Low Pressure #1

First and foremost, this is a zine about randonneuring,
which is self-supported long distance cycling. It’s one
of the few niches of cycling that is not competitive.
There are no winners, it’s not a race and you don’t get
anything if you finish. And guess what? If you think
riding 1000 kilometers makes you cool, I have news
for you. 99 percent of the world just thinks you are a
weirdo who likes to exercise too much.
But the people who do this are the most diehard
weirdos ever. While the rest of the cycling world’s
idea of taking cycling ‘seriously’ means adhering to
an unspoken dress code and obsessing over marginal
speed gains, I think the person riding some old Miyata
in Crocs and a worn out neon vest for 24 hours straight
by themselves could be considered more ‘serious’ by
almost any metric.
The most important thing, above all else, is have fun,
ride the bike you like at the places you like, and don’t be
a fuckin narc.
Thanks so much to the solid people who contributed
to this issue. Special thanks to Modelo, without their
help this zine might have been something people
actually want to read.
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CONTENTS
This issue is dedicated to Roy Ross, who
passed on this year. He was a rock n’ roll
encyclopedia, had probably ridden every single
trail in Henry Coe at least 5 times, and was
one of the most diehard randonneurs I’ve ever
met or heard of. I remember being just behind
him in the early morning at the bottom of Orr
Springs Road when his fork crown separated
from the blades. Crazy shit. Had that happened
just moments before it would have been
disastrous. Too diehard to stop, he straight up
rode someone else’s bike from Ukiah back to
SF. I remember being at the finish and the look
on everyone’s face as they watched Roy roll in
was so fucking awe-inspired, it still makes me
kind of emotional thinking about it. He was
about as real as they come, rest in peace.....
RANDO TIPS AND TRICKS....................4
RUFF STUFF.............................................................6
RANDO DIO...........................................................16
HEAD SPACE.......................................................20
BOMB SQUAD...................................................22
ROAD SPOTLIGHT.......................................38
TOP 5...........................................................................40
QUEEF RIDGE....................................................42
DOLMA-TINI.......................................................46
OCVA...........................................................................50
DAD’S CORNER................................................58
ROADINI REVIEW.........................................59
POTIS’ CAMPFIRE TALES...................60
*IF YOU ARE A FALSE DON’T ENTRY*
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RANDO TIPS AND
TRICKS
Every randonneur knows that the secret to finishing a
challenging brevet isn’t just endurance. You need to ride
smart and employ the tactics of the road. Here are some
helpful tips:
–Always start the ride hungover. While it’s tempting to
start the ride full throttle, you’ll find yourself with waning
energy when the miles really start to add up. Starting
hungover forces you to remember that you have a long
ride ahead of you. By the time you sweat the poisons out,
you will feel born again while the riders around you are
starting to burn out.
–If you are at an information control, don’t write down
the answer. Just take a picture with your phone and write
it down at the end. It’s easier than fidgeting with your
brevet card, and it will save your time.
–Try not to take a shit before the ride. If you can, hold it
in until about halfway into the ride. You’ll feel like a brand
new person after the burden is lifted.
–Consider using tea tree oil on your anal region to help prevent
saddle sores. It works pretty good and weirdos in the small
towns that you pass through will recognize the smell and treat
you as one of their own. They may offer you a beer, or maybe
even a hit of their spliff.
–Don’t jack off before the ride. Some consider it bad luck, and
rumor has it the ghost of Velocio will haunt you on a brevet if
you start with ‘sticky fingers’.
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“I’m watching you”

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RUFF STUFF
Photos by Juliayn Coleman
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WAS DIO A
RANDONNEUR?
I remember listening to ‘Dream Evil’ on King Ridge
400k, by myself in the late afternoon, and thinking only
a randonneur could have come up with this. He’s always
talking about the night, neon stuff, internal struggle......
part of the beauty of course is the enigma. What is he really
talking about? The best words come from those who know
to leave enough space for the listener to fill in the blanks
with their own imagination, their own reality. But still, there
have been a few times while out riding and listening to Dio
where I have noticed an uncanny tone of perserverance to
his lyrics. It’s almost like at just the right time he inspires
me to push through a difficult climb or headwind. I’d like to
think he’s watching over me at the final control, high in the
sky, waiting to sign my brevet card and slam a few beers
with me.....
Look at the very first song on HOLY DIVER for
instance. ‘Stand Up And Shout’ has this part of
the song where I’ll be damned if he’s not talking
about struggling through a headwind, trying to
move down the road to the next control.
You’ve got wings of steel
But they never really move you
You only seem to crawl
You’ve been nailed to the wheel
But never really turning
You know you’ve got to want it all
Or how about the chorus on ‘Rainbow In The
Dark’? It really captures the juxtaposition of wearing
fully reflective cycling gear while spiritually
you are eclipsed with doubt and weariness as you
Was this photo possibly taken at a
PBP gymnasium sleep stop?
ride into the wee hours of the night.
