Ouch! That hurts! Ski boot fit?

I think it takes some effort to wrap your head around how a BC ski boot should fit. If you are looking at an ski boot fitspecifically to climb in you may (should) think differently than the guy who wants a BC boot specifically to *just* ski in.



My take from the experience of seeing so many unhappy BC skiers (from ski guides to clients mind you) is most would be better served to simply forget the whole idea of a "ski boot" fit in an AT boot.



All this would seem rather obvious one would think. But fromskiing with various partners this winter nothing could be farther from the truth.



It would seem that there are a lot of skiers that try every thing possible to get the smallest shell size that will fit their feet. Then they go to great extremes to heat mold the liner or change liners and punch the shell to every bump and nuance thattheir specific foot needs require.



Done it myself. Likely the end result a perfect fit for skiing. Likely not the perfect fit if you want to climb or walk in those same boots any length of time.









A two minute search on the Internet will show you variations of this: "Boot liners are very cushy at first, but they will conform to your foot in 10-15 minutes, and after several ski days, they can really pack down. What feels so perfect in the store often feels sloppy and uncontrollable on the hill. The correct boot should feel snug all over without pressure points. If it feels too tight initially, almost enough to make your eyes bulge, it's probably about the right size."



"Eyes bulge?" Ya, likely not the right size you are looking for even when heatmolding your boots.



Might be a nice fitting ski boot. But think about that for a minute.....or more realistically way more than just a minute. Becauseyou will have a lot of time to think about it when walking 8 hours or so on your next day tour?! The localprofessional ski boot fitter may not be the guy you want fitting your back country boots. If you are going to be climbing in your ski boots...and your boot fitter has no clue what climbing or a full day in the back countryentails......he or she likely NOT the guy you want fitting your BC boots.



Typical ski boot fit for down hill rentals and the inexperienced:



"You see it more and more in rentals — “What’s your shoe size?” They tell me 10,
I’ll give them a 28 boot, which is a size too big, being conservative because
they’re rentals. The customer will open it up, put their foot in, and without
buckling it, they’ll say, “Oh, I need the next size up.” Then you have a choice
to make, because there’s a line of people waiting. You could do the right thing
and say, “Listen, I know it feels a little short. You want to buckle it up. When
you stand in the boot with a buckle, your heel is nowhere near the back, so your
toes are jammed in the front.” Depending on the day and the mood I’m in, I might
just say, “Here’s a 30, try that.”



More typical BC ski boot fit by the experienced:



Pick the correct shell size for back country skiing by placing bare foot in shell, touching end with toes, then seeing how many stacked fingers you can fit behind your heel. Any more than a 2 finger stack and the back country skiing boot shell is too big. Less than one-and-one-half fingers and it’s probably too small. In some cases (as in mine) you’ll be between shell sizes. If that happens try fitting the smaller shell first, but remember it’ll probably be colder and you may have problems with getting enough length for your toes. The larger shell will be warmer and easier to get comfortable for touring, but you may have problems getting the fit tight enough for downhill skiing.



The reason I bring all this up?



"tight enough for downhill skiing" There in lies the rub here.



We now have boots that ski very well that you can climb difficult technical ground in and not be at a disadvantage. But if you fit those same boots as tight as you might have fit your typical down hill ski boot the amount of time you'll want to spend in them is likely going to be limited. And you'll pay for that mistake in either pain or a new pair of boots in a larger size eventually.



This would seem to be a North American problem. Not a Euro problem as theyhave been climbing long and difficult technical ground while in ski boots for a while now. Pretty common there actually. I don't have to mention theirlong, hut to hut, ski tours. Here just the the thought of a full day out, on a up and down ski tour, seems to put most feet into some serious pain.



I intentionally thought of my TLTs as "climbing boots" and fit them accordingly. I use a 29 shell. My "ski boots" are generally a 28 shell. And I wear a size 12 street shoe! None of the28 shells do I want fora lot of walking. But no question the 28sdo ski great.



Still, I've had some of my best days skiing in the, "big"TLTs. I've alsospent some time walking, climbing or drive my truck's manual transmission in them with little complaint. And some times those were some lonnnnggg walks.



Always worth the effort of getting a custom insole/orthotic made to support your foot in any of these boots. A totally rigid boot sole is not a great thing for your feet...no matter the use. An properly fit orthotic can make the difference between a great fit and a painful ski boot.



A custom orthotic allows me to comfortably use a TLT 5 with a very narrow last. Without my orthotic in the boot my feet collapse enough that over time the boot is painful on the outside toes. With the orthotic my foot is supported enough that there is no pain or boot pressure. I don't require a orthotic in my mountain boots or running shoes. But in my ski boots it makes a big difference on how long I can stay in them comfortably.



