Check out this video.
This guy is intense. I've got a lot of respect for someone with that much balance, not to mention cojones to ride the way he rides.
Friday, June 29
Salbutamol
So the sprinters are dopers too. I’m crushed. I was holding on to the thinking that the sprinters were relatively clean, but according to Velonews.com, I was wrong.
According to the news, Milram’s lead sprinter, Alessandro Petacchi, tested positive for Salbutamol during this year’s Giro d’Italia. Also according to the new, Salbutamol is a standard asthma treatment yet when you read the fine print, you learn it also increases anaerobic performance, which is what sprinting is all about, no?
Now, at the end of the day, I really don’t give a rat’s ass who has a needle in their ass and who doesn’t and while I realize this may seem contradictory considering my previous posts, believe me, it’s true. I’d care if I was racing against guys with needles in their asses, but that’s just not the case. (If an amateur feels the need to dope to try and win the local Category 5 race, whoever that person may be is in need of some serious psychiatric attention, let alone the drug concerns.) So since I’m not racing against these guys, I don’t know any of these guys, and I don’t make a living in the professional cycling industry, why do I even bother to bring it up?
For starters, I have to write about something, so why not this? Further, it simply seems so counter-intuitive to me that a sprinter, a guy who makes his living by going as fast as he can for twenty seconds, would need to take steroids. Aren’t most of the bunch sprints contested on mainly flat stages? I can see the climbers pumping themselves up with EPO, but the sprinters? It’s balls against the wall for six hundred feet, so why the needle in the ass? Swallowing a caffeine pill the size of a softball thirty minutes before the finish, that I could understand considering my own affinity for things like Red Bull and Monster Energy drink, (I can almost see Anne cringing at those words), but steroids? Give me a break.
So that’s it. The jig is up. The sprinters are doping just like the climbers. How sad.
According to the news, Milram’s lead sprinter, Alessandro Petacchi, tested positive for Salbutamol during this year’s Giro d’Italia. Also according to the new, Salbutamol is a standard asthma treatment yet when you read the fine print, you learn it also increases anaerobic performance, which is what sprinting is all about, no?
Now, at the end of the day, I really don’t give a rat’s ass who has a needle in their ass and who doesn’t and while I realize this may seem contradictory considering my previous posts, believe me, it’s true. I’d care if I was racing against guys with needles in their asses, but that’s just not the case. (If an amateur feels the need to dope to try and win the local Category 5 race, whoever that person may be is in need of some serious psychiatric attention, let alone the drug concerns.) So since I’m not racing against these guys, I don’t know any of these guys, and I don’t make a living in the professional cycling industry, why do I even bother to bring it up?
For starters, I have to write about something, so why not this? Further, it simply seems so counter-intuitive to me that a sprinter, a guy who makes his living by going as fast as he can for twenty seconds, would need to take steroids. Aren’t most of the bunch sprints contested on mainly flat stages? I can see the climbers pumping themselves up with EPO, but the sprinters? It’s balls against the wall for six hundred feet, so why the needle in the ass? Swallowing a caffeine pill the size of a softball thirty minutes before the finish, that I could understand considering my own affinity for things like Red Bull and Monster Energy drink, (I can almost see Anne cringing at those words), but steroids? Give me a break.
So that’s it. The jig is up. The sprinters are doping just like the climbers. How sad.
Wednesday, June 27
Iban Mayo
This has been sitting in the back of my head for a while. In 2003, Iban Mayo, the Basque Euskatel-Euskadi rider, was a huge threat to Armstrong during the Tour de France. I believe Mayo even beat Armstrong during the Dauphine Libere before the Tour, which say a lot. And during the 2003 Tour, it was looking like Mayo was a serious contender until Armstrong crashed and then remounted to destroy everyone up the rest of the mountain.
Afterward, what happened to Mayo? Ever since, he’s come nowhere close to performing at the level he did in 2003. Why? What the hell happened?
Of course, I have my own conspiracy-like theory.
In 2003, Mayo hits the juice and he hits it hard. Or he finds himself a new trainer or a new doctor who finally puts him on the best possible performance-enhancing drug path. He’s now in the big leagues and ready to go for the gold.
Unfortunately, Armstrong isn’t exactly cool with giving away his Tour de France champion title and wins the race for the fifth consecutive time.
Over the next few years, Mayo consistently struggles in the mountains during the Tour. What happened? This dude had been flying, so why is he unable to step on the gas the way he did in 2003?
He’s no longer on the juice. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who says to himself, Why bother with this anymore? Maybe the guy actually has a conscience and decides to remove the needle from his ass and decides he’ll try to do it au natural. Or maybe something happened with the team, but that’s probably unlikely.
But now Mayo’s on a new team (from orange to yellow) and he just won a mountain stage in the Giro d’Italia, so what’s he up to now? Back on the juice?
Afterward, what happened to Mayo? Ever since, he’s come nowhere close to performing at the level he did in 2003. Why? What the hell happened?
Of course, I have my own conspiracy-like theory.
In 2003, Mayo hits the juice and he hits it hard. Or he finds himself a new trainer or a new doctor who finally puts him on the best possible performance-enhancing drug path. He’s now in the big leagues and ready to go for the gold.
Unfortunately, Armstrong isn’t exactly cool with giving away his Tour de France champion title and wins the race for the fifth consecutive time.
Over the next few years, Mayo consistently struggles in the mountains during the Tour. What happened? This dude had been flying, so why is he unable to step on the gas the way he did in 2003?
He’s no longer on the juice. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who says to himself, Why bother with this anymore? Maybe the guy actually has a conscience and decides to remove the needle from his ass and decides he’ll try to do it au natural. Or maybe something happened with the team, but that’s probably unlikely.
But now Mayo’s on a new team (from orange to yellow) and he just won a mountain stage in the Giro d’Italia, so what’s he up to now? Back on the juice?
Monday, June 25
Positively False
So two things. Next week, there’s a big bike race that’s going to start in London and then work its way through France and, from what I hear, it’s one hell of a race. I haven’t had cable TV in years although over the past ten minutes, I’ve been giving serious thought to calling my local cable company just so I can catch the race on TV (and some internet access at home would be nice too). Sadly, though, as hard as it is to believe, I don’t think my local cable company carries the Versus network, which has the broadcast rights to the Tour. Is that a f*cking tragedy or what?
Second, I just finished reading Positively False: The Real Story of How I Won the Tour de France by Floyd Landis and the first thing I’ll say is that while Floyd was certainly not put on this earth to be a writer (and I’m almost willing to say the same about Loren Mooney, the editor who helped Floyd write his memoir), it was well worth the $13.51 I paid.
(Before laying out $24.95 for the hardcover at the Barnes & Noble on 17th Street near Union Square, I walked a few blocks south to The Strand on the corner of Broadway and 12th Street and found a few copies in the ½ price Review section. For those of you who may actually visit the store, the Review section is in the basement and sorted by author’s last names.)
The book is 306 pages long and the first 180 take the reader all the way from Floyd’s childhood through his win in the 2006 Tour de France. And those pages are relatively interesting. They give a lot of insight into how Floyd built his way up from junior mountain biker, his first experience with racing overseas, and finally getting into road racing. He talks about his time on the US Postal team as well as how he left the team and how he and Lance had a yelling match out on the road in 2005 when Floyd was riding his first Tour for Phonak. Those first 180 pages are relatively absorbing, yet while reading Floyd’s words, you get the sense that either (a) Floyd doesn’t want his audience too close, meaning despite the background and insight into his life, the book never seems to take a deep dive at any particular point, which is somewhat disappointing, or (b) there really just isn’t that much more of a story to tell, that Floyd’s laid everything on the table and it’s sort of like a yard sale in that despite looking it all over, there really isn’t much to get you interested.
Then, it happens on page 181 that Floyd’s still in Europe celebrating his win by taking part is some one-day races that are customary for the yellow jersey when Phonak’s team manager calls to say that there’s been a positive result from one of the stage’s urine samples and that while no one’s actually said his name, there isn’t much doubt that the positive belongs to Floyd.
