So last night was the SIBA dinner-dance and although I didn’t witness a whole lot of dancing (actually, I didn’t see anybody dancing, although my back was to the room the entire night), we did indeed have dinner.
What first struck me when I walked into the Marina Grand down near the Great Kills Yacht Club was not the ever-present smell of salt water (which brought back a ton of childhood memories), but the fact that I recognized all of five or six faces amongst forty or so guests. I stepped inside, shook hands with Mr. Dalton who introduced me to his wife, and looked around. As a friend had warned me, I was the youngest person in the room by twenty or thirty years, although I found myself standing there thinking, Is this the SIBA dinner?
Over the past few months, only a handful of members have shown up to ride on the weekends and I guess I somehow got it in my head that these people--Ed, Trek Tommy, Colnago John, Brent, Kelly, Anne, Rose, T-Mobile Tommy, Horace, Andy, Hugo, Glenn, etc.--made up the core membership of SIBA. Clearly, based on last night’s attendance, there are a hell of a lot more cyclists who belong to the club, although I’m going to go out on a limb and assume most of the members put the gear away when the temperatures drop below forty and wait until next spring before they pick up the habit again.
How little I know.
Regardless, after the awards were handed out, there was a serious amount of metal on our table. Considering Horace pretty much won everything a person can win on a bicycling in the Empire State Games in his age group, he took an award for doing as much. Further, Ed took an award for winning his age group in the NYC Triathlon, and Rose received a medal for most-improved rider, which means I found myself seated around a bad-ass group of cyclists.
Then we had steak for dinner and before the cake came out, I hit the road hoping to make it back to Westchester before I fell asleep.
Next thing I knew, today had arrived when my alarm went off at 6:18. I opened my eyes to find my cat less than three inches from my face, staring at me with that look she gives me every morning, the one that says, “Don’t you think it’s time you put some f#cking food in my bowl, food guy? I ask you to do one simple thing every day and here you are, sleeping on the job.”
Considering it was Sunday, I had choices. I could eat, pack, and drive to Staten Island for the group ride, or I could eat, get dressed, and ride a few miles to try and find a group ride that starts at 7:30 not far from here in Pleasantville. Or I could kill the alarm and just go back to bed with the idea of riding solo later in the morning. Take a guess what happened?
At 10:30, I hit the road with a revised cue sheet in my pocket and put in a solid 45 miles up here in the hills. And like I’ve been saying, there are hills up here, like Cheesequake, but more of them.
Two-and-a-half hours later, I clicked out of the pedals in front of my place to find my rear wheel rubbing against the brakes. Believe it or not, I broke another spoke and god only knows how long I had been riding with the rim rubbing against the brakes like that. Regardless, I just ordered a new bike, so we’ll see if the flex of a carbon fiber frame will help prevent all these freaking broken spokes (which I seem to suffer once a month at least).
Oi. I’m exhausted. It’s nap time.
Monday, March 26
Monday, March 19
Enough Already
I don’t know about everybody else, but all this snow is really starting to get on my nerves. After temperatures in the late-fifties and early-sixties during the first half of last week, how could it not? What the hell ever happened to global warming? According to Al Gore, shouldn’t I be catching a tan right now? Instead, I had to spend half an hour yesterday digging my truck out of more than a foot of snow. Despite Mr. Gore’s incessant warnings (it’s hard to imagine a blockhead like Al Gore actually giving a rat’s ass about the earth’s environment if it didn’t give him a shot at office . . . again), the industrial smokestacks of the world--especially those in China if it means cheaper prices here in the good ol’ US of A--can blast out as much pollution as they want if it’s going to mean more enjoyable weather between the months of November and April.
I know what everyone’s going to say. First, I’ve just gone and pissed off every Democrat in the room and, considering this is New York, that means everybody’s all bent out of shape because I took a jab at their favorite nancy-boy, Al Gore. Second, my understanding is that if global temperatures continue to climb 0.10 degree every year for the next thousand years, the polar ice caps will begin melting at an alarming rate, meaning our oceans will rise approximately five inches by the time I reach my ninety-sixth birthday.
