I heard all the rumors, the arguments that professional trestling was fake, that it was a sham perpetrated by Big Railroad to make money. But like the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and hot chicks who aren’t completely batshit crazy, I wanted to believe it was real. I owe some of the most treasured memories of my childhood to elevated railways. Sleepovers at Brian Bier’s house when he’d pop the scratchy, unlabeled copy of Stand By Me he stole from his dad’s study into the VCR and we’d watch the trestle scene over and over again with the sound down, throw pillows strategically-placed to hide our growing excitement.

Sometime around High School trestling lost its luster. We found girls, or skateboarding, or aqueducts. Those of us who bonded over trestles drifted apart, barely even acknowledging each other in the halls. But every once in a while I see a trestle, and that same giddiness and passion I felt as a teenager comes flooding back. Proust had his madeleine, I have my Holcomb Creek Trestle.

Railroad crews who regularly ply its length call it “The Valley of Wood”, which is what we call our group rides after we run into the Ironclad ladies team. Soaring some 90 feet above the aptly-named Dick Road near Helvetia and spanning 1168ft, it is the longest and highest wooden train trestle still in operation in the US. It was built by United Railways between 1906 and 1911, in part to provide electric interurban train service between Portland and Banks. Although it did carry the odd passenger train, its primary cargo was lumber. The five corrugated metal cladding that run the height of the supports at evenly-spaced intervals are designed to serve as firebreaks should the trestle catch fire. Trains carrying freshly-hewed logs can occasionally be seen inching across the span, as in the video below. Skip to 2:05 to see the train trestle enthusiast version of the up-trestle beavershot.

You know Sauvie Island. But do you know it. Like in the biblical sense. Do you know where to touch it to make it bark like a dog? Have you made it sleep in the wet spot? We do. We have.

Sauvie Island is more than just a bastion of pepperspray-happy shitbags, cornmazes, and freeballing 40-somethings with tramp stamps. It has a richly-marbled history. Like pancetta. Or the urinals at Caesar’s Palace Reno.

Sauvie Island was once called Wapato Island for the wapato, or marsh tubers, that grew there in abundance. You want a wapato? I can get you a wapato, believe me. There are ways, Dude. You don’t wanna know about it, believe me. Hell, I can get you a wapato by 3 o’clock this afternoon… with nail polish. These fucking amateurs..

Before whitey came and ruined their 24/7 wapato rager, the Multnomah tribe of the Chinook people were the only game in town. Numbering over 2,000 people  in 15 villages, they built longhouses, practiced serious cranial deformation, and–I’m not shitting you–harvested wapato with their toes. Then they all got ague fever. And died. Now they’re the Mult-no-mo’. True story.

Lewis and Clark spent a fitful night on the Island and their way to the coast. Clark remarked in his journal,

“I [s]lept but verry little last night for the noise Kept [up] dureing the whole of the night by the Swans, Geese, white and & Grey Brant Ducks &c. on a Small Sand Island … they were emensely noumerous, and their noise horid.”

Clark then went on to found the “Birds are Too Damn Loud” party and ran for mayor.

After the Multnomah got that fever! That ague fever!, the kindly old grandpas from the Hudson Bay Company decided to put all that conveniently de-populated land to use. They enlisted a French udder yanker named Laurent Sauve (from which Sauvie Island gets its name) to float a heap of heifers across the river and  establish a dairy on the island. Just lonely ol’ Laurent and 400 nubile cattle, their pendulous udders swollen and swaying, just begging to be tugged. Needless to say, Laurent didn’t leave the farm much. And those forearms. Like Popeye on ‘roids (ster, not hemmor).

But one cow-happy Frenchman goes not a community make. So more settlers came. And came. One of these early pioneers, James Francis Bybee, made sufficient skrilla in the California gold rush to afford to build a house worthy of an entire episode of Cribs 1850. His was the first house in Oregon to use plaster in its construction. Presaging the current influx of boring whiteness from Brooklyn to Portland, Bybee had to import the plaster from New York and bring it by boat around the Horn. “Bringing plaster ’round the Horn” was also Bybee’s signature sex/finishing move.

