The Pushers

Years ago, before Rudy Guiliani stepped into City Hall as head honcho and began cleaning up New York City in earnest, there existed certain corners and certain streets where one was almost always sure to walk through a medley of questionable characters who would inevitably ask the same question over and over and over.

“Crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed?"

Remember the guys I’m talking about? Remember the corner of 42^nd Street and 8^th Avenue? And their usual spot down on 6^th Avenue and West 8^th Street (was it West 8^th or Waverly Place)? You couldn’t make it ten feet without a constant barrage by a strategically placed platoon of drug-dealing losers asking if you wanted to get high. And if you did feel like getting high, I’m sure the jackals had their pockets stuffed with dime bags of pure oregano. Not that I would know, of course. Seriously. I never bought weed off any of those losers, let alone crack, coke, dope, or any kind of smoke for that matter. I don’t think I ever actually bought weed, now that I’m thinking of it.

The reason I mention all this is that, despite the fantastic work done in this city by not only Guiliani but Bloomberg as well (can you tell which way my tree swings when it comes to political party affiliations?), I ran into another one of these clowns just yesterday. Yes, it was as much of a shock to me as I’m sure it is to you as you sit at home reading this, but let me set the stage first.

It’s late afternoon on an unseasonably warm afternoon in late November. After the long group ride on Sunday, I realized my front brake pads were due for changing, so throwing a light sweater over my shoulders, I grabbed my keys and walked out the door. My destination? R&A Cycles on 5^th Avenue. Not that I care much for the abrasive clowns who work in that particular establishment, but they’re the closest bike shop with a decent selection of not just bikes, but everything in between (I could smack myself for giving them that small bit of positive promotion). Twenty minutes later, I walked in, paid $10 for a pair of pads (which seemed like something of a rip-off if you want my opinion), and pocketed my purchase. On my way out the door, I spotted a scruffy looking black guy hovering to the right, standing just beyond the shop’s front windows. Of course, the moment I decided to make eye contact with this fool--it has been a long while since the crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed days, so I saw little danger in making said eye contact--he opened his horrible mouth and asked the question: “Hey bro? Crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed, EPO?”

EPO? Did this loser just offer to sell me EPO? Under any other circumstances, under normal circumstances, I simply would have went about my business without so much as a word, but this was way too interesting to not investigate further.

“What was that last thing you just said?” I asked.

My drug-dealing homeboy glanced left and right down the street, checking for the po-lice.

“Whatcha want, bro? You want somethin’? You wanna ride with the big boys?”

“Did you say EPO?” I asked, glancing up and down the street myself to see if anyone else was witnessing this surreal exchange.

“Check it out.”

The homeboy quickly pulled open his jacket and flashed a few tiny glass bottles of clear liquid, each of them strung to the inside of his coat, much like those old street dealers who would hang hundreds of fake and stolen watches from the insides of their lapels. Homeboy flicked one of the vials with a fingernail and explained, “The real deal, bro. You could climb Mount Ev’rest with this shit right here.”

Before I could ask another question, homeboy pulled open the other side of his jacket to show me several hypodermic syringes in sterile wrappers bound together with a single rubber band.

“How much you want, champ?”

I thought about that. Standing on 5^th Avenue in Park Slope, I asked myself just how bad I want to win one of those races held in Prospect Park almost every Saturday morning during the summer. I also thought about the measly $5 left in my wallet after having just spent $10 on the brake pads.

“How much?” I asked, knowing fully well I would never in my life buy or use EPO (let alone from the loser standing in front of me) just so I could pedal a bicycle faster, although I was curious as to the price.

“Two hunnert a pop, champ.”

“Have a nice day,” I said decisively and walked away. From behind me, I could hear the homeboy lowering his price with every step I took, but it really didn’t matter.