We use a different and appropriate fit for our running shoes,rock shoes (trad and sport?) and our mountain boots. Probably time for some to look at how to fit their BC ski boots as compared to their down hill ski boots.



Because if it really is "all about the down" in your ski boots, likely your feet are going to suffer....a lot.







Done right the same boot can serve both purposes easy enough.












Get it wrong and it is a pleasure to simply get them off your feet!






Bottom line? I am not sure (almost positive) that a ski boot you'd want to climb in, isthe ski boot you'll want to take to the local lifted served area andski all day on your fat skis. Several years ago I thought you could have oneboot that would do both. Now I own two types of boots. Ski boots and BC boots. The boot model might well be the same today....but the boot fit is definitely not the same.



I can ski the same amount of ski under foot and generally the same length ski till I get around 115mm in a 29. Same boot Iice climb in. And am pretty happy with. At 115mm under foot with my ski I start looking for a size28 "ski boot". It is not so much that the support/design of the bootchanges but how the boots fit,does.

Study in Lights and Darks: My 300K DNF

I know, the title rather takes the suspense out of it. Last Saturday I attempted the New England Randonneurs 300K brevet. Having done all the major climbs and passed all the controls, I abandoned the ride on the last leg - with 45 miles to go. A week later, I am still not sure how I feel about what happened. It is as if I remember two entirely different rides - one wonderful beyond words and the other to an equal degree awful. The contrast is so great, that my mind cannot process it into a unified experience. So this will be my attempt to.



Earlier this Spring, I completed four RUSA-sanctioned events with the New England Randonneurs: two 100K Permanents, the official 100K Populaire, and the 200K brevet. Initially I had no plans to attempt the 300K. But in the weeks that followed a gradual change of heart began to take place. Largely this was because I found the route so attractive. It was a new route this year - a tour of Massachusetts via rural back roads, and it looked simply too good to miss. As time passed, something also changed in me physically and I began to feel - in a very literal sense - that I had it in me to do the distance. That I had the strength, the willingness, the potential at least. As the date of the 300K approached, this feeling solidified. It was in the car heading home from DROVES(a weekend retreat in Vermont that focused on dirt roads and climbing) that I made the firm decision.



After DROVES I felt well rested, and as well-trained as I was going to get. I did not ride much in the following days, saving my strength for the 300K. I also gave a lot of thought to the logistics of the event. Aside from the added milage, there were several new challenges to consider. One was the elevation gain. Everyone who knew the route warned me about the huge amount of climbing, describing it as even more difficult than the climbs on the 200K. With this in mind, I decided to take my Rawland instead of my lighter and racier Seven, because the former has considerably lower gears. In preparation, I did a couple of paved 100K+ rides on the Rawland and timed myself. Though a bit slower, I was still fast enough to get through a brevet on time. Conveniently, this bike was also equipped with dynamo lights.



But what had even experienced randonneurs concerned about the 300K this year, was the weather. We've had a cold spring, and the previous weekend in particular was downright wintry. On the day of the brevet, the forecast promised temperatures in the mid-90s. To ride all day in such heat is difficult enough, but to do so without having a chance to acclimatise is even more so. I do not do well in hot weather, so I tried to prepare. I stayed off alcohol and started drinking loads of water days before the ride. I procured an ultra-lightweight white mesh jersey with SPF protection and "sun sleeves." I stocked up on electrolyte mix to last the entire ride. And in the hot days before the 300K I went out for brief rides in the sun at high noon, so that the weather would not be a complete shock the day of.





Packing my bike the evening before, I felt calm and looked forward to the ride. Taking advantage of the handlebar bag on my Rawland, I packed: an extra water bottle, snack foods, a spare jersey (wool, in case the high-tech SPF mesh didn't agree with me), extra lights, sunscreen, chamois cream, pain medication, bandaids, and an external battery for topping up my GPS and phone charge. In my saddle wedge I packed tools and 2 spare tubes.



The actual distance of the event would be 193.4 miles. I was able to get a ride to the start from another rider, which meant I would not need to add any extra miles riding to and from home. Barring unforeseen circumstances, it all seemed manageable.



Even at 5:30 in the morning, filling out forms in the concrete parking lot of the Hanscom Airbase, it was obvious that the day would be scorchingly hot. The sun was out already, casting dramatic shadows. I applied sunscreen and wandered around. It looked like 35 or so riders with the usual variety of bicycles - from modern road race to traditional rando, to everything in between. Unlike on previous rides, everyone had a good sized handlebar or saddle bag, or both, attached to their bike this time. I was teased a little for showing up at the 300K after having said "no more" last time. Yeah yeah yeah, I grumbled.