I think everybody knows what happens after this. WADA, the World Anti-Doping Association, says, “Floyd used testosterone to win stage 17.” Floyd then said (as most accused cyclists do), “I’ve never doped in my life.” After reading his book, I say, “Floyd’s laid out a fairly meticulous case to prove he may have not actually doped. Actually, let me reword that. According to Floyd, the French lab that produced the positive result completely f*cked up.”
After reading his book, yeah, the lab did f*ck up--big time. According to testing standards, WADA-accredited labs in both the US and Australia, if having performed the test themselves, would not have labeled Floyd’s results as positive. Actually, the list of screw-ups, not to mention just how unfair the USADA (United States Anti-Doping Association) acts when handling these cases is sort of mind-blowing. Floyd makes a great point when he highlights the fact that the USADA is a government-funded organization and when they both try and win high-level celebrity cases such as Floyd’s, they receive a ton of press which then ensures continued government funding, but here’s the thing. As the USADA was working on prosecuting Floyd, they decided to not prosecute two other athletes from sports outside cycling who had tested positive according to the lab at UCLA. Why? The USADA has a limited treasure chest and they needed all the money they could get their hands on to deal with Floyd’s case considering he chose to fight, so rather than prosecute two athletes who had no doubt doped (this coming from a former head of the UCLA lab who decided to work with Floyd), they decided to stick with their guns on Floyd despite the fact that the details around his test results were sketchy to begin with.
While that’s all well and good, Floyd defines a ton of other examples of how unjustly the anti-doping system treats athletes, but that’s for you to read for yourself. Thing is, reaching the end of the book, I’m not exactly convinced Floyd didn’t dope.
Sure, Floyd convinced me of how much of a disaster the USADA and WADA actually are and just how incompetent that lab is over there in France (that should be obvious even without reading the book . . . I mean, we’re talking about the French here--they spend most of their days debating the differences between brie and camembert . . . just kidding, Olivier) and how the entire process needs to change, but the question is, did he or did he not enhance his performance against the rules?
Of course he did. Let’s get real. The 2006 Tour started without the top five finishers from the 2005 Tour because they had all been implicated via Operacion Puerto (with the exception of Lance Armstrong) and sent home by their teams. This is an endurance sport we’re talking about, a very severe test of endurance with a hell of a lot of money on the line in terms of sponsorships and endorsements. To me, the question shouldn’t be, “Did Floyd dope?” but rather, “How can you win such an event without doping?”
I realize I say all this as an outsider, as someone who only knows what he reads, but this think of it like this. Have you ever heard of a former NASCAR mechanic writing a tell-all book around how much NASCAR race drivers are doping? My point is, if it doesn’t happen, there’s no story to tell, yet according to Floyd, doping in the pro European peloton is nowhere near as prevalent as some authorities would have us believe. If that’s true, why have there been so many interviews, articles, and books published by industry insiders? What do riders like Manzano and others have to lose other than their careers and their livelihoods when they speak out about rampant doping in the sport?
Overall, Positively False is a good read. If you’re into cycling (and I’m assuming you are if you’re even reading this page), it’s well worth the money.
Second, I just finished reading Positively False: The Real Story of How I Won the Tour de France by Floyd Landis and the first thing I’ll say is that while Floyd was certainly not put on this earth to be a writer (and I’m almost willing to say the same about Loren Mooney, the editor who helped Floyd write his memoir), it was well worth the $13.51 I paid.
(Before laying out $24.95 for the hardcover at the Barnes & Noble on 17th Street near Union Square, I walked a few blocks south to The Strand on the corner of Broadway and 12th Street and found a few copies in the ½ price Review section. For those of you who may actually visit the store, the Review section is in the basement and sorted by author’s last names.)
The book is 306 pages long and the first 180 take the reader all the way from Floyd’s childhood through his win in the 2006 Tour de France. And those pages are relatively interesting. They give a lot of insight into how Floyd built his way up from junior mountain biker, his first experience with racing overseas, and finally getting into road racing. He talks about his time on the US Postal team as well as how he left the team and how he and Lance had a yelling match out on the road in 2005 when Floyd was riding his first Tour for Phonak. Those first 180 pages are relatively absorbing, yet while reading Floyd’s words, you get the sense that either (a) Floyd doesn’t want his audience too close, meaning despite the background and insight into his life, the book never seems to take a deep dive at any particular point, which is somewhat disappointing, or (b) there really just isn’t that much more of a story to tell, that Floyd’s laid everything on the table and it’s sort of like a yard sale in that despite looking it all over, there really isn’t much to get you interested.
Then, it happens on page 181 that Floyd’s still in Europe celebrating his win by taking part is some one-day races that are customary for the yellow jersey when Phonak’s team manager calls to say that there’s been a positive result from one of the stage’s urine samples and that while no one’s actually said his name, there isn’t much doubt that the positive belongs to Floyd.
I think everybody knows what happens after this. WADA, the World Anti-Doping Association, says, “Floyd used testosterone to win stage 17.” Floyd then said (as most accused cyclists do), “I’ve never doped in my life.” After reading his book, I say, “Floyd’s laid out a fairly meticulous case to prove he may have not actually doped. Actually, let me reword that. According to Floyd, the French lab that produced the positive result completely f*cked up.”
After reading his book, yeah, the lab did f*ck up--big time. According to testing standards, WADA-accredited labs in both the US and Australia, if having performed the test themselves, would not have labeled Floyd’s results as positive. Actually, the list of screw-ups, not to mention just how unfair the USADA (United States Anti-Doping Association) acts when handling these cases is sort of mind-blowing. Floyd makes a great point when he highlights the fact that the USADA is a government-funded organization and when they both try and win high-level celebrity cases such as Floyd’s, they receive a ton of press which then ensures continued government funding, but here’s the thing. As the USADA was working on prosecuting Floyd, they decided to not prosecute two other athletes from sports outside cycling who had tested positive according to the lab at UCLA. Why? The USADA has a limited treasure chest and they needed all the money they could get their hands on to deal with Floyd’s case considering he chose to fight, so rather than prosecute two athletes who had no doubt doped (this coming from a former head of the UCLA lab who decided to work with Floyd), they decided to stick with their guns on Floyd despite the fact that the details around his test results were sketchy to begin with.
While that’s all well and good, Floyd defines a ton of other examples of how unjustly the anti-doping system treats athletes, but that’s for you to read for yourself. Thing is, reaching the end of the book, I’m not exactly convinced Floyd didn’t dope.
Sure, Floyd convinced me of how much of a disaster the USADA and WADA actually are and just how incompetent that lab is over there in France (that should be obvious even without reading the book . . . I mean, we’re talking about the French here--they spend most of their days debating the differences between brie and camembert . . . just kidding, Olivier) and how the entire process needs to change, but the question is, did he or did he not enhance his performance against the rules?
Of course he did. Let’s get real. The 2006 Tour started without the top five finishers from the 2005 Tour because they had all been implicated via Operacion Puerto (with the exception of Lance Armstrong) and sent home by their teams. This is an endurance sport we’re talking about, a very severe test of endurance with a hell of a lot of money on the line in terms of sponsorships and endorsements. To me, the question shouldn’t be, “Did Floyd dope?” but rather, “How can you win such an event without doping?”
I realize I say all this as an outsider, as someone who only knows what he reads, but this think of it like this. Have you ever heard of a former NASCAR mechanic writing a tell-all book around how much NASCAR race drivers are doping? My point is, if it doesn’t happen, there’s no story to tell, yet according to Floyd, doping in the pro European peloton is nowhere near as prevalent as some authorities would have us believe. If that’s true, why have there been so many interviews, articles, and books published by industry insiders? What do riders like Manzano and others have to lose other than their careers and their livelihoods when they speak out about rampant doping in the sport?
Overall, Positively False is a good read. If you’re into cycling (and I’m assuming you are if you’re even reading this page), it’s well worth the money.
