It's been a while since I last threw a leg over my bike and honestly, I'm a bit torn up about that. Of course, I've got a handful of excuses: girlfriend's in town after being away for two months, had to move from the city to Brooklyn this past weekend, but I could've dragged myself out of bed early and rode in the rain (for those of you outside the tri-state metro area, it's been nothing but rain all weekend) before I began lugging box after box from the Upper East Side to Brooklyn Heights. I could've, but I didn't.
Regardless, what I've failed to mention so far is the mountain biking me and the two Picco's did a week ago in south Jersey. The previous evening, I held a short conversation with Mr. Picco #1 (#1 being the older of the two): "Supposed to rain tomorrow." So I said, "Then I guess I can drink to my heart's content," which I did. Unfortunately, when I peeled open my eyes the following morning, I saw blue sky and sun, which meant packing a few things and riding all the way downtown to the truck I had left behind the previous evening considering I was too drunk to drive. Then I drove to Staten Island where Mr. Picco #1 was ready and waiting, both his beautiful mountain bikes loaded atop his Explorer.
An hour later, we were in Jersey, in Mercer Park? Don't recall the name exactly, although I'm sure I'll get a call from Mr. Picco #1 shortly correcting me.
While Mr. Picco #1 went about the bicycle maintenance (as they said in the Jerky Boys, "I don't know shit about this tunin',"), Mr. Picco #2 arrived in a VW bus most people would describe as atrocious, although that Mr. Picco #2, the man has a fetish for everything Volkswagen. Myself, I've never understood it, but you do what you gotta do, and that seems to be exactly what Mr. Picco #2 has in mind when it comes to his VW bus.
"This, my friend," I said, surveying the bus, "is embarrassment on four wheels."
Soon, the riding began: a pleasant, rolling course through the woods and fields that kept us entertained until I noticed my ass kind of rolling from left to right. "Flat!"
Then Kenny got a flat. Then my tire went flat again, and then again. Before that I went over the bars trying to clear a log the size of a baby's wrist (I could've used a dirty sexual innuendo there, but I'm trying to keep things clean). Then I think Mr. Picco #1 and Mr. Picco #2 went over the bars. Mr. Picco #2 definitely threw it away going down a straight, which simply boggled my mind. Poor bastard smacked his some sort of knot in the small of his back, and if you know Mr. Picco #2, you know the boy takes issue with his back.
Eventually, our day came to an end. Lots of good riding, lots of good times despite the flats. Then on to a terrific lunch at Chez Mr. Picco #2 with his lovely family: hot dogs, steak, chicken, salad, and lots of iced tea. That Mr. Picco #2, he sure does know how to entertain, but so does Mr. Picco #1. That guy's got an-dooly sausage out the wah-zoo. Those Piccos and their grills--they know what they're doing.
Now I live in Brooklyn, so no more riding in Central Park, which is kind of too bad. I enjoyed riding in the that park, althouogh I certainly won't miss those nights during concerts when the park staff incessantly stops cyclists to let pedestrians past. Kind of gets on your nerves after a while, but now I'll be hauling it in Prospect Park, getting ready for the next race. Should be fun.
Monday, August 28
Wednesday, August 16
What Am I Missing?
Maybe it's me, but I just don't get the attitude some road cyclists carry along with their ridiculously over-priced mules. When I'm down at the motocross track, I don't care if a guy's turning fifty second laps or five minute laps, chances are he's gonna be cool if you walk up to him off the track and introduce yourself.
Wish I could say the same for the "serious" cyclists I notice in Central Park.
Like I said, though, maybe it's just me, and I mean that. Maybe it's just the clowns in Central Park who are getting on my nerves day after day.
When I first began riding, more than enough guys with top-shelf helmets, colorful jerseys, and expensive carbon fiber bikes (not to mention the shaved legs, which is a route I will never take) would pass me on the park's loop. Being new to the sport, I made it a habit--albeit an incredibly short-lived habit--to glance over and say hello. Nothing elaborate, just a quick nod of the head and, "How's it going?"
Usually, the response included a look fitting for the filthiest of the homeless, as if I had just asked the passing cyclist if he'd mind sharing his wife/girlfriend in bed.
