I'd like very much to head to a smooth road like this one, and forget about the ten or so reasons I conjured which may cause me to bail.  Have you lived through the 90's? ...I mean were you old enough to ride a bike then? If so, then you may recall every manifestation of the affliction known as the  "Mountain Bike Craze".  This was a feature of the 90's, like SUV's, when we were all told by savvy marketing experts, friends, and neighbors, that cars were insufficient to grab some groceries.  "Hey By the Way, That sedan can no longer be relied upon to fetch a pizza", unless equipped with all wheel drive, Traction Control, and some Hella Search Lamps.  A Car now had to have a taller stature, wider stance, and a knobby spare on the back.  Marketing images abound with a smiling confident middle-class family of four  Dad smirks "Watch this" whilst on their way to Disney..., descending into a gulch, confidently rolling over a live tree, flipping the truck -- which would promptly upright itself and place them safely back upon an asphalt route to collect the dry-cleaning, and get cleaned up for catechism.
This is the true analog for what occurred to the Ten-Speed Bike.
Whatever perfect storm of influence was conjured by Cher, and Other witches by merely appearing in films with Jack Nicholson, somehow oozed into the life of the unwitting adolescent brain collective.  Trek was buying out Keith B, ruining Klein, Rolf, Fisher, etc... and all the madness fomented in a froth of jowls which were only sinking canines into larger rubber, gussets, and some kid with bad fashion called Troy Lee.
 
If you wanted a Bike in this decade, you had to first build a fire in your back acre, and set your ten-speed a-blaze, as a sign to the Knobby gods that you'd in-fact taken the "Blue Pill", and were ready for punishment.
Once you copped a feel of a large, slothful bouncy bike, you had to soil it just as rapidly -- even if it meant a mad-cap search for a Mud-puddle at the doggie park.   A Mountain Bike Craze had begun, and no sensible human could brave the pavement without 3 inches of heavy black Tioga's under them, and the moist anointing eau de toilette of John Tomac, spritzed about one's neckline. In fact, to keep the spell lasting and the smell fresh, it was likely that you'd wear some odd sweat sopping elastic bandana and a white foam helmet with a mesh cover to prove you meant business. Lest we leave buried the neon Lycra, where is lay.
If you were edgy you'd wear a full face mask, and some football shoulder pads made by some nobody, fashion mogul named Troy. (these were the current analogue to the red and white Japanese Bonzai 'Tee' from the Karate Kid 80's.)
...Me, I didn't wear a helmet nor a sweat band, Just cargo Shorts, and a Camel-Bak; But I must admit to being vaguely intrigued by the Large Brunette PHD in Mountain Bike Action selling Liquid Pheromones. 
 
I had a Mountain Bike, for sure!, ...because by '93 was actually illegal to own a road bike, and I know what you're thinking... It was not actually "against the law"... But well... You Are wrong! To be caught on a bike with a nominal tire size below 1 1/4, meant that you were in fact a surgeon, or other life support personnel, who would look after the rest of us, come the apocalypse or after a good smack into a Tree, whichever came first.  The rare air reserved for Doctors, who still were allowed to buy spendy road bikes, was an edgy minority so thin, that access passed through a keyhole in a rainbow lit suburban cult, housed in someone's basement. Secret meeting were held by a group who upheld the tenets of the bike faith which we were not allowed to see for another ten years.
 
As Road Bikes gathered dust, Mountain Bikes accrued sophisticated doo-dads through the mid-decade, including Carbon, Pivots, Springs, and Purple aluminum bits. rolling past the mid decade the fetishists who were running the show, made it clear that we were in a brave new world.  My Pink and Blue linear fade Klein was the talk of the trail, when it penetrated the suburban envelope, a man's steed beset with pink, was a "Sick Fairy" and, "...should get help". BUT, my Klein Attitude, smoked you, Literally it smoked you any place on any trail. Fewer colors were more out of place, in nature than the Mid 90's hardtail palette. Then things began to get weird.
 
The Hardtail was the last great inventive touch to happen to Mountain Bikes, or to Bikes in general for a while. Surely we can give a nod to the predecessor path racers, and "Balloon Tire Schwinn's", but the word Hard-Tail actually matriculated in earnest in the mid 90's. In fact, once the rest of the Un-Employed Aerospace Genius class came to the party and started making pivots, coils and seals, the fad was wearing thin, and the sad truth was that people were already becoming acutely aware that the really fast grocery getter was their old Ten-speed with the chain pulled tight as lycra, with a single cog.  But, Shhh! quiet, -- best not to tell them yet, lest we get ahead of the story, and the trend end abruptly.
 
Front Shocks, I'll hand you were a cool gizmo, and about 4 years later some of them worked; but the first ones were an abomination like, Pale Yellow tires, and Magura Calipers.  We just stood beside them at the party, waiting for them to leave so we could grab another beer a brat and their date.  I personally held out without a shock fork for the duration, opting for larger tires, such as the "Death Grip Two Three Five".  This was disruptive, adequate, and likely had more travel than the Marzzochi's, Manitou's, and (Gasp) Mag 21's of the latter century.  I rode a rigid fork for both my Attitude, and my Adroit, and later spun up a sheer cliff escarpment with a rigid fork on my Proto-type Mantra. (a full suspension pioneer). Shocks sullied my bike's purity, and perhaps denigrated the art-form I was immersed in.  If there is a person who rides a bike without a transformative sense of it's innate beautiful form, and simplicity, then that person lives a lie, and is primed for the next falsity.  I've rode circles around my friends, and it wasn't me, it was the bike... Or I should say, it's not me, it's YOU. Choose wisely to not to drag another 20 pounds of creaky mechanism, and tread lightly up a washed out creak bed.  Point, shoot, go!, was the rule.  Later I was intrigued by Horst Leitner, and the Amp fork design, but they faded like jeans, and failed soon enough, so parts became rare. I'm not glad, that mine was jacked, but the liberation of a stolen bike can also be an opportunity to a cleansing by fire, and a new beginning.
Parts were the issue, as with all good design, less is better, and too many parts getting filthy were their undoing. It also so happened that any barn with a CNC, was cutting Aluminum for bike parts rather than forging them, and some things softened up and died below a rider like cream cheese.
 
So where are we with the "Hard-Tail"?, well we have come around again to the part where history repeats itself, merely because it doesn't have the good sense to sit on it's hands, when before changes things operate well and don't require bedazzlement. 
 
