I wanted to ride with the dudes on Staten Island this morning (Sunday), although when the alarm went off at seven and I took a glance out the window, everything was soaking wet and the clouds were still drizzling. So instead of hauling my butt out of bed and packing my gear for the ten-mile drive to New Dorp, I killed the alarm and rolled over. Call me crazy, although I don’t see the attraction of riding in a paceline with dirty street water spitting into my face for two hours.
Later that morning, once the sun had broke through, I got dressed and hit the rode for a two-hour ride, working in a handful of fast-pedal exercises, bumping my cadence up above 110. For whatever reason, Chris Carmichael thinks this is a good idea. Feels funny to do so while on the bike, but if Carmichael thinks it’s good training, that’s enough for me.
Usually, I would keep to Prospect Park and stay out of traffic, but after six months of riding in a 3.4-mile loop, the experience gets a bit boring. Instead, I did my normal loop down Ocean Parkway, through Brighton Beach to the path that runs along the Belt Parkway, over Marine Parkway Bridge, and then back again. Granted, the stoplights that line Ocean Parkway are numerous, although I approach that conundrum with 5-10 second standing sprints each time I take off from a red light. A steady, continuous pace would be a better for training, but sometimes, especially when you live in NYC, you just have to roll with the punches.
Okay, enough about that crap.
Somewhere on Richmond Terrace yesterday morning, Ed Dalton called out, “Stevie!”
“Yo.”
“Slow it up.”
I think that was the first time I’ve heard those words directed at me, but honestly, it’s not because I’m fast. Far from it, actually. Now that the weather has turned to real winter weather (meaning below freezing temperatures), the group rides on the Island have become progressively smaller. Further, it probably makes sense to slow things down a notch in such weather, to not tax the body so much, but every time I get in line and notice my heart rate monitor reading 119, I get nervous. Why? I can’t help but think of my first and only race (so far) last August. That was the Category 5 criterium in Prospect Park that saw me get spanked by six minutes in a forty-five minute race.
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but bear with me on this one. It’ll only take a minute or two.
I could sit here and hide behind the excuse that I had only been riding for a month when I entered the race (I bought the bike on July 4th and raced August 5th . . . or was it the 6th?), but I hate excuses. There are two things I dislike in day-to-day life: excuses and exaggeration. For example, years ago a friend tried to convince me that a tree was growing in the middle of Great Kills road. “It’s right in the middle of the street,” he claimed, and when we drove by, sure enough, a tree had grown through the pavement about six inches from the curb. “That’s the middle of the street?” I asked, pointing out the window. “If that’s the middle of the street, then what’s that?” I then pointed past the steering wheel to where a double-yellow line would have been if the Transportation Department ever decided to paint one on that particular street.
Anyway, back to the race. After the first lap, I got dropped on the longest climb in the park (which really isn’t that long), in the biggest way. They just spit me out the rear without so much as an adios and left me panting like a dog in hundred-degree heat. I think of that experience every time I throw a leg over my bike. I’m sure it’ll never fully leave, but since then, every time I’m out on the road, I can’t help but remember how physically demanding it was to ride that pace. I could go ahead and make the argument that I’m in much better shape now than I was in early August, but it’s not enough. I don’t even want to risk falling back on reasoning like that. If I do, I might grow complacent, and if I grow complacent, I have no doubt the next race this spring/early summer will see me spit out the back once again.
So when I’m on Staten Island with the guys and it’s freezing and only a few of us show up to ride, I have something of a mental block when it comes to putting it on cruise control, even for a few minutes. I know damn well that if the rest of the guys in that group wanted to step on the gas, they’d leave me for far, far behind. It happened a few weeks ago when T-Mobile Tommy and Lester took off on Richmond Avenue and never let up. Within minutes, I was once again kicked out the back and I never caught up until the bagel shop. A week later, same thing. Dr. Rob and Lester wanted to go on the hill near Killimeyer’s (I have no doubt I just mangled the spelling of Killimeyer’s). About a minute later, they were completely out of sight. Gone.
My point is, if I push toward the front and make a few pathetic attempts at sprints, it’s due to that race from last year. Those fifty minutes of complete decimation and embarrassment have lodged themselves in my brain and, fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I’ve been unable to let go. If I mention I want to pull up front most of the ride, it’s only to push myself, to get ready for what I know is going to happen in the coming months.
As for disliking excuses? That’s a whole other story.
Sunday, January 28
Tuesday, January 23
The Very, Very Cold
Goddam it was cold yesterday. Pulling myself out of bed while it was still dark outside, I thought (as I’m sure everyone who wakes up before dawn to ride a bicycle in the middle of winter thinks), What the hell is wrong with me?
That’s a good question. Actually, it’s a damn good question--one that I’ve been asking myself for longer than I care to remember.
Anyway, I made it to Staten Island already having donned my polypro sock liners, wool socks, and neopro socks. Three layers of socks to try and ward off the eighteen-degree temperature in which we were about to ride like a bunch of raving lunatics. Then again, you could say, “Why climb Mount Everest?” Because it’s there to be done, I guess, the same way the bike sits in the hall or the garage and stares at you every time you walk by, wondering when you’re going to take it out again.
By 8:20, I was dressed and out of the warmth of my truck, standing around a deserted parking lot in New Dorp with a bunch of other lunatics willing to go cycling for a few hours in below-freezing weather. As we waited until the usual 8:35 to see if any latecomers would arrive, I began wondering how long it would take before my toes went numb. I began wondering if it would get so bad that I’d have to quit, turn around, and ride as fast as possible back to the truck in the hopes I wouldn’t permanently lose the feeling in my toes. The night before, I had considering swapping out the clipless pedals for a pair of platforms with toe clips so I could ride with my gore-tex hiking boots. In hindsight, that might not have been such a bad idea.