Setting off just after 6am, there was some shuffling around for the first mile, but soon we were all strung out a comfortable distance from one another, with me somewhere in the middle.





On the cue sheet and GPS files, the ride was separated into 6 Legs, with a control at the end of each. The first three would take us west, across northern Massachusetts. The third would bring us down south a bit. And the final two would return us home. Thinking of the ride in terms of these distinct, self-contained segments made it feel very manageable. First we ride 20 miles. Now we ride 35. Now another 30 miles. And so on.





The first leg was easy, pleasant, and immediately scenic. It made for an excellent warm-up: starting out flat and rolling, building up to a 2-mile climb at the end. Briefly I rode with another Ride Studio Cafe cyclist, Henry. He is Dutch, very strong, with beautiful pedal strokes. We wished each other good luck, and soon he was off like a slingshot. Later I was caught by some other riders I knew from previous brevets. They passed me uphill, I passed them downhill, they passed me uphill again. After that I passed two riders on the side of the road, one of whom was having a mechanical issue. At the first control, I ate a hot breakfast quickly and moved on right away.




On paper,the second legwas all climbing. But in practice I did not experience it that way. Except for a short very steep stretch toward the end where I had to walk briefly, it all felt fine. I was making good time, with plenty of cushion room. The scenery was beautiful, with lots of shade to shield riders from the intensifying sun. I was going through my water at a rate of one bottle per 10-15 miles and feeling good. Part of the way, I rode with another rider and we arrived at the second control together: a country store at mile 52. Here I refilled my 3 bottles (two in the cages, one in the handlebar bag) and tried to force myself to eat. It was getting very hot now and I had no appetite. Others at the control seemed to feel the same, hanging out in the shade until they felt cooled down enough to eat. It was very comfortable at the little country store, with its picnic benches surrounded by pine trees. I tried not to stay too long and was soon on my way again.





Leg 3 took us to the westernmost point of the route and over beautiful stretches such as Tully Lake and Mt. Grace. I was feeling so good and elated at this point, that I did not realise I was climbing over an actual mountain until I saw it on the map later. At the 65 mile point I checked my time and saw I was just over 6 hours into the ride.I passed a few riders somewhere along the way, which I took as a sign I was doing okay.If I kept going at this rate, I would finish in 18 hours - with 2 hours to spare before the 20 hour cutoff. By the time I arrived at the next control at mile 85 I lost some of that cushion on the final climb, but was still doing well. I was also feeling hungry now, which was timely as this was the food stop: a BBQ place with outdoor seating.


At the food stop, there were many other riders, and some of them did not look good - suffering from the heat. Some sat in front of their food staring at it absently. Others were lying down on the grass with their eyes closed. I heard one rider making a phone call to announce he was abandoning. And I learned that at least two others had abandoned already as well.



But the biggest surprise was seeing Emily at this control. Emily is a much, much stronger rider than me, and at timed events I would not normally see her for the entire ride. To catch up to her on a control meant something was wrong. And it was: She couldn't eat; she didn't feel well in the heat. Leaving most of her food behind, she finally left shortly before I did. Even her dill pickle remained half-eaten.



As I set off to leave, I asked where the bathroom was and learned it was out of order. The owner tried to give me directions to the bathrooms in the town center, but I did not want to waste time on a detour and continued without a pee break.





The 4th Leg should have been comparatively easy, without much climbing. But it was made difficult by the almost complete lack of shade. For a stretch we cycled along an open country highway, with nowhere to hide from the 95F heat and the blazing sun. Later it was farmlands, with an equal lack of tree shade. It was mid-afternoon by now, but the sun and temperature were not waning. Wearing all-white and guzzling water, I did not get sick from the heat as some of the others did. But I could feel it slowing me down, sapping my energy as I neared mile 100.



Shortly after we passed Deerfield - the home of the famous D2R2 event - something uncanny happened. I remembered that Richard Sachs lived somewhere in the area. And no sooner did this thought cross my mind, that I saw a lone dark figure on a bicycle on the opposite side of the country highway. "No way," I thought. "No way." But as we neared each other, I could clearly make out the red bike and the all-black kit, and finally the face - across which a look of what seemed like surprised recognition flashed just as we crossed paths for that split second. The "was it or wasn't it?!" question plagued me for the rest of the ride. WhenMr. Sachs himselfconfirmed it later that weekend,I was immensely relieved it was not a heatstroke-induced hallucination.





