Sun's out, temperature is above 40, chain's lubed. First ride since who knows. Rides have been few and far enough between that the trail feels new every time. So much trailwork being done. New rocks to hop, berms to carve, mud-patches to wash out in. Only a few mudpatches out on the poop-loop. The work there is amazing. 2 miles of pump-track action, and so dry.
It looks like a highway is going in on the upstream side of the Manchester wall. A 20' wide swath has been turned to mulch, presumably for the connector trail up to the belle island bridge.
Damon initiated this thing. Jeff and I have very nice wives that watched the babies. Paul was too 'sick' to ride. Outside Damon's apartment we wrapped our toes in neoprene and complained about 'ice-crotch.' There's a market out there for a windproof cycling cod-piece. Heading east in the shadow of the flood-wall was a slow awakening for stiff legs recently subjected to a half-assed, early-morning, New Year's Resolution-style squat and lunge regimen.
The Slave-Trail connection to Ancarrow's Landing is a nice carve session now. I feel guilty having so much fun on a trail commemorating so much really un-fun stuff.
A few other cyclists enjoyed the Poop-coaster with us. The berms just rail so hard.
Happy as shit we determined Forest Hill was next. Barely made it past Canoe Run park. A bomb went off inside my rear derailleur. Chain jammed tight between cogs and spokes. Shattered cage, bent hanger. While I disassembled, bloodied knuckles, shortened chain and reassembled, Jeff and Damon turned trail-detective. A derailleur-height gash on a rock revealed there was no bomb, just an unfortunate lean of the bike.
A make-shift single-speed roll back to Damon's included revelations about the retarding effect of political correctness on expressiveness, and the need for a new rear wheel. Today's 9.8 miles got expensive.
Evidence:
A trip to Coqui is in order. Need gears. Need a wheel with less hop. Need a straight hanger.
Stay safe out there.