Aluminum slot rims

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Looking to enhance your 1911 revolver's performance and accuracy? Look no further than our roundup of the top compensators available on the market. In this article, we'll introduce you to the best-rated compensators for the classic 1911, providing you with the information you need to make an informed decision.

The Top 13 Best 1911 Compensator

1. Comfortable 1911 Inside-the-Waistband Holster for Optimal Concealed Carry - Experience unparalleled comfort and superior concealment with the C&G Holsters Covert IWB 1911 holster, expertly designed by Veterans and Law Enforcement in America.
2. Precision Competitive Holster for 1911 4.25'' - Kydex, Aluminum, Adjustable - The Pro Ball Joint Competition Holster transforms your 1911 4.25'' into a precision and performance-driven shooting tool, with adjustable ride height, aluminum ball joint, Kydex shell, and optic compatibility for an unmatched competitive edge.
3. Speed Master 2.0 Leather Chest Holster for 1911 Pistols - The Speed Master 2.0 is a versatile leather chest holster for 1911 pistols and DA revolvers, featuring an open top design, adjustable tension unit, and convenient paddle or belt slot attachments for a custom carry experience.
4. Premium Western 1911 Inside-the-Waistband Holster - Experience ultimate comfort, versatility, and durability with the Galco Royal Guard 1911 Inside-the-Waistband Holster, designed for real-world concealment and perfect for semiautomatic guns and double-action revolvers.
5. Durable Tactical 1911 Compensator for Enhanced Performance - The BCMGunfighter Compensator Mod 7 - 5.56 is engineered for tactical purposes, providing effective muzzle rise reduction, flash suppression, noise dampening, and side pressure control, making it a top choice for serious shooters.
6. Hybrid Titanium Compensator for 1911 Pistol - Enhance your 1911 handgun's performance with the EGW Hybrid Titanium Compensator, perfect for Steel Challenge and Bianchi Cup competitions, featuring reduced loads and seamless integration into international orders.
7. Premium 1911 Inside Waistband Holster - The Vedder Holsters 1911 w/out Rail 4.25" RapidTuck holster, designed for Colt Commander frames, offers a comfortable IWB carry with premium leather and molded Kydex, perfect for various carry positions and proudly made in the USA.
8. Speed Master 2.0 5in 1911 Concealed Holster with Paddle and Belt Options - The Galco SM2212RB Speed Master 2.0 holster offers versatility and customization with its adjustable belt slot and paddle attachment methods, providing a perfect carry solution for 1911 Compensator users.
9. Universal Single Mag Holder for 1911 Compensators - Experience unbeatable durability and custom-fit retention with the C&G Universal Single Mag Holder, expertly crafted by veteran & law enforcement professionals for optimal 1911 compatibility.
10. Stainless Steel 1911 Gun Compensator - Experience minimal side blast and noise with Bravo's BCMGunfighter Compensator Mod 0, a stainless steel 7.62mm AR10 accessory that ensures maximum recoil mitigation, muzzle-rise compensation, and flash reduction.
11. Premium Independence Leather 1911 Holster with Reinforced Belt Loop - The Independence leather holster is a premium 1911 5" Government with Rail Only OWB holster, offering maximum protection, comfort, and ease of use for your firearm.
12. Galco TacSlide Belt Holster for 1911 Compensator: Fast, Concealable, Economical - Experience seamless concealment and swift draws with the Galco Tac Slide Belt Holster for your Colt Kimber Para 1911 5" - the perfect blend of steerhide and Kydex for unbeatable durability and comfort.
13. CNC 7-Port 5-Chamber Comp Cone for 1911 Handguns - The EGW 11830 CNC 7-Port 5-Chamber Comp Cone is a high-quality compensator made from heat-treated stress-proof Carbon Steel, perfect for use with standard-length barrels and custom hybrid or bull barrels with the proper threading.

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Reviews

🔗Comfortable 1911 Inside-the-Waistband Holster for Optimal Concealed Carry

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Over the past few months, I've had the opportunity to try out C&G's Inside the Waistband Covert holster for my 1911. The first thing that struck me was how well-designed and comfortable it was. As someone who carries most of the day, the last thing I want is my holster to be uncomfortable or distracting.
One of the standout features was the solid locking retention. It gave me peace of mind, knowing my firearm was secure when I was on the move. The holster was also designed to fit most RMRed Dots on the market, which was a nice touch.
However, there were a couple of cons I noticed. First, the open bottom allowed for threaded barrels and compensators, but it could be a bit challenging to get a perfect fit for my specific firearm. Secondly, the 1.5-inch belt clip could be a bit snug for my thicker belt.
Overall, my experience with C&G's Covert holster has been mostly positive. The holster offers a comfortable and secure fit, and the craftsmanship is top-notch. While there were a few minor drawbacks, the pros definitely outweigh the cons.

🔗Precision Competitive Holster for 1911 4.25'' - Kydex, Aluminum, Adjustable

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As a shooting enthusiast, I recently came across the 1911 4.25'' No Rail Pro Ball Joint Competition Holster, and I must say, it has greatly enhanced my experience. Its adjustable ride height, which allows me to fine-tune my grip, is a game-changer.
The aluminum ball joint provides a smooth, sturdy connection that ensures a reliable hold, while the Kydex shell offers a perfect fit. Plus, the optic compatibility adds a touch of convenience. However, I also noticed that the holster can be quite heavy, which might affect my mobility during competitions.
Overall, this holster has proven to be a valuable investment for any serious shooter.

🔗Speed Master 2.0 Leather Chest Holster for 1911 Pistols

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I had the pleasure of trying out the Galco SM2212R Speed Master 2.0 1911 5in Tan, and I must say, it's a fantastic choice for gun enthusiasts. This versatile holster offers a sleek design and comes in both paddle and belt slot configurations, ensuring you can choose the carry method that suits your needs best.
One of the standout features of this holster is the high-quality premium steerhide construction. The build feels sturdy and reliable, giving me confidence in its performance. The adjustable tension unit is a convenient feature that allowed me to customize the holster's grip, ensuring my firearm stayed securely in place.
However, there were a couple of downsides I encountered during my experience. The slight butt-forward or neutral cant can vary depending on the firearm, which might not be ideal for everyone. Additionally, the holster might not fit as snugly as desired on larger pistol barrels.
Despite these minor drawbacks, the Galco SM2212R Speed Master 2.0 is an impressive and versatile holster that provides excellent concealment and security. If you're in the market for a high-quality and customizable 1911 holster, this might just be the right fit for you.

🔗Premium Western 1911 Inside-the-Waistband Holster

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I recently had the chance to try the Galco Royal Guard 1911 Inside-the-Waistband Holster Black - a sleek and versatile option for gun owners. This holster boasts an innovative design that keeps your weapon secure while still ensuring that you have easy access to it when you need it most. I particularly appreciated the rough side of the leather facing out, providing great stability and protection for your gun.
Wearing the Galco Royal Guard was a comfortable experience, allowing for real-world concealment even of larger defensive guns. The smooth leather pocket was reinforced for sturdiness, and it granted unrestricted movement and easy reholstering. In my opinion, the combat grip accessibility rounded out this holster's utility to make it an invaluable choice for those seeking speed and agility.
A few aspects of the Galco Royal Guard could use some improvement, but overall, I was impressed with the product. Its premium natural color horsehide constructed to fit 1-3/4" belts was a definite plus. And for those with 1-1/4" belts, there's an optional belt channel to consider. While there is still room for improvement, the Royal Guard holds promise as a reliable choice for any gun enthusiast.

🔗Durable Tactical 1911 Compensator for Enhanced Performance

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I recently added the BCMGUNFIGHTER Compensator Mod 7 - 5.56 to my trusty 1911 setup, and let me tell you, it's been a game-changer for my tactical operations. This ain't no lightweight accessory, it's a solid piece of machinery that reduces muzzle rise and flash to a minimum, making my targets all the more accurate.
It's also helped keep things nice and quiet during reconnaissance missions, and the lateral force it counteracts has been a lifesaver when I gotta take quick shots on the go. Sure, it might be a bit of a heavy-hitter compared to some other comps out there, but the benefits I've experienced have made it a more than worthy addition to my arsenal. So, if you're looking for a versatile compensator for your tactical ops, this bad boy deserves a serious look.

🔗Hybrid Titanium Compensator for 1911 Pistol

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The EGW Hybrid Titanium Compensator 575 x 40 is a sleek and sturdy addition to any 1911 firearm. I've been using it in my daily training sessions, and it's performed exceptionally well. The titanium construction not only adds durability but also keeps the weight down, making it a perfect choice for those who value portability.
One highlight of this compensator is its ability to reduce recoil significantly, which is especially useful for those newer to the sport or for those looking for a smoother shooting experience. This feature, combined with its robust design, has proven to improve the overall performance of my handgun.
However, there were a couple of drawbacks to this product. Firstly, the international shipping restrictions can be a hassle for those living outside the US. And secondly, the lack of an extensive review history makes it challenging to gauge the overall user satisfaction with this product.
Overall, the EGW Hybrid Titanium Compensator 575 x 40 is a high-quality accessory for 1911 firearms with a unique titanium construction that reduces recoil. While there are a few drawbacks to consider, the pros outweigh the cons, making it a worthy addition to many shooters' kits.

