Das Rant
By C.G.

Catching the Verde 29 Bug Part 2

Returned a little funkier than it was received.

So the plan was to break in my new Salsa Dos Niner with a trip to one of the mountain biking capitals of the world: Moab Utah. It didn’t hurt that the homestead was still being pounded by freezing rain and nightly snow showers. I figured the contrast in conditions would be just as welcome as the sneak-preview of things to come on my 29er.

Since I live just outside of Rochester, NY, driving was pretty much out of the question despite my personal disdain for airports, airlines, planes, terrorists, and sky-marshals. I’m also not a big fan of boxing up my new prized possession and trusting it to the shady handlers and the mysterious cargo hold below the seats. Initial research revealed there were two airport destinations to choose from, neither of which was exactly next door from the riding area: Salt Lake City, Utah (230 miles from Moab) or Grand Junction, Colorado (110 miles away). Mathematics was never my specialty but 110 miles of driving in a rented Kia Sportage is a bit more appealing than 230- Especially when said Sportage would represent my hotel/ bike shop for the two-day duration of my trip.

I won’t bore you with details about the flight in other than a special shout out to airport security for their apparent training to spot and swarm in on any individual dragging a huge Salsa box through the airport. After my questioning, which included a bonus prostate exam from an individual I’m pretty sure wasn’t a doctor, I was allowed to board the western-bound 737.

Act II

Grand Junction, Colorado was a bit more lenient with my suspicious cargo. I didn’t waste time at the luggage-carousal, instead snatching up my bike and heading down to fill out the novel that is the paperwork to rent a Kia for a few days.

Precautions taken in the event that homeland security planned to stick a gloved finger where it doesn't belong.

I arrived at the trailhead just as the sun hung heavy in the evening sky. Tired and a bit irritable, I elected to head into the always cozy town of Moab for a hamburger and a tall frosty beer before calling it a night. I parked the Kia at the closest hotel and proceeded to contort myself into the human-pretzel like position that is required to sleep in the backseat of a 2000 Sportage. With my legs over my head, I attempted to keep my mind occupied from the thought of my bike’s safety (chained to the external spare-tire mount on the back). The cold desert- breeze rippled the car’s canvas top which forced me to hug my own knees in a sort of pseudo-fetal position of chattering teeth. The beer returned in a long, low rumble of flatulence that sent me away to unconsciousness with a giggle. In the event that you have yet to experience the self-induced Dutch-Oven in the parking lot of a hotel in the middle of nowhere before a big day of riding, I highly recommend it to anyone.

The next day and the day after that were picture-perfect exercises in the differences between east-coast goop and Martian-like desert. I ran an estimated full 20 miles on my first-ever ride on the Niner. The Reeba was on the stiff side, but definitely up to the challenge of the rocks and crumbly sand. The rear suspension however was only slightly more bump absorbent than riding a hardtail with a handful of toilet paper stuffed in your pants.

I found myself fueled on several occasions by the simple fact that it was probably snowing back home. I passed by jutting rock formations that looked more alien than the footage of the moon landing and under stone slabs that could have flattened me like a bug had they decided to fall. The 29 inch bike was surprisingly nimble, almost at home in this waste-land of rock and dust. The days were warm but breezy and the nights downright brisk. Just as I fell into a rhythm of sleepless nights and entire days spent in the saddle, it was time to return to Colorado for the return flight.

I celebrated my last day in Utah with a fast-food chain milkshake and a bowl of chili that I spilled all over my Primal jersey upon nailing a pothole near the airport. Got back pretty satisfied with my new bike and a tolerance for the remaining weeks of winter. Couldn’t wait to rub it in with my cohorts here at MBT, in fact the bragging rights almost made up for my now-stained jersey. You could imagine my disappointment when I arrived home to discover that the weather had been surprisingly mild in my absence: 56 degree days and 45 degree nights. Next year I’m going to Florida.

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