To Be Seen

It never ceases to amaze me when I see what appear to be fairly intelligent people riding bikes in Seattle at night wearing dark cloths.  To each their own I suppose, but I have been have been hit by a car at a high rate of speed.  I feels like shit and takes functional years away from your life even it doesn't kill you.

I get the whole hip European thing about jaunting around on your your bike from one fabulous engagement to the next dressed in business casual with no helmet,  and don't get me wrong I would love for Seattle to look much more like Coppenhagen.  But hell Man, this ain't even Portland.  It is my opinion that in Seattle a fellow needs to be visible and on his toes if he wants to live long and prosper as a cyclist.

I am not here to take sides on any issue and whole-heartly wish my bicycling ninja friends well, I hope your strategy proves efficacious.    I however, very much like to be seen when I am riding by drivers and other cyclist alike.  I have a really great wife,  a growing family, wonderful friends and some big plans in the future that don't involve colliding with tons of metal and plastic at any rate of speed; I enjoy being alive and highly functional.  With this in mind, Skookum Jacket recently got a little high visibility upgrade.  Unquestionably a bit rough, but for my first go I am not ashamed of the work.

I also must say that the really nice thing about having old gear is that it gives you the courage to experiment with modifications and have little fear of ruining the garment.  At the end of he day if project  really goes south, the piece is more than recycle worthy already and Mom has been telling me to quit dressing like and an orphan for most of my life anyhow.

Kloshe Konaway, Kloshe Nanitch.

Matt

Supplies:  3M reflective tape, seam grip and cutting tools.  Alcohol is handy for cleaning glue off sharp things.

 

Stencils.  Note to knuckleheaded husbands:  Don't Orange Sharpie your wife's cutting boards.

Learning opportunity 1:

During phase one, I seam-gripped over the entire letters for added durability.  Little did I know that a coat of rubber cement would all but eliminate the reflective properties of the 3M tape.   A week later I added the arm strips and corrected the issue by only seam gripping the edges.  The above photo demonstrates the vast difference in visibility and exposes the need for additional work.  

Glove Love

Several years ago I picked up a pair of OR Stormtracker Gloves at Second Ascent for thirty-five bucks.  They were in the clearance bin and I was looking for a reasonably warm glove with exceptional dexterity to climb frozen waterfalls. Outdoor Research is a local company with a reputation for making gear that is designed to function well and built to last; I felt pretty confident in my purchase.

To me, the best part of ice climbing is sitting in a warm  hut with a buddy sipping whiskey reminiscing the mountainside ribbon of ice that you just ascended; definitely type two fun.  The truth is that ice climbing is really quite miserable, dangerous and nearly nonexistent in my region of Cascadia.  Despite the implicit discomfort and hazard of the pursuit, the crux of the issue for me did not lie in the preposterousness of scaling melting waterfalls with really sharp shit protruding from all four appendages of my body, but in the absurdity of driving ten hours for a half-dozen pitches of unreliable ice. The contradictions abound; pumping tons of carbon into the atmosphere to climb frozen water while bitching about the ever-shortening and warming winter season.  Hmmm, go figure?  Biking and skiing are both more accessible, sustainable and enjoyable winter pursuits in my not-so-humble opinion.

In any case my career as an ice climber fizzled and the Stormtracker's soon made their way into the general use glove rotation.  I commute daily to work by bike in Seattle and these are my go-to glove for the chilly damp mornings of fall, through the temperate somewhat miserable maritime winter, and into the crisp and occasional clear days of spring.

I have chopped cords of maple in these gloves, and swung ice tools into perfect sixty degree alpine ne've.  I have hunted deer in freezing October rains, and bounced perfect powder turns between three hundred year-old firs with these gloves wrapping my hands.  I have traversed both the Olympic and Cascade Mountain Ranges in these gloves, and run home from parties too inebriated ride with the Stormtracker's insulating my little sausages.   I can conservatively state that I have between five hundred and one thousand days of use on this single pair of gloves.   They cover the range for a guy who likes to do a lot of different stuff and thinks speciality outdoor gear is really kind of stupid.

After years of daily use and frequent abuse, the Stormtracker's are just beginning to show their age.  Seams are still intact, zippers still function well and the leather palms are just beginning to wear through.  They continue to do a remarkable job of absorbing snot with limited chaffing as well.  

Once in a while I run across a piece of gear that is so good that I am almost afraid to buy it again or recommended to a friend.  This is how I feel about the Stormtracker's.  It's not that I fear anyone wouldn't be completely satisfied with the glove, but rather that they wouldn't live up to the nearly legendary status I have built.  Honestly though, I have never owned a finer, more durable or versatile pair of gloves.

