks flying by. Apparently, the possibility of being hit by a fast car or truck was the only good reason to protect your head back then. But at least it was a start in the right direction, and look how far we’ve come. Today, kids are wearing helmets even before they start riding bikes. Strapped into a bike trailer, surrounded by a metal roll cage, they’ve got helmets on. I have no problem with this, and although fitting a baby with a helmet is similar to bathing a cat, only not as fun, I am always willing to help parents out because I understand how important helmets are. They are truly the seatbelts of the bicycle and should be worn at all times.
I can say that at least once, a helmet saved my life. It was the cargo-pants-wearing spring of 2003, and I was 30. I was riding through town with some friends on our way to a little zone of mountain bike trails, when I went to do a routine wheelie drop off a four-foot retaining wall onto a parking lot. Before we left for the ride, I had noticed a small amount of shock oil accumulating just below the crown of my fork. I assumed it was due to a bad seal and so for that day’s ride at least, not too big of a deal. What I later learned was the leak was due to a crack in the stanchion tube, and so for that day’s ride, it was a really, really big deal.
When doing a wheelie drop, you ride a wheelie off a drop so that when you land, your rear wheel hits the ground first. If you attempt a wheelie drop, it is imperative that you get that front wheel up before you lift off, or you’ll plummet like a dive bomber. It is equally critical that the stanchion tubes of your fork aren’t cracked. All was going perfectly well for me until my front wheel touched down. In an instant, my fork snapped on both sides just below the crown. My front wheel rolled off in the direction that I should have gone, dragging my fork with it, leaving a trail of shock oil and coil springs. It happened so fast that when my face hit the pavement, my hands were still firmly gripping my handlebars. I had just done the equivalent of a sailor dive from a four foot high ledge onto a parking lot.
I was knocked unconscious, and when I came around a few seconds later, my helmet, still strapped to my head, had a narrowly-skirted-death-sized dent in it. My entire face was a swollen, bloody mess, with bits of pavement sticking out from my multiple wounds, and for the next few weeks, I looked like something that crawled out of a swamp in the middle of a bad horror movie. As far as trauma to my head, I’m pretty sure it was minimal, since my memory is just as bad now as it was then. After a few days, I felt good enough for an ice cream cone, and after a few months, my wounds were mostly healed. I now have only a really cool tear-shaped scar next to my left eye to show for it and a simple but significant word to the wise: Always wear your helmet!
Cat and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance
A close relation of mine, we’ll call her Mustard, recently announced that she is moving far away in search of new scenery and new opportunities. I am happy for her, but I’m going to miss her. She’s selling all of her furniture, but her really sweet couch is mine for free if I am simply willing to adopt Mr. Jackson, her crazy old cat. I am currently weighing my options. Do I really want the couch that bad? Do I really want a crazy old cat who finds the bathroom sink a suitable place to take a nap? It is a really sweet couch, so I’ll continue to mull it over. But today wasn’t about Mr. Jackson or the couch. Today was the most perfect spring day ever, so we just went for a bike ride.
Mustard rode her flat-bar performance hybrid that I gave her for her college graduation present. It is the perfect bike for cruising along the Burlington bike path and similar paved bikeways and roads. The 700c wheels and road tires roll smoothly and efficiently, while the flat handlebars provide the optimum handling required for weaving between walkers with ice cream cones, young ladies with jogging strollers, and old ladies with three dogs that sprawl out on their leashes in every direction, like octopus tentacles.
Mustard’s bike hadn’t been ridden since last fall, so I told her that she can count on the tires needing air. Air doesn’t like to sit around. It has better things to do. Just like watering a plant, if it has been a few weeks, or months, don’t even bother checking, just grab a pump, or a watering can, and get to work. And just like a plant, if it has been a few years, your tires will be dead. Sure enough, her tires were way down, so we pumped them back up to their recommended PSI, which was indicated on the sidewall of her tires. I then told her to ignore this step if she enjoys the feeling of dragging a log behind her, or if she likes getting flats.
I rode my steel 29er hardtail mountain bike. Not because it was the ideal bike for this particular ride, but because mountain bike season is still many weeks away, and I can’t wait that long. Aside from my tires being low, my rear derailleur cable was a bit slack. Just as tires lose air, cables lose tension, so I spun my barrel adjuster a bit until the shifting was precise. If you are willing to consider adopting a crazy old cat, I’ll explain how I did it.
Your shifter tells your derailleur what to do. The derailleur cable is the line of communication, so the first thing to check is whether the line is clean. You can easily do this by unbolting the cable from the derailleur itself. Grabbing the cable with your left hand, gently pull in the direction of the anchor bolt. With your right hand, click the shifter back and forth. The cable should move freely in both directions, with minimal friction. If it doesn’t, you need to figure out why. Perhaps, because you left your bike in a snow bank or in a damp basement all winter long, the cables have rusted.
This little exercise will also show you what your shifter is really doing: with each click, it is pulling or releasing a small amount of cable, which, as you can guess, is exactly the distance between the cogs of your gear cluster. With a standard rear derailleur, when your shifter pulls cable, the derailleur will move inward, towards the larger, or lower-geared cogs. Releasing cable from the shifter allows the spring of the derailleur to move it outward, towards the smaller, or higher geared cogs. Now is a good time to mention that I meant to say that Mr. Jackson is a nice adult cat, not a crazy old cat.
While the cable is still unattached, you can dial in your derailleur’s starting position. The starting position is when the top pulley of the derailleur is centered under the smallest, or highest geared, cog of your cluster. To center the pulley under the highest cog, simply turn the high limit screw, generally identified with an “H” in or out until the pulley’s teeth are directly in line with the cog’s teeth. You are now ready to bolt your derailleur cable down. Making sure you’ve released all your cable from your shifter, bolt the cable down while tensioning it with your free hand. Don’t pull too hard, just enough so that there is no slack in the line. At this point, when you click your shifter, the derailleur will move so that the top pulley is now perfectly centered under the next cog. If it is slightly off center, spin your barrel adjuster in the direction that you want the pulley to go. With this fine tuning complete, your bike should purr like a nice adult cat.