During the first twenty or so minutes of the ride, my fingers were colder than . . . colder than . . . uh, you know . . . they were cold, okay? Freezing, actually, yet as usual, they felt fine after the first short climb when we reached McClean Avenue, once the heart rate was up and pumping. Half an hour after that, the toes began going numb, but not dangerously numb. Rather, the numbness was somewhat bearable, if that’s at all possible. By the time we reached Richmond Avenue, though, it was time to step on the gas just enough to push the heart rate out of that 120-130 zone up into the 160-170 zone. If not, my toes would have turned into frozen extremities a la carte by the time we hit the bagel shop and as Joe C. and I stepped it up a bit, I could hear Ed Dalton’s voice in the back of my head, “What’s the point of going on a group ride if you’re not going to ride in a group?” He’s got a point, of course, but I think you should be allowed to bend the etiquette a bit when the temperature is below freezing and you’ve been out riding for more than an hour.
By the time we reached the bagel shop, Tommy summed up the morning’s experience perfectly when he said, “My feet are gone. Totally gone.”
And then, rather than take the loop down to Hylan Boulevard, we made the right out of the bagel shop’s parking lot and hitched it over to the Richmond Parkway service road. Not five minutes after leaving the parking lot, I stood up on one of the rolling hills to get the heart rate back up a bit, to try and keep the damn feet from freezing again, when I heard Ed Dalton sprinting up behind me. How did I know it was Ed? I could hear the squeal of a chain in desperate need of some oil. Expecting Ed and the entire wagon train behind him sitting in the draft, I pushed down on the pedals even harder yet when I glanced over, there was Andy and his bright green winter jacket.
Two minutes later, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me.
“You really didn’t want Andy to pass you, huh?”
Stopped at the next red light, I turned around and explained, “Andy, when you came up behind me on that last hill I could hear your chain and I thought it was him.” I pointed at Ed.
It is what it is, I guess, but that was Sunday. It was cold. It was colder than cold. It’s only January and already I’m thinking about summer.
That’s a good question. Actually, it’s a damn good question--one that I’ve been asking myself for longer than I care to remember.
Anyway, I made it to Staten Island already having donned my polypro sock liners, wool socks, and neopro socks. Three layers of socks to try and ward off the eighteen-degree temperature in which we were about to ride like a bunch of raving lunatics. Then again, you could say, “Why climb Mount Everest?” Because it’s there to be done, I guess, the same way the bike sits in the hall or the garage and stares at you every time you walk by, wondering when you’re going to take it out again.
By 8:20, I was dressed and out of the warmth of my truck, standing around a deserted parking lot in New Dorp with a bunch of other lunatics willing to go cycling for a few hours in below-freezing weather. As we waited until the usual 8:35 to see if any latecomers would arrive, I began wondering how long it would take before my toes went numb. I began wondering if it would get so bad that I’d have to quit, turn around, and ride as fast as possible back to the truck in the hopes I wouldn’t permanently lose the feeling in my toes. The night before, I had considering swapping out the clipless pedals for a pair of platforms with toe clips so I could ride with my gore-tex hiking boots. In hindsight, that might not have been such a bad idea.
During the first twenty or so minutes of the ride, my fingers were colder than . . . colder than . . . uh, you know . . . they were cold, okay? Freezing, actually, yet as usual, they felt fine after the first short climb when we reached McClean Avenue, once the heart rate was up and pumping. Half an hour after that, the toes began going numb, but not dangerously numb. Rather, the numbness was somewhat bearable, if that’s at all possible. By the time we reached Richmond Avenue, though, it was time to step on the gas just enough to push the heart rate out of that 120-130 zone up into the 160-170 zone. If not, my toes would have turned into frozen extremities a la carte by the time we hit the bagel shop and as Joe C. and I stepped it up a bit, I could hear Ed Dalton’s voice in the back of my head, “What’s the point of going on a group ride if you’re not going to ride in a group?” He’s got a point, of course, but I think you should be allowed to bend the etiquette a bit when the temperature is below freezing and you’ve been out riding for more than an hour.
By the time we reached the bagel shop, Tommy summed up the morning’s experience perfectly when he said, “My feet are gone. Totally gone.”
And then, rather than take the loop down to Hylan Boulevard, we made the right out of the bagel shop’s parking lot and hitched it over to the Richmond Parkway service road. Not five minutes after leaving the parking lot, I stood up on one of the rolling hills to get the heart rate back up a bit, to try and keep the damn feet from freezing again, when I heard Ed Dalton sprinting up behind me. How did I know it was Ed? I could hear the squeal of a chain in desperate need of some oil. Expecting Ed and the entire wagon train behind him sitting in the draft, I pushed down on the pedals even harder yet when I glanced over, there was Andy and his bright green winter jacket.
Two minutes later, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me.
“You really didn’t want Andy to pass you, huh?”
Stopped at the next red light, I turned around and explained, “Andy, when you came up behind me on that last hill I could hear your chain and I thought it was him.” I pointed at Ed.
It is what it is, I guess, but that was Sunday. It was cold. It was colder than cold. It’s only January and already I’m thinking about summer.
Friday, January 19
Adios to R & A
Overall, I’m really not one to complain (yeah, right), yet just when I was starting to think the guys at R&A weren’t all that bad, they go and act like a bunch of complete dickwads.
Considering the weather yesterday, I knew there wasn’t much chance I would go home after work and eagerly suit up to ride in the snow that had turned into rain once I climbed the stairs out of the subway station. Instead, I figured it was about time I stepped up to the financial plate and plunk down a few hundred on a decent trainer. After doing the reading and reading the research, I decided on the Blackburn Trakstand Ultra, a contraption which is neither fluid nor magnetic. Instead, it works on what Blackburn calls “centriforce.” I know, I know, this is all incredibly exciting, but at the end of the day, all “centriforce” really means is that the faster the housing spins, the harder a trio of steel ball bearings presses against a flywheel which presses against a friction compound plate which raises resistance.
Like I said, it’s terribly exciting.
Regardless, after plunking down three large (“large to me is $100) for this thing, I lugged it home on the bus and five minutes after stepping through my door, I began tearing open the box to get at my new toy. Immediately, I had a problem: the instructions were missing. Considering it was already past seven o’clock, calling R&A was out of the question as those jokers would have been gone for the evening. I tried calling anyway, but of course, no one answered the phone.
Determined to take my new trainer for a spin, I went online to Blackburn’s web site but the only instruction page/manual they have posted is one for a tire pump. And their customer service hours are 8-5 CST.
I was not only screwed. I was absolutely steaming. Leave it to the jackasses at R&A to sell their customers equipment without the proper instructions.