🔗Premium 1911 Inside Waistband Holster

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I recently had the chance to try out the Vedder Holsters 1911 w/out rail 4.25" (Colt Commander frameNOT SIG) RapidTuck, an inside the waistband (IWB) hybrid holster that's handcrafted with premium leather and molded Kydex. The moment I started using it, I was struck by the attention to detail and the perfect fit for my 1911 w/without rail 4.25" Colt Commander frame.
One of the key features that stood out to me was the comfort of the holster. The leather is soft and well-finished, making it comfortable even for extended periods of wear. Whether you carry in the 3 o'clock position, appendix carry, or cross draw, the RapidTuck offers various carry options that are both comfortable and secure.
Another great aspect of the holster is the custom Kydex shell, which is molded to fit your firearm perfectly. This ensures proper clearance with all front sights and loaded chamber indicators, providing peace of mind even in the harshest conditions. The included Rock Solid Spring Steel Clip is a nice touch, offering two belt accommodations and a tuckable design for deep concealment.
While I enjoyed using this holster, there were a couple of minor drawbacks that I noticed. Firstly, the adjustable ride height feature is a bit more challenging to use than some other holsters on the market. Secondly, the limited color options might not appeal to everyone looking for a personalized touch. Despite these small drawbacks, the overall quality and performance of the 1911 w/out rail 4.25" (Colt Commander frameNOT SIG) RapidTuck make it a solid choice for anyone in the market for an IWB hybrid holster.

🔗Speed Master 2.0 5in 1911 Concealed Holster with Paddle and Belt Options

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I recently gave the Galco SM2212RB Speed Master 2.0 a try for my 1911 pistol. It impressed me with its ability to quickly switch between a paddle and belt holster, which is perfect for my lifestyle. The open-top design allows me to draw my pistol faster, while the covered trigger ensures added safety.
The steerhide material feels premium and holds a good grip on the pistol. However, I noticed that the holster might be a bit snug for larger belts, but overall, the Speed Master 2.0 is a versatile and dependable choice for concealed carry.

🔗Universal Single Mag Holder for 1911 Compensators

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Imagine this: after a long day at the range or simply enjoying your time at home, you're done with holstering and retrieving your magazines. You reach for your trusty mag holder - a solid, reliable, and convenient accessory that's been your reliable companion for months. But suddenly, it's gone. You need a new one. Fast. Enter C&G's Universal single mag holder.
This is the kind of mag holder that makes you say, "I never knew I needed this until now! " It's a game-changer, designed to hold your magazines in place, making your life easier and hassle-free. The C&G's Universal single mag holder is made with high-quality materials, ensuring it lasts long, stays sturdy, and remains a reliable tool in your arsenal.
The Universal aspect of this product is a testament to its versatility, as it fits almost all pistols or mags. And let's talk about the fit - it's made for a purpose and designed to ensure that your magazines stay where they should. No more fumbling or worrying about your magazines falling out when you need them most.
But what about the looks? Well, let's just say it's not an eyesore. It manages to blend form and function, seamlessly becoming a part of your daily arsenal. The fact that it's made in America by the best professionals in the field is a cherry on top.
However, like any other product, it does have a small downside. The clip might take some getting used to, as it's a little bigger and wider than what most users would prefer. But it's a small cost to pay for a product that performs so magnificently.
In conclusion, the C&G's Universal single mag holder is a top-notch product that delivers on its promises. It's a reliable and efficient accessory that makes holstering and retrieving your magazines a breeze. It might have a minor issue with the clip size, but overall, it's a must-have for anyone who wants to ensure their magazines stay secure and easily accessible.

🔗Stainless Steel 1911 Gun Compensator

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I recently had the chance to try out the BCM Gunfighter Comp Mod1 762 5/8x24 in a few shooting sessions, and let me tell you, it was quite an experience. One of the most impressive features of this compensator is its stainless steel construction. Don't get me wrong, I'm no gunsmith, but I could tell that the quality was top-notch. It just felt solid and well-built in my hands.
During my time with the Gunfighter, I noticed that it really reduced the muzzle rise and the noise associated with typical comps. It was like shooting a silenced revolver, which made it a joy to use, especially during team CQB drills. The inclusion of a crush washer was another plus, as it made the installation process a breeze.
However, there were a couple of things that I wasn't completely thrilled about. First, it was a bit heavier than some other compensators I've used, which made it a bit unwieldy in certain situations. But overall, the benefits outweighed the drawbacks, and I found myself reaching for it on my next few range trips.
So, in conclusion, if you're looking for a well-built, noisy, and muzzle rise-reducing compensator, the BCM Gunfighter Comp Mod1 762 5/8x24 is definitely worth checking out.

🔗Premium Independence Leather 1911 Holster with Reinforced Belt Loop

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The Independence holster is a beautifully crafted leather masterpiece, with a proprietary design and attention to detail that sets it apart in the crowded gun holster market. The 8 oz premium leather feels soft and durable against your firearm, providing a sense of comfort and assurance as you carry your 1911 5" Government.
What I love most about this OWB holster is the reinforced belt loop design, which allows for effortless on and off placement. No more fumbling with clips or loops; this holster's custom tailoring ensures perfect fit, maximized retention, and minimal printing for a comfortable carry experience.
One area where it could use improvement is the compatibility with different firearm sights, particularly those with sharp edges that can catch on the leather when drawing. But overall, the Independence holster is a top-notch leather choice for your favorite 1911.

🔗Galco TacSlide Belt Holster for 1911 Compensator: Fast, Concealable, Economical

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As a gun enthusiast, I recently had the chance to try out the Galco Tac Slide Belt Holster for my Colt Kimber Para 1911 5" Black RH TS212B. First and foremost, the design of this holster is quite impressive, with its combination of steerhide and Kydex materials, which provides both durability and comfort in one package. The adjustable belt slots make it easy to wear and also allow for excellent concealment, even with larger frames.
One of the standout features of this holster is the open top and neutral cant, which make the draw incredibly smooth and efficient, even when wearing heavier pants or jackets. This is a crucial aspect for those who need to access their weapon quickly and discreetly.
However, the Tac Slide does have its drawbacks. For one, the holster itself is quite bulky, which can be a disadvantage for those who prefer a more minimalistic design. Additionally, while the steerhide back plate is comfortable, it can be a bit fussy when trying to reholster the firearm, particularly if the holster is not set up properly.
Overall, despite these minor drawbacks, I found the Galco Tac Slide Belt Holster to be a reliable and functional option for concealing and carrying my Colt Kimber Para 1911. It's a versatile option that works well with both semi-autos and double-action revolvers, making it a solid choice for gun owners looking for a convenient and secure way to carry their weapon.

🔗CNC 7-Port 5-Chamber Comp Cone for 1911 Handguns

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I've had the chance to use the EGW 11830 CNC 7-Port 5-Chamber Comp Cone in my 1911 pistol, and I must say it's made quite a difference in its performance. It's built with heat-treated, stress-proof Carbon Steel, which adds to its durability and reliability. One of the most noticeable things about this cone is its unique 10-degree angle, designed to control muzzle flip and keep the gun steady even during intense shooting sessions.
However, one downside I noticed was that installing it required a bit of extra effort, as it required a reverse plug due to its lack of a bushing to hold the recoil spring. Nonetheless, once in place, it lined up perfectly with the barrel bore and provided a smooth, precise shooting experience.

Buyer's Guide

The 1911 Compensator is a vital accessory for 1911-series firearms. It aims to reduce recoil and muzzle rise while enhancing accuracy. This buyer's guide will provide you with essential information, recommendations, and considerations to help you choose the right 1911 compensator for your needs.

Materials

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When selecting a 1911 compensator, consider the materials used in its construction. High-quality compensators are usually made from durable materials like stainless steel, titanium, or brass. These materials provide long-lasting performance and better heat dissipation, which can improve accuracy.

Size and Weight

The size and weight of a 1911 compensator are crucial factors in determining its compatibility with your firearm. Ensure the compensator's dimensions match those of your barrel and that its weight balance is appropriate for your shooting style and preferences. A well-balanced compensator can improve recoil management and control.

Design

The design of a 1911 compensator influences its effectiveness in recoil reduction and muzzle rise compensation. Popular designs include compensators with multiple ports or a single, large port for better performance at various distances. Consider the design that best suits your shooting requirements and preferred shooting distances.
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Ease of Installation

Installing a 1911 compensator should be a straightforward process. Choose a compensator with user-friendly installation methods, such as simple screw-in designs or those requiring minimal gunsmith work. This will save you time and money in the long run, allowing you to focus on maximizing the benefits of your new compensator.

Budget

1911 compensators come in different price ranges. Consider your budget when selecting a compensator, but remember that investing in a quality product will provide better performance and durability in the long run. Avoid compromising on key features and materials in an effort to save money.

Maintenance

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To ensure the longevity of your 1911 compensator, choose one with easy-to-clean and durable materials that can withstand frequent use without corrosion or damage. A compensator with user-friendly cleaning methods will make maintenance a breeze.

Customer Reviews and Ratings

Prior to making a purchase, research customer reviews and ratings for various 1911 compensators. This can provide valuable insights into the product's performance, durability, and overall user satisfaction.
Selecting the right 1911 compensator for your firearm is crucial for optimizing its performance. By carefully considering factors such as materials, size, design, ease of installation, budget, maintenance, and customer reviews, you can make an informed decision that enhances your shooting experience.

FAQ

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What is a 1911 compensator?

A 1911 compensator is an accessory designed to be attached to the barrel of a 1911 handgun. This device helps to reduce recoil and improve accuracy by redirecting the gas generated during firing in a forward direction.

Which 1911 compensators are available in the market?

Several 1911 compensators are available in the market from different manufacturers, including ATI, Troy, and Dead Air. Each compensator may have its own unique design and features.

What are the benefits of using a 1911 compensator?

• Reduced recoil, making shooting more comfortable and controllable
• Improved accuracy by reducing muzzle rise and moving the point of impact closer to the point of aim
• Enhanced performance in rapid-fire situations

How do I install a 1911 compensator?

