Blank Canvas

For many of my cycling friends, winter is the time for making big plans. Like the vast snowscape outside, the seasons ahead spread out, blank canvas-like, glittering with possibilities. We are increasingly spoiled for choice here: Beautiful unpaved rides, formal and informal brevets, invitational weekend getaways - it's enough to make one's head spin. And it all requires budgeting, scheduling, prioritising, oftentimes with advanced planning and registration. And so in the coldest days of February, over cups of scalding coffee, cyclists speak in agonised whispers of events to come in the summer months.

I used to listen with curiosity and detached amusement. As someone who generally resists planning, I could not imagine scheduling a summer's worth of weekends around cycling events. But this time around I am getting swept up in it all. 

Staring at the pile of snow outside my window, I find myself considering a hill climb race. I don't expect to do well at all, but I think I might enjoy it. Feeling that is a surprise to me; wanting to do it is a surprise. But when I imagine the climbing and the festive atmosphere, I want to be there - pedaling and feeling the strain, delirious as I strive for a summit I might not have the stamina to reach. Weird, isn't it, the things we can enjoy.

Plodding along the riverside trail, I contemplate this year's brevet series. I love the idea of randonneuring. But truthfully, I don't think I am serious about it - or ready for it, depending on how you look at it. On long rides that pass through beautiful places, what I really want to do is explore, carry a big camera, stop any time I like and constantly take photos - which is at odds with being on the clock. It might make more sense to finally put aside some time for a light multi-day tour. 

Cleaning the salt and crud off my bike after a slushy outing, I remember long dreamy rides on unpaved roads. It seems almost fictional now: Going from the "baby" D2R2 route to the hair-raising loose descents of the Kearsarge Klassic in a matter of weeks, riding borrowed bikes with unfamiliar components, rental cars at 5:00 in the morning... Absurd. But oh how I long to do it again (minus the borrowed bikes, I hope), and how I long to find more rides in the same vein. I am even willing to plan in advance and make commitments. 

This winter is turning out to be brutal. But the months ahead are a blank canvas, and putting down the initial sketch is keeping me sane. 

Categories: roadcycling, unpaved, winter cycling

It's Not About the Weather

While we wait for Hurricane Sandy to arrive, I am still finding sand caked on my bike from an earlier rainy, muddy ride. It seems that every time I have ridden this bike so far, it has rained. Of course today, on my inaugural ride with fenders, it is sunny and dry. A friend consoles me by reminding me of the approaching hurricane. Surely I will have the opportunity to test the fenders then. I take the idea seriously and begin to mentally map out a route on some local trails, before realising how utterly insane that is. When the townsfolk are stocking up on canned goods and flashlight batteries, I should probably stay indoors.

With the season marching on toward starker days, I find myself thinking of weather. As cyclists we all tend to have an idea of the "perfect weather" for riding. For some it's the height of summer. For others it's that elusive "60 degrees and sunny, with a mild breeze." A few riders I know prefer cooler temperatures, and some even claim to enjoy rain. I think for me, the biggest revelation has been that, when push comes to shove, I can feel good in almost any weather. 

After a recent post describing a rainy ride on dirt roads, a reader wrote: "It's in our nature to want to be comfortable and coddled, but you celebrate the joy of pushing yourself through rain and mud." I felt guilty reading this, because honestly I don't feel as if I am overcoming discomfort or pushing myself when I ride in those kinds of conditions. And I think that is the key to my being able to do it. The secret is to find a way of being comfortable, to just go with it and appreciate the situation for what it is, rather than spending energy on trying to overcome it. Maybe this is just a different way of looking at the same thing, but to me it makes a big difference. Rather than pushing through discomfort, I extract comfort. 

Part of it is of course practical considerations. Figuring out how to dress, eat and drink in different conditions. Over the summer I stumbled upon some tricks that enabled me to ride in heat in humidity like I'd never managed to do before. And last winter, I discovered that riding in sub-20 degree temperatures was also very doable with the help of strategic layering. But equally important is the attitude. We have to be curious, interested. We have to want the experience. 

