Alaskan Pack Fodder

My driveway looks like something out of Sanford and Son.    Piles of construction debris, auto parts, and various components either just removed from or about to go into the RV are either under blue tarps, my portable awning, or heaped unceremoniously on the side. It really boils down to how much I value the individual item. As I come to the end of the project, I am faced with the onerous task of sorting it all out and finding some way to store the good stuff and dispose of the rest. "The rest" is a description that encompasses the majority of the piles. It's truly amazing how much junk I pulled out of a relatively small space, and not all of it was orange shag rug. Some of the "good stuff" will go on Craigslist, in hopes someone will pay me a nominal amount and then haul it away.   It can't go into the garage. There just isn't room for anything else. There isn't room for what's in there.   I need to make room for winter month bike wrenchin...

I feel them. Each and every one of them.    Every crack, ripple, bump, pothole, and other imperfection in the road. I feel them. They ripple up my right side in jolts of moderate pain. Nothing I can't stand, but not something I generally enjoy.    I notice myself tensing up in preparation for a hit and have to remind myself that it will be better if I take it loose and absorb it more. I tell myself that, but I don't believe it. It's going to hurt either way.    It seems the whole Anchorage road system is a living, interconnected thing, birthed with the sole purpose of playing xylophone on my ribcage.    Still, I'm turning the pedals. Out-of-saddle efforts are an exercise in futility, immediate regret, and a few tears. I can't climb (not that I ever could). Standing starts from stoplights elicit a few winces and grunts before I'm moving. Nothing aggressive in cornering or bike handling. I can't afford another fall at the moment. The wife wo...

After my glorious-ish return to the road yesterday, I decided not to put my bike in the garage.    Actually, it wasn't so much a decision as an acceptance of reality. The garage is packed, even more so than usual. Construction debris, tools, raw materials, and other RV project-related stuff clog the entry. I risked serious physical harm just extracting the bike while wearing road cleats. For the moment, the garage isn't an option.   I put the bike in the RV. Sad that it has more open floor space than a two-car garage, but that pretty much is a reflection of my life- cluttered and disorganized. I know where everything is (more or less), but I make a bigger mess digging things out.   While I was stowing the bike, I started thinking about different mounting solutions for it. Maybe bolt a receiver hitch on the back for a rack. Maybe a spare tire rack. On the roof? How about inside? Plenty of options, there. Unfortunately they all amount to additional...

A body at rest tends to stay at rest... unless acted on by a net external force. -Newton's first law of motion ____________________________________________________________________________ It was time.    My body had stayed at rest for far longer than I wanted it to. The distraction of the RV project is winding down, and my epic battles with orange shag rug are at an end. While it isn't finished, it's pretty darn close- close enough for one year. My hip is still misshapen (especially in spandex), but it's not quite as noticeable if I'm standing behind a brick wall. My ribs ache and my back spasm occasionally, but otherwise I saw no reason not to ride.    Thing is, I wasted two perfectly good days not riding. It wasn't that I was afraid. My body was just at rest. It wasn't moving, and sometimes it needs an extra push or two to get going again. Finally, after a day at the state fair with the family, I kitted up and did a late ride. I fumbled aroun...

It used to be all of the ads that would pop up on my social media time-wasting applications were for poorly-manufactured carbon wheels, kit I wouldn't be caught dead wearing, "sales" that were too costly to be true, and other things related to a bike junky. Mostly I ignored them, because they distracted me from my true purpose on the internet- finding out what really happened to the actress who played Jo on the "Facts of Life"- what she looks like now will astound you! Still, the marketers pretty much had me and my interest(s) pegged and were jamming as much as they could through my eye-holes.   Lately, however, there's been a shift. Now I see ads for vintage orange shag carpet, RV blackwater tank additives, and remanufactured auto parts for Chevy G30 vans. I guess my browsing habits really have changed, the computer algorithms that rule our collective existence have taken note, then they pivoted without missing a beat. Impressive.   The way I see it, it...

As much as I wanted to jump right back on the bike, I couldn't. With the slow healing, the weather, and the shagging wagon remodel, I just didn't have the time or the ability. I'm starting to realize there is a distinct possibility that I might not see much of the road this fall before the snow locks me away again. Snow is already dusting the back ranges. It's only a matter of time.   With this in the back of my mind, I decided to start prepping the trainer dungeon a little earlier this year while I had the free time. There's a good chance my first ride will be on the trainer, and I have a lot of work to do before I can jump on Zwift for a few laps of whatever course is on that day.   The Storck was more or less rebuilt when I swapped on the Rival drivetrain. It still needs a power meter, so I'm thinking of pulling the Riken off the crit bike. It's barely been used, and maybe I can work out some of the negative energy retained in it from the crash. I...

When we bought the motorhome, in all of it's orange shag carpet glory, we had grand visions of what it could become. Our expectations of what we could accomplish were colored by our near-new rental RV from a few weeks back and internet "research" (RV porn) on renovations of older campers. Through all of this, we overlooked the obvious elephant in the room. I'm a better wrench than a carpenter, and I'm a shitty wrench.   Still, as the project moves to a "not-finished-but-finally getting there" stage, I think it looks light years better than it did before. Replacing the dark carpet with lighter linoleum and painting the walls made the place seem much larger, even if the paint scheme we ended up reminds me of WWII battleships. We'll brighten it up with throw pillows or something. Removing the 35 year old fabric eliminated much of the musty smell, which I replaced with poisonous paint fumes. You ever paint fiberglass (in this case, the cou...