Trolling Around in 650B

While Surly offers a range of practical, attractive, versatile bikes that riders everywhere love, none of them I find particularly appealing. Instead, I seem to be drawn to their weirdest and most extreme creations: their fat tired monsters. So naturally, when I saw Susan's new Surly Troll, I was delighted. Sure, it wasn't a Pugsley, but it was nonetheless glorious. 

The Troll is a 26" wheel steel mountain bike with clearances for 2.7" tires. Built with eyelets for fenders and racks, it can also be set up as a commuter or utility bike, as well as an off-road touring bike. 

Susan built it up for all of the above, converting it to 650B while she was at it.

 

The tires are of course the 42mm Grand Bois Hetres. I realise now that I forgot to ask why Susan chose this wheel size, so normal it has become around these parts.

The Troll frame can be set up with cantilever/v-brakes or disc brakes - though I think the 650B conversion leaves only the latter option. 

The Troll features interesting dropouts that I have not seen before. They are horizontal and resemble track ends, yet made with a derailleur hanger, making it possible to build the bike up with either hub or derailleur gearing. 

Susan has the bike outfitted with fenders, the Tubus Fly rear rack,

the slightly swept back Metropolis handlebars,

dynamo lighting,

and one of those crazy super-bright headlights that point down to illuminate trails at night, powered by a battery pack.

There is something about the way this bike is set up that seriously excites me. I look at it, and I want to do "that" kind of riding, whatever that is. An overnight tour along pitch black dirt trails maybe?

Susan encouraged me to try the bike, and I did. The brief test ride proved to be surprisingly informative. The bike rode smoother than I expected. Very nice in fact. The Troll is not a lightweight bike, and it is not fast on the road. But it felt maneuverable in tight spaces and was not as difficult uphill as I expected. The stepover of the frame felt lower in practice than the images suggest, making it easy to hop off the bike without having to swing my leg over the back (I should note that I rode the bike with the saddle about an inch higher than shown here). There was no hint of toe overlap even with the 650B wheels. The disc brakes worked well, though I tried them in a very limited capacity.

The one drawback of this bike for me was the high bottom bracket (40mm BB drop on the frame), which made it difficult to get the saddle height where I wanted it. I like to be able to put a toe down when stopping without getting off the saddle, but the frame geometry + 650B conversion made that challenging to accomplish with full leg extension. However, I think that with the 26" wheels the bike was originally designed for, it should be okay. I could also try converting the Surly Ogre (a 700C version of the Troll) to 650B. Its 68mm BB drop should be just right for getting the saddle where I like it. 

But of course I am just aimlessly fantasising here. I understand very little about mountain bikes and even less about their monster variations (still trying to figure out what exactly a suspension-corrected fork is). Still, I think that one excellent use for a machine like this could be as a winter bike. The Troll is not quite as extreme as a Pugsley, but neither is it as bulky. If fitted with 26" wheels and fat studded tires it could be just the thing for snowy Boston winters. With the frame priced at $500 MSRP, some strategic budget component choices could make for a fun and functional build.

Susan purchased her Troll frame from Harris Cyclery, where she works as a custom fit specialist and lead salesperson. Naturally, she built it up herself, with parts she "had lying around." I hope she enjoys her cool new bike, and I thank her for letting me try it!

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A Walk in the Woods, a Day at the Races

It felt like one of those dream states where worlds collide and everything is mixed together. 80 degree heat in October. A supposedly obscure bicycle race with ball game-sized crowds. Roads closed, cheering heard from a mile away. But most disorienting was the warped sense of time and place. It was Saturday morning, and I was walking through the woods where I'd spent practically all my free time as a teenager many years ago. I had not set foot there in over a decade, but my rote memory remained intact. My feet did the walking along the still-familiar trails until finally I found myself in a clearing, facing that wacky neoclassical structure that now served as the podium for the Providence Cyclocross Festival. No matter how much I tried to incorporate this fact into my narrative of "the woods" of my teenage years, it just did not compute. Worlds, past and present, were colliding.

They say that when you visit places from your younger years everything is smaller than you remembered, but the opposite was the case here. The clearing was more spacious than I recalled. The trees looked taller. The race course was enormous and complicated. They told me Cross Vegas was a bigger deal than any other race I was likely to see, but as a spectator I disagree. This was huge. There was more going on. And in the daylight I could see it all a lot better.