Regardless, the unit came out of the box 100% assembled, meaning a mildly intelligent chimp could probably figure out how to use it, although there are those times when you just want to make sure you’re doing something 100% right. For example, the unit came with three extra ball bearings and, based on what I had read in reviews, these were to be used to increase resistance. Looking down at the resistance housing, wanting to avoid pulling it apart without the proper background materials, having those instructions would have been grand.
After forty minutes or so, I hooked up my bike and got the thing going as I thought best which turned out to be good enough, but if I had had the instructions, I could have cut that time down to ten minutes. Remember that saying, time is money? Well, time is money, or at least I think of it that way.
For the longest time I had been thinking of investing in a trainer and I’m glad I did. Despite last night’s debacle, I now have the instructions as Blackburn’s customer service emailed them to me in less than five minutes after contacting them today after Al at R&A proved himself completely useless when we spoke. See dialogue below. Even without the instructions, though, the unit proved to work well as per the resistance. Since I’ve never used any other trainer, I can’t really speak to how quiet the thing is, but it seemed relatively quiet to me despite my downstairs neighbor banging on his ceiling/my floor, but he’s a cocksucker, so he deserves some noise anyway.
#
R&A Dialogue
Phone ringing.
“R&A.”
“I bought a Blackburn trainer from you guys last night but there were no instructions in the box.”
“You want to bring it in and we’ll show you how to use it?”
“I was hoping I could stop in and you could just give me the directions.”
“If they weren’t in the box then it doesn’t come with directions.”
“Well could you look in another box to see if they might be in there and then maybe I can get a copy?”
“You’ll have to call me back later.”
Click. “Asshole.”
When your daddy owns the store, I guess you have some sort of a right to treat the customers like a bunch of tools.
Considering the weather yesterday, I knew there wasn’t much chance I would go home after work and eagerly suit up to ride in the snow that had turned into rain once I climbed the stairs out of the subway station. Instead, I figured it was about time I stepped up to the financial plate and plunk down a few hundred on a decent trainer. After doing the reading and reading the research, I decided on the Blackburn Trakstand Ultra, a contraption which is neither fluid nor magnetic. Instead, it works on what Blackburn calls “centriforce.” I know, I know, this is all incredibly exciting, but at the end of the day, all “centriforce” really means is that the faster the housing spins, the harder a trio of steel ball bearings presses against a flywheel which presses against a friction compound plate which raises resistance.
Like I said, it’s terribly exciting.
Regardless, after plunking down three large (“large to me is $100) for this thing, I lugged it home on the bus and five minutes after stepping through my door, I began tearing open the box to get at my new toy. Immediately, I had a problem: the instructions were missing. Considering it was already past seven o’clock, calling R&A was out of the question as those jokers would have been gone for the evening. I tried calling anyway, but of course, no one answered the phone.
Determined to take my new trainer for a spin, I went online to Blackburn’s web site but the only instruction page/manual they have posted is one for a tire pump. And their customer service hours are 8-5 CST.
I was not only screwed. I was absolutely steaming. Leave it to the jackasses at R&A to sell their customers equipment without the proper instructions.
Regardless, the unit came out of the box 100% assembled, meaning a mildly intelligent chimp could probably figure out how to use it, although there are those times when you just want to make sure you’re doing something 100% right. For example, the unit came with three extra ball bearings and, based on what I had read in reviews, these were to be used to increase resistance. Looking down at the resistance housing, wanting to avoid pulling it apart without the proper background materials, having those instructions would have been grand.
After forty minutes or so, I hooked up my bike and got the thing going as I thought best which turned out to be good enough, but if I had had the instructions, I could have cut that time down to ten minutes. Remember that saying, time is money? Well, time is money, or at least I think of it that way.
For the longest time I had been thinking of investing in a trainer and I’m glad I did. Despite last night’s debacle, I now have the instructions as Blackburn’s customer service emailed them to me in less than five minutes after contacting them today after Al at R&A proved himself completely useless when we spoke. See dialogue below. Even without the instructions, though, the unit proved to work well as per the resistance. Since I’ve never used any other trainer, I can’t really speak to how quiet the thing is, but it seemed relatively quiet to me despite my downstairs neighbor banging on his ceiling/my floor, but he’s a cocksucker, so he deserves some noise anyway.
#
R&A Dialogue
Phone ringing.
“R&A.”
“I bought a Blackburn trainer from you guys last night but there were no instructions in the box.”
“You want to bring it in and we’ll show you how to use it?”
“I was hoping I could stop in and you could just give me the directions.”
“If they weren’t in the box then it doesn’t come with directions.”
“Well could you look in another box to see if they might be in there and then maybe I can get a copy?”
“You’ll have to call me back later.”
Click. “Asshole.”
When your daddy owns the store, I guess you have some sort of a right to treat the customers like a bunch of tools.
Tuesday, January 16
Under and Over the Bridge
Sunday morning I wake up and as soon as I hear the rain hitting the window next to my bed, I think, Screw that. A few seconds later, I was asleep again, dreaming of carbon fiber frames that only weigh two-and-a-half ounces, polypropylene sock liners, and winning the first Category 5 race of the upcoming season in Prospect Park.
Obviously, I have some grand, grand dreams.
Make a short story long, by the time I actually got out of bed and sucked down a bowel of Raisin Nut Bran (which I highly recommend, by the way), the rain had since stopped and I figured I’d go out and get on the bike even though I neglected to make the rainy trip out to Staten Island to ride with the guys in the rain. I could have gotten out of bed to do a few miles with the group, but who wants dirty rainwater spitting in their face, up their nose, and in their mouth when you’re riding behind the guy or girl in front of you? Who needs that? Sure, I’m a fan of the sport, but I also have a day job, meaning I’ll leave riding in the miserably wet weather to the pros who are getting paid to push those pedals and drink down that foul rain water (mixed with some motor oil, I might add).
Again, make a short story long, I packed three fat-free Fig Newtons in some tin foil, filled the water bottle with Cytomax, checked the pressure in the tires, strapped on my helmet, and hit the road. Where would I ride on this misty Sunday morning? Over the Brooklyn Bridge and across Chambers Street to the path along the West Side Highway. From downtown I pedaled into a slight headwind (better to deal with it going there rather than coming back) all the freaking way up through Harlem to the George Washington Bridge.