Installing a 1911 compensator typically requires some gunsmithing skills. You'll need to remove the barrel from the 1911 handgun and thread the compensator onto the barrel, followed by re-installing the barrel into the handgun.

Are there any drawbacks to using a 1911 compensator?

Yes, there are some potential drawbacks. One is the increased weight of the handgun, which may affect the overall balance and feel of the gun. Additionally, some users may experience a reduction in the overall effective range of the handgun due to the compensator's design.

Do I need a specific 1911 handgun model to use a compensator?

Most 1911 compensators are compatible with the standard 1911 handgun models, but it's always a good idea to check the specifications of the compensator you're interested in to ensure it fits your handgun model.

How much do 1911 compensators typically cost?

The cost of 1911 compensators can vary widely depending on the brand, materials used, and features offered. Generally, you can expect to pay between $100 to $300 for a quality 1911 compensator.
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Recipe from Serious Eats (it's SO good!): https://www.seriouseats.com/individual-pork-beef-meatloaf-recipe
Ingredients:

• 2/3 cup breadcrumbs
• 1/3 cup milk
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 2 medium carrots, peeled and finely chopped (about 1 cup)
• 1 stalk celery, finely chopped (about 1/2 cup)
• 1 medium onion, finely chopped (about 1 cup)
• 2 eggs
• 1 tablespoon Worcestershire Sauce
• 1 tablespoon tomato paste
• 1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary
• 2 teaspoons kosher salt
• 1 teaspoon pepper
• 1 pound ground pork
• 1 pound ground veal
• 6 tablespoons ketchup

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 350°F. In a small bowl, combine bread crumbs and milk. Set aside. In a large skillet, heat oil over medium high heat until shimmering. Add carrots, celery, and onion, and cook, stirring frequently, until softened but not browned, about 8 minutes. Let cool.
   
2. While vegetables are cooling, beat eggs lightly in a large bowl. Add Worcestershire sauce, tomato paste, rosemary, salt, and pepper and whisk to combine. Add pork and veal and mix with hands to combine.
   
3. Add breadcrumbs and vegetables and mix with hands until meat mixture is evenly incorporated. Line a rimmed baking sheet with aluminum foil. Divide meat mixture into six even balls then form each into a loaf on the baking sheet. Brush each loaf with 1 tablespoon ketchup. Bake until internal temperature is 155-160°F, about 50 minutes. Let rest 5 minutes and serve.
   