But it probably won’t. There are no fewer that three thousand factors that can affect precise shifting, even though you’ve followed the steps above. A bent derailleur hanger, a tired shifter, a worn out chain, a burr, and loosey-goosey derailleur pivots are just a few, and those require more advanced skills to remedy. A more common and easily remedied factor is proper lube and shifting techniques. A light, barely detectable coat of bicycle chain lube on clean chain is what you want. A dark, dripping coat of motor oil on a dirty chain, which will only attract more dirt to your chain, like a nice old cat to your lap, isn’t. As far as proper shifting, it takes a lot of practice, but there is one fundamental rule you can start following today, unless you want to break your chain or bend teeth on your cogs or chainrings: do not shift when your chain is under a lot of tension.
Now about that crazy old—I mean, nice adult cat…
Rubbing Shoulders, Olympic Style
My Olympic fever has gone down, but I still have a touch of the commercial flu. After three weeks of being glued to the TV, I don’t think I’ll ever turn one of those blasted things on again, or at least not until baseball season starts. Aside from watching an Olympic-sized amount of commercials, I watched plenty of exciting Olympic coverage, and after all those hours of staring at the TV screen, I learned a few things. I learned that curling is even more exciting to watch when the officials need to bust out the competition dial measurer to determine which stone is closer to the button. I learned that aside from me, entire cultures can be offended by hideous-looking uniforms worn by ice dancers. And most inspiring of all, thanks to the U.S. bobsled team’s grand achievement, I learned that you can win an Olympic gold medal even if you have a beer gut.
I have never been in the Olympics, and I will never be in the Olympics, even though I have a beer gut. But I am fortunate enough to know a few Olympians, including Seth Westcott, who four years ago won the first-ever gold medal in Olympic snowboard cross, and who this year defended his title. Way back in college, when I was a regular Sugarloafer, I would occasionally see Scott flying by in the park on his way to the halfpipe. I met him years later at a mutual friend’s wedding, the summer after he won his first gold medal. He was introduced simply as Seth, and if I hadn’t recognized him, I may have never known that I had just met a gold-medal winning Olympian. Upon realizing who he was, I asked why he chose to wear a tie around his neck instead of his gold medal. I don’t remember exactly what he said, because at that point he was talking to someone else.
I met another gold-medal winning Olympian years earlier, while I was a snowboard bum in Breckenridge, CO. I was riding with my friend Corey, his wife, and her friend Donna. While riding the chairlift after a few runs, Corey casually mentioned that Donna was in the Olympics. I looked back at Donna, and suddenly realized that Corey’s wife’s friend Donna the snowboarder was in fact Olympic mogul skier Donna Weinbrecht, who won the first ever gold in women’s mogul skiing. At the top of the lift, I reintroduced myself and congratulated her and asked what she was doing on a snowboard. I don’t remember exactly what she said, because at that point, she was already riding away.
Other than casually meeting a few Olympians, I’ve also worked with one. That would be Larry Damon, who is a four-time Olympic cross-country skier and biathlete, and who for many years since retiring has wrenched on bikes at our shop in the summer. Each year he shows up with his leather-bound tool case, pops it open, and gets right to work. Even though his tool case is filled with assorted well-worn wrenches and screwdrivers, I’ve only ever seen him use a hammer, with which he can fix just about any bike, as long as it is made of steel. One particular time, he straightened a derailleur hanger that was bent and twisted like an Olympic diver in mid air. On one of my first days working with him, before I understood him a bit better, I said, “So Larry, you were in the Olympics, huh? Cool!” He responded only with a grunt, but after warming up to me a bit, he not only told me a few Olympic stories, he also told me about his love of jazz and playing the trumpet, and other stories that only a trumpet-playing, four-time Olympian could tell. I mentioned that I play the saxophone, but he may not have heard me, because at that point, he was back to hammering on another bike.
Another Olympian who I’ve gotten to know quite well, and another one of the greatest guys you could ever meet, is former Olympic cross-country mountain biker Pavel Cherkasov. The first time I rode with him, nervous and intimidated, I yelled out, “If there are any Olympic mountain bikers behind me who would like to pass, feel free.” But instead of blowing by and leaving me choking on his dust, Pavel stayed back and rode at my pace, and hooted and cheered the whole ride. His enthusiasm was contagious, and it made me appreciate every pedal stroke. We had such a good time riding with him, we stayed on the trails longer than we should have, and ended up riding out in near pitch blackness, which is very dangerous. At the end of the ride, instead of saying, “Are you guys trying to kill me?” he only asked where we were riding next week.
One other Olympic athlete that I’ve come to know is Liz Stephen, who competed in her first Olympics this year in multiple cross-country skiing events. Many years ago, during one of our ski swaps, her Mom brought in a few pairs of ski boots Liz had outgrown, and I asked, “If you hold one of these boots up to your ear, can you hear Liz giggle?” I should have put one of those boots in my mouth, because I fear my poorly worded comment was misconstrued. To clarify, I was only referring to her contagious enthusiasm which glows like a sun beam and is an Olympic quality that I wish I possessed, instead of a beer gut.
I have never been in the Olympics, and I will never be in the Olympics, even though I have a beer gut. But I am fortunate enough to know a few Olympians, including Seth Westcott, who four years ago won the first-ever gold medal in Olympic snowboard cross, and who this year defended his title. Way back in college, when I was a regular Sugarloafer, I would occasionally see Scott flying by in the park on his way to the halfpipe. I met him years later at a mutual friend’s wedding, the summer after he won his first gold medal. He was introduced simply as Seth, and if I hadn’t recognized him, I may have never known that I had just met a gold-medal winning Olympian. Upon realizing who he was, I asked why he chose to wear a tie around his neck instead of his gold medal. I don’t remember exactly what he said, because at that point he was talking to someone else.
I met another gold-medal winning Olympian years earlier, while I was a snowboard bum in Breckenridge, CO. I was riding with my friend Corey, his wife, and her friend Donna. While riding the chairlift after a few runs, Corey casually mentioned that Donna was in the Olympics. I looked back at Donna, and suddenly realized that Corey’s wife’s friend Donna the snowboarder was in fact Olympic mogul skier Donna Weinbrecht, who won the first ever gold in women’s mogul skiing. At the top of the lift, I reintroduced myself and congratulated her and asked what she was doing on a snowboard. I don’t remember exactly what she said, because at that point, she was already riding away.