With all that said, it’s amazing to think that drug-dealers are now pushing performance-enhancing drugs rather than just crack, coke, dope, smoke, and weed. Further, they now have the brains to target geographically, meaning they do their pushing in the places where all the cyclists eventually end up: the bike shop. On one hand, it’s a great sign as it means more people are cycling, which is always good for the sport, not to mention the environment (didn’t expect to hear that from a registered Republican, did you). More people mean bigger events which means more TV coverage which means more corporate sponsorship dollars which means bigger talent which means more people. Everybody wins, even the EPO-pushing losers on the corner of 5^th Avenue in Brooklyn, but that also represents the downside. If this guy was selling, that means somebody has been buying. In Brooklyn? I could see this happening in Europe where cycling seems a lot more fanatical than it does here in the States, but on 5^th Avenue? Take a quick step back from the scenario and try to get objective about this. First, how in the world did this homeboy get his hands on EPO? It’s a drug typically administered to cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy treatment, correct? It’s manufactured in labs owned by huge drug conglomerates, so how the hell did several vials fall into this jackass’s hands? Further, who’s giving him business and taking the syringes with their purchase? Can buyers find instructions online at DIY.com regarding the proper manner in which EPO is to be injected? Just what the hell is this world coming to?!

What’s the moral of this story? If Uncle Stevie begins telling you something that sounds too good or too sensational to be true, then it probably is too fantastic to be true. No one standing outside R&A is pushing EPO on unsuspecting kids like myself and I’m not even sure if a website with the URL DIY.com even exists. If it does, it’s unlikely they have instructions posted on how to inject EPO. Why did I bother with the above? The thought came to me recently, “What if those a-hole drug dealers on the street starting pushing stuff like EPO? How weird would that be?” Figured I’d have some fun with it.

As usual, thanks for reading.

Mashing

Upon arriving at the Miller Field parking lot this morning, Ed Dalton (seemingly the ride’s leader week after week) announced, “Tomorrow morning. Eight AM. Cheesequake, if anyone’s interested.” Later, about a third of the way through this morning’s group ride (Saturday), Ed asked me, “Coming out tomorrow?”

I had to think about that for a moment. “Maybe.”

It’s been almost a month since my first ride with Dr. Rob and his pedal-bending associates Brent, Anne, and Joe. It’s an experience that I look upon often with weary eyes, meaning that group ride that starts in the Cheesequake commuter parking lot and ends in the same place is a mother of a bitch, and that’s putting it lightly.

It’s a bitch for me, at least. With only a few months of riding under my legs, part of me feels as though I might do well to beg off tomorrow’s ride. These same legs are somewhat tired after this morning’s ride in Staten Island--a ride during which I found myself dropped on the last few miles across Hylan Boulevard due to a much higher than usual pace--as well as yesterday’s two-hour, thirty-four mile excursion in Prospect Park. At the same time, another part of me thinks, “No pain, no gain.” Isn’t that what they say (whoever the hell they are)?

Understandably, the benefit of group rides is that they push you in places when you typically wouldn’t push yourself and that’s a good thing. When racing season comes along, every guy and girl on that line is going to want to push the pace, so why not prepare myself?

Chances are I’ll end up going. I’ll end up going and once we hit the hills, I’ll start breathing hard while I wonder what the hell I was thinking. And then, if I’m lucky enough to even reach the top of the hill near the lighthouse, I’ll all but collapse off my bike and kindly request of my heart that it quit pumping at 300 beats-per-minute while the rest of the guys get stuck waiting for me (and my unprepared heart). Once my tongue retracts back into my mouth, we’ll again hammer the pace to the north end of Sandy Hook and if I’m really lucky, I’ll get dropped there as well. The pace will relax as we past the old army barracks and then it’ll pick up again as we speed out and away from the beach. Then we’re in the hills again for a long, steady climb past the Stewart’s fast food joint. Considering how shot to hell I felt on that first Cheesequake ride, I don’t remember much of the rest with the exception of two things. First, we stopped at a convenient store in a town. Which store? Which town? This reporter has no idea, but the stop was more than welcome. After the stop, I believe Dr. Rob said something to the effect of: “Only another fifteen miles to go. No problem.”

Maybe for him, but for me, those fifteen miles were long--damn long. Do I want to do it again tomorrow? Do I want to torture myself for another three-and-a-half hours first thing in the morning?