Now, you would think that someone, some city official or park ranger, might have the common sense to place a handful of signs pointing cyclists (or rollerbladers, or walkers, etc.) in the direction of the bridge from the greenway. You might think that someone would have the brains to do this considering the GWB is a major crossing from NYC into New Jersey and vice versa, yet has anyone taken this concept into consideration?
Nope. Riding the greenway under the bridge, I knew I’d have to turn off somewhere to get on the bridge. It took me a few tries, although eventually a guy and his dog pointed me toward Ft. Washington (Street or Avenue, I can’t remember) and told me to make a right that would steer me toward the bridge. Actually, the guy did all the talking while his dog squatted down to do his business.
Then, once over the bridge on the New Jersey side, I was hoping I might catch a sign--either for cyclists or drivers--pointing toward 9W.
Nope. I stopped to ask another cyclist who pointed me in the right direction.
“Go down this way,” he said, pointing north while chewing on a bagel, “and when you get to the T, make a left. Then when you get to the light, make a right. That’s 9W.”
I wish I could sit here and extol the virtues of a ride along 9W, although sadly, I cannot. Once over the GWB, the fog had settled in for the day that made it impossible to see anything other than a wall of white beyond fifty feet or so. Riding through all that mist, my glasses fogged over, rendering them useless, and my gloves began turning white.
Despite the fog and damp, I’m sure 9W is a fantastic ride when you can actually see something. At the same time, though, I can’t say it was a bad ride either. Dealing with the wet road, the occasional drizzle, and the thick fog is what riding through the winter is all about, isn’t it? I may harbor something of a gripe considering I rode all that way looking forward to something a bit more scenic, but by no means was my Sunday ride unfulfilling. On the contrary, I believe that it’s during those rides when the conditions are much less than ideal, those rides when you’re alone and you’re pushing yourself progressively harder and harder that you finish with a greater sense of accomplishment. After pounding out those final five miles (out of a total of fifty-six for the day), those three fat-free Fig Newtons devoured an hour earlier, running on not much more than fumes, I finally reached home and popped a pair of Lean Pockets in the microwave before I even undressed. I wanted food and I wanted it as soon as possible.
Maybe relaxing after the ride is over is the second-best part of cycling. Maybe staring blankly out the window at the fog after the ride is over is what makes the effort worthwhile, knowing you were already out there suffering in the inclement weather only a few feet outside your front door. To me, there’s a lot to be said for busting your ass for three-and-a-half hours and them coming home, cleaning up, and sitting down to a quiet, warm meal of whatever it is you feel like eating.
And that was my Sunday.
Obviously, I have some grand, grand dreams.
Make a short story long, by the time I actually got out of bed and sucked down a bowel of Raisin Nut Bran (which I highly recommend, by the way), the rain had since stopped and I figured I’d go out and get on the bike even though I neglected to make the rainy trip out to Staten Island to ride with the guys in the rain. I could have gotten out of bed to do a few miles with the group, but who wants dirty rainwater spitting in their face, up their nose, and in their mouth when you’re riding behind the guy or girl in front of you? Who needs that? Sure, I’m a fan of the sport, but I also have a day job, meaning I’ll leave riding in the miserably wet weather to the pros who are getting paid to push those pedals and drink down that foul rain water (mixed with some motor oil, I might add).
Again, make a short story long, I packed three fat-free Fig Newtons in some tin foil, filled the water bottle with Cytomax, checked the pressure in the tires, strapped on my helmet, and hit the road. Where would I ride on this misty Sunday morning? Over the Brooklyn Bridge and across Chambers Street to the path along the West Side Highway. From downtown I pedaled into a slight headwind (better to deal with it going there rather than coming back) all the freaking way up through Harlem to the George Washington Bridge.
Now, you would think that someone, some city official or park ranger, might have the common sense to place a handful of signs pointing cyclists (or rollerbladers, or walkers, etc.) in the direction of the bridge from the greenway. You might think that someone would have the brains to do this considering the GWB is a major crossing from NYC into New Jersey and vice versa, yet has anyone taken this concept into consideration?
Nope. Riding the greenway under the bridge, I knew I’d have to turn off somewhere to get on the bridge. It took me a few tries, although eventually a guy and his dog pointed me toward Ft. Washington (Street or Avenue, I can’t remember) and told me to make a right that would steer me toward the bridge. Actually, the guy did all the talking while his dog squatted down to do his business.
Then, once over the bridge on the New Jersey side, I was hoping I might catch a sign--either for cyclists or drivers--pointing toward 9W.
Nope. I stopped to ask another cyclist who pointed me in the right direction.
“Go down this way,” he said, pointing north while chewing on a bagel, “and when you get to the T, make a left. Then when you get to the light, make a right. That’s 9W.”
I wish I could sit here and extol the virtues of a ride along 9W, although sadly, I cannot. Once over the GWB, the fog had settled in for the day that made it impossible to see anything other than a wall of white beyond fifty feet or so. Riding through all that mist, my glasses fogged over, rendering them useless, and my gloves began turning white.
Despite the fog and damp, I’m sure 9W is a fantastic ride when you can actually see something. At the same time, though, I can’t say it was a bad ride either. Dealing with the wet road, the occasional drizzle, and the thick fog is what riding through the winter is all about, isn’t it? I may harbor something of a gripe considering I rode all that way looking forward to something a bit more scenic, but by no means was my Sunday ride unfulfilling. On the contrary, I believe that it’s during those rides when the conditions are much less than ideal, those rides when you’re alone and you’re pushing yourself progressively harder and harder that you finish with a greater sense of accomplishment. After pounding out those final five miles (out of a total of fifty-six for the day), those three fat-free Fig Newtons devoured an hour earlier, running on not much more than fumes, I finally reached home and popped a pair of Lean Pockets in the microwave before I even undressed. I wanted food and I wanted it as soon as possible.
