Ivan Basso & the NY Yankees

So, there’s a lot going on everywhere and it seems like it’s going on all the time. It seems that way to me, at least. For instance, last night a few of us took the 4 train up to Yankee Stadium for the 7:05 game (why 7:05 and not 7:00?) against Seattle. Things were looking good considering (a) we were three rows from the field behind the visitor’s dugout, (b) the Yankees scored six runs in the first inning, and (c) we had a few hot dogs as soon as we sat down. I raise that last point as hot dogs are simply delicious. Yet despite the smiles . . .



. . . Seattle somehow managed to score eight goddam runs in the fifth inning. I say somehow managed although I know exactly how they did it: Joe Torre put a fat bastard by the name of Colten Bean on the mound and Fat Boy Bean started his evening by walking two consecutive batters. When he finally threw a strike, the entire stadium went nuts, which is just plain embarrassing when you’re pitching in the major leagues. Fifteen minutes later, as Bean failed to produce a single out and the stadium became eerily quiet, a guy a few rows back yelled, “Would somebody please get somebody out?!”

Once the Yanks relinquished their lead and fell behind 14-8, it was time to leave, so we left.

So that happened. This morning, I decided to sleep in until 9:30, which is always a nice way to start the weekend. After a bowl of Frosted Flakes, I geared up and hit the road for my usual 45-mile training ride. More than once I pulled to the side of the road to snap off a few pics so my wonderful readers (all two of you) might get some idea as to what the scenery is like up here in the sticks.





After the ride, I stopped in the local barber shop for a trim. Since the guys who run the shop are old school, the trim included the hot lather on the back of my neck with the straight-edge razor treatment, not to mention a few words from the old guy cutting my hair.

“You gotta beautiful hair, you know that?”

“. . . thanks.”

I don’t have a pic of the haircut, so go ahead and call me an unprofessional journalist. I’m okay with that.

In other exciting developments, Ivan Basso has left the Discovery team. Why? Do you even have to ask? Come on. Let’s get real here. Basso knows that once he provides the authorities with a DNA sample (meaning they’re going to stick a Q-Tip in his mouth)--which it’s looking like he’s definitely going to have to do--that sample is going to prove a link between him, the evil Dr. Fuentes, and Operacion Puerto. With that said, Basso’s departure from the Discovery team seems like a preemptive strike on the team’s behalf, most likely coordinated by Johan Bruyneel. I can only imagine the talk Bruyneel must have given Basso: “If you’re going down, there isn’t a chance in hell we’re going down with you. And gain some weight, you skinny f#ck.”

What else? Oh, right. I did a fair amount of drinking this week, but it wasn’t my fault. On Tuesday, a few of us from the office had dinner with Univision.com (properly pronounced you-knee-viz-ee-ohne). Why we were having dinner with Univision is a whole other story, but we had to have something to wash down all those empanadas and quesadillas, so why not wash them down with pomegranate margaritas, right? After three or four of those, the night and my life in general felt a hell of a lot better. And what is it about drinking, or to be more accurate, tying on a buzz, that makes everything seem so important? It’s almost as if the evening becomes something of a film negative in that catching an early train and getting home to get a good night’s sleep for the next day’s presentation takes a backseat in favor of spending time thinking about and discussing all the bigger pictures in your life. Of course, the outcomes of those drunken discussions never tend to lead any place good, do they? You wake up the next morning and think, What the hell was I thinking?

Anyway, after the pomegranate margaritas, I stumbled my way to Grand Central Terminal and took this because I’m good like that:



The next night, I had a date. Yes, another goddam date. I’m in my mid-thirties and I’m dating. Wow. Fantastic. Great. Hurray for me.

Once again on my way to Grand Central Station after a few drinks, I took another pic:



Absolutely thrilling, isn’t it?

You know what I really want to know? I know I’m shifting gears here, but the bunch sprinters like Boonen, Freire, and McEwen--are they doping too? My understanding is that they take a dose of caffeine the size of a horse pill about ten kilometers from the finish line, but do those guys have the needles in their asses like the favorites? Can we get McEwen on the phone and ask him? I’d really like to know.

That’s it for now. Tomorrow I think I’m going to drive up to Bear Mountain and just do climbing repeats all morning: 4.5 miles up, 4.5 miles down, repeat. Sounds boring but I hear it’s effective. And if I take any more pics, trust me, you guys will be the first to know.