These cyclists, they're an odd bunch to say the least. Regardless, I no longer bother with the pleasantries although in the event someone has a hello for me, I'll be sure to open my mouth and make the effort to say hi in return.
Further, maybe I have been riding motocross too long, because my attitude toward the cyclists behind me is basically, "You've got brakes. Learn how to use them." What I mean is, if I have to swerve a few feet to the left or right to avoid a pothole, a kid, or a jogger, I don't feel like listening to some jackass behind me yelling, "On your right! On your right!" You know what, buddy? Shut your mouth and hit the brakes. If I feel like sliding from one side of the lane to the other, I guess you're just going to have to deal with that, aren't you?
Perfect example. Last night, I get in Central Park not long after 6:30 which means cars are still permitted. On the uphill approach to the 92nd Street intersection (at least I think it's 92nd Street), the light turned red just as a cop in a scooter pulled up behind me. Recently, city officials have been contemplating banning cycling in the park, so I thought, Let me slow it down rather than blow through this red light while there's a cop right on my ass. In doing so, I drifted to the right several feet to avoid some crossing pedestrians when immediately I hear one of those stereotypical dickheads I've just described above start yelling, "On your right! On your right!"
See what I'm saying about the brakes? Learn how to use 'em. I really don't give a flying f#ck if I messed up this guy's drive/momentum. Also, when I've got the inside line going into a corner, I'll go as wide as I please on the exit. If you don't like me moving over on you, too bad. You've got brakes. Learn how to use 'em. I'll worry about what's going on in front of me, let alone what's behind me.
Wish I could say the same for the "serious" cyclists I notice in Central Park.
Like I said, though, maybe it's just me, and I mean that. Maybe it's just the clowns in Central Park who are getting on my nerves day after day.
When I first began riding, more than enough guys with top-shelf helmets, colorful jerseys, and expensive carbon fiber bikes (not to mention the shaved legs, which is a route I will never take) would pass me on the park's loop. Being new to the sport, I made it a habit--albeit an incredibly short-lived habit--to glance over and say hello. Nothing elaborate, just a quick nod of the head and, "How's it going?"
Usually, the response included a look fitting for the filthiest of the homeless, as if I had just asked the passing cyclist if he'd mind sharing his wife/girlfriend in bed.
These cyclists, they're an odd bunch to say the least. Regardless, I no longer bother with the pleasantries although in the event someone has a hello for me, I'll be sure to open my mouth and make the effort to say hi in return.
Further, maybe I have been riding motocross too long, because my attitude toward the cyclists behind me is basically, "You've got brakes. Learn how to use them." What I mean is, if I have to swerve a few feet to the left or right to avoid a pothole, a kid, or a jogger, I don't feel like listening to some jackass behind me yelling, "On your right! On your right!" You know what, buddy? Shut your mouth and hit the brakes. If I feel like sliding from one side of the lane to the other, I guess you're just going to have to deal with that, aren't you?
Perfect example. Last night, I get in Central Park not long after 6:30 which means cars are still permitted. On the uphill approach to the 92nd Street intersection (at least I think it's 92nd Street), the light turned red just as a cop in a scooter pulled up behind me. Recently, city officials have been contemplating banning cycling in the park, so I thought, Let me slow it down rather than blow through this red light while there's a cop right on my ass. In doing so, I drifted to the right several feet to avoid some crossing pedestrians when immediately I hear one of those stereotypical dickheads I've just described above start yelling, "On your right! On your right!"
See what I'm saying about the brakes? Learn how to use 'em. I really don't give a flying f#ck if I messed up this guy's drive/momentum. Also, when I've got the inside line going into a corner, I'll go as wide as I please on the exit. If you don't like me moving over on you, too bad. You've got brakes. Learn how to use 'em. I'll worry about what's going on in front of me, let alone what's behind me.
Thursday, August 10
Fuel Factor
I don’t know what’s up with my riding, but I think I’m getting worse, if that’s possible, and I’m sure it is. While that may be a bit of an overstatement, it took me just over fifty-eight minutes to finish three laps in Central Park on Tuesday evening and a hair over an hour to do the same three laps at five this morning, I’m concerned.