Other than casually meeting a few Olympians, I’ve also worked with one. That would be Larry Damon, who is a four-time Olympic cross-country skier and biathlete, and who for many years since retiring has wrenched on bikes at our shop in the summer. Each year he shows up with his leather-bound tool case, pops it open, and gets right to work. Even though his tool case is filled with assorted well-worn wrenches and screwdrivers, I’ve only ever seen him use a hammer, with which he can fix just about any bike, as long as it is made of steel. One particular time, he straightened a derailleur hanger that was bent and twisted like an Olympic diver in mid air. On one of my first days working with him, before I understood him a bit better, I said, “So Larry, you were in the Olympics, huh? Cool!” He responded only with a grunt, but after warming up to me a bit, he not only told me a few Olympic stories, he also told me about his love of jazz and playing the trumpet, and other stories that only a trumpet-playing, four-time Olympian could tell. I mentioned that I play the saxophone, but he may not have heard me, because at that point, he was back to hammering on another bike.
Another Olympian who I’ve gotten to know quite well, and another one of the greatest guys you could ever meet, is former Olympic cross-country mountain biker Pavel Cherkasov. The first time I rode with him, nervous and intimidated, I yelled out, “If there are any Olympic mountain bikers behind me who would like to pass, feel free.” But instead of blowing by and leaving me choking on his dust, Pavel stayed back and rode at my pace, and hooted and cheered the whole ride. His enthusiasm was contagious, and it made me appreciate every pedal stroke. We had such a good time riding with him, we stayed on the trails longer than we should have, and ended up riding out in near pitch blackness, which is very dangerous. At the end of the ride, instead of saying, “Are you guys trying to kill me?” he only asked where we were riding next week.
One other Olympic athlete that I’ve come to know is Liz Stephen, who competed in her first Olympics this year in multiple cross-country skiing events. Many years ago, during one of our ski swaps, her Mom brought in a few pairs of ski boots Liz had outgrown, and I asked, “If you hold one of these boots up to your ear, can you hear Liz giggle?” I should have put one of those boots in my mouth, because I fear my poorly worded comment was misconstrued. To clarify, I was only referring to her contagious enthusiasm which glows like a sun beam and is an Olympic quality that I wish I possessed, instead of a beer gut.
Retail Junkie Superstar: Working Hard, Like Dogs in Fact, in Utah
It takes a lot of hard work to make it in retail, but the rewards of offering quality products and great service make all that hard work worth it. The Boss, three of my favorite fellow coworkers, and I just got back from a lot of hard work out in Salt Lake City, UT. We were out there to attend the Outdoor Retailer trade show, which is a gathering of 40,000 or so vendors, retailers, media personnel, sponsored athletes, and long-underwear models. We go out there for a number of reasons: to check out next year’s winter gear, to complain to our reps about things that make our customers complain, and to get the inside scoop on spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items that are sure to set our sales on fire. We also happen to drink a lot of free beer, which many vendors offer as gratitude for the business we did last year and in appreciation of the business we’ll do next year. We, of course, accept the free beer because it is customary and the last thing we want is to appear rude.
I would say that the free beer goodwill stops there, but there may very well be an ulterior motive. Our reps always seem to wait until we’ve had a couple free beers before they pull out the list of show specials, which is a secret list of spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items that are going quick and need to be purchased immediately because they’ll be gone tomorrow if they aren’t gone by the end of the day. I’ve been to a lot of shows, and I’m starting to notice that the large dent we put in that list is oddly congruent to the large dent we put in the keg. We see many different vendors at the show, and many different lists, and well, we work very hard.
The first day at OR is the All Mountain Demo, where we work especially hard, like dogs in fact, tele skiing on next year’s tele skis. From first chair to last, with only a lunch break in between, we put our noses to the grindstone and search for hidden powder stashes to be used as testing grounds to highlight a particular ski’s characteristics, so that when asked by discerning customers, we will respond with as much knowledge and experience as possible. It took half of the day and a lot of hard work, but eventually we found many hidden stashes on a part of the mountain that had been closed earlier in the day, so that all the fresh snow that had been piling up overnight could be bombed for avalanche control. As soon as they opened the gate once the area was deemed safe, we made our way along a traverse until we discovered a steep, wide open swath of the mountain covered in a fresh blanket of waist deep Wasatch powder, which was perfect for the very hard work of testing the powder-surfing qualities of many different tele skis.
Committed as we were to the job at hand, we kept going back to that swath, over and over again, always finding more fresh lines, until we got to know the skis as though they were our own, so that when we mark them down to 50 percent off at the end of next season, and finally sell a pair or two, we will be able to describe from firsthand experience what those particular skis are capable of.
By the end of the demo, we were exhausted from such a hard day’s work. I worked so hard I could barely walk, and for three days after my body felt like it had been run over by a truck loaded with multiple pallets of spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items heading to Vermont. I hadn’t had enough days on the hill prior to the trip to get my legs in shape for such a hard day’s work, and all the free 3.2-percent beer in the world couldn’t numb all of the pain. But a sore body is a small price to pay for the experience and knowledge I gained which I will apply on the sales floor in the name of great service.
On our first day back to work after the show, for some reason, our fellow coworkers weren’t too interested in hearing about all of our hard work. When the spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items arrived at the shop on multiple pallets a few days later, amassing to nothing more than a spectacular assortment of random poles, bindings, and roller skis, they shook their heads and asked whose spectacular idea it was to buy this stuff. As we started digging through the boxes, we were suddenly reminded of two golden rules: free beer and buying don’t go together, and if an item is still too expensive at 50 percent off, you know you’re in trouble. Next year we’ll have to work like dogs just to remember that.
I would say that the free beer goodwill stops there, but there may very well be an ulterior motive. Our reps always seem to wait until we’ve had a couple free beers before they pull out the list of show specials, which is a secret list of spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items that are going quick and need to be purchased immediately because they’ll be gone tomorrow if they aren’t gone by the end of the day. I’ve been to a lot of shows, and I’m starting to notice that the large dent we put in that list is oddly congruent to the large dent we put in the keg. We see many different vendors at the show, and many different lists, and well, we work very hard.