So, (sigh) for the first part of the current Century, we slung Fixies, and Single speeds, which wanted hotly to be fixies, but didn't have the fortitude... We'd finally abandon the maddening plethora of anodized doo-dads and bad pivots, and then we shed ten pounds of rubber, to boil our bikes to a soupy broth more closely resembling the Pure Bicycle Gestalt.  The absolute quintessence of the form brought us from the brink of suspension madness, to the purest form of the bicycle revisited; e.g. Two wheels, drop-bar bolted to a diamond.
I bought one of those refined liberations as well... I bought THE actual gestalt form, called the District Carbon, from Trek.  I wasn't the largest Corporate bike fan, but this one was nailed.  Simple, Clean, and Discreet. It was matte black, sleek, uber light, and silently belt-driven.  The pejorative was the "Financial District", referring to it's staggering price, for a low calorie soup without Bits, Chunks, Veg., or croutons,  it was merely a clear consommé.
A Beautiful Bike, and a gateway drug to the Road Bike craze again, this time it would log new heights on the charts to stratospheric pricing, as soon as 22 speeds could weigh less than a carbon fixie.  
 
Ah, yes Carbon actually began to make sense everywhere.  So where did it happen?, the turning from the hardtail...? Did we burn out from hot bike bits of neon Purple and Blue? Perhaps it was the gained weight of so many bad suspension designs, or the high pitch of a CNC robot rebelling against it's master and then giving up it's ghost, when the Electric bill was no longer paid.  Perhaps is was the early 90's mass demilitarization which led to cheap carbon, loads of lab-coat dudes without jobs, and a hankering for something real.  If something real is the key, then lab coats just came with the territory, and all of this dropped side-by-side with the DOT-COM Boom! Ah yes, so we could now simulate everything indoors and make good solid products through CAD modeling, which we wouldn't use outside anyway.  So we dearly ogle  the 10 pound road bike, some lucky ones ride them, just in time to transition back to the heavy tired Hard-Tail again.
 
The woods are cool,  The wilderness beckons, while breezy shade and the cool scent of soil can reset your digital clock to analog, if you let them.  There is something oddly thrilling about beating up a path of back-country with a stealth fighter between your legs. We've shed pounds, and our bikes have mocked us, and  stiffened up, but we no longer do it in neon.
 
Matte Carbon moved us toward where we are today, and buoyed us up above the mire of so many bad franken-stems. Without the full springer we'd never get to the core of our story, which is why a Hard-Tail is perfect for trails, and perhaps why everyone still wants one.
Thinking about how far you may be from connecting with nature, would it take you over an hour to be alone in a breezy pine forest?  How long does it take and how much bike would you need to find solace sending over some single-track?  For most of us the challenge is as thick as the Trees we seek.  A visit to the wilderness is something to make time for.  A tour of the country-side is nice, but a bit of a sprint through the woods can heal a lot of what your digital life is working to destroy. Even a slow ride will re-anchor you.
 
Here is the rub... The hardtail gets you though the woods, but for some reason Cross-Country racing was replaced with Epic Downhill, and so the art of actual finesse and pedal-dynamics was exchanged for gravity-fed full-armored descents.  Today the Road Bike revolt has firmly supplanted what the 90's did to the ten-speed, and when it's all said and done, we will laugh off the trends du jour just as we wax nostalgic about Tom Ritchey, and the merits of Girven vs Frischknecht . 
 
Today the conversation is on Gravel Bikes, and the elephant in the room is that we have all seen this bike before.  The Gravel Bike is the Modern Hard-Tail, perhaps formerly known as the path racer. This indisputable new trend may lead to some silly design permutations. I like innovation, and as shown I own several; Some more successful than others. Today, the Gravel Bike is in the white hot crucible of the Iron forge, and the maelstrom of black Carbon Smiths who are rending new glued shapes really bring a lot of "the same" to the bench.  This past week, again I rode my Venerable Diverge through the Moraine, and the ride was beautiful.  I Fished, Hunted Morels, Hauled wood, Hung from trees, and Camped out.  Like so many people, I wonder if my bits work as well as they used to, or if I'm in need of some improved bits, and tackle, but in general, I am pleased with each and every adventure I endeavor.  So my current Hardtail is an S-Works Diverge, and I've given it a licking, and it's happy to give back.  It reminds me of my first hard-tail, and how an individual can become one with machine, to forget the tool and enjoy the journey.  Performance is measured (I THINK) by how little you consider the tools you use, and how you simply expect them to perform. I never owned a Stumpjumper, but I think that in all the versions Sinyard tightened them up to more approximate their contemporary Klein's I think that the latest Gravels from O.P.E.N, 3T, Salsa, and Now Trek, are the fat-tire craze mach Two.
 
The modern Hard-Tail is a Gravel bike, which was a Road Bike with wide tires, some plush bits, and the ability to take punishment -- Kind of like my old Schwinn Traveler.  One could say that Disc Brakes were the lynch-pin for this arrival, as they allowed things to get fat. Just as my Hard-tail resisted suspension, some things are best left in the oven until fully baked.   The term Hard-Tail wasn't a pejorative, but a badge of courage... because it defines a class which set out to reject the elite class full springer. A gravel bike has so much in common with my Hard-Tail, that it's merely "High English" for something we used to get dirty. Today, I ride all sorts of races, friendly's and country trails, and I am trying desperately to not lose sight of my shortcomings. Shall we call it like we see them.  If you point it and it goes, and you don't give much thought to the tool beneath you, then either it's working or you're already dead.  My Hard-Tail works like that, and it's a "Gravel Bike". So when you consider buying a full suspension Gravel Bike -- then perhaps we will have tipped the see-saw toward the slope again. Perhaps then, the Gravel bike will become the latest descent machine and a new sport will be born called descent racing, only there will not be a grueling grind up to the summit, but rather a leisurely bus ride. The new use for silly full-springers merged with skin-suits and armor, and whatever scraps remain from retired Time-trial bikes, will blister down the road as we navigate the descent upon pavement, and not along the dirt path.
Where we are headed now, I could not begin to speculate.  My '56 Schwinn Traveler had cushy tires and a drop-bar, and it's design predated me. So this trend is nothing new.  Because we have all been here before, I'm pretty sure that bikes are capable of time travel, so long as you own a Hard-Tail.
 
​Enjoy your Gravel Bike, or whatever  you wish to call it.


