For starters, I’ve been suffering from the worst gas these past few hours. Maybe I had too many energy bars today and, combined with the disgusting amount of Chinese food I ate last night (in addition to a strawberry smoothie, a Coke, a can of Red Bull, and then a strawberry shake), my stomach is in severely rough shape. It’s actually so bad that, every time I crank one out as I sit here on my couch, the heavy stench causes me to scoot to the other side of the sofa so I don’t have to sit in an invisible cloud of my own gastrointestinal making.
Other than my incessant flatulence, I went here about an hour ago:
For those of you who are unaware, this is what the inside of a typical Cold Stone Creamery looks like. And for those of you who are unfamiliar with Cold Stone, it’s an ice cream shop where teenage ice cream artists stand behind the counter and use oversized spoons to mash together ice cream with your choice of ingredients--ingredients such as fudge, nuts, caramel, birthday cake (yes, birthday cake), candy, cheesecake, fruit, and more.
So that happened, but before that, I ate about a dozen chicken wings I made at home while watching the first few stages of the 2006 Tour de France on DVD. During the final sprint of stage 6, when it’s clear McEwen’s going to win his third stage after Tom Boonen’s attempts have been fruitless, it’s absolutely hysterical to hear Phil Liggett announce, “It looks like it’s going to be McEwen as Boonen’s made a mess of it again!”
Put yourself in Tom Boonen’s shoes. You’re have a particularly shitty week to start with and the TV announcer is explaining to millions of viewers and fans how you’ve “made a mess of it again.” How utterly demoralizing.
And before the chicken wings, well, that was the big Sunday ride. Ed Dalton and Dr. Rob called yesterday afternoon to let me know the group would be riding Cheesequake at eight this morning. When Dr. Rob called and I spotted his name on the caller ID, I picked up the phone and said, “Oh, so you call me this time?” (See previous post.)
I had already done seventy miles on Saturday so I thought, Kill myself with another sixty-four miles the very next day? Why not?
Unfortunately, disaster struck seven miles from the end of the ride when I came around the corner to see Vito on the ground clutching his elbow. While I didn’t actually witness the crash, eyewitness reporting (courtesy of Ed Dalton) explained that Vito had been looking behind him when he hit a rock about the size of a softball.
(Goddam farts are killing me--I can barely breath in here.)
Here’s a snapshot of the aftermath:
Despite what must have been a gnarly get-off, Vito only suffered some minor road rash, a few bruises, and a bruised elbow (Dr. Rob called a few minutes ago to let me know Vito’s x-rays showed nothing was broken, which is always good news).
So that happened, but before he went down, Vito was absolutely killing it along with Ed (see above), Anne (see above), Dr. Rob, Joe, and the two Polish brothers, Lester and Robert (all of whom are not shown above). Once we hit the hills, those seven absolutely demolished the inclines and flew. They’re strong riders to begin with, but they were really on the gas today (or I was really off, but I think it’s more of the former rather than the latter) and they put a huge beating on Tommy, Greg, and myself. No excuses--they were just riding really well out front, especially Dr. Rob who kept surprising me with how often he kept stepping on the gas.
Hats off to all those guys--everyone rode a great 100K today.
Before this morning’s ride, there was yesterday afternoon and last night. Oh, wait. Before I go back that far, I wanted to talk about this guy:
That’s Robert, Lester’s younger brother. Robert came over from Poland maybe six or seven months ago and his English is limited to maybe four words--yes, no, okay, and beer, although even yes and no are debatable.
I’ve included a snapshot of Robert in this update (with Dr. Rob in the distance) for a few reasons. First, he’s the only guy I know with legs whiter than mine, which makes me feel pretty good about myself. Second, according to his brother (that would be Lester), Robert was not just a professional bicycle racer in Poland, but Robert was a very good professional bicycle racer in Poland. According to Lester (all of this is according to Lester, really), when Lester would place, Robert would win. With that said, why Robert now smokes a pack of cigarettes a day is something of a mystery, but like they say, it is what it is. What kills me even more is that every time Robert goes flying by (and Robert never just casually passes me--he literally goes flying by every time he charges to the front), he sort of smiles and nods, which is fine, but underneath the smile, I get the sense that if he could speak English, he’d say something to the effect of, “If you think I’m strong now, wait until I finally decide to quit smoking . . . punk.”