What is my idea of perfect riding weather... Probably high 40s to low 50s, with heavily overcast skies. I feel most alive then; the raw energy in the air makes me want to ride faster, further. But in the end, it's not about the weather, but about finding comfort in whatever is thrown at me, about feeling coddled by the beauty of the surrounding landscape. 

Categories: comfort, Rawland, roadcycling, unpaved

Misty Memories: the Vermont Fall Classic

When I think about why the Vermont Fall Classic holds such importance for me, it's because this ride marked a point of no return. I didn't want to fall in love with this kind of riding, but I did. And it happened with a sort of romantic finality, a "sometimes you just know" moment that stretched into hours. I will never forget it. Several weeks later and now stuck at home with a bad case of flu, I keep dreaming about it, hallucinating it. Did it really happen the way I remember? Yes, I think so. But before I lose myself in purple prose, let me start with the facts.

The Vermont Fall Classic is an official, RUSA-sanctioned event organised by the New England Randonneurs, offering a 100k Populaire and a 200k brevet (read more about these types of rides here). But unlike typical brevets, the Vermont Fall Classic includes significant portions of unpaved roads. And while brevets of this distance (short by randonneurs' standards) are normally offered at the beginning of the season, the Vermont Fall Classic is held at the very end. The idea is that participants get to see the changing leaves while enjoying a crisp Autumn day along beautiful dirt roads. A large group of us from Boston had been planning to do this ride for months, to carpool up to Northern Vermont and make a weekend of it. For me, the biggest draw were the dirt roads. I planned to do the Populaire and assumed that the route would not be overly challenging, since Populaires are the gateway to randonneuring and are meant to draw new people in. Operating under this assumption, I also invited my friend Bekka (bikeyface) and her boyfriend VorpalChortle, who were interested in trying some dirt roads. We were all looking forward to a lovely weekend and ride.

However, several days before the event some new information gave us pause. To our dismay, the forecast pretty much guaranteed rain, possibly heavy rain. And then we received the cue sheet and discovered that the 100k route was actually a 123k, with about 6,000 feet of climbing. So, instead of a sunny autumnal ramble, we were now looking at 76 very hilly miles in the rain. Was it worth it to drive up to Vermont for the weekend for that? My brain said "no, stay home." But my heart said "go." Many of the others decided to go as well. Unfortunately, Somervillain - with whom I was meant to carpool - got sick shortly before the ride and couldn't make it.

On Saturday morning I hitched a ride to Burlington with Bekka and VorpalChortle, who would take part in the brevet before continuing north to Canada on a little Autumn vacation. Being first time participants in a ride of this magnitude, they had no idea what to expect and made plans for alternative, shorter routes just in case. Discussing the route on the drive up, we were all hoping that the bleak weather prognosis would turn out to be wrong. But so far things were not looking encouraging. After more than 4 rainy hours in the car, we arrived in Burlington and headed straight for the Old Spokes Home - a legendary bike shop and museum that we had been looking forward to visiting. This visit cheered us up considerably and I wrote about it in detail here.

Later in the afternoon, Bekka and VC proceeded to their hotel and I to the lodgings I'd be sharing with about a dozen other riders from Boston. Out of concern for privacy I don't want to say too much about where we stayed, but it was thoroughly communal. We were all to sleep in what was basically one room, mere inches from each other, with our bikes lined up down the hall. It was an interesting arrangement. After dropping my bike and bag off, I managed to get out for a walk along the shore of Lake Champlain before it grew dark. After that I headed to the town center (Burlington is relatively small and very walkable) and had an unexpectedly social evening - first meeting up for drinks with a group assembled by ride organiser Mike Beganyi, then later for dinner with the familiar Boston crew: Jon D, JP Twins, and Emily among others. I usually don't drink alcohol the night before a hard ride, but it was so cold and miserable that all of us ended up having some beers. There was a great feeling of solidarity that night, because we all showed up despite the terrible weather. We returned to our lodgings some time after 10pm and fell asleep before midnight. 