Might as well. According to the forecast, the temperature is supposed to hit the sixties tomorrow. That’s more than enough reason, right?

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Now it’s Sunday, a few minutes past five o’clock in the afternoon (or early evening, depending on what you normally consider five o’clock). There are another two hours to go before primetime TV begins because on Sundays, primetime begins at seven rather than eight (as it does Monday through Saturday), but that’s not the point. The point is that, after roughly 63 miles of riding through the hills of New Jersey this morning, I have survived, and while my legs might tell a different story if they had the ability to write their own blog, I survived somewhat better than I did the first time I rode the Cheesequake commuter parking lot ride.

Why? A few reasons, really. First, Dr. Rob and Brent were delayed this morning. Since Dr. Rob seems to know the route through Jersey like the back of his hand, the rest of us--Ed, Joe, Kelly, Tommy, and Lester (a quick word about this man later)--figured we’d hit the road at just a few minutes after eight.

Like so many other rides, those first miles usually express themselves so deceptively, much like that girl in the club wearing not more than a bikini top and skin-tight hot pants, the girl you think you’ll be leaving with later that night before her boyfriend walks in and rips her out from under you (figuratively speaking, of course). If you’re not careful, those first twenty miles will basically mess with your head. If you fail to conserve, the next thing you know you’re ready to hop out of the saddle and press the pace harder than it’s already moving. There you are, a content little smile covering your face, thinking you’ve got this, no big deal, piece of cake, right?

F#cking wrong. This morning, I was more than happy to sit in the draft during most of those twenty miles because I knew what lay ahead and I knew I was going to need every single ounce of energy on which I could lay my hands. When the hills came, the hills that kick you in the ass before Sandy Hook, I wouldn’t say I was ready, but I would say I knew what to expect, which doesn’t exactly make it easier, but somehow, it makes the pain a bit more bearable.

As we began nearing the apex of the third, biggest, and baddest of the three monsters, I couldn’t help but let out a quick: “Holy shit!” At the same time, I couldn’t help but hear Phil Liggett’s commentating voice in my head: “Would the top of [insert hill/mountain name here] please come as soon as possible.”

Once you’re in and out of the flats of Sandy Hook--those lovely, delicious flats where you can get behind the biggest guy in the paceline and sit happily in his glorious draft--there are more hills. There are hills all the way back to the parking lot, but to a certain degree, you almost feel that if you can take on the biggest of the three bitches and live through that, then you can live through the rest of them . . . granted the pace quietly slips back to sixteen-miles-per-hour or so.

Despite all the pontificating above, the real reason I survived this ride better today than I previously did is all due to the overall pace. The first time out, Dr. Rob & Company felt comfortable at a pace with which I was uncomfortable and, unfortunately, they had to wait on my sorry ass. Today, Dr. Rob and Backbreaker Brent (Backbreaker simply because they guy’s legs and lungs never seem to tire--I’m not even sure if he leaks a single drop of sweat on these 60+ mile rides) were late, which meant conserving a lot of energy over those first twenty miles. And after Sandy Hook, the pace was simply not as insane as it could have been.

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As an interesting side note: Lester. Who the hell is Lester? Understandably, Lester has probably glanced at me a few times these past two days and asked himself: “Who the hell is the dork with the neon yellow wind breaker riding the shitty Giant?”

Good question, Lester, but the people reading this already know who I am, so we get to talk about my impressions of you, big guy (how thrilling).

Yesterday morning, while sitting on the back of the line cruising down Fr. Capodanno Boulevard, I happened to glance over my shoulder and find something of a bulky character sitting on my wheel, a guy in a wind breaker almost as yellow as mine (a yellow a lot less harsh than mine, which should speak to the man’s elevated sense of style) and a spanking looking Trek of roughly the same color.

A few moments later, the rider in front of me also happened to glance over her shoulder and spot the hulking character behind me. “Hey,” she yelled toward the rest of the group, “look who it is. It’s Lester.”