Last time I checked, five inches isn’t all that much. I think we can give away five inches, even if it means moving closer to the center of the country. Have any of these raving environmentalists ever driven from one coast to the other? I hate to burst anyone’s bubble, but I’ve got news for those of you who consider yourselves raving environmentalists--we got land, and we got lots of it. We can spare five inches on either of our coasts. We can do five inches standing on our heads. Sure, it may mean the Hollywood elite in Malibu may have to pack up their stolen Norman Rockwell paintings and move closer to Pasadena to avoid drowning in those extra five inches of water, but they can live with that (and afford it, too). Likewise, with the exception of the smell, I can’t imagine a few more inches of the East River causing much of a problem for Manhattan. And, most importantly, by the time I hit ninety-six (I should say if I hit ninety-six), I’m sure I’ll find myself a lot more concerned with getting in and out of the bathtub on a daily basis than whether or not the tide has risen half a foot.
With all that said, what’s the big frigging deal? If a little more pollution is going to mean a lot less snow this time of the year, I’m all for it. I had plans this weekend, big plans to log some miles on the bike, but once Friday morning rolled around and I woke to find a blanket of snow covering the landscape outside my bedroom window, I hit the shower cursing Al Gore and all his do-gooder friends attempting to keep me and everyone else in the Northeast in a perpetual state of frozen irritation for the twelve weeks following Christmas (I’m way too politically incorrect to use the term holidays instead of Christmas and if that offends the sensibilities of anyone who holds Judaic or Islamic beliefs, well, too bad for you).
So enough with all the concern and all the worry over the polar ice caps. For starters, none of us will ever lay eyes on anything remotely resembling an actual ice cap, so who cares if we inadvertently whittle ‘em down a few notches? And like I said, we’ve got plenty of land. Worse case scenario, everyone living on either coast has to pick up and settle down someplace new and exciting, like Kentucky and Nebraska. I’ve heard good things about Nebraska--real good things.
I know what everyone’s going to say. First, I’ve just gone and pissed off every Democrat in the room and, considering this is New York, that means everybody’s all bent out of shape because I took a jab at their favorite nancy-boy, Al Gore. Second, my understanding is that if global temperatures continue to climb 0.10 degree every year for the next thousand years, the polar ice caps will begin melting at an alarming rate, meaning our oceans will rise approximately five inches by the time I reach my ninety-sixth birthday.
Last time I checked, five inches isn’t all that much. I think we can give away five inches, even if it means moving closer to the center of the country. Have any of these raving environmentalists ever driven from one coast to the other? I hate to burst anyone’s bubble, but I’ve got news for those of you who consider yourselves raving environmentalists--we got land, and we got lots of it. We can spare five inches on either of our coasts. We can do five inches standing on our heads. Sure, it may mean the Hollywood elite in Malibu may have to pack up their stolen Norman Rockwell paintings and move closer to Pasadena to avoid drowning in those extra five inches of water, but they can live with that (and afford it, too). Likewise, with the exception of the smell, I can’t imagine a few more inches of the East River causing much of a problem for Manhattan. And, most importantly, by the time I hit ninety-six (I should say if I hit ninety-six), I’m sure I’ll find myself a lot more concerned with getting in and out of the bathtub on a daily basis than whether or not the tide has risen half a foot.
With all that said, what’s the big frigging deal? If a little more pollution is going to mean a lot less snow this time of the year, I’m all for it. I had plans this weekend, big plans to log some miles on the bike, but once Friday morning rolled around and I woke to find a blanket of snow covering the landscape outside my bedroom window, I hit the shower cursing Al Gore and all his do-gooder friends attempting to keep me and everyone else in the Northeast in a perpetual state of frozen irritation for the twelve weeks following Christmas (I’m way too politically incorrect to use the term holidays instead of Christmas and if that offends the sensibilities of anyone who holds Judaic or Islamic beliefs, well, too bad for you).
