While riding my bike yesterday evening, I tipped over in the street--again. God almighty, it’s so horrendously embarrassing to come to a complete stop and simply fall over in the middle of a crowded intersection in one of the biggest cities in the world.
As per my previous installment, I spent the second half of Sunday riding on normal pedals. Later that night, I swapped the flat pedals for the fancy racing pedals in preparation of riding Monday night, although I’m assuming my feet became a bit too acquainted with the normal peddles considering I tipped over on the corner of 3rd Avenue and 79th Street, less than two blocks from my apartment on 2nd and 78th.
And when I say it was crowded, we’re talking during rush hour at 6:30 in the evening. There were people everywhere. Such a crushing blow to the aspiring ego.
Of course, like anyone would have, I tried to be the funny guy as I quickly rose to my feet. A middle-aged man in a suit looked as though he was ready to ask if I was all right when I practically yelled, “Does more damage to the ego than anything else. That's terrible, huh?”
I couldn’t wait for that freaking light to change. As soon as it changed from red to green, I stomped on those pedals and put as much distance between the scene of the stupidity and myself as possible.
Then I had a fantastic 12-mile ride in Central Park where I absolutely tore up the road and managed to keep it on two wheels. How nice.
Tuesday, July 25
Monday, July 24
Landis wins 2006 Tour de France
After riding the non-stop hills in Central Park every evening (which is a far cry from the Alps, I realize, but work with me here), it’s a nice change to put down some miles in the flats, which is exactly what Mr. Ken Picco and I accomplished yesterday morning.
Actually, I’m not so sure if I would slap a “flat” label on Gateway National Park in Staten Island. Not that the park has any hills, although understandably, when I say “flats,” it sort of sounds as if we rode through miles upon miles of flat fields surrounded by millions of stalks of corn. Gateway’s flat, all right, although it’s only about a mile and a half long, so you ride in, turn around, ride out, and do it all over again--no corn, no sunflowers, and no strawberry fields.
The original plan included south Jersey with Mr. Picco’s brother, Mr. Eddie Picco (is his full name Edward, or just Eddie? I don’t think I’ve ever thought to ask, although I have asked, “When you were a kid and spotted a yellow school bus, did you think ‘Board of Ed’ had anything to do with you?”) which would have been nice if not for the fact that (a) the skies were threatening rain, and (b) Mr. Eddie Picco had to work, so nix on riding in the strawberry fields of Cranbury, New Jersey.
After a short phone call with Mr. Ken Picco at eight yesterday morning--during which KP229 sounded as if he had as much enthusiasm for cycling as Courtney Love has for rehab--we decided on a multi-lap ride (sounds a lot more sophisticated than it really is, doesn’t it?) in Gateway. By ten, we were geared up and leaving for the park, dark clouds over our heads (how poetic).
Fortunately, the less than desirable weather worked to our advantage in that the park was relatively quiet in terms of traffic. Often, KP229 and I were able to ride side-by-side, which felt appropriate considering Floyd Landis today won the 2006 Tour de France after a leisurely 96-mile ride into Paris (can you even conceive of a 96-mile ride feeling leisurely?). Rather than sip champagne as we rode, KP229 blew me a few kisses while I cranked out a few farts, although I made sure to only release my deadly gasses while Kenny rode behind me. As a result of my noxious fumes, I was able to keep Mr. Ken Picco from drafting my rear wheel, ensuring he worked just as hard as I did in the headwind as we rode away from the beach.
Perhaps this is how Lance Armstrong managed to win seven consecutive Tour de France races? As it is with most things in life, it’s certainly possible, isn’t it? Can you imagine the headlines?
LANCE WINS FIFTH TOUR, THANKS TEAM AND CHEVY’S TEX MEX.
Geez, I’m on a roll tonight.
Anyway, we put in twenty miles. We could’ve ridden harder than we did, but give us a break. It was Sunday, the Lord’s Day, which means cyclists are forbidden from sweating profusely for more than fifteen minutes. Regardless, let this serve as warning to Mr. Ken Picco. We are going to begin riding with a much higher frequency (we really means you, buddy), young man. Later this year, I’m thinking of investing in a mountain bike so once the weather begins to turn, we can throw on some fleeces, some leg warmers, and really begin tearing shit up off-road. By the time we reach summer next year, you’ll be wearing a jersey that reads American BAD-ASS and sipping champagne from your insulated water bottle during the last ten laps of our weekly sixty-mile rides. And if you’re thinking otherwise, I’m going to have a little gift for you in the coming 1-2 weeks that should put you in the right mindset to ride more often (and it’s not EPO).
Finally, I bought some new pedals--cheap, black, flat, plastic pedals that I can use when I’m simply cruising through the city streets so I don’t have to bother with clipping and unclipping my road shoes. Unclipping my left foot at every red light really annoys the ever-loving-shit out of me.
