On spirit animals and singlespeed bicycles

A few weeks ago, I was standing in a circle of volunteers before an adaptive mountain biking event. We were all introducing ourselves with some first-day-of-summer-camp-type questions: "What's your name?" "How long have you been biking?" And, "what's your spirit animal?" Everyone knows my spirit animal is an alligator. If you didn't, now you do. I'm from Florida. I love swamps. And I'm tremendously introverted so chilling at the bottom of a river or sunbathing on a log while also scaring away like 98% of people by merely existing sounds really nice. This wasn't the first time I've been asked about my spirit animal and I've obviously put a lot of thought into it. However, when it was my turn in the circle to share I freaked out. I forgot all about alligators. "Hi, my name is Chet. I started mountain biking during the pandemic and," I continued, "my spirit animal is... a wiener dog."

A wiener dog. I didn't even say dachshund (the scientific word for a wiener dog). I had one shot and I blew it. 

For context, I used to have a wiener dog. He was gifted to us when I was in first grade. My sister and I named him Wishbone. He was not your ordinary, high-maintenance, miniature dachshund. Wishbone was fearless and thought himself to be about the size of a St. Bernard. Our neighbors had horses and Wishbone would chase after these elegant animals, roughly a quadrillionth of his size, barking and threatening to bite their hooves or ankles if they would just have the common decency to dare him to do so. Wishbone was a menace engaged in a false sense of competition with every animal bigger and better than him. 

Every afternoon Wishbone would run along the fence line, made of hog wire, and antagonize our backdoor neighbor's Chow Chow named Chili. Chow Chows are bellicose and territorial dogs but Chili tolerated Wishbone's war of aggression for years until finally, Chili had enough. One day he stuck his head through the hog wire, pulled Wishbone through by the neck, and proceeded to whirl our beloved pet around the same way an orca throws around a baby seal before she eats it. My Uncle Ray and I bore witness to the melee while playing catch in the backyard. Ray moved into action and tagged Chili with a baseball. I don't remember how far away he made the throw from, but it was impressive. It stunned the dog long enough for me to hop the fence and scoop up our blood and piss-soaked pup. (I learned that while fighting, dogs urinate on the other dog as a way of adding insult to injury. Brutal.)

Wishbone: Grade-A good boy.

Wishbone was fine. He healed up quite nicely with three permanent puncture wounds around his jugular. He lived a remarkably long life pestering animals more than twice his size. Classic Napoleon Complex. 

Napoleon Bonaparte was believed to be an unusually short man (historically inaccurate) whose insecurities propelled him toward aggressive, militaristic authoritarianism (correlation is not causation). Alfred Adler coined the term "Napoleon Complex" to describe people who possessed an aggressive and authoritative attitude to compensate for their short height. GASP! Deeper meaning? I mean I am short but few people would describe me as "aggressive." 

That said, I am not without other inferiorities or insecurities and sometimes these drive me, like my dog Wishbone, toward irrational and irresponsible Napoleonic impulses. For example, riding a singlespeed bicycle makes me behave a little like the French Consulate. 

A few days before my spirit animal blunder at the adaptive MTB event, I arrived at a local trailhead the same time as a fancy Santa Cruz full-suspension bike. I got up the initial climb on my rigid singlespeed first, and I made it a goal to never let him catch up with me the rest of the ride. In other words, I was mentally racing a guy who, for all I know, was just out for a nice, leisurely, after-work ramble. It didn't matter. I showed no mercy, I took no prisoners, and I gave no quarter. Unbeknownst to him, my budget-built all-terrain bicycle and I destroyed him. This was my Battle of Austerlitz. 

My chest swelled with pride! And then collapsed. And then rose and collapsed again. I was gassed and totally out of breath. I ripped my legs off for one lap around the park but for what? To beat an oblivious opponent only to stop long enough to catch my breath and watch this guy come granny-gearing up the hill before dropping in for another spin around the downhill section. My Austerlitz was also my Waterloo. 

There I was the beaten, battered, and pee-pee-soaked wiener dog of Stringers Ridge mountain bike trails. Don't be like me. Enjoy riding your bike for the sake of riding your bike. I hope your trail spirit animal is better than mine. Like a jack rabbit or a mountain lion. Maybe one day I'll get the fat bike I want and my spirit animal can be this seal that flubbers onto shore and farts while looking directly at the camera.

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United States of Apocalypse

Rising emissions, rising temperatures, rising sea levels; if more is a good thing, then you could say we’re killing it. USA #1! Maybe it’s more helpful to say corporations are killing it. Either way, something is dying and, oh, by the way, it’s the earth. The overwhelming majority of scientists who specialize in the earth’s climate (not politicians, political commentators, or stay-at-home moms on Facebook) unequivocally affirm that we’re in a human-created ecological crisis.

