rs3o-dsin

Secret Agent Bike

The one bike in our shop that seems to attract the most attention from customers is the Ajax by Spot Brand Bicycles. Since we focus on the commuting niche, a lot of our bikes feature classic looks whereas the Ajax is striking with its modern lines and stealthy black finish. Upon closer inspection, people notice its internally-geared hub instead of a derailleur and a toothed belt that takes the place of a chain. The Ajax is really quite different from what most people are used to seeing.

If seeing the Ajax causes people to stop and stare, riding it may blow their minds. I got the opportunity to take the Ajax home for 24 hours and put it through its paces. Continuing on the stealth theme, I found that the combination of the Gates Carbon-drive belt and the Shimano Alfine 8-speed hub were almost dead silent. After my first few pedal strokes, it was perfectly apparent exactly why a belt drive is such a cool thing: it raises the bicycle to a new level of quiet sophistication. It's the bike that James Bond (either the Sean Connery or Daniel Craig versions, of course) would ride on his day off.  While on my way  home from the shop, it was a little too easy to be lulled into enjoying the silence of the bike and neglecting to call out my passes on the trail. Why blow my cover with a vulgar "On your left"?

Of course there is more to the Ajax than the whizz-bang drivetrain. Belts can be a little tricky to tension properly and require specific tools, so Spot smartly designed the frame so that you never need to re-tension the belt if you have to remove the wheel to fix a flat. The Ajax frame is aluminum and the fork is carbon fiber, both of which help to keep the weight down. The big 700c/29er wheels roll fast and smooth out rough pavement and Avid BB5 mechanical disc brakes adequately control the speed when (regrettably) necessary. As for the touch points, the saddle is well padded but narrower than those on most commuter bikes, but that's consistent with the rest of the components. The handlebars have a slight rise with minimal sweep and along with the stock 90mm long stem, tend to put you in a somewhat more aggressive position than most of the other bikes we carry. Still, the Spot's position is a long way from  that of a road racing bike or even a cross country mountain bike that are more familiar to me. It's perfect for those who want to go fast on their commute but still be upright enough to have a good view of the road.

On my all-too-short 24 hour test, I found that the Ajax is perfectly suited to my regular commute. The gearing was low enough that spinning up the steep hills around my house was easy. In fact, I could imagine loading the bike with a rack and panniers for trips to the grocery store or the farmers market and the gearing would still be adequately low for comfortably going uphill, even when loaded down. Fortunately, the Ajax comes with braze-ons for both racks and fenders, so if you wanted to turn it into an urban hauler, it's suited to the task. On the other hand, it was an awful lot of fun unladen. Beyond commuting, the Ajax was a blast on the local paths. It handles nimbly, so even an afternoon ride on the unpaved canal towpath wouldn't be beyond its abilities.

And that's one of the things that makes the Ajax a lust-worthy bike: its versatility. Combined with its subdued, classy aesthetic  and  its high tech drivetrain, the Ajax is an excellent choice for riders looking for a quick, sporty bike that's as adept at bring home the groceries as it is at smoothly and quietly gobbling up the miles on a weekend ride.

 

Helmets

I've been doing reviews on cycling equipment for a few months now over at the GearInstitute.com. In the fall and winter I did shoes and gloves and now I'm moving into helmets.

I've assembled the fleet and started testing over the last month or so. One question that has come up for me is exactly how does one do a meaningful test of helmets? Sure, features, fit, ventilation and style are all worth discussing but the ultimate purpose of a helmet is to protect your brain when you hit the pavement. I think there's an exclusion for "great bodily harm" in my contract with the Gear Institute, so don't expect to read about destructive testing here (or there).

So what I've come up with to distinguish these helmet reviews from others around the web is to publish data about the dimensions of various helmets. Over the years I've heard that so-and-so helmet fits blocky heads or this-or-that company 3D-scanned 150 people's heads to develop their new design. Maybe they did, but is their helmet shape demonstrably different than their competitors'? We'll see.