Considering what I now know of Lester--which isn’t much--I can say this. According to Dr. Rob, Lester rode on the Polish National team for many years and has placed in the Tour of Poland (which sounds relatively amazing to a beginning cyclist such as myself). He also has leg muscles that, when watching them squeeze and contract from behind, the side, or in front (and don’t take that out of context because my tree definitely doesn’t swing that way), cause a casual observer to realize that if the man has a whim to jump out of the saddle and start hammering on the pedals, he will most likely tear the entire goddam road to pieces. Apart from that, the only other two pieces of information I have about Lester are (a) he is known to enjoy a beer or two during schedule stops on group rides, and (b) I can barely understand a word he says. After introducing myself this morning and offering a handshake, Lester asked me a question that I believe referred to Saturday morning’s ride. Never one to ask another man to repeat himself more than once, I just went ahead and answered the question as best as I could: “Those last few miles on Hylan, I sort of fell off the pace and dropped back.” Whether or not this was the answer Lester was looking for, who knows?

Open Up and Inhale

Good ride today, good ride. I was expecting better weather, although I really shouldn’t complain as the rain held off (and it’s still holding off as I write this at 3:29 PM Saturday afternoon).

As the wind was a bit brisk, I started off out of the parking lot solo, spinning at a slow pace until the rest of the group caught me near Sand Lane. From there, it seemed to be the usual spots where the tempo picked up: up the hill to the corner of McClean, down that street that runs parallel to Bay Street (can’t think of the name of it for the life of me), about halfway along Richmond Terrace, on that lifeless street near 440 past the Hilton (or is it a Marriot?), south on Richmond Avenue, and parts of Arthur Kill Road before the final home stretch on Hylan Boulevard. Actually, I think we hit over 30 miles per hour on Richmond Avenue, which is impressive. Well, it’s impressive to me, at least.

As usual, I got a bit ahead of myself as we were heading down Arthur Kill Road. Just before the hill that climbs up to Island Cycles (motorcycles), I started clicking up through the gears in an attempt to get as much momentum going as I could, thinking I might make it all the way to the crest of the short yet steep hill in a sprint. Three-quarters of the way to the top and leading the group, my lungs decided they had had enough. Planting my butt in the saddle, guess who went blowing past me as if I were standing still? Anne and Kelly. If not for the fact that I could barely breathe, I would have called out something clever and witty such as, “You guys aren’t supposed to chase me down. When I attack, you’re supposed to just let me go. Those are the rules.”

To whose rules am I referring? I have no idea.

Actually, it was such a good ride today, I think I’m going to splurge on the toll for the Verrazanno Bridge and join the same ride again tomorrow morning.

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[Author’s Note: The above pound symbol--#--typically denotes a shift in time or space. In other words, when you see the # symbol on this page, it means I want to change the subject and considering I lack the literary acumen to create a fluid transition from paragraph to paragraph, I’ll use the # symbol instead. I’m sure we can all live happily with that.]

Apart from the actual cycling, there are aspects of cycling that I’ve come to truly love, including the food. Understandably, this may sound odd. “What’s to love about PowerBars?” some might say, but this isn’t just about PowerBars so much. Rather, it’s more about how justified I feel in eating the large quantities I eat as a result of spending several hours a day on a bicycle.

For example, I wear a heart rate monitor while riding. One of the wonderful features of this monitor includes Calories Burned and after riding for over two hours this morning, I allegedly burned 1,980 calories. Is that a lot? Who can say for sure, although it definitely makes me feel justified in devouring as much food on which I can lay my hands when the rides over and I’m home. Sitting at my dining table, I happily inhaled an egg and cheese sandwich on white toast (two scrambled eggs with a single slice of Yellow American cheese cooked in a pan sprayed with “0 Trans Fat” Mazola cooking spray, along with half a bottle of VitaminWater, a small bowl of crimson grapes, half a glass of orange juice, and one packet of instant oatmeal.

An hour later, I cooked up a serving of Lipton’s Noodle Soup. Less than half an hour after that, I’m already thinking about what I’m going to cook for dinner. I’m thinking chicken wings as I sit down to watch the movie I rented this afternoon: Monster House.