Friday, June 22
We Meet Again
I've been putting off my third field test for a few weeks now mostly due to a lack of flat roads in my neighborhood, but now it's time, so tomorrow morning I'm taking the drive up to New Paltz. Not that New Paltz is known for flat roads, but I figured I could bang out a pair of field tests (3-mile all-out time trials) and then do some climbing up the road to Lake Minnewaska.
Ever been? A few weeks after I started riding I drove up there to do some hill climbing. Once I made the right turn off 299 that leads up to the park, the climb just gets worse and worse, or at least it felt that way at the time. On the way up, I had to stop three times to catch my breath and since it's been my only trip there to date, I have no idea what to expect tomorrow, but in my head, the more climbing, the better.
Right?
Ever been? A few weeks after I started riding I drove up there to do some hill climbing. Once I made the right turn off 299 that leads up to the park, the climb just gets worse and worse, or at least it felt that way at the time. On the way up, I had to stop three times to catch my breath and since it's been my only trip there to date, I have no idea what to expect tomorrow, but in my head, the more climbing, the better.
Right?
Monday, June 18
Tour of NY
So today (Saturday) was a big day. Big for me, at least, in that this morning I was in Brooklyn, in Prospect Park, racing Category 5 in the Tour of New York. (Again, why a 17-mile criterium in a city park is called the Tour of New York is beyond me, but that’s beside the point.)
Now, I realize I often have a tendency to go on an on regarding certain subjects, so in an effort to not bore you, the reader, to absolute tears, I’m going to present this morning’s events in a simple, easy-to-read bullet point format. (There’s a jackass blogger out there by the name of Max Tucker, or Tucker Max, and if anyone so much as hints at any sort of similarity between this post and Mr. Jackass Tucker, I will f*cking . . . I don’t even want to say what I’d do, so let’s just leave it at that, okay?)
• At 1:00 AM, I hop out of bed under the assumption I’ve heard my alarm go off. It isn’t until I’m in the kitchen preparing to feed the cat that I glance at the clock on the microwave and realize it’s near 4:30, which is when my alarm is supposed to sound. Clearly, I’m suffering from a mild case of racing anxiety.
• At 2:30, the same thing happens, yet I check my cell phone before expending the energy to stumble into the kitchen.
• At 4:30, the alarm finally clicks on and I feel nowhere near as awake as I did at 1:00 and 2:30.
• The gear’s already packed and the bike’s already prepped, so after a quick bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and mixing some Go Grape Cytomax, I’m off by 5:00.
• By 6:00, I’m standing on line waiting for my number. One might assume that pre-registering online would mean not having to stand in line, but clearly that’s not the case. The Tour of New York organizers take their business seriously and ask to see my USA Cycling license when I hand them my waiver. (Yes, I paid the $60 for a plastic card with my name that says USA Cycling. Makes me feel special just like my mother used to tell me: “You’re not dumb, Stevie. You’re special.”)
• At 6:15, I’m on the bike riding a lap to warm-up. I’m wearing my Adidas arm warmers for the first time and, again, I feel special.
• Taking one last spin through the parking lot, the Polish brothers Lester and Robert are nowhere to be seen. So much for my aftershave-laden lead-out train.
• The racing begins at 6:40 so pretty much everybody is on the line by 6:35. Pro-1-2-3 are the first to take off. Masters and women next, followed by Category 4. Then it’s our turn, Category 5.
• The whistle blows and I’m expecting the thirty or forty of us to simply click in and take it easy the first hundred or so feet. Clearly, I’ve got a lot to learn as guys begin sprinting immediately off the line. Mumbling under my breath, I keep up as we approach the one long hill in the park.
• Sitting in the middle of the pack, the first lap goes by without incidence and unlike my first race, I know realize the importance of sitting on a wheel as I refuse to stick my face in the wind. I hop from one wheel to the next until I find a guy roughly my size who creates a mother of a draft.
• We begin approaching the hill for the second go-around and by the time we reach the top, I’m (a) not dropped, (b) still near the front, yet (c) a glance at my wrist tells me my heart rate has reached 191. If this pace keeps up, I may very well die.
• A few corners later, someone manages to hit one of the orange cones lining the left side of the course. Said orange cone begins bouncing through the pack, missing my front tire by a few inches, but I guess that’s what Category 5 is about, right?
• Three laps down, two to go. The third time up the hill, my heart rate peaks at 192. I feel as if my chest may very well explode and I’m wondering if the hefty guy to my left is breathing as hard as I am. Actually, I’m wondering if anyone is breathing as hard as I am (wheezing, practically), but I don’t bother to look around. Instead, I remind myself, Just hold that wheel in front of you, dumbshit.
• Halfway through the third lap, the big guy I’m following, the one with the shaved legs, decides moving to the front is a good idea. As soon as he inadvertently drags me to the front, he changes his line so I’m now the first guy in the pack. A voice that sounds a hell of a lot like Ed Dalton pipes in from the back of my head: “Conserve!” With that said, I immediately pull off and drift to the back.
• On our fourth lap, we pass the Category 4 racers which, to me, seems counter-intuitive. “Why the hell are we passing them?” I ask no one in particular. Later I realize that, considering the Cat 4 race is twice as long as the Cat 5 race (17 miles), they’re simply conserving which means some of them must know Ed.
• Four laps down and one to go. That last time up the hill, the average speed drops from roughly 22 to 18 MPH, which I take as a sign of everyone growing somewhat tired, present company included. Over the past four laps, a few people have tried to go off the front, but in a 17-mile race, how far are they going to get? The pack’s covered everything so far and while I have no idea what to expect as we begin the last lap, I do realize it’s time to begin moving toward the front for a sprint which I’m sure will be absolute chaos.
• Less than a minute later, just as we’re approaching the long downhill, two guys touch ahead of me and hit the pavement. A third guy goes down when he hits the first two and I’ve got my brakes locked up, swerving to the right just in time to miss that third guy’s head as his shoulder slaps against the asphalt with a nasty thump. Having been behind all that, I’m now all the way in the back, thinking I most likely won’t have the chance or time to slip to the front.
• I’m right. After witnessing the crash, I’m not about to try and force my way through a tight pack of thirty or so Cat 5 riders. Instead, I sit in the back and note when and where the sprint starts (near the parking lot entrance to the Wollman skating rink) and oddly, the guys at the front who are sprinting don’t seem to be going that much faster than the rest of us, although I could have easily misjudged their speed.
• The winner crosses the line as do the rest of us less than five seconds later and that’s it. The race is over. I hit STOP on my watch to see we’ve been riding for just under forty minutes and my average heart rate is 171 with a max of 192. According to my cycling computer, top speed was just under 40 MPH with an average of 26.5 and, based on my heart rate, seems to make sense.
Yet I survived. The group did not spit me out the back the way it did last August. All this godforsaken riding over the fall, winter, and spring has paid off and I’m elated that I made it to the end with the main pack. Absolutely thrilled.
Then it was off to Staten Island for the group ride with Ed, Tommy, Horace, Joe, Anne, and Christian. And then it was home to Pleasantville, and then it was back to Manhattan, and then it was dinner, and then is was [stuff], and then it was time for bed.
And right now, as I sit here, it’s the next day, Sunday. It’s time to go out for a ride and crucify myself in the hills up here Westchester. Fantastic.
Now, I realize I often have a tendency to go on an on regarding certain subjects, so in an effort to not bore you, the reader, to absolute tears, I’m going to present this morning’s events in a simple, easy-to-read bullet point format. (There’s a jackass blogger out there by the name of Max Tucker, or Tucker Max, and if anyone so much as hints at any sort of similarity between this post and Mr. Jackass Tucker, I will f*cking . . . I don’t even want to say what I’d do, so let’s just leave it at that, okay?)
• At 1:00 AM, I hop out of bed under the assumption I’ve heard my alarm go off. It isn’t until I’m in the kitchen preparing to feed the cat that I glance at the clock on the microwave and realize it’s near 4:30, which is when my alarm is supposed to sound. Clearly, I’m suffering from a mild case of racing anxiety.