At 5am the next morning I got up and prepared for the ride. Not knowing how bad the weather was going to be, I had brought several different clothing options including long winter tights. After stepping outside to check the weather I decided to wear those, as well as a long sleeve base layer, a cold-weather long sleeve jersey, and a lightweight rain jacket. I put on a visored wool hat. I stashed an extra pair of socks in my saddlebag, along with two small plastic bags in case of rain (more on this later). I made some coffee, ate some of my trail mix, and just after 6am headed out to the start at the Old Spokes Home with another rider. It was misty and raw out, but not raining.

At the start there were several dozen riders already gathered. Among these were many I recognised, even if I did not know them personally. One girl looked so familiar that I kept shyly circling her until she finally introduced herself as Lily, a recent addition to Seven Cycles. 

In the weak early morning light I noticed how ubiquitous all the bicycles looked. On closer inspection, the bikes themselves were actually pretty different, but nearly all of them - from vintage 650B conversions to titanium club racers - sported front racks with traditional handlebar bags. It was a curious sight. As for me, I was riding a work-in-progress Rawland that had just been assembled the day prior - ridable, but still missing some parts including a handlebar bag. Sifting through my images from the day, I am amused to discover that I took virtually no pictures of my bike. I kept photographing other people's bikes and figured I'd get to mine later, but never did. Well, I will post some once it's fully built up. 

As we fussed around before the start, there was a lot of speculation as to whether it would rain and how badly. This was when some of the riders explained how they keep their feet dry in the event of a downpour. Apparently, you are supposed to put plastic bags not over your cycling shoes, but inside them, over your socks. Frankly I could not imagine this working or being comfortable, but took the bags and an extra pair of socks with me anyway. The remaining space in my saddlebag was taken up by food, tools, a small medical kit, a roll of tape, extra cue sheets, and my camera. 

We received brief instructions from the ride organiser, who would be riding the Populaire himself. There would be no support except at the start and finish. Convenience store cashiers were to sign our control cards. We were responsible for our own rescue in the event of abandoning. 

After a double-checking of cue sheets and GPS units, both the 200k and the 123k group were given the green light to head out at 7am. My goals for this ride were vague in the absence of Somervillain. The two of us are more or less well matched in terms of pace and we had planned to ride together. Now that he wasn't here, I did not know anyone else doing the Populaire other than Bekka and VorpalChortle, so I thought I'd ride with them at whatever pace they wanted and not worry about the clock. We set off a little after the start time at an unhurried pace. 

The first few miles were paved, featuring rolling hills. We warmed up, with occasional stops to make clothing and bike adjustments. During this time I experienced and resolved two mechanical problems one after the other (headlight and drivetrain related). But after the first 8 miles of the route everything went smoothly. 

As pavement turned to dirt, we rode through beautiful farmlands with hardly any cars around. It occurred to me that if I wanted to take pictures, I would need to pick up the pace in between the picture-taking, unless I wanted the ride to take all day. So from that point on, we agreed that I would ride ahead, reconvening with Bekka and VorpalChortle at various landmarks and rest stops. We were in good spirits and glad that it wasn't raining. 

As I surged ahead, the landscape grew increasingly remote and rugged. But I wasn't alone for long. Soon I was joined by an older gentleman who must have started later than the others but was now racing his way through the course. We rode together for a couple of rolling miles and then began to climb a startlingly steep hill. I was impressed that this man gave no indication - in his breathing, speech pattern or bodily language - that he was exerting himself in any way. He just kept chatting easily while his legs moved in elegant circles. This admirable demeanor inspired me to try and keep up with him on the monstrous hill. By the time we reached the top I was red in the face and panting, while this amazing gentleman was hardly worse for wear. And then I saw the street sign: Duffy Road. We had just done the 4 mile climb the cue sheet warned about. I was grateful I had not realised this going into it; sometimes it's better not to know! Shortly after we parted ways as I stayed behind to take a couple of photos. After that I continued on my own.