You know what else I like about the food that comes after cycling? So many diets state that carbs should be avoided. Now that I’ve got two wheels under me, I’ll eat all the damn spaghetti I want. I love spaghetti! Who doesn’t love spaghetti? I’ve got three boxes in the pantry simply waiting for me as I write this. Maybe I’ll have spaghetti for dinner. Shit, maybe I’ll have the leftovers for breakfast before tomorrow’s ride. That’s how much I love spaghetti.

Further, rather than spend money on actual PowerBars, I’ve made like a hippie and I’m now cooking up my own energy bars. Can you believe that? Actually, it’s really easy. Here’s how I do it:

In a large bowl, I mix ½ cup peanuts, ½ cup raisins, 2 cups raw oatmeal, and 2 cups Rice Crispies. In a separate bowl, I mix about a cup of peanut butter with ½ cup of light brown sugar. Finally, I pour in about ¾ cup of light corn syrup and mix as well as I can. The mixture is then microwaved for two minutes after which I add two teaspoons of vanilla extract.

Now comes the sticky part--mixing the peanut butter and sugar with the oatmeal and everything else. Literally, it’s sticky, which makes it something of a pain in the ass. I tried doing it with my bare hands after rubbing some olive oil into them, but that failed to keep the mixture from sticking to my digits. Next time, perhaps I’ll try plastic gloves.

In the end, I dump the final mix into a non-stick pan and begin to flatten it out with a plastic spatula until it’s roughly ¾ of an inch to an inch thick. I cover the warm, gooey mess (get your head out of the gutter!) with plastic wrap and let it sit overnight so it hardens. The following morning, finito. Every time I go riding, I cut out a chunk, wrap it in tinfoil, and I’m ready to go. Much tastier than a PowerBar as far as I’m concerned, and a hell of a lot cheaper as well.

To wrap up this ridiculously long post, I wanted to make a comment about energy gels. So far, I’ve only tasted the Vanilla Bean flavor (in addition to the Apples & Cinnamon packet Mr. KP provided me), but that one flavor has been enough to convince me that energy gels are glorified cake icing. Come on. To anyone reading this who’s sucked down one of those things, what’s the first thing that comes to mind when you’re swallowing? Birthday cake, right? Don’t try to deny it. That shit is cake batter all the way.

And now I’m done.

Cycling on Video

If you're not already aware, there are some rather decent cycling videos you can watch for free online. I've already pointed Mr. KP in this direction already, but I know a lot of people are unaware of YouTube.com (owned by Google who also owns this site, Blogger.com). No, I don't work for Google (although I'd like to as they seem to really be taking over the Internet the same way Microsoft has a lock on operating software), but I handle online media planning for a living, so I'm online all the time as it's simply my job.

Okay, where were we? We were talking about cycling videos online, right? Check out the below links. FYI, if you have a dial-up connection, you may find yourself frustrated with a slow download time. In that event, let me offer you my sincerest apologies.

Here's a really good one about Lance and his former US Postal team:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Za6Hd9uJOg

(If you can't simply click on the above, copy and paste into your browser.)

Here's one of Jan Ullrich attacking during one of the Tour's mountain stages:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l39ahBFGnuk

Another of Lance training:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8EbDmhzRKQ

And finally one titled VAS Road Cycling Reel:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2vAnVtASIE

Number Three

You’re not going to believe this, but I hit a pigeon this morning while riding in Prospect Park. Honestly, I don’t know what it is with me and the animals, but I can’t seem to make it a few days without colliding with some sort of wildlife (if you can even call rats, squirrels, and pigeons wildlife).

Coming around the bend where the park drive narrows to a single lane, a pigeon situated on the side of the road decided it would be a good time to take to the air. Flapping it’s gray wings, it darted in a forty-five degree flight path straight in front of me. Pressing my chin to my chest to protect my face, the top of my helmet crashed against the stupid bird, knocking it a few feet forward until it regained its composure and kept flying.

Seriously, I just don’t get it.