No sign of the morning coming
You’ve been left on your own
Like a rainbow in the dark
On SACRED HEART we have another great
rando song, ‘Like The Beat Of A Heart’, which
describes the sheer urgency of the need to get out
and just fucking ride sometimes.
Tonight we run
We can hide in the dark
When the moon steals the light from the dying sun
Oh run
It’s a better thing than we have ever done
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There’s a beast that lives inside you
And it’s screaming to get out
Like the beat of a heart
Don’t look behind
Cause a tear that never dies
Can only make you blind
You’ve got to try
Cause the future’s never never gonna die
There’s a beast that lives inside you
And it’s screaming to get out
It’s a storm that’s never ending
It’s a truth without a doubt
Tonight we run
We can hide in the dark
Till the moon steals the light from the sun
Moving on to DREAM EVIL, the very first track,
‘Night People’, is a veritable rallying cry to those
who love riding bikes through the night. Perhaps
the electric eyes he is referring to are dynamo hub
powered lights....
Hey dream child
Promises are spoken
And promises are broken
Electric eyes that never let you
See them in the day
Night people
Night people
Do you like the dark
Do you like the way it moves
Do you come alive when neon
Kills the sunshine
On ‘Faces In The Window’, Dio sounds as if
he is describing arriving at a Safeway early in the
morning, utterly exhausted and ready to take a
nap behing the Starbucks counter.
Give me - shelter - shelter
I can face the day
Then I’ll just fade away
Give me shelter
Give me shelter
Sleep comes - slowly
The fire starts to die
You open up your eyes
Faces in the window
Noises in the night
Faces in the window
Hiding from the light
Faces in the window
There are many more secrets to Dio’s lyrics,
but some stories are best left to unfold before
one’s own eyes.
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HEAD SPACE
Riding bikes is great and all, but sometimes it’s the stops
along the way that are really the best part of the ride.
Maybe you find a beautiful place to watch the sunset, or
a really good Mexican food spot you never noticed before.
Maybe you find a great little spot to get naked with a
buddy. This is the section of the publication where we offer
great places for you and a partner to stop on your ride
and get/give a little bit of head. Of course these spots are
selected not only for their scenery, but also for their relative
privacy.
In this edition, we head over to Black Diamond
Mines. It’s a huge park with plenty of gorgeous
scenery, and we all know gorgeous equals
engorged! Despite the great views, there are not a
lot of visitors that come to the park, so there are
a lot of little nooks and crannies to explore. Here
are a couple cool spots that are pretty accessible
by bike.
Firstly, there’s the Prospect Tunnel.
This is the outside, and here is the inside:
I think it’s actually an abandoned mine shaft,
but it’s not that creepy inside. Your prospects of
a sexy experience will definitely be good here, and
hopefully no abandoning of shafts!
It’s really hard to see when you get to the end
of the tunnel so you should probably bring a
headlight or something.
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Secondly, we have Jim’s Place. It’s a little shack
some dude built into the the side of a hill, like a
hobbit, except he wasn’t a hobbit. He was just
some dirty miner dude.
There is plenty of room inside, and since it’s off
a little trail that people don’t use much, you are
pretty much guaranteed privacy.
There are plenty of chill shady spots where
you can cum all over someone’s eternal
resting space. There are more people here than
the other two spots though, so find a good
tombstone to conceal yourself!
Happy head hunting!
If enclosed spaces isn’t your thing, you can also
head over to the graveyard.
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DON MIGUEL’S
SQUAD
Written by Ramon Briones
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As I crested to the top of Black Diamond Trail, I
caught my breath and surveyed the golden hills of the
park on a hot day. I took out my monocular to get a
better look at the old cemetery further down the trail.
Behind a tombstone marked “Potis”, I could see a man,
crouching down and looking back at me through
a set of binoculars. He had a clipboard and would
intermittently jot down notes.
Eric came up over the hill, out of breath.
“Hey Eric, there’s some weird dude hiding in the
cemetery looking at us through a set of binoculars. He’s
dressed really strange. He’s got on a white suit and a
Tejano hat and has a thick ass mustache. He kind of
looks like the dude from the Don Miguel logo. I can’t
figure out what his deal is”
Eric said laughing “Haha...He’s probably just looking
for head. They don’t call that place “The Boneyard” for
nothing.”
“You know all the spots to get head in the parks,
dude. You should write a guidebook.”
“That’s not a bad idea...Hey, do you want to get a
Slurpee?”
“Yeah, I could go for a Bomb too. There’s a 7-11 just
down the way in Brentwood.”
Walking into the 7-11 crusted in dirt and salt, halfbonked
and ready to feast on junk food, I made my way
over to the frozen burrito section and grabbed a Spicy
Red Hot Beef and Bean Bomb. I looked at the wrapper
and was greeted by the image of the man I’d seen in the
graveyard. I tossed it in the microwave and snacked on
some gummy bears while I waited. Was Don Miguel
really cruising for head in a public park? What was he
writing on that clipboard?