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When is the right time to take a ride beyond your comfort zone?  When you are stressed? When you are bored? When you are tired of getting invited to ride in uncomfortable weather? When Zwift becomes your status quo riding buddy?
Perhaps the best time to roll around on the desert floor, is when you are cold and tired of doing the same old thing.  It's not a knowable threshold, as each person has a different tolerance for the banal.  My valley floor of boredom definitely gets taxed about once a month, but really comes to bear every quarter -- and at that point I have to flee someplace where I don't know the outcome specifically.  I think that being uncomfortable, unsure, and unrealistic is a coping strategy for boredom. As you run your tongue back to your molar to clear a nagging scrap of fast food, it dawns on you that it's been nearly a year since you sustained yourself on GORP, and Dry Meals. It's been nearly a year since you woke up cold, and as a reflex smiled to be chilly on a crisp morning watching your exhale dissipate as steam. Camping can close a nagging gap in your palate for adventure. Spring is a great time to stray toward the desert.

When in the Desert, water is rather important. But being in the desert without the right outerwear may be just as critical.  Paramount in the planning is to take steps to ebb thirst, starvation, and exposure just like we do every day; But somehow in the strange environs of the Desert, which is not my native terrior, One becomes keenly aware that "We" are not in Kansas any more.  
So... What do you bring if you are Bike-Packing for a week someplace strange? You need the typical cadre of fix-it stuff, from bandages, to spoke keys... But you need a few bags more full of gadgets to make things comfortable.  
If one is to travel light, then the list simplifies to the following: 
​Sleep: A Bivvy Bag, and a Sleeping bag, and Pad if you like to sleep well.

• Cook: A Camp stove, and fuel.
• Eat: Coffee Caffeine Meds Snacks and Food.
• Drink: Water bottles, and lots of them; and Perhaps a Hydration Pack
• Defend: Knife and tools -- I bring a tiny Gransfors Bruk Axe, but that's because I'm infatuated with it.
• Ignite: Sparker Flint or matches.
• Wear: Jersey, Shorts, Shell, Puffy, Underwear, Pants, Socks, Gloves, Shoes, and a Hat.
• Protect: Sunglasses, Sun-block, Chap Lip stuff, and Some Paracord, Tent Line.
• Clean: Any Personal Care products, and maybe a pack of wet-wipes, or Lens Cleaner wipes.
• Mend: Tools, Pump, Inflators, Tube, Tire, Chain Pins/links, and other sufficient spare crap for your rig.

What you won't need:

• What Not: Much else

It gets Cold at night in the desert, such that you may be tempted to over-pack, and drag with far too many things to cover the 40-50 degree spread between day and night.  The sun is hot in the daytime because there is nary a droplet to screen you from the infra-red glow of the sun.  I like long sleeves and a hat during the daytime, and I find that Knickers are great for riding and to guard and warm the knees during the cold mornings and hot afternoons. The best I've found come from Sugoi, These "Zap Thermal Bib Knickers" are fantastic, and modulate temperature very well. My "Zaps" are made in a reflective design which entails nearly a million dots, or beads of reflective crystals to make you visible at dusk to darkness. Sugoi's one piece "RC Pro" moulded chamois is exceptionally comfortable and seems to defy getting smelly on multi-day trips. By nature I'm not a stinky person, but I did expect more odour by the fifth desert day, and it didn't occur, or that's what I told myself. The dry desert air helped a bit. 
​Enter JT anyway you prefer, but be aware that Water is available only at a few entrances, and that you will need to check-in to civilization for provisions, in particular if you are on a bicycle.  When it comes to deciding how to thin out your kit, it's not advised that Water be one of the things you leave behind.  For those of us not from 'round here, it's good to think of oneself as a large loaf of Wonderbread, to underscore just how dainty even the most hardened athlete may come to feel exposed in the heat and dryness of this desert life.  Double down on the fact that every surface seems to be either sharp, pointy or scratchy, and you can better grasp how fast a doughy bag of soft fluffy whiteness will crenate into a crouton.  Bring Water, in spite of your other provisions, and use the caution that is posted at the ranger stations: There is no point saving water, as it doesn't do you any good unless you drink it, or rather have drank.  At 8.4 pounds per gallon, you may carry 18-20 lbs of water with you and still not have enough, so be smart about both exhaustion, use, and consumption.
​
 
Just as the sun shines brightly in the daytime, the moon seems to do the same at night, and it isn't a bad strategy to bring an eye-shade for sleeping soundly when the moon comes around to nudge your sun-baked soul out of bed like a zombie.  In case you are a bit of the "wimpy type" tuning out the nighttime may create a more restful evening, and that said -- a pair of ear-plugs can be a blessing and a curse.  The Good is that dropping 30 dB to tune out someone's f'cking generator, at an RV campsite can save you jail time for sabotage? The Bad is that you may not hear the desert rat, or coyote stealing or chewing through your food bag. This is why I've included a Tent (I prefer this to a solo Bivvy) and 10-30 feet of Paracord or tent-line. This is great for bear-bagging food out of reach of critters, (I bring night-ize Reflective line). Nothing is quite as frustrating to a good night's sleep symphony, interrupted by a duet of chewing sounds near your head in the tent or bivvy. This happens when you assured yourself that your tooth-paste, and GORP was safe in your tent space. The trouble with the interruption isn't the missing oral care or snacks, but the hole in your bag, tent or worse, the whole bag stand-off with a midnight pack of dogs.