There's no more avoiding our climate-induced collapse. Irreversible ecological damage is here and our current political-economic system is incapable of dealing with it. Short of an international mass movement of monkeywrenchers dismantling fossil fuel extraction around the globe, we're going to have to adapt to our new nightmarish hellscape. Look around: California is forever on fire, Florida is annihilated by a hurricane six months a year, and increasing swaths of Louisiana are already underwater.

We are already citizens of a new place: the United States of Apocalypse. To help us prepare for our dystopia, I have divided our new country according to how each region will become a real-life post-apocalyptic film. 

East Coast + Rust Belt: Judge Dredd (1995)

Judge Dredd begins with James Earl Jones' ominous narration, "The Earth transformed into a poisonous, scorched desert, known as 'The Cursed Earth.' Millions of people crowded into a few Megacities... Law, as we know it, collapsed. From the decay rose a new order, a society ruled by a new, elite force." The Judges are fascistic law enforcers who rule the megacities with brute force and little to no due process. For much of the densely populated eastern seaboard and post-industrial "rust belt" this future already exists. Only now you will receive your extrajudicial killings and police brutality with an extra dose of heat and humidity. 

Appalachia: The Road (2009) with a  C.H.U.D. (1984) twist
The rural bits of the southeast, i.e., Lyndon B. Johnson's socio-economic "Appalachia," will be Cormac McCarthy's The Road meets the cult classic, C.H.U.D. The sun will be blotted out by ash, but instead of nuclear holocaust or whatever unnamed event from The Road, it will be caused by the raging forest fires. Roving bands of cannibals (leftover maga chuds) in jacked-up trucks will roam the ashen grey hills in search of fresh flesh, AKA baby meat. These cannibalistic humanoid Appalachian dwellers or "CHADs" won't feel bad about it either because, spoiler alert, they were never really "pro-life" to begin with. 

 

Gulf Coast: Water World (1995)

Rising sea levels will turn the entire states of Florida and Louisiana and much of southern Alabama, Mississippi, and East Texas into Kevin Costner's Water World. Inhabitants who have not already will be forced to pawn their belongings to buy wave runners and become pirates. Sounds nice, actually. Except, something tells me warmer waters will cause alligators to evolve back into full-fledged dinosaurs. I mean, they're already climbing trees. 

 

 

Midwest, Mountain West, and Southwest: Mad Max (1979, 1981, 1985, 2015)

The biggest geographical region deserves the biggest post-apocalyptic film franchise. The majority of the landlocked United States will resemble the Mad Max universe. The Great Plains will be choked dry by drought and industrial farming. Think Great Depression "Dust Bowl" meets marauding gangs of leather-clad, daddy-issues off-roadsters. Most will be forced to move to coastal megacities and the few that remain will scavenge or pillage for limited food and resources to survive. Of course, Americans' market-based health care system already resembles the Thunderdome, so now you will have to duel to the death in a gladiatorial arena for Oklahoma's last can of franks n' beans. 

 

West Coast: Soylent Green (1973)

Imagine a world where climate catastrophe causes severe shortages of food, water, and housing. Okay, you're imagining liberal enclaves, Los Angeles and Seattle. Now imagine a world where society is almost entirely dependent on a singular global corporation, which controls the supply of most of the earth's necessities and brutally exploits its workers. Okay, now you're imagining Amazon. Shortages and supply bottlenecks create daily riots policed by corporate-sponsored armed forces who, unsurprisingly, brutally remove protesters with no due process. Welcome to Portland, Oregon. 

Behold our future and the future is bleak. But lest I be accused of casual nihilism or climate fatalism, I am not without hope. A long time ago I heard someone say that realism without idealism leads to apathy and idealism without realism leads to cynicism. I, personally, tend toward the latter and this post is probably a bit of both. Yet I hope it is, at least, a humorous caricature of the absurd landscape climate fatalism will bring. The truth is we don't have to accept this cursed earth future. Things, drastic or difficult they may be, can still be done to reduce the harm and suffering that our climate crisis is causing and will continue to cause. 

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5 Things I've Noticed While Riding a Bike

Figure 1

I'm no Alex Howes but I've ridden my bike enough to notice some things. For example, the more miles I ride, the more pizza I need. The more pizza I eat, the more miles I need to bike. (Fig. 1). I've noticed other things. Like, cyclists love data. Cyclists are on Strava because they crave the data. They need the data. They want to become one with the data. And since I am a visual learner who loves charts and graphs, I have systematized the data for you to consume and become one with. Let's start with some easy direct correlations and ease our way into more advanced behavioral economics.