The first time I reached the big hill at the north end of the park this morning, I stood up and charged most of the way, planting my butt in the seat and downshifting for the last few meters. The second time around, I kept my butt in the seat and did what I could. The third time around, I felt miserable, my speed dropping from roughly thirteen miles-per-hour to maybe ten, possibly nine.
Over the past two days, I had been telling myself that I would push as hard as possible in an attempt to shave thirty or so seconds off my time from Tuesday night. I thought I had it until those last few miles when, every time I reached and uphill, I knew I was spent, completely out of gas.
I could make excuses and attribute the slide in performance to the time of day. I usually train in the evening when I’m running on a full tank of fuel. Leaving the house this morning, I did so on an empty stomach with nothing other than a bottle of water to keep me going. Could riding so early in the morning cause a lapse in my time by over a minute?
I’ll try again Saturday, but not so damn early in the morning. I’ll get up, have some cereal, maybe a tangerine, wait half an hour, and then hit the road. If I’m able to beat fifty-eight minutes, then I’ll know this morning’s miserable performance had everything to do with the lack of fuel. If I can’t beat fifty-eight minutes, then I’m more of a mess than I previously thought and I have zero business trying to race a bicycle.
The first time I reached the big hill at the north end of the park this morning, I stood up and charged most of the way, planting my butt in the seat and downshifting for the last few meters. The second time around, I kept my butt in the seat and did what I could. The third time around, I felt miserable, my speed dropping from roughly thirteen miles-per-hour to maybe ten, possibly nine.
Over the past two days, I had been telling myself that I would push as hard as possible in an attempt to shave thirty or so seconds off my time from Tuesday night. I thought I had it until those last few miles when, every time I reached and uphill, I knew I was spent, completely out of gas.
I could make excuses and attribute the slide in performance to the time of day. I usually train in the evening when I’m running on a full tank of fuel. Leaving the house this morning, I did so on an empty stomach with nothing other than a bottle of water to keep me going. Could riding so early in the morning cause a lapse in my time by over a minute?
I’ll try again Saturday, but not so damn early in the morning. I’ll get up, have some cereal, maybe a tangerine, wait half an hour, and then hit the road. If I’m able to beat fifty-eight minutes, then I’ll know this morning’s miserable performance had everything to do with the lack of fuel. If I can’t beat fifty-eight minutes, then I’m more of a mess than I previously thought and I have zero business trying to race a bicycle.
Monday, August 7
#407
At 6:45 this morning, I was spanked in the biggest way possible. I was spanked the way a pissed-off mom who just ran out of her Zoloft prescription spanks a screaming kid in the middle of Toys ‘R Us. I got spanked the same way the Boston Red Sox spanked the New York Yankees (it pains me to write that, but it’s true) I got spanked . . . well, you get the point.
This morning, I promptly arrived at the Wollman Rink parking lot in Prospect Park at five AM, meaning it was still dark. Glancing around the empty parking lot, I thought, Am I in the right place? Turned out I was definitely in the right place. I had simply arrived way, way too early as most of the other riders didn’t begin appearing until six.
First, I went through what I decided would be my pre-race routine: after unloading my bike from the back of the truck and strapping on my shoes, I sat on the tailgate watching everyone else inflate tires and dress in all of the sportiest gear--colorful jerseys, wonderful bibs, and fast-looking carbon fiber bicycles--while I posed in my fabulously red Champion athletic shirt.
(I’m one of those guys who refuses to invest in an authentic cycling jersey until I know I’m fast enough to run the pace of the Category 5 group. If I did well this morning, I’d hop online immediately thereafter and order something nice. If not, I’d stick with the athletic shirts.)
At some point, I realized I needed to ride a few feet up the road to register and collect my number. Since I had arrived so early, I walked up to the Pre-Reg desk and gave them my name. In return, the nice gentleman handed me something to sign (I may very well have signed my immortal soul over to the devil, but at six on a Saturday morning while feeling anxious because it was my first race, those were simply chances I was willing to take) and a number: 407. Grabbing a few safety pins, I headed back to the truck to go about securing my digits to the back of my shirt.
Eventually, I figured it was time to get to the line. According to the web site where I had registered for the race, Categories 1-3 would launch at 6:30 exactly. Category 4 a few minutes after that, and Category 5 at 6:36.
