A lot of Snoooooooooooooooow

I think this is Eddy's long lost brother. Mick is a true backwoods Vermont dude.

I've been skiing world class powder on the east coast..........wtf? It's been snowing so much I haven't had time to do much else. Wi-Fi is about as common in Vermont as a sunny day in January so I'm having a tough time catching up the blog. I'll be in NYC tomorrow so if I don't get mugged I'll catch everyone up on the foolishness of the last week. Word on the street is Adam Jensen likes a girl in Seattle.

Mad River Glen Video

I'm too beat up and too whooped to finish a mangy review of Mad River Glen but let me tell ya, this place rocks. We got some serious video time on their website. Ryan Frey a.k.a Weasel is in the yellow jacket and white helmet and the one sliding backwards down the ravine, our Vermont buddy Mick is in the blue jacket and I'm in the red jacket making the occasional tele turn. A shout out to Eric, the marketing director at Mad River. He took the whole day off to show us around and did an amazing job. A full review is coming Thursday evening, going into a backcountry cabin so I won't get it out till then. Click on link then choose the video from Feb 17th called Fast and Firm. Enjoy



http://www.madriverglen.com/gallery_public/

The Creepiest Road in America?

It's 7:51 a.m and I'm filling my Kum & Go travel mug at Tuckers Box Coffee house in White River Junction, New Hampshire. They serve quite a good cup of drip courtesy of the quirky Vermont hippies who must run Green Mountain Roasters. The stiff cup along with a beautiful sunrise is quickly pulling me from the dour state I've been in since leaving Chicago and crossing through the first toll on the I80/90 toll road that runs east west from Chicago to somewhere in NY. I drove this stretch last year and experienced the same emotions. When you cross through the first booth you take a ticket and in return for access you give up your freedom and enter into a controlled and characterless world of claustrophobia. There is no private enterprise along the six hundred mile stretch, only an occasional state owned gas and rest area every forty to sixty miles. These state owned rest and refueling areas allow a few fast food corporations to conduct business within their feeding compounds, though every time I walked through one every vendor was shut up tight. There were hundreds of wary travelers pacing around the tiled great room, waiting in line to drink out of the turbid water fountain like strung out zombies. The gas pumps have no attendant controlling them, it's card only. What if a man only has cash and is running low on fossilised dinosaur? From what I can tell, this poor man is out of luck, for the next possible exit is most likely twenty miles away. On his quest for a gas station that will take cash he will drive under ten or twenty overpasses with cars and life on them but he will have no way to access them. There are very few ways to get out of the the toll road bubble and it's frustrating because life and freedom is literally a stones throw away. In Nebraska we got off the interstate, drove to a small town and took a run. In Iowa we did the same. Both places have a unique character, different that what I'm used to but still character. Looking back I don't have any idea what states I drove through yesturday. I think they were Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York, but how would I know. For ten hours I hardly saw a town as the sides of the road are built up quite high as to make sure no one sees what's beyond their boundaries. For ten hours I pointed the diesel east on a highly efficient transport system and now looking back I feel like I missed out on a whole section of country. And what do I get at the end of this transport portal? A $38 toll fee! I pulled off at the first exit and saw a sign that read, "free coffee with fill up." I jumped at the opportunity, topped off the truck and stumbled into the fill station. A nice, plump, mostly toothless attendant filled my cup and asked me in a strong eastern accent where I had come from. I told her I had been driving the 80/90 toll road all night and she smiled and laughed, "you look a little tired, most are by the time they get here." I think I'll take I70 on the way home. I look forward to having the option to exit the interstate and meet some fine Midwestern folk in the states that were taken from me last night.

Doug "haven't slept in 30 hours" Dale

Great American Road Trip

Hello from the windy city. True fact, it's so damn windy and bitter cold here. I'm honored to be in the hometown of the great Joel Brown, Elliot Bassette, and of course, Horan. The great American road trip has begun. There are three of us in the F350; weasel, his girlfriend and me, the squeaky third wheel. Our first stop will be Killington Vermont where we will round up a gaggle of mangy east coast grunions. For now the foolishness has subsided, but I can guarantee you something stupid will happen upon our arrival. Till then I hope dearly that the rumors I've heard about the UM Cycling team riding hard in Early Feb training rides is false. I will be one angry ape if I return to a bunch of flaccid prematurely ejaculated riders who are already burnt out for the season. Take a lesson from our good buddy Horan.