Also, the Barnes & Noble on 86th Street is selling classic literature on CD at great prices. I spotted Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities--12 CDs, 13.5 hours--for $19.95. For an audio book, that’s a bargain. I think it would be fun to catch up on some of the classics while riding, but that’s just me.
Actually, I’m not so sure if I would slap a “flat” label on Gateway National Park in Staten Island. Not that the park has any hills, although understandably, when I say “flats,” it sort of sounds as if we rode through miles upon miles of flat fields surrounded by millions of stalks of corn. Gateway’s flat, all right, although it’s only about a mile and a half long, so you ride in, turn around, ride out, and do it all over again--no corn, no sunflowers, and no strawberry fields.
The original plan included south Jersey with Mr. Picco’s brother, Mr. Eddie Picco (is his full name Edward, or just Eddie? I don’t think I’ve ever thought to ask, although I have asked, “When you were a kid and spotted a yellow school bus, did you think ‘Board of Ed’ had anything to do with you?”) which would have been nice if not for the fact that (a) the skies were threatening rain, and (b) Mr. Eddie Picco had to work, so nix on riding in the strawberry fields of Cranbury, New Jersey.
After a short phone call with Mr. Ken Picco at eight yesterday morning--during which KP229 sounded as if he had as much enthusiasm for cycling as Courtney Love has for rehab--we decided on a multi-lap ride (sounds a lot more sophisticated than it really is, doesn’t it?) in Gateway. By ten, we were geared up and leaving for the park, dark clouds over our heads (how poetic).
Fortunately, the less than desirable weather worked to our advantage in that the park was relatively quiet in terms of traffic. Often, KP229 and I were able to ride side-by-side, which felt appropriate considering Floyd Landis today won the 2006 Tour de France after a leisurely 96-mile ride into Paris (can you even conceive of a 96-mile ride feeling leisurely?). Rather than sip champagne as we rode, KP229 blew me a few kisses while I cranked out a few farts, although I made sure to only release my deadly gasses while Kenny rode behind me. As a result of my noxious fumes, I was able to keep Mr. Ken Picco from drafting my rear wheel, ensuring he worked just as hard as I did in the headwind as we rode away from the beach.
Perhaps this is how Lance Armstrong managed to win seven consecutive Tour de France races? As it is with most things in life, it’s certainly possible, isn’t it? Can you imagine the headlines?
LANCE WINS FIFTH TOUR, THANKS TEAM AND CHEVY’S TEX MEX.
Geez, I’m on a roll tonight.
Anyway, we put in twenty miles. We could’ve ridden harder than we did, but give us a break. It was Sunday, the Lord’s Day, which means cyclists are forbidden from sweating profusely for more than fifteen minutes. Regardless, let this serve as warning to Mr. Ken Picco. We are going to begin riding with a much higher frequency (we really means you, buddy), young man. Later this year, I’m thinking of investing in a mountain bike so once the weather begins to turn, we can throw on some fleeces, some leg warmers, and really begin tearing shit up off-road. By the time we reach summer next year, you’ll be wearing a jersey that reads American BAD-ASS and sipping champagne from your insulated water bottle during the last ten laps of our weekly sixty-mile rides. And if you’re thinking otherwise, I’m going to have a little gift for you in the coming 1-2 weeks that should put you in the right mindset to ride more often (and it’s not EPO).
Finally, I bought some new pedals--cheap, black, flat, plastic pedals that I can use when I’m simply cruising through the city streets so I don’t have to bother with clipping and unclipping my road shoes. Unclipping my left foot at every red light really annoys the ever-loving-shit out of me.
Also, the Barnes & Noble on 86th Street is selling classic literature on CD at great prices. I spotted Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities--12 CDs, 13.5 hours--for $19.95. For an audio book, that’s a bargain. I think it would be fun to catch up on some of the classics while riding, but that’s just me.
Friday, July 21
Faster?
I can’t tell if I’m getting faster or not. Of course, I’d like to believe I’m riding better than I was two weeks ago after first buying the bike, although I’m just not too sure about that.
The easy way to solve this would mean investing in a cycling computer, although considering I’ve spent a few bucks these past two weeks on cycling clothing and accessories, I’m not ready to lay down the credit card for a computer. For whatever reason, I’ve got it in my head that I need a wireless computer with a cadence feature. Do I really need wireless? Not really? Do I really need to know my cadence? Is it that more important than simple speed and time? Probably not.
You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I should just go out and buy a basic wireless model without the freaking cadence. I mean, who the hell do I think I am that I need to know my cadence? All I really need to know is whether or not I’m turning faster laps in Central Park. Once I know that, I’ll realize if I should be increasing my cadence to increase my speed. How about that?!
Granted, I’m no trainer, but doesn’t it really come down to pedaling harder and/or faster for longer periods of time? Isn’t that how races are won?
Problem solved. No need for the cadence feature. I’ll stick with the basics. Better yet, perhaps I’ll simply pick up a sports watch so I can time the laps. Yeah, but the problem with that is I won’t get the average speed. If I can increase my average speed, I’ll get faster.
