Conversations with gear


It always happens during this time of year. My mountain bike defies the laws of logic and starts talking to me.

“Let me outta here!” I hear her scream from inside the garage. “You can’t just lock me up. It’s cold and dark in here. This is bordering on abuse.”

I try my best to ignore the pleas, knowing that hearing voices and assigning human traits to inanimate objects are grounds for the padded cell. But like all who suffer from severe dementia, I secretly enjoy the conversations. Plus, the bike pushes all the right buttons.

“Think of the great times we had this summer,” Vonda calls (her choice of name, not mine). “You and I were best friends – almost soul mates –a few weeks ago. Then it gets a little chilly, and you just dump me, like some kind of has been.”

Yes, it’s true. Vonda and I were best friends all summer and spent endless hours and miles together. Unable to let go for the winter, I even took her to canyon country for a special Thanksgiving present and let her meander along several of her old favorite tracks.

Vonda, like all wise partners, also knows I’m missing her just as much, and I am hungry for an old favorite or two myself. So she pulls her ace-in-the-hole and calls through the garage door, “How ’bout just a little spin? A few easy miles. I know you need it as much as I do.”

Like we all know, there are always a few weeks of in-between here in Durango – a strange middle mini-season when it’s too wet and nasty to ride, hike or run and the Nordic Center isn’t up and running; the snowpack is too thin or unstable for decent backcountry skiing; and the resort skiing frankly doesn’t offer much bang for the buck.

I’m also a special case. After 34 long, cold Colorado winters, I’m happy to wait a little while to ski powder. I no longer need that fix in October. I like wearing shorts better than wool underwear these days. And so I let my bike ramble a bit, let her go further than others might, and I eventually listen to Vonda’s pleas and open the garage door.

“Better yet, a big spin,” she calls, knowing she has me in her pocket. “Hey, what’s this? Animas Mountain almost looks dry. Better bring an extra water bottle.”

So with the mercury checking in at a balmy 11 degrees, Vonda, myself and several sets of warm clothing leave the darkness of the garage and head for the hills. As soon as the cranks start turning, Vonda is buzzing with happiness, zinging down the road and faintly humming Joni Mitchell’s “California.” As soon as the cranks start turning, I’m freezing my ass off, struggling to pedal through three sets of pants and faintly humming the theme song to “Three’s Company.” Yes, Vonda and I often have a mixed and peculiar relationship.

We reach the Animas Mountain trailhead, I wrap up with a “Come and knock on our door,” bury the jingle, my legs start working and I start pushing on Vonda a little bit. “Ah, this is more like it,” I tell her. “You were right. The garage is no place for a bike.”

Vonda’s “California” has also vanished, and she starts viewing the scenario differently. “Wait, not so quick!” she calls out. “Around that bump, not over it. Hold on, how ’bout a little breather?”

But I’m not hearing any of it. Suddenly (long-johns, rubber skull cap, wool socks, booties, windstopper, capilene and Gore-tex aside), I can taste early June again, and I like it. So Vonda and I lay siege to Animas Mountain steadily working our way upwards over perfectly frozen single track, through Artic air, into the realm of ponderosa and beyond the petrified piles someone forgot to pick up in September. The first mile goes smoothly enough and then we hit serious snow.

“OK, great ride, good time, thanks for the vacation from the garage, but let’s go back home now,” Vonda begs. “My pivots are starting to freeze, the chain feels really tight, and the rubber on my tires just doesn’t do snow.”

But Vonda also knows I’ve had a taste and am still hungry. So, my bike bitching and squealing the whole way, we follow a faint trail of a few footsteps in a few inches of snow and keep pedaling up the east side of Animas Mountain. It’s slow going, but Vonda handles it easily enough. She finally gets her way when the footprints vanish, the snow deepens and the singletrack goes to sleep.

“OK, OK. I think that’s enough,” I tell her, patting the top tube. “Thanks for the escape, but I guess we can go back home now.”

Back at the garage, the story is all about frozen digits, muddy wheels and temperatures still hanging double-digits below freezing. “I think I’m ready for that long rest in the garage now,” Vonda calls out. “It’s actually warm and dark and cozy in there. Wake me up when it’s time for the next desert trip.”

I wipe her off, thank my second spouse for salvaging a Friday morning and wheel her back into her resting place. “Thanks for the nice times, Vonda,” I say. “See you in a few weeks.”

But just then, my reverie is shattered as a loud voice calls from a dark corner, “Put that stinkin’ bike away, you degenerate!”

Shocked and panicked, I jump up, finger a frame pump in defense and reply, “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

Standing side-by-side and puffing their tips out for added effect, my telemark skis slip into the light. “It may be dark and cold in here, but we’re no fools,” they answer. “We know the smell of snow. Now, get that waxing iron out, sucker. Let’s get ready to go.”

– Will Sands