The intense climb left me feeling nicely warmed up. As the scenery grew yet more dramatic, I began to fly through the fog and mist, as wild bursts of colour exploded all around me. And this is when the ride began for me in earnest. I loved the texture of the dirt roads under my tires and experienced an intense flow of pure unbridled happiness to be riding on such roads again. Uphill, downhill, loose, soft, slushy, I loved it all. No fear, just an unbelievable endorphin rush. I got into a rhythm where my legs spun effortlessly, my body on the bike felt weightless, and overall everything just seemed so free and limitless and utterly perfect that I could hardly feel the ground beneath me. A part of me wished that Somervillain and Brian P had been riding alongside, as they had been on similar rides. But another part of me savoured the loneliness of the experience. I've had glimpses into this high on previous rides, but now it was as if a dam broke and an intense bliss flooded my senses. And I know it's just a chemical thing; it's not magical or metaphysical. But try telling yourself that as you are flying up a dirt road straight into a cloud of mist through tunnels of gold and magenta. 

As I progressed toward the first control point, I saw that if I pushed the pace, stopped taking pictures, and nixed the idea of reconvening with Bekka and VorpalChortle, I could still make it within the official time limit. I considered doing this, but ultimately decided against it. What did finishing within the time limit mean to me? Truthfully nothing. If it had I should have approached the ride differently to begin with. Well then, logically there was no reason to strive for an arbitrary time frame just because it now appeared within reach. The first control point was at mile 35 and I arrived 15 minutes after it officially closed. I bought some water and asked the cashier to sign my card anyway, and she gladly did. 

When reconvening with the others, it was good to catch up and share impressions of the route. Though a bit shell-shocked by the 4 mile climb (as was I!), Bekka and VorpalChortle were clearly enjoying the ride. At a rest stop around mile 25 they were in great spirits and had no intention of implementing a short cut route. Ditto at the first control 10 miles later. 

I left the first control when I felt my muscles beginning to stiffen up, while the others stayed to have a bonk-preventive meal. I had been snacking pretty much continuously since the start of the ride and preferred to wait until later. 

The next 20 miles are when things turn hazy. Not hazy because I don't remember them, but hazy because my memories of this stretch seems improbable. The rain did not begin right away. First the mist and the black clouds gathered. And this gathering was happening in a way that was visible to the naked eye. I could see shapes forming right in front of me, the density of the fog changing, twirls of white and gray mist dancing over the mountains and the fields. It was like watching one of those nature shows where they speed up hours of footage to show visible patterns of change that would otherwise be unobservable. Well, they were observable here. This wonderous dark magic show coincided with a steep 3 mile climb toward Smuggler's Notch. I was so mesmerised that I could hardly feel the climbing in my legs; I was practically floating upward in the swirls of dark mist. 

Some time later, I paused at an intersection, trying to make sure the dirt road I was about to turn onto was the correct one. A lone station wagon was passing by and pulled over. The man rolled down his window and yelled "You don't want to go that way on a bike, trust me!" That's how I knew it was probably the correct road.

This next 5 mile dirt climb really wasn't bad compared to the previous two long climbs and all the other shorter steeper ones. In general, there were very few flat stretches on this ride, and climbing began to feel normal pretty quickly. Climbing felt like a state of mind and the dark weather felt oddly appropriate. 

It began to rain right after a long, out of control, I-should-be-scared-but-I'm-not descent. I remember the winding narrow dirt road finally dumping me into an open field with surround views of mountains, and that's when it started. Not hard at first. But here is the strange thing, and another one of those memories I don't trust: I keep picturing the rain being black. It could not possibly have been, but that is how I experienced it. Sharp black droplets of rain at first, then sheets of it. I did not take my camera out again after that. The rain enchanted me at first. But once the mist dissipated, the whole thing lost its supernatural appeal: Soon I was cycling in a nasty and in no way romantic downpour with several miles to go before the next control. 