The first day at OR is the All Mountain Demo, where we work especially hard, like dogs in fact, tele skiing on next year’s tele skis. From first chair to last, with only a lunch break in between, we put our noses to the grindstone and search for hidden powder stashes to be used as testing grounds to highlight a particular ski’s characteristics, so that when asked by discerning customers, we will respond with as much knowledge and experience as possible. It took half of the day and a lot of hard work, but eventually we found many hidden stashes on a part of the mountain that had been closed earlier in the day, so that all the fresh snow that had been piling up overnight could be bombed for avalanche control. As soon as they opened the gate once the area was deemed safe, we made our way along a traverse until we discovered a steep, wide open swath of the mountain covered in a fresh blanket of waist deep Wasatch powder, which was perfect for the very hard work of testing the powder-surfing qualities of many different tele skis.
Committed as we were to the job at hand, we kept going back to that swath, over and over again, always finding more fresh lines, until we got to know the skis as though they were our own, so that when we mark them down to 50 percent off at the end of next season, and finally sell a pair or two, we will be able to describe from firsthand experience what those particular skis are capable of.
By the end of the demo, we were exhausted from such a hard day’s work. I worked so hard I could barely walk, and for three days after my body felt like it had been run over by a truck loaded with multiple pallets of spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items heading to Vermont. I hadn’t had enough days on the hill prior to the trip to get my legs in shape for such a hard day’s work, and all the free 3.2-percent beer in the world couldn’t numb all of the pain. But a sore body is a small price to pay for the experience and knowledge I gained which I will apply on the sales floor in the name of great service.
On our first day back to work after the show, for some reason, our fellow coworkers weren’t too interested in hearing about all of our hard work. When the spectacular rock-bottom-priced closeout items arrived at the shop on multiple pallets a few days later, amassing to nothing more than a spectacular assortment of random poles, bindings, and roller skis, they shook their heads and asked whose spectacular idea it was to buy this stuff. As we started digging through the boxes, we were suddenly reminded of two golden rules: free beer and buying don’t go together, and if an item is still too expensive at 50 percent off, you know you’re in trouble. Next year we’ll have to work like dogs just to remember that.
The Life of an Alpine Skier Turned Snowboarding Tele Skier who Cross-Country Skis
My first time Alpine skiing was at Cannon Mountain in New Hampshire in 1983. I was ten years old and my family had just moved to Littleton, NH, from Portland, ME. My parents were nice enough to sign me up for the skiing program at my new school, which aside from providing me with a lift ticket and lunch, provided me with really lousy rental equipment.
Back then, Alpine skis were straight, ski pants were tight, and helmets were non-existent. Tele skiers were unusual folks with beards, leather boots, and wool pants. Snowboarding was a few years away from being recognized as a national sport, neon was a few years away from ruling the ski fashion world, and the Old Man of the Mountain, which for 30,000 years or so had watched over the land from high on Cannon’s eastern slope, was 20 years away from collapsing. On my first day Alpine skiing at Cannon, after one lesson, I was instantly hooked, and so began my lifelong love of cruising downhill on snow-covered mountains, with or without great stone faces.
All I ever wanted to do after that first lesson was go to Cannon, yet my parents, who didn’t appreciate lift ticket prices and crowded lift lines, would often take me cross-country skiing instead. This never settled well with me after I learned to Alpine ski, and I still remember how miserable I was whenever we’d go to the touring center instead of the mountain. On one especially miserable occasion, they dragged me to trails that were directly across from Cannon, in plain sight of the hundreds of fortunate black dots making S-turns down those glorious groomers and bump runs. Kicking and gliding along, begrudgingly following my parents, and many years before growing up, all I wanted was to be one of those black dots.
Despite that particular day on the Nordic ski trails, I spent plenty of other days over the next 15 years as one of those black dots, making glorious S-turns with Alpine skis on my feet. At age 25, I had reached a plateau in my ability, and after holding out for many years, I decided to give snowboarding a try. I was reluctant at first, mainly because I was proud to still be a skier, while all of my friends had become riders, but also because I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of going back to the bunny slope. I was a regular at Sugarloaf, and considered myself a solid expert, and couldn’t imagine being humbled by trails like the Toll Road. But I swallowed my skier’s pride, took a snowboard lesson, and spent the rest of the day on the Toll Road getting repeatedly body slammed from repeatedly catching my downhill edge while trying to link turns.
Perseverance paid off, and by the end of the day, I had not only linked a few turns, I had once again become one of those black dots making S-turns, only this time with a snowboard attached to my feet. I had also severely bruised my rear end, banged my head countless times, and broken my wrist. Nonetheless, on my first day snowboarding at Sugarloaf, I was instantly hooked. For many years after that, I thought I’d never ski again.
That changed after I moved to Vermont. After a few winters of riding my board on some of Vermont’s finest terrain, I decided it was time to try tele skiing. We had started carrying tele gear at the shop, and I felt I needed to be a tele skier if I was going to try to sell the stuff to tele skiers. I took a lesson at Mad River Glen from my good friend Scottpelier, who is a fine tele skier and a great instructor, and with his guidance, I carved my first tele turn, and it felt amazing, and on my first day at MRG, I was instantly hooked. I’d love to say that learning how to tele ski helped me sell a lot of tele skis, but it didn’t. It turns out that when you’re selling tele skis at 50 percent off, tele skiers don’t care in the least if you are a tele skier, or for that matter, an alpine skier, a cross-country skier, a snowboarder, or a curling enthusiast.
These days, a quarter of a century after taking my first run at Cannon, I am still one of those black dots. I might have tele skis on my feet, but more often it’s a snowboard. For whatever reason, after all these years, I prefer cruising down snow-covered mountains sideways. As far as Alpine skiing, I’ll do that once every few years just to make sure I’ve still got it. As far as cross-country skiing, I recently went with my lovely wife, and after one day at Craftsbury, kicking and gliding along those glorious, rolling trails, many years after growing up, I was instantly hooked.