Maybe I’m thinking about this much too much. Maybe I’m spending too much money. Actually, I’m probably not spending too much money considering a vendor presented me with a $50 Amazon gift card on Monday, so I picked up a floor pump, insulated water bottle, spare tube, and three CO2 refill cartridges for $50.03 including shipping, all of which should arrive tomorrow. Not bad, right?
Now I’m thinking of buying a pair of cycling jerseys from pricepoint.com. They have a sale on their generic jerseys--two for $35, although I’m not sure if I should order the large or x-large sizes. According to the chart, a large should fit a chest size of 42-44, and I’m a 44. On the other hand, I don’t want to end up with a pair of jerseys that fit horribly and have to go through the hassle of exchanging them for a larger size.
I’m thinking I might stop in a local bike shop, try on a large jersey, and if it fits, place the order online. Or maybe I’ll just keep wearing athletic shirts as I have been. Nothing wrong with that.
Actually, the reason I began writing all of this had to do with my miserable speed. You know, I shouldn’t say it’s miserable, although compared to some of the guys who fly past me in the park, it’s definitely miserable. Hence, the need to train harder and eat better (no more Nathan’s hot dogs after a 15 mile ride). And to train harder, I want to make sure I’m actually pushing myself as hard as I should, hence the need for the cycling computer.
I need to get on that, more so than the jerseys. Much more so.
The easy way to solve this would mean investing in a cycling computer, although considering I’ve spent a few bucks these past two weeks on cycling clothing and accessories, I’m not ready to lay down the credit card for a computer. For whatever reason, I’ve got it in my head that I need a wireless computer with a cadence feature. Do I really need wireless? Not really? Do I really need to know my cadence? Is it that more important than simple speed and time? Probably not.
You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I should just go out and buy a basic wireless model without the freaking cadence. I mean, who the hell do I think I am that I need to know my cadence? All I really need to know is whether or not I’m turning faster laps in Central Park. Once I know that, I’ll realize if I should be increasing my cadence to increase my speed. How about that?!
Granted, I’m no trainer, but doesn’t it really come down to pedaling harder and/or faster for longer periods of time? Isn’t that how races are won?
Problem solved. No need for the cadence feature. I’ll stick with the basics. Better yet, perhaps I’ll simply pick up a sports watch so I can time the laps. Yeah, but the problem with that is I won’t get the average speed. If I can increase my average speed, I’ll get faster.
Maybe I’m thinking about this much too much. Maybe I’m spending too much money. Actually, I’m probably not spending too much money considering a vendor presented me with a $50 Amazon gift card on Monday, so I picked up a floor pump, insulated water bottle, spare tube, and three CO2 refill cartridges for $50.03 including shipping, all of which should arrive tomorrow. Not bad, right?
Now I’m thinking of buying a pair of cycling jerseys from pricepoint.com. They have a sale on their generic jerseys--two for $35, although I’m not sure if I should order the large or x-large sizes. According to the chart, a large should fit a chest size of 42-44, and I’m a 44. On the other hand, I don’t want to end up with a pair of jerseys that fit horribly and have to go through the hassle of exchanging them for a larger size.
I’m thinking I might stop in a local bike shop, try on a large jersey, and if it fits, place the order online. Or maybe I’ll just keep wearing athletic shirts as I have been. Nothing wrong with that.
Actually, the reason I began writing all of this had to do with my miserable speed. You know, I shouldn’t say it’s miserable, although compared to some of the guys who fly past me in the park, it’s definitely miserable. Hence, the need to train harder and eat better (no more Nathan’s hot dogs after a 15 mile ride). And to train harder, I want to make sure I’m actually pushing myself as hard as I should, hence the need for the cycling computer.
I need to get on that, more so than the jerseys. Much more so.
Tuesday, July 18
And Then Came the Heat
It’s hot. Actually, it’s extremely hot. It’s that hot out there in the streets. Of course, it’s cool in my office, but that’s not the point. I can’t ride my lovely bike in the office. More importantly, I can’t even get Mr. Picco to ride in the evenings when it’s cooler (yet still hot) considering he works outdoors in this godforsaken heat all day.
With the heat comes the question, “Will I ride in this heat?” Personally, I’ve been in the air conditioning all day, so I feel I sort of have to go out and ride in the heat, go out and sweat, make the legs do some work. Again, the heat won’t magically disappear around 7 PM when I reach the park, although it should be considerably less extreme than trying to ride at 2 PM when the heat reaches its worse point during the day.
I’ll ride. It can’t be that bad. Well, it can get bad, but you do what you have to do, right?
With the heat comes the question, “Will I ride in this heat?” Personally, I’ve been in the air conditioning all day, so I feel I sort of have to go out and ride in the heat, go out and sweat, make the legs do some work. Again, the heat won’t magically disappear around 7 PM when I reach the park, although it should be considerably less extreme than trying to ride at 2 PM when the heat reaches its worse point during the day.
