I’ve been sitting here staring at a blank screen the past ten minutes thinking about a ride I took yesterday. It was long, over sixty miles, and it was hard--hard enough so that a day later, my legs still feel like rubber. Beyond that, exactly what should I describe about the ride that isn’t going to bore you to tears?
Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. Maybe someone does want the details, although by this point in our lives, isn’t time a much sought after commodity? Don’t we all feel like we run out of time each day by the time we make it to bed (and probably later than we should be getting to bed)? What I mean is, why bother with the details if they’re only going to take up your time? If I had anything remotely interesting to say about yesterday, I would say it. I went riding with a few guys and a girl and I was the new comer. I was the guy who, halfway through the ride, started to slow everyone down a bit. Geez, I was that guy. Again. That sucks.
Actually, perhaps there are a few things to say. First off, a big thanks to KP and Dr. Rob. KP introduced me and Dr. Rob extended the invite to take the ride out in New Jersey for the morning.
Other than that, it was cold and there were hills, but not bad hills. Not Alp d’Huez climbs, just Jersey hills, although three of them kicked me in the ass bad. I mean big time. The first, I kept up, but halfway up the second, I fell behind. And I stopped on a mother of a short yet incredibly steep climb. I stopped and walked. What’s the word I’m looking for here? That’s right. The right word would be bitch. Halfway up I dismounted and walked, like a bitch.
My legs and lungs have a long, long way to go.
Riding through Sandy Hook park was entertaining. I’ve only had the opportunity to do it a few times, although I enjoy sitting in a line with other riders and churning away. While pedaling through the park, I thanked the cycling gods for the flat road as well as the draft. If not for everyone else blocking the wind, I would have called a taxi, loaded up the bike, and got the hell out of there.
With ten miles to go, my legs turned into rubber/jelly/Jell-O. The flats were fine but as soon as we hit anything of an incline, every system in my body began screaming, “DON’T YOU THINK YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH ALREADY?”
By the time we reached our cars, I had burned over 3,800 calories (according to my heart rate monitor, at least), so I figured I could at least treat myself to as much food as I wanted. At Subway, I downed a foot-long chicken sub, half a bag of chips, and a few sips of Coke. A few hours later, I ate a box of mac & cheese, and two hours after that, a chicken burrito bowl at Chipotle.
As hard as it was, I loved it. Sounds counter-intuitive, doesn’t it? What bothers me more than the pain, though, was holding up the entire ride. As they say: my bad.
Rob, Brent, Anne, and Joe--pleasure meeting everyone. Thanks for your patience.
Monday, October 23
Monday, October 9
Inconvenient
Wednesday night, while riding in Prospect Park, I ran over a rat.
Like small children are known to do, this particular rat sort of jumped out into the road out of nowhere. Of course, it didn't help that I had been peering over my shoulder to check for traffic behind me, but of the sixty odd minutes I spent biking in the park Wednesday night, why in the world did that stupid rat choose those few seconds when I was glancing behind me to try and cross the street. Was it really so important that he/she cross at that very moment? He couldn't have let me by first? I mean, the nerve.
Actually, when I say I "ran over the rat," allow me to clarify. My front wheel did not cross over the rat's midsection. If it had, I may have very well gone over the bars, and while I failed to catch exactly which part of the rat my tire struck, I believe it may have happened near the ass region because immediately after the impact, I glanced over my shoulder again to see the rat running in the direction from which it had come. The reason I say the "ass region" is simple. If it had been the head area, the rat's cheese-eating days probably would have reached an end considering I weigh just over 200 pounds. Same goes for the midsection. Probably would have ended with some blood and guts on the asphalt if I had hit the little bastard in the stomach.
Regardless, even though it was only a rat, I sort of felt bad after the fact. In the event that I hit more than tail, I would have to imagine I inadvertently inflicted some damage on the poor bastard, and what's a busted rat to do? It's not like he can make an appointment with his primary care physician. Not like it can ask a buddy, "Does that look infected to you?" Again, I know it's just a rat, but the damn thing was simply trying to cross the road and I almost killed it. Even as I write this, I can't help but wonder if it's out there in Prospect Park somewhere, dragging around the sorry, broken ass I helped break. Probably cursing my name and every other damn cyclist it spots from the weeds while it sniffs around for discarded gummy bears and knishes.
Kind of makes me go all mush inside. If I were a true gentleman, I'd go back to the scene of the accident and leave out some cheese for the poor bastard. Maybe I'll do that tonight. Toss down a few slices of yellow American for Mr. Rat, kind of like a twisted tribute to his busted ass.
Apart from the rat, I broke another spoke yesterday. It happened at a terribly convenient time--two laps into my planned eight lap ride in Central Park.