Somehow, I found myself on the front line of the Category 5 group which was surely far from the best idea I’ve ever had. Why would someone with no bicycle racing experience want to start in a position that would control the beginning pace? Unfortunately, that’s simply the position in which I found myself. To complicate matters, I noticed my seat had somehow come slightly loose. Of all the frigging days for this to happen, I thought, wiggling my seat up and down, hoping it would stay relatively stable for the next seventeen miles.
To make matters even worse, I had the most difficult time clipping my left cleat in the pedal once the whistle blew. Earlier, while standing on line, I had noticed I was the only rider without the larger cleat/pedal style (forgive my ignorance with the terminology), a mistake I’ll be sure to correct before the next race, but for this morning, I coasted along trying desperately to get my damn shoe attached to the damn pedal so I could not just keep up, but start to catch the group of thirty riders who were starting to put some serious distance on me.
Eventually, the cleat slipped into the pedal and I began moving forward in earnest to catch the rest of the riders. It took a minute or so heading uphill, but I got there, and I’m going to do my best to give you, the reader, my first impressions of riding competitively in a group.
The sound of roughly sixty feet spinning in unison is rather entertaining, as is the sound of the same number of tires rapidly rolling across blacktop. That, combined with the rush of wind, creates something of an initially exhilarating experience (I know I’m using a disgusting amount of adverbs here, but bear with me for as long as you can--thanks). Left and right, riders slip ahead and inch behind. Not only are you taking care to avoid touching your front wheel to the rear wheel belonging to the guy/girl ahead of you, but you keep glancing over your shoulder to check on what’s up behind your back. Halfway through the first lap, I was feeling good. Part of me knew I would have a very hard time managing that pace for five laps, but another part of me didn’t really want to hear it. That part simply wanted to pedal and race and burn away the anxieties I had prior to the conductor blowing the whistle and starting the race, so I increased my tempo and inched toward the front of the group which sat a second or so behind the pace motorcycle (the organizer had instructed we were, under no circumstances, to pass the pace motorcycle). In making that effort to move toward the front, I was forced left outside the peloton (I’m not going to keep writing “group of riders” or “group of racers,” so I’m just going to go ahead and use “peloton”) and quickly found myself surprised by how much harder I had to pedal with the wind directly in my face as opposed to drafting behind another rider. I then found out something else about racing. Once you’re outside a certain line, it’s not so easy to just hop back in there.
I have so much to learn.
Regardless, I eventually found myself behind another rider and feeling a lot better. With one lap down, we crossed the Start/Finish line and began approaching the one big hill in the park (big is a relative term, I know) when I heard someone close to the front say, “Break!” to which I immediately wanted to reply, “What the hell for?”
When all the butts began rising out of the seats, so did mine. I thought, If they’re going to sprint up this hill, so will I. My legs and my lungs, on the other hand, they had different ideas, and that was when the peloton (there’s that word again) slowly but surely left me behind.
As my friend said after the race, “It’s a humbling experience, isn’t it?”
Humbling and also embarrassing, that’s easy to admit; yet at the same time it’s also motivational. Now I know where I need to be so I can ride competitively. The riding I had been doing during the week might have been enough in terms of miles, but by way of intensity, I’ve got a long way to go.
I take some pride in the fact that I finished the race, the full five laps (17 miles). Flipping through the screen on my new cycling computer, I realized I had finished in just over fifty-one minutes. When I asked the organizer the Category 5 winner’s time, he checked his clipboard and said, “Forty-five minutes.” I finished six minutes off the pace, which is incredibly pathetic, but again, I now know where I need to be.
That was my morning. How was your Saturday morning?
This morning, I promptly arrived at the Wollman Rink parking lot in Prospect Park at five AM, meaning it was still dark. Glancing around the empty parking lot, I thought, Am I in the right place? Turned out I was definitely in the right place. I had simply arrived way, way too early as most of the other riders didn’t begin appearing until six.
First, I went through what I decided would be my pre-race routine: after unloading my bike from the back of the truck and strapping on my shoes, I sat on the tailgate watching everyone else inflate tires and dress in all of the sportiest gear--colorful jerseys, wonderful bibs, and fast-looking carbon fiber bicycles--while I posed in my fabulously red Champion athletic shirt.