If I get half the life out of my next pair of Stormtracker's, I will admittedly be a bit disappointed; but I will still feel got a great deal and think you might surmise the same.


Kloshe Konaway-

Matt

Road Trip

I built the Surly LHT with trips like these in mind.

The train speeds quickly against the miles that I earned just days ago when I strapped a pair of skis on my bike, pointed my nose north and began pedaling.  I packed the best I could and set out with little more of an intention than seeking an adventure and spending time with family and friends.

The winter night hurries by silently outside my window as the events of the week play like movie clips inside my weary head.

I met a man who commutes over 80 miles every day by train, ferry and bike from Whidbey Island to Seattle year around, rain or shine.   I respect the effort immensely.

I played pool with childhood friends in my parent's basement.  Nate smiled with the anticipation of an unborn son and Dave was racing home to family across the mountains before Big Jim could fire up the first pot of Folger's in the morning.  I have a heck of a lot of fun watching my buddy's become dads.

I shared time with both my mother and father and left home feeling a little closer to each in different and unique ways.

I made breakfast for my brother and gave him two hugs.  

I rode 30 uninterrupted miles of solitude on a paved bike path through a canopy of Pacific macro flora grinning ear to ear the entire time.  

I drank beers with two old friends in a place where you keep track of your own tab because people trust you.  We spoke honestly with each other because it would do no good to lie, and the truth is a hell of a lot funnier anyhow.

I scared ducks to flight from roadside ditches in the darkness of the Skagit night.  I find it peculiar that they remain unstirred by the roar of thousands of pounds of speeding metal but alarm at the silent report of my bicycle tires meeting chip seal at 12 miles per hour.

I recovered from a 65 mile ride with five shots of tequila and dancing the worm across Cliff's hardwood floors.  I have concluded that water and sleep are much better choices for a fellow if he wishes to be at his best the following morning; albeit less fun.

I crashed repeated trying to ski in 15 fresh inches of heavy Northwest powder and 40 mph winds.  I had a blast and feel decadently rich every time I hitch a ride to the top of a slope on a lift and let gravity pull me down.

I fell asleep spooning a Boston Terrier in front of the fire on Cindy's kitchen floor and woke up 11 hours later in a sleeping bag on a futon.  Hot tea with cream and honey was served soon thereafter; it is really nice to be taken care of.

I blazed a trail up a mountain with the men who taught me how to climb and shared a beer with them as the sun turned the clouded horizon pink salmon over the San Juan Islands to the west.  I like having old friends.  

I asked a couple walking with a dog to watch my kit while I bought food at the Co-Op in Mount Vernon.  When you travel by bike, you sometimes just have to trust strangers.

The conductor calls for the Edmonds station and wakes me from my trance.  I gather my kit and fill my water bottles for the last push home.  One leg over my bike, I gear down and spin to wake my sleeping muscles.  The cold February wind blows off the Puget Sound and nips sharply at my nose and cheeks.  I inhale deeply,  point uphill, and pick-up my cadence.  I think about Jenny.  As much as I  like being on the the road, I miss her dearly and truly love coming home.   I am anxious to crawl into the warm bed beside my wife.

The hill steepens and I begin cutting switch-backs across both lanes as I inch my way higher into the darkness of the frigid night.  My body sweats as the grade inclines again and Saturday night becomes Sunday morning.   I dig in, stand on the pedals and let my loaded bike flex wildly under my body as I grind out the last 100 yards of the climb.   Steam rises rapidly from my open mouth as I crest the hill and roll to a stop.  My  mind is tired and legs burn, but my soul is joyful for all of the wonderful people and rich opportunities in my life.  I am filled with a deep sense of gratitude as I point my nose south for last time on this trip and roll home towards my Front Door.

Livin' the Dream,

Matt

The Sounder Commuter Train is an inexpensive and convenient way to get out of the city with a bike.  The ride cost me $3.50 and saved me 25 miles of urban pedaling.

 The matriarch and youngest of the Alford Clan.  Pretty good looking couple in my humble opinion.

 30 miles of uninterrupted bliss.  The Centennial Trail stretches from the city of Snohomish to Skagit County an is undoubtedly one of the greatest recreational gems of Snohomish County.

 Bike Art. Arlington, WA.

Horse rack.  Bryant, WA.

Current end of the line at the historic Nakashima Barn.