Lets focus on the good stuff.  It's all good stuff, when you plan for inconvenient contingencies. Bag your food up high and away from your slumber.  If you hope to be worth-a-shit tomorrow, then let whatever be, BE, farther from you as you sleep.  A critter may come and go, and you'll be happy that you didn't notice them, when you awake to find your stuff exactly where you left it. 
I like to make a campfire, but in most bike-packing, lugging a cord of wood isn't practical, so if you cannot source it locally, and it's half-past freezing by 9:30 P.M. then you can snuggle in your bag with a magazine, or some Pink Floyd.
​Entering the desert from any angle is sure to make an impression upon you. If you are not from around here, you may comment how out of place you feel, or wonder how countless people with a bit more resolve than you have survived it for millennia. Entering Joshua Tree proper, will increase that effect, as the surreal nature of it's unique topiaries is something out of a Bosch or Seuss illustration.  Many have entered the desert to find themselves, salvation, gold, or something lost in their city life. As parks go, Joshua Tree, is still unique, but not alone in the majesty of it's odd topography, and vegetation.  Unlike Painted Canyon below it, Joshua Tree is scattered in it's exhibits, as though it was created to persuade the visitor to stay and roam and make a week of it.  Surely one can visit from the coast in a day, and be back in the Santa Ana Hills for a sunset, or back in Newport for a Beach campfire singalong. Whatever your time-frame, or agenda, something here will make you feel humble -- if a bit edgy. This place imparts the sensation that you have entered a special place, a bit monastic, or parochial in nature.  As with all astonishing architecture, JT creates a wonderment in the most jaded and conceded adults.  It is a place where you can just give in and recognize that you don't know everything yet, and this is validation.  I tend to enter a Cathedral, Bridge, Tunnel, or Ship with a similar sense of amazement, and I wonder how it is that anyone ever conceived of such a task, let alone see it through.
​Joshua Tree's majesty is in it's juxtaposition of  smooth plateaus, and washes with haphazardly stacked rocks. The sense of playfulness of round boulders the size of houses precariously poised upon one another lording over a sandy basin with nothing more than spiky dead vegetation, would lead any outsider to wonder.
​Nothing is actually dead here, although it is far from a verdant fairway. It does feel as though everything was created spiky and formidable to protect some secret treasure.
​
​
​Rock climbers love it here, although the granite boulders are rough, their gnarly abrasion is a bit gentler than it's neighboring cactus, but not by much.  This is why climbers tend to repeat key sites where use has made the cracks more manageable, and less brutal to the hand.  Softer seams of basalt erode between layers of Granite, splitting entire mountains, into manageable slabs, and then into giant boulders, and eventually this seemly sea-bed, polished down these massive bits to balls, which look assembled by a kindergarten of giants at the beach. The talc soft seams appear to span miles, so where a boulder is split, looking down that line will reveal the pattern repeated until they crumble into sand. The effect of following a tilted seam to it's vanishing point is a Zen meditation in itself. Climbing at Joshua Tree can be crowded, and this again is merely because there are preferred stomping grounds, whose charted routes, and anchored bolts are more manageable and less life threatening.  If you come to boulder, bring great shoes, and expect them to get a bit shredded, and bring a tick pad, and some gloves. Anyone can wander along paths, and routes, leaping from rounded rock to the next takes some skill, balance, and stamina.  Enjoy a hike, and some scrambling regardless of your age, but use caution.  The granite here can be slippery, and sharp as barbed wire. As crowded as mid-day in the winter may be, hold on -- most guests will be gone well before night-fall. A menagerie of creatures, and a monumental payoff in scenery and shifting colours happen when the desert quiets, and most day-tripper have left. At Dusk sleeping rabbits, spring to action devouring flowers, which may have only opened a few hours earlier. Fox, Sheep, Coyotes, and Mountain Lions all prefer Dusk, and dawn, when it's cool, & still. 
 
Coffee Break  
Coffee is important to me, and I am a snob in this dominion as with Bikes. A such, I have in-fact found the proverbial Holy Grail of Coffee kit for the bike-packer, and it comes in two forms.  Both begin with spectacular grounds and boiling water, while one is a Convenient French Press in my Reactor Camp Stove -- The other is the miraculous Nano.  The Former is simple. It is a long screw stick plunger and a flat disc made by your camp stove preference to press away the grounds to slowly reveal golden black coffee.  I like MSR's, but Biolite, Jet-Boil, and others all have Press-pot kit options.  The real magic begins at dawn with a great cup of coffee, and for me, I will sacrifice one pair of socks, and ExOfficio briefs for the Nanopresso ultraportable Espresso maker.  This is simply the most essential piece of Bike-pack/Backpacking gear since the Flashlight, and Pocket-knife. I don't endorse leaving these two essentials behind in favor of the savor of a shot of Espresso, but one does have some decisions to make. What do you find to be essential travel gear? Bear with this indulgence.
I was asked by a fella from Portland, "What key piece of gear could you never take another adventure without", and as absurd as this may seem...  I'd find it tough to leave the Nano behind.  I told him my Axe, was also high on my list, for which We received another roll of the eyes; More on that later.
 What is the Nano, from Wacaco? have a look at it? it is barely larger than a rolled up pair of socks, and weighs about as much a large swiss-tool.  It's magic follows:

The Shape of your bike and your winter form may both be in tip-top, as you tell yourself..., or they may be a bit rusty, like mine, but the Bike is the easy one to fix. Your own form takes a bit longer to bring up to speed.
Everyone has a favorite ride, and some lucky few have a ride for each condition, uniquely suited to every outing: e.g. Gravel, Touring, Fat, Gnarley, Ultra-Light, Full Springer, Cruiser, Stoner, Lock-up, Electric, who knows how many one needs.  I know that my focus has mostly been upon permutations of the Road Genre. I have a favorite bike for club-rides and fondos. I have a favorite bike for Gravel, Cross, and the less well paved. I also have a bike that I thought I'd love for both, and don't care much for either.
For this Trip I brought the Swiss-tool of bikes, in fact we both did; We brought the Specialized Diverge.  Mine was the S-Works, with a Future-shock, and his was the Comp Model without. If you looked at it in a store you may notice that the S-Works appears race or Sport suited, rather than a thoroughbred Pack Bike... But don't be fooled. It is surprisingly well suited to long haul trucking over questionable terrain.  The tires are fat, the ride is plush, and the hi-fi is on in the background.  The S-Works Diverge does not have a complex when it gets looked at sideways.  The frame carries water like a camel, the Wheels are well built and strong, the Stance feels planted and the steering holds a line in a loaded down-hill as though on rails. In fact I think the brilliance of this bike was just such shone through the lens of this particular Desert Sojourn.  The gearing was wide and varied enough to be effective at speed, and torquey at Climbs.  The two present questions as I decked the bike out with the full kit of bags was the dread that something dainty and glamorous such as the shock, stem, saddle or post would snap in half.  Nothing catastrophic such as that occurred, in fact neither bike sustained a "Mech" (technical issue) whatsoever.  The Dropper seat-post and stock carbon railed saddle held the full measure of the loaded seat-bag, the Medium frame pack mated to the frame with space for bottles, and the Handlebar bag, did not destroy the Future-shock.  In Fact the Future shock performed even loaded with a Sleeping bag, Camp stove, Puffy Coat, Bivvy, and Sleep Pad, and of course my Nanopresso.  The rebound was silky the whole trip, in flats, drops and hoods.  Descents, and Climbs were cheerful, and well guided.  Modification Note:  I asked Apidura for clips to match my Expedition handlebar bag, and then I created a Y-shaped webbing to tether some light bulky crap atop my bag, and it worked brilliantly.  I suggested to them to include this or sell it as an accessory; but just the same they obliged me with a full set of clips to create more stowage on my front end, and this dollop atop my bag had no ill-effect on my control.  Further Modification: I used the single fork braze-on to mount the top bolt of two water cages to each side of the fork, (this holds the gravity of the load) while I used a stainless zip-tie to strap the bottom of the cage to the fork, (a bit askew), which made the Cage perpendicular to the ground rather than following the fork rake, and I placed two 22 oz Bottles (full for the duration) to my forks, and this operated flawlessly. It's amazing to me that we rode for a week without breaking something. The S-Works Diverge is a champ, and despite having some legit complaints which I'll address in another article... The Bikes performed as well as we could have expected, in spite of glaring holes in my preparedness.
Here is what I forgot to bring:
Chain Lube, Chain Pins, & Links -- Brought 10, not 11 speed.
Torx Wrench for Caliper alignment --Small Ratchet didn't fit.
Spare Tire -- We brought the usual Park-Tool Boot Kits.
Full size sun-block -- We brought the small stick roll-on.