It is rather impressive how wet one can get over the course of those several miles. While my jacket was blessedly waterproof and my tights surprisingly water resistant, my shoes did not just get soaked through, they filled with water and became freezing little torture-buckets in which my feet were trapped. To make matters worse, the scenic dirt roads suddenly ended, forcing me onto a winding main road with heavy and erratic traffic. There was very poor visibility in the rain and drivers sped past sending tall sprays of disgusting water my way. With the constant traffic lights, I began to feel cold and shaky. My eyes burned around the edges, as if from a fever. Finally I approached the second control point at mile 54 ...except for me it was mile 58, as I'd accidentally done a bonus loop on one of the climbs earlier. I arrived 45 minutes after the official closing time. 

The second control was a very nice restaurant with the misleadingly casual name The Village Cup. Some other riders were just leaving as I left my bike on the porch and gingerly made my way through the entrance. This was a sit-down restaurant with white table cloths, where local families had gathered for early dinner in their Sunday best. Filthy, soggy and trembling, I half expected to not be allowed in, but the management was hospitable. I found a spot in the corner of the bar and ordered hot food, anticipating that Bekka and VorpalChortle would join me soon. But as I waited for my meal, I received a message: They were at a gas station, 5 miles behind me and were not going to continue. They planned to hitch a ride back to Burlington, then return in their own car to get their bikes. If I wanted, they could then collect me and my bike as well. That sounded pretty good right about then. But later - after consuming a cheeseburger, a beer, and two cups of scalding hot coffee, I felt much better. I could think clearly at least. The first step was to implement Operation Plastic Bags. Retrieving the spare dry socks from my saddlebag I went into the bathroom, removed my shoes, removed my wet socks and dried my feet with paper towels. Then I put on the dry socks and over those the plastic bags, tying the handles around my ankles. Then I put my shoes back on. It was amazing! Warm, and I could not feel the wet shoes at all. At that point I realised that no part of me was really uncomfortable anymore. My tights had dried out while I sat in the restaurant. My top layers never got wet in the first place under the rain jacket. I decided to make my way to the finish on my own two wheels. 

But having stayed in the restaurant for as long as I did sealed my fate of not being able to make the cutoff; with only an hour remaining on the clock and over 20 miles to go there was no way to do it now. Given that reality and the relentless downpour that awaited me, I had a genius idea: Since I would not be finishing the ride officially anyway, I could take a short cut - shaving some miles off and minimising my exposure to the terrible weather. I looked at my map, memorised the direct route, then set off. The rain was just as nasty as it had been earlier. I was cold and pedaled hard to warm up. But the shortcut turned out to be a bad idea. The road was basically a highway, and the further I rode, the worse it got. A couple of miles later I had to admit defeat. I pulled over, studied the map, and figured out how to get back on course, having done yet another bonus loop. And then, on rolling hills along paved and dirt roads, I rode the remaining 20 miles to the finish in continuous rain. There was water everywhere at this point, with messy slush along the dirt stretches. I have never cycled in worse conditions, but I can't really say I was miserable. I remember feeling great as I rolled into Burlington. At an intersection I caught a glimpse of myself in a storefront window and laughed at how wet and dirty I looked. "Girl, you are nuts!" yelled a woman from across the street cheerfully. I nodded and smiled as filthy rainwater streamed down my face. Somehow everything about this ride made sense. I arrived at the Old Spokes Home and got my meaningless brevet card signed at the finish, just as I had done at the controls. I finished over an hour behind schedule, thus unofficially completing the course with some extra milage tacked on, for a total of 82 miles (132k) with over 50% dirt and over 6,000 feet of climbing. With all of these factors combined, plus heavy rain for the final third of the way, this was the hardest ride I have done to date. It was also the most enjoyable.

At the finish I wasn't tired. I chatted with the 100k finishers and friends of the 200k riders as we waited for the latter group to arrive. I learned that a number of riders abandoned, finding the conditions unpleasant. 