Maybe relaxing after the ride is over is the second-best part of cycling. Maybe staring blankly out the window at the fog after the ride is over is what makes the effort worthwhile, knowing you were already out there suffering in the inclement weather only a few feet outside your front door. To me, there’s a lot to be said for busting your ass for three-and-a-half hours and them coming home, cleaning up, and sitting down to a quiet, warm meal of whatever it is you feel like eating.
And that was my Sunday.
Tuesday, January 9
Arnold the Cyclist
Just tonight, while fixing myself a plate of nachos (see my wonderful recipe below), I decided to pop in my Big Six DVD and watch highlights from Lance Armstrong’s first six Tour de France wins. If I had anything that remotely resembled a social life, I would have grabbed my phone and made a few calls to schedule a night out with a saucy young vixen, but it’s Monday. Who the hell wants to go out for Mexican on a Monday night? More to the point, all the saucy young vixens I know have expressed on several occasions that they think I’m ugly and that my mother dresses me funny.
Admittedly, the saucy young vixens have a point.
Regardless, I was in the middle of flipping a chicken cutlet and watching Lance crash during the 2003 race. I can do this as my tiny kitchen boasts a huge pass-thru window, so I can cook and stay tuned to the action on the TV at the same time, yet as cool as that sounds, trust me, it doesn’t mean much to saucy young vixens. The moment Lance hit the ground and then remounted to sprint all the way up the rest of the climb, I thought, Cyclists are a lot like bodybuilders were back in the 80s and 90s. Not that I’ve ever been the biggest fan of professional bodybuilding (I think one look at me will confirm that statement), although as a teenager, I would occasionally flip through a copy of Flex or something similar. Back then, all those guys who spent at least nine hours a day in the gym and had biceps the size of watermelons all had the same stupid answers when interviewers inquired regarding drug use: “I’ve been blessed with good genes.”
And a rotating supply of hypodermic needles in which they pumped gallon after gallon of steroids and human growth hormones into their asses.
While I can’t speak for the cyclists of old, the cyclists of today sure do sound a lot like the freaky, ‘roid-rage prone juiceheads used to sound. At least most professional bodybuilders are beginning to admit they’re the products of serious synthetic enhancements. I don’t remember what video or TV show it was where I saw this, although not long ago, I caught a clip of an interview with two bodybuilders who looked as though someone had stuck the end of a bike pump valve in their respective asses and blew them up to well over the recommended 120 PSI. The juicehead standing to the left put it simply when he said, “When you look at us, it should be obvious what we’re doing. You can’t get like this without using steroids.” The juicer on the right nodded his approval.
I understand there’s a lot of corporate money floating around in professional cycling, but wouldn’t it be nice to inhale a flash of the truth rather than swallowing the same mouthful of shit year after year? Rather than the incessant, adamant refusals when the subject of doping arises, wouldn’t it be a blast of fresh air to hear Ivan Basso proclaim, “Basta! Of course I dope, you moron! How the f#ck do you think I climbed all those freaking mountains in the Giro as fast as I did? Eating my shredded wheat? God, you people are so freaking dumb.”
At the same time, for my own flimsy reasons, I’m of the belief that the sprinters, racers such as Thor Hushovd (Thor is such a cool name, isn’t it?), Robbie McEwen, and company, are not dopers. Go ahead and call me ignorant, yet don’t the sprinters typically struggle once a stage race reaches the major climbs? Okay, maybe these guys take the occasional injection, but compared to someone like Tyler Hamilton who, according to recent reports, was spending seven months of the year living on the equivalent of a black market pharma cocktail, the sprinters look like a bunch of saints.
While we’re speaking of dopers, how about that Joe Cuomo guy? A few weeks ago, he disappears to have “surgery.” Then, on his first morning back with the group, he’s up front during most of the ride with his face in the wind while most of us are in the back breathing hard. I think it was T-Mobile Tommy who mentioned Joe’s name had come up in Operacion Puerto, although since sixty-eight-year-old Joe no longer contests the Giro, the Tour, or the Vuelta, none of the Spanish authorities made a stink about it. More importantly, they probably couldn’t find Staten Island on the map.
#
Steve's Macho-Nacho Dish
1 plate of nacho chips
1 chicken cutlet sliced into strips
½ cup taco mix cheese or sharp cheddar cheese
½ tomato diced
Salsa
Sour cream
Spread nacho chips on plate. Spread chicken atop nachos. Spread a generous helping of cheese over chicken and nachos. Microwave until cheese melts. Remove plate from microwave and sprinkle diced tomato over plate. Season with salsa and sour cream to taste. Enjoy. Upon finishing, open windows around house/apartment. As is typically expected, ingesting Mexican food may result in pungent flatulence. Keep air freshener handy. Apply Vick’s Vapor rub under nostrils on upper lip to maintain consciousness during severe emergencies.
Admittedly, the saucy young vixens have a point.
Regardless, I was in the middle of flipping a chicken cutlet and watching Lance crash during the 2003 race. I can do this as my tiny kitchen boasts a huge pass-thru window, so I can cook and stay tuned to the action on the TV at the same time, yet as cool as that sounds, trust me, it doesn’t mean much to saucy young vixens. The moment Lance hit the ground and then remounted to sprint all the way up the rest of the climb, I thought, Cyclists are a lot like bodybuilders were back in the 80s and 90s. Not that I’ve ever been the biggest fan of professional bodybuilding (I think one look at me will confirm that statement), although as a teenager, I would occasionally flip through a copy of Flex or something similar. Back then, all those guys who spent at least nine hours a day in the gym and had biceps the size of watermelons all had the same stupid answers when interviewers inquired regarding drug use: “I’ve been blessed with good genes.”
And a rotating supply of hypodermic needles in which they pumped gallon after gallon of steroids and human growth hormones into their asses.
While I can’t speak for the cyclists of old, the cyclists of today sure do sound a lot like the freaky, ‘roid-rage prone juiceheads used to sound. At least most professional bodybuilders are beginning to admit they’re the products of serious synthetic enhancements. I don’t remember what video or TV show it was where I saw this, although not long ago, I caught a clip of an interview with two bodybuilders who looked as though someone had stuck the end of a bike pump valve in their respective asses and blew them up to well over the recommended 120 PSI. The juicehead standing to the left put it simply when he said, “When you look at us, it should be obvious what we’re doing. You can’t get like this without using steroids.” The juicer on the right nodded his approval.