So enough with all the concern and all the worry over the polar ice caps. For starters, none of us will ever lay eyes on anything remotely resembling an actual ice cap, so who cares if we inadvertently whittle ‘em down a few notches? And like I said, we’ve got plenty of land. Worse case scenario, everyone living on either coast has to pick up and settle down someplace new and exciting, like Kentucky and Nebraska. I’ve heard good things about Nebraska--real good things.
Monday, March 12
Rolling With the Hills
I’m going to bed early tonight. It’s now 7:18 on Sunday evening and if I hopped between the sheets right now, I’d probably fall asleep inside of nineteen seconds and if I didn’t set my alarm, I could probably sleep until Wednesday.
After taking my sweet-ass time getting up this morning, I helped myself to five Eggos (delicious), two glasses of OJ, spent an hour reading The Count of Monte Cristo while waiting for the temperature to reach fifty, and then hit the road, my cue sheet in my pocket.
(I’m not going to lie to you. Getting geared up in my the comfort of my own place and then stepping out the front door with my bike is such a luxury compared to loading the bike in the truck, driving to Staten Island, getting dressed in my truck, and then reversing the process a few hours later.)
Which cue sheet? The one I mapped out on Friday before leaving the office--the one I put together using Google Maps online. As far as I could tell, the ride up to Bear Mountain would take roughly twenty-five miles or so. After a few miles in the park, I would be able to put sixty-five miles under my belt in a single ride, give or take a few miles.
Taking a right out of town and then another right onto Hardscrabble Road, the first ten minutes of the ride had nothing to offer but climbing. Glancing down at my heart rate monitor, I had been on the bike all of eleven minutes and already I felt ready to pass out.
What I can say is this, though: there are hills up here, amigos. Big ones. Lots of ‘em. Granted, I’m not talking Alpe D’Huez, but you know the rolling hills on the Cheesequake ride? The ride I put together today was like that--just more frigging hills, and steeper, too. As a matter of fact, the rolling hills never stop--ever. Well, there was a two-mile stretch along the New Croton Reservoir that were relatively flat, but outside of that, you’re either going up or you’re going down and considering how much faster we all seem to go when we’re going down, it felt like I spent my entire afternoon going up.
After thirty miles, I began what looked to be a never-ending climb up Albany Post Road north of Peekskill and simply turned around. After thirty miles, I was still a relatively long haul from Bear Mountain, so I figured sixty-miles roundtrip would be enough. Of course, I’m somewhat disappointed in myself for ditching when I did, although with only a Clif Bar in my jersey and half a bottle of water left, I knew I’d need all those calories simply for the ride back. Actually, I became somewhat concerned with the possibility of running out of gas on the way back, so when I spotted a deli in the middle of nowhere on Maple Avenue, I pulled off and offered a twenty to a girl taking out a bag of trash.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” she said, tossing the garbage in the bin.
I checked my watch. “It’s only 2:30.”
“We close at two on Sundays.” She pointed at a sign hanging from the front of the store.
“Come on, kiddo, all I need is a Gatorade and a Powerbar,” I said, again offering her the twenty, feeling very much like a crackhead begging a dealer to hook me up.
She did hook me up, thankfully. While they didn’t have Powerbars, they did have Nature Valley granola bars, and I enjoyed every dry bite sitting on the side of Route 134, still half an hour from Pleasantville (which is where I live, in case you’re wondering).
Rolling up to my house, I hit the STOP button on the heart rate monitor. Three-and-a-half hours of riding, fifty-five miles. How did I come in under sixty miles? Well, on the way out, I made a few wrong turns where certain corners were without street signs (and ended up doing a bit of muddy cyclecross at one point), hence the extra mileage.
On paper, taking that long to ride fifty-five miles may seem like a walk in the park. If I were you, I’d probably be saying the same thing, but fifty-five miles in the hills really kicked me in the ass. After showering and stuffing my face with food, I took a walk into town to grab a few groceries and on the way back, walking up the steps to the front of the house, I almost had to stop considering how heavy my legs felt.