(I’m one of those guys who refuses to invest in an authentic cycling jersey until I know I’m fast enough to run the pace of the Category 5 group. If I did well this morning, I’d hop online immediately thereafter and order something nice. If not, I’d stick with the athletic shirts.)
At some point, I realized I needed to ride a few feet up the road to register and collect my number. Since I had arrived so early, I walked up to the Pre-Reg desk and gave them my name. In return, the nice gentleman handed me something to sign (I may very well have signed my immortal soul over to the devil, but at six on a Saturday morning while feeling anxious because it was my first race, those were simply chances I was willing to take) and a number: 407. Grabbing a few safety pins, I headed back to the truck to go about securing my digits to the back of my shirt.
Eventually, I figured it was time to get to the line. According to the web site where I had registered for the race, Categories 1-3 would launch at 6:30 exactly. Category 4 a few minutes after that, and Category 5 at 6:36.
Somehow, I found myself on the front line of the Category 5 group which was surely far from the best idea I’ve ever had. Why would someone with no bicycle racing experience want to start in a position that would control the beginning pace? Unfortunately, that’s simply the position in which I found myself. To complicate matters, I noticed my seat had somehow come slightly loose. Of all the frigging days for this to happen, I thought, wiggling my seat up and down, hoping it would stay relatively stable for the next seventeen miles.
To make matters even worse, I had the most difficult time clipping my left cleat in the pedal once the whistle blew. Earlier, while standing on line, I had noticed I was the only rider without the larger cleat/pedal style (forgive my ignorance with the terminology), a mistake I’ll be sure to correct before the next race, but for this morning, I coasted along trying desperately to get my damn shoe attached to the damn pedal so I could not just keep up, but start to catch the group of thirty riders who were starting to put some serious distance on me.
Eventually, the cleat slipped into the pedal and I began moving forward in earnest to catch the rest of the riders. It took a minute or so heading uphill, but I got there, and I’m going to do my best to give you, the reader, my first impressions of riding competitively in a group.
The sound of roughly sixty feet spinning in unison is rather entertaining, as is the sound of the same number of tires rapidly rolling across blacktop. That, combined with the rush of wind, creates something of an initially exhilarating experience (I know I’m using a disgusting amount of adverbs here, but bear with me for as long as you can--thanks). Left and right, riders slip ahead and inch behind. Not only are you taking care to avoid touching your front wheel to the rear wheel belonging to the guy/girl ahead of you, but you keep glancing over your shoulder to check on what’s up behind your back. Halfway through the first lap, I was feeling good. Part of me knew I would have a very hard time managing that pace for five laps, but another part of me didn’t really want to hear it. That part simply wanted to pedal and race and burn away the anxieties I had prior to the conductor blowing the whistle and starting the race, so I increased my tempo and inched toward the front of the group which sat a second or so behind the pace motorcycle (the organizer had instructed we were, under no circumstances, to pass the pace motorcycle). In making that effort to move toward the front, I was forced left outside the peloton (I’m not going to keep writing “group of riders” or “group of racers,” so I’m just going to go ahead and use “peloton”) and quickly found myself surprised by how much harder I had to pedal with the wind directly in my face as opposed to drafting behind another rider. I then found out something else about racing. Once you’re outside a certain line, it’s not so easy to just hop back in there.
I have so much to learn.
Regardless, I eventually found myself behind another rider and feeling a lot better. With one lap down, we crossed the Start/Finish line and began approaching the one big hill in the park (big is a relative term, I know) when I heard someone close to the front say, “Break!” to which I immediately wanted to reply, “What the hell for?”
When all the butts began rising out of the seats, so did mine. I thought, If they’re going to sprint up this hill, so will I. My legs and my lungs, on the other hand, they had different ideas, and that was when the peloton (there’s that word again) slowly but surely left me behind.
As my friend said after the race, “It’s a humbling experience, isn’t it?”
Humbling and also embarrassing, that’s easy to admit; yet at the same time it’s also motivational. Now I know where I need to be so I can ride competitively. The riding I had been doing during the week might have been enough in terms of miles, but by way of intensity, I’ve got a long way to go.
