The Big Dogs

The problem I have with most blogs is how boring they are. I’m unsure how many other blogs any of the three of you peruse (three people--my audience is HUGE--but then again, if I had anything worthwhile to say, I’m sure more people might actually visit this lame page), but go on ahead and browse any number of personal blogs you can find on the www.blogger.com homepage. Sorry to say, but 99% of the stuff out there is crap. I know, I know. It’s the thought that counts, right? Well, not when it comes to entertainment. When you go to the theater and the movie sucks, you don’t walk out with your girlfriend and/or wife (imagine going to the movies with your wife and your girlfriend? If you can pull that off, you could make millions teaching other guys how to do the same) and say, “Well, that was an utter waste of $20, although I’m sure the director and screenwriter meant well.” Am I right or am I right?

So, as usual, what’s my point? Well, as usual, I really don’t have a point other than to inform you, the reader, that keeping your entertainment in mind is my first consideration when putting together these incessant updates. To try and put that in perspective, I’m sure most of you read either Bicycling, Cycle Sport USA, ROAD, or some other cycling-related monthly. With Bicycling, which I read myself, have you ever found yourself thinking, They write the same damn crap every month? I mean, how many times have you spotted a subtitle on the cover page that reads 30 Seconds to a Faster Bike and then, once you’ve reached page 88, the genius editors at Rodale inform you to lube your chain and check the air pressure in your tires before every ride? I’ve been reading that magazine for about six months and I must have read the same damn tips about nine times. I see it once more and someone at Bicycling is going to get one of those nasty letters senior citizens typically write to just about everybody with whom they come into contact (I’ve received a few myself simply for driving twenty-seven in a twenty-five).

So while all of the above may have seemed like a tangent, my point is, when you write about the same subject over and over, it can become a bit tedious to keep things fresh. Do you guys want a recap from this morning’s ride or would you prefer it if I elaborated upon what it feels like when your doctor examines the rash on your crotch, hands you a prescription for Valtrex, and says, “Hey, it happens to a lot of us, so don’t feel bad?” Come on. Stop pretending like you’ve never been down that road before. Just kidding. While I don’t have genital herpes (although if you met some of the girls I’ve met, you’d probably assume I did), I really, really enjoy making up nonsense like that, so if you want it, I can certainly write it. Just let me know via the COMMENTS link below. Believe it or not, I actually like sitting here at this desk with my fingers flying over the keyboard, but that’s a whole other story.

With all that said, I’ll forego retelling the tale of the morning when, after dropping my shorts and asking my doctor if the thing on the side of the thing was just extra skin, he quickly corrected me by explaining, “Ahh, no--that’s actually a wart and your dermatologist will have to freeze it off with nitrous,” and talk about . . . my day. (Jesus, are there any words more terrifying than hearing a girl say, “Tell me about your day?”

First off, it’s a good fifty-minute drive from Pleasantville to New Dorp High School, so I’m sure you can read between the lines there. Regardless, once I dressed (in my car, in a frozen, empty parking lot, like a complete pervert) I caught up with Ed Dalton at the 7-Eleven (does anyone know what the hell 7-Eleven actually stands for?) where he was busy cranking out a few hundred pushups on the cold cement just outside the front doors while telling strangers to go fuck themselves as they walked in and out. Ha! I’m sorry, Ed, that one just sort of slipped out, although I’m sure you’ll appreciate the joke.

So the ride starts, okay? It’s Ed, big Joe, Tommy (not T-Mobile Tommy--Trek Tommy), Rose, Andy, and Hugo, although Hugo arrived at the parking lot by walking in the grass through Miller Field. Wait, I forgot about John. Is his last name Candela? The guy with the Colnago? Of course, I could have asked him myself, but every time he passed me this morning, he went by so fast I never had time to get the question out.

Hugo had a flat, which was apparently his third that morning. Colnago John takes off the wheel and shows Hugo a hole in his tire the size of a dime and then proceeds to not only remove the tire and repair the tube, but to pump it up as well. This was about the third time I’ve seen Hugo suffer a flat and then stand aside while a friend went about the tedious task of pumping the repaired tube to a hundred pounds of pressure. Even though I’m thirty-three-years-old, I can only hope that someone able-bodied offers to pump up my tires in the event I ever get a flat during a group ride. (And now that I said it, you know I’ll get one the next time I’m out on Staten Island with the guys.)

Ready to roll, the group hit the road and I don’t know about everybody else, although I was simply ecstatic we didn’t have to ride through puddles of dirty, salty water. When we reached Fr. Capodanno Boulevard, I began worrying about that short climb to reach McClean Avenue. Why? Most mornings I don’t worry about that hill, but this morning was different. Over the past week or two, on those nights when I wasn’t packing, I was out getting tanked with a few friends from work. Usually, that’s not much an issue, but there are those occasions when ex-smokers, while drinking, begin smoking again.