That’s enough bitching from me. We’ve all been on those long solo rides that, when considering the long miles back, you think to yourself, Jesus Christ, worrying if you’re even going to make it. You do, though, and you’re a better rider for it.
And that’s it. I know Pleasantville is considerably farther from Staten Island compared to Cheesequake, but when the weather finally turns, some of the views on the ride I did today will be quite impressive, so if anyone’s interested in crucifying himself in the hills up here, I’ll print up some cue sheets and we’ll hit the road.
Adios.
After taking my sweet-ass time getting up this morning, I helped myself to five Eggos (delicious), two glasses of OJ, spent an hour reading The Count of Monte Cristo while waiting for the temperature to reach fifty, and then hit the road, my cue sheet in my pocket.
(I’m not going to lie to you. Getting geared up in my the comfort of my own place and then stepping out the front door with my bike is such a luxury compared to loading the bike in the truck, driving to Staten Island, getting dressed in my truck, and then reversing the process a few hours later.)
Which cue sheet? The one I mapped out on Friday before leaving the office--the one I put together using Google Maps online. As far as I could tell, the ride up to Bear Mountain would take roughly twenty-five miles or so. After a few miles in the park, I would be able to put sixty-five miles under my belt in a single ride, give or take a few miles.
Taking a right out of town and then another right onto Hardscrabble Road, the first ten minutes of the ride had nothing to offer but climbing. Glancing down at my heart rate monitor, I had been on the bike all of eleven minutes and already I felt ready to pass out.
What I can say is this, though: there are hills up here, amigos. Big ones. Lots of ‘em. Granted, I’m not talking Alpe D’Huez, but you know the rolling hills on the Cheesequake ride? The ride I put together today was like that--just more frigging hills, and steeper, too. As a matter of fact, the rolling hills never stop--ever. Well, there was a two-mile stretch along the New Croton Reservoir that were relatively flat, but outside of that, you’re either going up or you’re going down and considering how much faster we all seem to go when we’re going down, it felt like I spent my entire afternoon going up.
After thirty miles, I began what looked to be a never-ending climb up Albany Post Road north of Peekskill and simply turned around. After thirty miles, I was still a relatively long haul from Bear Mountain, so I figured sixty-miles roundtrip would be enough. Of course, I’m somewhat disappointed in myself for ditching when I did, although with only a Clif Bar in my jersey and half a bottle of water left, I knew I’d need all those calories simply for the ride back. Actually, I became somewhat concerned with the possibility of running out of gas on the way back, so when I spotted a deli in the middle of nowhere on Maple Avenue, I pulled off and offered a twenty to a girl taking out a bag of trash.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” she said, tossing the garbage in the bin.
I checked my watch. “It’s only 2:30.”
“We close at two on Sundays.” She pointed at a sign hanging from the front of the store.
“Come on, kiddo, all I need is a Gatorade and a Powerbar,” I said, again offering her the twenty, feeling very much like a crackhead begging a dealer to hook me up.
She did hook me up, thankfully. While they didn’t have Powerbars, they did have Nature Valley granola bars, and I enjoyed every dry bite sitting on the side of Route 134, still half an hour from Pleasantville (which is where I live, in case you’re wondering).
Rolling up to my house, I hit the STOP button on the heart rate monitor. Three-and-a-half hours of riding, fifty-five miles. How did I come in under sixty miles? Well, on the way out, I made a few wrong turns where certain corners were without street signs (and ended up doing a bit of muddy cyclecross at one point), hence the extra mileage.
On paper, taking that long to ride fifty-five miles may seem like a walk in the park. If I were you, I’d probably be saying the same thing, but fifty-five miles in the hills really kicked me in the ass. After showering and stuffing my face with food, I took a walk into town to grab a few groceries and on the way back, walking up the steps to the front of the house, I almost had to stop considering how heavy my legs felt.
That’s enough bitching from me. We’ve all been on those long solo rides that, when considering the long miles back, you think to yourself, Jesus Christ, worrying if you’re even going to make it. You do, though, and you’re a better rider for it.