The Rexville Grocery, among my favorite hydration stations.

It is still winter at Mount Baker.

Aging men and an old trees.

To the summit!

Blanchard Mountain and the beautiful Skagit Valley below.

Good day to fly.

The Greatest Adventure

The truth is that I really don't care that much for Valentine's Day; in fact, I think it kind of sucks.

I work in an Elementary School and many of my colleagues have this charming habit throwing their class party and jacking 7-year-olds up on sugar just prior to sending them to PE for me to deal with; hilarious.  Todays' migraine was only rivaled by the one produced on Halloween, my other favorite holiday.
Besides my disdain for trying to manage screaming groups of children cracked-out on corn syrup, the blatant commercialism and exorbitant waste associated with Snt. Hallmark's Day exacerbates my repugnance.  I guess it seems to me that if you need a special day to tell somebody you love them, you probably really don't all that much.

Armed with all my ill feelings towards the celebration of the great Saint, I hopped on my bike this evening and spun the ten miles home through the perpetual winter fog of Seattle trying to think of something special to do for Jen this year.  It's true I tend to be a bit of grouch about some holidays, but I am not such a dick that my wife doesn't get some recognition on Valentine's Day.

Through the Front Door, I dumped my helmet and swung the fridge open in search of a can of liquid tylenol and I was greeted by the best Valentine a guy could ever ask for.  Jen makes it pretty darn hard to be holiday-hating curmudgeon for long.

 Red Velvet Beet Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting.  Snowman has been missing for months, but comes out of the woodwork for homemade cake.

With a cold beer and fork I went to work on my cake, reflecting a little about the woman to which I have devoted my love and life.  My marriage with Jen has certainly been the most magnificent, bold and interesting adventure that I have ever embarked on.  Like any great adventure, there have been obstacles we never could have never foreseen and days when the wind has blown so hard against us we felt we were losing ground.  But in those harder times we have always kept spinning forward and been rewarded by arriving someplace grander than where we began, and a little stronger for the effort.

I couldn't be more happy, proud and thankful to call Jenny my wife and my Valentine.

Cheers,

Matt

Skookum

The venerable and skookum Patagonia Puff.  

Last week I wrote a piece about how bad I smell and voila!, upon my doorstep arrives a package from a reader containing a couple new shirts and nice smelling hippy laundry soap.  Hell,  if I knew sponsorship was that easy I would have started writing disparagingly about myself years ago!

The truth is an old friend who spent several months living in sauna like Marine barracks with me in Okinawa a few years back knows all to well what I smell like on a daily basis.  Likely Kari felt bad for the predicament of my poor my wife and sent the gift out of sheer pity.  In any case, it got me thinking a little bit about the fact that a couple folks actually read my writing on a regular basis.  I mean some free shit showed up on my doorstep just because a wrote a little anecdote on the interwebs.  Who doesn't like free shit on thier doorstep?  

Maybe if I keep writing someday more free shit will show up on my doorstep? 

In honor of my first sponsorship, I decided that instead of jamming server space with more silly philosophical meanders about conservation, cutting my carbon footprint, and the environmental ethics of recreation, I should hop on the bandwagon of materialistic capitalism and review some of my favorite gear. 

Before I start anything even resembling a gear review, it is important for the reader to know that I am really kind of a cheap bastard.  Not cheap like skip out when it's my turn to buy a round of beers or "forget" to even up on gas money at the end of a road trip,  but cheap like wear the same shorts until my boss at school tells me they are no longer appropriate around children.  Waste not, want not I say.  

That said, when I lay down several hundred greenbacks for a piece of gear, it comes with pretty high expectations.  To me gear should have three qualities.

1)  All gear should function well.  That is, it should do what it is supposed to do.  Rain jackets should keep out rain, packs should carry loads well, stoves should cook your dinner as you wish and beer should give you a buzz without an unreasonable hangover.  It seems like common sense, but there is a ton of gear out there that is about 95% bullshit and 5% function.

2)  All gear should be versatile.  I like to ride bikes. I like like to climb mountains.  I like to ski down  hills in the winter and to climb easy splitter granite on warm sunny days.   I  like to go to the bar and have a beer or two at the end of the day.   My everyday life and the trips I enjoy on regular basis often combine these pursuits, and I need gear that will cover the range.  Gear with a single use is by definition useless to me.    