I’ll ride. It can’t be that bad. Well, it can get bad, but you do what you have to do, right?
Friday, July 14
The Boys Are In Trouble
I’m beginning to have a problem with the twins, meaning the bangers. As of late, the boys begin screaming in miserable pain after I’m on the bike for no more than ten to fifteen minutes, and I’m not talking about a dull ache. This is not something BenGay could cure. Rather, it feels more like someone jabbing a needle into the base of my coin purse and injecting hot liquid along the length of my package.
Needless to say, it’s become something of a dilemma that has me relatively concerned.
The week after I bought the bike, I told myself, “Once you finally get your hands on a pair of proper bike shorts with all that wonderfully soft padding, the pain spreading through your balls will go away.” While in Modell’s Thursday afternoon, I had the good fortune to find a pair of padded shorts for the bargain price of $21.99. Hoping for the best, I pulled ‘em over my butt a few hours later, hopped on the bike, and headed for Central Park at ten in the evening.
First, while the padding made my butt slightly happier, the extra padding did ZERO for my problem with the boys, which is extremely upsetting. Again, I could deal with a dull ache or even an ache, but this is a sharp, nasty pain. It almost feels as if I’m bleeding down there, and I have to imagine it’s my body’s way of telling me, “You’re doing something very wrong, you idiot.”
Second, it was not just dark, but almost deserted in the park and as this was my first time out there after sunset (ever), I restricted my ride to a single lap. Even if it hadn’t been dark I might have pulled off after only one lap considering the pain down low.
You know, not that I’m thinking of it. I’ve never once had this problem while mountain biking. Granted, I don’t think I’ve ever been in the saddle on any one mountain bike as long as I have been on the new Giant road bike, although really, it’s gotta be the seat. I’ve been worried that perhaps it’s my riding style and the way I position my ass on the seat, but again, it’s never been a problem off-road, so why is it a problem now on the road?
It’s probably the damn seat and if it is (I’m sure it is), my old man has two older Giant mountain bikes in his shed. Perhaps I’ll offer him $50 or so for the older bike so I can use it not only for parts, but also as a beater-bike I can use to take short trips around the city and lock to the nearest parking meter/streetlight/tree.
That sounds like fantastic plan, don’t you think?
Needless to say, it’s become something of a dilemma that has me relatively concerned.
The week after I bought the bike, I told myself, “Once you finally get your hands on a pair of proper bike shorts with all that wonderfully soft padding, the pain spreading through your balls will go away.” While in Modell’s Thursday afternoon, I had the good fortune to find a pair of padded shorts for the bargain price of $21.99. Hoping for the best, I pulled ‘em over my butt a few hours later, hopped on the bike, and headed for Central Park at ten in the evening.
First, while the padding made my butt slightly happier, the extra padding did ZERO for my problem with the boys, which is extremely upsetting. Again, I could deal with a dull ache or even an ache, but this is a sharp, nasty pain. It almost feels as if I’m bleeding down there, and I have to imagine it’s my body’s way of telling me, “You’re doing something very wrong, you idiot.”
Second, it was not just dark, but almost deserted in the park and as this was my first time out there after sunset (ever), I restricted my ride to a single lap. Even if it hadn’t been dark I might have pulled off after only one lap considering the pain down low.
You know, not that I’m thinking of it. I’ve never once had this problem while mountain biking. Granted, I don’t think I’ve ever been in the saddle on any one mountain bike as long as I have been on the new Giant road bike, although really, it’s gotta be the seat. I’ve been worried that perhaps it’s my riding style and the way I position my ass on the seat, but again, it’s never been a problem off-road, so why is it a problem now on the road?
It’s probably the damn seat and if it is (I’m sure it is), my old man has two older Giant mountain bikes in his shed. Perhaps I’ll offer him $50 or so for the older bike so I can use it not only for parts, but also as a beater-bike I can use to take short trips around the city and lock to the nearest parking meter/streetlight/tree.
That sounds like fantastic plan, don’t you think?
Tuesday, July 11
From Central Park With Love
I’m turning into one of those guys. You know the type to which I’m referring. Granted, I don’t yet have the colorful $99 cycling-specific jersey, although I did invest almost $100 in a pair of those cycling sneakers that clip into the pedal.
Doing circles in Central Park, I began taking studious notes on the apparel and gear belonging to every rider who whipped past me (which basically includes everybody other than the grandmothers on the bright orange rental bikes) over the previous week. Myself, I have the helmet borrowed from Mr. Ken Picco (on loan until the one I ordered arrives some time this week, hopefully), the cycling gloves I fashioned from an old pair of motocross gloves by snipping off the fingers so that they’re now rapidly falling apart, and a few of those athletic shirts that seem to be all the rage. I don’t mean wife-beaters, but those relatively tight-fitting polyester-blend shirts. Know what I’m talking about? I hope so considering that’s about as much effort as I feel like putting into that particular description.