Okay, so back to last night. I’ll make this quick, but I went out for the first time in a long time. With a girl. We went to Chinatown for a tasting menu event, which meant I stuffed myself on way too much Chinese food for about $7, after which we watched a forty-five minute taiko drum concert. Here’s another snapshot:
So that happened. Here’s the girl:
You know what? It’s right now eight o’clock on Sunday evening and after the amount of riding I did the past two days, I really need to go to bed, as in right now, so I’ll wrap this up tomorrow in a second installment.
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Okay, it’s Monday morning and I’m feeling a hell of a lot better. Well, let’s say I’m somewhat refreshed although my legs feel like they could do without a week on the bike.
Where was I? Right. The Chinese food with the girl. The girl does have a name but she graduated from Vassar only a few years ago and, from what I understand, Vassar girls get all bent out of shape if you use their real names in personal blogs, so I’ll refrain.
Like I said, though, she went to Vassar. What does that mean? In my opinion, if you tell a Vassar girl, “You like nice today,” she’ll most likely respond with, “What’s that supposed to mean?” That make sense? Overall, Vassar girls are just pissed off, especially if you try to pick up the check at dinner or hold the door open for them.
Anyway, after Chinatown, we had a quick drive over to Brooklyn to sit on the promenade for a while as the sun set (believe me, it sounds a lot more romantic than it actually was), after which we had ice cream and then drove back to her place in Queens where we watched Planet Earth for an hour after which it was time to leave.
Earlier in the day, I put together the longest bike ride of my young biking life. There was a 35-mile B ride scheduled to start at 9:30 from the Goldens Bridge train station. At first glance, 35 miles seemed a bit light, so I figured I’d ride to the start from my place in Pleasantville, roughly 15 miles. No problem, right? Well, at first it wasn’t. Actually, I shouldn’t say any part of the ride was a problem because for the most part, it was a fantastic ride during a fantastic day. At the start, it looked as if we’d have a group of eight or ten, yet when 9:30 arrived and the group leader (basically, the guy who’s supposed to know the route) failed to arrive, we all sort of looked at each.
“Well, I know the roads around here and I have to catch a train a few minutes before twelve, so I’m just going to go.”
That was Julie, the lone female who showed up. As I had plans in Chinatown with the Vassar girl (while I say Vassar girl, remember, she graduated a few years ago, so I guess she’s more of a woman now), I wasn’t about to sit around and wait while the rest of the guys were going to sort things out.
So Julie and I took off. She told me about the bike she was riding, only her second ride on it (Giant), and I told her about the bike I was riding, only a few weeks old. Then we had company as the rest of the group decided to tag along.
And that was it. For about 40 miles, Julie told us where to go and took us down some sweet roads. Afterward, we ended up back at the parking lot and then it was time to do the 18 miles back to Pleasantville. I know I had said it was only 15 miles, but I was wrong. Checking the computer on my bike once I reached Goldens Bridge, it turned out to be 18 miles, so I had another eighteen ahead of me to get home.
All was well until mile sixty-five. Despite the Clif Bar I had devoured half an hour earlier, I was done--completely out of gas, not to mention the Camelbak was empty. So what do you do when you’re only a few miles from home and need some energy to get you over those last few hills? You stop at the nearest gas station, purchase a bottle of Coke and a Snickers bar, load yourself up with as much sugar as possible, get back on the bike, and do what you have to do.
Worked for me.
And that was the weekend, the whole enchilada.
(PS: As the Sunday ride was getting underway, Ed, Dr. Rob, and Vito were busy slinging comments back and forth--the usual. Ed glanced at me and asked, "Miss us?" Are you kidding? Who in their right mind could fail to find entertainment in Ed's incessasnt barrage of comments and responses such as:
"Shut up, faggot."
"She's twelve? Too old."
"You know, Vito, you'd look real nice in a sundress.")
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