I understand there’s a lot of corporate money floating around in professional cycling, but wouldn’t it be nice to inhale a flash of the truth rather than swallowing the same mouthful of shit year after year? Rather than the incessant, adamant refusals when the subject of doping arises, wouldn’t it be a blast of fresh air to hear Ivan Basso proclaim, “Basta! Of course I dope, you moron! How the f#ck do you think I climbed all those freaking mountains in the Giro as fast as I did? Eating my shredded wheat? God, you people are so freaking dumb.”
At the same time, for my own flimsy reasons, I’m of the belief that the sprinters, racers such as Thor Hushovd (Thor is such a cool name, isn’t it?), Robbie McEwen, and company, are not dopers. Go ahead and call me ignorant, yet don’t the sprinters typically struggle once a stage race reaches the major climbs? Okay, maybe these guys take the occasional injection, but compared to someone like Tyler Hamilton who, according to recent reports, was spending seven months of the year living on the equivalent of a black market pharma cocktail, the sprinters look like a bunch of saints.
While we’re speaking of dopers, how about that Joe Cuomo guy? A few weeks ago, he disappears to have “surgery.” Then, on his first morning back with the group, he’s up front during most of the ride with his face in the wind while most of us are in the back breathing hard. I think it was T-Mobile Tommy who mentioned Joe’s name had come up in Operacion Puerto, although since sixty-eight-year-old Joe no longer contests the Giro, the Tour, or the Vuelta, none of the Spanish authorities made a stink about it. More importantly, they probably couldn’t find Staten Island on the map.
#
Steve's Macho-Nacho Dish
1 plate of nacho chips
1 chicken cutlet sliced into strips
½ cup taco mix cheese or sharp cheddar cheese
½ tomato diced
Salsa
Sour cream
Spread nacho chips on plate. Spread chicken atop nachos. Spread a generous helping of cheese over chicken and nachos. Microwave until cheese melts. Remove plate from microwave and sprinkle diced tomato over plate. Season with salsa and sour cream to taste. Enjoy. Upon finishing, open windows around house/apartment. As is typically expected, ingesting Mexican food may result in pungent flatulence. Keep air freshener handy. Apply Vick’s Vapor rub under nostrils on upper lip to maintain consciousness during severe emergencies.
Monday, January 8
Going Nowhere Fast
From immediately behind me came Ed Dalton’s voice, and I knew that voice was pointed straight at me.
“You had to f#ck around, didn’t you?”
A few minutes earlier, I had jumped out of the line at twenty-four miles-per-hour and tried to make my way to the front with my face in the wind. Within a few seconds, realizing there wasn’t much of a chance in hell I would have the gas to pull in front of T-Mobile Tommy who had been leading the group, I sat up and let our petite peloton slide up the road. Just before slowing down, I glanced over my shoulder at a blue jacket that, I believe, belonged to Dr. Rob. Without the legs or the lungs to reach the front, I felt like I was letting him down, as well as anyone who might have been holding his wheel.
These things happen, I guess.
As for Ed’s admonishment, he was absolutely right. I did indeed feel like f#cking around during most of the ride, although not in a malicious way. Rather, it was quite simple. You have your good days and you have your bad days. Compared to last Sunday when my lungs felt as though they were full of cement, this morning was a vast improvement. It’s days like today, days when I’m feeling good, that I’m probably too quick to stand up and sprint off the front from time to time knowing damn well the rest of the group is going to catch me the moment my butt hits the saddle and I start wheezing from the fifteen seconds of all-out effort I just decided to waste.
Maybe it was the shoes. I invested in my first pair of Sidis--a pair of shoes that actually fit right yet cost a ridiculous $230--which I wore for the first time this morning. How did they feel? Marvelous, baby. Absolutely marvelous (in that I could still feel my toes an hour into the ride).
Overall, though, we had a great ride today. At least I think so. The seventy-degree temperatures that rolled through the area on Saturday seemed to remind everyone that eventually the winter will reach an end and spring will soon arrive, meaning the collective attitude this morning was one of . . . there is a reason we do this despite freezing our asses off in the wind.
On a separate note, I swung in R&A on 5th Avenue this afternoon to grab a new tire. One of the salesman in the shop, Felix, is turning out to be something of a righteous dude. After providing a few pointers on tires and rolling speed and so forth, he not only provided some good advice, but the guy took my bike, tuned up the gearing, fixed a broken spoke in the rear wheel, and then trued it properly. Granted, I did lay out $97 on a pair of Vittoria tires, although the tune up certainly saved me a few bucks and I can now expect much smoother shifting considering I’ve been fiddling with the rear derailleur on my own and generally making a mess of things.
So in the event you find yourself in R&A, I would recommend asking for Felix. He seems to be one of the few guys in there without an attitude issue.
#
Steve’s Open-Face Chicken Sandwich
1 chicken cutlet, sautéed or grilled
1 slice toast (white, wheat, multi-grain, whatever)
Shredded mozzarella or cheddar cheese
1-2 tablespoons salsa
Toast the toast while melting the cheese on top of the chicken cutlet in the microwave. Once the cheese is melted, remove from microwave and place the chicken on top of the toast. Sit down at the table with a glass of soda, water, Crystal Light, or whatever. Spoon salsa on top of cheese-covered chicken. Eat with fork and knife or with your fingers. Enjoy. Repeat as necessary.
“You had to f#ck around, didn’t you?”
A few minutes earlier, I had jumped out of the line at twenty-four miles-per-hour and tried to make my way to the front with my face in the wind. Within a few seconds, realizing there wasn’t much of a chance in hell I would have the gas to pull in front of T-Mobile Tommy who had been leading the group, I sat up and let our petite peloton slide up the road. Just before slowing down, I glanced over my shoulder at a blue jacket that, I believe, belonged to Dr. Rob. Without the legs or the lungs to reach the front, I felt like I was letting him down, as well as anyone who might have been holding his wheel.
These things happen, I guess.