I'm not one to carry a GoPro, take many pictures, or train for an event, but I like writing things up after. It's old school, but the stream-of-consciousness, no edits style can be fun and raw. An old, broken body will always voice it's displeasure, and that's part of the fun too.
Wednesday, May 22nd , 2024 to Thursday, May 23rd, 2024
45.3 miles
10,710 feet of descent (that be the downhill parts)
10,310 feet of ascent (that be the uphilly parts)
Route: start on South Rim,
down South Kaibab (7.4 miles, 4,700’ descent)
up North Kaibab (13.6 miles, 5,695’ ascent) arriving at North Rim
down North Kaibab (13.6 miles, 5,695’ descent) (wow, you go back and forth on the same trail and the distance and elevation match)
Up Bright Angel (9.5 miles, 4,314’ ascent, arriving back at the South Rim
Don’t @ me that those numbers are a little off… I used Phantom Ranch as my trail start/terminus because that’s where I stopped.
A little background, in 2019 I did Rim-to-River-to-Rim with my good friend. At Phantom Ranch, I seriously asked if we could just keep following the North Kaibab trail and do what we really wanted to do: Rim-to–Rim-to-Rim, but wiser heads prevailed. That was my friend, not me. Ever since, I’ve been thinking about doing the double crossing of the Canyon in a non-stop, or non-camping, manner. Why? Because that’s how I wanted to do it.
Wednesday I caught a flight into Phoenix, grabbed my rental car and shot north to the Canyon, arriving around 5pm at my hotel in Tusayan, the hotel and restaurant town a few minutes outside of the park. Check in was easy. I had stopped on the way to get a couple gallons of water and a Subway sandwich for the trail, so I did not need to grab dinner. After loading, and weighing, my pack (new CamelBak Octane with my old 3 liter reservoir) I ate ½ of the sandwich and made a few calls. Yes, my pack was definitely overdone. There was no need for 13 pounds.
Thanks subway staff! They got the bread wrong, and it tasted terrible. Of course I would still carry the other ½ sandwich into the Canyon with me, but I knew I wouldn’t eat it.
After closing the blinds and setting an alarm, I laid out for a little pre-event sleep. Thankfully I was able to get an hour or so of a nap in before my alarm barked at me at 8:50pm. By 9:15 I was on my way into the Park, and by 9:30 I had parked, walked to Bright Angel Lodge and called the park taxi. I’d recently learned that there was a Park taxi (only one of them), and they can take directly to the South Kaibab trailhead which is not accessible to normal vehicles. After waiting a while to get slotted, I was given a “be ready in 20 minutes” from the dispatcher. Inside the hotel lobby it was warm and not windy (that’s what real authors call “foreshadowing”).
A guy about 10 years older than me was in the lobby waiting for his daughter to drive her car up and get him. They had done Rim-to-Rim that day (North to South), and he was hurting bigtime. He mentioned more than a few times how the footing on the North Kaibab trail was terrible. Yes, backcountry trails on steep terrain are always pretty terrible. It’s ain’t a bike path. They rolled out, and I waited a bit longer until I saw the taxi arrive.
As is always the case, delays are real and always happen. There were supposed to be 2 other people being picked up, but they were nowhere to be seen. We waited, the taxi driver ranted, until I suggested we had waited long enough and hit the road. Driver guy had had one hell of a full-moon night and we chatted while he observed the speed limits of 15mph and 25mph very carefully. The roads were deserted at 10:15pm, but he said he was GPS monitored on speed which I can understand. He rolled right up to the trailhead, dropping me off, and picking up another hiker up who had been waiting for up to an hour. It was very, very windy, lots of dust in the air, a bit of sandblasting, but such is life. I had my Marmot rain shell on which I always wear or carry and headed straight for the trailhead.
I had turned on and started the GPS tracker that I had borrowed, so the only pause was to take a picture of the trailhead.
Hoping to get out of the wind, or that it might slack off the lower I got I started heading down the trail. SK is pretty steep, but the wind was not quick to abate. During my last trek here, I had shed my rain shell very early. Today I was going to keep it on for protection from the flying dust and debris.
A few switchbacks down I spotted some lights below me. Cool, someone to catch. Yes, I’m externally motivated. It’s not the best way to live, but it’s who I am.
The switchbacks kept coming, as did the log ladders and mixed trail terrain. Some sections were runnable, so I did. The switchbacks that hit at exposed peaks were definitely a sketchy. With massive dropoffs on either side and wind gusts that rocked the body, these points required some thought. Mainly that thought was “crouch down, so that you don’t get blown over the side to your death.” The darkness exacerbated the fear of falling to my demise. It wasn’t that bad, but mentally, and being alone, it was a thought I couldn’t shake.
At some point I caught up to the couple ahead of me, said a few greetings and scooted past. They had trekking poles and were navigating the uneven trail a bit slower than I was. In the darkness I missed Ooh-Ahh point and it’s famous view. Granted, there’s not much to see in the dark anyway. I had picked a full moon for my trek, but it was not illuminating much. I tried turning my headlamp off a few times because I love trekking by moonlight, but the shadows were too dark and hid critical details that could easily lead to a twisted ankle or maybe worse (steep terrain, dropoffs, ….. You get the picture). I wanted to get rid of my jacket, but was getting buffeted still and decided it was not quite the right time even though I was heating up.
I was doing my usual sipping frequently from my camelbak reservoir and it felt like I was stopping to pee every 5 minutes. That was concerining because it was coming out very clear which is a sign that fluids are passing right through.
At some point, I braked to a complete stop, having spotted a HUGE scorpion just resting in the middle of the trail. I am no fan of those critters, but it was easy to step over. Back to losing elevation I went. I don’t know where I was exactly, I had shot through Cedar Ridge and around Skeleton point where it opens up a bit I noticed a Katadyn 1 liter Be Free water pouch with filter. Both to keep the trail clean and, why not, I picked it up, drained it, and stuffed it in my pack. I already had one just in case I needed to filter water, but a spare doesn’t hurt. Whoever had lost it was well off trail by then and not coming back for it.
Finally I was able to shed my jacket, while moving, which felt amazing.
Turning one corner, I noticed even more lights below me that led to believe there were a few more people on trail below me. There was not, as I’d learn later, but it would have been nice had there been.
Soon I hit the junction with the River Trail which felt pretty soon. Then I was really shocked to come up to the tunnel at Phantom Ranch Bridge (or black bridge as some call it). I was really shocked. I’d been on trail for about 2 hours but didn’t think I’d come this far as mainly I’d just been putting one foot in front of the other and and making forward progress. This was a cool boost!
I crossed the bridge and headed with the flow of the river toward Bright Angel Campground and Phantom Ranch. At Phantom, I topped off my water reservoir and hopped back on trail within a few minutes. It was dark, the air was cool, and life was good. Why not make time?
Heading out of Phantom the trail did what it does and started moving upwards again. About the first half (7’ish) miles of North Kaibab trail are more gradual with 4% to 7% grades which is where one can put some miles in. The longest section of the trail without services is between Phantom Ranch and Cottonwood campground which are a little less than 7 miles apart. This is also the hottest part of the trail during the day. Several miles are in between towering cliffs where the heat has nowhere to go, this section is called “The Box.” Of course, at 1am, it wasn’t hot at all. The full moon was providing some super cool illumination on the cliffs, but I still needed my headlamp for trail details. Just above the box, there was a stream in the middle of the trail which I avoided. Wet feet can be the end of a hike. A few hundred feet up, it was clear that it wasn’t a stream but a break in the water line.
Uh-oh. The water line supplied the North side water stops. Would they now be shutoff?
I was still making good time and decided that, even with the waterline break, I would skip refilling at Cottonwood and go the next 1.4 miles up to Manzanita rest stop to refill. Made it to Manzanita and the water was still on, so I quickly refilled my reservoir and got back on trail. Now it was steep again with an 11% grade. I was thinking longingly of the 7 mile stretch between Cottonwood and Phantom Ranch and how nice it would be to jog that section once I returned to it later in the day. I still think it would be nice to jog that section someday.
I was starting to see headlamps above me from the people who had done an early start on their Rim-to-Rim treks staring from the North Rim. I loved the solitude of being alone in a very popular national park, but it’s also good to know that a few people are around.
I have read different numbers, but it is said that out of 4.75 Million people who visit the Grand Canyon every year, only 5% go below the rim (at all) and less than 10% of those folks make it to the river. That would be about 0.5% of visitors make it Rim-to-River-to-Rim or Rim-to-Rim. I can’t find any data on who many people do double that up and do Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim on any given year.
Let’s divert a bit and talk about how this can be done… Yes, there are many options. Some people hike straight through, they leave the North Rim in the dark and traverse to the South Rim over the course of 10-20 hours. Another choice is to overnight camp along the way at one of several campgrounds (reservations REQUIRED). I’m not against the concept, but the thought of carrying a tent and sleeping bag up the other side of the canyon sounds way too hard to me. Yet another choice is to reserve a cabin at Phantom Ranch where you can also get dinner and breakfast. Because it is a cabin, you don’t have to haul camping gear.
Speaking of Phantom Ranch, they do sell a few things to hikers including ice cold lemonade. A lot of people talk about it like it’s an elixir from the gods. Personally I would prefer to keep walking and not waste time stopping, buying and drinking something that needs to have it’s cup recycled at the location.
Back on trail, it was good to see people. Most honored trail etiquette - whoever is going uphill has the right of way, so I got to keep plugging along. It was finally light, and I was able to ditch my headlamp finally which was lovely. Up, up, up, I went. Seeing many folks who had questions, “when did you start?” “how are you doing?” and the obligatory “You’re ALMOST there!”
Note to the trail gods, I was NOT “almost there.” It was nice for folks to say it, but after every group said it, and I could see at least 1,000’ vertical to gain I started thinking “Do they think that I am almost there, or are they being incredibly nice?”
Answer: they were being nice.
At this point, the trail had more and more major step ups and log ladders, and my left knee was really hating me. Over the years, my patella, which does not track correctly, has ground away the cartilage from my femur, so any 90deg bend with force causes a massive stab of pain. OK, step ups would only be with my right leg from now on. Plus, as I was gaining altitude it was getting a bit chilly. Keep moving. My sleeveless t-shirt does not provide a ton of warmth.
I had tried to use one of the long-sleeve sun protecting hoodies, but I really didn’t like it. It just wasn’t for me. Another tangent, so much of this stuff is personal. What gear do you bring, what shoes do you wear, how many layers do you bring, what do you eat? It’s all a matter of trial and error.
At some point, I came across a group of Chinese couples who were descending for their R2. The guy at the lead of their pack asked me a few questions and finally asked “are you doing R3?”
“Uhhhh, yeah. At least I’m hoping to. Need to finish Rim-to-Rim first.”
For years I did not bring people in. I had a “NOBODY CARES. WORK HARDER” sticker in huge letters on my handstand pushup wall. After a lot of work on myself, it turns out that A LOT of people care. Even strangers from another country can care. The lead guy yelled back to the rest of their crew who congratulated me with every person I walked past. It was pretty cool.
The trail though? It didn’t care. It just kept going uphill.
Not too far from what really was the end, there was crew of about 5 guys who took up most of the trail and refused to share. There are always those folks out there. Everyone else was cool as heck.
And then… the final stretch, well, for this section, and I was at the North Rim. It was cold. I didn’t need water, so I took my selfie at the North Rim sign, used the GPS personal locator to send an “I’m OK” message and went back down the trail.
Unfortunately, my legs were more than a bit wrecked. That I could only step up with my right leg meant I could also only lower myself with my right leg when there were rocks and logs to step down from, and the muscles along my left shin were screaming in pain too. I was good and assessed if this meant I should call it a day and try to get a shuttle to the South Rim, but I could still move even if only slowly.
Down we go again… Step downs were not fun. Plant right foot, pivot on it, lower left leg to the ground below, repeat, repeat, repeat. Oh, and blisters were cropping up too. There is a water filling stop at Supai tunnel which I targeted for my refill and blister treatment. Once I covered the 1.7 miles to the tunnel, I took a break, pulled off my pack and dug out my blister kit.
I say “dug out,” but the Octane pack is pretty well organized. I simply located the blister kit in the little internal pouch, pulled out the tiny scissors and started lancing blisters. One circled the back of my heel where the insole ended. 20 miles to go and now my shoes finally show their true colors. After refilling my water and bandaging my blisters, I got back to what needed to be done, losing elevation. Damn I was going slow though. Way too slow but having to walk differently to avoid pain was a slow process.
I’ve done it many times before in many situations. There was no danger, I had food and water and was regularly ingesting salt tablets. It’s a mind-game now. The plans I had roughly sketched out where out of the window, and it would be a day of slow and steady progress.
The trail and terrain look so different coming down than going up and not just because there was now light to see.
As with all alpine type trails, distances are weird. I saw a building below me which I thought was the Manzanita rest stop, and it looked very close. Problem was, it was not the Manzanita rest stop, and to get to it required a lot more switchbacks and uneven terrain. It’s almost sad when you realize it’s a building I couldn’t have seen in the morning on the way up.
Around now, more people were coming up the trail too, doing a South to North version of Rim-to-Rim, with a few doing R3. Also came across a guy lugging a mountain bike across the Grand Canyon, because the Canyon is part of the Arizona Trail. You can’t ride a mountain bike through the canyon, so, if you are doing the AZ trail by mountain bike, you have to carry it across. That’s hardcore.
I passed a few R2 hikers, even in my slow state there are always folks moving slower, and heard some people talking behind me. I have a fragile ego and didn’t want to get passed this close to Manzanita rest stop, so I picked up the pace a bit. By “a bit” I only mean 1-2%. I wasn’t winning any prizes today. Thankfully, Manzanita appeared, and I was able to hop off the trail before getting passed. I said it, and I meant it. I have a fragile ego.
The two guys also hopped in to the rest stop. One taking the seat next to me at the picnic table and immediately pulling his pants off.
OK, he had running shorts underneath, but that did not stop me from remarking “it’s not everyday a guy I don’t know takes his pants off next to me.”
I didn’t need water, but I did use the time to apply a nice layer of sunscreen. The slurry of sunscreen, trail dust, and salt crystals is probably a great sun protection, but it’s kind of gross too. 10 minute break over it was time to get back on trail. I was not happy at this point. I should be able to run some of this, but my legs were not allowing any of that. The 1.4 miles to Cottonwood took just as long going down as they had going up in the morning.
Actually, it was still morning, around 9am or so (?), but I had been going since 10:30pm last night. At Manzanita I used the GPS to message that I was safe (have to say that or people freak out) but struggling and plans have changed. I’d probably be stopping for a while once I got to Phantom Ranch. That lemonade that I had distained earlier was sounding pretty darn good.
It’s pretty wide open at this point with the nothing to block the sun. My boony hat with neck guard was doing a great job of keep my head, neck and face protected, but nothing was protecting me from my slow progress. There were a lot more northbound folks on the traill, and they looked a LOT fresher than I felt. They kept saying “good morning” too which was incredibly surreal. Didn’t they know it was late afternoon already? Except it was not late afternoon.
They guys who had been behind me at Manzanita would leap frog me. They walked faster but took frequent breaks. Soon enough I hit Cottonwood Campground. No need to stop for water, so I kept going. There are a few uphills in this section, and those did not feel fantastic. Again, no danger, no worries, just keep moving the legs.
When I hit the part of the trail with the water line break I knew I was close to the heat of the box. It wasn’t the heat of the day, but it was later than I had hoped to be there. Drink, talk salt tablets, eat as I could, keep plugging.
My only thought when entering the Box was to get through the Box and into Phantom Ranch, which is really close to the end of the Box. The only way to get out of the box is to keep walking, and, at some point, instead of seeing canyon walls, the sky will open up to show the South Rim. Oh hey, the South Rim is 4,000’ vertical above, and will need to be dealt with at some point today. All in it’s time though.
My history of epic events has taught me some very critical lessons: I’m not very smart, and I can dig deep and grind out distance when most people can’t. It’s about turning inward and just making progress when the only thing you can do is make incremental progress.
I was probably down to 1.5 miles per hour now, and that was downhill. Ugh.
Every corner revealed a new section of canyon walls instead of open sky, and the Box was getting warm. Even with the roaring creek beside us this section just held a lot of heat. The trail varied sides of the creek as the 7 bridges criss crossed it. One more bridge down meant a little closer to a long break. More canyon meant another corner to hope to see the South Rim. By now, I was sitting regularly for a break. My legs wanted it, so I gave it to them.
The first deep drink from my camelbak was inevitably hot, and the 2nd and 3rd, which had not been exposed to the sun, were delightfully cool. I was cherishing those 2nd and 3rd sips.
Another corner, and still more canyon walls. In the distance I would see the 2 guys who I’d talked with earlier. They weren’t making that much headway in comparison. At some point, the canyon walls fell away and Phantom Ranch appeared. I really wanted that lemonade.
The steps up to the window counter at Phantom were not nice to me, but I got my lemonade, 2 ice cold apples, and a small bag of peanuts (more salt for the fluid absorption). There was a picnic table, in the shade, so I took it. Sipping lemonade and enjoying a couple of lovely apples.
Given that I had been on trail for 12 or so hours, with no sleep, I decided to set an alarm and take a 30 minute nap. You know you’re tired when you are old and immediately all asleep while laying the bench of an old picnic table.
I woke up when my person lightly scratched their nails on my shin to get my attention.
Except I was doing this solo, how they hell did they get here? Oh, it was a squirrel trying to climb me to get to my apple core. The mind is an amazing thing.
The Chinese crew was at Phantom too, and they were very interested in my condition. They were expats living in Toronto, and we had a nice chat.
After an hour at Phantom it was time to move on again. I wanted to soak my feet and legs in the cold Colorado river, but the Phantom access was upriver, so I targeted the river access that was across the Silver Bridge and up the trail a ways. As I left Bright Angel campground, the “pants off” guy from the duo asked if I had seen his buddy. They had gotten separated.
“You mean your friend with the blue shirt?”
“ummm, I have no idea what color shirt he has on, I’m color blind”
“oh hey! Me too… the dark shirt?”
“Yeah him. He went back to the store for something and hasn;’t come through”
“No, I haven’t seen him”
Crossing the Silver (OK, the “galvanized”) bridge, a couple of motor rafts drifted below. Maybe they had the better way of seeing the Canyon.
I wasn’t emotional at all, no frustration or anger. I knew that my plans were out the window, but the true nature of all of this was in dealing with what is versus what one wanted things to be. The section between Silver Bridge and the river access (before the trail turns left and heads up again) is pretty mellow. The section where the trail is beach sand is a bit challenging. Mainly it was all just warm. Very warm.
At the river access, a construction crew was working with some type of cable. I assume it was massive power cables, so I chose not to do my soak there. I know there are a few places where a creek crosses the trail up ahead. Thankfully there was one just a few yards up, so gladly stopped and dropped my pack. The cold water felt great on my feet and knee, and I took the time to do some more blister surgery.
Unfortunately, as I put on fresh socks, which I had debated about carrying, I knocked my sunglasses into creek which swiftly took them away. It was getting into later afternoon, still sunny, but I hoped I could get by with lowering my hat.
Back on trail, up I went. If I haven’t said “stead motion” a hundred times by now, just wait, I’ll easly get to 100 by the time this over.
The two guys came through this section and rested for a bit and headed out before me
Bright Angel trail is about 10 miles, and it’s roughly divided up into sections. It’s about 5 miles from Phantom to Havasupai Campground (the only water source turned on today), then it’s 1.5 miles to 3 Mile Resthouse, 1.5 miles to Mile-and-a-Half Resthouse (quick, do the math on that…) and then another 1.5 miles to the South Rim. The section to Havasupai was a slow slog. Somewhere on the Devil’s Corkscrew, which is a series of switchbacks that is really visible from above, a guy flew past me wearing full pants, boots, and a firefighter helmet while also holding a radio. It was impressive and disheartening.
The two guys were ahead of me, and I could see them on occasion, never catching up to them.
During the section where the creek runs in the middle of the trail, another shirtless firefighter blew past me. “How far is he ahead of me?” he asked, “I have to catch him.” You go bro.
Surprisingly I caught up to the two guys. We chatted for a bit wondering how much farther Havasupai was. We estimated at last another mile or mile and a half. This is where there is a creek on the South side, and the greenery and animal sounds were amazing. They kept me company as I moved along at my 1.5 mile per hour pace. Then I hit Havasupai, took a seat, took off my hat and pack, and rested.
The Chinese crew was here too as they had left Phantom well before me. The duo arrived too. I rested, filled my water reservoir, ate a little, and rested some more. By now I was using a stop watch to keep track of my stops. I will look at my watch but never remember the time. Seeing “10 minutes” on a stopwatch is much more effective. At 5:40pm, the duo and I pulled on our packs to leave and discussed how much time we had left.
“It’s about 1 ½ miles between each next stop (3 mile, 1 ½ mile, South Rim), with about 1,000 feet of vertical between each. At my pace of 1.5 mph, that’s roughly 3 hours plus stops, so I’m saying 9pm on the Rim”
Hey, I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. Confidence when speaking is critical.
I pulled on my pack and started up the trail. It was now early evening, it was cooling off, and the sun was not beating down. If you are paying attention, I wasn’t, you’ll notice that I forgot something.
About 20 minutes later I realized I had forgotten my hat. Oops, but there was no way I was going back for it. Somebody can get some use out of it. Instead I started thinking about hat shopping. What kind would I replace it with?
I had forecasted an hour of hard hiking between each waypoint, so I used time as my measurement. I should get to 3 Mile at 6:40pm, and I kept looking at my watch as I walked about. 6:01pm. 6:07pm, 6:20pm. Etc. etc. It was my way to guage progress. I also caught and passed the Canadian Chinese crew. 4 married couples who adventured together and trained together. We chatted for a while, but I need to keep my pace. After leaving them a French guy caught up to me “excuse me, did you leave a hat at the water stop?”
Yes, yes, I did.
“My friend is carrying it…” OK, I waited a minute for the friend who handed me my hat and scooted up the trail. No way I was taking my pack off, so I rolled it up and held it in my hand. I really didn’t pause in hiking, did take a short seat a time or two, and at 6:30 the 3 Mile Resthouse’s beauty appeared before me.
Normally when I hike long, my fingers swell significantly. It’s not sodium, it’s that edema pools in my fingers. I had noticed it for most of the day, but it, very surprisingly, had gone away in my right hand. Holding onto my had cleared the edema from my hand. Maybe I should look at getting some decent trekking poles with large grips in order to force my hands to hold something and reduce the swelling?
OK then, making good time all things considered. I went past the resthouse and took a seat on a rock. A young couple I’d been leap frogging with ended their break at the resthouse and started up ahead of me. There was no way I’d be catching them.
Throughout the day, I had noticed one set of shoe prints with a distinct “Adidas” logo, and I started seeing it again. Was it him or her? The dust of the trail held perfect shoe impressions, but only briefly, so it became a game to track the Adidas logo and guess which one of them it was.
You have to do something to pass the time.
It was coming on to to sunset, but this section of the trail isn’t the best aligned for sunset views, so I admired the vistas and searched for shoe prints wil also looking at my watch to see how much of the next hour I had left before I reached Mile and a Half Resthouse.
If you have never done it, pushing forward for literally hours on end is a reward unto itself. It takes WORK to gain 1,000’ of vertical in a mile and a half (approximately an 11% grade). This trail section is better than most with several decent sections, but there are alway log ladders and step ups to overcome. My left leg felt a lot better since soaking in the creek, and I was able to judiciously use in on smaller step ups to save my right leg. For the bigger step ups it was “adjust stride to put left foot at the base of the step up, step up with the right leg, then push myself up and over.”
At 7:30 I hit the Mile and a Half Resthouse, right on my adjusted schedule. After a brief sit, it was time for the final push to the Rim.
I had not seen the duo since Havasupai, and I had managed to catch a couple of people. It wasn’t a lot, but it was still a nice mental boost.
The Bright Angle Tunnel came out of nowehere much to my joy, but I forget that it’s further down trail than I want to admit. There was still time left in my day. Right about then I heard strong footsteps behind me. It was a guy I’d seen a time or two during the day in a party of four. One of their team was hurting, so he was charging ahead to get some food for the guy and bring it back down. That’s impressive.
He also told me that Maswik Lodge has a food court. By now, my thoughts had turned to “what am I going to eat when I’m off this trail, and where can I get some LEMONADE?”
Food court you say??? Hmmmmm.
The guy said we were 3 switchbacks away from the end. Granted, the last switchback is a haul from the trailhead, but it was good info. I came across two women, one of whom had pushed it too hard sensing the end, and was heaving at the side of the trail. They assured me that they had what they needed. OK, the woman who was not heaving assured me that they have fluids and clothing and headlamps after I had checked to see if they needed any help, so I kept moving forward.
Then, there it was, the buildings at the edge of the Rim! 20 hours to the minute instead of what should have been about 17, but life is what you make of it.
I didn’t see the big Bright Angel sign and wanted to get to my car, so I took at quick selfie at the trailhead sign and hoofed it to my rental SUV. it felt sooooooooo nice to take off my running shoes, socks and gaiters and put on my Teva’s. Pure bliss.
Of course I was shivering uncontrollably in the wind and from the exertion. After changing shoes, notifying everyone I was OK, and texting Monika and my kids, it was time to roll. My intent was to get out of the park, but, driving past Maswik, which looked open, I had to stop in. After acquiring 4 slices of cheese pizza I was on my way to my hotel. Stopping at the minimart in Tusayan, I scored a lemonade, a coke, and a Double IPA. All sounded delicious.
The parking lot was full, so I did the back lot which required a set of downstairs to get to my room. That was a challenge.
In my hotel I made a few calls. My 89yo mother had been more than a little worried. My person was incredibly happy for me and also no fan of the GPS tracking software. My kids were cool that I was still breathing. I enjoyed the lemonade and coke, AND the pizza. It wasn’t that great to be honest, but I loved it.
Then I hopped in the showing to erase 20 hours of trail dust and grime. I’m sure the hotel is used to it, but I felt bad that the washcloth was far from white when I was finished. At least I was clean!
And then I slept, and a good sleep it was. So good. 11 hours of bliss.
The next morning I took my time, packed up while drinking coffee, and walked over to the Mexican place next door. It was only 4.0 on Google, but I have rarely met a chimichanga that I don’t like. Deep fried is amazing.
Then I headed back into the park. The line took a bit, but it wasn’t too bad. Plus, my free veteran park pass meant I didn’t have to pay. The main lots were full, so my goal of getting a picture at Mather Point wasn’t going to happen. I was feeling pretty good but not like walking a mile or two. Nor was I interested in riding the park shuttle. A quick stop at the Market Plaza allowed me to find a replacement pair of sunglasses for the drive to Phoenix. Then I drove over and found a hidden parking spot near Bright Angel. I might not have been able to get to Mather Point, but I wanted a couple of daytime pictures.
After that, I pointed the car south, and then west for a visit with my friend Mark and their partner in Prescott. Based on their suggestion, I was able to book a short massage the next day also. Seeing their town, laughing about life, and explaining the fun I had had the day before was a fantastic detour. After my massage, Mark and I grabbed lunch, we were able to swing by Beth’s shop for a goodbye, then I was off for the 2 hour drive to Phoenix airport and my flight home.
Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim is now done.
Will I go back again? Probably. I know a couple of people who are interested in doing Rim-to-Rim, and, well, though the experience has been achieved, and in my core I am entirely an experience junky, there’s that little thing about doing Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim with style, and speed, that is brewing at the back of my mind.
It’s just a little thought though.
At least it’s a little thought for now….
45.3 miles
10,710 feet of descent
10,310 feet of ascent
19 hours and 51 minutes