Finally, my burrito was done and I went out to the
parking lot to eat with Eric. On my way out, I glanced at
the magazine rack and saw the Don Miguel cosplayer
peering at me over the top of the new issue of Low
Pressure. I tried not to notice him staring and went
outside.
“Dude, the guy from the cemetery is in there. He was
staring at me again.”
Eric’s jaw dropped as he looked past me and gasped
“Don Miguel!”
I turned and the stranger approached.
“Yes, mijo. I am Don Miguel, inventor of The Bomb. I
come to you with a proposal... I’d like to blow you.”
“What...the fuck man?” Was all I could muster. Was
a frozen burrito pitchman trying to blow me in a 7-11
parking lot? I didn’t even think that Don Miguel was
real until about 30 seconds ago and now he’s trying to
give me head? I turned to Eric for support but he looked
as shocked as I was as the Cotton Candy Slurpee
dribbled down his chin from his gaping mouth.
Suddenly, Don Miguel burst out into laughter and
didn’t stop for what felt like 2-3 minutes.
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“The looks...ha ha ha... on your faces...ha ha ha...
Seriously guys, I don’t want to blow you but I would
like to send you to Tahoe to test out my new Sports
Bomb. It’s a frozen Chimichanga designed specifically
for the needs of endurance athletes like you. While most
sports food is based on sugars and electrolytes, my
testing has discovered that this is not enough for the
gnarbone extremist who above all else, needs laboratory
engineered grease to sustain themselves over a taintcrushing
multiday event. I’d like the two of you to spend
3 days in the Tahoe wilderness, underbiking on heavy,
loaded fully rigid dirt touring rigs while surviving solely
off my Sports Bombs and passing out in ditches across
from gas stations like debased vagrants. I’ve designed
a course, The Tahoe Twirl, that will put you through
the most punishing rough stuff known to humankind.
You’ll spend two days climbing above 9000 feet over
boulders, ice and sand testing your bikes and my Sports
Bomb to the fullest. The third and final day will be pretty
chill with flumes, fun mountain biking trails and some
rivers to dip your blown out taints in so that I can test
out my new recovery CBD Micheladas on you. I’ll even
pay for a shitty motel room in Reno and send you home
on a disease ridden train full of tweakers.”
Without hesitation or conference, we both agreed.
Who would pass up an all-expenses paid trip to Tahoe
in the pursuit of sports science?
On the following Thursday afternoon, Don Miguel
and his team brought us to the outskirts of Reno to
begin the ride.
“Ok cabróns, This is the start. I’ve put 69 Sports
Bombs in your randobags to sustain you for the next
three days. Now, I just need you to sign this waiver and
go.”
One of Don Miguel’s assistants approached us with
a clipboard and made us sign our names a dozen times
to forms we didn’t bother to read.
We set off and were almost immediately off our bikes,
pushing them over boulders bigger than us for about half
a mile up a steep grade behind a housing development.
Don Miguel’s laughter filled the air as we struggled up
the mountain. The ride report I read on the trip out here
said the route was 97% rideable but I started to have
doubts about what I’d agreed to.
Finally, we cleared the field of boulders and were on a
trail that was somewhat rideable. We continued the
4000 foot climb to our first campsite near the summit
of Mount Rose. It was getting dark by the time we
arrived so we quickly set up our camp and broke out
the Bombs we carried from Reno while we gazed out
over the lights from the casinos.
“Fuck, this Sports Bomb is tight” Eric remarked.
“Yeah, I think this is my new rando food of choice. I
wish I had a double IPA to wash it down.”
A figure emerged from the darkness, “Buenos Noches
mijos. Care for a cerveza?”
“Oh hey, Don Miguel” I said. “Of course”
We all popped open a can of the new Hazy IPA that
Don Miguel said he’s going to start selling at select gas
stations.
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“Ever since I was a boy growing up in Fresno, I dreamt
of gas stations on the outskirts of shithole towns
that were filled exclusively with Don Miguel products.
Thanks to your hard work this weekend, my boyhood
dream is coming to fruition.”
Don Miguel started to tear up and Eric and I both
raised a toast to the man and his dream. You could see
the pride swell up in his eyes.
“So what’s your story Don Miguel? How’d you get your
start selling dank frozen burritos and chimichangas”
Eric asked.
“Well pendejos, TBH, back in the early 80s I was
a student at Fresno State, doing a double major in
Chicano Studies and Performance Art. I wanted to
examine the caricatures that gringos had created to
capitalize on my culture so I created a character named
“Don Miguel”. This character was a burrito chef that I
based on racist tropes about Mexican-Americans, sort
of like a Mexican Colonel Sanders. I began performing
at galleries and performance spaces around Southern
California. After a few months I was offered an 8 figure
contract by a multinational frozen food conglomerate.