A fact of life for settlers on Sauvie Island was the annual floods, or “freshets” which inundated the island after the Spring melts. “Leaving a floater” in the 1850s basically meant building a house on Sauvie. Dikes to control flooding were installed in the 1930s, effectively putting “Wacky Wilhelmena’s WaterWing and Reed-Snorkel Emporium” out of business. It remains closed to this day.

The 20th century came slowly to the island, as evidenced by the current popularity of Spuds McKenzie paraphernalia in the Cracker Barrel convenience store. Electricity was absent until 1936, and only in 1950 was a bridge built to connect the island to the mainland.

When your stem is pointed home post-ride you’ve seen it, lit by that low-angled, gauzy light you can’t find anywhere East of Mt. Hood. After 80+ miles in the hills flogging the 27t cog, nose now on your toptube, eager for home it has been the backdrop for countless sexual fantasies. A flash of tanned leg disappearing into running shorts. The University of Portland cross-country team. A lone hottie on on legs instead of wheels. And as your neck snaps to the left to follow the bob of glutes and promise, it’s just behind them.  The John Mock House.

University Park. Mock’s Bottom. Mock’s Crest. In the 1850s it was all a part of the original 317-acre land claim given to John Mock’s father, Henry. John walked with his family to Oregon on the eponymous trail when he was 13. He made dysentery his bitch. When the Mocks arrived, they staked a claim on the gentle knob of land bordering the crags above Swan Island (nee Willow). Back then there was nothing. An expanse of potential and that’s it. Trees were put to bed. A cabin was built.

Young John went on to put fingers in all the right pies: Mining, transportation, real estate. Mock clocked ends. But still he slept between the same humble timbers he and Pa Henry hewed when they first arrived. But rock beats scissors. Scissors beats paper. Fire beats log. The original Mock log cabin was reduced to embers in 1889.

When it was time to rebuild, John Mock had modestly grand plans. Three stories. Six bedrooms. Gingerbread dripping from the eaves. A turret just to be nasty. Who designed and built the house remains a head-scratcher. Some say it was local Polish contractor Julius Koschnitzky. He lived nearby, and he had the chops.

The interior of the Mock house is the money shot. For those of you who prefer Antiques Roadshow to  RedTube, you already know that the Povey Brothers of Portland were the John Holmeseses of late-19th century stained glass. Some call them the Tiffanys of the West. Which is only slightly better than being the Debbie Gibsons of the West. Mock commissioned 18 stained glass windows from the Poveys, one for every inch of his turgid manhood.  Some still survive intact. WARNING: If your Povey Brothers stained glass lasts for more than a century, please consult a hot conservator.

Mock was also a lover of the fresco, which was the manly 1850s version of the Fresca™. He would get so Fresco’d out on lo-cal, carbonated citrus that he would have whatever talented artist was savvy come and paint intricate scenes on his ceilings. And that is where we get the word fresco. True story.

So the next time you take Willamette to go West, young man or woman, stop to admire one of the last houses to have some guy’s name still attached to it. I won’t say a hero, ’cause, what’s a hero? But sometimes, there’s a guy. And I’m talkin’ about John Mock here.

Let me paint you a word picture: After an evening spent regaling international celebrities (who aren’t strippers or imaginary friends at all) with my witty repartee, I retire to my hypoxic tent / princess canopy bed to dream the dream of the righteous. Dawn breaks. My rock n’ roll chicken alarm clock sounds. He is my trusty domestique, charged with helping me bridge from the pursuivant group of sleepytown to the tete de la course that is Go Time.

Yes, I could and should be engaging in late-morning spooning sessions and possibly early brunching/sexing, but I am dedicated to those I am fortunate enough to call teammates. They feed me.  Like, literally. I don’t “shop.” I find it beneath my “station.” Which means if I want that crucial once-a-week meal of jerky and possibly rancid almonds, I have to make the team ride. So I do.

And when I do, I am often appalled at the lack of come-togetherness I am confronted with.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Newberry is bullshit. That’s like what you ride when your parents are in town and you only have 45 minutes.”

“Fuck going out East. I only have like 2 hours. By the time we get to Troutdale I’ll have to turn around. I might as well ride a trainer while my gross uncle farts in my face. Same difference.”