Another Rodent

I don’t know what the story is with me and the creatures, but I hit a squirrel this morning (in case I don’t have the opportunity to post this online until tomorrow, today is Sunday) while cruising down Henry Street on the way to a ride in Prospect Park.

A few weeks ago, I hit a rat in the park and today, a squirrel. What’s next? A raccoon? A possum, maybe? God forbid I hit anything that large and no doubt I’ll take a quick trip over the handlebars. Like the rat, though, I didn’t hit the squirrel head-on. Instead, I think I nipped his tail. I definitely hit some part of the rodent considering the bike shook as if I hit a pothole, but the little bastard kept on a-runnin’ after the impact, so I would have to imagine I ran over some inconsequential piece of its anatomy.

One might think that NYC animals would have better street smarts. After all, we’re talking about creatures born and raised in and around the five boroughs. Even those animals that grow up in one of the city’s many parks must be subjected to pedestrians, cyclists, and motorists on a daily basis, so my point is, what don’t these freaking animals understand? What part of “look both ways before you cross” don’t they get? The squirrel I hit this morning, he scurried out into the middle of the road, decided to pause once he saw me coming along the right side of the road at 16 mph, and then jumped in front of my wheel as if I had all the time in the world to stop.

I mean, just how dumb can a squirrel be? What ever happened to survival of the fittest? With brains like that, the damn squirrel deserves to get hit!

Regardless, I made it to the park a few minutes later and only put in an hour and fifteen minutes rather than the scheduled two hours. After yesterday, my legs weren’t really up to another two-hour ride, and besides, the saddle was killing my butt. Two days ago, I had the bright idea to switch the plush saddle I had been riding on the past several months with the pain-in-the-you-know-what saddle that came with the bike when I bought it back in July. Why would such a brilliant idea occur to me? Figured my backside would be ready for a stiffer seat by now, although apparently not.

Speaking of yesterday, I had a great ride with a great bunch of people out in Staten Island. At 8:30 in the chilly A.M., a glorious mass of cyclists formed in the parking lot outside New Dorp High School. The previous evening, I had placed a call to Dr. Rob and asked if he’d be riding this weekend. This is the same Dr. Rob who all but crucified me in New Jersey two weeks prior in the hills around Cheesequake and Sandy Hook. He quickly informed me he would be unavailable the following morning, although that I might benefit from joining a group ride that followed the perimeter of the island for roughly fifty miles.

As usual, I made an attempt to persuade Mr. Picco to join the road ride, although Mr. Picco has a serious aversion to (a) riding a bicycle in cold weather, and (b) road riding regardless of the weather as well as the beautiful Independent Fabrication bicycle he keeps housed in his basement (where it collects dust). I tried one last time to get the guy out of his house via text message forty minutes before the ride was scheduled to begin: Come on, Picco. 40 mins.

Needless to say, it didn’t happen. Mr. Picco likes road cycling on cold days as much as a meter maid likes a diet--some things just ain’t gonna happen.

At eight o’clock outside the school, I introduced myself to Mr. Ed Dalton. While speaking with Dr. Rob Friday night, he had explained, “Look for a guy with a beard. His name’s Ed Dalton. I’ll give him a ring and tell him you’re going to be there if you want to join.”

In forty degree weather, I then proceeded to gear up: tights, form-fitting undershirt, long-sleeve jersey, cycling shorts, wool socks, neoprene booties, bright yellow wind-resistant jacket, skull cap, helmet, and gloves. What I’m sitting here trying to tell you is that it was freaking FREEZING out there yesterday morning. At least it felt freezing standing around in a pair of tights (again, articles of clothing I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in public without a bicycle).

By eight-thirty, at least twenty cyclists had arrived and I began thinking to myself, Geez. If this turns out anything like that last training ride in New Jersey, I’m going to get royally spanked yet again. I thought this as I spotted two familiar faces in the crowd: Joe, the sixty-eight-year-old guy who completely blew me away in the Jersey hills with Dr. Rob, and Anne, a young lady who did the exact same thing as Joe had done in the same hills. Eyeing the crowd, I thought, This is going to be one very embarrassing morning.