Part of the course followed the lake, with the riders backlit picturesquely as they cycled along the shimmering water.

Another part wound its way through a pine grove, beautiful trees and tight turns everywhere.

The requisite bridge.

The stretch of paved road leading up to the start/finish.

And of course the exciting parts with the obstacles and the steep hills.

But aside from the race course itself, there were many pockets of public space where spectators and racers could stroll around, socialise, eat, watch.

A bouncy-house was set up for kids.

There were multiple food vendors.

And the beer tent offered some of the best seats in the house (though they wouldn't serve me as I didn't have my driver's license!).

Finally, there were tents with handmade bicycles from local builders on display, as well as a tent selling interesting vintage bikes.

It was easy to see why the Festival was attractive for so many: It simply offered a nice way to spend a day in the park, around nature and bikes. There was no charge for admission, and food and drink were reasonably priced. The turnout was impressive, and with the sun out people stuck around all day - some watching the races, others simply walking around, talking, picnicking. I never expected to see a bicycling event in the US with such a large public turnout, let alone in my former neck of the woods. 

In her book Mud, Snow, and Cyclocross (available at the Ride Studio Cafe to purchase or read inhouse), Molly Hurford contrasts cyclocross spectator culture in Europe with that in the US. The main difference is that at American races, until very recently spectators were largely made up of participants. Amateurs would race, then stick around for the elite races that would take place later. Elite racers would show up early and watch the amateurs. And while friends and families would come and watch as well, the events have nonetheless been mostly insular, with no expectation of engaging the general public. In Europe, on the other hand, cyclocross has for some time been a spectator sport on a grand scale, much like baseball or football in the US. At that level, it would be ridiculous to suggest that one has to be a participant or know one personally in order to enjoy watching the event. It is entertainment. Hurford points out that at the moment, cyclocross in the US seems to be on the cusp of potentially transitioning to the type of status it holds in Europe. The audience I saw in Providence on Saturday certainly supported this possibility. 

Listening to some of the conversations around me, it was clear that a substantial chunk of the public had no direct connection to cyclocross. They stopped by because they read about the event in the local paper's weekend listings. Or else their neighbour or co-worker was going and they tagged along. Probably because I had a big camera, I was approached on multiple occasions and asked questions about the event by spectators who were there for the first time and weren't sure what they were looking at. But despite not understanding what was going on around them, these visitors were obviously having a good time. They were sticking around. They were supporting the vendors. They were looking at all the bike and equipment manufacturers' names with interest. And they were saying "good job" to the racers. I wonder how many of them had a good enough time that they will seek out other races after this one. I can see it happening. 

With attendance high and not limited to cyclocross inner circles, sponsors enjoy greater visibility. And if you look at the sponsors whose names are displayed on the team kits, many of them are outside the bicycle industry: real estate agencies, lawyers, dentists, grocery stores, landscaping firms. Greater attendance by the general public directly benefits these businesses, which makes it worth their while to continue - and hopefully expand - their sponsorship programs. It will also make other businesses consider cycling sponsorship as a viable form of local advertising. 

I think about things like this, because quite a few of my friends and acquaintances race, and there is a lot of discontent about how difficult it is to attract sponsors. But the reality is that sponsorship is a form of advertising, not a charity or a merit scholarship. A business needs to believe that a cyclist will provide sufficient visibility for their brand to make it worth their while to sponsor them. And for that we need wider audiences and greater media attention - even if it's just grassroots media - people taking pictures of the riders in their kits, then posting them online and sharing via social media. 

Getting back to the idea of US cyclocross being in a place where it can potentially break out into the mainstream, one thing I noted in Molly Hurford's book is that by far not all of her interviewees wanted that. Some expressed disdain toward the fact that in Europe there are "fat guys smoking cigars" showing up to the races, as well as others who are not into the sport at a participant level. These critics would prefer that cyclocross in the US remain insular, "pure." It would be a valid point of view ...if those very same people then did not turn around and complain about lack of sponsorship opportunities. You can't have it both ways.

Why do I care about any of this, you might be asking yourself? Well, because as a spectator I am finding cyclocross immensely entertaining, and I appreciate that. Entertainment is a big deal. We need to sustain those who entertain us if we want the fun to continue.