Sunday's are my "long ride" day, so I dragged myself out of bed at eight, geared up, filled the water bottles, trekked over the Brooklyn Bridge (which, as far as I'm concerned, is some of the most dangerous riding in the country considering the dick-for-brain tourists who can't seem to comprehend that the lane with the picture of a bicycle is for bicycles only), and dodged many a taxi on the way to the park. Swinging onto Park Drive, I glanced up and thought, "Where the hell are all these joggers going?"
Turns out yesterday was an 18-mile training run for the upcoming NYC Marathon. God, people really love to run as there were easily hundreds of joggers clogging the lanes. Myself, I don't really see the attraction of running anywhere, which is why I have the damn bicycle.
Anyway, while weaving my way in and out of joggers and more freaking clueless tourists--surprisingly, not one person yelled at me to slow down--I stood up to start climbing the hill at the north end of the park when I heard an unusually sharp clank come from the rear wheel.
"Oh. Shit. Please. No. Not now. Don't." I pulled over to check whatever damage had been done and sure enough, one of the spokes had busted off at the nipple.
Ten miles from Brooklyn and I had a broken spoke, which meant I had a wobbly rear wheel. Fantastic.
This is the second time this has happened to me. The first time, I let the guys in a bike shop fix it for $10 even though it's somewhat contradicts my nature to pay anyone to handle any sort of mechanical repair for me, so yesterday, I stopped in the bike shop on Atlantic Avenue and asked for a few spokes.
"What size?" the owner asked.
"Twenty-seven inch wheel," I said.
"Right, but I need to know how long the spokes are."
I walked back to my apartment and returned with the wheel.
Looking over the tire, the owner said, "You realize, this is a lot easier if we do it."
"I gotta learn sometime," I said, and that I did. Over the course of the next several hours, I ended up spending roughly $35 on the tools I needed to removed the cassette, another $30 on stuff I bought in Target as I was walking back from the bike shop in Park Slope (the place on Atlantic Avenue) didn't have the chain whip I needed, and $5 on lunch. What should have been a 30-minute job turned into a 4-hour logistical nightmare. After installing the new spoke, I had a miserable time attempting to true the rim so that it spun without wobbling.
At one point, I surrendered and tried to bring the wheel back to the shop so the experts could true it for me, although by five, they were already closed.
Eventually, I got the bitch done and took the bitch out for a test drive. It's all good.
Like small children are known to do, this particular rat sort of jumped out into the road out of nowhere. Of course, it didn't help that I had been peering over my shoulder to check for traffic behind me, but of the sixty odd minutes I spent biking in the park Wednesday night, why in the world did that stupid rat choose those few seconds when I was glancing behind me to try and cross the street. Was it really so important that he/she cross at that very moment? He couldn't have let me by first? I mean, the nerve.
Actually, when I say I "ran over the rat," allow me to clarify. My front wheel did not cross over the rat's midsection. If it had, I may have very well gone over the bars, and while I failed to catch exactly which part of the rat my tire struck, I believe it may have happened near the ass region because immediately after the impact, I glanced over my shoulder again to see the rat running in the direction from which it had come. The reason I say the "ass region" is simple. If it had been the head area, the rat's cheese-eating days probably would have reached an end considering I weigh just over 200 pounds. Same goes for the midsection. Probably would have ended with some blood and guts on the asphalt if I had hit the little bastard in the stomach.
Regardless, even though it was only a rat, I sort of felt bad after the fact. In the event that I hit more than tail, I would have to imagine I inadvertently inflicted some damage on the poor bastard, and what's a busted rat to do? It's not like he can make an appointment with his primary care physician. Not like it can ask a buddy, "Does that look infected to you?" Again, I know it's just a rat, but the damn thing was simply trying to cross the road and I almost killed it. Even as I write this, I can't help but wonder if it's out there in Prospect Park somewhere, dragging around the sorry, broken ass I helped break. Probably cursing my name and every other damn cyclist it spots from the weeds while it sniffs around for discarded gummy bears and knishes.
Kind of makes me go all mush inside. If I were a true gentleman, I'd go back to the scene of the accident and leave out some cheese for the poor bastard. Maybe I'll do that tonight. Toss down a few slices of yellow American for Mr. Rat, kind of like a twisted tribute to his busted ass.
Apart from the rat, I broke another spoke yesterday. It happened at a terribly convenient time--two laps into my planned eight lap ride in Central Park.
Sunday's are my "long ride" day, so I dragged myself out of bed at eight, geared up, filled the water bottles, trekked over the Brooklyn Bridge (which, as far as I'm concerned, is some of the most dangerous riding in the country considering the dick-for-brain tourists who can't seem to comprehend that the lane with the picture of a bicycle is for bicycles only), and dodged many a taxi on the way to the park. Swinging onto Park Drive, I glanced up and thought, "Where the hell are all these joggers going?"