3)  Gear should be durable.  I might have slightly unreasonable expectations in this department, but to me quality gear should be darn near bullet proof.  When I lay down hundreds of dollars for a pair of pants, I want them to stand up to daily use and occasional abuse for several years.  Additionally, gear should be repairable at a reasonable price and have a quality assurance backed up by the manufacturer.

The Chinook Jargon word 'skookum' delineates a range of positive connotations, among them is useful, good, strong, best, powerful and durable.   I was raised up in a valley where the Jargon is native and I can remember my Dad using the word to describe things that were hard to break; I think I might like it a little more just because of that.

I like my gear to encompass these ideals; I want my gear to be skookum.

The Patagonia Puff

My buddy Darren's kid knows me as Orange Matt.  This came to my attention a couple of weeks ago when I showed up for a mid-week ski at his house and he commented on my once bright orange, now fading burnt sienna Patagonia Puff Pullover.

You've gotten some miles out'a that one, Darren said with the sincerest of strait-faced sarcasm.

Oh, this thing is just getting broken in, I responded with a smirk as I stroked the layers of patches and seam grip around the wrist of my jacket; the resultant impact of many close encounters with wide granite cracks and my camp stove.  

Apparently I wear the garment frequently enough that Darren's two-year old son Owen associates the color orange with me more than my charming personality or the fact that I play a mean game of follow the leader.  I suppose that is the best testament as to how often I wear my Puff, but at least Owen stopped calling me daddy.  

Being an unpaid, unsponsored,  and completely unprofessional gear reviewer, I am afforded the luxury of writing just what I want about any product.  I am therefore going to skip over a lot of the technical lingo that quite honestly numbs me a bit.  I am sure the latest Puff is made of the newest and greatest of plastic fabric on Earth.  You can check it out on their website if that type of thing turns your crank, but rest assured it will all end up concentrated in the food chain someday.  

I will however assure the reader of the following:

1.  The Puff has an excellent weight to warmth ratio.  
2.  The Puff will continue to insulate your body when wet.  
3.  The Puff can be worn as a shell or an insulating layer.
4.  The Puff will stand up to years of regular 'love & attention'.  
5.  The Puff patches easily.
6.  The Puff doubles as a decent pillow. 
7.  The Puff weighs less than my average morning grogan, and I am not rad enough at anything to worry about how much my jacket weighs.

The only thing that might make the Puff a little more versatile is strips of reflective tape across the front, back, and down the arms.  The night visibility factor would go through the roof for a bike commuting/touring piece.  But then again you might end up the guy at the bar wearing a hunter's safety jacket instead of a hip insulating layer, and that could could bit awkward depending on the bar you happen upon in your travels.    

I also recognize that Patagonia historically has an excellent customer service reputation and stands by their products.  Additionally,  the company is doing much more than many of it's competitors are to use their corporate power and influence to enact meaningful positive environment change on our planet.  It makes feel me better about my human condition buying their plastic versus someone else's I guess.  

In any case, more times than not when packing for work in the morning, a day running groomers, a bike overnight or week long trip to the mountains, my Puff finds itself at the top of my pack.  It is a skookum peice of gear and when the last remaining threads of mine fall from my body in a couple years, I will buy another.

Cheers,

Matt

A skookum jacket and a good buddy on the summit of Mount Olympus, Olympic National Park.

Me and my main squeeze in the Ferry Basin on the stunning Bailey Traverse, Olympic National Park.   

The Truth Hurts

Occasionally people tell me that I smell bad.

Chapter 1

A couple of years ago my Dad went on strike during the house remodel project and refused to come back to work until I changed my shirt.  As much as I tried to explain the virtues of living small and the resultant impact on my very limited supply of designated work cloths, a heartfelt "You smell like shit kid, change your fuck'n' cloths or ain't coming back!" cut my soapbox a tad short.


Chapter 2

I teach young children Physical Education for a living. As far as jobs go, it isn't a bad one;  most kids are psyched to run around for a half-hour and I get to wear shorts and a T-shirt to work every day.  I also have more-or-less turned my classroom into my own personal gym and often take advantage of the opportunity to workout on my lunch hour.  I had just finished up my last set of burpees when my buddy Kevin the Librarian waltzed in the gym.  He approached with a smile, but as he neared suddenly stopped short in his tracks as if he had hit and unseen wall.  His brow contorted as he raised his nose high; he took three quick sniffs rolling his head right to left, "Alford, it stinks in here!"

I summoned my inner Conan the Barbarian and retorted, "It is the smell of man, it is the smell of strength, it is the smell of power.  You would know nothing of this smell!"

"No Dude, it smells like a locker room in here."  He called over his shoulder as he turned and walked out.