Watching a cyclocross race in a place that I had filed away as belonging to a past life - separated from all this crazy bicycle stuff by at least a couple of other past lives - has challenged my tendency to compartmentalise things, to break up the past into distinct, locked memory boxes. Things do come around full circle sometimes. It's like following a trail in the woods, and eventually finding that you've walked around a lake. And now here you are, in the same spot where you first stood twenty years ago, straddling your rusty mountain bike in front of the Temple to Music. "You can totally race cross on a mountain bike," says a teenage girl to her friend behind me, as I stand there lost in thought.

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Underneath the Pavement

Though it's been a week since the Vermont Fall Classic, I still cannot post a report. My heart is too full; this is a ride that requires some emotional rest and distance before it can be put into words. But privately some of us have been discussing it, rehashing it, testing the accuracy of our own memories by comparing them against the memories of others'. And one topic that's come up is the quality of the dirt. A few of us noticed that it was differed from our local dirt, and different from the dirt we rode in previous events. At the D2R2 in Massachusetts and Southern Vermont, the unpaved roads were a dark brown earthy colour that turned muddy when wet. At the Kearsarge Classic in New Hampshire, the terrain was rocky. The dirt roads in Northern Vermont were a light grayish-tan, almost clay-like in consistency, dusty and tightly packed except for a thin top layer that was soft from the rains of previous days. When it began to rain again, this top layer turned liquid, but not muddy exactly. It was thinner than mud, less viscous. I was certain it was some type of clay. Others thought it was more sand-like. A rider who often cycles in upstate New York then described the dirt roads there, which are reddish clay and leave a pink residue over everything. Fascinated by these nuances, we admitted that we never gave them much thought until now.

All of this makes me realise just how unfamiliar so many of us are with the actual soil we live on. Paved roads have defined and homogenised our landscape for so long, that we hardly consider what lies beneath. Do most of us even know what our local streets would look like unpaved? The streets in the next town over? Can most of us determine what a particular type of soil is by looking at it or feeling it? I was in touch with these things when I lived in the countryside, had a garden, walked in the woods, but living in the city has distanced me from that awareness. Now cycling on dirt through different parts of New England has reminded me just how important it is. I'd like to learn more about our region's terrain, about what lies underneath the pavement. I don't ever want to lose that connection again.

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Beautiful Beginnings

What is it about the start of these rides? The all-day rides with dirt and climbing. The rides that begin in the early hours of the morning. We should feel groggy and tense after a night of little sleep. But everything is so still and serene that we are alert and open. The air is dewy. Faces are dewy. Everyone looks beautiful in the milky fog. It is not possible to know the weather yet. Everything hovers. The plants exhale and the scent they release is so strong it is almost unnatural. Is someone wearing perfume? No, it is flowers, grass, leaves, wet earth. We relax and exhale too.

Bags bulge with provisions and spare pieces of clothing. There is a friendly look to them; happy and full. Everyone wants to know what everyone else has brought. A show and tell of contents, a peek into each other's little bag-contained world.

Steel tubes rest against shrubbery. Surrounded by foliage, they blend into the organic colour pallets, muted in the early morning light. 

Histories of bicycles are told and retold. Wonderment is expressed. Admiration is exchanged. The brand new feather-light racing bike is beautiful; we are envious. The hand-painted dump rescue with clumsy DIY braze-ons is beautiful; we are envious. Ditto for everything in between. 

As inky darkness gives way to tentative lilac daylight, we slowly feel that sense of readiness swelling up within us. If the start of the ride is timed well, it will correspond with the crescendo of that sensation.

And then, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, we will transition from a state of profound calm to a state of immediate action. No jitters, no nerves. Just a beautiful beginning.

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Red Herring

As the trail grew tricky, I was about to turn around. And that's when I saw it in the distance - a tiny patch of red deep in the thick dark woods. I could not tell how far away it was. No doubt it was just someone's barn, but from a distance it looked mysterious and full of promise. It could be anything. As the sun began its afternoon decline, instead of heading home I made my way toward the red shape flickering in the dappled light.