All throughout this leg I tried to ride faster, but the sun and heat felt like a harness holding me back. By the time I reached the next control, my cushion time had dwindled to 45 minutes. I ran to use the bathroom, then went to fill my water bottles at the rest stop. To my surprise some riders were hanging out here - in a seemingly leisurely fashion, some with their shoes off.Maybe I was needlessly worried about the time?I had some watermelon and stretched my upper body as we chatted briefly. One of the riders - an NEBC racer - had just passed me an hour earlier. She had started late, having cracked a chainstay on her main bike and switching to another at the last moment. Emily was also there, still not feeling great. When I set off she stayed behind, telling me she'd catch up and we could ride together the rest of the way.



The rest of the way was "only" 80 miles at this point. I felt in my legs and in my gut that I could do it. I just needed to be mindful of the time and make it to the next control with some cushion. After that, it would be just the final leg home.



Leg 5 was the last one with any major climbing. To be precise: an 11-mile climb, followed by a descent and a flat stretch, followed by a 5-mile climb. I knew it would be difficult, but on paper it did not look any worse than the stretches we'd done earlier. In practice, it felt much worse. The sun was waning already, but the heat of the day had done its work and I felt "cooked." With over 100 miles in my legs, I was slow climbing. I spun and ground and pushed myself and played songs in my head with a fast rhythm, and even tried to stand (successfully), but nothing helped. No matter how I tackled the 11-mile climb, I was slow. Slow-slow-slow. Some miles in, Emily caught up. She attempted to ride with me, but I was sincerely worried about my speed and did not want to drag her down with me - so I told her to go on without. Reluctantly she agreed and disappeared around the next bend. I tried standing and pedaling in a higher gear again. The fact that I could do it was not bringing me any joy now. It didn't seem to help. I sat back down and spun/ground as fast as I could. It was endless.I could feel the time slipping away.





When the descent came,I switched into the big ring and did not touch the brakes. Any cornering problems I had in the past did not even enter my mind; I just needed to make up all the time I'd lost. It worked, and on the flat I could finally take a breath of relief.



Until the dirt road. When I first saw what awaited me, I could not believe it. First came a section where the road wasunder construction, "Caution, turn back" signs, completely dug up and unridable, and finallyblocked from traffic with tall piles of sand and debris. I had to carry my bike across this for what must have been just a short time but seemed eternal at this stage in the game. Then came the 2-mile stretch of "dirt," which was, frankly, loose sand all the way, strewn with alarmingly sharp rocks. Fishtailing slightly even with my 42mm tires, I could only imagine what this felt like on skinny road tires. It did not seem right to be on this godforsaken road, but both my GPS and cue sheet directions indicated I was riding where I was supposed to be. This was confirmed when a car passed me... a car belonging to one of the ride volunteers, with a bike hoisted upon the roof-rack and a dispirited-looking rider in the passenger's seat. Another abandon.





With the dirt finally over, I picked up the pace as much as I could, but soon came the final 5 mile climb. I gritted my teeth and pedaled with all my might, feeling no sensation what so ever. The sun was setting. The sky glowed gold, then pink over an endless stretch of creepy bog. The final control cutoff was fast approaching and my entire being filled with intense disbelief and feel of impeding tragedy. No-no-no-no-no. This can't be happening. No. Please no. I stopped checking the time and just pedaled, focusing on nothing but making the final control until the road dumped me at the grassy knoll.



Volunteer staff were waiting in a wooden pavilion.When I got off the bike, I was so out of breath that I could not speak. I attempted to ask whether I made it on time, but instead started hyperventilating and making wailing sounds. People stared with undisguised concern. I tried to shut my mouth and sit down, but it only got worse, until I finally let out all the wailing that was pent up inside. What that was, I still have no idea.



And then, just like that, I was fine. I checked the time and learned I'd arrived 10 minutes before the cutoff. I drank a cup of chocolate milk and ate a hard boiled egg. I put on a reflective vest, spare lights, and helmet light, preparing to set off again.





I should mention that the final control was a sight of a mass unraveling. Quite a few riders were there, in various states of not feeling well. A handful had abandoned and were waiting for rescue rides. One man was lying down, trying to recover sufficiently to continue. The racer who had passed me earlier was resting in a recliner: done. Emily was there, telling me she would catch up again if I set off before her. I hoped so, as this way we could ride together in the dark. But I could not risk waiting any longer, in case she decided not to continue. I had calculated there were maybe 5 riders still behind me. None of them would finish atthis point.



I set off on thelast legat 8:45pm. This was a long one - 55 miles, but it would soon have us on familiar territory. I had over 5 hours to cover the remaining distance, with not much climbing to speak of except in the very beginning. It was growing cool. I was not in any pain. I was tired, but not so tired I could not crank out the miles without stopping.This was doable, very doable.I just had to keep going.