I take some pride in the fact that I finished the race, the full five laps (17 miles). Flipping through the screen on my new cycling computer, I realized I had finished in just over fifty-one minutes. When I asked the organizer the Category 5 winner’s time, he checked his clipboard and said, “Forty-five minutes.” I finished six minutes off the pace, which is incredibly pathetic, but again, I now know where I need to be.
That was my morning. How was your Saturday morning?
Thursday, August 3
The Enemy
For the first time, I brought my MP3 player out on the bike tonight. A week ago, I put the effort into creating a “Cycling” playlist on my Zen Micro including badass songs such as Superunknown by Soundgarden, Feel Good by Gorillaz, Hysteria by Muse, and Sex Type Thing by Stone Temple Pilots, to name a few.
The reason today was the first time wearing the headphones while riding had nothing to do with other than forgetting to grab the damn things every night I walked out of the apartment with the bike. This afternoon, though, I made a mental note, and I even went so far as to tie a little red string around my finger, in case you’re wondering.
Anyway, the music was a welcome addition to the exercise. I’m not sure if I'll be able to listen to the same twenty-five or so tunes every time I go out for a ride, but I’ll keep up with the same soundtrack until I grow tired of what I’ve put together. Part of the reason I had avoided filling my head with music while I rode immediately after I began cycling had to do with the fact that I was somewhat concerned with losing the ability to detect traffic and other cyclists approaching from the rear (my rear, that is). Putting that concern to bed, I strapped my Zen Micro to my arm and headed to Central Park for an eighteen-mile ride in ninety-five degree weather.
(Honestly, the heat’s not so bad when you’re on a bike. Granted, I’m riding both in the evening and in the shade when the sun’s dropping damn close to the horizon, yet it’s the breeze that makes the steamy heat bearable. If not for the breeze whipping over my skin, I could never bring myself to exercise in this weather, although one of the advantages of riding in extreme weather such as today’s is the lack of traffic. Not that it’s so bad riding through the park when the lanes are filled with chicks, but it can be somewhat of a pain when flocks of self-righteous pedestrians decide to cross Park Drive without so much as a glance to their left or right.)
Anyway, about halfway through my ride, I was cruising through a section of the park which I lovingly refer to as Horseshit Alley considering the steep volumes of horseshit that layer the right side of the street from the tourist carriages when I heard someone behind me screaming, “On your left! On your left!”
I understand what this means. I understand someone’s about to pass me on the left and this person is ensuring that I avoid swerving to my left as they pass. I’ve heard it before and I’m sure I’ll hear it plenty more during my time on the bike, but what irritated me this particular time was that this particular donkey about to pass began clapping his hands, as if he were dealing with some sort of circus animal.
Regardless of the clapping, the real problem was that I was fast approaching a jogger on my left and I had another biker on my right, meaning I had little room to maneuver. God forbid Mr. Clap My Hands had to slow down a bit, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I spotted not another cyclist but a goddam fruit loop wearing inline skates.
You know the kind of skates and skater to which I’m referring: the guy with the bicycle helmet, the bicycle jersey, the bicycle shorts, the ridiculous goattee, and those inline skates with nineteen wheels. That’s who I had attempting to pass me on the left and he wasn't alone. Oh no. There was a line of at least ten of them bearing down on me.
As soon as Mr. Clap My Hands began inching past, my immediate reaction was: “I don’t think so, [expletive deleted].” Rather than let them go, I clicked up a gear, got my ass off the seat, and began to sprint.
I began riding harder than I have ever ridden in Central Park, absolutely attacking the ensuing series of hills while stomping on the pedals, clicking up through the gears. Two minutes after I started the attack (check me out, using racing-related terms like attack), I glanced over my shoulder to see how much distance I had put on the stupid skaters.
Not much. They were less than two seconds behind me and showing no sign of slowing. It was then that I thought, “This really shouldn’t be happening.”
Did you have any idea inline speed skaters were so damn fast? No kidding, I must have been pushing at least twenty miles an hour. How the hell were these guys keeping up?