They pay me to dress up like this, do commercials and
come up with diabetes-inducing gas station food. Ever
since, I’ve kind been trapped as this dumb mascot due
to a lifetime contract. Really should have read the fine
print...”
“Oh wow”, I replied. “That’s not what I expected”.
“Meh, It’s lame but I’m rich as fuck, man. Anyways,
I’m going to head back down to my hotel. You guys
should get some sleep. You’ve got a full day of rough
stuff ahead of you. Also, make sure to squeeze out some
grease from your Bomb and slather it on your taint. It’s
loaded with lard and CBDs that will help soothe the
constant chafing. I’ll check in with you guys tomorrow.”
Eric and I woke with the sun the next day, broke
camp and deep throated a couple sports bombs before
leaving. Within an hour, we were shredding some of
the most technical downhill trails I’d ever encountered.
Eventually, we reached the Flume trail above Incline
Village where we followed bear tracks on a narrow
trail hugging the mountains above Tahoe. We stopped
often to soak in the views and take photos.
“Didn’t Don Miguel say this shit was gonna blow out
our taints? This is chill AF,” Eric laughed.
“I know man, this is so much fun. Looks like there’s
some climbing up ahead but whatever. I’m sure it’s fine”.
Eventually we came upon a memorial to some dude
who died on the Flume Trail. Sadly, this guy’s family
decided to use his death as an excuse to chastise
people for riding fast and not wearing helmets. We
assumed they wanted us to take a moment to reflect
on our poor decisions but all we could think about were
what dicks these people were for immortalizing their
disappointment in this guy.
After passing through Marlette and Spooner lakes,
we made a right turn and finally came to the Tahoe
Rim Trail. Immediately, things changed from fun and
photo ops to relentless gnarbone. Shit got steep and
rocky with boulder after boulder to power over. Within
an hour, we found ourselves walking and carrying our
bikes a few yards at a time, riding a few yards and then
getting off again. We still had about 60 miles to go if
we were sticking to our planned schedule, and I was
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getting skeptical.
We hit our lunch spot considerably behind schedule
and ate like beasts. I shandied my beer with some
fountain lemonade while Eric plowed through some
happy hour wings.
We got back on the rim trail and were immediately in
a world of suffering. I think we walked about 90% of
the first 3 miles after lunch. A dude in a mullet and full
sweatsuit scoffed at us as he passed.
“Yeah, uh, this gets even harder so you two fancy lads
might want to go back down to the resort and drink
some rosé with your grandmas”. Fucking prick.
I’d like to say that this gave me the motivation to
keep going but it really just gave me the freedom to
start whining. I whined a lot. Eric just pushed his bike
up the mountain, grunting out of frustration. We spent
a lot of time cursing Don Miguel and his bullshit route.
I think we blew through half our Sports Bombs on the
climb before we came to an incredible view of South
Lake Tahoe.
“Damn dude, we should be riding down there.” Eric
said.
This was the toughest part of the ride both physically
and mentally. First we encountered a field of boulders
near Star Lake that we had to schlep our bikes over.
Once over the boulders, we had to drag our bikes
across fields of ice before trying to ride through ankle
deep sand.
“Fuuuuucccckkkkk!” Eric screamed. “My chain is
jammed from all this sand. You’re going to have to leave
me up here man. I’ll try to survive off twigs and bear shit
until you get back.”
“Nah, Don Miguel said the grease in these Bombs
could rejuvenate our taints. Let’s see if it can resurrect
your chain.”
I pulled out a Sports Bomb and squeezed it over Eric’s
chain. The grease washed out the grime and provided
a sorely needed lubrication that allowed him to keep
pushing.
We finally summited, exhausted and on the verge of
defeat. We stopped to soak in the scenery and then
began a 2 hour, super technical descent to South
Lake Tahoe. I crashed twice, mainly due to the grease
leaking out of my randobag onto my brake rotors. We
eventually ran out of daylight on the longest day of the
year and were still hours from where we had planned
to sleep. We decided to skip the final 6 miles of single
track that evening and detoured onto a paved forest
road which afforded us a fun descent into town.
We found a Rotten Robbie that had a shockingly
impressive beer selection. I popped my Sports Bomb
Unfortunately, we had to climb another thousand
or so feet to reach the high point of the ride at nearly
10,000 feet.
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in the microwave and loaded up on Dopplebocks and
Imperial Stouts. We talked about riding back the mile
or two to that pristine forest we had just left with our
Rotten Robbie haul but in the end decided to just eat
and pass out in the vacant lot between the Rotten
Robbie and the prison work camp.
The next morning, I awoke to what I assumed was a
waterboarding. Someone was holding my head down
and I felt like I was drowning. “Wake up mamón! Time
to get back on the road.” I jumped up and realized that
Don Miguel was pouring a recovery michelada down
my throat while I slept. Eric was leaning against a tree
and shotgunning one. Don Miguel laughed and handed
me the can.
“Kill it. I’ve got some Breakfast Bombs for you too.