Route 1 Velo Kit Design

Here's something I've been working on for the past month or so. It's a design I developed for my cycling club's kit for the upcoming season and beyond. My design is intended to be an evolution of the previous Route 1 Velo kit. I used the team's traditional colors of blue, green and gray and focused on making elements simple and bold so that they are easy to identify at a distance and while moving 30mph. I used a large block of green on the shoulders, upper back and chest  so that it would be easy to spot teammates in the peloton. The sponsor's logo is framed by a subtle chevron form that references the sponsor's name and the blue and green stripe which is a carryover from the previous kit design. The color scheme matches the helmet and gloves provided by sponsor Giro. The white version is for summer while the gray one is for cyclocross and winter.

In the end, the design committee decided to go in a different direction. It was a fun and worthwhile effort anyway.

Changes, they're a-comin'.

The first order of business is the new name of this blog, rs3o-dsin. It indicates a new focus, and not necessarily just for the blog. "rs3o" was my first identity on the internet, bequeathed by andrew.cmu.edu in 1988. I have used it off and on since then and my renewed use of it is a bit of a look back into my past. "dsin" is obviously an abstraction of the word "design" and has always been a big part of my life, both professionally and extracurricularly. These two together are emblemmatic of the refocusing of my purpose.

In the near term, there will be more frequent posts. I think the lack of posts over the last couple of years is indicative of lack of focus. I intend for these upcoming posts to be about design, the balance being observations about design in the cycling realm. But I'll also discuss design of other things as well. I've been doing a lot of reviews lately  for the Gear Institute and some background of those reviews will show up here. I'll also put up some of my own designs since I don't consider myself just a critic but really more of a creator. And finally, architecture is a tough habit to break so that might make the occassional appearance as well.

I can't come up with a good way to end this post. I think that's a good thing: no end, just a new beginning.

Pakistan: Scale

This was the thing that everyone on the trip was struck by: the scale of the Himalaya was so remarkably unlike anything any of us had ever experienced. It started on the approach to Skardu on our flight in a rickety 737 from Islamabad. We descended into a narrow valley ringed by large peaks.  I was in an aisle seat, and could only see the sides of the mountains through the distant window. When I was expecting the plane to slow down, lose some altitude and land, the plane banked and made a 180 degree turn in the valley.  Only then did I realize that the valley was not so narrow. During the turn I was able to see the tops of the peaks outside of one window and the broad brown plain of the valley bottom through the other. Only what I thought what was the dirt bottom of the valley was shimmering, like water. It was the flooded Indus river and in places it covered the entire bottom of a valley that was big enough to make a U-turn in a 737.

The flooded Indus River under the wing of our 737. Photo: Ahsan Iqbal

That of course was just the beginning. I have spent a fair amount of time amongst big mountains: the Rockies from Alberta, Canada to New Mexico, the Alps, the Dolomites, the Cascades, Mexican and Ecuadorian volcanoes and even mountains in Japan. The first few days featured unnamed, insignificant peaks bigger than anything I had ever seen before. We often heard rockfall but rarely saw it because it was concealed in some unknowable valley. At one point, while walking close to the Braldu River I heard the distinctive  and familiar rumbling of rockfall and searched the mountainsides for its source. It took me a few of these instances to realize that the sound was coming from the river and it was the sound of boulders being carried along by the current and smashing into other boulders.

Unnamed peaks on the way to Askole. Photo: Jeff Iqbal

Note the bridge over the Braldu River in the bottom right corner. Photo: Jeff Iqbal

Once we made it to the Baltoro Glacier things got even bigger. The terminal moraine was a gargantuan pile of boulders, rocks and gravel that completely filled the 1.5km wide valley. The first glimpse we had of Broad Peak (8047m) was when we were looking up the valley and noticed what looked like a particularly white cloud floating above the already impossibly high 6200m peaks at the head of the valley.

Meesha and Iza descending the trail on the terminal moraine of the Baltoro Glacier. Photo: Jeff Iqbal

Another view of the terminal moraine from further down the trail with the Lobsang Spires in the background and Tanya leading up the trail. Photo: Jeff Iqbal

Three trekkers cross the scree-strewn Baltoro Glacier. Photo: Ahsan Iqbal

Making our way up the glacier. Photo: Ahsan Iqbal

This issue of scale affected us on a daily basis. It started during one of the first days on the glacier when we spied a camp in the distance, our objective for the day. We asked how long would it take to get there, hoping the answer would be a half hour or an hour tops. "Two, three hours at the most" was our guide's reply which I found hard to believe--the camp seemed like you could almost reach out and touch it. This gradually became a daily joke as no matter how close the next camp looked, it was always two to three hours away.