It was dark, but not pitch black yet when I set off. I started at a good pace and was looking forward to Emily catching up, then us finishing together. I would be sure to hang on to her for dear life this time. I imagined us arriving at the finish dramatically, 5 - or maybe 3 - minutes before the cutoff, collapsing from exhaustion, but making it. This image kept me going as the sky turned from gray to navy to black.



And then, I began to notice with growing alarm, that I could not see where I was going. This was so unexpected that it took some time to even sink in. I consider(ed) myself to be an experienced night rider, and, based on previous experiences, genuinely thought that I was prepared for the night stretch of the route. I had a powerful dynamo headlight on my front rack,anda battery powered headlight on my handlebars,anda helmet mounted headlight. But even all this was not sufficient for the area I found myself in, especially riding alone. The sky was black - moonless and starless; there was no illumination of any kind. There was not even a yellow lane divider or a white fog line to focus on. With my 3 headlights I could see the potholes at various distances in front of me illuminated brilliantly, but I could not see the curvature of the road further ahead. And this meant I could not safely pick up speed, especially on descents, without the risk of going off the side of the road. Several times I stopped and tried to adjust my lights to point further out. This did not help much - they were not diffuse enough to do what I wanted them to do. I kept riding at the maximum speed I felt was safe, which was pitiful considering the twists and turns of the back road. My last hope was Emily catching up with me, and us combining our light power.





The road seemed to only grow darker and more twisty. This was truly in the middle of nowhere. I could barely make out the shapes of trees, and I seemed to be riding through some dense forested area. I heard disconcerting sounds all around me - howling, rustling in the woods, and at some point what sounded like a chainsaw. I am not generally scared of the dark, but I was by now so exhausted and frustrated that my mind must have started to mess with me. Around this time, I really began to worry where Emily was, and at length became convinced that she must have been murdered - what other explanation was there for her still not catching up to me? Surely that was related to the sound of the chainsaw I'd heard. After 15 hours on the bike, this made a great deal of sense, and I started to sob. I should have waited for her. I should have waited! Shaking, I had to stop to regain my composure.Eventually I snapped out of it, ate some food and kept going.



But increasingly, I was losing time on the climbs and unable to make it up on the descents, since I could not see where I was going.With a sense of dread I checked the time: It was approaching 10pm and I had barely advanced 10 miles. With 45 miles left to go and 4 hours to do it in, I was not going to finish if I kept riding at this pace. My mind went into emergency-analytical mode, putting aside all emotion to determine the logical course of action.



Fact:I would not make the cutoff, unless I started to ride drastically faster. Fact: The pitch black road conditions were unlikely to change, which meant I was unlikely to ride faster. Fact: Since Emily has not caught up to me by now, she had most likely abandoned herself, which meant I was the last rider remaining on the course. Fact: If I continued riding anyway, I would not only be putting myself at risk in the dark for nothing, but inconveniencing the organisers - who would wait for me as long as I was still out there. The logical course of action was to abandon.





According to the map, I would soon pass a gas station. I could end my ride there and arrange for a pick-up. After weighing my options, I made the decision. Makingthe call felt like tearing off a bandaid - if I was going to do it, I needed to do it quickly.



At the gas station parking lot ten minutes later, I saw two sets of headlights. It was Emily, along with another rider - the one who'd been lying down at the last control. I expected them to keep going, but they pulled in to the gas station. Emily wanted to buy a coke, and there was something off, I thought, about how important this seemed to her, with so little time left. The clerk who was closing up got her one and she sat down with it on the pavement. The other rider lied down on the porch. They seemed quite settled in. I tell them they need to keep going immediately, if they want to make the cutoff. I am not sure they understand or even hear me. I offer my bananas, water, Shot Blocks. "Look, you shouldn't sit here, you need to get going. I am only here because I'm done." Emily looks at her coke long and hard. "Well... maybe I'm done too." She looks at her watch. "Yeah..."



I know that Emily has been randonneuring for over 10 years and she has never DNFed an event.Damn it, I think. She was not planning to quit until she saw me sitting here. I contemplate continuing with them, but it makes no sense. I try to encourage them, waving my banana and extra water fetchingly. But they really are done now, sprawled on the porch, talking politics and sci-fi books. Now that more time has passed and the decision is irreversible, they relax and become more animated. Each has made the call and they are waiting for a ride.



I feel too numb to joint the conversation. I put myself on autopilot and start disassembling my bike. My husband arrives in a tiny ZipCar and we wrangle the pieces inside. He will never trust me to be "okay on my own" again, is all I can think of as wedrive home. Well, maybe he never did.