Today’s going to be a lot easier. Just pound some
recovery micheladas and dip your swollen taints in the
river and you’ll be fine. I’ll even ride with you today.”
Don Miguel presented us with full Don Miguel’s
Bomb Squad kit for the triumphant ride back into Reno.
The three of us chilled pretty hard that day. Don Miguel
showed us a cool spot along the Truckee River where
we drank beers and laughed at people tubing who
kept getting stuck on this one rock. Don Miguel would
nearly piss himself laughing every time. Despite being
a sadistic route designer with no regard for people’s
gastrointestinal health, Don Miguel was a pretty
lighthearted guy. He even bought us ice cream at an old
brothel in Truckee.
“Hey, let’s skip the long gravel climb and take this chill
ass new single track into Reno,” Don Miguel offered.
The Tahoe-Pyramid trail is probably the cuttiest way
to get from Truckee to Reno. It’s a mix of single track
and gravel that follows the river, highway, old flumes
and railroad tracks into Reno. I’m sure going back up
into the mountains would have been rad but this was a
great way to end the ride.
Back in Reno, Don Miguel got us wasted on Malört
at a Chicago-themed bar and put us up for the night.
“Hey guys, so Monday, you’ll be starting your new
jobs as Don Miguel Sports Bomb reps. I’d like to thank
you for taking this on and continuing the tradition that
I’ve started.”
“Wait, what are you talking about Don Miguel,” I
asked.
“You signed a contract to become a Don Miguel sales
rep. In exchange for train fare and free food, you have
to spend the next 420 days peddling my Bombs at gas
stations across the Western United States. Always
read the fine print!”
So as stipulated in our agreement with Don Miguel,
Eric and I quit our jobs and began touring the Western
U.S. by bike, delivering frozen burritos to gas stations.
Outside the Honeycut store, I counted out the
money that the store clerk paid out for their monthly
delivery and fully realized my new life as a frozen burrito
salesman. “Fuck, we probably should have read that
waiver a little more closely.”
“Yeah, Don Miguel and his lawyers really have us by
the nuts here. Looks like Ferndale is next?”
“Fuck, let’s go…”
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FILL YOUR BODY
WITH SHIT!
Don’t eat this fruit
though
The BOMB comes in all sorts of different flavors for all
sorts of different athletes:
Check out this glowing testimonial from some guy’s
Tour De Los Padres ride report:

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TÄYSIKUU
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PAHA YÖ
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“WHY DIDN’T THEY JUST USE THE
FUCKIN TECNU?”
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ROAD
SPOTLIGHT
It’s no secret California has some pretty sick
roads lurking in the shadows of the big highways
and interstates. While spending time looking over
an atlas or old cycling blogs or Google street view
are always great ways to find good roads to ride,
it never hurts to get a tip from somebody. Here
are some roads that have been almost forgotten,
reminiscent of a time before people were only
going from A to B in the name of efficiency.... Make sure to pay respect to Baby Dick Buddha!
Out in Brentwood is Empire Mine Rd, completely
closed to cars and completely covered with
spraypainted shit talking.
It’s worth a trip just to read all the stupid stuff
people have written all over the road. There’s also
some pretty scenic views to boot, plus you can
connect it to Black Diamond Mines via Star Mine
Trail.
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It should come as no surprise that down in
Santa Barbara there is some insanely sick roads
to check out. The proximity of the coast, which
is still relatively undeveloped, with the mountains
makes for some really stunning wide open views.
On the other side of those mountains is a huge
area of little human interference that extends all
the way to Carrizo Plains and beyond. Spanning
most of the ridgeline of those mountains along
the coast is Camino Cielo, one of those roads
you swear was made to ride bikes on.
The whole road has spectacular views almost
the entire time. You are only a few miles from the
coast as the crow flies, but you get up pretty high
in elevation.
One way to get up to the road is to climb
Romero Canyon Trail. It’s a pretty rad single track
that is well groomed and chill.
When you are out there, there’s pretty much
nothing in the way of supplies except for the
Cold Spring Tavern. Luckily, the Cold Spring Tavern
fucking rules and has some of the best pulled
pork a person could hope for.
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TOP 5 WORST SCHWALBE
TIRE NAMES
TOP 5 BEST BLACK METAL
RECORDS FOR RANDO
TOP 5 BERKELEY
BOWL GUMMIES
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QUEEF RIDGE
350K
While chilling at Albany Bulb one evening, sipping
beers and tea while overlooking the bay, we all
realized it’s been far too long since we’ve done a long
night ride. The winding narrow roads of Sonoma
County and the uninterrupted night skies are a
delicacy to the randonneurs, and so we decided to
once again savor the sweetness of such delights.
We departed on July 10th from Point Richmond,
going over the RSF bridge with a glorious sunset. Nate
mentioned that it was Dio’s birthday.....my blood almost
froze for a moment. I knew this ride would be amazing,
especially knowing He was watching. I made a silent
prayer to him, asking him to watch over his Dream
Children, and then pushed forth into the night.