So Besides these holes in my preparedness, ...Anything that could have gone wrong, did not.
Full disclosure, the Stock bike was not modded whatsoever except, the Spec Carbon Hover-Bar was swapped for a flared Easton Carbon Bar to impart stability and clearance in the drops and hoods. I don't think the Hover bar's upright position benefits me much, and as such I don't see returning it to this bike.
 

 America's Cup Class Racing and Cycling should seem to have as much in common as Mormonism, and Halloween, but lately that has changed.  While I am certain that nobody really knows the rules of High End Yacht racing craft; e.g. There are indeed rules, but what a sailboat looks like today, and what most children would draw as a sailboat are worlds apart.  This evolution must have most rule makers scratching.  Creating new rules after they are broken and attempting to keep pace with innovation, js a folly. What a bike looks like have diverged greatly since 1985. In the mid nineties, and early in the century, Bikes took a brief transformative trip to la la land, using the Full suspension Bike Craze, to typify a new bizarre tribe of strange. Oddities and Side Show freaks from brands like SoftRide, Trek, Kestrel, and Ibis all of which touched boundaries for strange morphology moving the classic diamond frame into bizarre and innovative classes, before (thankfully) returning to their senses. One only needs to view Trek's "Y" Bike or the Softride, road frame to understand the depravity of bike morphology. This said... Sailing innovation leaves most struggling to understand how any of it works, and how they sail it, whereas a bike is still managed in the same manner.

Recently I sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, and in spite of some daily disasters everything went quite well.  I brought with me many articles of Cycling clothing, which I'd anticipated (in shopping for the trip), would cross-over from Road Racing in Shitty weather, to Sailing the blue ocean quite well.  I was right.  A shadow fabric, or polarTech Pro piece is a great compliment to windy spray, although perhaps some implied warranties are voided by bringing chamois onto a boat.  Nevertheless, a padded short, some jerseys and some weather wear from Santini, Gore Bike Wear, Rapha, and others, seem to be mutually reciprocal from one sport to the other... That is, If you consider sailing a sport. Nevertheless a jersey has a marsupial benefit for hydration, tools, gloves, a marlin spike, and other useful storage, that it is a wonder that more sports don't adopt some Cycling jersey Properties.  When not on watch, trimming and steering the boat, there is some downtime, and listening to music, audio books, reading and flipping through aging sailing mags, is some of the fun you can count on. In fact any collection of lit, will soon be re-read until every advertisement, and camera angle has been memorized. 
If you are racing the ocean in the ARC from Northwest Africa to the Leeward Islands, then you can count upon no peace, but for lack of wind, when all the time in the world may seem to present itself at once.  At this point, sailing is a bit like babysitting, and as long as the baby sleeps you have nothing to do. If the baby slept and you had a bike trainer you could make up some time, and stay in shape... So flipping through sailing performance magazines sheds a light upon some similarities between the two sports.  One is Carbon. Carbon is everywhere.  In fact there is so much carbon, Vectran, Spectra, Dyneema, and the like in performance sailing, that you would think that there isn't enough left for Indy-Car, nor Aerospace.

What I saw in sail magazines (not unlike Rouleur) was the absolute bleeding edge introduced into a sport where the majority of the boat owners, and Not (necessarily) their sailors or captains seem to have unlimited means. That said, many of those who buy into sailing and boats operate under a delusion that things just always cost that much, and have less concern that the sport of owning and maintaining a boat is destined to dry your bank account.  If this sounds familiar to the passionate cyclist, then read on...

The costs for even a dinky Lazer sailboat is high when compared to a canoe, or Lund Fishing Row Boat., But Sailing is thus analogous to cycling that the sportsman will always see some merit in the next innovation, and buy it, or yearn to own it, forgetting some major core needs like food and health-care.

Looking at the Really deep pockets from sponsors such as Land Rover, AMD, and Oracle, the America's cup boats don't actually look much like boats, and they don't "really" sail but they do fly upon the water. Anyway, now you know what's up, and if you don't, then here is the best (Sailing) advice anyone can give; "If it floats, flies or fucks, then... rent it." 
Now back to the Bicycling crossover.  If the wind stops, and you are on a sailboat, then the baby is sleeping, and you may get bored, and consider how much you miss riding your bike. At this point you may stray into a daydream about a rig on the boat where you could ride your trainer, and even create some watts to charge your gadget, and watch a VR version of yourself pass your boat through the blue ocean. You may have seen an under-desk bike trainer with a resistance dial and mileage counter, and contemplate why you hadn't thought to pack one, or further extrapolate the merits of such a device attached to the boat in such a way that you and could save the race by gearing the bike to the prop, and push forward, under your leg-power.