Back then, Alpine skis were straight, ski pants were tight, and helmets were non-existent. Tele skiers were unusual folks with beards, leather boots, and wool pants. Snowboarding was a few years away from being recognized as a national sport, neon was a few years away from ruling the ski fashion world, and the Old Man of the Mountain, which for 30,000 years or so had watched over the land from high on Cannon’s eastern slope, was 20 years away from collapsing. On my first day Alpine skiing at Cannon, after one lesson, I was instantly hooked, and so began my lifelong love of cruising downhill on snow-covered mountains, with or without great stone faces.
All I ever wanted to do after that first lesson was go to Cannon, yet my parents, who didn’t appreciate lift ticket prices and crowded lift lines, would often take me cross-country skiing instead. This never settled well with me after I learned to Alpine ski, and I still remember how miserable I was whenever we’d go to the touring center instead of the mountain. On one especially miserable occasion, they dragged me to trails that were directly across from Cannon, in plain sight of the hundreds of fortunate black dots making S-turns down those glorious groomers and bump runs. Kicking and gliding along, begrudgingly following my parents, and many years before growing up, all I wanted was to be one of those black dots.
Despite that particular day on the Nordic ski trails, I spent plenty of other days over the next 15 years as one of those black dots, making glorious S-turns with Alpine skis on my feet. At age 25, I had reached a plateau in my ability, and after holding out for many years, I decided to give snowboarding a try. I was reluctant at first, mainly because I was proud to still be a skier, while all of my friends had become riders, but also because I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of going back to the bunny slope. I was a regular at Sugarloaf, and considered myself a solid expert, and couldn’t imagine being humbled by trails like the Toll Road. But I swallowed my skier’s pride, took a snowboard lesson, and spent the rest of the day on the Toll Road getting repeatedly body slammed from repeatedly catching my downhill edge while trying to link turns.
Perseverance paid off, and by the end of the day, I had not only linked a few turns, I had once again become one of those black dots making S-turns, only this time with a snowboard attached to my feet. I had also severely bruised my rear end, banged my head countless times, and broken my wrist. Nonetheless, on my first day snowboarding at Sugarloaf, I was instantly hooked. For many years after that, I thought I’d never ski again.
That changed after I moved to Vermont. After a few winters of riding my board on some of Vermont’s finest terrain, I decided it was time to try tele skiing. We had started carrying tele gear at the shop, and I felt I needed to be a tele skier if I was going to try to sell the stuff to tele skiers. I took a lesson at Mad River Glen from my good friend Scottpelier, who is a fine tele skier and a great instructor, and with his guidance, I carved my first tele turn, and it felt amazing, and on my first day at MRG, I was instantly hooked. I’d love to say that learning how to tele ski helped me sell a lot of tele skis, but it didn’t. It turns out that when you’re selling tele skis at 50 percent off, tele skiers don’t care in the least if you are a tele skier, or for that matter, an alpine skier, a cross-country skier, a snowboarder, or a curling enthusiast.
These days, a quarter of a century after taking my first run at Cannon, I am still one of those black dots. I might have tele skis on my feet, but more often it’s a snowboard. For whatever reason, after all these years, I prefer cruising down snow-covered mountains sideways. As far as Alpine skiing, I’ll do that once every few years just to make sure I’ve still got it. As far as cross-country skiing, I recently went with my lovely wife, and after one day at Craftsbury, kicking and gliding along those glorious, rolling trails, many years after growing up, I was instantly hooked.
That's The Way The Frozen Death Cookie Crumbles
This winter marks my 10th winter living in Vermont. I’m originally from Maine, and I love the place dearly, but I don’t have any plans on moving back. Occasionally, I get a little homesick, and start dreaming of sitting on the porch of a harbor bar in Bar Harbor, washing down a clam cake with a pint of Geary’s, watching a lobster boat methodically make its way from one buoy to another, stopping briefly at each one before moving on, like a garbage truck on its Thursday morning route. But because my family and a lot of my best friends are still in Maine, I visit often enough to remind myself that clam cakes are actually really gross and Bar Harbor is overpriced and overrun with ice cream parlors and tacky t-shirt shops and tourists wearing tacky t-shirts and eating ice cream cones. After a few days my homesick feeling recedes with the tide, and I look forward to heading back home, to Vermont. My affection for Geary’s however, never wavers.
I moved to Vermont in November of 2000. That particular November was cold and rainy, the kind of November that Guns n’ Roses songs are made out of. Each day was darker and more dreary than the last, and bleaker and more raw, and then it started to snow, and by mid-January, we had the kind of snow I had only seen in the black and white photographs of my Grandmammy’s picture albums or in the vivid color photographs in the picture album of my wildest dreams. And the snow didn’t stop until May, six months after it had started and two months after I broke my collar bone in half while trying to do a routine frontside 180 flatspin on a groomer at Sugarbush North. I went from riding on buried treetops to riding in a rescue toboggan in just one run, and then I drove home with my arm in a sling, and the greatest winter ever, at least for me, was over. For those of you learning to snowboard, here is one thing to never forget: if you are going way too fast on a groomer and decide to bust out a frontside 180 flatspin, do not let your toe edge contact the snow mid spin.
This past November was like a warm, golden fall day plucked out of a travel brochure and stretched out for an entire month. It was nothing at all like November of 2000 or any of the following Novembers, and most likely, this coming winter, my 10th in Vermont, will be nothing like the nine that have preceded it. I just hope it shares one thing in common: lots and lots of snow. As far as an injury is concerned, I’ll pass.
I’m no stranger to injuries, and many of my last nine winters in Vermont have been defined by them. I will always remember the greatest winter ever as the winter that I broke my collar bone in half and more importantly the winter that I realized my bones were no longer made of indestructible rubber. I was reminded of this fact a few winters later, at Mt. Bachelor in Oregon, when I lost control and slammed into a large frozen death cookie. It was the first run of my first day, and according to my self diagnosis, I had cracked a few ribs, and the six to eight weeks of pain I endured supported that diagnosis. For those of you heading to Oregon to go riding, here is one thing to never forget: in the springtime in Oregon, the snow turns to concrete at night and stays that way until the sun warms it up, so keep away from any snow that is in the shade.