But those who did finish looked pretty good. The weather had been so over the top terrible for the second part of the ride, that it was frankly funny.

One after another, riders arrived covered in mud, sand and grime, peeling off their rain jackets like some filthy bandages.

"Man, that was awful!" they would exclaim, grinning ear to ear, as they reached for a slice of post-ride pizza.

The pizzas did not last long.

As we discussed the ride, we all seemed to agree that the climbing did not feel as tough as we'd expected. It was more or less constant, but it was also well distributed. Some said they found the dirt challenging once it started to rain, but this may have been due to tire choice. I was very comfortable on these particular dirt roads in the rain.

Once all of the riders were accounted for, we took turns changing in the bathroom of the laundromat next door and eventually said our good-byes. I got a ride back to Boston with Emily and her boyfriend Jake in their rented pickup truck. We were all exhausted, and I do not envy Jake for having to drive 4.5 hours in the dark after the day we had. After rolling my cruddy bike into the house, I showered and climbed into bed after midnight. I was not physically tired, but emotionally I was drained. As I fell asleep, I found myself back in Vermont doing the ride again. I rode through mist and black rain, up and down endless hills, as my tires rolled through the slushy top layer of the smooth tan dirt. I had a control card in my pocket and it was many pages thick, like a small book. 

But there I go again, drifting away from the facts. And the facts are as follows: 50 riders were expected at the Vermont Fall Classic this year. Due to the weather, the actual number at the start was 40. In the course of the ride, 10 abandoned. 12 riders finished the 200k and 14 finished the Populaire within the time limit, with an additional 4 completing the course on their own time (myself among these). There were no injuries or accidents reported. Participants traveled from all over New England and beyond, many bringing spouses and staying in the area for the weekend or longer. 

I took part in the Vermont Fall Classic because it presented an opportunity to ride on dirt roads. The fact of it being an official brevet was incidental. At this stage, I am not sure that I am ready to do these kinds of rides on the clock. Not because I can't make the time limit if I try, but because these rides are too pretty and too new to be rushed through. Possibly next season I will join a few of the local brevets and see how I like those. But I can't help being more interested in the dirt roads, and regret that this kind of riding requires travel. I met some great people in Burlington, whom I would enjoy seeing again and riding with, and I know that others from Boston felt the same - it was a wonderful, welcoming atmosphere and an exciting weekend. I would like to thank organiser Mike Beganyi and the staff of the Old Spokes Home, as well as all the participants, for making this ride special and memorable. Complete set of pictures here. 

Categories: bike friends, bikeyface, randonneuring, travel, unpaved

Underneath the Pavement

Though it's been a week since the Vermont Fall Classic, I still cannot post a report. My heart is too full; this is a ride that requires some emotional rest and distance before it can be put into words. But privately some of us have been discussing it, rehashing it, testing the accuracy of our own memories by comparing them against the memories of others'. And one topic that's come up is the quality of the dirt. A few of us noticed that it was differed from our local dirt, and different from the dirt we rode in previous events. At the D2R2 in Massachusetts and Southern Vermont, the unpaved roads were a dark brown earthy colour that turned muddy when wet. At the Kearsarge Classic in New Hampshire, the terrain was rocky. The dirt roads in Northern Vermont were a light grayish-tan, almost clay-like in consistency, dusty and tightly packed except for a thin top layer that was soft from the rains of previous days. When it began to rain again, this top layer turned liquid, but not muddy exactly. It was thinner than mud, less viscous. I was certain it was some type of clay. Others thought it was more sand-like. A rider who often cycles in upstate New York then described the dirt roads there, which are reddish clay and leave a pink residue over everything. Fascinated by these nuances, we admitted that we never gave them much thought until now.