• At 2:30, the same thing happens, yet I check my cell phone before expending the energy to stumble into the kitchen.
• At 4:30, the alarm finally clicks on and I feel nowhere near as awake as I did at 1:00 and 2:30.
• The gear’s already packed and the bike’s already prepped, so after a quick bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and mixing some Go Grape Cytomax, I’m off by 5:00.
• By 6:00, I’m standing on line waiting for my number. One might assume that pre-registering online would mean not having to stand in line, but clearly that’s not the case. The Tour of New York organizers take their business seriously and ask to see my USA Cycling license when I hand them my waiver. (Yes, I paid the $60 for a plastic card with my name that says USA Cycling. Makes me feel special just like my mother used to tell me: “You’re not dumb, Stevie. You’re special.”)
• At 6:15, I’m on the bike riding a lap to warm-up. I’m wearing my Adidas arm warmers for the first time and, again, I feel special.
• Taking one last spin through the parking lot, the Polish brothers Lester and Robert are nowhere to be seen. So much for my aftershave-laden lead-out train.
• The racing begins at 6:40 so pretty much everybody is on the line by 6:35. Pro-1-2-3 are the first to take off. Masters and women next, followed by Category 4. Then it’s our turn, Category 5.
• The whistle blows and I’m expecting the thirty or forty of us to simply click in and take it easy the first hundred or so feet. Clearly, I’ve got a lot to learn as guys begin sprinting immediately off the line. Mumbling under my breath, I keep up as we approach the one long hill in the park.
• Sitting in the middle of the pack, the first lap goes by without incidence and unlike my first race, I know realize the importance of sitting on a wheel as I refuse to stick my face in the wind. I hop from one wheel to the next until I find a guy roughly my size who creates a mother of a draft.
• We begin approaching the hill for the second go-around and by the time we reach the top, I’m (a) not dropped, (b) still near the front, yet (c) a glance at my wrist tells me my heart rate has reached 191. If this pace keeps up, I may very well die.
• A few corners later, someone manages to hit one of the orange cones lining the left side of the course. Said orange cone begins bouncing through the pack, missing my front tire by a few inches, but I guess that’s what Category 5 is about, right?
• Three laps down, two to go. The third time up the hill, my heart rate peaks at 192. I feel as if my chest may very well explode and I’m wondering if the hefty guy to my left is breathing as hard as I am. Actually, I’m wondering if anyone is breathing as hard as I am (wheezing, practically), but I don’t bother to look around. Instead, I remind myself, Just hold that wheel in front of you, dumbshit.
• Halfway through the third lap, the big guy I’m following, the one with the shaved legs, decides moving to the front is a good idea. As soon as he inadvertently drags me to the front, he changes his line so I’m now the first guy in the pack. A voice that sounds a hell of a lot like Ed Dalton pipes in from the back of my head: “Conserve!” With that said, I immediately pull off and drift to the back.
• On our fourth lap, we pass the Category 4 racers which, to me, seems counter-intuitive. “Why the hell are we passing them?” I ask no one in particular. Later I realize that, considering the Cat 4 race is twice as long as the Cat 5 race (17 miles), they’re simply conserving which means some of them must know Ed.
• Four laps down and one to go. That last time up the hill, the average speed drops from roughly 22 to 18 MPH, which I take as a sign of everyone growing somewhat tired, present company included. Over the past four laps, a few people have tried to go off the front, but in a 17-mile race, how far are they going to get? The pack’s covered everything so far and while I have no idea what to expect as we begin the last lap, I do realize it’s time to begin moving toward the front for a sprint which I’m sure will be absolute chaos.
• Less than a minute later, just as we’re approaching the long downhill, two guys touch ahead of me and hit the pavement. A third guy goes down when he hits the first two and I’ve got my brakes locked up, swerving to the right just in time to miss that third guy’s head as his shoulder slaps against the asphalt with a nasty thump. Having been behind all that, I’m now all the way in the back, thinking I most likely won’t have the chance or time to slip to the front.
• I’m right. After witnessing the crash, I’m not about to try and force my way through a tight pack of thirty or so Cat 5 riders. Instead, I sit in the back and note when and where the sprint starts (near the parking lot entrance to the Wollman skating rink) and oddly, the guys at the front who are sprinting don’t seem to be going that much faster than the rest of us, although I could have easily misjudged their speed.
• The winner crosses the line as do the rest of us less than five seconds later and that’s it. The race is over. I hit STOP on my watch to see we’ve been riding for just under forty minutes and my average heart rate is 171 with a max of 192. According to my cycling computer, top speed was just under 40 MPH with an average of 26.5 and, based on my heart rate, seems to make sense.
Yet I survived. The group did not spit me out the back the way it did last August. All this godforsaken riding over the fall, winter, and spring has paid off and I’m elated that I made it to the end with the main pack. Absolutely thrilled.
Then it was off to Staten Island for the group ride with Ed, Tommy, Horace, Joe, Anne, and Christian. And then it was home to Pleasantville, and then it was back to Manhattan, and then it was dinner, and then is was [stuff], and then it was time for bed.
And right now, as I sit here, it’s the next day, Sunday. It’s time to go out for a ride and crucify myself in the hills up here Westchester. Fantastic.
Friday, June 15
Basso Receives 2-Year Ban
Read about it HERE.
And when you're reading, think about how Basso completely destroyed the entire field in the 2006 Giro d'Italia. And think about how he's been claiming, "I never actually doped, but I was thinking about doping."
Right.
And when you're reading, think about how Basso completely destroyed the entire field in the 2006 Giro d'Italia. And think about how he's been claiming, "I never actually doped, but I was thinking about doping."
Right.
Tuesday, June 12
Monday, June 11
Bikely & Cheddar Cheese Pringles
I should be taking a nap right now, but I’m not. Instead, I’m here, at the computer, doing this. Why avoid the nap (officially known as nappy-time)? Well, it’s 4:16 Sunday afternoon and I feel that if I lay down for a one-hour power nap now, I’ll be wasting valuable weekend time which is exactly what I don’t want to do with so few weekend hours left before the work-week begins. Know what I mean?
Another reason to forego the nap has to do with the fact that I decided to sleep in this morning. Rather than rise and shine at 7:30 in the glorious AM, I took one look at the ominous clouds outside and decided against the fifity-mile B+ ride scheduled at 9:00. Threatening rain combined with the fact that I felt as if I could do with another eighteen hours of sleep, I fed the cat and quickly returned to bed.
At 11:45, I figured it was time to finally roll my lazy ass out of bed, have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, and hit the road. Which road? I logged on to Bikely.com this morning to put together something new and exciting, something about 45 miles long with a few hills. I mention Bikely.com yet again as it’s an interesting tool. Not only can you map your own rides to determine their exact length before you go out, but the program also has the ability to map out elevation changes.
For example, I just mapped out the weekend ride on Staten Island. CLICK HERE to see it and when you get to the page, move your cursor over SHOW--all the way to the left of the horizontal toolbar near the top of the page. Moving your cursor over SHOW will produce a drop-down menu including WHOLE ROUTE and ELEVATION PROFILE. Click on ELEVATION PROFILE which will give you exactly that, an elevation profile of the selected ride. In this case, you can see that the weekend SIBA ride includes a total climb of 1,363 feet over the course of the forty or so miles.
Now try a search for “pleasantville” within the FIND option in the horizontal toolbar on top of the page. You should find a “Pleasantville to Pleasantville” ride (my name will be under the CONTRIBUTOR column) which is the ride I put together this morning. Under the SHOW option, check the ELEVATION PROFILE, which should highlight a total climb of 3,175 feet over a course of roughly forty-five miles.
You know what would be really interesting to see? The hill-climbing ride on Staten Island. Keep in mind the scale changes for each ride, but that SIBA hill ride must have some serious peaks to it.