“I’d totally do hills, but I quad-blasted this afternoon at the gym. Did so many squats the chick at the front desk called me “Sa-squats.” Like the Bigfoot.   Sooo worked, bro. “

Fuck all of that. I’m done.

The answer? It was so simple. It was right in front of me: Dungeons and Dragons.

Yeah, I know. Being nerdy has a certain cachet these days in popular culture. NBA stars try to look like Urkel. Girls with fake boobs wear Boba Fett  underoos. Even Bill Gates is getting laid (allegedly). But I’ve paid my fucking dues. Back when I started rolling 20s, people thought Gygax was a prescription medication for cold sores. Most of my homework from 1986 through 1991 was done on hex paper. Anytime I hear someone say, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” I make a saving throw. Real talk.

So I reconciled my past with my present. At JVA team rides we don’t just roll, we roll for damage. All the possible rides in the Portland area are numbered according to saddle time and degree of profundity. Each week we choose a Dungeon Master. They roll the dice. The resulting roll determines the route. No bickering. No bullshit. The DM has spoken. You get insolent? Ima wipe my ass with your Character Record Sheet.

Breaking Away Bad from Jens Voigt's Army on Vimeo.

Why do I hate this seasonal Fredeluge so? Because I wasn’t breastfed. And because ‘the Man’ refuses to let me sink into the warm cradle of my profound lack of ambition. But also for a more practical reason: Very few fair-weather cyclists  know the proper use of cyclist semaphore, and when communication breaks down, we are nothing. We are no better than Sea Monkeys, minus the crowns and barnacle castles. The nod of head, the lift of finger, it is the thieves’ cant of the cantilever set, and it is fast becoming a dead language.

There are three types of cyclists who refuse to acknowledge their camel-toed brethren.

1. Those who are scared.
2. Those who are self conscious.
3. Assholes.

The scared: These people are the Linus of the road, and the dropbar is their woobie. They jolt awake each night drenched in sweat, pursued by the specter of a hand not connected to bar tape. They live the gospel of the 10 and 2. And if they truly feel that way, their handling skills are probably less than honed.  Grip on, you crazy diamond. I’ll be over here, all up on the fog strip. Just contort those clenched teeth into something that resembles a smile, and you get an ‘E’ for ‘Eschatological.’

The self-conscious: The self-conscious are a group I can empathize with, because I’m one of them. I come from a long line of Ukrainians who traded self-loathing for durable goods, and the only thing that keeps me from feeling confident is that I AM A TOTAL FUCK UP WHO CAN’T DO ANYTHING RIGHT. But I’ve learned that I shouldn’t take that out on other people. I spent years worrying that my socks were the wrong length and that my flamed doo-rag matched neither the carpet nor the drapes. If I were a character in Mortal Kombat my finishing move would be lowering my head and pretending I didn’t see the cyclists in the other lane. FINISH (looking at) HIM!

But pretending you don’t see another cyclist on the road is futile. It’s  like pretending you don’t see other tourists when you’re at a Bangkok sex show. “Nevil!  This ‘ping-pong’ mating ritual is like a time capsule! Unchanged for millennia, and we are the only non-Orientals ever to have witnessed it !” I see you, Israeli dude in a Mexican pullover, and you are fully torqued.

You are not the first one to venture here, and your refusal to recognize me doesn’t make you a fucking pioneer. No more than riding alone in the suburban ‘wilderness’ makes you the lone survivor in a Grand Tour breakaway 5km from the finish. Holla at me. Shit.

Awkward social interactions on a bike can be easily navigated. It’s simple, really. What you need is a signature move. Like Contador’s archer. Or Ryu’s Hadoooooooooouken! Or Lindsay Lohan’s “Line-of-coke-fight-at-the-club-show-vagina-getting-into-limo-go-to-jail-try-to-remove lowjack-with-a-butter-knife” thing. The signature move eventually becomes a Pavlovian response to seeing other cyclists on the road, and in the long term will make you easily identifiable from a distance. Gentle Ben will often offer a friendly verbal, “Hey Buddy!” while The Admiral prefers his signature Longpour Longpoint™. The Possum may ask you for your number, and then take you home and play some Sade and maybe sleep with you. Whatever. We’ve all got our jam. I prefer a crooked smile, fingers lifted off of the handlebar, and a head curtsy (curtsy). Bonus!: Any one of things can be passed off as a nervous twitch or seizure in the event that the receiving cyclist doesn’t reply in kind.