All of this makes me realise just how unfamiliar so many of us are with the actual soil we live on. Paved roads have defined and homogenised our landscape for so long, that we hardly consider what lies beneath. Do most of us even know what our local streets would look like unpaved? The streets in the next town over? Can most of us determine what a particular type of soil is by looking at it or feeling it? I was in touch with these things when I lived in the countryside, had a garden, walked in the woods, but living in the city has distanced me from that awareness. Now cycling on dirt through different parts of New England has reminded me just how important it is. I'd like to learn more about our region's terrain, about what lies underneath the pavement. I don't ever want to lose that connection again.

Categories: trails, travel, unpaved

Beautiful Beginnings

What is it about the start of these rides? The all-day rides with dirt and climbing. The rides that begin in the early hours of the morning. We should feel groggy and tense after a night of little sleep. But everything is so still and serene that we are alert and open. The air is dewy. Faces are dewy. Everyone looks beautiful in the milky fog. It is not possible to know the weather yet. Everything hovers. The plants exhale and the scent they release is so strong it is almost unnatural. Is someone wearing perfume? No, it is flowers, grass, leaves, wet earth. We relax and exhale too.

Bags bulge with provisions and spare pieces of clothing. There is a friendly look to them; happy and full. Everyone wants to know what everyone else has brought. A show and tell of contents, a peek into each other's little bag-contained world.

Steel tubes rest against shrubbery. Surrounded by foliage, they blend into the organic colour pallets, muted in the early morning light. 

Histories of bicycles are told and retold. Wonderment is expressed. Admiration is exchanged. The brand new feather-light racing bike is beautiful; we are envious. The hand-painted dump rescue with clumsy DIY braze-ons is beautiful; we are envious. Ditto for everything in between. 

As inky darkness gives way to tentative lilac daylight, we slowly feel that sense of readiness swelling up within us. If the start of the ride is timed well, it will correspond with the crescendo of that sensation.

And then, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, we will transition from a state of profound calm to a state of immediate action. No jitters, no nerves. Just a beautiful beginning.

Categories: randonneuring, roadcycling, stories, trails, unpaved

Fun in the Sun at the Outdoor Demo

"It's going to be hot there you know..." warned the fellow next to me as I waited in line to sign the liability waiver. I had arrived in Las Vegas the day before Interbike, and there was still time to make it to the final hours of the Outdoor Demo. While attendees are not permitted to ride the display bicycles at Interbike, the Outdoor Demo provides an opportunity to do just that. Hastily, I attached my wristband and boarded the shuttle that delivered visitors to the remote location.

Set up 35 miles outside of Las Vegas in Bootleg Canyon, the Outdoor Demo resembled a tent city in the desert. An expanse of dirt and exotic shrubs dominated the landscape, in the fenced-off center of which stood hundreds of white, black and red booths. Colourfull flags announcing brand names protruded high into the air. A distant view of hazy mountains surrounded it all. The air was scorchingly hot and completely dry. I checked the temperature on my phone and saw it was 99° F. The sky looked very strange to me - hazy in one direction, with everything in the distance looking blurry and faded, yet crisp and bright-blue in the other direction. 

Starting just beyond the tent city was a paved loop road for test riding road and city bikes. The road was closed to motor vehicles during the event.

And extending toward the hills was a network of dirt trails for test riding mountain bikes.

A variety of bicycle, component and accessory manufacturers were represented, ready to demonstrate their new lines of products and loan out bikes. 

Interbike and the Outdoor Demo are industry trade shows. Attendees tend to be bicycle shop owners, purchasers, merchandise distributors, importers, event promoters, media, and the like. Many are there to test ride bikes and try components in order to decide whether their shop should carry a specific model, or just to get a feel for the new line. 

Being held outdoors in the sun, it is perhaps not surprising that the atmosphere was more casual than at Interbike. In a way it was almost like a village carnival: all bike rides and flowing beer. 

The representatives at the booths were a lot more relaxed and casual than they typically are at Interbike, which made for easy-going conversations. Knowing that I didn't have the time to go around test riding everything, I decided to make my way through the demo and just get a feel for the overall event.