Figure 2 

A redneck friend of mine said that anybody with tires over 33” is compensating for something. Whether that is true or not, and it definitely is, it is true that anyone driving a truck with tires over 33” is guaranteed to not give you your three feet (T.C.A. §55-8-175). This is especially true if they have a Punisher symbol anywhere on their Jeep or truck. These people do not care if you live or die, and they take some pride in that misanthropy. I am nearly convinced in a medieval, Dantean, abysmal hell because of people like them. Essentially, the bigger the truck: the bigger the pile of loose, sloppy stool in the driver's seat. 

Figure 3

The same can be said for sports car people. Generally speaking the louder the car (or truck) the more inconsiderate (re: deadly) the driver. This includes American muscle and imported Fast and Furious wannabes. A while back, I lectured some mid-life-crisis in a convertible at a stoplight about T.C.A. §55-8-175. It states that a cyclist does, in fact, ride in the road, not the sidewalk (and may even take up the entire righthand lane). He flipped me off, revved his engine, and “drag raced” me at the green light. Cool? I casually rode my bike and pulled up next to him at the next red light. Nice.

Figure 4

I’m always in an imaginary race with geared cyclists on the trail. I'm like a little wiener dog with a Napoleon complex at the dog park. I just want to run with the big dogs. RIP legs. 

Figure 5

In Figure 1, I stated that the more miles I ride, the more pizza I need. True. But I also noticed that I don't have to ride my bike very far to demand pizza. In economics, a perfectly inelastic demand curve means that no matter the price, the quantity demanded will always remain the same. For example, a person’s demand for insulin stays the same regardless of how much it costs (we need Medicare For All, now!). Assuming “miles biked” is represented on the “price” or y-axis and “pizza” on the “quantity demanded” or x-axis, the demand for pizza stays the same no matter how many miles biked. Whether I ride my bike 10 miles or 100, pizza and beer sound nice. 

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5-Word Gear Reviews: Thermarest Z Lite Sleeping Pad

photo by Ry

The Therm-a-Rest Z Lite has been in production since 1989. It's used by alpinists in Denali National Park, thru-hikers on the Appalachian Trail, and bikepackers on the Tour Divide. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of reviews online. Why do the internet and your email inbox need another one? Because alpinists, thru-hikers, and Tour Dividers are hardcore. These folks can rough it. But what about the normal folks, the weekend warriors, the semi-rad fun-hoggers looking for an outdoor sleep system? Let me tell you.

I have slept outside on a Therm-a-Rest Z-Lite sleeping pad since 2013. Before that, I had a Therm-a-Rest Ridgeline I cut and duct-taped back together to accordion fold like a Z Lite. This did not work well. I have put my Z Lite through the wringer, spending hundreds of nights sleeping on dirt, sand, rock, and snow on this 3/4 inch thick piece of dimpled foam. It is amazing. I fiddled around with inflatable pads from the industry's giants -- Therm-a-Rest, Big Agnes, and REI -- but  I always came running back to the indestructibility of the Z Lite. No popping. No waking up in the middle of the night on the ground due to a slow leak. No snorkeling in the bathtub trying to find the impossibly small hole in need of repair. 

However, the Z Lite has a lot of naysayers. "It’s not plush enough." "It’s too dirtbaggy." "It’s not for side-sleepers." Of course, none of these are true. I recently returned from a camping trip with family. This kind of camping involved extension cords running to box fans inside massive dome tents filled with queen-sized air mattresses. They were all flummoxed when Rebecca and I put together our tiny backpacking tent and their jaws hit the ground when we whipped out our matching set of Z Lite sleeping pads. My sister-in-law was even concerned if we were "going to be okay." Eventually, I convinced her husband to lay on it and he said in five words what reviewers at Outdoor Gear Lab, Backcountry, and Gear Junkie have struggled to say in hundreds of user reviews: 

"Oh, it's not that bad." 

And then he fell asleep. Like, he took a nap right there. This is the power of the Z Lite. It's really not as bad as the inflatable crowd says. My brother-in-law's laconic pre-slumber gear review got me thinking about some more 5-word reviews for this industry standard:

You can sleep on it.

It's only a few nights.

Tummy sleeper? No! Buy it.

Maybe don't if you're eighty.

Basic comfy pad cuts mustard 

Closed cell foam gold standard 

Let's be real: it's cheap.

It gets the job done.

Super-lightweight and ultra-durable

And if hyphenated words count as one word: super-lightweight, ultra-durable that never fails.

*This gear review was not sponsored by Therm-a-Rest and I purchased my Z Lites with my own hard-earned monies. This review was also more than five words. 544 to be exact. I apologize. But please continue to support megasplitter by subscribing to the mailchimp, commenting on, and sending the posts that you like to your friends. 