she has done well in learning the command “in” and has no problem going into her crate. however, there are some huge issues causing me so much distress. She used to stay in my other dog’s crate with him until i got her one. Recently, i got her one of her own, which i am now continuously training her on being in there without whining.
When she is in there for longer than she wants to be, she cries, and I ignore it until it is time for her to come out (such as if I’m showering or taking garbage out). The crying is normal, i understand she just needs time and repetition.
The huge problem is that she will claw to try and get out (she can’t) and in the process, she’s ripped my curtains by pulling them inside. She’s damaged a charging cord to my air purifier. She continues to destroy things by pulling them inside. There are about 2-3 inch slots around the top rim where she does this to. Another major problem is her SCREAMING and HOWLING every time I put her in there to take my other older dog outside after she goes. She’s not hard to train with much of anything else except this. She does fine overnight- i get up halfway to take her outside and she goes right back in.
Please help me. What do I do to get her to stop destroying my things and fucking panicking when I take my other dog out potty? There is nowhere else to put her crate. It is huge as she is/will be huge. How long will it take her to get used to her crate to be fine? She has good days and other times does this incessantly where she won’t stop howling or crying for hours.
Info: -new crate has been here a week. -She’s Alaskan malamute and Bernese mountain dog -she’s 4.5 months and 40 pounds.