A few winters after that, while on my first run of my first day in Brighton, UT, I was once again reminded that my bones are made of aging bone. I was cruising along on the runout when I darted off the trail and aimed for a beautiful little pillow of fresh snow just to the side of the trail, thinking it was perhaps a harmless buried rock or maybe a friendly log. Instead it was the top of an unmarked twelve foot drop-off and at the bottom was a landing as flat as a clam cake, or a cookie sheet. When my tele skis touched down, all of my momentum came to a bone crunching halt, and something had to give, and that was my L1 vertebrae. Of course, a few hours later, after a handful of Ibuprofen and a few beers, I was back on the hill, and it wasn’t until two weeks later, when I was back home in Vermont, when the pain in my back just wasn’t going away, that I got an x-ray. For those of you who hurt your backs while skiing in Utah or Oregon or Vermont or wherever, don’t keep skiing. You very well may have compressed L1 vertebrae, and you need to rest.
So, what kind of winter will my 10th winter in Vermont be? I’ll have to wait and see, but having learned some hard lessons, I do know that I will be keeping my downhill edge off the snow, I will avoid shady sections of trail, and I will use my acquired sense of premonition to avoid dangerous, unmarked hazards. For those of you like me, here is one thing to never forget: as you get older, eat all the cookies you want, just drink plenty of milk.
I moved to Vermont in November of 2000. That particular November was cold and rainy, the kind of November that Guns n’ Roses songs are made out of. Each day was darker and more dreary than the last, and bleaker and more raw, and then it started to snow, and by mid-January, we had the kind of snow I had only seen in the black and white photographs of my Grandmammy’s picture albums or in the vivid color photographs in the picture album of my wildest dreams. And the snow didn’t stop until May, six months after it had started and two months after I broke my collar bone in half while trying to do a routine frontside 180 flatspin on a groomer at Sugarbush North. I went from riding on buried treetops to riding in a rescue toboggan in just one run, and then I drove home with my arm in a sling, and the greatest winter ever, at least for me, was over. For those of you learning to snowboard, here is one thing to never forget: if you are going way too fast on a groomer and decide to bust out a frontside 180 flatspin, do not let your toe edge contact the snow mid spin.
This past November was like a warm, golden fall day plucked out of a travel brochure and stretched out for an entire month. It was nothing at all like November of 2000 or any of the following Novembers, and most likely, this coming winter, my 10th in Vermont, will be nothing like the nine that have preceded it. I just hope it shares one thing in common: lots and lots of snow. As far as an injury is concerned, I’ll pass.
I’m no stranger to injuries, and many of my last nine winters in Vermont have been defined by them. I will always remember the greatest winter ever as the winter that I broke my collar bone in half and more importantly the winter that I realized my bones were no longer made of indestructible rubber. I was reminded of this fact a few winters later, at Mt. Bachelor in Oregon, when I lost control and slammed into a large frozen death cookie. It was the first run of my first day, and according to my self diagnosis, I had cracked a few ribs, and the six to eight weeks of pain I endured supported that diagnosis. For those of you heading to Oregon to go riding, here is one thing to never forget: in the springtime in Oregon, the snow turns to concrete at night and stays that way until the sun warms it up, so keep away from any snow that is in the shade.
A few winters after that, while on my first run of my first day in Brighton, UT, I was once again reminded that my bones are made of aging bone. I was cruising along on the runout when I darted off the trail and aimed for a beautiful little pillow of fresh snow just to the side of the trail, thinking it was perhaps a harmless buried rock or maybe a friendly log. Instead it was the top of an unmarked twelve foot drop-off and at the bottom was a landing as flat as a clam cake, or a cookie sheet. When my tele skis touched down, all of my momentum came to a bone crunching halt, and something had to give, and that was my L1 vertebrae. Of course, a few hours later, after a handful of Ibuprofen and a few beers, I was back on the hill, and it wasn’t until two weeks later, when I was back home in Vermont, when the pain in my back just wasn’t going away, that I got an x-ray. For those of you who hurt your backs while skiing in Utah or Oregon or Vermont or wherever, don’t keep skiing. You very well may have compressed L1 vertebrae, and you need to rest.
So, what kind of winter will my 10th winter in Vermont be? I’ll have to wait and see, but having learned some hard lessons, I do know that I will be keeping my downhill edge off the snow, I will avoid shady sections of trail, and I will use my acquired sense of premonition to avoid dangerous, unmarked hazards. For those of you like me, here is one thing to never forget: as you get older, eat all the cookies you want, just drink plenty of milk.
Eggnog Need Eggs, Waxless Skis Need Wax
It's that time of year again, when, according to Andy Williams or anyone who has received royalties from a beloved Christmas tune, it is the most wonderful. Many others share that view as well, but when Christmas day is just one day off, wedged between two of the
most hectic work days of the year, and I still have to drive to Maine and back, hearing that wretched song on the radio makes me want to throw a wretched fruitcake at it.
But I don't want to be the Grinch to your Andy Williams, so I'm not going to complain about how working in retail has sucked the joy out of my holiday experience like a black hole decorated with blinking Christmas lights and life-sized plastic Santas. Instead, I am going to share some basic concepts regarding cross-country ski waxing, as a sort of gift to you, the reader.
The first concept to understand is that there are two main types of wax—kick wax and glide wax—and they do completely opposite things. Kick wax, or grip wax, sticks to snow and is used exclusively for classic style cross-country skiing. Glide wax prevents snow from sticking and is used for alpine skiing, tele skiing, skate skiing, snowboarding, and yes, classic style cross-country skiing. The fact that classic cross-country skiing uses glide wax can boggle minds, especially when it comes to "waxless" skis. It may sound crazy, but waxless skis need wax, and no, I haven't been drinking too much of my Cousin Lenny's special eggnog. Because waxless skis use “fish scales” to grip the snow, you don't need to worry about kick wax, hence the misleading term "waxless." But don't you want to have optimum glide over the snow after you've kicked? Don't you want to prevent snow from sticking to the base of the ski? Sure you do, and that is why glide wax is so important, so from now on, think of waxless skis as "less wax" skis.