The picturesque Urdukas camp, mercifully only a half hour away. Photo: Ahsan Iqbal

Finally, the scale was best demonstrated by the mountains that we had come to see. The best view of K2 was from Concordia, a camp seven kilometers away from the base of the mountain. Any closer and you couldn't take it all in--it filled your entire field of view--and there was no way you could fit it in the viewfinder of a camera without ridiculously distorting the scene with a wide-angle lens.

The appropriately named Broad Peak looms over Concordia. Photo: Jeff Iqbal

K2 in the morning light from Concordia. Photo: Jeff Iqbal

Pakistan: the Routine

The title may make it seem boring, but once we arrived in Askole (or more properly Thungol) we pretty much did the same thing every day. Sure, before that, Tanya and I had to race through JFK with 150 lbs. of luggage in tow to make our flight to Pakistan, mobilize with the entire group and our 26 duffle bags for the flight from Islamabad to Skardu only to do it again the next day since the first flight was canceled, ride an entire day in Toyota Landcruisers on primitive roads often partially blocked by rockslides or entirely washed away by the floods and witnessed a near riot as porters who desperately needed work tried to make off with our gear as a way of getting "hired." Beyond that, it was pretty routine.

One of our Landcruisers crossing a flooded stream that had washed away the road.

Potential porters assembled in Thungol hoping for a job with our trek.

Once in Thungol, the routine started. Our guide Ayub would set a breakfast and a departure time the night before and we would try to be ready to go at the appointed hour. We would usually awaken to Ibrahim bearing a platter of cups of chai for everyone, then we would pack our gear, have breakfast and move out.  Of course with a group of 13, it was impossible to get everyone going on time, so we were typically 20 minutes to a half hour late each day. Meanwhile, the porters would pack up our stuff. Each porter is limited to a maximum of 25 kg. loads so the loads are weighed each morning. Most porters had either welded steel or homemade wood pack frames that our duffle bags would be lashed to. One particularly industrious porter had made a pack frame out of old aluminum snow pickets. Food is packed in the typical olive barrels and likewise lashed to pack frames. We also had a couple of donkeys and a horse that could carry the loads of three porters.

A porter with a barrel and our goat, "Dinner."

Once the porters had packed up camp, they would hit the trail and pass us in short order as we plodded along at our tourist pace. A few porters would set up a lunch spot for us where we'd dine on soup, bicuits, olives, cheese spread, peanut butter and chai. The pattern would repeat itself in the afternoon as we hit the trail again while the porters packed up the lunch setup and sprinted ahead of us again to set up our next overnight camp. We'd arrive there exhausted, welcomed by Ibrahim and more chai. Sometimes the porters set up our tents--sometimes not. So we would help set up camp as needed while dinner was prepared.

Our typical lunch.

This was usually a time when folks could do what they wanted. Some napped and recovered. Some read books or wrote in journals and others would wander off to take pictures since there was always an amazing view to discover. I would usually hold medical clinic every afternoon since there were always people with ailments of some sort, whether they were trekkers or porters. Tanya usually was busy filtering and treating water which was one of the most important tasks.

Matthew, relaxing in camp.

At dinner time, we would all gather in the mess tent and were served fresh-made chapattis, rice, dal and usually separate vegetarian and meat dishes. By the time we finished, everyone was usually ready for bed even though it was usually only eight or nine o'clock. The hiking over rough terrain and the altitude had wiped everyone out.

 

All photos courtesy of Ahsan Iqbal.

Pakistan: Planning

So what does it take to plan a trek on the Baltoro Glacier in Pakistan? The short answer is that it is a significant effort on par with the logistical challenges of invading a foreign country. That's what it seemed like at times. We had to assemble people from seven different places across the US and Pakistan and get them to K2 basecamp at nearly 17,000 feet and back. We would end up needing to travel via many different modes of transportation, from trains to brand new Boeing 777s to customized Toyota Landcruisers to mules and horses and finally on foot. We would transport some 26 duffle bags and I don't know how many barrels of food on the backs of Balti porters and donkeys.

We flew from Islamabad to Skardu, then took jeeps from there to just short of Askole. Then we hiked to Concordia on the Baltoro Glacier.