As for Ed’s admonishment, he was absolutely right. I did indeed feel like f#cking around during most of the ride, although not in a malicious way. Rather, it was quite simple. You have your good days and you have your bad days. Compared to last Sunday when my lungs felt as though they were full of cement, this morning was a vast improvement. It’s days like today, days when I’m feeling good, that I’m probably too quick to stand up and sprint off the front from time to time knowing damn well the rest of the group is going to catch me the moment my butt hits the saddle and I start wheezing from the fifteen seconds of all-out effort I just decided to waste.
Maybe it was the shoes. I invested in my first pair of Sidis--a pair of shoes that actually fit right yet cost a ridiculous $230--which I wore for the first time this morning. How did they feel? Marvelous, baby. Absolutely marvelous (in that I could still feel my toes an hour into the ride).
Overall, though, we had a great ride today. At least I think so. The seventy-degree temperatures that rolled through the area on Saturday seemed to remind everyone that eventually the winter will reach an end and spring will soon arrive, meaning the collective attitude this morning was one of . . . there is a reason we do this despite freezing our asses off in the wind.
On a separate note, I swung in R&A on 5th Avenue this afternoon to grab a new tire. One of the salesman in the shop, Felix, is turning out to be something of a righteous dude. After providing a few pointers on tires and rolling speed and so forth, he not only provided some good advice, but the guy took my bike, tuned up the gearing, fixed a broken spoke in the rear wheel, and then trued it properly. Granted, I did lay out $97 on a pair of Vittoria tires, although the tune up certainly saved me a few bucks and I can now expect much smoother shifting considering I’ve been fiddling with the rear derailleur on my own and generally making a mess of things.
So in the event you find yourself in R&A, I would recommend asking for Felix. He seems to be one of the few guys in there without an attitude issue.
#
Steve’s Open-Face Chicken Sandwich
1 chicken cutlet, sautéed or grilled
1 slice toast (white, wheat, multi-grain, whatever)
Shredded mozzarella or cheddar cheese
1-2 tablespoons salsa
Toast the toast while melting the cheese on top of the chicken cutlet in the microwave. Once the cheese is melted, remove from microwave and place the chicken on top of the toast. Sit down at the table with a glass of soda, water, Crystal Light, or whatever. Spoon salsa on top of cheese-covered chicken. Eat with fork and knife or with your fingers. Enjoy. Repeat as necessary.
Friday, January 5
Shameless Plug
This is what most people in any professional line of work would call a "shameless plug." A lot of you know that I ride motocross (or try to ride) in the summer, so here's a link to you really crappy camera work (I simply asked a stranger on the track to work my Sony Cybershot) and even worse riding.
(And if anyone's interested in doing a bit of dirtbike riding this summer, just let me know. I only have the one bike, but one bike is enough.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaR8nmbe0RE
(And if anyone's interested in doing a bit of dirtbike riding this summer, just let me know. I only have the one bike, but one bike is enough.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaR8nmbe0RE
Tuesday, January 2
Written on New Year's Eve
This is it. This is the last installation in 2006. In less than four hours, we’ll reach 2007.
How. Exciting.
More importantly, let me tell you about the steak I broiled for dinner about two hours ago. After a short nap, I dragged myself out of bed (I can’t stand falling asleep when the sun’s still up and then waking when it’s dark--has a tendency to make me feel like a lazy bum) and held a short, internal debate as to whether I should go out for an early dinner alone to celebrate the coming new year or if I should spend the cash on groceries and make my own dinner.
Rather than drop the money on a few rolls of sushi, I walked across the street to Key Food and spent $21.74 on chicken cutlets, Hebrew National hot dogs, hot dog rolls, a block of mozzarella cheese, and a juicy steak. The plan was to cook the steak as my New Year’s Eve dinner along with a baked potato topped with olive oil and melted cheddar cheese.
Nice, right? As I stated in an earlier blog, one of the benefits of cycling is that the occasional splurge on a rich meal is well deserved after a long morning on the bike.
While setting the dining table for one (utterly depressing), I popped in a copy of Sex and Lucia on DVD. With the medium-rare steak and a delectable baked potato on my plate next to a tall glass of Coke (I’m not much of a wine or beer drinker), I hit PLAY on the remote control and dug in. Despite how wonderfully the steak and potato satisfied both my mouth and stomach, I had a hard time concentrating on the movie and my dinner at the same time. This, in turn, led to a second internal debate--should I switch off the movie until I finished eating? Keeping up with the subtitles (it’s a Spanish movie with Paz Vega) and carving a steak at the same time was becoming a major pain in my ass.
Rather than do anything about it, I forged ahead, eating, cutting, and watching the movie at the same time. I pride myself on my multitasking skills. More importantly, the steak was too good to step away from it for even a few seconds. It was too good to even consider dropping the fork so I might grab the remote control and simply hit PAUSE. Instead, I simply cut, speared, chewed, and watched all at the same time. As people always say, it’s hard work, but somebody has to do it.
When the steak disappeared, I then helped myself to a bowl of Hagen Daaz chocolate-chocolate fudge ice cream. A large bowl, I might add, all the while still taking in Sex and Lucia.
It’s a fantastic movie, by the way, although certainly not for kids’ eyes (in case anyone reading this has underage kids, and no, Picco, you can’t borrow it until I get back all my other stuff).
With dinner and dessert over, I settled into the sofa and took the movie all the way to its wonderful end. Then I got up, cleared the table, finished the Pepsi, and sat down at my desk to write all the magnificently boring words you see above. With all that said the question now becomes, why bother? Why bother writing about a single dinner? A single piece of red meat? Why bother telling you about Sex and Lucia? Of all the above, what the f#ck does any of it have to do with cycling?
Why have I wasted your precious time?
For starters, steak is the kind of dish that not only tastes fantastic when you’re chomping on a piece of filet, it’s also enjoyable to read about steak. Come on. Every pair of eyes that hits this page loves the sight of a nice, thick slab of T-bone, rib eye, or prime rib (choose your poison), so I figured writing about a slab of meat might finally do this blog some justice.
Second, it’s the last day of 2006, and as a result, I get to write about anything I want. With the exception of finding cycling when I invested the $600 in my bike, I can’t wait to put this year in the history books and get on with 2007. 2006 was filled with potholes and I can only hope the next year, starting tomorrow, will be a much smoother ride.