Otherwise, I have a saddlebag--a pleasant pouch that sits immediately under the excruciatingly painful seat--as well as an insulated bottle, both loaned to me by you-know-who, Mr. Kenny Picco.
(If anyone wants to write to Mr. Picco and express thanks considering how much equipment the guy has let me borrow, feel free to do so at kp229@aol.com.)
So what did I feel I was missing by watching all the other serious cyclists in the park? A few things, really. For starters, the most important piece of equipment I have on order is the biking shorts with the padded interior. These shorts, I consider them more of a necessity and less of a luxury. There’s a reason why every single cyclist in the world wears the padded shorts and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with aesthetics or aerodynamics. Rather, it has everything to do with the guiche (pronounced gooch, or as my girlfriend would say, “Aww, does your goochie-woochie hurt?), also known as the ass-ball connector. Over the past five days, I’ve been out riding five times and each time, both my bangers and my guiche have screamed in agony almost every moment I’m in the saddle peddling and as a result, I spend half the time I’m in the park worrying over conditions such as (a) impotence, and (b) sperm count. Honestly, I could live with a low sperm count. Actually, I’d work harder on the bike to obtain a low sperm count, which is nothing short of an excuse to not have kids which is a feat I’m not too thrilled to accomplish anyway. Impotence, on the other hand, that frightens the hell out of me the same way it frightens the hell out of any man. Maybe I should be talking to my doctor about this, or maybe I should go out and splurge on a pair of cycling shorts until the mail order arrives.
Nah, that won’t happen.
Let’s move on. Friday afternoon I stopped in Conrad’s on 41st Street in Tudor City and spent almost $20 on glueless patches, a pair of tire levers, and a CO2 cartridge and head for inflating flat tires, all of which was a smart move considering I sprung my first flat later that evening while on the west side of the park. Smiling to myself for having the fantastic insight for picking up the necessary flat-fixing items earlier in the day, I pulled off, inverted the bike, and went to work.
My first impression of changing a flat on a road bicycle? It’s a hell of a lot easier than changing flats on a dirtbike. Still, I muffed it up when I failed to realize the valve at the end of the Presta stem needs to be open so that air may not only escape, but enter as well. Without that crucial piece of knowledge, I managed to frustrate the hell out of myself by trying to inflate and uninflatable tire considering the valve was closed.
What was the end result? I walked all the way from the vicinity of the West 80s to 78th on the East side. During the trip, I made sure to place a call to Mr. Ken Picco, to inform him that, “. . . I’m holding you personally responsible for this as we both know that whenever a cyclist suffers a flat, it’s your fault.”
Considering the mess with the CO2, I invested in a pump that fits nicely on the frame, as well as a new tube to replace the original with the puncture. After a long ride in the park yesterday, I stopped in the bike shop on 3rd Avenue and 79th to inquire about a pair of honest-to-god cycling shoes.
The salesman glanced down at my sneakers. “You’ve got some big dogs. Not sure if we’ll have anything in your size.”
Luckily, they did indeed have a pair of Specialized shoes size 48.
“They’re a bit tight,” I said, trying on both the right and the left, “but it’s not like I’m going to be doing a lot of walking in these babies.” Holding the black and silver shoes in my hands, I asked, “Let me guess. These are your most expensive pair, right?”
“Actually, they’re the least expensive.” He held out the side of the box. “$89.99.”
“Let’s do it.”
I’m now the proud owner of my first real pair of cycling shoes, and I can say they were well worth the money as I did three laps around the park this morning and loved the shoes. Unfortunately, I managed to tip over standing on the corner of Park Avenue and 79th Street this morning on my way to Central Park. Coming to a stop at a red light, I managed to unclip my left foot which I placed on the street. For whatever reason, I lost my balance and began tipping to the right and landed on my side.
It hurt the ego more than anything else.
I think that’s it. I think my boring update has reached an end. With luck, I’ll manage to avoid tipping over at red lights in the future. God forbid it happened at a crowded intersection surrounded by gorgeous women. I’m not sure if my self-esteem would ever recover from such an embarrassing debacle.
Doing circles in Central Park, I began taking studious notes on the apparel and gear belonging to every rider who whipped past me (which basically includes everybody other than the grandmothers on the bright orange rental bikes) over the previous week. Myself, I have the helmet borrowed from Mr. Ken Picco (on loan until the one I ordered arrives some time this week, hopefully), the cycling gloves I fashioned from an old pair of motocross gloves by snipping off the fingers so that they’re now rapidly falling apart, and a few of those athletic shirts that seem to be all the rage. I don’t mean wife-beaters, but those relatively tight-fitting polyester-blend shirts. Know what I’m talking about? I hope so considering that’s about as much effort as I feel like putting into that particular description.
Otherwise, I have a saddlebag--a pleasant pouch that sits immediately under the excruciatingly painful seat--as well as an insulated bottle, both loaned to me by you-know-who, Mr. Kenny Picco.