At home, I went straight to sleep and didn't dream about anything. The next day I felt strange, weepy. After that I thought I was fine, but I ran into Emily in town two days later and had an almost PTSD-type experience when we started talking about the ride. She did not seem too happy either.





Many riders abandoned this particular brevet. It was a tough one. But somehow that fails to console me. It wasn't the miles or the climbing or the heat that broke me in the end, but inadequate preparation for the dark. An overconfidence in myself over a factor that turned out to be critical. A mistake.



All through the following week I would recall fragments of the brevet, sending my emotions into wild extremes of highs and lows. I would remember pedaling over Mt. Grace, elated, hot breeze in my face, smelling pine trees in the sun and looking down at miles of farmlands. What ecstasy, to have made it out this far on my own, and to feel as if I could keep on going forever.



Then later I would recall riding through that damned forest in the dark, alone, nearly going off the side of the road, ominous rustlings behind the trees. That feeling of doom seeping in, like a cold thick liquid against my skin. The decision to abandon after nearly 150 miles, after all that climbing, after having ridden clear across the state and back...



Well, what else is there to say. So much drama about a little brevet. Better luck next time and all that. It is good for the character to fail on occasion. I will try to learn what I can from it. And I will always remember the many beautiful moments of this ride, the kindness of the volunteers, the support of the other riders. Thank you to all who were there, and congratulations to the finishers. Happy trails to all for future brevets and other adventures.

Central Kansas :: Another Sunset

Sunday, May 8th - - After my brief visit at Mushroom Rock State Park I continued west a short distance to Ellsworth. Then I spent a few hours driving around Russell County, part of which lies north of Interstate 70, and Barton County, which is to the south of Russell County and also south of I-70. You may be asking, Why?



After residing in Iowa for a short time (circa 1866-1868), my third great-grandparents, Lysander and Lydia (Robison) Joslin returned to Whitley County, Indiana. In 1877 they once again sold their land in Whitley County and headed west, this time to Odin, Cheyenne Township, Barton County, Kansas. Here they remained until 1891 when they moved to near Lyndon in Osage County in eastern Kansas.



I really couldn't do research – it was Sunday! Poor timing on my part. I did make a stop at the library in Great Bend for several hours and took a look at some of the books they had. Basically, I simply wanted to see what the countryside was like. The terrain to the north of I-70 differs dramatically from the land that lies to the south, at least in that immediate area. Russell County north of I-70 has hills, large hills. And gullies, deep and big. Southern Russel County and most of Barton County are relatively flat in comparison. Good farming land.



I considered staying in the area another night but decided against it, for various reasons. Instead I continued west on State Road 4 and stopped for the night at Cedar Bluff State Park near the small town of Brownell. It was another hot and windy day, with the temperature nearly reaching 100 degrees. And the air conditioning in the van wasn't working.



The site I had selected was in the shade near the beach. Even in the shade the heat was almost unbearable and I was thankful for the strong breeze that was blowing. My neighbors were a nice young couple. We weren't so lucky with the group that arrived in the early evening. They were loud with the stereo blaring, really inconsiderate. After about 15 minutes I left to find another site (it was a self-serve campground) in another area of the park. The new site turned out to be much better – flush toilets nearby! ;-)



It was also a better campsite because it offered a very nice view of the lake and the sunset, which was once again highly colorful due to the hazy sky. Thankfully, once the sun went down it cooled off considerably!

Yellow Yucca

this is a yellow yucca simular to the red yucca shown below

Revisiting the KHS Green

If anybody out there has been reading this blog from the beginning, you know my fondness for the KHS Manhattan Green. A simple, inexpensive steel 3-speed, the KHS Green is the bike that got me back into cycling after a 12 year hiatus. For months I had been visiting local bike shops, but in / there was not much choice out there. The KHS Green was the first bike that I felt comfortable riding. I rented it from Cambridge Bicycle, rode around Boston, and experienced the born-again momentthat led to this blog. Ultimately I did not buy this particular bike, because I wanted something with more features and fell in love with lugs. But the happy memories of its simple ridability remained with me, and it is the bike I suggest to anyone who tells me they have a tiny budget. At the moment the KHS Green retails at $365. For that price you get:





a welded steel loop frame, made in China, size 14" or 17" in subdued black or silver colour schemes,






set up with 700C wheels, city tires, fenders,





upright handlebars, sprung vinyl saddle,






partial chaincase,




3-speed coaster brake hub,





front v-brake, ergo grips, bell,





large rear rack,platform pedals, kickstand,





and a "cafe" lock.