I have an 11/15 NRLC cub that I am currently considering as a queen, but idk if that is the best use for her?
My plan so far is to sex change her (she’s female rn), replace my current king with her, then stat train a young male groupie to heritage rep her the next time around (she’s clean G8 rn)
But is that a thing that would be an alright use for her? I see most ppl using NRLC’s for reverse breeding & not for kinging/studding so unsure if this is ill advised somehow

Bought a bike off marketplace and due to my lack of knowledge of road bikes, they sold me a 2016 CAAD 8 with run of the mill 7 speed aluminum wheels. All of my bike knowledge is in BMX. New to road bikes. Won’t happen again.
I ride for fun and for commute in NYC. I ride anywhere from 20-80 miles a week. I weigh 220 pounds and am usually on paved roads. Rim brake as well. Any recommendations?

Timestamp
V11 is KEYMOD
I have a like new v11pro upper I'd like to sell. ~400rds down range.
Included: Rail grip panels, vertical grip, 5 slot aluminum rail mount, and AmmoAZ "Darth Vader" limited run extended CH. *No BCG.
PP G&S or proxy required. $800 to me after shipping+fees

I have a 2022 Challenger Limited with stock wheels. The back wheel is hard to get to for cleaning and all the sharp edges cut my fingers.
Some products are specific for what the rims are made of (aluminum, powder-coated, etc.). What type are the Challenger rims?
I'm looking for suggestions for spray-on rinse off type of cleaners that work well. Any suggestions for products that work?