Juliayn decided to take a
swig of Malört before we
left, just for good luck. We
stashed the bottle on the side
of the road for a celebratory
return. The bitterness pairs
well with sweet victory.
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Before long we were on Lucas Valley. It was the first
real quality road on the ride and I must say I preferred
riding it at night, when there are less cars competing
with you for the small space on the road.
with the intention of disturbing the area around the
road as little as possible. In the early morning light
everything looked mystical and magical as fuck.
Soon we were riding on Chileno Valley, which was
pleasant as usual, although the bucolic agricultural
relics that normally add to the charm of this road
were obscured by the night. Before we knew it 2am
had already arrived. Rather than try to power all the
way through the ride on no sleep, we decided it was
wiser to take a quick nap for a couple hours in the
Forestville post office.
Around 4:30 we rolled on, before the postal narcs
came in there to get their mail and ask questions. I
took a bunch of CBD, ibuprofen and weed tincture,
trying to force my body to numb the taint aches.
Soon we were on Sweetwater Springs Road, which
was probably the highlight of the ride for me. It’s a
true gem of a road, seemingly carved into the earth
We quickly descended down into Guerneville
to summon a feast at Coffee Bazaar. Hot coffee,
breakfast burritos, quiche and other delicious shit was
quickly consumed and savored. Despite the coffee I
still felt half asleep. My eyes felt like donut holes, all
puffy and greasy. I told my riding companions about
a Shueef (pronounced shweef), which is like a shart,
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ut a queef. Like if you are mad at someone you can
say ‘Wow it smells like shit in here, did your mom
shueef?’ My companions seemed to tiredly approve.
Still, we had to move on and so we began climbing up
the legendary Old Cazadero Road, a road revered all
around northern California by those who love riding
forgotten roads.
Russian River and just swim and drink beers? In the end
it was decided we came this far and it would be a shame
to cut out the best parts of the ride. We did decide to
take Hauser Bridge Road instead of going all the way
to Stewarts Point, and then from there go to Jenner and
take the chill way back through Petaluma to Richmond,
eschewing Willow Creek Road. It was much hotter than
we expected so none of us were really bummed to cut
the ride a little short.
The descent down to the creek was fast and
gorgeous. The dirt was looser than it was the last time
I was there, but it was still pretty chill.
It had been a long ass time since I’d ridden King Ridge.
It ruled harder than I remembered: constant sweeping
views, nobody in sight, ripe blackberries littering the
sides of the road everywhere.
After crossing the creek we rolled into Cazadero
and grabbed some snacks before the long King Ridge
section. This is where we realized we weren’t going
to get home until late that night, so there was talk of
making alternate plans. Should we go down to the
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After what seemed like several hours, we reached
Hauser Bridge. I’d never ridden it before, and although
it was beautiful I also found myself climbing a very
steep grade during the hottest part of the day. Luckily
I found a water spigot that was made for cyclists
by some Tibetan Buddhist temple. It felt amazing to
squirt my dome and my clothes with cold water.
Recharged and cooled off, we then pushed on to
Seaview Road, and then the mighty Meyers Grade,
which never ceases to take one’s breath away.
In Jenner we had some snacks while watching some
shitty band play to a flock of yuppy scum. Even though
the music made me sick to my stomach you’d have to
put a gun to my head to get me to not devour the shit
out of a Choco Taco. We looked around for Nate but
it appeared as if he had already made a mad dash for
home, which was pretty understandable.
We left in a hurry, pacelining to Occidental, Valley
Ford, Petaluma, Novato, San Rafael....and before we
knew it we were riding back over the RSF bridge. Luckily
the Malört was still there waiting to greet my lips. All
said and done it was a rad ride, and I would definitely do
it again!
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RECOVERY:THE
DOLMA-TINI
STEP 1: GET THE INGREDIENTS
You need some vodka (or gin), some
vermouth, and your favorite brand of canned
dolmas. Pictured are not my favorite brand
but I didn’t feel like going to Trader Joe’s on
this particular occasion. If you are feeling
extra in need of vitamins you can also add
some olives and olive juice.
Just as strategy and tact is important in
randonneuring, the nutrition the day after the
ride is critical to one’s longevity in this kind
of riding. Here is a recipe that will help you
solve the puzzle of how to remedy the pain of
aching legs and bleeding saddle sores.
STEP 2: PUT EVERYTHING IN A GLASS
You should probably put the dolma juice in
first, so it has time to decant, like a fine wine.
Then put equal parts vermouth and vodka,
and finish with your garnishes. Enjoy!
It is a take on the classic dirty martini,
except the addition of the juice from a can of
dolmas adds much needed sustenance and a
huge boost of flavor!
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OREGON CASCADES
VOLCANIC ARC 400
Nate and I got super stoked every time
we saw a view that was in the Bicycle
Quarterly article about this ride.