Back in junior high, we had this scary patch of woods behind the school yard. They said an abandoned shack stood there, where in the '60s a serial killer had taken his victims. Children would go missing from the neighbourhood, and it was not until decades later that their disappearances were solved. Only the killer's remains were found in the shack. An old man by then, he must have died of natural causes. Or did he? Everyone knew there were things in the woods where we lived. The kind of things that made ordinary mortal serial killers the least of our worries. This was what we 12 year olds thought about when a ball would fly over the chainlink fence at recess. We dared not go into those woods. 

Cycling along the narrow trail, the memory of all this popped into my head, as did the horror flick Don't Look Now - where Donald Sutherland's character pursued what looked like a girl in a red coat only to find something dark and sinister. Did I really want to reach that red object deep in the woods? I laughed to myself, at myself. This was evidence of how unaccustomed I'd become to riding alone. I would not be having these thoughts with one of my cycling buddies around. It was the silence and the lack of any sign of human activity on the trail that lent itself to being shaped by my imagination. 

Of course none of us had ever seen the abandoned shack. We knew there was a spot in the chainlink fence where you could lift it up and crawl under. My friend and I had been brave enough to do that - though once we did, we just stood there, too paralised with fear to venture further into the woods. But 12 is an age of dares, pacts, and acts of courage. And one day we decided to find the shack. After school let out, we waited for the yard to clear. Then we ducked under the fence and kept walking before the fear could get the best of us. It was hard to know where to go. The woods were unkept and there were no trails to follow. Eventually we spotted what looked like a narrow overgrown path. It was late September, and the dry leaves made crunching sounds under our shoes. We heard no other sounds, not even birds.

Now too the woods were quiet as I rode through them. Where were the birds, the squirrels, the dog walkers? There was only the soft sound of my tires rolling over roots covered with a blanket of pine needles. I kept the red object in sight, but somehow it was no closer after 15 minutes of cycling. In fact, now it began to seem as if I had passed it. It occurred to me that it wasn't along the main trail, but deeper in the woods. And then I saw a path that seemed to lead toward it. It was overgrown. Covered in roots. Barely a path. But I saw no private property signs, so I turned and followed it. 

That day after school we walked for what seemed like forever, though judging by the actual size of the lot it could not have been more than 5 minutes. We gasped when we saw it through the trees: A dirty white wall, surrounded by a heap of bricks where the rest of the structure had once stood. And we gasped once again when we heard footsteps behind it. My friend grabbed my arm, and we began to tremble, not sure whether to run or hide. And then they came out: A middle aged woman in overalls carrying a rake, and a teenage girl, a few years older than us, following her with a large burlap sack. They said hello and warned us about the poison ivy. "It's all over the place, girls. Do you know how to identify the leaves?" They were from the land preservation society. Cleaning up woods, labeling trees. We would have to wait until 8th grade to join. And the white shack? I looked it up years later. It was once a shop selling European auto parts, built in 1982 and abandoned after a fire. It could not have possibly been the hideout of a serial killer in the 1960s. 

I knew I was on the right path, because the patch of red grew closer. The path became muddy and difficult to ride through, which only made my journey feel more important. It was damp here. Mosquitos circled and I could see a small bog through the trees to my left. The vegetation was mostly moss, ferns, and poison ivy. The latter slapped my bare legs, but, knowing myself to be resistant to it, I paid no attention. Now and then I dodged low-hanging branches. The mud thickened. Churning through it, I felt like a determined explorer - until finally, there it stood in front of me: A small red tool shed. No more, no less. Seeing it up close - a generic, prefab thing - even my overactive imagination had to acknowledge the complete lack of anything mystical about the structure or the atmosphere surrounding it. I was at the back of someone's property. And now I had to hurry back before dark, cycling through all that mud again. 

How funny we are, with our love of setting goals, solving mysteries, inventing worthy destinations - when in actuality what we are after is the experience of the pursuit itself, the goal being just an excuse. 

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Honey Cyclocross: Sweetly Different

Aside from their obvious use for cyclocross racing, 'cross bikes can be a good choice for unpaved riding - something I've been apparently doing more and more of in recent weeks. So I wanted to try one and compare the experience to the 650B road-to-trail type bikes I've been riding thus far. Ride Studio Cafe's manager Patria offered her personal steed - a women-specific, true cyclocross racing machine from Honey Bikes. Patria and I are similar in height and we use the same pedal system, which makes it very convenient for me to try her bikes. One day when she wasn't riding it, I took the Honey out for a spin.