There--I said it. I admit it, and to complicate matters, all the packing and drinking and smoking meant I made zero effort to get on the trainer after work, so before this morning, the last time I logged any miles had been Tuesday. That, combined with consciously ruining with my lungs, meant I felt like a frozen pile of dog shit as soon as I threw a bike over the leg at eight o’clock in the glorious a.m. today.

And I did feel like shit for the first thirty minutes or so, but soon the lungs began to clear out and all the days I had missed on the bike didn’t seem to matter too much (it’s all relative, isn’t it?) by the time we reached Front Street. I tried taking a pull after clicking up into one of the tallest gears on my bike to get my cadence down around 50 to make the legs work harder than the lungs (part of a new block of workouts as per Chris Carmichael’s The Ultimate Ride training book) although it lasted all of about a minute once Colnago John went blowing by me.

With that out of the way, we reached the ferry when Andy, Trek Tommy, and Rose dropped back.

“Are we waiting for them, patron?” Dr. Rob asked Ed.

“There’s three of them,” Ed said. “Let’s go.”

Is this getting boring now? I sort of feel like it is, so let’s get this wrapped up.

Somewhere on Richmond Terrace, I felt good--better than I normally do--so I moved to the front we got it up to about twenty miles-per-hour in not much of a wind. Dr. Rob was right behind me and I like it when he’s back there considering he’s always good with the words of encouragement/motivation. After a few minutes, he asked that we slow it down. Thinking someone had fallen back due to a mechanical, I immediately sat up, causing Joe to almost crash into my rear wheel.

Good job, Steve-o. Real good.

Eventually Colnago John moved to the front and stayed there for almost the entire ride. The dude’s strong the way Backbreaker Brent’s strong. Those boys just hop out front, settle in, and go.

Coming down Richmond Avenue, I usually try to jump out and see what’s up, but today, I decided sitting on Ed’s wheel was a better idea and I expressed as much once we reached Arthur Kill Road: “Ed, I was pretty content to just sit behind you the whole way down Richmond Avenue,” to which Joe added, “Steve even said, ‘Screw Dalton--let’s just hang him out to dry up front.’”

“My exact words, Ed,” I said. “Verbatim.”

And that’s it. That was the ride. Heading up that last bit of a hill half a mile before the bagel shop, I decided I’d slam on the gas. Halfway up, I spotted a wheel on my right, so I hauled as hard as I could haul, causing my heart rate to shoot up to 185. By the time I reached the top, my heart told me I could take that kind of idiocy and blow it my ass. A few seconds later, the rest of the guys went flying, which I interpreted as, “Nice move, jackass.” And they were right.

P.S. Dr. Rob, during the ride you mentioned a web site listing rides in New York. What was that URL again? If you hit the link directly below this that reads COMMENTS, you can leave it right in there. I’d appreciate it.

Movin' On Up

So this is it. Two more nights in Brooklyn and then I’m gone, up to Westchester. Pleasantville, to be exact, and somehow, in my head, I’ve got it stuck that this was a good idea, but if you asked me, “How much do you really know about Westchester?” I’d have to answer, “Not much, to be honest with you.”

See, I’m assuming the roads will be both quieter and nicer than what we have on Richmond Terrace, although I could be wrong. I’ve only been on two or three roads in Pleasantville and while those seemed fantastic, the rest of that specific town as well as the rest of Westchester may turn out to be a total nightmare. The possibility exists that every other drive may attempt to knock me clear off the road into the nearest ditch (no doubt Staten Island drivers would make similar attempts if we actually had ditches on Staten Island). The possibility exists that the hordes of living dead who stalk through the outskirts of Pleasantville randomly attack cyclists during the prime biking hours of 5 - 8 AM and 5 - 8:30 PM and within a few weeks time, I’ll join their ranks. And finally, the possibility exists that after moving to Pleasantville, I may frequent the town’s one bar and meet myself a nice middle-aged married woman with whom I can start a short yet lively affair. Why married? Married women go home at the end of the night.

Just kidding, although I have considered meeting and dating someone who’s terminally ill so there’s no chance of ever falling into a long-term relationship.

Just kidding, again.

Anyway, I’ve come to accept over the years that there exists some sort of invisible yet ridiculous magnet that occasionally draws me back to Staten Island. It kills me to admit that, but it’s true. I mention it considering the rest of the guys on this past Sunday’s group ride all seemed to cheer up the moment I mentioned I’d be moving fifty-five miles away. Sorry to break up the party, although considering (a) my family is on Staten Island, and (b) killer whales make friends faster than I do, I’m sure I’ll be back on the Island for a ride as soon as . . . this weekend?