Eventually, the ride started off to an easy pace as all rides do (and should) and headed down to Fr. Capadanno Boulevard (if I’ve misspelled Capadanno, I guess that’s something with which we’re just going to have to live, aren’t we?). As we approached Sand Lane, I pulled up next to Joe to say hello when I noticed everyone making a right turn into the roundabout. Holding up my arm to signal to the one person behind me that I’d be making a right as well, Joe said, “Just go straight.” Considering almost everyone had made the right into the roundabout, the group of riders who had continued along the boulevard had seriously dwindled to a select few.

“Where is everyone else going?” I asked Ed.

“They ride at a different pace,” he explained as we started the short climb toward McClean Avenue.

Overall, the ride did indeed take us around the perimeter of the island at a comfortable pace with a few bursts along the way where the speed picked up to an average of 20-23 mph--something to get the heart rate up and going--something to make you sweat. The few hills we encountered along the 46-mile ride were nothing humongous, nothing that made you want to turn around and call it a day. They were there, of course (the hills are always there, aren’t they?), and they weren’t easy, but I’ll venture to say they were manageable.

I met some nice people yesterday morning, but then again, I always seem to meet nice people on the bike. It’s a pleasure to find yourself surrounded by people with the same interest. I’m looking forward to next week’s ride.

My Own Little Field Test

A few weeks ago, I picked up a copy of Chris Carmichael’s The Ultimate Ride: Get Fit, Get Fast, and Start Winning with the World’s Top Cycling Coach. What makes this clown the world’s top cycling coach? Well, he was Armstrong’s coach through all seven of his Tour de France victories, so yeah, I’d say that sort of makes him the world’s top cycling coach.

Before I even get started with this, I’m well aware that a lot of guys, after reading the above, would lament, “Don’t worry about the science of riding yet, you idiot. Just get out there and ride your legs off.” At a certain level, I sort of agree with that thinking, but you know what? If I’m going to put in the effort I’ve been putting in since I bought the bike on July 4th, why shouldn’t I approach the effort with some sort of thinking above and beyond ride hard and ride long? Without a cycling computer with a cadence feature and a heart rate monitor, how do I know if I’m really riding hard enough? Or if I ride too hard, am I negating my efforts?

See my thinking behind investing in both the book and a $40 CatEye heart rate monitor?

Anyway, Carmichael recommends beginning with a 3-mile field test on a flat road with few turns as a way to gauge average heart rate, so I drove to Sandy Hook yesterday morning to do exactly that. I rode three miles at a hard pace, yet a pace I felt I could sustain if necessary. My average heart rate? 163. Total time? 9:43 with a headwind. Average speed? 18.8. Average cadence? No clue.

With the first field test completed, I decided to tick off another with the wind at my back. Average heart rate? 161. Total time? 9:25. Average speed? 19.4.

Just to prove how much of a geek I am, I whipped out my cell phone and made a voice recording of all the data. Sounds odd, sure, but it beats carrying a pen and paper in my jersey.

With the field tests completed, I logged in another few miles and then split back to Brooklyn. This morning, I got out of bed at seven looking forward to my first CTS (Carmichael Training Systems) workout: 2 hours of Foundation Miles with five :10 second PowerStarts worked in.

How absolutely thrilling. I calculated that 89% of my average heart rate (measured during the field test) should be 144--a pace I felt I could maintain comfortably for the two-hour ride.

And I did just that. Actually, once the two hours were completed, my average heart rate climbed to 148, but what are a few points? What’s the big deal? I logged 30 miles in Prospect Park (only decent place to ride around here without traffic, although I admit, it does get a bit boring after a while) at just under two hours and now the legs feel good.

Tomorrow’s workout includes only a one-hour FM (foundationmiles at 89% average heart rate). I’m starting to like this Carmichael guy, but let’s see how I do next year in the Kissena Club races in the Park. If I can finish with the lead group in Category Five, then maybe I’ll actually call him the world’s top cycling coach if we ever meet. If not . . . whatever.