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Getting off Amtrak in Klamath Falls. It was
the first time either of us had gotten a sleeper
car, since we didn’t want to start a rid 400 mile
tour on only a couple hours of sleep. Room
was nice, food was shit.
Carcass of something
Some pushing was required
but we were both amazed
at how rideable 200 miles of
dirt was.
BALLS
VOODOO QUEEN 51

Sand spires are pretty sick.
CRATER LAKE
The descent from Crater down
into the valley is lonnngggg.
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Mandatory Volcanic View Listening:
Vulcano - Bloody Vengeance
This is what most of the ride looks like. I have
no idea why there is such a good network of dirt
roads in Oregon but it rules.
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Oakridge has some really cool
murals.
We ran into 2 people
from Seattle doing
the route at the
same time. It was
nice to compare
experiences.
Bull trout info
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At least there’s no cars.....
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Some of the stuff on the route was
not rideable at all and it sucked hard.
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From here on out we just followed the Clackamas River all
the way to Portland. It was super hot and not very scenic
compared to the mountains but we were looking forward
to a Motel 6 and engorging our bodies with burritos.
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DAD’S CORNER
Slow Ride, Take it Sleazy
by Echo Rowe
Welcome to Dad’s Corner, where I unleash my inner
60 year old so that he can tell you about the the time
he saw Ozzy in ’87 but he had to watch the second
half of the show from the medic’s tent because some
uptight bitch ratted him out to security for barfing on
her shoes. Today I’ll be giving you my tips and tricks
for a rock’n’roll bicycle commute that is sure to get your
day started right so you have the inner strength to deal
with those turkeys from accounting and the clown
Steve from HR (fucking ball-buster Steve, who seems to
fucking live for rejecting comp reports).
Dealing with cars and pedestrians when you’re riding in
the city can be a real bummer, so it’s important that you
get your ambiance correct. Do not wear headphones
or earpods or whatever the hell kids are calling them
these days. Headphones cause hearing loss, and as a
rocker, you have little hearing left to spare. In addition,
you need to be able to hear ambulances, horns, and
nice onlookers yelling encouragements such as “I wish
my face was that bike seat”. The best sound system
will include some sort of wireless speaker in your front
basket, or if your phone is loud enough, just crank that
sucker and let her rip. Plus if you blast your tunes, you’ll
be able receive nods of approval from fellow rockers,
you’ll piss off yuppies, AND pedestrians will be more
likely to hear you coming down the street and be less
likely to step in front of you – it’s a win for everyone.
Here are the top 5 albums that help me get my jush on
the way to work.
5. Budgie by Budgie – Fuck, this whole album is full
of bangers, but especially “Rape of the Locks”, an anticonformity
anthem, gets me pumped as I head to work
to conform for 8 hours.
4. Blue Oyster Cult by Blue Oyster Cult – This oldie
is a real goodie. When it climaxes to “Cities on Flame
With Rock and Roll”, I’m rocking out so hard on my
bike that cars actually give me a safe passing distance
because they think I’m suffering from a seizure and
about to buck off.
3. Bad Reputation by Think Lizzy – Jailbreak may
have more hits, but Bad Reputation is my go to. “Turn
Yourself Around” gives me the kick in the ass that coffee
wishes it could.
2. Demolition by Girlschool – Really this track is my
after work #1 go to. These ladies are the best, every
song is a jam, and after a long day of dealing with male
egos, it’s nice to re-center, lady to lady.
1. W.A.S.P. by W.A.S.P. – Are you kidding me? Every
song on this album is a gem. Songs like “I Wanna be
Someone” will give you the fuel to tell Steve from HR
put his comp report where the sun don’t shine.
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ROADINI REVIEW
I bought this frame this year to replace my beloved
black road bike frame that was built by some random
dude’s friend in Berkeley who took a framebuilding
class. It was the fastest and best handling bike I had
ever owned probably, but alas I flew too close to the
proverbial sun of thin steel tubing and cracked the
downtube after riding a ton of super rough cow hoofmarked
fire roads.
So when I decided to replace it with something else,
the replacement had a big boot to fill. I decided it was
probably best to go with something that would be less
likely to break, could fit biggish tires, and still be a road
bike. Rivendell seems to be on a trend of overbuilding
their bikes now so I figured they would be the best
option as far as a road bike that could take a beating.
The Roadini also has a super upright geometry which is
totally cool with me, as I absolutely despise being on a
bike with handlebars lower than the saddle.
I called Riv and asked how big of a tire the frame could
fit and they told me 36, but with Ultegra sidepulls, which
maximize clearance, I found after receiving and building
up the frame that it could easily fit 38 Challenge ‘Gravel
Grinder’ tires. You could probably even fit a 42 slick in
there, so even though Riv says not to ride it on dirt I
think it’s a pretty sick dirt bike.