A small local manufacturer, Honey Bikes are a sister (or cousin?) company to Seven Cycles, specialising in modestly priced, handmade steel bikes. The Honey brand is not promoted aggressively, and the aesthetics are low key. Models include road, race, cyclocross, mountain, tandem and commuter bikes - each available in sizes configured for men and women, with size-specific tubing. The bikes are sold fully built-up with a selection of component groups and stock colours, priced starting at $2,000. These are not custom bicycles and the comparatively reasonable prices are achieved by sticking to stock configurations. However, the choices for those configurations are extensive - particularly the wide range of sizes. The cyclocross model is available in 12 sizes, ranging from 49.5cm to 62cm, measured by the top tube. 

Patria's bike is a 52.5cm according to the Honey sizing system. The toptube slopes 8°, exposing quite a bit of seatpost despite my rather unaggressive bar to saddle height ratio (Normally the saddle is set up a tad higher than shown here). 

There is no toe overlap for me on this bike despite the 700C x 35mm knobby tires and short top tube. 

The frame has a nice flow to it and is cleanly finished; the welded joints appear seamless under the paint. For those in the know, the curvy stays and sculptural dropouts are tell-tale signs of the relationship to Seven.

The body-colour stem and all-black components give a sense of unity and flow to the overall look of the bike.  

One interesting feature that is typical of cyclocross bikes, is the cable routing. All three cables - the shifter cables and the rear brake cable - are routed along the top of the top tube. 

This is done so that cyclocross racers can carry their bikes more comfortably, and so that the shifter cables (normally underneath the downtube) do not get covered in mud.

Also typical of cyclocross bikes are canti-lever brakes. These Tektro cantis worked adequately for me, though I still have not found brakes that work excellently on wide tire bikes.

The carbon fiber fork is made for Honey Bikes specifically, with canti bosses. 

Lots of clearance for wide tires here, I believe 40mm being the maximum width.

The tires on the bike when I rode it were Schwalbe Racing Ralph 35mm. 

The SRAM Rival drivetrain and levers were new to me, but it did not take long to figure out the double-tap shifting. I can use SRAM brake levers much better than Shimano, though I still prefer the Campagnolo on my own bike. 

I rode the Honey on a local dirt trail, then on the road, then finally in circles on a grass lot before returning it to its owner. It was not a long ride - maybe 12 miles total. The ride quality over rough roads was smooth and the bicycle felt pleasantly floaty. At the same time, the wide tires were amazingly stable, and I fondly recalled the reassuring go-anywhere feeling of knobbies from my teenage years. However, that is where the sense of familiarity ended. Having ridden a Surly Cross-Check before, I thought that I knew what to expect from a cyclocross bike, but this was a different animal. As far as the handling, the novelty factor dominated my impression. The weight distribution was not what I was used to, and the bike felt somehow simultaneously more relaxed and more aggressive than the roadbikes I've gotten to know. I found myself standing up more than usual, and in general it was as if the bike wanted me to ride it differently than I normally ride. What I remember thinking was: "I can tell this bike is meant for something specific. But it's not meant for me." Still, the test ride was enjoyable precisely because of the novelty factor and the challenge of understanding the handling. I felt comfortable and reasonably confident on the bicycle, yet aware that it was designed for someone with a different riding style than mine. 

Unlike me, the bike's owner actually races cyclocross. She finds the handling spot on, as do other cross racers who've tried it. The Honey is certainly worth considering for those looking for a racing bike just in time for the cyclocross season. 

As far as general road-to-trail type riding for the rest of us... Well, in theory the Honey Cyclocross is suitable for that as well. I noticed that the gearing on the stock drivetrains is somewhat high, so you may need to tweak that. But features such as the wide tire clearances with no TCO, the canti/v-brake bosses, the variety of sizing options, and the lightweight components, are very appropriate. As described earlier, I would say the handling is rather particular; you may want to test ride the bike first. But that is exactly what I would say about low-trail 650B bikes, whose handling feels intuitive to me but strange to others. 

For a US-made frame with an elegant contemporary aesthetic and mid-tier components, the price point of the Honey is certainly appealing. I am curious about their other models, and in particular find myself wanting to try the mountain bike. Those knobby tires have really put ideas in my head. Many thanks to Patria for lending me her Honey Bike! Full set of pictures here.

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