$500 or $5,000?

I’ll be the first to admit I was considering buying a new bike. Actually, I still am going to buy a new bike, but not the same bike I had originally planned to buy.

Once I learned that as an employee of Avenue A I might become the recipient of a generous discount on Jamis bicycle purchases, I immediately thought, Perfect time to put the aluminum Giant to bed and step up with a carbon fiber frame.

Can you blame me for thinking as much? The discount is going to be significant, so I saw little downside to investing roughly $1,300 in a bike that would cost around $2,000 in a shop or online. I thought, $1,300? What’s the big deal? No sweat. Drop in the bucket.

Let’s get real, though. Where I come from, large means $100, so when something costs $1,300, that’s thirteen large as far as I’m concerned. More importantly, is a bike that’s made out of carbon fiber going to make me any faster? Probably not. Well, I know this is an argument with both sides and there’s probably someone out there right now reading this (as unlikely as that may seem) and thinking, Actually, brainiac, a carbon fiber bike will make you faster, and he or she would be almost right for thinking as much. That may seem contradictory to my first statement, but let me put it out there like this.

Yes, I recognize that the lighter the bike, the better off I’ll be. I recognize that a carbon frame means a smoother ride and better components mean smoother, more accurate shifting. I get all that, really, I do. I recognize that better equipment overall generally translates into improved performance.

Yet let me say this. I come from the motocross community. After not having ridden for years and years, I bought my first new bike in 2001 and, a few months later, while flipping through motocross magazines a frame of mind where I began thinking that if I had a better exhaust pipe, lighter pegs, aluminum handlebars, Michelin tires, and a Pro Circuit piston, I’d be that much faster out on the track. Luckily, I soon learned that frame of mind would leave me with nothing other than a thick credit card bill because every time I made my way out to the track either (a) ten-year-old kids on beat-up minibikes would blow past me, or (b) I would blow past those guys with all the tricked-out after-market parts covering their bikes.

In other words, it’s all mental (when it comes to motocross, at least). As long as the bike is running well, it’s up to the guy sitting in the seat twisting the throttle. Sure, if you’re fitness level is shit you won’t finish five laps on the track, but if you lack pure talent, you’ll never have the balls to twist that throttle the way it wants to be twisted.

What I like about cycling is that you can be as good as you want to be. I really don’t think it matters if you’ve got a $500 or $5,000 bike under you. Yes, I know one is nicer than the other, but let me put it this way. Take two semi-professional cyclists of perfectly equal talents and conditioning. Put one on my aluminum Giant. Put the other on a $2,000+ carbon frame bike. How much space separates them at the finish line?

With all that said, I think I’m going to stick with my aluminum bike for now, although I am planning on investing in a better set of wheels because if I break one more spoke someone at Giant is definitely going to die. Also, I’ve had this unnatural curiosity to ride a fixed gear bike, so it’s only a matter of time before you see me on one of those ridiculous machines.

Read Between the Lines

One tends to hear a fair amount of unexpected comments when riding a bicycle with a group. For example:

“You know, if I had killed my wife after our honeymoon, I’d be getting out of jail right about now. Maybe even sooner.”

Take a guess who tossed out that one recently. Further, considering I’m only thirty-three (a spring chicken compared to some of my middle-aged compatriots), there are a fair amount of jokes which seem to be old-hat to a lot of these guys yet are fresh to my ears.

“The three biggest lies in the world? The check’s in the mail, I won’t come in your mouth, and I’ll respect you in the morning.”

I almost choked on my bagel the first time I heard that one.

This gem came just the other day right as we were leaving the bagel shop discussing attractive women:

“Most of the lesbos I know look like Dalton.”

That one received a big round of applause from the few of us who both (a) had the day off, and (b) decided to brave the frigid weather.

Apart from the one-liners, one of the better qualities a person can have in this world is the ability to roll with a joke and I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who can do it better than Mr. Dalton. I give you these examples:

While trying to keep up with Anne and Brent on the hill-climbing ride a few weeks ago, we were flying downhill and quickly approaching a T in the road ahead when Anne turned and announced, “Make a left up here.” She then peered over my shoulder at Mr. Dalton behind me and added, “You go straight, Ed.”

Ed’s response? “Okay! See you at the bottom.”

Or another time while repairing a flat on the side of Fr. Capodanno Boulevard. Some jackass in a SUV (there’s a lot to be said about jackasses and SUVs, although I’ll keep those particular comments to myself) held down his horn as he passed for no reason whatsoever other than the fact that he was a complete and utter jackass.

“F#cking Staten Island as$hole,” Ed commented.

“Friend of yours?” Joe asked.

“Probably,” Ed said.

See what I mean about rolling with the joke? It’s a true talent.