Rather than back off, I kept on the attack, absolutely pushing myself until my chest was heaving and my thighs felt ready to ignite into flames. I actually pushed until I could take it no longer, until my legs told me to go [expletive deleted] myself and I felt ready to collapse. As soon as I let off the gas, the freaking skaters passed me and never looked back.
On one hand, I’m sort of happy I got pissed the way I did and pushed myself harder than I’ve pushed since I bought the bike. On the other hand, I got showed up by a bunch of glorified rollerbladers. I had no idea these freaking skaters were as fast as they were. After slowing for a few seconds, I decided to see if I could catch up and pass them again up the big hill on the north end of the park.
I thought wrong. They were long gone.
Almost a lap later, I was again overtaken by a trio of fast-looking cyclists, all of them wearing matching red and white gear (I’ve seen them before yet have no idea who the hell they are). And then they were immediately overtaken by another group of inline speed skaters, which meant I felt a lot better about myself.
Actually, I'm lying. It doesn't make me feel better about myself at all. Who the hell am I trying to kid? I got passed by rollerbladers. Clearly, I'm not working as hard as I should be on the bike. That's gotta change.
The reason today was the first time wearing the headphones while riding had nothing to do with other than forgetting to grab the damn things every night I walked out of the apartment with the bike. This afternoon, though, I made a mental note, and I even went so far as to tie a little red string around my finger, in case you’re wondering.
Anyway, the music was a welcome addition to the exercise. I’m not sure if I'll be able to listen to the same twenty-five or so tunes every time I go out for a ride, but I’ll keep up with the same soundtrack until I grow tired of what I’ve put together. Part of the reason I had avoided filling my head with music while I rode immediately after I began cycling had to do with the fact that I was somewhat concerned with losing the ability to detect traffic and other cyclists approaching from the rear (my rear, that is). Putting that concern to bed, I strapped my Zen Micro to my arm and headed to Central Park for an eighteen-mile ride in ninety-five degree weather.
(Honestly, the heat’s not so bad when you’re on a bike. Granted, I’m riding both in the evening and in the shade when the sun’s dropping damn close to the horizon, yet it’s the breeze that makes the steamy heat bearable. If not for the breeze whipping over my skin, I could never bring myself to exercise in this weather, although one of the advantages of riding in extreme weather such as today’s is the lack of traffic. Not that it’s so bad riding through the park when the lanes are filled with chicks, but it can be somewhat of a pain when flocks of self-righteous pedestrians decide to cross Park Drive without so much as a glance to their left or right.)
Anyway, about halfway through my ride, I was cruising through a section of the park which I lovingly refer to as Horseshit Alley considering the steep volumes of horseshit that layer the right side of the street from the tourist carriages when I heard someone behind me screaming, “On your left! On your left!”
I understand what this means. I understand someone’s about to pass me on the left and this person is ensuring that I avoid swerving to my left as they pass. I’ve heard it before and I’m sure I’ll hear it plenty more during my time on the bike, but what irritated me this particular time was that this particular donkey about to pass began clapping his hands, as if he were dealing with some sort of circus animal.
Regardless of the clapping, the real problem was that I was fast approaching a jogger on my left and I had another biker on my right, meaning I had little room to maneuver. God forbid Mr. Clap My Hands had to slow down a bit, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I spotted not another cyclist but a goddam fruit loop wearing inline skates.
You know the kind of skates and skater to which I’m referring: the guy with the bicycle helmet, the bicycle jersey, the bicycle shorts, the ridiculous goattee, and those inline skates with nineteen wheels. That’s who I had attempting to pass me on the left and he wasn't alone. Oh no. There was a line of at least ten of them bearing down on me.
As soon as Mr. Clap My Hands began inching past, my immediate reaction was: “I don’t think so, [expletive deleted].” Rather than let them go, I clicked up a gear, got my ass off the seat, and began to sprint.
I began riding harder than I have ever ridden in Central Park, absolutely attacking the ensuing series of hills while stomping on the pedals, clicking up through the gears. Two minutes after I started the attack (check me out, using racing-related terms like attack), I glanced over my shoulder to see how much distance I had put on the stupid skaters.
Not much. They were less than two seconds behind me and showing no sign of slowing. It was then that I thought, “This really shouldn’t be happening.”
