A morning quickie before work...

When I awoke this morning to a thick blanket of virgin white snow glowing under the morning’s full moon, did I think of heading into the office early? Nay. (yes, I did just use “nay” seamlessly in a sentence) Upon seeing the thin dusting of wet snow under the dull glow of the morning overcast sky, I thought of the possibility of snow being up on Black Mo. I scampered out of bed, grabbed a banana, yak trax, skis and way too much warm clothing and hopped into the car heading out to the promise land called Black Mo.

As I slid my way up and over Purdue Mt and up the sinuous road of Black Mo, which was yet to be deflowered by a snowplow, I reminisced of my first “attempt” at cross-country skiing. In this attempt, despite tremendous effort, concentration, and dedication to forward motion, I was rewarded with sliding backward. Needless to say, this debacle was remedied by the removal of my skis and good old run to the car. This walk down memory lane was soon interrupted with driving conditions that were ironically similar to my first cross country ski results, calling greater focus to continuing to forward motion.

Arriving in Black Mo, I found the conditions for which I hoped. Everything was white: a white blanket of fresh on the ground, the sticky white clinging to every inch of the bare trees and bushes, even the sky reflected this white theme (I guess a blue sky would have been more idyllic, but the uniformity of color is at least respectable). I popped on the skis and away I went!

I wish I could describe myself gliding miraculously down the trail with childlike giggles ringing in my glorious wake, but nay. I would say I was more similar to drunk adolescent trying as hard as he can to appear sober before his parents, all the while displaying a general underlying sloppiness accented with periodic disastrous stumbles. I would like to attribute my xc skiing impotence on the “hidden tire ruts,” but that would just be making excuses, even though there were hidden tire ruts, honest. My experience reminded me of my first mountain bike ride, but with less flips over the handlebars. Part of me was really enjoying it and another part of me was trying very hard to suppress the growing frustration with my sloppiness.

Sliding all over the road made me think about all the new activities that I have adopted into my life. All these first experiences proved very similar to today: enjoyment of performing the activity and slight frustration at my inability to actually perform the activity. Despite this initial inefficacy, there has always been something that makes me stay with it. For road biking, it was the idea of going fast and covering big miles solely under my own power; for running, it was to impress a girl (just kidding...) it was (also) to experience the simplicity of motion without any other machine and seeing how hard I can push; for mountain biking, it was to be able to experience this thing that everyone who does it loves; for climbing, it was to be a bad ass; and now for cross country skiing, it is to become an aerobic juggernaut (yea, I have now used both “nay” and “juggernaut” seamlessly in sentences). Regardless of the initial motivation, for all these activities I recognized the essence of “quality” for each sport. In this, it is my desire to truly experience the essence of quality (and be a bad ass, aerobic juggernaut, that under his own power can put up big miles enjoying what everyone else does, all while most importantly impressing the girl) that pushes me to keep heading down this (heavily rutted) trail in the opposite direction from my car until I get the hang of this, or at least stop falling down.

Leaving the snowy promise land and heading back into the muddy wet valley, I feel satisfied with today’s effort. While my form was sloppy, I did manage to move forward. As Bill Murray says, “Baby steps.” Now, while I sit at my desk, procrastinating real work, I am thrilled at the idea that I got to spend all morning in the snowy winter woods. This experience has left me with two final thoughts: (1) I really wish I had brought my camera, and (2) is it lunch time yet?

The Black Moshannon ("Black Mo"): An incredible, yet deadly creature

Sept 14, 2008: I'm sure you have watched the mountain sections of the Tour de France and thought, "I could do that, maybe not as fast, but it doesn't look that hard." No? OK, so I'm the only naive, arrogant bastard that has thought that before. Not to worry, one experience with the deadly Black Moshannon has shocked me back into reality.

The Black Mochannon ride is rare, serpentine creature that stretches over 40miles of rural Pennsylvania countryside. In fact, it is only found just outside State College. The fear that it inflicts is from the slow, painful attacks it strikes to its prey's lower body. What is so deadly about the Black Moshannon? It does not strike only once, but 3 times with many smaller nibbles along the way. The strike comes silently, the only sound being the slow grinding of your gears. This should not be taken lightly; not all are as lucky as I in making it out alive. However, the attacks not only affect the legs, but spread to the very heart, soul and mind. As you see in the video on the bottom, I am already becoming senile only halfway through the second attack (and completely butchered the quote).

You may wonder, "Why even mess with this beast?" The Black Mo is the modern-day Muse, whose mystical songs are the fantastic views of rolling Pennsylvanian green valleys. Not only was my breath taken by the relentless climbing, but also the amazing scenery. The ride even hosts an old man sitting on his porch with his dog at his side all day, staring into space, but eagerly (as eagerly as "an old man sitting on the porch with is dog at his side all day" can) waving and wishing you a good day as you trickle by. I feel there are few better ways to see the beautiful PA countryside than from a dance with the Black Mo.

Oddly, because I never get lost, I did manage to miss a turn in the very heart of the Black Moshannon. However, the missed turn did provide benefits besides extending the ride by 7 miles and throwing in several healthy climbs (oops, I forgot we were talking about benefits). With my minor miscalculation I was able to see a house that decided a first floor is much better suited as firewood storage and another house that is simply birdy over bird houses (too much?).

Be warned, the final strike is the most painful. When you are beginning to think of home, the Black Mo inflicts its final strike. The 3rd strike is not the longest, but holds a steep incline which in your weakened state will test your very will for survival. When I made that final pass there were angles singing and all the creatures of the forest lined the road to congratulate me on my successful evasion of the doom of the Black Mo (or I was simply halucinating). The best part of the long climbs, other than developing veins the size of pythons popping out of your legs, are the several miles of long descents where you coast at 30+mph without a single pedal stroke.

I have to admit, with all the glory that Black Mo presents, it is merely an earthworm compared to the Tour's mountains (a really big, scary earthworm, like the one from "Tremors".....well, maybe not that big). As I slowed to a stop before my house, I knew that I had encountered a creature like none other, and I couldn't wait to ride it again. If you are still reading about my encounter with the Black Mo and are not hiding for safety under your covers, then maybe you too should consider the incredible, yet deadly dance of the Back Mo.