Hey, I wanted to post a piece I'm working on. This is essentially a first draft aside from checking for some spelling errors etc. So maybe second or third draft haha. Regardless, I was hoping to get some feedback on it. In particular, the ending and a few passages that I will put in bold text. I know what my intent was, but am unsure if they simply slow the pacing down too much or not. Especially since it has a bit of a slower pace anyway. I also wouldn't mind, and encourage, any other critique or suggestions outside of the requested areas. Thank you to anyone in advance
THE CLOCK
When I was younger, my parents and I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s house. Her home was the familial meeting ground for not only us, but my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Even the most estranged and distant members of the family were welcome. Oddly enough, I never knew my extended family existed outside of that house. Her home was the place where everyone converged for a laugh, for fun, for peace: a joy filled oasis in the desert of mundane existence.
To the best of my knowledge, no one was ever turned away as long as they agreed, at least for the time spent there, that any nightmares that loomed over them outside those walls did not exist. There was to be nothing that should dull that sparkling allure of carefreeness. By simply agreeing to that silent contract, you would be greeted with open arms. Even the divorced spouses of my aunts and uncles would show up every Christmas, Easter, and special occasion to sit at the table to have a drink and eat good food. My Grandmother truly believed in what she thought to be the essence of family; that it was a pact for life.
I can still remember walking through the front door of her house, always greeted by the smells wafting through the halls from the kitchen and the warm light casting familiar shadows on the walls. Even now, years after her death, I catch myself wandering off to those times of absolute peace that acted as a refuge, a safe haven from the world around me; reliving the time spent there and laughing at the horrible jokes of my uncles. I miss them all.
This was years ago, when she was alive. She succumbed to old age almost ten years ago now. Everyone knew it was coming. The sanctuary had already begun to fall apart well before her death. More and more often walking through the doors of her house offered little more than a stirring of dust and stale coffee. She simply wasn’t in the health necessary to maintain the oasis she had built. And, as that sanctuary fell to decadence, so too did the bond that held the family together.
Of course, at different times different relatives attempted to revive the oasis, to rebuild the walls of that sanctuary we had all come to rely on for a fleeting moment of peace. But they all fell short. There was a sort of heaviness in the inadequacy that would permeate through the air. It was the stench of the outside that we all brought in with us. Eventually, no one even attempted the daunting task of replicating the haven we all had come to depend on.
However, even in that nostalgic bliss, there lingers one memory that fills my throat with bile. If I were able to somehow remove it from my life, I can only imagine how things would have changed. How, even in the absence of the oasis, I would be able to find some semblance of peace. But it is kept out of my reach by the most ridiculous of all things: a clock.
The clock was a gift from my grandmother to my father one Christmas. I was a young child at that time, and much more concerned with opening my presents, so I’m not sure what reaction he had to it, but I am almost certain it was one of pure joy. The moment we came back home he climbed on a step ladder to proudly place it on the wall in his personal sitting area.
My father was a collector of all things concerning his youth. What was, at one time, the common room for our family, eventually became his den of antiquity. Models of cars from an age gone by had been polished to a sparkling shine and lined shelves upon shelves, while rustically fashioned model store fronts and old advertisement posters hung on the walls. The centerpiece of this collection stood the clock. It was a simple, novelty item. A black wall clock that with golden numerals printed on it that the red hands pointed towards. On the face of the clock was a picture of an old steam train pulling into a somewhat worn wooden station surrounded by trees. The picture exuded not only nostalgia for an age gone by, but more specifically of a time and place long forgotten. I remember my father telling me of how he remembered platforms just like that when he was a child growing up in rural Appalachia.
I grew to absolutely despise that clock, for the novelty didn’t end with its nostalgia inducing design. It was a type of cuckoo clock, and every time the minute hand rolled to twelve, the sounds of an old locomotive would emit from the timepiece.
As a small child, I was intrigued by the clock and enticed by its newness. Every hour, I would pause whatever I happened to be doing at the time to appreciate the latest addition to our home. This was, however, short lived. After a few weeks, the clock became more of an annoyance as the sound of a train whistle seemed to shake the foundation of the entire house. The volume was, in all honesty, staggering and an ill-conceived “marvel” of modern technology. To this day, I cannot fathom how this clock could create a ruckus loud enough that all conversations in the home had to be put on hold until the clock finished its chime.
My mother and I would plead with my father to take the battery out of the clock, but he always adamantly refused, claiming that we were exaggerating and that it was nowhere near as loud as we let on. The clock became a symbol of his stubbornness, his refusal to listen to us, to care about our discomfort.
So, as time rolled on and I grew older, I began to hate the clock with everything in me. As a teenager, I would sometimes sneak in the middle of the night and remove the battery myself, to get at least a momentary reprieve from the insistent bellows of train whistles. It would last about three or four hours into the next day before my father would realize something was amiss and repower the clock, fussily threatening whoever had taken the battery.
My mother passed away last year, and my father followed earlier this week. Aside from a handful of relatives that lived nearby, both funerals were relatively unattended. My assumption, based on how quickly the attendees left, had those relatives lived even slightly out of the way, they wouldn’t have come to the funeral. It was not out of respect or care had they shown up, but rather in fulfillment of some perceived social contract.
After my father’s funeral, I drive to my childhood home. The sun shone brightly in between a few scattered gray clouds, but there was a smell of rain in the air. With both my parents gone, I’m sure the bank will be foreclosing on their house soon enough. I definitely don’t have the money to pay the mortgage. This could be one of the last few chances to revisit before I was forever banned from the place.
I stepped into the house where I grew up. What was once bright, with sunlight reflecting off well-polished furniture, was dull with a thick coat of dust on the cherry-finished tabletops. Out of habit, I slipped my shoes off at the door and walked through the rooms of the home. The once soft carpet felt stiff with age and neglect on my bare feet. Even in my father’s sitting room, his den of antiquity with his once well-polished models, sat layers of dust.
* * *
I sit at the small kitchen table as I stare at the clock in front of me, ticking away the passage of time as I recall the original luster of the slightly faded train on its face and I wait for the long red hand to finally reach the golden XII at the top. Thirty seconds left.
Not only do I not have a place for it, but I always hated this thing. Why the hell did I bring it home with me?
I glance around me from my seat at the kitchen table. The open floor plan of my home allows me to see the entirety of the living room as well as my kitchen area. My walls are completely unadorned, save for a few small bookshelves near the couch and a small spice rack I had hung up to save counter and cabinet space. I was never much for decoration. My mother always prodded at me that my home could use a woman’s touch. Eighteen seconds left.
I turn my head towards the window in the kitchen. The sun was in its fading moments, but hidden partially by thick gray clouds giving the outside an otherworldly blue hue as night was being born before my eyes. In front of the window on the counter was a bottle, half filled with a crimson-brown liquid. It was, just moments ago, full. As I eye the bottle, I decide it would be much more appealing if it were a quarter filled. For a moment, I forgot about the clock that sat on the table, too busy dreaming of the familiar burn in my throat that sat just outside arm’s reach. Ten seconds left.
I strain my arm reaching for the bottle, not having the will to stand just yet. I hear the cheap kitchen chair creak in protest to the shift in weight and for a moment, I thought it would break. But I stretch my arm as far as possible and manage to grab the bottle before the chair could collapse. I open it and drink deeply as I begin to dream of my childhood and all the happy moments with my Mom and Dad.
My fantasy was short lived, being interrupted with a sudden bashing of brass as the clock comes to life with the sound of a charging train. The whistle of the locomotive reverberates off my empty walls adding to the density of the sound that made my heart feel as if it were skipping a beat and my breath became caught in my throat. Half a minute later the sound from the clock ceased, and I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.
I stand and glare for a moment at the clock, all the aggravation it had caused me growing up running through my mind as I wonder again why I had brought it home. I turn from it, grabbing the bottle of whiskey, as well as another from the cabinet, and walk towards the bedroom leaving the clock on the table.
Within an hour’s time, the partial bottle was drained, and the second was well on its way. At some point in my binge, the alcohol begins its work and the bedroom spins wildly.
I’ve overdone it. I’m not normally that heavy of a drinker, and nearly two bottles in two hours was too much. I think about calling an ambulance while I still have sense in me. There was a real risk of poisoning. But as I sit on the edge of my bed trying to coordinate my limbs, I feel more and more nauseous and the room spins faster. My vision tunnels and feel myself going limp as the floor comes up to meet my face.
* * *
As my body lays in the floor of my home, I dream of the day my father displayed the clock for the first time in his den of antiquity. In my dream, I watch with the understanding of my grown self as he meticulously places the clock in reverent manner on top of the outdated design of the wallpapered wall. As I look around at the room, at the plethora of models and antiques, I’m blinded by the light reflecting off the polished metallic surface of hundreds of model classic cars. Each of these had been waxed and shined with utmost care so as to ensure the most glisten from them.
The den of antiquity itself is a bit dark. Originally intended to be the family living room, my father slowly took it over as his own. He would implement more and more rules for the room as more of his nostalgic reminders filled it. The ceiling light was never allowed to be on. Instead, smaller lights had been placed strategically throughout the room, which only he could turn on or off, in order to spotlight the models of cars. The dark room paired with these small lights maximized the sparkling effect of the painfully tedious wax job that took days on end to complete on the model fleet. The “proper” care routine took so long to complete, as soon as he finished the sacrament he would need to start over and he was the only one allowed to complete the task. What was once our family room had become a temple to days gone by and my father was its high priest.
The dream continues as I turn from my father in his temple and walk around my child hood home. I head to what had become the new living room after the Temple’s construction. It was dark with thin layers of dust on the furniture and the ornaments on the walls. The dust was always present here, not from lack of cleaning, but rather lack of use. My father did not want anyone to use the furniture here. According to him, it was only to look at. I always received the strangest looks when I repeated his words to our occasional guest. This lack of use meant that nobody ever came through to stir the dust until it was time to clean.
I resume my trek through the house and eventually find my way to my childhood bedroom. Slowly, I open the door. I see myself as a child sitting in the floor playing with a few toys quietly. The room was mostly bare, with only the bed, toybox and a small TV on a cheap stand breaking the barrenness of chipped blue walls. The wood flooring was scratched and dull with neglect. It made a certain sense this room didn’t have the same level of care put into it as the rest of the house.
I spent the majority of my childhood in this room: my bedroom. Aside from school, it was really the only place I was allowed to be in. My bedroom was for playing, not the other rooms. That way, my mess would be confined to one spot. And if I were outside, I could not be under the watchful eyes of my parents.
I turn from my bedroom and head to the kitchen where my mother is. She sits the kitchen table with a pen and paper, trying to make ends meet. Her face is contorted with worry, and a few unshed tears glisten in her eyes. The bills were coming due, and apparently we were a bit short. She calls out to my father so they can come up with a plan together, but he dismisses her. He is far too busy in his Temple placing the clock. My mother sighs and resumes her work alone. She always took care of these sorts of things by herself.
The dream was of a normal day in my childhood home.
* * *
I awoke to the blare of train whistles. The sound ricochets in my skull, becoming louder with every second the train roared. I cover my ears trying in vain to dampen the sound, but it gives no reprieve. I lay in agony for what seems to be an eternity before the silence eventually refills the room.
The damn thing’s even louder than before!
As I pick myself up off the floor, my stomach churns as I realize my nostrils are filled with the smell of bile. Not only had I passed out but I had vomited without ever coming to.
As I force myself to stand, the heaviness in my limbs fight against me. My eyes remain unfocused for a moment as I attempt to regain my bearings. I look at my nightstand where the only source of light shone in the dark bedroom: the familiar red glow of my digital alarm clock. It’s three in the morning.
I reach overhead, pulling the string on the ceiling fan to turn on the light so as to survey the mess I had made in my stupor. Vomit was pooled underneath me and I now felt the cool sensation on my chest as it began to dry on me. It was entirely liquid without a trace of food. I stare at it blankly for a moment, trying to recount what I had eaten that would have digested so quickly before groaning and giving up in frustration. I couldn’t remember and it wasn’t important anyway.
I pull off my shirt, tossing it into the washer before grabbing some paper towels and cleaner. After quickly wiping up the mess, I head to the shower to clean the vomit off myself. Turning the water on, I begin stripping off the rest of my clothes. The smell of vomit hangs in the air surrounding me and I gag.
For a moment, I catch a glimpse of my frail and naked body in the mirror, but I can’t linger on it. Staring at my protruding ribs would likely make me more ill and I don’t need a physical reminder of the consequences of my actions.
As I step into the shower, the hot water runs over my back and flows through my hair and down my face. My hair falls into my eyes as I relish the feeling of the stench being cleansed from my body. As the steam fills the room, the hot water burns away the disgusting traces of my activities.
My arms stretch out in the shower, bracing my body against the shower wall and door to either side of me. I begin to relax in the small area, my body slowly expanding to take up more space and claiming this spot as my own. This is my sanctuary, my haven. A small respite in spite of the bitter few months, but it was mine and it was safe.
I always had taken longer hot showers even as a kid. Dad would get so angry at me for using all the hot water and occupying our only bathroom for so long. He would often bust the sliding lock installed on the bathroom door as he forced the door open, yelling about the hot water and wasting time. As I stood there, dripping wet in the shower, he wouldn’t leave. He would just stand there, making sure I felt his presence until I turn the water off and exit the bathroom. Now older, I can understand his frustration to an extent, but as a teenager who felt smothered by their parents anyway, it was just one more event to prove my lack of privacy.
I recall the frustratingly recurring event of me in my bedroom watching TV for him to simply walk in unannounced. He wouldn’t speak a word, just look to see what I was doing and then leave. The act of barging into my bedroom without so much as a knock only to look at me and then leave infuriated me. It was as if it were some sort of silent reminder of the pecking order in the household. It was an assertion of his dominance, a reminder that my space was never truly mine. A few weeks after I graduated high school, I announced I was moving out. He never did understand why I was in such a hurry to leave.
The hot water now began to feel cool against my skin, ripping me from my thoughts. I must have been showering for a while. I hurriedly began washing my body, cleaning any remaining traces of vomit from me. I don’t have to worry about anyone barging into the bathroom or busting the lock off the door. This was my safe haven, I can’t be bothered here. I take a deep breath as the soap is rinsed away in the cascade of the shower and bask in the sense of peace.
But that peace is brutally broken by the sound of an oncoming train. The clock had struck an hour once again and began to chime. The sound echoed in the small bathroom, blasting around from wall to wall creating a torrent of sound that caused my knees to buckle and my head to ache.
How is it this loud? It’s on the other side of the house!
Had I not known any better, I would swear the clock were in the bathroom with me. The chime lasts for a seeming eternity, each bellow of the horn sounding closer and more brash. I turn the water off and grab a towel. Wrapping myself quickly, I stomp to the kitchen where the clock lay on the table. As I approach, the chime ends. Finally, a peaceful quiet returns. I gently pick up the clock, appraising the faded picture of the steam engine and golden numerals printed on the black outer rim. I then flipped it over and pulled the battery out.
There were two slots for the batteries. One for the chime and one for the clock face. The clock face battery stood pointing towards twelve and six, while the chime battery pointed towards three and nine. I couldn’t count how many time I had sneakily removed this battery at night when I was younger.
I flip the clock back over, checking to ensure I removed the correct battery. Seeing the hands were still moving, I set the clock down and return to my bedroom. Although my shower had eased the nausea from my earlier drinking and soothed my head from the following hangover, the latest chime had rekindled the sickly feeling.
As I enter the bedroom, I see the last few drinks left in the bottle of Southern Comfort I had brought in earlier. It was probably a quarter filled: not enough on its own to cause problems. I lift the bottle up, draining it in one go. The bitter sweet taste is complimented by a burn I had grown to expect, but the first drink always sends a shiver down my spine and causes me to wince at the aftertaste that accompanies liquor.
I set the now empty bottle down on the dresser and get dressed in a simple set of bed clothes before opening the window, leaning against the sill. I breath in the cool night air as I wait for the alcohol to begin to show some kind of effect.
It smells like a storm is coming.
The air is crisp and refreshing with a tint of whimsical fancy wisping within it that gives it an almost mystical feeling. The slight breeze remained constant, ushering the smell to me and running its fingers through my hair as it rustles the leaves on the trees in subtle warning.
As a child, I loved this smell. I thought it was energizing and life giving. The air felt electric and energizing. The tension would build throughout the day, keeping me on edge. The dark clouds in the distance would serve as a foreboding warning of the downpour about to take place, and everyone who looked at them resigned themselves to the inevitable downpour. But this unstoppable release felt natural and was also welcome. As the clouds would move over our heads, ominously blocking out the light, the clouds would finally burst and rain poured down in a catharsis that would put me at ease. It was that release of tension in the air that addicted me to storms. It felt necessary, despite the danger that often accompany such tension. And yet, as a storm would end and the sun would peak back around the clouds, I would feel lost. I never could understand that.
As I lean against the window sill, I feel the slight buzz in my head from the liquor and move to the bed. As I lay down in between the clean sheets I stare at the red numbers on my alarm clock setting on the nightstand: it’s almost five in the morning now.
I close my eyes, begging for sleep to take me. The alcohol helps, pushing my mind to slow down and rocks me gently as my consciousness slips away.
* * *
The room itself quaked with the sound of a rolling train and roaring whistle. The sudden blast of engine roar that shook me awake nearly caused me to scream in shock. In the panic of waking to such a cacophony of sounds, I believe for a moment that a train is barreling down on me.
That damn clock! But I took the battery out... How is it going off? And why is it so loud?
Confusion mixed with the pain from the deafening noise. The sound waves cut through me, making it nearly impossible to breath. The bass of the thundering engine made my heart beat feel irregular and the sheer volume burned my ears. I writhed in the bed as I buried my head in the pillows and forcefully pressed them against my ears hoping to dampen the noise to at least a tolerable level, but to no avail.
Struggling against the intensity of sound and the confusion of this poltergeist like activity, I force myself to begin moving towards the kitchen. Every moment is excruciating. Sweat pours from my body as I move painfully from the bedroom to the kitchen. Every step closer increases the volume by factors of magnitude. By the time I cross the threshold into the kitchen, I feel tears dripping from my eyes and mingling with the sweat. Every chime feels as if my eardrum were pierced with an icepick and the pain is unbearable.
Reaching into a cabinet drawer where I keep a few hand tools, I grab a small hammer and stand over the clock on my kitchen table. Without any hesitation, I bring the hammer down on the clock over and over, pounding it relentlessly. Every strike of the hammer echoes throughout my arm and into my body. Every strike a resounding blow against the most hated object in my life.
And, finally, the train whistle stops. The engine ceases its roar. The clanking of steel wheels on metal tracks halts. As I look at the clock, my mind instinctively compares the mangled mess of clockwork to the once pristine piece I had taken from my childhood home. The hard plastic that covered the face was smashed into shards, and the cheaply made picture of the train was now ripped to shreds by the hammer blows. The smooth black outer rim with golden numerals was bent and destroyed. The clock was dead. There is no other way to describe it. The clock was dead.
But I wouldn’t stop there. No, I had to make sure. Meticulously picking up every shard of the shattered clock, I place it ceremoniously into a small box and carry it outside. I make sure every busted piece of plastic was removed from my home. Every gear, every screw. I didn’t want any part of it to remain near me. I needed it gone. I needed this disgusting filth out of my home.
Ten minutes until six in the morning.
I take the box outside and set it in my backyard. Quickly grabbing some small sticks, a few small logs, and some rocks, I make a impromptu fire pit and set the box on top before walking to the shed a few feet away. Inside the decrepit shed were an assortment of yard tools which I hardly ever used. They were given to me by father a few years ago despite me telling him I paid someone to do my yard work. I pick up a red gas jug with a yellow spout. I hold it up to confirm the volume it currently held and head back into the yard. Five minutes left.
I never want to hear it again. I never want to hear it again. I never want to hear it again.
Setting the jug near the box of busted clockwork, I head back inside the house for a lighter as I repeat the words in my head over and over. Soon, they become a mindless mantra, a dogma devoid of meaning as I focus solely on the task I set out to do. After searching for a moment, I find the long stemmed lighter and return to the makeshift alter of sticks and wood on which sat the damnable clock.
Two minutes left.
I pour the gas from the jug liberally onto the box and wood, dousing it completely as the mantra continues to play in my mind. For a moment, I recall the happiness on Dad’s face when he first placed the clock on the wall in his den of memories. I remember him measuring the to ensure it was in the very center of his collection. I remember him looking at the clock with adoration and pride. I remember how he would sit amongst his collection and bask in the memories that flooded him within The Temple of Antiquity.
Then, I remember how much Mom and I grew to hate the clock. The overwhelming sound that would echo through the house forcing everyone to submit to the auditory assault. I remember how we begged him to just take the battery for the chime out, and how our pleas were ignored. I remember how I would sneak and remove the battery at night for it to be replaced the following day accompanied with threats to the next person who took the battery out.
As I reminisce, I grow more disgusted with the clock. I hate it with everything in me and only want it removed from my life. As I stand over the clock, now doused in gasoline on an alter of wood and twigs, I lean down with the lighter in hand, my finger on the button to set the damn thing ablaze.
And I hear a church bell in the distance, signaling the turn of the hour. It was six in the morning.
Immediately, I am accosted by train whistles and engines. The sound of the clock chime echoing through my neighborhood bounces off of houses and hills creating a wall of sound that breaks my breath. I feel as if I’m choking. I try to scream, but to no avail. I have no breath in my lungs to make a sound. I have to do it. I have to burn the clock, I have to destroy it before it kills me.
I press the button on the lighter, sparking the flame and the alter lights without hesitation. The train whistle slowly morphs into something more akin to a wailing scream as the fire licks at the plastic and melts the internal parts. Heat hits me in the face and I instantly fall back as I watch the fiery plume engulf the box holding the clock. Slowly, the wailing whistle fades into nothing. The only sound is the faint rustling of leaves and the crackling of fire. It’s quiet. It’s over.
I watch the fire consume the box as the clouds overhead finally burst into the rain I had smelled hours ago. The rain poured onto my head and I worried the fire may be put out, but the flames burned strong in spite. Mixed with the smell of the burning wood, the faint scent of plastic being reduced to cinders arose. There would be nothing left of the clock soon and I will never have to hear the whistle again. That realization bathes me in satisfaction.
The clock is gone. I will never have to hear that damn whistle and engine. It’s gone and dead forever.
I continue watching the pyre. As the last embers begin to die, the box and the clock gone into the steady stream of smoke from the alter I had built in defiance to The Alter of Nostalgia my father had made years ago. I hear the church bell in the distance again, marking the time as seven in the morning. And, just underneath the sound of that bell, I hear the faint sound of a train whistle.

