For your coffee:

There must be a few sixty-year-old women in Lusk, Wyoming who recall our startling departure from their town. As Pratt and I stood forlornly alongside the road near downtown, carloads of teenaged girls zoomed past, honking and waving and giggling. They’d go another block, wheel around, and do the circuit again. We were standing right next to railroad tracks and had to move back a ways when we heard the clanging of the safety gates. A freight moved sluggishly east. Pratt and I looked at each other and at an empty boxcar approaching. We jumped aboard in a flash and looked back at the stopped cars, several of which contained the teenagers, their mouths hanging open. Would they have wanted to come with us to escape their drab town? Did they think we were nuts? Perhaps we were, for naturally we had no idea where the train was going. An hour later, looking at a map and checking town names as we hurtled by, we realized we had entered the state least likely of all 50 for climbing: Nebraska!

I got me a purty 15t Surly track cog from the man, the myth, Matt Chester last night. Had to beat on the chainwhip a bit to get the old one off, but overall it was an easy (for me) mechanical endeavor. No such thing as too much green grease here.

He (mc, lower case, not a monocog) is back writing, which is a blessing to all our free time. Make sure you check Monday’s post if you have not. In any event, in the course of email he pointed me to the above link, a delightful treat as it’s been years since I read that article. Going up, going down, it’s all the same now…

Bonus points to whomever names that climber-writer. Hint: he specialized in the Sierra and as far as I know wrote one book only.