Did you have any idea inline speed skaters were so damn fast? No kidding, I must have been pushing at least twenty miles an hour. How the hell were these guys keeping up?
Rather than back off, I kept on the attack, absolutely pushing myself until my chest was heaving and my thighs felt ready to ignite into flames. I actually pushed until I could take it no longer, until my legs told me to go [expletive deleted] myself and I felt ready to collapse. As soon as I let off the gas, the freaking skaters passed me and never looked back.
On one hand, I’m sort of happy I got pissed the way I did and pushed myself harder than I’ve pushed since I bought the bike. On the other hand, I got showed up by a bunch of glorified rollerbladers. I had no idea these freaking skaters were as fast as they were. After slowing for a few seconds, I decided to see if I could catch up and pass them again up the big hill on the north end of the park.
I thought wrong. They were long gone.
Almost a lap later, I was again overtaken by a trio of fast-looking cyclists, all of them wearing matching red and white gear (I’ve seen them before yet have no idea who the hell they are). And then they were immediately overtaken by another group of inline speed skaters, which meant I felt a lot better about myself.
Actually, I'm lying. It doesn't make me feel better about myself at all. Who the hell am I trying to kid? I got passed by rollerbladers. Clearly, I'm not working as hard as I should be on the bike. That's gotta change.
Wednesday, August 2
The Warm Up
Saturday morning’s the morning of the big race. I’ve been on the bike almost a month (and I’m yet to clean and lube the chain--kill me) and now it’s time to see how I’m doing so yesterday afternoon I registered for one of the Kissena Racing Club races held in Prospect Park, Brooklyn taking place Saturday morning at 6:30 in the AM.
I have no idea what to expect. I’m planning on simply showing up, getting my number, and seeing if I can keep up with the other Category 5 riders. If I get dropped (which I probably will), I’ll know that I need to ride a lot harder than I have been the past four weeks. If I don’t get dropped (which I probably won’t), I’ll work harder any way in the hopes of improving my ranking week to week.
That’s it, really. After the race, which is only 17 miles, I’ll probably do a few more laps to get the total mileage up to around 30 or so. I’ll know exactly how far I’ve ridden for the day as I ordered a cycling computer online this past Monday. Figured it was time as I want to keep better track of how long I spend on the bike per ride, my average speed, and cadence. Yes, I bought a model with cadence, although it’s not wireless so it only set me back a few pennies under $30. I also invested in a red taillight for those evenings when I know I’ll be out and about well after the sun sets and the street lights kick on. For $8, how can a guy go wrong?
Otherwise, I’ll remove my saddle bag just before the race along with the hand pump I have mounted to the frame because now that I’m such a serious racer, I need to drop as much unnecessary weight as possible.
Mr. Picco--your gift arrived in the mail while I was out of town. In the event we run into each other Saturday morning and I actually remember to bring it--along with Lance Armstrong’s Every Second Counts--I’ll hand it off to you then.
I have no idea what to expect. I’m planning on simply showing up, getting my number, and seeing if I can keep up with the other Category 5 riders. If I get dropped (which I probably will), I’ll know that I need to ride a lot harder than I have been the past four weeks. If I don’t get dropped (which I probably won’t), I’ll work harder any way in the hopes of improving my ranking week to week.
That’s it, really. After the race, which is only 17 miles, I’ll probably do a few more laps to get the total mileage up to around 30 or so. I’ll know exactly how far I’ve ridden for the day as I ordered a cycling computer online this past Monday. Figured it was time as I want to keep better track of how long I spend on the bike per ride, my average speed, and cadence. Yes, I bought a model with cadence, although it’s not wireless so it only set me back a few pennies under $30. I also invested in a red taillight for those evenings when I know I’ll be out and about well after the sun sets and the street lights kick on. For $8, how can a guy go wrong?
Otherwise, I’ll remove my saddle bag just before the race along with the hand pump I have mounted to the frame because now that I’m such a serious racer, I need to drop as much unnecessary weight as possible.
Mr. Picco--your gift arrived in the mail while I was out of town. In the event we run into each other Saturday morning and I actually remember to bring it--along with Lance Armstrong’s Every Second Counts--I’ll hand it off to you then.
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