Felt Bicycles had an enormous presence and one of the largest selection of bikes. They organised their space like a library, with rows of bike racks lined up like book shelves, and a bike return area. I had a nice talk with the representative about their latest line of roadbikes, including the 7 women-specific road-racing models. I've had considerable positive feedback about Felt from female readers, and now I got a good vibe from interacting with them in person. Worth a look for those shopping for a new roadbike. 

Crankbrothers was another major presence, with small booths set up all over the Demo. 

I use Crankbrothers pedals on my own bikes and love them, so I was excited to see Interbike 2012 limited editions of all of their models. Visitors were lining up to buy them.

And I suppose that's worth mentioning as one of the perks of these shows - access to new models, prototypes and limited editions at special prices. There was a great deal of buying and selling going on.

The Chris King booth was experiencing a particularly brisk trade, with crowds of people swooning over the colourful headsets and hubs.

They do know how to present their products to maximise the deliciousness factor; the hub-kebabs looked particularly fetching. 

A few Cielo bikes (Chris King's partner brand) were on display and available for testing as well. I've shown pictures of a friend's Cyclocross model before; they are attractive and versatile bikes.

One of the more interesting displays was the Moots booth, with their charming crocodile logo.

Moots is a titanium bike manufacturer based in Colorado, specialising in road, mountain and cyclocross models. 

On occasion I get questions from readers about what I think of Moots compared to Seven, but until now I had never even seen a Moots up close, let alone ridden one enough to compare. Unfortunately, I was wearing a dress and did not bring my cycling shoes (I had not planned to attend the Outdoor Demo), so a test ride was not in the cards. But visually the bikes come across very differently to me, and I am surprised that some describe them as similar. 

Seven roadbikes have skinnier tubes than the Moots, the forks are completely different, and most notably different are the designs of the seat stays, chainstays and dropouts. I have no idea how any of it translates into ride characteristics, but aesthetically it's hard to mistake one brand for the other. 

Oh and that alligator! Apparently modeled after a pencil eraser the company's founder had as a child.

While I wasn't able to test ride any roadbikes, I did try a new step-through Tern folding bike model (a separate write-up of this coming up later) and found it pretty interesting.

I also very briefly tried a Surly Pugsley, on dirt (though not the Bionx version pictured here), and found it simultaneously amazing and completely un-bikelike. The tires are fatter than anything I've ridden before and it almost did not feel like being on two wheels. 

Later I met the representative of Urbana, which I've reviewed here before. 

They were offering the new Bionx e-assist versions of the bikes for test rides, but at this point I needed to head back into town and was also on the verge of heat stroke - despite having drank water non-stop and tried to duck inside shaded booths every chance I got. 

The intense desert heat was not to be messed around with. 

Cycling here must be pretty tough, and I am not entirely clear on how the locals are able to stay hydrated on long rides. I drank 3 bottles of water in the course of an hour and a half, and it barely felt like enough. Not all Interbike attendees come to the Outdoor Demo, and speaking to some of them about it later the heat was cited as the major factor. Some find it simply impossible to walk around the canyon for hours, let alone to test ride bikes in any meaningful way in 100° F temperatures. 

I am glad I was able to stop by the Outdoor Demo, if only to see the desert landscape and to get a sense for how the event is run. I would say the Demo is most useful for those who want to test ride and compare a variety of road or mountain bike models. Most of the mainstream manufacturers were represented, with a sprinkling of smaller ones. The Outdoor Demo is a two-day event held immediately before Interbike. For those interested in serious test rides I would suggest planning to be there for at least a full day, to bring cycling clothing and shoes if applicable, and to apply powerful sun screen. 

Observing the dynamics of the event, it seemed to be at least as much about the socialising as about the test rides themselves, which is probably just generally how these things are. Watching from the sidelines, it is fun to think that major purchasing decisions of bike shops across the country are based on deals struck over beery, sunburnt conversations in the desert. Of course it is not really that simple. 

Categories: bicycle events, Interbike, test rides, unpaved