Finally, while there’s a lot to be said and written when it comes to cycling, what am I really going to write about which you haven’t heard already? Yes, there is the professional cycling angle, and we will discuss all that good stuff in 2007 rather than bore you with my personal anecdotes, but it’s New Year’s Eve and I had a steak. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
Before I wrap this up, I did want to make mention of something Dr. Rob said this morning toward the end of our ride. The group had pared itself down to only a few riders including Ed Dalton, Vito, Dr. Rob, and myself. Making the right through Gateway, we each took our respective turns pulling at the front, which was a pleasure. From my point of view, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of rotation at the front of the line during our group rides. That’s just me, though.
Anyway, once we hit the end of the paved road near the back half of the park, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me and said, “That’s the kind of riding I like the best: when it hurts but you know you can ride that pace for a while if you had to ride it, when the sun’s out and it’s not too windy, when it’s a nice day and you’re with friends and everything’s just right.”
[DISCLAIMER: Of course, I paraphrased the above. If I had had either (a) a personal secretary with me at the time, or (b) a voice recorder, I would have asked Dr. Rob to repeat himself so I could have quoted him directly. Alas, I had neither (a) nor (b) so the above is the best I can do. Regardless, I did want to give credit where credit is due and source Dr. Rob with such a wonderful quote.]
“That was poetry,” I said. “Sheer poetry. I’m going to put that on the blog.”
“Make sure I get credit,” Dr. Rob said, laughing.
Please see the DISCLAIMER above.
How. Exciting.
More importantly, let me tell you about the steak I broiled for dinner about two hours ago. After a short nap, I dragged myself out of bed (I can’t stand falling asleep when the sun’s still up and then waking when it’s dark--has a tendency to make me feel like a lazy bum) and held a short, internal debate as to whether I should go out for an early dinner alone to celebrate the coming new year or if I should spend the cash on groceries and make my own dinner.
Rather than drop the money on a few rolls of sushi, I walked across the street to Key Food and spent $21.74 on chicken cutlets, Hebrew National hot dogs, hot dog rolls, a block of mozzarella cheese, and a juicy steak. The plan was to cook the steak as my New Year’s Eve dinner along with a baked potato topped with olive oil and melted cheddar cheese.
Nice, right? As I stated in an earlier blog, one of the benefits of cycling is that the occasional splurge on a rich meal is well deserved after a long morning on the bike.
While setting the dining table for one (utterly depressing), I popped in a copy of Sex and Lucia on DVD. With the medium-rare steak and a delectable baked potato on my plate next to a tall glass of Coke (I’m not much of a wine or beer drinker), I hit PLAY on the remote control and dug in. Despite how wonderfully the steak and potato satisfied both my mouth and stomach, I had a hard time concentrating on the movie and my dinner at the same time. This, in turn, led to a second internal debate--should I switch off the movie until I finished eating? Keeping up with the subtitles (it’s a Spanish movie with Paz Vega) and carving a steak at the same time was becoming a major pain in my ass.
Rather than do anything about it, I forged ahead, eating, cutting, and watching the movie at the same time. I pride myself on my multitasking skills. More importantly, the steak was too good to step away from it for even a few seconds. It was too good to even consider dropping the fork so I might grab the remote control and simply hit PAUSE. Instead, I simply cut, speared, chewed, and watched all at the same time. As people always say, it’s hard work, but somebody has to do it.
When the steak disappeared, I then helped myself to a bowl of Hagen Daaz chocolate-chocolate fudge ice cream. A large bowl, I might add, all the while still taking in Sex and Lucia.
It’s a fantastic movie, by the way, although certainly not for kids’ eyes (in case anyone reading this has underage kids, and no, Picco, you can’t borrow it until I get back all my other stuff).
With dinner and dessert over, I settled into the sofa and took the movie all the way to its wonderful end. Then I got up, cleared the table, finished the Pepsi, and sat down at my desk to write all the magnificently boring words you see above. With all that said the question now becomes, why bother? Why bother writing about a single dinner? A single piece of red meat? Why bother telling you about Sex and Lucia? Of all the above, what the f#ck does any of it have to do with cycling?
Why have I wasted your precious time?
For starters, steak is the kind of dish that not only tastes fantastic when you’re chomping on a piece of filet, it’s also enjoyable to read about steak. Come on. Every pair of eyes that hits this page loves the sight of a nice, thick slab of T-bone, rib eye, or prime rib (choose your poison), so I figured writing about a slab of meat might finally do this blog some justice.
Second, it’s the last day of 2006, and as a result, I get to write about anything I want. With the exception of finding cycling when I invested the $600 in my bike, I can’t wait to put this year in the history books and get on with 2007. 2006 was filled with potholes and I can only hope the next year, starting tomorrow, will be a much smoother ride.
Finally, while there’s a lot to be said and written when it comes to cycling, what am I really going to write about which you haven’t heard already? Yes, there is the professional cycling angle, and we will discuss all that good stuff in 2007 rather than bore you with my personal anecdotes, but it’s New Year’s Eve and I had a steak. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
Before I wrap this up, I did want to make mention of something Dr. Rob said this morning toward the end of our ride. The group had pared itself down to only a few riders including Ed Dalton, Vito, Dr. Rob, and myself. Making the right through Gateway, we each took our respective turns pulling at the front, which was a pleasure. From my point of view, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of rotation at the front of the line during our group rides. That’s just me, though.
Anyway, once we hit the end of the paved road near the back half of the park, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me and said, “That’s the kind of riding I like the best: when it hurts but you know you can ride that pace for a while if you had to ride it, when the sun’s out and it’s not too windy, when it’s a nice day and you’re with friends and everything’s just right.”
[DISCLAIMER: Of course, I paraphrased the above. If I had had either (a) a personal secretary with me at the time, or (b) a voice recorder, I would have asked Dr. Rob to repeat himself so I could have quoted him directly. Alas, I had neither (a) nor (b) so the above is the best I can do. Regardless, I did want to give credit where credit is due and source Dr. Rob with such a wonderful quote.]
“That was poetry,” I said. “Sheer poetry. I’m going to put that on the blog.”
“Make sure I get credit,” Dr. Rob said, laughing.
Please see the DISCLAIMER above.
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