Up and Up and Up

On Saturday, I went out for a ride all by my lonesome up here in Westchester and every time I came to the foot of a climb (which seemed to happen about every three minutes) I backed off the gas and took it easy considering I had the number 87 looming in the back of my head. Why 87? Dr. Rob and Ed Dalton had called me earlier in the week and invited me to this morning’s George Washington Bridge < Bear Mountain < George Washington Bridge 87-mile ride.

At first glance you might think, “Christ, 87 miles? Are you nuts?” Maybe, but if the boys who invited me didn’t think I could finish the ride, they wouldn’t have invited me, and I appreciate that.

Despite the invite, I went ahead and did a Tom Boonen this morning, meaning I made a mess of things. First, during a downhill on a particularly nasty section of 9W, without fair warning, I squeezed by in the six inches between Anne and the shoulder. Normally, no big deal, but we were moving along pretty fast and due to the potholes we were avoiding, she could have bumped me and vice versa, which could have been a disaster.

That was bonehead move number one. Keep in mind I didn’t do it with the intention of being a bonehead--I saw a line and I simply went for it. As I’m significantly heavier than Anne, Ed, and Dr. Rob, I get rolling down hills faster than the rest of those guys, but that’s not an excuse. I should have waited and I didn’t, so again, bonehead move number one.

Let’s move on to bonehead moves number two and three, which weren’t so much sloppy riding, just sloppy conversation.

Five miles into the ride, Dr. Rob and I were having a laugh at the expense of one of our mutual friends when I said, “F#cking union guys.” On the surface, no big deal, right? Well, it’s not exactly the thing you say when you’re in the company of either (a) people who still work in a union, or (b) people who used to work union jobs.

Bonehead comment number three came at the bottom of Bear Mountain, just as I reached the end of the descent. At the top of the mountain, I took off as I always enjoy hanging it out on long, steep downhills, laying the bike over and railing it through the turns. When Dr. Rob caught up a few seconds later, I said, “Dude, you ride downhill slower than my grandmother.” I only said it because the only time I can actually put a few seconds on those guys is when we’re going downhill and while I don’t remember what he said in response, I think I struck something of a chord because with about twenty-five miles to go, Dr. Rob was gone, and I mean GONE. That dude starts his engine on those hills and disappears. No doubt Anne and Ed could have done the same (I have this nagging suspicion they kept the pace below their comfort zone today to make sure I made it all the way back to the bridge), but Dr. Rob left and never looked back.

Now that I’ve made good on all my jackass maneuvers today, let’s talk about the actual ride.

Long. Extremely long. That’s the key take-away. 87 miles is a long, long time to spend on the bike even when averaging 15 MPH.

And there was the Bear Mountain climb. It’s roughly 4.5 miles in length yet, in my head, I had it set as a 4.5 mile Hillside Terrace-like climb. To those of you unfamiliar with Staten Island, Hillside Terrace is a 0.25 or 0.50-mile climb that feels straight up when you’re actually trying to climb it, although if you put a gun to my head (don’t take that literally, Mr. Dalton), I’d say the actual gradient is somewhere between 12 to 15 percent. That may not sound like much, but when you’re standing on your pedals with the bike in the lowest gear and you can still only crank out 4 MPH, that means you’re on a bitch of a hill.

Bear Mountain, though, I think Bicycling magazine listed the average gradient at 4.5 percent and, while it felt a bit steeper (and actually was steeper in a few sections), it’s a manageable climb granted you settle into your own rhythm and don’t push it into the red zone.

At the start, as Anne passed me, she commented, “You look comfortable.”

I glanced toward the bottom bracket. “Compact crank.”

And that’s pretty much it. The only other thing I can say this morning’s ride is that when you hit the 50 to 55-mile mark, you hit some flat sections of 9W, which is misleading because you begin thinking to yourself, “I feel good. I think I can do this.” Then the next big hill comes along and halfway up your attitude changes quite fast. Once your calves start singing in pain that voice in your head changes it tune: “Okay, I was wrong. Big time. I so can’t do this. Somebody call a taxi.” Then you look up the road and Dr. Rob’s no longer even on the horizon and Ed’s glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there because if you’re not, everybody has to slow down their pace for your tired ass, and who wants to be that guy?