If you had Big Money sponsors, such as America's Cup, then you are in a constant battle for the Mine's Bigger award, and your funders expend countless resources to show off their splendid wealth with these edgy sail machines, exploring innovative morphology, to leap ahead of the competition.  The Latest innovation to the bleeding edge, is to optimize human power on the boats by adding Pro Cyclists to the mix.  How does this even work, you ask, well I'll explain, and perhaps you can get your resume in with a new sailing-cycling team.  Imagine that you are using your trainer in your pain cave, but instead of powering your toaster you are powering a foil, wing, or impeller to make a boat go faster. Imagine that you had your Zwift aligned in a Tandem, Triple, Quad, or Quintuple Tandem to cascade your work with other's to contribute to the sport. Because you really don't know points of sail and sail trim, but do like the water, you may need to work hard to catch-up, as sailing is not easy. As you read this however, there is a new niche for a savvy cyclist sailor.  And... You are welcome, because there may be a job waiting for you in this sport after all, if you can hack it.
Although first you would need to learn to sail, really really well.
Introducing Emirates Team New Zealand, and the new normal at the bleeding edge of what's possible in Sailing with Bikes. One may only need to traverse an ocean with a sailboat once in their lifetime, but it is good to know that perhaps in the near term, as the wind dies, there may be a pedal assist to prevent a complete doldrum, and dead calm which would force you to read sailing magazines.  Just the same, (for those not yet baptized in the sailing world),  you may be thrilled to know that if your bike only floated you could likely beat the best sailors across the ocean, using your quads, without ever flying a sail, provided you had enough to eat and drink.  ...The average mono-hull sailing speeds are actually slower than your group-ride.

If you follow extreme sports you may not ever see America's Cup on the same channel, but don't be fooled by their lack of inclusion -- Every America's Cup Sailor is likely in better shape than you are, and likely a bit more fearless. You will need to be in top shape for daddy to hand over the keys to his One-Hundred-fifty Million Dollar Boat.

Oh by the way... Sailing across the ocean is a bit like running/cycling the same distance, only the hissing heaving ocean below, hates you.

 

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'Halloween is a good time to test our Zombie apocalypse preparedness plans, and what better time than now to bring attention to the new generation of Cycling zombies who have recently been infected and are plaguing the hood.  Awareness means (roughly) paying attention, and reviewing observations to a considered conclusion. So being aware of a ten-ton truck steaming towards you whilst entering an intersection illegally but cavalierly on your dumb-shit fixie, with deep-V powder-pink rims, is perhaps a skill for self-preservation that your mother taught you as a young lad. Or perhaps not.  The same lady could certainly not have given you the dumb-shit sense to remove the brakes from your bike, or told you that you are perfect in every way, right? ...So if you are struck with a bad emotion it would be someone mean's fault and not your flaw that prompted the discourtesy.  I'll go out on a limb and say that likely when you all got a trophy for soccer, and for dance-club, and for your science presentation, that your mother didn't also interject that if you feel like getting hit by a truck today, that's totally fine... (they likely have a trophy for that as well). And why not?,  Because your diapered entitled intellect is use to the blissfully clueless zombie malaise in which your are candy-coated. Happy Halloween dipshit, this is your moment.
So we have this new thing in Chicago, which like most things in Chicago are not new at all, but repurposed, much like Cuba, may keep a 60 year old truck running as new for delivering meat; Chicago re-uses bridges, Roads, and Train-tracks for all sorts of things, merely because we can find the pocket-change to make something new.  Infrastructure is not our strong suit here, and that's precisely why our commuter rail and Elevated (the "L"), is just a repurposed  heavy freight train line, and some coal mine shafts -- both used to deliver cargo from off-loaded Barge traffic. So... We don't use that any more, and it works great, because what used to deliver fuel, and commerce to the basement of our department stores, now delivers commuters to the same buildings where no commerce seems to remain. Sound Dystopian, what for the Zombie part.
So someone got the great idea (another borrowed one, thank you Minnesota), to use the old Bloomingdale Rail Line which runs east west through a number of neighborhoods from the Kennedy expressway, at Ashland, to the "West-Side" for a leisure park, and athletic pathway. The work (of course) cost too much, but the result is nice, with a straight shot above traffic one can run, jog, stroll, or bike from Bucktown to, as far west as one would typically want.  One of the planning talking points and justifications was to bring diverse people together and hell, just use the space that was otherwise a wasteland hobo camp.
So they formed an organization and corralled funds to pave this elevated rail line and create safe ingress and egress ramps in many key streets which cross it perpendicularly, to allow people access to this park, and make a quick trip for bikes and pedestrians who choose to travel East<->West without the traffic travail. In the past twenty years, I've worked in all sorts of cycling related endeavors.  I have run a shop or two, I have raced for money and just for glory, I have worked closely with manufacturing, and marketing, and I've even helped soul-less monster companies absorb the soulful smaller ones, so that they can become larger monsters. Which brings me to Soul-less.  When someone says the word "Soul" we first think 'James Brown', and then we delve into deeper existential topics. When one mentions "Zombies", we may also immediately word-associate with the "Soul-less", so if should come as no surprise that when we put a corporate spin on cycling, and remove the soul from a bike, we could arrive at the most empty shell of the bicycle gestalt, and that would perhaps be a "fixie". If you own one of these you should still be able to agree that in-spite of it's elegant simplicity, as with a human sans brain, and soul, we would have just a body wandering the earth, at risk of being hit by something.