The second concept to embrace is camber. Unlike alpine skis, tele skis, or a snowboard, all of which are single cambered, classic cross-country skis are double cambered. If you take your alpine skis and squeeze them together, you will notice that will little effort, the skis will flex and the bases will contact each other from tip to tail. Now try it with your cross-country skis. The skis will flex, but a small gap will remain in the center of the skis. That small gap is the kick zone, or the wax pocket, where the kick wax goes, or where the fish scales are found. The sections that are touching are the glide zones, where the glide wax goes. If you squeeze harder, the gap will close and the bases will come together. It is this double-camber design that allows cross-country skis to grip when you need them to grip, and glide when you need them to glide, and why your weight is so important when choosing the correct ski length.
A ski sized properly for your weight should work like this: When you are standing on both feet, evenly weighted, the kick zones shouldn't be touching the snow. When you transfer weight to one foot during the kick phase, you'll overcome the initial camber and the kick zone will contact the snow and provide that essential grip. If you're not heavy enough to overcome that secondary camber, the kick zone won’t contact the snow and you won't get any grip. If you're too heavy for a ski, you'll glide on your kick zones and wear off your kick wax. If you have waxless skis, you will scare the wildlife into thinking that a large zipper is coming to get them.
Concerning waxless skis, which have glide zones just like waxable skis, you should apply a coat of liquid glide wax from tip to tail, right over the scales, before every outing. Just like airing up your tires before a bike ride, a quick coat of wax will allow you to move forward with less effort. The glide wax on the fish scales won't affect the grip, but will prevent snow from sticking.
When it comes to waxable skis, keep the glide wax on the glide zones only. Liquid works well, but because waxable skis generally have sintered bases, which are porous, a hot wax, which penetrates into the base and lasts a lot longer, is best. For the kick zones, you need to select the appropriate kick wax based on the temperature and condition of the snow. This can be tricky, so the best thing to do is err on the side of cold. Start by corking in a colder, harder wax. If it doesn't work, you can apply a warmer, softer wax right on top. Eventually you'll get it right and you’ll have great kick, great glide, and a great sense of accomplishment.
Speaking of accomplishment, I hope I have accomplished what I set out to do, which was to give the gift of basic waxing concepts. If I have, I just might have to listen to that Andy Williams classic with a new ear and give fruitcake another chance.
most hectic work days of the year, and I still have to drive to Maine and back, hearing that wretched song on the radio makes me want to throw a wretched fruitcake at it.
But I don't want to be the Grinch to your Andy Williams, so I'm not going to complain about how working in retail has sucked the joy out of my holiday experience like a black hole decorated with blinking Christmas lights and life-sized plastic Santas. Instead, I am going to share some basic concepts regarding cross-country ski waxing, as a sort of gift to you, the reader.
The first concept to understand is that there are two main types of wax—kick wax and glide wax—and they do completely opposite things. Kick wax, or grip wax, sticks to snow and is used exclusively for classic style cross-country skiing. Glide wax prevents snow from sticking and is used for alpine skiing, tele skiing, skate skiing, snowboarding, and yes, classic style cross-country skiing. The fact that classic cross-country skiing uses glide wax can boggle minds, especially when it comes to "waxless" skis. It may sound crazy, but waxless skis need wax, and no, I haven't been drinking too much of my Cousin Lenny's special eggnog. Because waxless skis use “fish scales” to grip the snow, you don't need to worry about kick wax, hence the misleading term "waxless." But don't you want to have optimum glide over the snow after you've kicked? Don't you want to prevent snow from sticking to the base of the ski? Sure you do, and that is why glide wax is so important, so from now on, think of waxless skis as "less wax" skis.
The second concept to embrace is camber. Unlike alpine skis, tele skis, or a snowboard, all of which are single cambered, classic cross-country skis are double cambered. If you take your alpine skis and squeeze them together, you will notice that will little effort, the skis will flex and the bases will contact each other from tip to tail. Now try it with your cross-country skis. The skis will flex, but a small gap will remain in the center of the skis. That small gap is the kick zone, or the wax pocket, where the kick wax goes, or where the fish scales are found. The sections that are touching are the glide zones, where the glide wax goes. If you squeeze harder, the gap will close and the bases will come together. It is this double-camber design that allows cross-country skis to grip when you need them to grip, and glide when you need them to glide, and why your weight is so important when choosing the correct ski length.
A ski sized properly for your weight should work like this: When you are standing on both feet, evenly weighted, the kick zones shouldn't be touching the snow. When you transfer weight to one foot during the kick phase, you'll overcome the initial camber and the kick zone will contact the snow and provide that essential grip. If you're not heavy enough to overcome that secondary camber, the kick zone won’t contact the snow and you won't get any grip. If you're too heavy for a ski, you'll glide on your kick zones and wear off your kick wax. If you have waxless skis, you will scare the wildlife into thinking that a large zipper is coming to get them.
Concerning waxless skis, which have glide zones just like waxable skis, you should apply a coat of liquid glide wax from tip to tail, right over the scales, before every outing. Just like airing up your tires before a bike ride, a quick coat of wax will allow you to move forward with less effort. The glide wax on the fish scales won't affect the grip, but will prevent snow from sticking.
When it comes to waxable skis, keep the glide wax on the glide zones only. Liquid works well, but because waxable skis generally have sintered bases, which are porous, a hot wax, which penetrates into the base and lasts a lot longer, is best. For the kick zones, you need to select the appropriate kick wax based on the temperature and condition of the snow. This can be tricky, so the best thing to do is err on the side of cold. Start by corking in a colder, harder wax. If it doesn't work, you can apply a warmer, softer wax right on top. Eventually you'll get it right and you’ll have great kick, great glide, and a great sense of accomplishment.
Speaking of accomplishment, I hope I have accomplished what I set out to do, which was to give the gift of basic waxing concepts. If I have, I just might have to listen to that Andy Williams classic with a new ear and give fruitcake another chance.