#

Here are some pics from the ride:

Leaving the GWB area, we took a park road off 9W unaware that the road had been closed due to some massive landslides, which left us with two options--go back and or big. We went big and did the cyclecross thing.





And then as soon as we got over the fallen trees and trekked through the mud, it was clean-cleaning time.



After the 4.5 mile climb to the top of Bear Mountain.







Then, ten miles from the finish line, we had a flat.

Bike Routes

Make sure you check out the link in the right-hand navigation bar. Just found a site with bike routes mapped against Google Maps. Seems interesting. Or simply check out www.bikely.com.

Breaking The Chain

Last week, I ordered a copy of Willy Voet’s Breaking the Chain--a short memoir written by a former soigneur (a glorified massage therapist) which speaks to the rampant drug use among the ranks of professional cyclists.

Voet’s story is relatively simple. As a long time soigneur workign with the Festina team, he was en route to a race and driving a car packed with performance-enhancing drugs (as opposed to drugs which don’t enhance performance) and I’m not talking about Red Bull or Monster Energy drink. This dude was rolling with a fair amount of human growth hormone, EPO, and steroids--everything the team doctor had been buying up for the riders. Unfortunately for Mr. Willy, he was stopped by customs agents and tossed in jail, all of which resulted in what’s commonly referred to as the 1998 Festina scandal.

(Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Rob was not a part of the Festina team during the late nineties. Just a quick FYI.)

While the writing is at times disconnected and a bit difficult to follow, the subject matter more than makes up for whatever faults Willy Voet has as a writer. According to the author, almost every one of the top professional cyclists are doped up, especially those who race the Grand tours. Voet even doped himself as a young amateur dabbling with amphetamines (and sadly relates how his father all but turned his back on him when he decided to quit doping and quit racing seriously, which, when you think about it, is kind of fucked up) and, to a certain degree, is able to relate to the mentality and state of mind of a a cyclist riding while super-charged. Basically, it lends the book a sense of credibility in addition to the fact that the man was responsible for sticking the HGH-filled needle in the asses belonging to plenty of professional riders.

What’s also interesting is when Voet elaborates on evading drug controls and tests. He points out that many of the doctors hired by the UCI to configure the drug tests are the same doctors employed by professional teams (or at least they were during Voet’s career) who help the riders avoid detection, which is the same as the government hiring Boeing to decide where the government should buy its planes (bad analogy, but work with me, it’s late on a Friday night and I drank too much Red Bull today). Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?

Ultimately, Voet suggests that cyclists don’t really consider it cheating when they stick a needle in their ass or pop a few capsules of steroids. Why would it be cheating if all your competitors are doing it? Personally, I believe this idea is supported if you watch the short press conference with Jan Ullrich just after he’s learned T-Mobile booted him from the 2006 Tour de France due to Operacion Puerto. Standing in front of the cameras, his eyes absently floating from one spot to another, Ullrich explains (among other things), “I’ve never done anything wrong.” As an outsider looking in, the concept may be difficult to swallow, but try putting yourself in the riders’ shoes. Your every day existence, your entire career, is cycling. You’re surrounded by teammates and other team personnel day after day after day. Despite what you understand of the rules of cycling, the rules by the book, almost all of the people around you are not just accepting, but requesting injections. They’re looking strong on the bike. You see this again and again and again so, after a while, after finding yourself submersed in this performance-enhancing culture, would you think of jumping on the bandwagon as doing something wrong? Sure, maybe at first, but what about a few months after that first shot of EPO? A few years? Of course, there are always the stories of the champions who forfeited their titles by readily admitting to drug use (think David Millar), but how many people in the world--let alone cyclists--can claim such honesty and integrity? Very few, amigos. Extremely few, actually, so I don’t want to hear anything along the lines of, “Well, if I were in that situation . . .” because you simply don’t know until you’ve been there and done that. I know I’ve hypothesized above, but given what we know about human nature and human greed (as a professional, going faster means possibly winning racers which means possibly making more money), I don’t think the above scenario is all too difficult to buy.

As a result, Breaking the Chain is an interesting read and highly recommended from yours truly.

Here It Is

My email address is okaysplendid@yahoo.com. In case anyone was wondering. Dr. Rob's been wondering.