Turns out yesterday was an 18-mile training run for the upcoming NYC Marathon. God, people really love to run as there were easily hundreds of joggers clogging the lanes. Myself, I don't really see the attraction of running anywhere, which is why I have the damn bicycle.
Anyway, while weaving my way in and out of joggers and more freaking clueless tourists--surprisingly, not one person yelled at me to slow down--I stood up to start climbing the hill at the north end of the park when I heard an unusually sharp clank come from the rear wheel.
"Oh. Shit. Please. No. Not now. Don't." I pulled over to check whatever damage had been done and sure enough, one of the spokes had busted off at the nipple.
Ten miles from Brooklyn and I had a broken spoke, which meant I had a wobbly rear wheel. Fantastic.
This is the second time this has happened to me. The first time, I let the guys in a bike shop fix it for $10 even though it's somewhat contradicts my nature to pay anyone to handle any sort of mechanical repair for me, so yesterday, I stopped in the bike shop on Atlantic Avenue and asked for a few spokes.
"What size?" the owner asked.
"Twenty-seven inch wheel," I said.
"Right, but I need to know how long the spokes are."
I walked back to my apartment and returned with the wheel.
Looking over the tire, the owner said, "You realize, this is a lot easier if we do it."
"I gotta learn sometime," I said, and that I did. Over the course of the next several hours, I ended up spending roughly $35 on the tools I needed to removed the cassette, another $30 on stuff I bought in Target as I was walking back from the bike shop in Park Slope (the place on Atlantic Avenue) didn't have the chain whip I needed, and $5 on lunch. What should have been a 30-minute job turned into a 4-hour logistical nightmare. After installing the new spoke, I had a miserable time attempting to true the rim so that it spun without wobbling.
At one point, I surrendered and tried to bring the wheel back to the shop so the experts could true it for me, although by five, they were already closed.
Eventually, I got the bitch done and took the bitch out for a test drive. It's all good.
Monday, October 2
One Extreme to Another
Yesterday, I managed to get Kenny Picco on his bike without having to put something on the calendar two weeks in advance.
I can now consider myself a miracle worker.
Despite how well the afternoon turned out, the morning started off on a fairly miserable note. When the alarm sounded, I opened my eyes to dark skies and the pitter-patter of rain drops splashing against the window next to my head. Every instinct in my body instructed me to kill the alarm--not just hit SNOOZE, but to turn the damn thing off completely--roll over, and get back to the serious business of sleeping in late, although a small voice in the back of my head reminded me of how seven-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong would ride regardless of the inclement weather.
Where this small voice came from, I’ll never know. Why I even bothered to listen to it is another story all together.
So like a complete jackass, I packed my gear, grabbed my bike, and stepped out the front door into a drizzling rain with the hopes it would clear up by the time I reached Sandy Hook. Why Sandy Hook? Why travel so far in such cheerless weather? I recently invested in a copy of 30 Bicycle Tours in New Jersey and wanted to feel like I was getting the most for my $7.
Luckily, I was completely packed in the truck when it started to pour. Even luckier, the rain had let up almost all the way by the time I parked in the first lot at Sandy Hook. I felt pretty good pulling on my new Under Armor long-sleeve base layer (I get such a hard-on for new cycling gear--something for which I should probably seek counseling) and my new Nashbar jersey. I felt even better during that first mile along the park road, yet I felt like killing somebody when thunder cracked overhead and the rain started coming down harder than the Yankees spanking the Mets in the World Series.
(I know I could have done better with that one, Picco, but I couldn’t help myself.)
After ten miles, I pulled it in. If Lance wants to ride in the rain, let him ride in the rain. Unlike Mr. Armstrong, no one is paying me to ride a bicycle, so what the hell was I thinking? I’m either (a) joining a gym so I can ride a stationary bike when it’s raining, or (b) investing in a trainer so I can ride in my apartment when it even looks like it’s going to drizzle outside.
Heading back to Staten Island, I made sure to stop in the Taco Bell on Route 36 for a ghettofabulous meal of cheesy fiesta potatoes, one soft beef taco, a steak quesadilla, and a jumbo-sized Mountain Dew. I would have ordered a small Mountain Dew, although I recently read a book by Lance Armstrong’s trainer, Chris Carmichael, and he recommends always order the super-sized soda when eating out. Clearly, the guy’s a professional, so who would I be to contradict the man by ordering water?
By the time I left Jersey, the skies had cleared up and the goddam sunshine was everywhere. At Kenny Picco’s place, he regaled me with tales of his recent vacation in North Carolina’s Outer Banks until I felt fully regaled. For a moment, we discussed heading out for a ride considering the day had taken a turn for the better.
“My gear’s wet,” I said.
Kenny pointed to the corner of his basement. “The dryer’s right there.”