So, apart from Bikely.com (not the coolest name in the world, is it?), there’s a race in Prospect Park this weekend. Why it’s called the Tour of New York is beyond me, but it’s happening Saturday morning. I have the feeling I may bump into the Polish brothers Lester and Robert that day and in the event I do, I think the game plan is going to be to basically sit in their aftershave-draft for as long as humanly possible. In the unlikely event I have anything left once the sprint starts (Category 5 is five laps for 17 miles), I’ll just keep holding that wheel and see what happens.
That sounds nice but what will probably happen is I’ll be in the back, the last guy in line with my heart rate jacked up to 185, asking everybody to slow the hell down. “Come on, guys! What’s the rush? Why don’t we all just take it easy and see who’s got the biggest balls in the sprint a few hundred feet from the line?”
I get the feeling that won’t work either.
That’s it, I think. That’s all I’ve got right now.
Oh, wait. Did anyone read about how Belgium authorities began raiding houses late last week? Houses and apartments belonging to members of the Quickstep team? As our Old Testament-loving friends would say, Oy vey. If I find out Tom Boonen’s on the juice (we all know he is, but it’s nice to hope), I’m personally going to call Pat McQuaid at the UCI and explain that if he and his people don’t get a better handle on this stuff, I’m sending the Polish brothers after him with a couple of monkey wrenches.
And finally, if you’ve ever wondered what cheddar cheese-flavored Pringles do to the tongue, wonder no more.
Another reason to forego the nap has to do with the fact that I decided to sleep in this morning. Rather than rise and shine at 7:30 in the glorious AM, I took one look at the ominous clouds outside and decided against the fifity-mile B+ ride scheduled at 9:00. Threatening rain combined with the fact that I felt as if I could do with another eighteen hours of sleep, I fed the cat and quickly returned to bed.
At 11:45, I figured it was time to finally roll my lazy ass out of bed, have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, and hit the road. Which road? I logged on to Bikely.com this morning to put together something new and exciting, something about 45 miles long with a few hills. I mention Bikely.com yet again as it’s an interesting tool. Not only can you map your own rides to determine their exact length before you go out, but the program also has the ability to map out elevation changes.
For example, I just mapped out the weekend ride on Staten Island. CLICK HERE to see it and when you get to the page, move your cursor over SHOW--all the way to the left of the horizontal toolbar near the top of the page. Moving your cursor over SHOW will produce a drop-down menu including WHOLE ROUTE and ELEVATION PROFILE. Click on ELEVATION PROFILE which will give you exactly that, an elevation profile of the selected ride. In this case, you can see that the weekend SIBA ride includes a total climb of 1,363 feet over the course of the forty or so miles.
Now try a search for “pleasantville” within the FIND option in the horizontal toolbar on top of the page. You should find a “Pleasantville to Pleasantville” ride (my name will be under the CONTRIBUTOR column) which is the ride I put together this morning. Under the SHOW option, check the ELEVATION PROFILE, which should highlight a total climb of 3,175 feet over a course of roughly forty-five miles.
You know what would be really interesting to see? The hill-climbing ride on Staten Island. Keep in mind the scale changes for each ride, but that SIBA hill ride must have some serious peaks to it.
So, apart from Bikely.com (not the coolest name in the world, is it?), there’s a race in Prospect Park this weekend. Why it’s called the Tour of New York is beyond me, but it’s happening Saturday morning. I have the feeling I may bump into the Polish brothers Lester and Robert that day and in the event I do, I think the game plan is going to be to basically sit in their aftershave-draft for as long as humanly possible. In the unlikely event I have anything left once the sprint starts (Category 5 is five laps for 17 miles), I’ll just keep holding that wheel and see what happens.
That sounds nice but what will probably happen is I’ll be in the back, the last guy in line with my heart rate jacked up to 185, asking everybody to slow the hell down. “Come on, guys! What’s the rush? Why don’t we all just take it easy and see who’s got the biggest balls in the sprint a few hundred feet from the line?”
I get the feeling that won’t work either.
That’s it, I think. That’s all I’ve got right now.
Oh, wait. Did anyone read about how Belgium authorities began raiding houses late last week? Houses and apartments belonging to members of the Quickstep team? As our Old Testament-loving friends would say, Oy vey. If I find out Tom Boonen’s on the juice (we all know he is, but it’s nice to hope), I’m personally going to call Pat McQuaid at the UCI and explain that if he and his people don’t get a better handle on this stuff, I’m sending the Polish brothers after him with a couple of monkey wrenches.
And finally, if you’ve ever wondered what cheddar cheese-flavored Pringles do to the tongue, wonder no more.
Thursday, June 7
More Manzano Missiles (from Velonews.com)
Jésus Manzano - the ex-pro turned whistleblower on alleged widespread doping in Spanish cycling - was back in the news again this week.
The 29-year-old is a divisive figure in Spain. He often demands money for his tell-all interviews and critics say he's nothing more than a professional liar who earns a living off hurting the credibility of a sport that he wasn't good enough to make it.
Others see Manzano as a lone voice in the Iberian wilderness, as one of the few Spanish ex-pros who've publicly admitted to using banned performance-enhancing products.
Manzano continues to offer his spin on the underworld of doping in cycling and told L'Equipe in an interview this week -- ahead of a court appearance in Italy where he's helping investigators -- that he thinks Alejandro Valverde is "up to his neck" in the Operación Puerto doping scandal.
He dropped a few more bombs, too. Here are more excerpts from the Manzano interview:
When asked about Manolo Saíz, the ex-Liberty Seguros team manager who was among five people arrested last May, Manzano expressed pessimism that the cycling hasn't seen the last of the former ONCE boss.
"Don't fool yourself. He'll be back. For the moment, he's worried about recuperating his money, then he'll return," Manzano said. "After that, he'll let time pass by and then he'll begin again to find new sponsors. These new sponsors will ignore who he is and look the other way."
Manzano also accused the Spanish cycling community from being "corrupt top to bottom," leveling charges that a Spanish lab certified by the UCI tipped off teams when doctors were coming for pre-stage blood screenings.
"I want to give you an example, something I've never spoken about except to the police up until now. It concerns one of the four Spanish Laboratories credited by the UCI. This laboratory, which is in charge of sending the UCI ‘vampires' to take the samples during the Vuelta and other races, is the same lab that's in charge of the doctor visits to the cyclists, they follow the cyclists and give them the stamp of approval on their licenses," Manzano told L'Equipe. "The owner of this clinic, a renowned hematologist, called Walter Viru, who is one of the doctors for Kelme, to alert them the day before the UCI vampires were coming to take the samples from the cyclists. And he did the same thing with Del Moral, the doctor for the U.S. Postal team and then Discovery, a good friend of his."
The L'Equipe reporter asked, "Are your certain of this?"
"I experienced it in 2002 and 2003 during the Vuelta. I gave the police have all the details and the name of the clinic. Even better, I remember one time Viru, who had acquired the Russian EPO, wanted to know the purity of it before he used it. And so he gave a vile of it to this clinic and had them confirm it was good. An important detail, this laboratory is still accredited by the UCI. When I talk about the mafia, I don't use this word lightly."
Manzano went on to attest that José Maria Jimenez, who died of a heart attack in 2003, suffered a tragic death due to his dependence on performance-enhancing drugs. He said substance abuse is common among some in the peloton.
"Of course, like it killed Pantani. The drugs lead you to other addictions. The anti-depressants almost automatically accompany other doping treatments. I took up to eight pills of Prozac a day when I was racing," Manzano said. "Prozac cuts the appetite, keeps you in another world, a world where you're not afraid of what you're doing. You're no longer afraid to inject yourself with all the crap. It takes you to a world where you don't ask any more questions, especially you don't ask your doctor questions either or your sporting director. Then one day all of the sudden it stops and you become dramatically depressed. Look at Pantani, Vandenbroucke and all the others we don't even talk about. They are numerous other cyclists and former cyclists that are addicted to cocaine, heroin and other medications."