The great thing about planning the trek was that, for most of the participants, we didn't have to do much. This was not the case for my brother-in-law Ahsan, his cousin Adil and their Uncle Joji. With their local knowledge and connections they were able to organize things so that we all ended up spending quite a bit less than a typical commercial trek and we got excellent personnel to boot.

Uncle Joji is a retired Colonel from the Pakistani army who had actually been a liason officer for a K2 expedition in his younger days. As such, he had knowledge of the area that no one else did. Being a colonel didn't hurt either since Pakistani army officers are highly regarded there. Uncle Joji found our guide, Ayub Khan and things progressed from there.

Our guide Ayub Khan. Photo: Ahsan Iqbal

Meanwhile, Ahsan assembled the trekking group, mostly by inviting everyone he knew and everyone he met. By late spring 2010, a diverse and geographically-widespread group had coalesced:

Ahsan, trek leader

Adil, logistics specialist

Uncle Joji, chief of connections and getting favors

Linda, my sister and Ahsan's wife, medical adviser

Matthew, Linda and Ahsan's long-time family friend, veterinary medicine and drug adviser

Jeff, my nephew, chief Twitter wrangler

Anisa, my niece, chief geologic investigator and equi-appreciator

Erin, a rower who Linda and Ahsan had coached, team graphic designer

Ignacio, a college friend of Adil's, ibex wrestler

Meesha, Uncle Joji's daughter, exotic and disgusting food taster

Iza, Uncle Joji's other daughter, adjunct medical interpreter

Tanya, my wife, team legal counsel

Me, medical officer and fitness and gear adviser

Along with help from Adil, Uncle Joji and Ayub, Ahsan figured everything out: trekking permit, visas for the foreigners, trekking schedule, air transportation, ground transportation, food, anticipated expenses and probably half a dozen other things that none of us even knew about. The schedule was probably the toughest thing since it's not easy to get a dozen or so people from different parts of the world with all sorts of different things going on in their lives to agree on a when they can take a trip, especially one that is supposed to be at least three weeks long. 

Eventually we arrived at a schedule that met everyone's requirements of getting away from work at the right time and returning in time not to get fired. This schedule had us ascending in eight days and descending in four. The logic behind this is that since the trek is at high altitude, you need to ascend slowly so that your body has time to acclimatize to the change in altitude. Otherwise we would be at risk for altitude sickness which would end the trip pretty quickly. So our schedule would have us ascending approximately 1000 feet or 300 meters per day with hike durations varying from two to seven hours and averaging four or five hours per day. That sounded fine but descending that distance in such a short time seemed overly ambitious to many of us. Our guide, Ayub told us that by day ten we would be acclimatized and strong and the four day return would not be a problem. The schedule also provided for a rest day on the way up and a very long day to get up to K2 basecamp and back.

Then there was the motorized travel to arrange. We all would assemble in Rawalpindi (or 'Pindi) where Ahsan's mother lives along with Adil and Uncle Joji and his family. From there we would fly from Islamabad (the capital of Pakistan, conveniently located right next to 'Pindi) to Skardu which at ~7300 feet is the traditional jumping off point for treks and expeditions heading up the Baltoro Glacier. The only problem is that this short flight to Skardu has a very high incidence of delay and cancellation so we had to build a couple extra days into the schedule in case the weather prevented our flight from leaving and we had to drive 24 hours over two days to get to Skardu instead of the regular short flight.

Once we arrived in Skardu, we would have one day to organize and get acclimatized and then we would head out by jeep to Askole where the trek would begin in earnest. But before that we had to make sure everyone had the proper equipment and were in shape for the trek. The job of equipment advisor was easy for me having nurtured a love (or perhaps an addiction) to outdoor gear while playing around in the mountains around Santa Fe. I sent recommendations to our group via email, and later on Facebook. We discussed all manner of tents, sleeping bags, boots, rain gear emergency kits and anything else we might possibly need on the trek. Linda and I also planned our medical kit which ended up being the most used piece of community gear for the entire trip (stay tuned for a dedicated medical report--guaranteed riveting reading).

I also put together a training plan in an attempt to help get people in shape for the trip. Tanya and I got together with Linda, Ahsan and Anisa and did some training hikes in Pennsylvania and Virginia. The Appalachian mountains aren't quite the Rockies, but we ended up doing some good, long, challenging hikes. We later found out that even the toughest training hikes didn't prepare us for what we would find in Pakistan.