So the 606 Bike Trail and Park has done some amazing things to pull together many cultures, who formerly drove, bussed, or trained from their hood to another without paying much mind to the other. Someone could for example head west for incredible Street Tacos, or East for some Craft Beer, and or someone could just take a stroll with a pooch on a leash or their ferret on their shoulder, and absorb some of each-other's diversity, with a bee-line back home to their own cozy corner of the galaxy. When guests come to visit, one generally finds themselves finding things like to 606, as something unique to show them, and so for me, rides are not done here, but for many it is their bike path, and commuter route. 
So someone somewhere got a third-hand bike, and shined it up, and in the absence of the coin needed to buy a car, became quite popular amongst their tribe for their new gadget granting liberty to travel freely up and down this new Bike Path, without any motor traffic, to flirt with friends, explore, or just hang out. When they were not up to the task of maintaining their new hand-me-down ten-speed, then pulled the derailleur, shortened the chain, and re-taped the bars to enter a new single-speed sub-culture.
If you start with a P.O.S. it's tough to make that pig sing, so after some time, those more vain entrants of the new cycling sub-culture may seek a new frame, without ye-ol' brands to sully it's chipped paint starting with "SCH...", or ending in "...EIGH". I'll be the first to admit that when I saw new brands, such as Surly, Throne, or SE Racing re-entering the bike set with Stripped-down Zombie Bikes, I was not sure whether this was a short-lived pandering to a trend, or a renaissance of something altogether new and stupid. Once upon a time, on the Velo Track in Northbrook Illinois, I rode a Cannondale and Paramount Track Bike to some success. These were not Kirin Racing Machines, but I built them up with Campy High Flange Hubs, or Phil Wood's, with some Polished Araya's, or Open 4CD's from Mavic, and at the time I thought the spoke count would never go lower than 28, but I used 24's. Both bikes had "real" handlebars, but one of them eventually caved to peer pressure and donned a Nitto Bull-horn Bar, polished of course. I recall riding Kreitler Rollers all year round on these machines, and visiting friends always marveled at the poise and balance it took to do so.  Really it's just like riding a bike, so no biggie. Anyway, on the topic of Track bikes, or quasi-Kirin fixies, I do recall many friends who liked my single speed machines in all their poised splendor. Becoming infected with the virus to possess one themselves, some of those friends then rode delivery for messenger companies. I'm not taking credit, for anything here, but I don't know of any of my friends who schlepped drawings, legal crap and parcels around the Loop as having Track bikes until this time, and I do recall that because I was without a car to get to the track I eventually sold both bikes to people of the Delivery set.  So sometimes the soul-less bike infects those with souls, and the marriage presses at the fringe of what is, shall we say thoughtful. So I'm back where we began and that is the topic of awareness.  Zombie Awareness... I was not aware back then, that there would come a time when new zombie inductees with barely a ball hair would come streaking down a crowded bike path yelling "no brakes!" Nor would I have projected into the future to know for certain that those same kids may drift down from the path into the street-level crosstown, and charge through intersections with the mental faculty of a chimpanzee on a date-rape drug.
As things go, I'm pretty up-tempo... I don't disparage if it won't affect me. ...Live and let die, right?
So the other day, I'm out on my stoner-bike ("Stoner-bike": defined as a stamped steel coaster-brake AMF P.O.S. with white spring vinyl saddle, White Plastic Grips, rattley chain guard, and single blue rear fender. This was sold to me by a stoner who defined it as such, and said that 20 bucks for a "good bike" was costing him money because he put a new 24 dollar tire on it last week, just to sell it), --Look up N+1, at Velominati, and you'd be impressed that in this consecration, my wife actually handed me the 20, and told me to ride it 'round the block. Anyway my stoner-bike is slow, and the brakes are sketchy. So, I'm not as liberal with my traffic transgressions, (i.e. racing into intersecting traffic against the lights), when the chance of braking, or even reliable steerage is yet a debate topic. My "stoner-bike" and I are out for an errand, to fetch coffee, (the lock for which tripled it's value), and we head the same vector each time, which is perpendicular to the 606 path, and as one may guess the path has Disability-grade ramps for access, and they fall every quarter mile or so in my hood to afford Yuppies and their sleds of Infants aboard the Ethnic Express. (Another reason that I don't ride my Di2, or eTap rigs round these parts.) As a ramp descends to a real world street, the risk is always that some zombie will descend or enter at break-neck speed to show sovereign control over their throne, and as such, the Chimpanzee reference seems fitting, lest we revisit, "ride it like you stole it", which is also a possible Blog post.
And when I'm aboard the stoner-machine, I don't enjoy the zombie ilk whatsoever, mostly because the stoner bike is like my Yoga studio, and I go there when I want to slow down and reflect and even meditate on which velominati rule I most admire, and which ones I may've broken lately. I enjoy that the infection of one kid with a P.O.S Schwinn Collegiate Sport and a new Bike path up the street can become a singularity for a fixie sub-cult that seems self-sustaining -- If even a fledgling  arms race for disc-wheels, and High-flanged Hubs.  But when I say I "enjoy", I mean that I admire that there is always a new pull of gravity into the cycling world's black center, where swirling bacteria is clashing with the the sanitized world of club racing in a planet-making velo-cosmos. I admire that kids without cars have discovered that they won't need one, and that if they sport a Fixie like a Mod to a Vespa, something will change within them. You recall Quadraphenia, when the mods busted up the seaside community because they became a critical mass. There was nothing more than Adolescent unknowing to account for that mess.  No I wont race you, you fool!, we don't orbit the same sun. When you show at my door for candy tomorrow, I'll gladly dole it out with advice as required, smug in the knowledge that I wont be bitten by the Zombie Plague.
​...But when I'm on a coffee run and you enter the surface streets, here are some rules:

Rule number 311: Any cyclist with a beverage or package in hand has the right of way, and any cyclist with a cell phone in hand should yield.

Rule Number 606: Bike Path Zombie Parades and the "Messenger-bag Cloak of Clueless Invincibility" do not apply at Street level, your tween simian zombie flirtations with death, and your fixie-kin rider-etiquette stays up there.

Rule Number 312: When your preferred music player is blasting the "Hip Hop" version of some southern rock song from the strap of your Stupid empty Messenger bag, and it's inhibiting your ability to navigate clear of a stroller or the elderly, then it's Totally OK when someone relieves you of the player, your stupid man-satchel, if not your bike.

Rule Number 911: If your entitled chimp-zombie brain convinced you that a tucked aero track bike without brakes was the better side of the Moulton/Fixie dialectic, and you then slide into the side of a truck going "balls-out", but don't die; then congratulations, you are a dumb-ass, and its best if you don't step up to the driver and pick a fight -- For in this case my chimp-zombie friend,  the blame falls squarely upon your mother's shoulders, and Natural selection is in full effect.

Last Thing: If you cause me to spill my fair trade single origin coffee whilst in stoner-bike mindfulness mode, then aforementioned hot coffee may splash on your face.

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Whether you play the Guitar or Cello, drive a Formula Car, Descend a Double Black, or single track barely feathering the brakes, you can consider the edge of that fear envelope the very essence of edgy.  I recently saw one of my favorite bands play out at the Aragon Ballroom, and thought about these boundaries. Bound by the edges of a Spanish Castle, the Aragon Ballroom was built as the courtyard of a long dead mythical King.  Rising on all sides are terraces as one may build a film set or a scaled Disney version of Medieval Spain for Epcot.  In Purely practical terms, the Aragon is far better as a Dance-Hall Or Ball Room than as a music venue.  It's flat, (not sloped), and the stage almost never rises to the level of a great view. The audience gathers in the courtyard of a Spanish Villa, but no-one can grab a higher vantage point to see above the swarm of warm bodies, cologne and smoke. The domed ceiling is speckled with stars and comets, and the effect is novel and clever.  It is almost always as hot as a July Evening in Seville. The surroundings are amusing and play well into the Spectacle of a great concert.  The envelope that is the Spanish Castle enwraps the patron even if the opener doesn't. The very edge of the cosmos above rings with shrill tweeters, pushed to their limits. The Colonnade and crowd surge to absorb the rest of the ring in the room. When you succumb to a great band, you give them license to occupy a bit of space both in the room and in your mind -- for the duration, you seem to check-out.  As a Child I recall the moments when I re-attached to reality after being lost in a compelling cartoon, or movie.  I always thought about how One could notice the very moment that they surfaced from being lost in fiction, being completely taken by a Film, or story, but how strange it was that one could not place the moment that they submitted to being usurped in fantasy.  We remember Teachers reading books to the class, some students sleeping, while others created holographic images of the characters in our heads.  Being transfixed by a fiction, or succumbing to a fantasy plays at the edge of your brain someplace, where we escape. We could have stayed home, and considered any venue or gathering as the next planned attack. Do I occupy the show, or do I allow terror to occupy my thoughts.  The choice seemed a simple one. I thought as the band played last night -- that if they could play more intensely, I was not sure how. I think the band may have hit that spot where they too needed to vent the week's news. The audience was enraptured, and became captive in the fiction which they wove. It sucks when you have to return from that place, but in doing so you make the escape that much more real, bringing back something tangible, if not just a t-shirt. The new normal may appear a dystopian wreck where people regularly vent with violence, and or grand-stand with some outrageous act or tweet... for global attention, and shame, just before they are imprisoned or killed. My new normal will be the "same as it ever was" (to quote Talking Heads), To flagrantly oppose mind control.  

The edge of this venue's solid tangible boundaries are fictional Facades where the sound reflects from railings, walls, arches, balustrades, and ceilings, This fictional reprieve is where going for broke on a Guitar, Keyboard, or any instrument, can transcend the crazy media. Whenever we see a bumper sticker that says "Drive it like you stole it", or "No Fear", we are reminded of the adolescence of these words; Yet when riding a bike at the edge of or beyond ones comfort level, we enter the rarified air of a new threshold.  The same place along the edge of comfort lies anywhere where we feel that we may break the instruments if we keep up the pace.  In Tom Wolf's depiction of astronauts pushing the sound barrier for his Epic Book "The Right Stuff", we are reminded that only a special few could ever be considered to dance with such a boundary, let alone be given the keys to such a costly ride at the speed of sound.  Each day every bike on the road, may have a fleeting touch with death or injury at the hand of a careless driver. Taking a bike to work by definition means navigating a churning maze where a million walls are always moving in on you. Giving up your daily pleasure ride because some madman in a rental truck inspired by a zealot decides you should, is just as whack.
On 9-Eleven, I played tennis in the shadow of Grant Park's mesmerizing sky-scrapers, there was a hush downtown, buildings were empty, asleep -- As if someone pulled the trigger on a freeze-ray and the gun rendered all life frozen at a molecular level.  This was the silent moment when Chicago's Population seemed to remain home and hold their breath.  I felt like the only person moving in a film where I was supposed to stop a bullet and change the course of the plot while the world stood still.  Unfortunately I couldn't change the bullets trajectory, but set out to change the course of the mourning, by freeing my mind for something normal, and enjoyable.  Skipping around the tennis court couldn't change the past, but we can change the future. My Game was not necessarily good, but was good enough to decompress, and to change the future. I could stay home, and be held under the spell of fear and hatred, bound by terror, or go out and do something normal.
The fact was, while the city was frozen, I saw an opportunity for court-time where I was never able to. I also saw the chance to free myself from the bond of evil that plagued everyone that day. We rode our bikes on empty streets, en route to a ritual undoing where rackets and bikes moved unfettered beneath ominous looming sky-scrapers.
 
A runner, swimmer, or cyclist knows similar silence, when they are in the zone, and the bubble remains sealed and silent until something shatters their dome of quietude. We cannot place the moment when we enter that space, just the time when we surface.  Riding my Bike down a hill, or through a crowd of gridlocked cars, waiting for a door to swing open, and break the silence, defines the edge of the bubble where most fun occurs. Waiting for a bomb, blast, crazy person, or gunman doesn't fit into my schedule. I'm hopeful that the new normal makes outrageous acts less likely going forward if only because in the cacophony of idiots, who has time to give attention to all of them. Perhaps they will abstain because we don't pay them any mind. Perhaps like a barking dog, or raging two year old with a bag of candy they merely need to be ignored.

Defining edgy is simple; Edgy lies somewhere in that quietude, when you succumb to the music, and walk along the ledge of your own comfortable compartment.  You push against the envelop where you are no longer consciously controlling the outcome.  You are giving into an elevated moment to be washed over with emotion.  Playing the borders you may descend a hill at mach speed, the speed at which you know you should have applied the brakes back there someplace. You coast through a sea of cars, or people, expecting the outcome to be exclusively as it is ordained, but  unsure what that outcome is. When one of my favorite bands played last night to an eager crowd, it reminded me that they were playing at the very near edge of what was possible... They were playing the instrument with the feeling that they may break it.  If you have ridden your bike at this boundary, ridden at the edge of where you think the gauges may crack, and or fate could change without our say so; then you have learned the word edgy.

When you succumb to a Music Event, Ride where their are crazies on the prowl, or worship whatever you wish, you wield a license to negate fear. A bit of respite, and fantasy is what you need right now.  When you submit to a fast descent and push your fears aside to ride the silky fast thrum of your heart-rate, breathe deeply, Dance wildly, because this ride inflates you with fantastic clarity. Inhaling inside this dome, where the band is leaving everything on the stage, will bring back good energy. Here is a secret stash, a conservatory of good air at the edge of the manilla envelope.  

When you succumb to fear, you allow someone you cannot stand, to hold you underwater. Terror allows someone who hates you, to gain control.
It may seem un-clever to read a "No Fear" sticker on one-in-ten trucks passing through the rust belt, I don't have one of them, and it's not (necessarily) my motto, but they may be onto something.  If you've scoffed at a simple phrase or motto then perhaps you owe it to yourself to ask why. To stay home when loathsome terror cautions against an adventure, is as silly as shaming someone's sacred sticker temple. See if you can glean some inspiration and keep moving on.
If a zealot drives a truck down a bike path, or a crowd's killed by a cowardly shooter, then I don't want to read their bumper sticker agenda.  Terrorism is mind control, which you have been winning against for many years, right?

Edgy is an antidote for mind control.            Now may be a great time to embrace the edges.