Dale

Telluride: Dumber Than a Pencil With Two Erasers

Disclaimer: What you are about to read is true, possibly offensive and could be a bit funny. It was co written on our drive home from Telluride in the middle of a blizzard. Enjoy


Palmyra Peak. We skied the far left chute

Matt and Me atop Palmyra. 13,300ft

The bungee catapult apparatus

Working on our caveman imitations. Probably had a few beers at this point

Matt looks more like a baboon

Telluride: Dumber Than A Pencil With Two Erasers

To be able to fully immerse yourself in the content of this, one must first understand the anatomy and theory of the “Stupid Button”. A stupid button is a deranged switch of chemical imbalances in the brain, or lack thereof, which few people possess. It’s a Neanderthal trait stemming from the Sagittal Crest which has been weeded out through the correct happenings of evolution. Unfortunately, some morons still possess this crest, embedded in their thick noggins, giving them the prehistoric urge to batter and harvest woolly mammoths and elk with wooden rods or other caveman-esq utensils. What used to be a tribe’s greatest asset is now one of society’s biggest liabilities. Choices and intelligent decisions are bypassed altogether at a rapid rate and thrown out the window. The real problem does not lie with the mere presence of the stupid button but the ease with which it’s triggered and its ability to completely supersede all rational thought and judgment centers. A completely idiotic idea is pondered for a short period and immediately attempted if not carried out in full. Fuel this pre-historic foolishness with alcohol and you have a recipe for disaster that would never be considered for publishing in the Betty Crocker cookbook.

So what are a couple of men to do on a bluebird day in Telluride with their stupid buttons on hair trigger switches? Point your finger at the hairiest looking peak around, do what you gotta do to get up it, punch the stupid button and find the stupidest way down in the fastest way possible with no regard for the well being of your body.

With no snow in the last three weeks, conditions were less than optimal on day one and it didn’t take long to find ourselves bored to death with everyday runs. Access to Palmyra Peak had recently been opened to clowns who wanted to further push the thresholds of their personal limits and their time on earth. The summit is only a quick 2 hour boot pack from the top of the Prospect lift up steep steps of bullet-proof ice, scree-fields and rock. The 2 hr estimate assumes an average experienced hiker taking on the challenge in ski boots. Haggard enough to turn away most people, the two of us had a jolly laugh. “Let’s go, it’ll probably only take us 20 minutes anyways and I’m sick of the rest of this terrain.” We pointed our ambitions towards a rock outcropping at the summit resembling a Budweiser Clydesdale’s genitalia. We trucked straight up hill for about 50 minutes before the rarified air at 13,300 feet started to take its toll on our already walloped, hung-over bodies. We began to realize the seriousness of this asinine decision. The last 150 feet of treacherous hell was completed thinking of the reward that would be handed down to us upon summiting. We reached the top an hour and ten minutes after pondering this stupid idea of skulduggery. It was worth every calf-cramping step. With the amazing 14,000+ foot peaks of Mt. Snefles to the east and Mt. Wilson and El Diente to the west, we were caught standing in awe with our jaws dropped like a couple of dumb heifers. After a few pics and some cave-ape taking 20 minutes to lock into his tele-bindings, we started our decent. Nothing puckers up a sphincter like straight-lining a 45 degree chute full of shin-deep blower and rock patches scattered about with the intent of ripping you up like a cheese grater. An eternity to get up, 30 seconds of ridiculous tomfoolery to get down. Down is where we ran into our only issue. I hopped a small patch of harmless rocks only to be caught too far forward, landing in deep wind-blown crust and flipped like a rag doll bouncing off my head and landing in a mangled heap in the same position I came into the world, fetal. Here’s a shout-out to helmets, there is now a golf-ball sized dent in the front of my lid. How was I rewarded for that display of horsing around? Some Cro-Magnon ape comes up behind me, doubled over laughing like a drunken donkey. Palmyra Peak, cross it off the to-do list and go have a few frosty brews at Poachers Pub.

Day three found us in our most decrepit state of the trip, reeking like a distillery from a rowdy night out on the town that saw Dale causing a ruckus everywhere he went and Matt chasing war-pig cougars. We happened to run into another caveman from Missoula who was in Telluride doing Nordica Ski demos. For some ill-festooned reason, we thought it would be a great idea to lock our heels onto some race-bred Jet Fuel and Afterburner skis. The stupid button wasn’t pressed in this situation; it was nailed down by a fat, bald carnie in a striped leotard going for the giant stuffed panda. Telluride’s front side has some of the steepest, iciest, north facing groomers anyone could imagine pointing their skis down. Naturally the decision to tackle these runs on skis we were not familiar with was immediately bypassed faster than a famished bear puts a fish in his mouth.

We trekked to the blackdiamond groomer Milk Run for our first attempt. The 170cm Nordica GS skis underfoot felt more like snowblades and we looked at each other with stupid grins. I let out a primitive grunt, pushed off and was immediately forced into the backseat as my speed rapidly pushed deep into the red. As I began to lay the Jet Fuel’s on edge I was blown away; those Nordica’s edge better than a razor on fresh foliage. For a split second my judgement center took over and the realization hit me that should I lose it at this speed, serious body mangilation would occur and most likely parts of me would end up in a stretcher. The stupid button realized it had let another part of my brain function and immediately incapacitated the judgment center with a massive blow of adrenalin. I looked up just in time to see Matt balancing precariously on the back 5cm of his inside edge at speeds that would get you arrested on most highways. Having already put a massive dent in his helmet the day before on Palmyra peak, I was sure this awful looking flamingo balancing act would end up in the trees and give that lonely dent a sibling. His primal instincts must have taken over and somehow the baboon recovered and immediately proceeded to do something even dumber. The upcoming slope ended with a 90 degree boilerplate turn onto a cat track. Suddenly Matt comes flying by at unconscionable speeds, realizes his boneheaded error, tries to cut in early, skis chattering like a couple of chipmunks as he desperately tries to scrub speed and then drops a good ten feet onto a glare ice cat track still going mach 5. Somehow the stupid dingbat was fine. Runs two, three and four played out in much the same manner. So there you have it, a weekend in Telluride with the stupid button nailed down the majority of the time.