Hmm?


Chapter 3

Winter mornings come hard to this Cascadian Commuter.  As much as I like riding my bike, the 6 am alarm never wakes me from my slumber at the 47th parallel with much enthusiasm about another spin in the dank drizzle of the Emerald City.  I hit the snooze button three times before I manage to drag my sorry ass out of the rack, get dressed in my commute kit of wool and polypro, eat my habitual cup of homemade yogurt with a dollop of maple syrup and get my life packed up for the day.

As the the winter has grown darker and mornings colder,  I have developed the habit of crawling back into bed with my lovely wife and snuggling in the warmth until the first hints of light grace the streets of my commute.

Yesterday I slipped under the covers, spooned close to Jen and wrapped my arms around her warm body. She groaned lightly half-asleep,  turned her head, kissed my bearded cheek and whispered softly in my ear, "Matt, your cloths really stink bad".

Three strikes and your out brother.

The upside is that Jen washes my bike kit mid-week now and she still thinks I'm cute; truly I am living the dream.



No hay mejor tiempo que el presente!

Matt

No Time Like the Present

The sun sank low in the western sky and set the Cascade Mountains pink afire across the sheen of a windless Puget Sound.  The three of us talked shit and traded sophomoric insults reminiscent of junior high school into the darkness of the winter night.   Darren steadied himself against the stone fireplace and raised the canteen of whisky high as we huddled around the ember glow of the fire;

No hay mejor tiempo que el presente!  rolled off his tongue quickly with a familiarity borne of a thousand inebriated toasts.  

My understanding of the English language is suspect, and I barely squeaked a C- out of High School Spanish; 

Ahhh...no entiendo...uno mas tiempo por favor amigo,  I managed as he passed the whiskey my way.   I tipped back a shot and let the burn settle in my belly; I always have spoken Spanish better a little drunk .

No hay mejor tiempo que el presente! Darren repeated quickly and translated,  There is no better time than the present!  

He went on,  

I learned the saying when I was living in Costa Rica several years ago.  It seemed like the national ethos of the country at the time, everywhere you go people would raise their glass and toast you with the phrase;  I guess it stuck with me.  Hanging out on an empty beach drinking around a fire reminds of that time.  

I handed the whiskey to Aaron, punched him in the shoulder and yelled to the cold night at the top of my lungs,

No hay mejor tiempo que el presente!

Into the darkness the banter and laughter continued until the whiskey ran dry and the fire faded cold,  calling us to the warmth our sleeping bags.  

It strikes me how quickly days turn to weeks, and the weeks into months; before we notice where the time has gone and what the hell we have done with it all, a new year is upon us.  A few good friends have checked in lately and inquired of the extended silence of the Front Door Adventures project.  I could bitch about how many soulless hours I have spent behind the keyboard the last three months typing mind-numbing expletives about what an extraordinary educator I am, or how it has drained my soul of creativity and inspiration; but nobody is here to listen to me bitch about my first world problems, no doubt you have a list of your own.  

Better though,  I could realize that going on a ride with a few buddy's and camping on an empty beach 10 miles from the city will make me much more productive than staring fruitlessly at a screen for another second.  I could be thankful for my bike, the health to pedal it, a clear December night and a perfect winter sunset.  I could get back to writing about the things that make me happiest and doing my best to live like the moment I am living is the only one I really have.  

Here is to the best of intentions for 2013.

No hay mejor tiempo que el presente!

Matt

An Erbeck, a Big Dummy and 737 headed for Renton.  Aaron rolling along the industrial Elliot Bay Trail.

Darren showing the Seattle Pedicab driver who is boss.

Perfect winter day in the Emerald City.   

The most advanced bicycle specific ergogenic aid available on market.  

The Contraption, Bainbridge Island, WA.  

Stewardship of the Fay Bainbridge Park was recently transferred from the State of Washington to the Bainbridge Island Metro Park and Recreation District.  A short ferry ride and less-than ten miles of riding on rural roads with friendly drivers make this the most excellent overnight bike escape from the city.  

Dinner......

and bullshit. 

I chatted up Kim and her husband when we arrived at the park and a half hour later she and her son Seth delivered us dry firewood.  Matches were offered but not necessary.

Not a bad place to wake up.

What an interesting concept.

The Strom's live here.

The Bloedel Reserve was created by Prentice Bodel as a place where people may find the refreshment and tranquility in the presence of natural beauty. 

We were ten minutes early for the ferry, and really, there is no time like the present.