(If anyone wants to write to Mr. Picco and express thanks considering how much equipment the guy has let me borrow, feel free to do so at kp229@aol.com.)
So what did I feel I was missing by watching all the other serious cyclists in the park? A few things, really. For starters, the most important piece of equipment I have on order is the biking shorts with the padded interior. These shorts, I consider them more of a necessity and less of a luxury. There’s a reason why every single cyclist in the world wears the padded shorts and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with aesthetics or aerodynamics. Rather, it has everything to do with the guiche (pronounced gooch, or as my girlfriend would say, “Aww, does your goochie-woochie hurt?), also known as the ass-ball connector. Over the past five days, I’ve been out riding five times and each time, both my bangers and my guiche have screamed in agony almost every moment I’m in the saddle peddling and as a result, I spend half the time I’m in the park worrying over conditions such as (a) impotence, and (b) sperm count. Honestly, I could live with a low sperm count. Actually, I’d work harder on the bike to obtain a low sperm count, which is nothing short of an excuse to not have kids which is a feat I’m not too thrilled to accomplish anyway. Impotence, on the other hand, that frightens the hell out of me the same way it frightens the hell out of any man. Maybe I should be talking to my doctor about this, or maybe I should go out and splurge on a pair of cycling shorts until the mail order arrives.
Nah, that won’t happen.
Let’s move on. Friday afternoon I stopped in Conrad’s on 41st Street in Tudor City and spent almost $20 on glueless patches, a pair of tire levers, and a CO2 cartridge and head for inflating flat tires, all of which was a smart move considering I sprung my first flat later that evening while on the west side of the park. Smiling to myself for having the fantastic insight for picking up the necessary flat-fixing items earlier in the day, I pulled off, inverted the bike, and went to work.
My first impression of changing a flat on a road bicycle? It’s a hell of a lot easier than changing flats on a dirtbike. Still, I muffed it up when I failed to realize the valve at the end of the Presta stem needs to be open so that air may not only escape, but enter as well. Without that crucial piece of knowledge, I managed to frustrate the hell out of myself by trying to inflate and uninflatable tire considering the valve was closed.
What was the end result? I walked all the way from the vicinity of the West 80s to 78th on the East side. During the trip, I made sure to place a call to Mr. Ken Picco, to inform him that, “. . . I’m holding you personally responsible for this as we both know that whenever a cyclist suffers a flat, it’s your fault.”
Considering the mess with the CO2, I invested in a pump that fits nicely on the frame, as well as a new tube to replace the original with the puncture. After a long ride in the park yesterday, I stopped in the bike shop on 3rd Avenue and 79th to inquire about a pair of honest-to-god cycling shoes.
The salesman glanced down at my sneakers. “You’ve got some big dogs. Not sure if we’ll have anything in your size.”
Luckily, they did indeed have a pair of Specialized shoes size 48.
“They’re a bit tight,” I said, trying on both the right and the left, “but it’s not like I’m going to be doing a lot of walking in these babies.” Holding the black and silver shoes in my hands, I asked, “Let me guess. These are your most expensive pair, right?”
“Actually, they’re the least expensive.” He held out the side of the box. “$89.99.”
“Let’s do it.”
I’m now the proud owner of my first real pair of cycling shoes, and I can say they were well worth the money as I did three laps around the park this morning and loved the shoes. Unfortunately, I managed to tip over standing on the corner of Park Avenue and 79th Street this morning on my way to Central Park. Coming to a stop at a red light, I managed to unclip my left foot which I placed on the street. For whatever reason, I lost my balance and began tipping to the right and landed on my side.
It hurt the ego more than anything else.
I think that’s it. I think my boring update has reached an end. With luck, I’ll manage to avoid tipping over at red lights in the future. God forbid it happened at a crowded intersection surrounded by gorgeous women. I’m not sure if my self-esteem would ever recover from such an embarrassing debacle.
Thursday, July 6
Central Park: Part I
For the first time after living in New York City for more than thirty-three years, I had my first taste of cycling in Central Park this evening.
Originally, the plan was to get out of bed at six this morning and do what I ended up doing this evening, but when that damn alarm clock starting beeping, I thought, “I ain’t going anywhere right now, especially on a bicycle.” Instead of carrying the bike down four flights of stairs and getting in some exercise before a long day in the office, I reset the alarm and jumped right back to sleep.
As much as I’m beginning to love the idea of waking up and cycling to start the day, sleep will win that morning battle and pull me back into bed every time, so starting tomorrow, the plan is to simply cycle in the evening unless my eyes decide to open prior to seven-thirty in the morning, which is a statistical improbability.
Tonight, arriving home around six-thirty, I decided, “If I couldn’t get it done earlier, why not go out and take the new bike for a spin?” And that’s exactly what I did. Five minutes after leaving the apartment, I reached 79th Street and 5th Avenue, found my way to Park Drive, and began pedaling. Before long, I reached the treacherous uphill near the north end of the park and as my thighs began to burn, I realized that this was the hill of which everyone had previously warned me. During the first lap, I thought, “That was bad, but it wasn’t that bad.”