One more ridiculous thing to comment on. I strapped into one of those goofy dangling bungee medieval catapult apparatuses that kids normally get on. They’re fun but if you’re a male and want to reproduce later in life I wouldn’t recommend trying one more than once. Till next time that’s all we have.

Matt “dumber than a bucket of shrimp” Johns
Doug “dumber than a bucket of wet mice” Dale

Quote of the Day

My good buddy Chris Connelly has been using this one for a long time. Usually he does something stupid and gets away with it, laughs a bit, and then says, "Even a blind squirrel finds and acorn once in awhile."

Matt Johns and I have a doozy of a weekend recap on the way, just waiting for pics

Jethro Tule

I just got back from lunch in Avon, CO, my temporary home. So here I am sitting on the deck of the Loaded Joe's coffee/pub soaking up some CO sun and sipping on a tasty double americano when a dude rolls up on a beater single speed commuter. He seemed a bit disgruntled and I noticed his chain was very loose. "What happened to your whip" I asked. "Dude, my rear hub nut things came loose, do you have a wrench bro." "No bro-bra, but in case you're not privy to rear hub nut thing sizing, what you'll need is a 15mm dude." The dude said thanks and moved along his way. After the amusing encounter I reminisced to my early days of single speeding before the advent of quick release compatible sliding reardroppouts. When our horizontal dropout redline monocog posse would go ride someone would always have to bring a 15mm craftsman open-end wrench in case of hub nut thing slippage or a flat. I remember always lusting for a Surly product called the Jethro Tule; a stubby unit with a 15mm wrench on one end and a bottle opener on the other. It fits in your back pouch and in traditional Surly tradition it's built like a tank. So for all you surly, mangy, hairy chested, beer swilling, unkept single speed bro bra dudes, I highly recommend the Jethro Tule. And after you finish with the business end, flip that bitch over and pop a beer with the party end.

Hard at Work

The Potent Heronito

Let me tell you a thing or two about a thing or two. Never drink a stiff cup of drip infused with three shots of espresso. It all started the morning of Jan 14th 2009 at Winter Park Colorado. My buddy Matt and I were having a heady organic breakfast burrito in the Coffee and Tea Market when he pointed out a drink option scribbled in chalk toward the bottom of the espresso menu. It read HERONITO……Espresso Infused Coffee. Of course anything that sounds a bit ridiculous catches my attention and my curiosity got the best of me on this one. I walked up to the counter and a dreaded out little stoner girl sloooowwwwllllllyyyyy asked me what I wanted. “I would like the strongest Heronito please.” She replied, “reeeeeaaaallllyyyyy, you know that has three shots of espresso in it. I didn’t actually know this but at this point I didn’t care, I was more curious if she would forget to ring me up or not. She didn’t and five minutes later I was back at the table sipping on 12 ounces of straight diesel fuel. To be precise, a triple shot Heronito is one cup of rich shade grown fair trade Guatemalan super roast enhanced with three shots of espresso. Needless to say, within three minutes of my first sip I stared feeling weird things happening to my body. I started to shake and talk real fast, my legs began to twitch and my sphincter started to dilate. All of a sudden it hit me, “I’M GOING TO SHIT MY PANTS!” I jumped up and ran to the little stoner girl. I must have had a terrified look in my eye. “Is soooommmmmethinnng wrooong sir?” I quickly replied, “I just drank half of the Heronito and I need to find the restroom.” Like the flip of a switch the little stoner girl snapped out of her enlightened state and all brain cells became one functioning unit. “Sir down the hall to your left, run past all the stalls to the last one, it’s the handicap stall with hand rails, you’re going to need them. HURRY SIR YOU DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME! It obviously wasn’t her first experience with the side effects of the Heronito. So I did just that. With the agility of a running back I sprinted, dipped, ducked and dodged my way through the masses to the restroom. At this point details get a bit sketchy, my mind started to go blurry and I blacked out momentarily. When I came to I was washing my hands at the sink, and I remember looking around at the other restroom patrons. It was like everyone in there had seen a ghost, it was eerily quiet and nobody was really moving. I thought nothing of it, finished washing up and headed back to the Coffee and Tea Market. I thanked the little stoner girl for her good directions and went about my day. I walked out knowing I was one of the lucky ones, having narrowly survived an encounter with the potent Heronito.