That being said, it’s definitely not the black no name
bike I broke before. It handles beautifully and certainly
has that Rivendell quality of just feeling pleasant to
ride, but when it comes to climbing it lacks the all out
sporty feeling that makes you want to go as hard as
you can. Bottom line I guess is that it’s fast, but it’s
not super fast. But that’s ok because it’s pretty fun to
ride and it probably won’t break. I’ve made up my mind
that this bike is one hundred percent a keeper.
My only real complaint is that they put braze-ons for
a rear rack, but no mid-fork eyelets for a little rack to
support a bag or a basket. Who the fuck is using a rear
rack nowadays anyway, especially on a road bike? I can
almost guarantee NOBODY is gonna put a rear rack
on this shit. This bike would be a great candidate for
use as a randonneur bike, except Rivendell just totally
fucked that up for no apparent reason. I’ll probably
end up putting a generator hub on it anyways at some
point though....
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POTIS’ CAMPFIRE
TALES
‘Thank you, Officer for responding so
quickly! These bicycle poachers have been
crossing my land and leaving harmful
tire tracks on my dust and embarrassing
me during my confabs’ exclaimed what
seemed to be a small labradoodle leaning
out from the driver’s window of the lifted
pearl white Cadillac Escalade pickup. The
dog’s claws were scratching a well-worn
NPR – national propaganda radio sticker
on the door.
‘Sure thing Ma’am! I live to serve the
landed.’ Drawled the ranger, looking past
the doodle to the pasty person behind
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the wheel. Tipping his Stetson, slapping his
taser and grabbing the nearest of us by the
Pendleton, he lectured ‘Come along to the
paddy wagon trespassers! Bring them funny
bicycles with you now.’
We sheepishly propped our bikes on the side
of the wagon and prepared to climb up when
the ranger stopped us. ‘You know being an
EBMUD ranger is awful boring and if one of
you had a good tale to tell, well, I might just let
you bunch off with a warning.’ A bit shocked,
we looked from one another and seeing my
opportunity, I started off before anyone could
stop me:
There I was…
It was the 4th of July some years back. My
partner Clancy was living in the Mission at
that time, in an apartment a few floors above
Bearingbellie’s Foot Fetish and Cheese shop
on Minna. She lived on the top floor and
we always watch the fireworks up there and
invite our cronies to enjoy it with us.
We worked our way up through the roof
hatch to pick a good spot for our lounge
chairs and the neighborhood fireworks were
out in full display, Bernal competing with
Corona Heights, Noe Valley trying to burn
their neighborhood down before Potrero got
the jump on them. Clancy was over by the
parapet texting Toe-Jamb, the night manager
at Bearingbellie’s to remind him to bring the
beer when he joined us during his evening
break when I saw the ball of flame come over

the horizon.
It came from over Corona Heights and my
first thought was it was a burning balloon
when I realized that it was not rising up
into the sky, nor was it descending - It was
traveling horizontally.
UFO!
‘Clancy! Lookit the UFO joining us for
fireworks! I shouted and pointed. She looked
up from her phone ‘Weird, that drone has a
purple halo around it. Wonder what that is
from!’
‘Dammit! It is not a drone it is a UFO! Drones
don’t look like a ball of flame!’ I retorted ‘In
fact it looks exactly like the UFO Bob Eagle
saw at 3am while riding the Queef Ridge 400.
You know, the one he claimed abducted and
probed him.’
Toe-Jamb emerged from the roof ‘Who wants
a brew?!’ catching his high heeled pumps in a
roof seam he stumbled for balance, caught
himself and gazed off yonder ‘Wow, lookit
that crazy flaming drone over there!’
‘It’s a UFO! You goofball!’ I yelled with
indignance, ‘Gimme my beer, and pass me
those Roquefort flavored squeaky cheese
morsels, they smell gooood.’ Toe-Jamb
shrugged ‘What cheese morsels, all I have is
beer and chips.’
Snacking on chips and swigging our beer we
oohhed and aahhhed at the fireworks giving
Toe-Jamb a little air space. Too soon the
grand finale crescendo was over and before
the ash reached the ground the ball of flame
UFO drifted off in the general direction of the
Mayacamas Mountains and in the wink of
an eye it was a dot in the sky and was gone.
‘‘That was one hellava drone!’ Toe-Jamb
saluted. ‘UFO!’ I retorted, wishing Bob had
shown up to confirm my intuition. Drone!
UFO! Drone! UFO! Drone! UFO! The sound
was deafening in the wagon, and the others
were moving to get between me and Toe-
Jamb.
By that time, the ranger moved in himself.
‘Now boys! Boys! Stop it now. Regardless
of what that thing was that was one of
the greatest stories I have ever heard! Why
I could hear it a hundred times over and
not get tired of it. Here, each of you get a
lifetime free pass to all EBMUD lands, and if
you can get me Bob Eagle’s number I could
include camping privileges. I am interested
in his account of his probing experiences
and hope he is willing to share. Now head
on out of here before that SUV person
comes back.’
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