The assholes: If you can arguably claim ignorance of etiquette, I understand. If, however, you’re one of those people that can’t be bothered to smile or wave because you’re too cool or riding too fast, than you are most definitely not too cool or riding too fast. It’s the cycling equivalent of saying, “I’m pretty funny,” which translates directly to,”I watch Jay Leno.”

Smiling doesn’t slow you down. It’s not less aero. And even if it was, big fucking deal. When it comes right down to it, smiling only makes you look less like a jerk. No one has ever said, “I thought that guy looked fucking pro, but then he nodded and smiled and, bam! Express train to goobertown.” Folks in hi-viz vests may not know any better. I get that. Folks in hi-viz booties most certainly do. If you’re going to appropriate colo(u)rs ironically, at least don’t appropriate the ignorance of neophytes ironically. It just makes you a dick. Un-ironically. And, hey. if you’re going to ride my wheel, you have to at least say hello. Would you bum a ride from a friend and then siphon his gas while he’s buying you a sixer at the beerstore? Of course not. Same thing. You are a guest on my wheel. I am expending energy so that you may rest. Acknowledge the generosity of this transaction.

In short, it doesn’t matter how awesome you are. I’m not asking to be your friend. I don’t want you to buy me a beer. I don’t want you to rent me shoes All I am asking is that you literally lift a finger. Two if you’re feeling jovial. Three if you get a paycheck from Brazzers. Whether passing or being passed, just fucking acknowledge that you and I are both on the road, enjoying a similar pastime. Smile. Wave. Say hello. Don’t be a jerk. Be cool instead of trying to look cool.

Big thanks for Super Relax for organizing the event again. It’s always a great time with super fun people. Congrats to the hosts for finally winning the damn thing. Congrats to Grundel for finally winning a fucking game. And congrats to Team Beer for everything Badger did. All night.

First, some personal disclosure: Coming up with new kit ideas stresses us out. In the post-Cipollini era trying to do something new and innovative on the lycra canvas is somewhat of an exercise in futility. It’s like trying to invent a new sexing position. You can try to convince yourself that you are forging new erotic territory, but someone (probably Cipollini) has already done it. And they did it better than you. Now you just look awkward and derivative, your superior “wicking” properties notwithstanding (thanks, Pactimo!).

To belabor the metaphor, when we set out to design our new skinsuit for the 2012/2013 ‘cross season we had just one goal: We wanted to sex lycra in ways that lycra has never been sexed before. And at the risk of sounding haughty, I think we out-Cipollini-ed Cipollini.

For those of you old enough to remember land lines, you might recall when Jaws came out in the theaters. It was fucking awesome, because it was about a shark that got to A) peep some boobies, and B) eat drunk sea captains / lethargic boogie-boarders. Remember Jaws 2? Yeah, neither do I. Mind you, that was at the height of what my parents refer to as “The Sit ‘N Spin / Spirograph Years”, so I was otherwise occupied. But Jaws 2 was supremely forgettable. Waiter! There’s some yawn in my snoozeville!

So they came out with Jaws 3. It was in 3D. The tagline was, “Terror is the 3rd Dimension,” and it was fucking awesome. Yes, the script was technically Alpo smeared on a screen. And yes, it had Louis Gossett Jr. and the least-batshit crazy Quaid. But it fucking ruled. Because it was in goddamn 3D. And when that grenade exploded in the last scene and bits of 3-dimensional shark flesh rocketed towards my wide, red and blue tinted orbits with the violence of a thousand super novae, I was transformed. And I never Spirographed again. True story.

So what the hell does this have to do with us? Keep your pants on, Rushy Impatientkins. I’m getting to that.

With the cooperation of Pactimo Cycling Apparel, JVA imagineered an honest-to-god 3-D skinsuit. Simply don any garden-variety pair of 3D glasses and experience the magic of paisley cogs flying towards your eyeholes like so many bits of vaporized great white shark. JVA in 3D: Terrible Race Results are the 3rd Dimension. Coming soon to a race near you.