Bikepacking the Big South Fork

Big South Fork photo by Ry

The Carboniferous Period of the Paleozoic Era lasted about 64 million years. Over this epoch, continents merged and mountains were born. It's impossible to conceive the slowness of time that allowed for the glacial transgression and regression of ancient seas and rivers that exposed what are now the Appalachian Mountains and Cumberland Plateau. Impossible, that is, unless you have pushed, pulled, and carried a fully-loaded bicycle up loose, baby-head-sized "gravel" at 24% grade for miles and miles. Then you can understand the glacial passage of primordial time. 

Last June, Ry, Brooks, and I bikepacked around the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River. Here, those primeval waters carved a vast system of narrow, v-shaped gorges stretching northeastern Tennessee and into southern Kentucky. Due to flooding, our route (a variation of the loop from bikepacking.com) generally avoided the river and instead explored the deep creek gorges that drain into it. The 90-mile route combined loads of delightful gravel, flowy singletrack, and a handful of burly horse trails to make a figure-8 around the west rim of the canyon. 

When you see pictures of gravel biking on social media it's usually looooong stretches of gravel farm roads through expansive flat fields or gently rolling hills. This is not Appalachian gravel. Our gravel roads are punchy climbs followed by woefully short descents repeated ad nauseam. It is not uncommon for a ride in southeastern Tennessee to surpass the "golden ratio" of 1,000 ft elevation for every 10 miles. However, the Big South Fork is just far enough west to offer a little taste of what it's like to ride the famous routes of the Great Plains. There were stretches of gravel as far as the eye could see. There were climbs, to be sure, but we never exceeded the golden ratio in our three-day ride. 

super aero! peep that sweat thong photo by Ry

Trip Report

Day 1: Bandy Creek to Pickett State Park (Strava)

There's a certain kind of joy to riding single-track on a fully-loaded bike. Weighed down with camping gear an otherwise banal trail becomes spicy and exhilarating. After a sandy stretch, the course takes a turn down an improbable horse trail. We triple-checked the map, went for it, and got absolutely jackhammered. Burltown, U.S.A., population: 3. The route descends and ascends this equestrian path before meeting back up with that sweet sweet pea gravel all the way to Pickett State Park.   

Day 2: Pickett to Parkers Mountain (Strava) 

Besides a dramatic climb up a highway, Day 2 was a pure gravel grind. The textural sound of tread on terra is the stuff dreams are made of. Like cams rattling on a climbing harness or a skateboard carving up a swimming pool, gravel biking is so auditorially pleasing, and the day offered up 44 miles of ambiance. We biked a bit out of the way for a swimming hole, which was nice. But we camped on top of a ridge with no water source, which was not nice. 

Day 3: Parkers Mountain to Bandy Creek (Strava) 

Priority numero uno: find water. We did a few miles away, off-route, on an overgrown single-track trail at Massey Creek. Priority numero two: get back to the car and back to Chattanooga before supper. We did, but not after more insane horse trails that eventually retraced, in reverse, the same insane horse trails from Day 1. Jackhammered, again. And it ruled. This ride included a substantial hike-a-bike that prompted a guy passing us in a 4x4 to roll his window down and laugh at us. This made us all laugh, which was nice. He was also nice and offered us a ride but we declined. 

a really great candid or just me checking for ticks photo by Brooks

mermaid Brooks photo by Ry

Trip Review

Aside from our team of six dwindling to a team of three before our departure date (and our night on top of Parkers Mountain) this trip went according to plan. We met our singular objective: have fun outside on bikes. Inadvertently, our trip also lined up with the Swift Campout weekend. I'm essentially a Quaker, but I'm too much of a sacramental theology nerd to actually convert. So, to me, it felt a bit eucharistic to know I was partaking in this sacrament of nature with people all over the world at the same time. Here are some other lessons learned along the way: 

1. I think my favorite kind of riding is horse trails. Every horse trail I've ever ridden has been absolutely heinous. Not designed for bikes or cars or even bipedal animals, horse trails hit this sweet spot between gravel biking and trial biking. Bombing down a steep grade with loose rock chunks the size of my two-year-old niece's head on a rigid bicycle makes me feel like a poor man's Danny MacAskill. Yeah, I crashed. And yeah, I still loved it. 

2. When a one-eyed man and an ex-carny with multiple Insane Clown Posse tattoos tell you where a swimming hole is, you go. 

3. When you don't want to share a campsite with a one-eyed man, an ex-carny with multiple Insane Clown Posse tattoos, a gun-toting and ax-throwing woman, and their multiple screaming children, it's okay. Don't feel bad. Even if they invite you to share their chili. Or especially if they invite you to share their chili.

You can watch an instagram reel of our ride here: 

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