A Bicycle Named Sofia
Experienced bicycle mechanics, like heart surgeons and great cities such as Rome, for example, are not built in a day. It takes many, many years. Yes, there are schools in places like Portland and Colorado Springs, where in a few short weeks you can earn an official certificate stating that you are a “certified” bicycle mechanic, but you will be far from an “experienced” bicycle mechanic. To earn the “experienced” distinction, you need to travel down a long, bumpy road, full of rusty twists and corroded turns, recumbent-sized potholes, and frugal customers who need new drivetrains. Once you’ve reached the end of this road, you’ll have a skill that few people possess, and you’ll have a trade that you can use to make a living, sort of. Best of all, every once in a while, you’ll get to use your skills in the real world to make someone very happy. But first, there are some things you must do.
You need to cross-thread the bottom bracket shell of a custom steel frame. You need to grind your knuckles deep into a greasy chainring. You need to squirt Tri-Flo into your eye. You need to spend 20 minutes scratching your head, trying to figure out why the rear shifting suddenly isn't working any more, only to discover that you clamped the rear derailleur cable against the chainstay while installing the kickstand. A few years later you need to do it again.
You need to stab the end of your finger with a frayed brake cable. You need to wonder why, after cutting it twice, the steer tube is still too short. You need to have a tire, whose bead isn't properly seated on the rim, explode like an artillery shell in your face. You need to promise a customer that you'll remove that frozen seat post by the end of the day. You need to be able to fix a brand new Huffy for less than the customer paid for it. You need to spend an hour on your hands and knees searching the floor for the world's smallest screw. Only then, an experienced bike mechanic will you be. Or so I thought.
A few weeks ago, while hanging out with two of my best college friends, Carl and Puff Debby, and Debby’s pug Harley, I was able to put my experienced bicycle mechanic skills to good use. P. Debby showed me her old Columbia five-speed tandem that for years had lingered in a dark corner of her basement like a corduroy bean bag chair. She casually mentioned that she sure wished she knew a bike mechanic who could perhaps get it running. Bike mechanics love this kind of thing, and I am no exception, and I declared that today, this sweet Columbia five-speed tandem, which would otherwise make me cringe if it came into the shop, would roll.
We hauled it out of the basement through the bulkhead and into the light of a beautiful fall day. Puff Debby got a bucket of hot soapy water ready, while I dug through her husband’s toolbox, hoping for nothing more than an adjustable wrench. To my surprise, along with a proper set of screwdrivers, I found a complete set of metric box-end wrenches. Not only was this bike going to be clean, I thought, it was going to be dialed.
After I had adjusted the brakes and the shifting, tightened the bottom bracket and headset, and straightened the handlebars, I discovered something that in all my years as a bike mechanic had been a mystery to me: the purpose of the 11mm wrench. I’ve worked on thousands of bikes over the course of almost 20 years, and all that time, the shiny, unblemished 11mm wrench never left the hook on the tool wall. At last, on this day, I finally figured out that it is for tightening the fender bolts on a Columbia five-speed tandem.
When it was all shined up and tuned up, the moment we had been waiting for arrived. Carl named the bike Sofia, Harley grunted in approval, and we took a few photographs to capture the moment. Finally, Deb and I took it for a spin down the street, carved a perfect 180-degree turn around the cul-de-sac, and returned safely to her driveway. It ran as smooth as frogs’ hair, and the recently tightened rear fender didn’t rattle one bit.
As a bike mechanic, it is moments like these that give me a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. I rescued an old bike, I put a smile on a good friend’s face, and I finally figured out what the 11mm wrench is for. And to think that before then, I called myself an experienced bicycle mechanic.
You need to cross-thread the bottom bracket shell of a custom steel frame. You need to grind your knuckles deep into a greasy chainring. You need to squirt Tri-Flo into your eye. You need to spend 20 minutes scratching your head, trying to figure out why the rear shifting suddenly isn't working any more, only to discover that you clamped the rear derailleur cable against the chainstay while installing the kickstand. A few years later you need to do it again.
You need to stab the end of your finger with a frayed brake cable. You need to wonder why, after cutting it twice, the steer tube is still too short. You need to have a tire, whose bead isn't properly seated on the rim, explode like an artillery shell in your face. You need to promise a customer that you'll remove that frozen seat post by the end of the day. You need to be able to fix a brand new Huffy for less than the customer paid for it. You need to spend an hour on your hands and knees searching the floor for the world's smallest screw. Only then, an experienced bike mechanic will you be. Or so I thought.
A few weeks ago, while hanging out with two of my best college friends, Carl and Puff Debby, and Debby’s pug Harley, I was able to put my experienced bicycle mechanic skills to good use. P. Debby showed me her old Columbia five-speed tandem that for years had lingered in a dark corner of her basement like a corduroy bean bag chair. She casually mentioned that she sure wished she knew a bike mechanic who could perhaps get it running. Bike mechanics love this kind of thing, and I am no exception, and I declared that today, this sweet Columbia five-speed tandem, which would otherwise make me cringe if it came into the shop, would roll.
We hauled it out of the basement through the bulkhead and into the light of a beautiful fall day. Puff Debby got a bucket of hot soapy water ready, while I dug through her husband’s toolbox, hoping for nothing more than an adjustable wrench. To my surprise, along with a proper set of screwdrivers, I found a complete set of metric box-end wrenches. Not only was this bike going to be clean, I thought, it was going to be dialed.
After I had adjusted the brakes and the shifting, tightened the bottom bracket and headset, and straightened the handlebars, I discovered something that in all my years as a bike mechanic had been a mystery to me: the purpose of the 11mm wrench. I’ve worked on thousands of bikes over the course of almost 20 years, and all that time, the shiny, unblemished 11mm wrench never left the hook on the tool wall. At last, on this day, I finally figured out that it is for tightening the fender bolts on a Columbia five-speed tandem.
When it was all shined up and tuned up, the moment we had been waiting for arrived. Carl named the bike Sofia, Harley grunted in approval, and we took a few photographs to capture the moment. Finally, Deb and I took it for a spin down the street, carved a perfect 180-degree turn around the cul-de-sac, and returned safely to her driveway. It ran as smooth as frogs’ hair, and the recently tightened rear fender didn’t rattle one bit.
As a bike mechanic, it is moments like these that give me a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. I rescued an old bike, I put a smile on a good friend’s face, and I finally figured out what the 11mm wrench is for. And to think that before then, I called myself an experienced bicycle mechanic.
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