Curious about building up a rim brake all road bike this summer, here's what I'm looking for:

• Metal frame and fork (steel/aluminum ideally, titanium is not in my budget)
• 700x38mm clearance with fenders, open to 650b as well
• Relatively performance oriented, would prefer lighter weight/springier feel, not overbuilt for touring or off road use
• Front rando rack mounts
• Any rim brake is fine: long reach calipers, center pull or cantis

Current production frames I'm aware of at the moment:

• Black Mountain Monster Cross
• Brother Mr Wooden
• Crust Malocchio and Lightning Bolt
• Velo Orange Rando
• Rivendell Roadini

Anything else out there right now or is this the domain of the custom frame builder? I'm open to used stuff, but I imagine that's just going to be cyclocross frames, and I would like something more oriented towards long days in the saddle than short races.

Hey all, I just removed an old aluminum sliding porch door in this opening. I’m curious how to get the install and flashing right for the new door, given it will rest on both wood and concrete. I've seen eitheor, but never both. The old sliding door straddled both the rim joist (which had 1/2” ply on top) and the cement stoop. I left the old wood frame in place so you can see where the width of the original door sat. I’m assuming I’ll shim/build up the rim joist to sit flush with the concrete, then generously caulk the concrete side? Or use some sort of sill pan? Let me know if there’s a better thread to post this in. Thanks
https://imgur.com/a/xVVKKFy

Hey all, I just removed an old aluminum sliding porch door in this opening. I left the iron safety door in place for temporary weather protection while the new sliding door is on its way. I’m curious how to get the install and flashing right for the new door, given it will rest on both wood and concrete. I've seen eitheor, but never both. The old sliding door straddled both the rim joist (which had 1/2” ply on top) and the cement stoop. I left the old wood frame in place so you can see where the width of the original door sat. I’m assuming I’ll shim/build up the rim joist to sit flush with the concrete, then generously caulk the concrete side? Or use some sort of sill pan? Let me know if there’s a better thread to post this in. Thanks
​
https://imgur.com/a/xVVKKFy