When asked how cycling can solve its problems, Manzano had an easy answer:
"Fire all the sporting directors. (Bjarne) Riis is showing the example. It's good that he admitted (to doping). Now he has to make the next step, which is to quit the sport. How can he be taken seriously? He's admitted to doping and now he wants us to believe he's going to go back to cycling and this is supposed to make us believe drugs won't be used anymore? There's only one solution - he must leave!" Manzano said. "And along with him, all the sporting directors who have been working for the past 10 years have to quit also. They're the responsible ones. The directors are the ones who blackmail the cyclists. They put pressure on the riders to take the EPO and all the drugs and the cyclists can't refuse if they want to ride for the team. These directors are the ones who prolong the system and little by little pressure the pros into it. First you go slowly, then you fall slowly, then you realize you've thrown everything away. They say to you, ‘Here's your choice: you do want we say or you're done cycling."
Manzano says he's bitter about his experiences and no longer follows the sport very closely.
"It was my dream, my life. Today I'm completely indifferent to it. How could it be otherwise? When I see Valverde, Mancebo or Sevilla win, I know what's going on. And that kills my love for the sport," he said. "Cycling is corrupt. You can see that on the side of the roads. There's nobody left cheering on the cyclists except for the Tour. Even the cows aren't duped."
The 29-year-old is a divisive figure in Spain. He often demands money for his tell-all interviews and critics say he's nothing more than a professional liar who earns a living off hurting the credibility of a sport that he wasn't good enough to make it.
Others see Manzano as a lone voice in the Iberian wilderness, as one of the few Spanish ex-pros who've publicly admitted to using banned performance-enhancing products.
Manzano continues to offer his spin on the underworld of doping in cycling and told L'Equipe in an interview this week -- ahead of a court appearance in Italy where he's helping investigators -- that he thinks Alejandro Valverde is "up to his neck" in the Operación Puerto doping scandal.
He dropped a few more bombs, too. Here are more excerpts from the Manzano interview:
When asked about Manolo Saíz, the ex-Liberty Seguros team manager who was among five people arrested last May, Manzano expressed pessimism that the cycling hasn't seen the last of the former ONCE boss.
"Don't fool yourself. He'll be back. For the moment, he's worried about recuperating his money, then he'll return," Manzano said. "After that, he'll let time pass by and then he'll begin again to find new sponsors. These new sponsors will ignore who he is and look the other way."
Manzano also accused the Spanish cycling community from being "corrupt top to bottom," leveling charges that a Spanish lab certified by the UCI tipped off teams when doctors were coming for pre-stage blood screenings.
"I want to give you an example, something I've never spoken about except to the police up until now. It concerns one of the four Spanish Laboratories credited by the UCI. This laboratory, which is in charge of sending the UCI ‘vampires' to take the samples during the Vuelta and other races, is the same lab that's in charge of the doctor visits to the cyclists, they follow the cyclists and give them the stamp of approval on their licenses," Manzano told L'Equipe. "The owner of this clinic, a renowned hematologist, called Walter Viru, who is one of the doctors for Kelme, to alert them the day before the UCI vampires were coming to take the samples from the cyclists. And he did the same thing with Del Moral, the doctor for the U.S. Postal team and then Discovery, a good friend of his."
The L'Equipe reporter asked, "Are your certain of this?"
"I experienced it in 2002 and 2003 during the Vuelta. I gave the police have all the details and the name of the clinic. Even better, I remember one time Viru, who had acquired the Russian EPO, wanted to know the purity of it before he used it. And so he gave a vile of it to this clinic and had them confirm it was good. An important detail, this laboratory is still accredited by the UCI. When I talk about the mafia, I don't use this word lightly."
Manzano went on to attest that José Maria Jimenez, who died of a heart attack in 2003, suffered a tragic death due to his dependence on performance-enhancing drugs. He said substance abuse is common among some in the peloton.
"Of course, like it killed Pantani. The drugs lead you to other addictions. The anti-depressants almost automatically accompany other doping treatments. I took up to eight pills of Prozac a day when I was racing," Manzano said. "Prozac cuts the appetite, keeps you in another world, a world where you're not afraid of what you're doing. You're no longer afraid to inject yourself with all the crap. It takes you to a world where you don't ask any more questions, especially you don't ask your doctor questions either or your sporting director. Then one day all of the sudden it stops and you become dramatically depressed. Look at Pantani, Vandenbroucke and all the others we don't even talk about. They are numerous other cyclists and former cyclists that are addicted to cocaine, heroin and other medications."
When asked how cycling can solve its problems, Manzano had an easy answer:
"Fire all the sporting directors. (Bjarne) Riis is showing the example. It's good that he admitted (to doping). Now he has to make the next step, which is to quit the sport. How can he be taken seriously? He's admitted to doping and now he wants us to believe he's going to go back to cycling and this is supposed to make us believe drugs won't be used anymore? There's only one solution - he must leave!" Manzano said. "And along with him, all the sporting directors who have been working for the past 10 years have to quit also. They're the responsible ones. The directors are the ones who blackmail the cyclists. They put pressure on the riders to take the EPO and all the drugs and the cyclists can't refuse if they want to ride for the team. These directors are the ones who prolong the system and little by little pressure the pros into it. First you go slowly, then you fall slowly, then you realize you've thrown everything away. They say to you, ‘Here's your choice: you do want we say or you're done cycling."
Manzano says he's bitter about his experiences and no longer follows the sport very closely.
"It was my dream, my life. Today I'm completely indifferent to it. How could it be otherwise? When I see Valverde, Mancebo or Sevilla win, I know what's going on. And that kills my love for the sport," he said. "Cycling is corrupt. You can see that on the side of the roads. There's nobody left cheering on the cyclists except for the Tour. Even the cows aren't duped."
Tuesday, June 5
Donaldson's Made A Mess Of It Again: Part Deux
Obviously, I'm not only fat, but I'm dumb, too.
This afternoon, Brooklyn Velo Force posted the results from Sunday's time trial on their web site and, after reviewing the data, I neither completed six laps nor averaged 17.3 MPH (as per my previous post).
According to the spreadsheet I downloaded, the course was 2.2 miles long which covered 11.1 miles over the five laps.
Here's the news.
Out of 28 riders in the Men's Cannibal class, I finished in 27th place. I know, that sucks, but you saw the picture below--I need to drop some pounds.
Further, 27th place meant I finished the 11.1 miles in 33:32. (28th place finished in 34:13, so ha!) That also means I averaged 19.86 MPH. And that means my computer does NOT need to be calibrated. That's a relief because I'd have no idea how to go about doing something like that.
So despite my earlier concerns, here are the official stats:
Split Times
Lap 1: 6:28
Lap 2: 6:43
Lap 3: 6:43
Lap 4: 6:49
Lap 5: 6:49
I'm happy I was able to ride somewhat consistently, but the fact that I rode progessively slower doesn't say much, does it?
As an FYI, the guy with the best time finished the course in 23:29 and averaged 28.36 MPH. That's big time. The fastest woman did it in 27:32 and averaged 24.19 MPH. That's big time, too.
This afternoon, Brooklyn Velo Force posted the results from Sunday's time trial on their web site and, after reviewing the data, I neither completed six laps nor averaged 17.3 MPH (as per my previous post).
According to the spreadsheet I downloaded, the course was 2.2 miles long which covered 11.1 miles over the five laps.
Here's the news.
Out of 28 riders in the Men's Cannibal class, I finished in 27th place. I know, that sucks, but you saw the picture below--I need to drop some pounds.
Further, 27th place meant I finished the 11.1 miles in 33:32. (28th place finished in 34:13, so ha!) That also means I averaged 19.86 MPH. And that means my computer does NOT need to be calibrated. That's a relief because I'd have no idea how to go about doing something like that.
So despite my earlier concerns, here are the official stats:
Split Times
Lap 1: 6:28
Lap 2: 6:43
Lap 3: 6:43
Lap 4: 6:49
Lap 5: 6:49
I'm happy I was able to ride somewhat consistently, but the fact that I rode progessively slower doesn't say much, does it?