It is my understanding that Cambridge Bicycle contributed to the design of the KHS Green, and that the New England based distributor was instrumental in these bicycles coming to exist as well. Maybe that is why there are so many of them in the Boston area (though this begs the question why it has "Manhattan" in the name...).






KHSGreen bikes are so ubiquitous in my neighborhood in fact, that I have made a game of snapping pictures of them. They are usually black, and are left parked overnight on the streets with abandon. Here is one locked up next to my Gazelle. And here's another. And another. A friend of mine has one. A neighbor has one. I've even seen two seemingly unrelated ones locked up to the same rack at the grocery store. The ones from a few years back are a bit rusty, sure. But they appear to be fully functional and well-used.





It's been nearly 3 years since I rode a KHS Green, so I thought it would be useful to refresh my memory and see what I think of the bike now. After all, I've gained considerably more cycling experience and have tried many different bicycles in all price ranges.



I rode my own bike to Cambridge Bicycles, left it with them, and then took the Green around town on some of my typical urban routes. Clipping my pannier to the rear rack was easy, and I carried all my stuff just like when riding my own bike.






The bike I rode was quite small, because they only had the 14" size in stock, but it was ridable with the saddle all the way up. There was no toe overlap for me on the 14" frame - but it was very close and whether you experience it may depend on your shoe size and how you hold your foot on the pedal. My positioning on the bike was bolt-upright, with a short reach from handlebars to saddle - though of course on a larger frame it would be somewhat different. The seat tube angle felt fairly steep, with the sensation of the pedals being directly below the saddle. I started riding in the bike lane along the very busy Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge, rode home to Somerville, circled around and returned via the MIT campus where I snapped these pictures. All in all it was about a 4 mile ride on busy roads and side streets.



The bike felt fairly easy to ride, with the 3-speed hub being more than sufficient for the urban environment. It does not have the luxurious ride quality of a Dutch bike, but it is not terrible over bumps either. It is not a fast bike, but fast enough for local commutes and errands. The brakes and gears worked without problems. Nothing rattled or came loose during my test ride. The bike rides as it looks: simply and with no frills.






The KHSGreen is missing lights, but otherwise it is fully equipped for transportation cycling. While I cannot personally comment on its durability, the dozens of exemplars I have seen parked around Boston don't look too shabby and I have not heard any feedback about component failure tendencies. Having test ridden the bike 3 years after I last tried it, my impression has not changed much. It is not a gorgeous or an especially fast bike, but it is perfectly decent and functional. With a price tag in the mid-$300s, it is a great deal if you are in the market for a step-through city bike on a tiny budget. Many thanks to Cambridge Bicycle for the test ride!

Speaking of Saddles

Earlier this week I was visiting Cycle Loft - a local bicycle shop known, among other things, for its extensive fit studio.I will be test riding a few of their bikes this summer, and the staff suggested I undergo a fitting session beforehand. As we were getting started, the fitter - Joel - caught sight of the Selle Anatomica I was riding. He asked whether I wanted to use my own saddle, given how particular it was, or try something new.



Today there are lots of high quality, well thought-out saddle designs on the market, in a variety of materials. The trick is to find one that fits our particular anatomy, position and riding style. For the past two years I've been going back and forth between a Berthoud touring saddle and a Selle Anatomica on my roadbikes. These saddles are as close as I've been able to get to being truly comfortable over long distances. But neither is perfect. SoI decided to keep an open mind and see what the fitter recommended.





To start with, Joel measured my sit bones. This is something I've never had done "professionally" before, so it was pretty exciting. Cycle Loft uses the Specialized "Body Fit" method, which, as I understand it, is comparatively un-intrusive (no pelvic fondling, etc.). But there is a nifty device involved. A stool was brought out with a butt-shaped pillow, upon which I sat as instructed. When I stood up, my sit bones left two clear indentations, which Joel swiftly measured.





The figure was 135mm - considerably narrower than what I thought my sit bone width was based on my DIY measurements (the figure I'd come up with was more like 150mm). But we repeated the process just to make sure and got the same number again - so looks like 135mm it is.



Joel explained that a saddle should be wider than the sit bone width itself. How much wider depends partly on the rider's position and partly on the saddle's shape. As far as the rider's position, the more leaned forward you are, the narrower area of support is needed. That much I'd known. As far as saddle shape, Joel showed me a selection or road/racing saddles and pointed out that on some the sitting surface was flat across, while on others it was rounded, like an arc. For all my careful scrutiny of saddle shapes, this was not a distinction I'd explicitly been aware of before, so I was excited to learn something new. For any given rider, on a rounded saddle the width needs to be greater than on a flat saddle.