Regardless, I kept pedaling, wondering where the hell in the world I was as I must have missed most of the exit signs indicating which area of the park I had reached. It wasn’t until I spotted a sign for West 67th Street did I realize I was already heading south. Go ahead and call me an idiot, although I had a difficult time gauging direction while spinning around Park Drive.
Once I reached East 72nd Street, I figured I’d go ahead and give the park another go, which was when the long, tortuous uphill became a lot more long and tortuous. When my legs and lungs began to burn, I kept repeating to myself, “Just keep pedaling. Just keep pedaling, loser.”
Despite the pain, I truly enjoyed the ride in the park. There are so many other cyclists and joggers and pedestrians about that there’s always something or someone to look at. To a certain degree, there’s a motivational aspect of having at least twenty serious cyclists pass you as if you’re standing still. There’s something motivational to glancing up and spotting tremendous leg and calf muscles pumping pedals as they speed by. No one likes getting passed, especially me, so even though I suck, I’m already looking forward to tomorrow’s ride.
Originally, the plan was to get out of bed at six this morning and do what I ended up doing this evening, but when that damn alarm clock starting beeping, I thought, “I ain’t going anywhere right now, especially on a bicycle.” Instead of carrying the bike down four flights of stairs and getting in some exercise before a long day in the office, I reset the alarm and jumped right back to sleep.
As much as I’m beginning to love the idea of waking up and cycling to start the day, sleep will win that morning battle and pull me back into bed every time, so starting tomorrow, the plan is to simply cycle in the evening unless my eyes decide to open prior to seven-thirty in the morning, which is a statistical improbability.
Tonight, arriving home around six-thirty, I decided, “If I couldn’t get it done earlier, why not go out and take the new bike for a spin?” And that’s exactly what I did. Five minutes after leaving the apartment, I reached 79th Street and 5th Avenue, found my way to Park Drive, and began pedaling. Before long, I reached the treacherous uphill near the north end of the park and as my thighs began to burn, I realized that this was the hill of which everyone had previously warned me. During the first lap, I thought, “That was bad, but it wasn’t that bad.”
Regardless, I kept pedaling, wondering where the hell in the world I was as I must have missed most of the exit signs indicating which area of the park I had reached. It wasn’t until I spotted a sign for West 67th Street did I realize I was already heading south. Go ahead and call me an idiot, although I had a difficult time gauging direction while spinning around Park Drive.
Once I reached East 72nd Street, I figured I’d go ahead and give the park another go, which was when the long, tortuous uphill became a lot more long and tortuous. When my legs and lungs began to burn, I kept repeating to myself, “Just keep pedaling. Just keep pedaling, loser.”
Despite the pain, I truly enjoyed the ride in the park. There are so many other cyclists and joggers and pedestrians about that there’s always something or someone to look at. To a certain degree, there’s a motivational aspect of having at least twenty serious cyclists pass you as if you’re standing still. There’s something motivational to glancing up and spotting tremendous leg and calf muscles pumping pedals as they speed by. No one likes getting passed, especially me, so even though I suck, I’m already looking forward to tomorrow’s ride.
Wednesday, July 5
The First Day
Whenever I’m on the track riding my dirtbike, it’s never too long before I begin breathing hard. After only a few laps, I always feel somewhat drained: my hands grow tight (yes, I hold the grips tighter than I should) and my forearms and lungs begin to burn. Every time this happens, which is about every weekend, I repeatedly tell myself, “You really need to get into shape.”
Today, I did something about it. At ten this morning, I met my friend Ken Picco at R&A bike shop in Park Slope and spent $605 on a 2005 Giant OCR2 ($550 before tax and a few bucks for a water bottle cage totaled $605). The salesman first showed us a 2006 Giant OCR with a red frame, although I honestly didn’t care much for the look of the bike. They also had a blue Specialized Allez that looked a lot nicer, although at 58cm, I wasn’t convinced the frame would fit my height--6’2”.
Standing around trying to decide between the two, the salesman then came up with another Giant, one with a blue and silver XL (x-large) frame and it looked as though it would fit me perfectly.
It did. After a quick test ride up and down the street, I returned to the shop and said, “Let’s do it, but can you adjust the gears? They’re making a bit of noise toward the lower end.”
Make a long story short (it’s long already, though, isn’t it?), I walked out of R&A with a brand-spanking new 2005 Giant OCR2 ready to ride. My friend Kenny had brought an extra helmet, so a few minutes later, we rode into Prospect Park and began riding, me on my new bitch, Kenny on his green and yellow Independent (with matching helmet and jersey, no less).