And that’s it. I know Pleasantville is considerably farther from Staten Island compared to Cheesequake, but when the weather finally turns, some of the views on the ride I did today will be quite impressive, so if anyone’s interested in crucifying himself in the hills up here, I’ll print up some cue sheets and we’ll hit the road.
Adios.
Thursday, March 8
Sprints
I’ve come to enjoy the occasional sprint. I don’t know why, but I just do. What’s a ride without clicking up into a tall gear, getting out of the saddle, and seeing just how fast you can go? It’s the same thing as rolling to the bottom of a ten-mile climb and seeing just how far you can make it before your legs decide they’ve had enough, although the sprints, or my sprints, I should say, never seem to last for more than twenty seconds or so. Are they supposed to last longer? I have no idea, although one would assume that the longer one has been riding, the longer one could hold that top-end speed.
Personally, though, I tend to self-destruct. I sit in someone’s draft long enough or the pace relaxes for a few minutes and I mistakenly begin to think I have more energy than I really do. Then, once I pull out of the line and step on the gas, it doesn’t take long to realize I tried to do too much way too soon. That point is particularly hammered home when, not long after I start to sprint, the rest of the group goes speeding by, leaving me along with my aching lungs.
Still, I don’t care. There are those times when you just want to stand up and see what you can do no matter how quickly you know you’ll fade. At least I think so.
Moving on, let’s talk about last Sunday. On Saturday, I made it out to Staten Island for the morning ride considering the forecast called for temperatures in the mid-fifties. When we reached the bagel shop, Mr. Ed Dalton said, “Cheesequake. Tomorrow. Eight-thirty.”
I thought about that. From my place in Pleasantville to Cheesequake, it’s a 75-mile drive, which is a hell of a haul to go bike riding. At the same time, though, we haven’t been out on that route in a long while. Since I had a whole lot of nothing planned for Sunday morning, I thought, Don’t worry about the drive--just get out and ride.
At six in the morning on Sunday, I rolled out of bed. By six-thirty, I was in the car. After dropping a copy of Crank in the mail to send back to Netflix (the movie sucked, so save your money and don’t bother renting it), I took I-287 into Jersey and caught the Parkway all the way down to Cheesequake. At a few minutes after eight, I rolled into the parking lot, killed the engine, pushed the seat back, and helped myself to something of a nap. At eight-twenty, I opened my eyes, expecting the guys to begin rolling in. At eight-thirty, I started thinking that perhaps the start time had been pushed back. At nine, I gave Dr. Rob a ring and left a voicemail, wondering what was going on. By nine-twenty, after sitting in my truck for almost three hours, I decided it was time to go.
Cutting through Staten Island on the way back to Westchester, I spotted Ed Dalton and Trek Tommy on the service road near Richmond Avenue. Pulling off the expressway, I swung to the side of the road and threw the transmission into PARK. When the guys rolled up, I leaned out the window and asked, “What happened?”
Make a long story short, a few people had cancelled for Cheesequake the night before so Ed and the others decided to save it for another day. Somebody--and I’m not going to name names here--forgot to give me a ring which meant that the guy who lives the farthest from Cheesequake (and that’s a fifty-five mile margin) was the only guy to make the trip out.
No big deal. Certainly, there are worse things in the world and it’s not like it was intentional, although in an attempt to avoid anything like that happening again, let me put this out there.
My mobile number is 718-619-1501. That’s important so I’m going to write it again.
718.619.1501
1 (718) 619-1501
(718) 619 1501
1.718.619.1501
That’s my phone number and my name is Steve. I live in the middle of freaking Westchester, which means central New Jersey is something of a haul for me. In the event a schedule ride changes or gets cancelled, don’t hesitate to give me a ring. Even if it’s three in the morning and my phone is off--I tend to check for messages as soon as I get out of bed, especially on days when I’m about to make a 150-mile round trip for a bike ride. Even if the schedule isn’t changing, go ahead and feel free to give me a ring anyway. I like bikes, like to talk about bikes and racing and training and professional racers. I can even talk about other things, like chics and cars and motorcycles. Even finance and 401Ks. Maybe even real estate and REITs.