As an FYI, the guy with the best time finished the course in 23:29 and averaged 28.36 MPH. That's big time. The fastest woman did it in 27:32 and averaged 24.19 MPH. That's big time, too.
Horrible
Life just took a turn for the worst. While poking around on the Brooklyn Velo Force web site--the group that organized the TT at Floyd Bennett Field this past Sunday--looking for final times, I found a bunch of pictures from the race on VelocityNation.com.
Before I post this ridiculous picture of myself, let me say a few things.
Until thirty minutes ago, I had thought of myself as being in somewhat good shape. As you can see from the snapshot below and the way my stomach is pressing against my jersey, I was clearly wrong to think as much. So that needs to change. Starting now, the diet is changing.
Second, I thought that by riding with my hands in the drops, I would keep myself in a more aerodynamic position. Someone should have explained to me that it helps to bend the elbows and lower the head toward the handlebars. If only I had known. Actually, I did know, but never really felt too comfortable in such a leaned forward position, but I can tell you THAT'S going to change starting with my training ride tonight.
Third, while I'm not the biggest fan of paying attention to the slightest of aerodynamic details, I definitely need to do a better job of pinning numbers to the back of my jersey. For those of you who race, you'll realize that the numbers usually come with standard safety pins, so maybe someone can drop me some sort of secret hint on how to pin a number to the back of my jersey without it sounding like a parachute back there.
Finally, it looks as though I could benefit from raising the saddle a bit more. And I might also benefit from not making such stupid faces when I ride.
Before I post this ridiculous picture of myself, let me say a few things.
Until thirty minutes ago, I had thought of myself as being in somewhat good shape. As you can see from the snapshot below and the way my stomach is pressing against my jersey, I was clearly wrong to think as much. So that needs to change. Starting now, the diet is changing.
Second, I thought that by riding with my hands in the drops, I would keep myself in a more aerodynamic position. Someone should have explained to me that it helps to bend the elbows and lower the head toward the handlebars. If only I had known. Actually, I did know, but never really felt too comfortable in such a leaned forward position, but I can tell you THAT'S going to change starting with my training ride tonight.
Third, while I'm not the biggest fan of paying attention to the slightest of aerodynamic details, I definitely need to do a better job of pinning numbers to the back of my jersey. For those of you who race, you'll realize that the numbers usually come with standard safety pins, so maybe someone can drop me some sort of secret hint on how to pin a number to the back of my jersey without it sounding like a parachute back there.
Finally, it looks as though I could benefit from raising the saddle a bit more. And I might also benefit from not making such stupid faces when I ride.
Sunday, June 3
Donaldson's Made A Mess Of It Again!
This morning, at roughly 8:30, I knocked Kenny Picco off his bike because he deserved it.
Just kidding. He didn’t really deserve it. At 8:30, Mr. Picco and I were cruising through Floyd Bennett field warming up for a time trial (as hard as I tried to convince Mr. Picco to spend the $15 to register for the race, he refused, explaining he’s a conscientious objector to time trial racing formats . . . whatever that means) minding nobody’s business but our own. With Picco on my wheel, I pointed to the left as I wanted to cut a U-turn and start heading back the way we came although considering we were only a hundred feet or so from an upcoming STOP sign, I should have tossed in a “slowing” or “stopping” hand signal. I didn’t, though, because clearly I’m not that bright, and when I began swerving left to cut the U-turn, I inadvertently cut across Picco’s front wheel which was overlapped with my rear wheel and the next thing I know, Mr. Picco’s on the ground.
Says a lot about my riding and communication skills, doesn’t it?
Luckily for not just his wife but also the rest of the world, Mr. Picco survived. (I can hear Paul Sherwin’s color commentary voice in my head: “He has done it--he has survived!”) He took a few scrapes, including a bloody knee, but Mr. Picco got back up and pedaled away like the Staten Island badass we all know (and love). In hindsight, I should have snapped off a few pics of the bloody knee to show the world just how much of a badass he actually is (I can again hear Paul Sherwin’s voice in my head: “Look at the blood on Kenny’s right knee there. He went down very hard indeed yet he’s on the attack again,”), although it slipped my mind. Instead, I offered Mr. Picco a Dunkin Donuts napkin and a bottle of water to wash the wound which he did without so much as a grimace, just like Rambo would have done if Rambo had been in the same situation.
Apart from Mr. Picco’s spill, I had my number---116--pinned to the back of my jersey and reached the staging area (sounds a lot more official than it really was) a few minutes before it was time to start.
“It’s four laps, right?” I asked the guy with the megaphone calling out rider’s numbers.
“Five laps,” he said.
I glanced at Mr. Picco. “Good thing I asked, huh?”
At the line, a guy in a golf shirt (withought a megaphone) explained the rules while another guy put his hands under my ass and took hold of my . . . seat post.
“Five laps,” the guy in the golf shirt explained, as if he could just tell by looking at me that I had no idea what I was doing. “And you better go fast considering you’re wearing a yellow jersey.”
What can I say? My yellow Cannondale jersey is the most form-fitting jersey I own.
“No drafting,” he continued. “If you’re going to pass someone, move out of their line at least five to ten bike lengths out. And stay to the right of the orange cones.”
A girl standing to my left, the one holding the stopwatch, announced, “Thirty seconds.”
I had both shoes clipped in. I began tilting to the right and I started worrying that, even with the guy-the official seat post holder--keeping me upright, I might fall, so I compensated by leaning left. Least I could do for the guy who had to grab over two hundred asses in one morning, almost all of them belonging to men wearing tights.
It was then that I realized I hadn’t reset my computer after having taking some leisurely spins with Mr. Picco half an hour before. I glanced at the girl with the stopwatch. “Do I have time--”
“Five seconds, four, three . . .”
Needless to say, I did not have time to reset my computer, which is such a bummer considering it was my first ever time trial.
Off the line, I cranked it up to just under 25 MPH, made the first right hand turn, held that pace until my heart race reached 175, and then backed it off to 22 MPH so my heart rate dropped to 170. At the next right, I hit the headwind and dropped the speed even further to try and keep my heart rate between 170 and 175. The plan was to keep it in that range and then hammer it as much as possible during the last lap, heart rate be damned.
All that pretty much went according to plan, yet a few things began bothering me during the race. First, I got passed, and not just by guys riding time trial bikes wearing one-piece skin suits, but by guys without aero bars riding the same Cannibal category I was riding. Getting passed upsets me, plain and simple, and while it does serve as some sort of motivation, I wanted to try and ride something of a smart race by holding a steady speed the entire way without fading, meaning no matter how pissed I might have got, I needed to let that go.
Second, my ass was killing me. I don’t know if it has to do with the fact that perhaps I need a saddle softer than the Fizik I’m riding now or if it had to do with my hands being in the drops the entire 11.5 miles, but my poor butt was screaming for help. And who wants to deal with that?
Finally, I’m the kind of guy who likes to move his hands around while he rides, and I mean move them around a lot. Keeping them in the drops for as long as I did meant that they, much like my butt, were rather unhappy with the treatment they were receiving.
Yet by the time I hit lap number four, I almost lost count of how much of the race was left. I do this all the time, in all walks of life, and I was worried I would do it this morning. On the fourth lap, I somehow got it into my head it was the fifth lap.
Don’t get excited--I didn’t quit riding after four laps. Realizing I most likely miscounted, I kept going to put in the five laps and finish the race, yet I’ve spent the past half an hour (it’s now 5:00 PM Sunday evening) analyzing whether or not I might have actually ridden six laps.
Let me explain the dilemma.
Crossing the line, I hit a button on my heart rate monitor watch to see I had been riding for 39 minutes and 57 seconds (take about five or six seconds off considering I didn’t start timing until I was a few seconds off the line and a few seconds over the line when I finished). At first, I thought, “Forty minutes for 11.5 miles? Maybe that headwind was stronger than I thought.” Because I had neglected to reset my computer, I didn’t have much else to go on, so I asked Mr. Picco. “Any idea how many laps I did?”