Now I have a bike I can ride in Central Park each morning to build up my legs and endurance. I also need to invest in a pair of bike shorts as my guiche was freaking killing me during those two laps in Prospect Park. As far as my ass is concerned, khaki shorts simply won’t cut it. While I’m at it, I plan on throwing a few more bucks into the deal for a tire-repair kit, a helmet of my own so I might return Kenny’s to his rightful ownership, a water bottle or two, and perhaps a new pair of pedals or clip-on shoes. The Giant came with these odd hybrid pedals--one side is flat for normal pedaling as I did today, and the flip side is designed for biking shoes. If not for the fact that the flat side of the pedals are so narrow, I’d stick with these, but after only fifteen or twenty miles of riding today, it’s a no-brainer. My feet are simply too big for these mothers as they are now.
Then, when I’m ready, I’ll also invest in an authentic riding jersey and perhaps a pair of shades so I can be the cool guy on the bike.
Regardless of the gear, the goal is to (a) build up my fitness, and (b) become a better road rider. Perhaps I can enter some races once I’m in shape and judge my abilities. Racing a bicycle seems like a hell of a lot of fun, albeit incredibly hard work. A track race would be nice--just riding in an oval again and again and again.
Oh, I almost forgot. Since I left my truck in Staten Island this afternoon, I took a second ride today. The train took me to the ferry that took me to downtown Manhattan. Beyond Battery Park, I started north along the walking/running/bicycling/inline skating path that runs parallel to the West Side Highway and the Hudson River. Before today, I was under the mistaken impression that path/miniature roadway quit in the upper 50s. Au contraire, mon frere. I’m not sure how far north it actually goes--perhaps all the way to the George Washington Bridge?--but it did take me to West 79th Street, where I made a right, pedaling as hard as I could to get away from the rain that had been falling on my head for minutes already, and cut straight through the park in the Upper East Side.
Mission accomplished. Now I get to sit here in the air conditioning and peck away at the keyboard. How exciting.
Today, I did something about it. At ten this morning, I met my friend Ken Picco at R&A bike shop in Park Slope and spent $605 on a 2005 Giant OCR2 ($550 before tax and a few bucks for a water bottle cage totaled $605). The salesman first showed us a 2006 Giant OCR with a red frame, although I honestly didn’t care much for the look of the bike. They also had a blue Specialized Allez that looked a lot nicer, although at 58cm, I wasn’t convinced the frame would fit my height--6’2”.
Standing around trying to decide between the two, the salesman then came up with another Giant, one with a blue and silver XL (x-large) frame and it looked as though it would fit me perfectly.
It did. After a quick test ride up and down the street, I returned to the shop and said, “Let’s do it, but can you adjust the gears? They’re making a bit of noise toward the lower end.”
Make a long story short (it’s long already, though, isn’t it?), I walked out of R&A with a brand-spanking new 2005 Giant OCR2 ready to ride. My friend Kenny had brought an extra helmet, so a few minutes later, we rode into Prospect Park and began riding, me on my new bitch, Kenny on his green and yellow Independent (with matching helmet and jersey, no less).
Now I have a bike I can ride in Central Park each morning to build up my legs and endurance. I also need to invest in a pair of bike shorts as my guiche was freaking killing me during those two laps in Prospect Park. As far as my ass is concerned, khaki shorts simply won’t cut it. While I’m at it, I plan on throwing a few more bucks into the deal for a tire-repair kit, a helmet of my own so I might return Kenny’s to his rightful ownership, a water bottle or two, and perhaps a new pair of pedals or clip-on shoes. The Giant came with these odd hybrid pedals--one side is flat for normal pedaling as I did today, and the flip side is designed for biking shoes. If not for the fact that the flat side of the pedals are so narrow, I’d stick with these, but after only fifteen or twenty miles of riding today, it’s a no-brainer. My feet are simply too big for these mothers as they are now.
Then, when I’m ready, I’ll also invest in an authentic riding jersey and perhaps a pair of shades so I can be the cool guy on the bike.
Regardless of the gear, the goal is to (a) build up my fitness, and (b) become a better road rider. Perhaps I can enter some races once I’m in shape and judge my abilities. Racing a bicycle seems like a hell of a lot of fun, albeit incredibly hard work. A track race would be nice--just riding in an oval again and again and again.
Oh, I almost forgot. Since I left my truck in Staten Island this afternoon, I took a second ride today. The train took me to the ferry that took me to downtown Manhattan. Beyond Battery Park, I started north along the walking/running/bicycling/inline skating path that runs parallel to the West Side Highway and the Hudson River. Before today, I was under the mistaken impression that path/miniature roadway quit in the upper 50s. Au contraire, mon frere. I’m not sure how far north it actually goes--perhaps all the way to the George Washington Bridge?--but it did take me to West 79th Street, where I made a right, pedaling as hard as I could to get away from the rain that had been falling on my head for minutes already, and cut straight through the park in the Upper East Side.
Mission accomplished. Now I get to sit here in the air conditioning and peck away at the keyboard. How exciting.
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