“Let's go.”
We stepped outside to discuss the possibility further when the sweet sounds of Queen’s Bicycle Race reached our ears from a neighbor’s stereo across the street:
Bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my
Bicycle races are coming your way
So forget all your duties oh yeah
Fat bottomed girls they'll be riding today
So look out for those beauties oh yeah
On your marks get set go
Bicycle race bicycle race bicycle race
All I want to do is
Bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
Bicycle bicycle bicycle bicycle
Bicycle race
Kenny looked at me. “I guess we kind of have to go now, huh?”
I think the correct term for such a situation would be coincidental. I know a lot of people would say ironic, although I’d disagree.
And that was it. I tossed my soggy gear in the dryer, held his wife’s hair dryer in my shoes for a few minutes, and off we went to ride twelve or so miles on the flat road in Gateway Park.
I’m also going to own Mr. Picco’s ass this coming Sunday, a day which he agreed to go riding again. Hopefully, we’ll hit Central Park for a few laps, or at least Prospect Park. Get ready to sweat, Mr. Picco.
I can now consider myself a miracle worker.
Despite how well the afternoon turned out, the morning started off on a fairly miserable note. When the alarm sounded, I opened my eyes to dark skies and the pitter-patter of rain drops splashing against the window next to my head. Every instinct in my body instructed me to kill the alarm--not just hit SNOOZE, but to turn the damn thing off completely--roll over, and get back to the serious business of sleeping in late, although a small voice in the back of my head reminded me of how seven-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong would ride regardless of the inclement weather.
Where this small voice came from, I’ll never know. Why I even bothered to listen to it is another story all together.
So like a complete jackass, I packed my gear, grabbed my bike, and stepped out the front door into a drizzling rain with the hopes it would clear up by the time I reached Sandy Hook. Why Sandy Hook? Why travel so far in such cheerless weather? I recently invested in a copy of 30 Bicycle Tours in New Jersey and wanted to feel like I was getting the most for my $7.
Luckily, I was completely packed in the truck when it started to pour. Even luckier, the rain had let up almost all the way by the time I parked in the first lot at Sandy Hook. I felt pretty good pulling on my new Under Armor long-sleeve base layer (I get such a hard-on for new cycling gear--something for which I should probably seek counseling) and my new Nashbar jersey. I felt even better during that first mile along the park road, yet I felt like killing somebody when thunder cracked overhead and the rain started coming down harder than the Yankees spanking the Mets in the World Series.
(I know I could have done better with that one, Picco, but I couldn’t help myself.)
After ten miles, I pulled it in. If Lance wants to ride in the rain, let him ride in the rain. Unlike Mr. Armstrong, no one is paying me to ride a bicycle, so what the hell was I thinking? I’m either (a) joining a gym so I can ride a stationary bike when it’s raining, or (b) investing in a trainer so I can ride in my apartment when it even looks like it’s going to drizzle outside.
Heading back to Staten Island, I made sure to stop in the Taco Bell on Route 36 for a ghettofabulous meal of cheesy fiesta potatoes, one soft beef taco, a steak quesadilla, and a jumbo-sized Mountain Dew. I would have ordered a small Mountain Dew, although I recently read a book by Lance Armstrong’s trainer, Chris Carmichael, and he recommends always order the super-sized soda when eating out. Clearly, the guy’s a professional, so who would I be to contradict the man by ordering water?
By the time I left Jersey, the skies had cleared up and the goddam sunshine was everywhere. At Kenny Picco’s place, he regaled me with tales of his recent vacation in North Carolina’s Outer Banks until I felt fully regaled. For a moment, we discussed heading out for a ride considering the day had taken a turn for the better.
“My gear’s wet,” I said.
Kenny pointed to the corner of his basement. “The dryer’s right there.”
“Let's go.”
We stepped outside to discuss the possibility further when the sweet sounds of Queen’s Bicycle Race reached our ears from a neighbor’s stereo across the street:
Bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my
Bicycle races are coming your way
So forget all your duties oh yeah
Fat bottomed girls they'll be riding today
So look out for those beauties oh yeah
On your marks get set go
Bicycle race bicycle race bicycle race
All I want to do is
Bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
Bicycle bicycle bicycle bicycle
Bicycle race
Kenny looked at me. “I guess we kind of have to go now, huh?”
I think the correct term for such a situation would be coincidental. I know a lot of people would say ironic, although I’d disagree.
And that was it. I tossed my soggy gear in the dryer, held his wife’s hair dryer in my shoes for a few minutes, and off we went to ride twelve or so miles on the flat road in Gateway Park.
I’m also going to own Mr. Picco’s ass this coming Sunday, a day which he agreed to go riding again. Hopefully, we’ll hit Central Park for a few laps, or at least Prospect Park. Get ready to sweat, Mr. Picco.
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