Back from Mount Snow, Vermont and, of course I’ve got no photos to show for it. In order to snap a shot you have stop and stopping isn’t an option during a fast-paced, high-stress National Championship race weekend. Wait… scratch that. Unlike normal race weekends, this trip was low stress thanks to Christie’s parents (the Millers), who took care of us. Greg’s family took the second shift of the weekend and continued to make things comfortable for we weary left coast travelers.
We even got to see a little bit of the surrounding area outside of the race venue – quite an oddity. Saturday afternoon’s trip to Jamaica, VT to soak our legs in the river was rad, mon. And I didn’t have to wash a single dish throughout the entire trip because that’s pretty much all Joy did. If she wasn’t riding her bike, she was doing dishes.
I’m getting good at jacking other people’s images, so why start photo-documenting these trips now? And besides, I don’t think my camera has a strong enough strobe to light the haunted Mount Snow trails. Under a canopy of trees, the race course was cut through slippery, root and rock invested mud that made wearing sun glasses and using your front brake a life hazard. So, let’s say for example the course was marked with street signs instead of ribbon, stakes, arrows, broken bodies & damaged bikes. Here’s what they’d likely be:
The result of using the front break.
They could have used one of these signs every 20 feet. I guess it was a mountain bike race...
Of the two bridges on the course, I could only ride one of them without hitting the deck and risking death and dismemberment.
The universl sign for, "That's gonna leave a mark," Tom and Frosty could have put one of these at the top of every decsent. Mount Snow is definately not a spectator course for innocent ears.
The Play-by Play
I raced the single-speed with hopes of finishing on the box. Not fifth, not fourth – but on the actual box. Let’s just say the cog I chose allowed me to run as high as second place at one point and walk as low as 12th place at another point. That point being the finish line. But at least I didn’t have to do any dishes.
Meanwhile, on the Home Front
Ryder loves to swim and with assistance from his floaties, he gets around the pool pretty well especially for a 2-year old.
Ryder could be the next Michael Phelps, sans the DUI.
He and Denise went to Austin to visit friends and family this weekend, so I’m bach’n it, as they say. Actually, I feel more like Bridget Jones, because instead of tapping a keg, so far all I’ve done is watch TV and over-indulge in Dreyer’s Slow Churn Ice Cream.
I wonder what Vino is doing right now?
It's been said that to live in 7 Oaks is weird. I agree. 7 Oaks just doesn't have enough structure for me.
No shoes, No shirt, No credit card, No dice.
It doesn't say anything about throwing rocks at the reflections of the ducks.
But I have a license...
Signs are threatening enough, but nothing's worse than good old fashion public ridicule for parking your bike in the, quote-unquote, vegetable garden.
No Pamela Anderson?
I guess the frogs and pollywogs aren't technically considered pets.
How does this work? Do I read left to right? I'm confused. And what do they mean No Dogs? It's a campground. In the forrest. There's squirrels & raccoons all over the damn place. 
This one doesn't bother me as much. It's not like that road behind the gate looks scenic, mystical or magical.
I see the same anti-drug campaing signs around Mentone.
7 Oaks: A great place to get away (if you wanna be hassled by the man). 
