Randoms of the Summer thus Far.

Coach ate some mud.

Game Face.

Post Game Face 

Trout Treats at Fanny Bridge. Frowned upon by hippy tourists.

Don't go to the dentist, eat dirts instead.

Summoning William Dance.

Team Jorts post-winning the Lake Tahoe 8 Hour.

Jesse D Reeves Winning

Jesse D Reeves Losing, almost severely.

Summoning the Cherokee Falls Bandits.

Fuck you winter.

 Fuck you Crank Brothers.  Winner, World's Shittiest Pedal! After just two rides!

 Back Side of the Sierra Buttes, which happen to be my power source, from the top of Halls Ranch.

 Mid-ride Crisis

 Too many cooks in the kitchen.

Fish bites back.

RAAM!!!

You wanna go on a lil' ride tomorrow?  How about riding across the country from Oceanside, California to Annapolis, Maryland.  Let's make it a race, shall we?  And let's say you're going to do it by yourself (plus support crew to hand you snacks and fresh chamois creme), sleeping less than an hour a day, spending 23 hours a day in the saddle, for no more than 12 days because if you take longer than that to ride 3000 miles sea to shining sea IT DOESN'T FUCKING COUNT.  Welcome to RAAM, The Race Across America.
This is the toughest bike race on Earth.  The Tour De France crowd can't hold a candle to this.  The only two I can think of that compare are Iditabike (yes, the Iditarod Trail, on bikes, in the winter) and the Great Divide Mountain Bike Race down the spine of the Rockies.  But RAAM's pace, its mental and physical torture are unmatched by anything on Earth.  I'm not stating this as a matter of opinion, experience, or arrogance.  This race makes you insane.  The proof is in the pudding.  Solo Men start tomorrow, so pay attention.  It will blow your mind.  ---- > RAAM WILL KILL YOU.
Here's a teaser from Bicycle Dreams. 
Gets weird at 1:50. 

Three Eyes

I think Sophie found the long lost matching eye.

French Bass and Fly!

"Il attrape des poissons syrah et de boissons."

Gotta love Coach.  First time fishing a popper on the fly yesterday, in a downpour, with a bottle of syrah.  And he battles this lil' beauty.  Congrats house sharing man.

Goodbye, Spatchanko.

Spatchanko and I have had quite the relationship over the years.  So much so I don't remember much of it.  Mainly some broken objects scattered around town with the occasional random piece of property magically sitting in my living room when I come around in the morning.  The cover-tuck shame at first light waking up next to Night Beasts I would have never given the nod to.  Money gone from my wallet, a lot of it in fact.  Meeting the same people multiple times.  Remembering nothing. 
It's a damn curse to be charming and persuasive. But that's not me.

I'm pretty damn sick of Spatchanko.   

So I'm cutting him off.  No booze for 60 days.  August 5.

Today happens to be the 4th anniversary of my bike ride across the country.  That also took 60 days.
The more I've thought about it, I haven't felt very challenged since August 5, 2007. 
So here's to Sober Sixty Summer. 
Why broadcast this to you all?  I need some accountability and there's no greater motivator then the "You can't, you won't." crowd.   So bring it on.
And if you see a few pics of booze and fishing, biking and such on this blog before August 5 - They ain't mine. 

Day Ruiner

Way to almost mess the whole day up.  Rookie.  Take note that he not only jumped the fence with the open cooler on his back, he also sprayed that "Fancy Brown Ale" everywhere.

Beards vs. Buff

The closest compromise between the Beard and the Buff.

  Man has grown soft in the past few Millennia.  He's gone from spearing mammoths and battling sabre-tooth thunder cats for the rites to eat and survive in an ice age Hellfest to gently shooing his wife's inbred designer house cat from the organic Tofurkey leftovers lying on his Swedish table set in a gated community condo, 24 hour security patrol of course.
  Evolution, progression, change, call it what you will.  It's our world. We own it and some of you even accept it and all of us embrace it in our own strange ways.  We don't really have a choice with most things thrown at us at T3 speeds these days.  Embrace or Die.
  One thing I will never embrace is the Buff.  You know, The BUFF.  

I'm Here for the free coffee and bass jigs. I also just robbed a Subway.