According to the fit chart, the saddle width recommended for my sit bones was 155mm minimum. My Berthoud saddle (which is flat) measures 160mm across, and my Selle Anatomica (which is rounded) measures 170mm across. My comfort with both makes sense according to this fit method.





Next, Joel asked what I liked and disliked about the saddles I normally use. I explained that my saddles are fairly wide across the rear, yet have narrow, racing-style noses. The wide rear and narrow nose combination works for me, because this waymy butt feels fully supported but I don't get thigh-rub. Other saddles I've tried tend to be either too narrow or too wide all around, which doesn't work. I also like the feel of suspended leather, compared to other surfaces I've tried.



As far as what I don't like, that is a little trickier to explain. The Berthoud feels a bit too hard, whereas the Selle Anatomica has a bit too much give. And with each, I occasionally - at random times, it seems - feel pressure or pinching in the middle of my "soft tissue." It happens rarely now compared to the problems I used to have, but it does still happen occasionally. We discussed all this in detail, as well as the other saddles I've tried. I described my dislike of gel (I sink into it and feel horrible pressure), my inability to ride Terry saddles (the slots are somehow in the wrong place), and finding the edges of many racing saddles "too sharp" as I pedal.





After taking all of this in, Joel suggested I try the Romin Evo saddle by Specialized (interesting write-up about it here). It had everything I seemed to need: a rounded wide rear (168mm across), a narrow nose, and a firm, but not rock-hard, surface. A channel down the middle and a curved nose were designed to avoid contact with exactly the pressure-prone spots I'd identified. It is not a woman-specific saddle, but then neither are my own. A synthetic saddle made by a big-name manufacturer, it was not what I would normally gravitate toward, but I'd said I would be open minded, and so I would.



The Romin Evo is now fitted on the demo bikeI'm riding. I could not feel it under me on the initial 30 mile ride, but I will withhold judgment until after the follow-up, 100K ride.



But whether this particular saddle wins me over is beside the point. What I appreciated the most was the generally informative conversation with the fitter - who I felt was neutral and knowledgeable when it came to various styles, materials, aesthetics and brands of saddles. I would like to keep learning myself, and at some point to post a comprehensive guide that might be of help to those at a loss for where to start.

Jurassic Way 3 - Charwelton - Braunston

With Marta. About 9 miles in all. Fine, sunny, coolish wind, muddy underfoot in places. Good food and friendly welcome at the Admiral Nelson in Braunston.



We set off from Charwelton, crossing the road from the packhorse bridge. The path starts on a driveway, but soon turns right across a field, and heads north towards a minor road.









At the minor road, do not take the footpath directly opposite, but turn left and walk for a few yards to another footpath across a cultivated field. You don't go over the disused railway embankment!







The path is clearly marked for most of the way, over cultivated fields and grassland. Just as we arrived at a hedge a large deer leapt out in front of us and dashed away downhill out of sight. A little further on we met a track and needed to run right - this may have been because we followed the field edge instead of cutting through diagonally. A bit of map reading needed there. Keep the radio masts well to the left. We had to walk to the right of the dome showing through the trees - part of Windmill Farm.







The path brought us to the village of Hellidon, source of the River Leam, an attractive out-of-the-way place. We turned left at the Red Lion, then along Stockwell Lane (signposted 'Village Only'.











The church is to the left of the road, and accessed by some steep steps.

We followed the lane through the village, until it became a gated road to Lower Catesby.



After the houses signposting disappeared again. We had to turn right across a field and then follow the boundary over several fields with stiles, but no way marks. Today these fields were some of the muddiest and smelliest I've walked through for some time! We could see Catesby Viaduct, which confirmed that we were pretty well on track.





Our route across the disused railway line led through a gap where once stood a bridge, and at last the ground underfoot was firm enough for us to stop for a quick banana and coffee break.










From here the path was clearly marked through rapeseed and wheat fields, over a few streams via wooden bridges,
uphill to Bates farm building and down into the village of Staverton., over the A425. We took the street to the right of the pub, then past The Green , where there is a Jurassic Way marker, showing the distance to Banbury - 22M, and to Stamford - 66M. At the moment we're averaging perhaps 9 miles per walk! Staverton is one quarter of the way along.

From The Green we went along Oakham Lane, turned right then left into Braunston Lane, which we followed as it became a bridleway. We walked along the bridleway until it turned sharply to the right. At this corner the path led slightly to the left through a field and was easy to follow - over the A45, through more fields, across another dismantled railway line by a bridge and down to the Grand Union Canal, and the Admiral Nelson Inn, where we stopped for lunch before making our way to car number 2.

Top Lock, Braunston through the pub window. Narrowboats were going through in pairs to minimise water use.