If you want, you can even email me at okaysplendid@yahoo.com, although I hardly ever check that over the weekend as I don’t have internet access at home. (I’m online all day at work as it’s my job, so the last thing I need is to get online when I’m home relaxing.)
And that’s it. Did I miss anything?
Personally, though, I tend to self-destruct. I sit in someone’s draft long enough or the pace relaxes for a few minutes and I mistakenly begin to think I have more energy than I really do. Then, once I pull out of the line and step on the gas, it doesn’t take long to realize I tried to do too much way too soon. That point is particularly hammered home when, not long after I start to sprint, the rest of the group goes speeding by, leaving me along with my aching lungs.
Still, I don’t care. There are those times when you just want to stand up and see what you can do no matter how quickly you know you’ll fade. At least I think so.
Moving on, let’s talk about last Sunday. On Saturday, I made it out to Staten Island for the morning ride considering the forecast called for temperatures in the mid-fifties. When we reached the bagel shop, Mr. Ed Dalton said, “Cheesequake. Tomorrow. Eight-thirty.”
I thought about that. From my place in Pleasantville to Cheesequake, it’s a 75-mile drive, which is a hell of a haul to go bike riding. At the same time, though, we haven’t been out on that route in a long while. Since I had a whole lot of nothing planned for Sunday morning, I thought, Don’t worry about the drive--just get out and ride.
At six in the morning on Sunday, I rolled out of bed. By six-thirty, I was in the car. After dropping a copy of Crank in the mail to send back to Netflix (the movie sucked, so save your money and don’t bother renting it), I took I-287 into Jersey and caught the Parkway all the way down to Cheesequake. At a few minutes after eight, I rolled into the parking lot, killed the engine, pushed the seat back, and helped myself to something of a nap. At eight-twenty, I opened my eyes, expecting the guys to begin rolling in. At eight-thirty, I started thinking that perhaps the start time had been pushed back. At nine, I gave Dr. Rob a ring and left a voicemail, wondering what was going on. By nine-twenty, after sitting in my truck for almost three hours, I decided it was time to go.
Cutting through Staten Island on the way back to Westchester, I spotted Ed Dalton and Trek Tommy on the service road near Richmond Avenue. Pulling off the expressway, I swung to the side of the road and threw the transmission into PARK. When the guys rolled up, I leaned out the window and asked, “What happened?”
Make a long story short, a few people had cancelled for Cheesequake the night before so Ed and the others decided to save it for another day. Somebody--and I’m not going to name names here--forgot to give me a ring which meant that the guy who lives the farthest from Cheesequake (and that’s a fifty-five mile margin) was the only guy to make the trip out.
No big deal. Certainly, there are worse things in the world and it’s not like it was intentional, although in an attempt to avoid anything like that happening again, let me put this out there.
My mobile number is 718-619-1501. That’s important so I’m going to write it again.
718.619.1501
1 (718) 619-1501
(718) 619 1501
1.718.619.1501
That’s my phone number and my name is Steve. I live in the middle of freaking Westchester, which means central New Jersey is something of a haul for me. In the event a schedule ride changes or gets cancelled, don’t hesitate to give me a ring. Even if it’s three in the morning and my phone is off--I tend to check for messages as soon as I get out of bed, especially on days when I’m about to make a 150-mile round trip for a bike ride. Even if the schedule isn’t changing, go ahead and feel free to give me a ring anyway. I like bikes, like to talk about bikes and racing and training and professional racers. I can even talk about other things, like chics and cars and motorcycles. Even finance and 401Ks. Maybe even real estate and REITs.
If you want, you can even email me at okaysplendid@yahoo.com, although I hardly ever check that over the weekend as I don’t have internet access at home. (I’m online all day at work as it’s my job, so the last thing I need is to get online when I’m home relaxing.)
And that’s it. Did I miss anything?
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