Training hike near Michaux State forest. Photo Ahsan Iqbal

First cyclocross race of the season

Since I got back from Pakistan, I knew my bike fitness was no good and Saturday's Charm City cyclocross race confirmed it. I didn't really have any expectations of a good result so I didn't mind when I showed up late to the staging area and the official put me in the back row instead of the fifth row where I was supposed to be. I won't make that mistake again, though.

Heading up the stairs

There were over 100 racers in my field so during the first lap I just tried to move up through traffic, sometimes nearly coming to a dead stop at bottlenecks because of the congestion. During the second lap, folks spread out a bit and I had a little more room to pass and be passed. So I was really surprised that when setting up wide for a tight right-hander, some guy crashed into me hard from behind.  We both went down, he asked if I was OK then took off before I could answer. I remounted and found that my left shifter was askew, making it hard to operate the front brake. I made it to the pit and got my other bike, but I was frustrated and lost concentration after that. I dropped the chain a number of times, got more frustrated and just cruised to the finish.

Over the barriers

The highlight of the day was spending some time in the Federal Hill neighborhood in Baltimore with friends.  Nice to pay only $4 for a beer, too.

I had signed up to race Sunday as well but had some problems with my lower back when I woke up in the morning so I decided not to race the second day.  The couch was good to me, though and it gave me lots of time to think about how I'm going to focus on doing well in the second half of the season.

Pakistan: Introduction

In August 2010, Tanya and I joined a group of family and friends on a trek to K2 basecamp in Pakistan.  It was such an intense, all-consuming experience that even now, two or three weeks after returning, I am still finding it difficult to figure out how to tell the story. I suppose that just saying that it was hard--really hard--is the most honest way to start. At many points during the trip while trudging up or down an incredibly difficult, scree-strewn trail, I wondered why I was there. So perhaps that's how I should really start.

My brother-in-law Ahsan is from Pakistan.  Before he was my brother-in-law, he gave me a poster of K2 as a gift after he returned from a trip home. I really looked up to him, perhaps mostly because I thought it was totally cool that a 20 year old in college would even give a middle schooler the time of day, much less a cool poster of the second highest mountain in the world.  When we moved to a new house in Michigan that was too pristine and modern to be violated with posters tacked up on the walls, I asked him if he minded that I modify the poster so it would fit inside my closet door, like the pictures and stickers I would decorate my school locker with. That poster meant something to me, though I doubt I ever imagined that I would get to see the mountain in person.

Ahsan and my sister married, had kids, moved around and visited Pakistan every few years. I went to college, headed out west and proceeded to fall in love with the mountains. I learned to climb rock and ice, joined a search and rescue team, skied in the backcountry and generally embraced the mountain town lifestyle. At some family get-together in the late 90's, my brother-in-law mentioned the idea of trekking to K2. At that point in my life, I could recite all the high peaks and notable climbs surrounding K2 and fancied myself a future high altitude climber so I immediately latched on to the idea. A trek would be the perfect reconnaissance. I could maybe do a few small climbs while there and then return with some serious climbing partners on a subsequent trip. I was sold on the idea.

While the enthusiasm may have been high at the time, the motivation to actually organize a trip never materialized until just a couple years ago. By that time we had all aged, Tanya and I had gotten married and I didn't actually climb much any more. A renewed interest in cycling occupied most of my free time so I was fit but no longer harbored dreams of summitting high peaks. I still was interested in the trek as an adventure but figured that with over 15 years of tromping around in the mountains under my belt, it would be a pretty easy trip. I have never been more wrong.

Suffering mightily

Did the first mountain bike race of the season on Sunday and did ok.  I felt great for the first 15 minutes.  The race started on a well-graded gravel road that went up and down a series of hills.  I started about a third of the way back in the pack and seemingly effortlessly glided up to the front three by the end of the road.  Then we hit the singletrack and I pretty much maintained my position.  Then the course turned uphill and after about the third switchback my legs started protesting about the unfamiliar efforts (my training thus far has mainly been focusing on longer, less intense efforts and included little time on the mountain bike).  In the end I was fourth in my age group and had improved my time by a little over a minute from last year.