Four words: Fat bike beach ride.
Okay, most of you probably associate fat bikes with snow. I get it.
Trust me, I’ve tried. All the granny gear grinding in the world isn’t pushing you forward when the sand is halfway up to your hubs, you’re just digging deeper. Crabs are laughing at you, snails are passing you, seagulls circle you like vultures over soon-to-be-delivered carrion. It’s pity time, and even if you’ve got the legs for it your drivetrain is a salty sandy chunk of burnt toast putrefaction.
I love bikes.
I may actually love them too much, or so folks who’ve see my expansive quiver of two-wheeled people-powered machines have told me. I have too many, and I love them all like family. But it’s the pure escapism of fat biking that makes my plus-sized steed my favorite. There’s no expectation of nailing a KOtM or beating the rest of the pack to the trailhead. Performance pressure is lower than my tire’s PSI. Sure, you can get shreddy if you want to, and yeah, there are crazy people who ride the self-supported Iditarod Invitational. But for the most part, at least for me, fat biking = bigging up the vibes and leaving my troubles – and the troubling world – behind.
I’m not saying I don’t see the place for fat bikes to get all competitive, I do. I know there are even people who throw on their spandex sausage suits and sprint around on ‘em. Good for them. But that’s not why I spread my legs for a freakishly large Q factor. I do it for the love. There’s enough aggro BS dragging us down in the world, especially this year. I’m thankful to be lucky enough to have a dedicated plus-sized party machine to escape it all on.