  The uncapped multi-functional Swiss Army scarf that's taken the Fly Bro world by storm.  It's a hat, a beanie, a scarf, a neck condom, an iPhone app, a chuff rag, and an all around invaluable tool for the Utilitarian head dress fanatic.
  What ever happened to protecting your face and neck with a beard?  I know some of you were born soulless and/or female* and are incapable of growing a beard.  I know a beard won't cover your head and if you're like me and losing the hair battle daily, covering that thinning scalp forest takes more precedent with each outing (TANGENT - I do look forward to rocking an intense combover on a windy day in the future, the not as far as I wish future).  So Buff chalk one up for your bald spot coverage, but you will never replace a sweet ass hat.  Face "protection" is the battle here.  So with out further adieu, The Beard vs. The Buff Showdown.

Buy him a drink or he'll make a scepter from your skull plates.

  Bars - Beard - Instant Cred. Anywhere, everywhere.  You put time into that mouth and neck helmet.  We all know it.  We'll just buy you a shot of whiskey at the bar and when you look our way and nod just once we can safely assume you just got out of the backwoods from your latest successful trapping season.  We assume you put down a good mule 'cause it was slowing you down' and possibly ran naked with wolves because you were raised by them.  We won't mention your likeness on that moose shed scepter, but we can all imagine the story behind it, and how he got you out of that avalanche in Grizzly Gulch back in '09.
Buff - You walk in with that broken condom on your neck.  Girls laugh.  Bartenders are baffled.  The French laugh.  The rednecks start conspiring, leering, and one of them slips a few quarters in the jukebox to conjure some David Allan Coe.  You may not be walking out of here. 
ADVANTAGE: BEARD

No shit. Who else?

  Women - You think that suave and silly Buff protected baby face is going to swoop up all the ladies?  Think again.  You may get a few of the cookie cutter lame dames to check out your fishing rig with the spare Buff on the headrest and your Simms sungloves on the dash, but then she'll wonder if you need to be wiped every morning before she gives you your Snack Pack.  When she's looking to step it up, she's calling for the Bearded. The beard is a Keeping It Real Filter.  If she's a real woman, she's going to get at the real man.  She's going to go see your shitty rust covered truck with a gun rack and mud from states she doesn't know the location of.  She's going to see the way you don't give two shits.  She will fall in love with you.  But that's a mistake on her part.  Beards are too damn tough for love.
ADVANTAGE: BEARD 

WINNER: BEARD

Neither of these devices will help you fish, hunt, or ride bikes in an increased awesome manner, style points to the side of course.  So Bars and Women are the categories.  And the Beard won.  I know some of you Nudests (Buff fanatics) will write me about being uptight and a hater.  So now I present the practical sides to the Buff.

Ultra helpful if you're caught fishing carp in the bad part of the LA River.

Pretending you have a real bandana.

Mimicking an old hag from Kazakhstan. And updating your MySpace profile with it. Cause you still use MySpace.

Did I not mention - MAKING YOUR OWN TERRORIST VIDEOS!!  (Beards also perform this function, and are far less cowardly.)

From the Runway to Burning Man, nothing can beat the versatility of the Buff.  She also shoots skeet.  He also loves Saved By The Bell. 

Now sold in a convenient combo kit with ...

 I'll probably be rocking one when the last of my head hair forest clear-cuts itself.

Or when I meet her...

*Asterisk

The Holy Dirty Revival

About damn time winter.  Back to Church, singing the praises of the Holy Dirt Revival.

Jebus, I missed you guys - singletrack, dusty burning lungs, mud caked water bottle mouth pieces, brush thrashed shins, ghostly knuckles, bloody limbs, broken parts, hyper-focus animalistic survival mode at high speed down the rock gardens.

 It's the most tired you'll ever see a hunting dog.  Chasing you feverishly on descents, running down all the quail in the brush ahead of you as you climb.  A good dog always knows just what to do, like late season Seal Slides.

Nothing like a flat in an ultra creepy and secluded spot to speculate the intentions of the groups hidden serial murderer.

It's good to be out sweating, bleeding, and burning in the Dirty Cathedral.

When all things blow..

Things get weird.  Muddy turbines and whirlpools spinning above the base of willows at rivers edge.  Dust Bowl Revival.  Bloody Mary's.  Bass still frozen.  Carp water brown. Cheladas.

Scatterguns.  Unlucky rabbit down range.  Stuffed Animals.  Dried up old unlucky bunny.  Decimation of old cop target.

Making the best of things = Good day with your best friend.

Carp slough garbage wiper.

The Offseason

Hiking with the dog and empty handed.  Don't even want to see a bird.  Withdrawals.
I wish fishing still had seasons.  Guess that's why I love creeks in California so much.
The offseason is the only imposed form of self control that I can abide.
Second Saturday of October.
7 months is a long time.