When he said, “I thought you only did four,” it really didn’t help my ego, but then again, I had knocked the guy off his bike an hour earlier, so helping my ego probably wasn’t top of his priority list.
So again, after having analyzed the situation over the past thirty minutes, I’ve reached two conclusions.
1. I actually rode six laps and averaged 20.8 MPH over the 13.8 miles. A small part of me is tempted to believe I actually rode an extra lap because whenever I glanced down at my computer, I was never below 18 MPH. Heading into the wind over half the course, I averaged between 18-19 MPH and on the other half of the course, I was always between 20-22 MPH, meaning the 20.8 MPH seems accurate.
2. I only rode five laps yet despite my computer, I did so averaging 17.3 MPH. This would mean my computer needs a touch of calibration. This is probably the correct scenario as I most likely did not ride six laps, yet if it is the correct scenario, I only managed 17.3 MPH? That’s freaking pathetic! The guy parked next to me who also rode the Cannibal category did the course in 28:00 or so (at least that’s what he said). How in the world did I mess it up and come in at 39:57? Humiliating.
Anyway, that’s the story. I’m hoping they post the times on the website shortly so I can put the above to bed and move on with life.
And if anyone ever wants to find out firsthand what it’s like to take a spill on the pavement, just let me know as I seem to be getting good at handling stuff like that.
Just kidding. He didn’t really deserve it. At 8:30, Mr. Picco and I were cruising through Floyd Bennett field warming up for a time trial (as hard as I tried to convince Mr. Picco to spend the $15 to register for the race, he refused, explaining he’s a conscientious objector to time trial racing formats . . . whatever that means) minding nobody’s business but our own. With Picco on my wheel, I pointed to the left as I wanted to cut a U-turn and start heading back the way we came although considering we were only a hundred feet or so from an upcoming STOP sign, I should have tossed in a “slowing” or “stopping” hand signal. I didn’t, though, because clearly I’m not that bright, and when I began swerving left to cut the U-turn, I inadvertently cut across Picco’s front wheel which was overlapped with my rear wheel and the next thing I know, Mr. Picco’s on the ground.
Says a lot about my riding and communication skills, doesn’t it?
Luckily for not just his wife but also the rest of the world, Mr. Picco survived. (I can hear Paul Sherwin’s color commentary voice in my head: “He has done it--he has survived!”) He took a few scrapes, including a bloody knee, but Mr. Picco got back up and pedaled away like the Staten Island badass we all know (and love). In hindsight, I should have snapped off a few pics of the bloody knee to show the world just how much of a badass he actually is (I can again hear Paul Sherwin’s voice in my head: “Look at the blood on Kenny’s right knee there. He went down very hard indeed yet he’s on the attack again,”), although it slipped my mind. Instead, I offered Mr. Picco a Dunkin Donuts napkin and a bottle of water to wash the wound which he did without so much as a grimace, just like Rambo would have done if Rambo had been in the same situation.
Apart from Mr. Picco’s spill, I had my number---116--pinned to the back of my jersey and reached the staging area (sounds a lot more official than it really was) a few minutes before it was time to start.
“It’s four laps, right?” I asked the guy with the megaphone calling out rider’s numbers.
“Five laps,” he said.
I glanced at Mr. Picco. “Good thing I asked, huh?”
At the line, a guy in a golf shirt (withought a megaphone) explained the rules while another guy put his hands under my ass and took hold of my . . . seat post.
“Five laps,” the guy in the golf shirt explained, as if he could just tell by looking at me that I had no idea what I was doing. “And you better go fast considering you’re wearing a yellow jersey.”
What can I say? My yellow Cannondale jersey is the most form-fitting jersey I own.
“No drafting,” he continued. “If you’re going to pass someone, move out of their line at least five to ten bike lengths out. And stay to the right of the orange cones.”
A girl standing to my left, the one holding the stopwatch, announced, “Thirty seconds.”
I had both shoes clipped in. I began tilting to the right and I started worrying that, even with the guy-the official seat post holder--keeping me upright, I might fall, so I compensated by leaning left. Least I could do for the guy who had to grab over two hundred asses in one morning, almost all of them belonging to men wearing tights.
It was then that I realized I hadn’t reset my computer after having taking some leisurely spins with Mr. Picco half an hour before. I glanced at the girl with the stopwatch. “Do I have time--”
“Five seconds, four, three . . .”
Needless to say, I did not have time to reset my computer, which is such a bummer considering it was my first ever time trial.
Off the line, I cranked it up to just under 25 MPH, made the first right hand turn, held that pace until my heart race reached 175, and then backed it off to 22 MPH so my heart rate dropped to 170. At the next right, I hit the headwind and dropped the speed even further to try and keep my heart rate between 170 and 175. The plan was to keep it in that range and then hammer it as much as possible during the last lap, heart rate be damned.
All that pretty much went according to plan, yet a few things began bothering me during the race. First, I got passed, and not just by guys riding time trial bikes wearing one-piece skin suits, but by guys without aero bars riding the same Cannibal category I was riding. Getting passed upsets me, plain and simple, and while it does serve as some sort of motivation, I wanted to try and ride something of a smart race by holding a steady speed the entire way without fading, meaning no matter how pissed I might have got, I needed to let that go.
Second, my ass was killing me. I don’t know if it has to do with the fact that perhaps I need a saddle softer than the Fizik I’m riding now or if it had to do with my hands being in the drops the entire 11.5 miles, but my poor butt was screaming for help. And who wants to deal with that?
Finally, I’m the kind of guy who likes to move his hands around while he rides, and I mean move them around a lot. Keeping them in the drops for as long as I did meant that they, much like my butt, were rather unhappy with the treatment they were receiving.
Yet by the time I hit lap number four, I almost lost count of how much of the race was left. I do this all the time, in all walks of life, and I was worried I would do it this morning. On the fourth lap, I somehow got it into my head it was the fifth lap.
Don’t get excited--I didn’t quit riding after four laps. Realizing I most likely miscounted, I kept going to put in the five laps and finish the race, yet I’ve spent the past half an hour (it’s now 5:00 PM Sunday evening) analyzing whether or not I might have actually ridden six laps.
Let me explain the dilemma.
Crossing the line, I hit a button on my heart rate monitor watch to see I had been riding for 39 minutes and 57 seconds (take about five or six seconds off considering I didn’t start timing until I was a few seconds off the line and a few seconds over the line when I finished). At first, I thought, “Forty minutes for 11.5 miles? Maybe that headwind was stronger than I thought.” Because I had neglected to reset my computer, I didn’t have much else to go on, so I asked Mr. Picco. “Any idea how many laps I did?”
When he said, “I thought you only did four,” it really didn’t help my ego, but then again, I had knocked the guy off his bike an hour earlier, so helping my ego probably wasn’t top of his priority list.
So again, after having analyzed the situation over the past thirty minutes, I’ve reached two conclusions.
1. I actually rode six laps and averaged 20.8 MPH over the 13.8 miles. A small part of me is tempted to believe I actually rode an extra lap because whenever I glanced down at my computer, I was never below 18 MPH. Heading into the wind over half the course, I averaged between 18-19 MPH and on the other half of the course, I was always between 20-22 MPH, meaning the 20.8 MPH seems accurate.
2. I only rode five laps yet despite my computer, I did so averaging 17.3 MPH. This would mean my computer needs a touch of calibration. This is probably the correct scenario as I most likely did not ride six laps, yet if it is the correct scenario, I only managed 17.3 MPH? That’s freaking pathetic! The guy parked next to me who also rode the Cannibal category did the course in 28:00 or so (at least that’s what he said). How in the world did I mess it up and come in at 39:57? Humiliating.
Anyway, that’s the story. I’m hoping they post the times on the website shortly so I can put the above to bed and move on with life.
And if anyone ever wants to find out firsthand what it’s like to take a spill on the pavement, just let me know as I seem to be getting good at handling stuff like that.
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