Dr. Rob, Vito, & Taiko Drums

This weekend proved rather eventful with the actual events beginning Saturday morning (Friday evening I had nothing on my plate other than cleaning the bike and pumping some gas at the self-service station), yet rather than walk through a recap in chronological order, let’s work in reverse and start now (late Sunday afternoon), moving back to Saturday as we progress. Ready?

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.

#

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.")

Robbie McEwen Video

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ji_XcHvJvac

Can you tell I had too much sugar today?

And This One

You wouldn't assume she has a drinking problem, but she really does.

The New Blackberry Has A Camera

As if you couldn't tell? Here are some more pics of the raptors (miniature, flesh-eating prehistoric creatures) I work with:

The Rides

And rather than talk about the new bikes, I figured it'd work a lot easier if I simply uploaded some pics of the new rides. Genius, I know.

The Schedule

So here’s what I’m thinking for the next few days.

Tomorrow’s a rest day. I may hop on the trainer to do some light spinning considering I neglected to ride Wednesday night due to the Ranger’s game, but doing so really depends on whether or not anything more interesting comes up before taking the train home tomorrow evening.

Saturday, I think I’m going to hop on a B ride that leaves from Goldens Bridge which is a few miles north of here. Since I struggled with the B+ pace last week, maybe I won’t feel like I’m going to die by the end of this ride (maybe being the operative word there).

Oh, I forgot. Before leaving work tomorrow, I think I’ll join the USA Cycling organization so I can begin racing whenever and wherever. Right now, the plan is to start getting in Category 5 local races once the weather begins to improve, possibly by mid-May. I get the feeling that failing to join the USA Cycling organization wouldn’t be all that big of a deal when registering for races, although I know that eventually I’ll come into contact with some bureaucratic tool who won’t let me race if I’m not an existing member, so for the few bucks a year, it’s not worth the potential hassle.

And then on Sunday, the plan right now is to either (a) do some mountain biking if the weather holds out (and let’s pray to whoever we pray to that it does), or (b) drive up to Bear Mountain and spend a few hours killing myself on the long climb up there. While I’ve been riding all winter, it’s time to really kick myself in the ass to get ready for the rest of the spring and summer. If anybody has any interest in joining me up there, leave a comment and we’ll set it up.

Finally, what the hell is up with this guy?



I read about this kid not too long ago and what strikes me about him is the fact that he weighs all of ninety pounds or so. Have you ever seen a picture of this kid just walking along? Would somebody tell this kid to get the EPO needle out of his ass and give him a few Big Macs? I say EPO as, judging from his diminutive frame, the kid’s obviously not on the growth hormone regimen.

Despite Brajkovic’s lack of a single upper-body muscle, Team Discovery seems to be kicking some cycling ass since Leipheimer’s victory at the Tour of California. Since they’re losing Discovery as their title sponsor, Johan Bruyneel is probably taking it into his own hands to personally inject each of his team leaders with the performance-enhancing cocktails necessary to ensure they win some races, get some good PR coverage, and all but ensure they find another sponsor to cough up a few million to bankroll the 2008 season. Or perhaps Bruyneel simply pulled Brajkovic aside and explained, “Look, chicken wing, get out there and do what it is we pay you to do--win! And gain some weight, you skinny f#ck. I'm getting sick and tired of looking at you like that."

Rangers Win First Round of the Playoffs

Again, while absolutely unrelated to cycling, Mr. Picco and I attended game four of the NY Rangers - Atlanta Thrashers quarterfinals last night. For some time, the score sat at 2-2 until the Rangers put the puck in the net to make it 3-2. 18,000 fans went nuts and then, in the third period, Jagr scored an empty-netter, wrapping up the game at 4-2. Needless to say, everyone went nuts, including Mr. Picco.

Ms. Pinkberry

While utterly unrelated to cycling, below is a snapshot of the tool who sits next to me in the office:

My Fantastic Ability of Deduction

So last night, I'm on the trainer, sort of just hoping I won't experience any false shifting. I had actually written to Jamis over the weekend regarding the issue and they were about as much help as the jackasses who work in R&A.

Regardless, after five minutes of riding, I started having the same issue as always when I realized it was doing what it was doing because I had mis-shifted, meaning I was the source of the problem. What happened was this: upon shifting into a lower gear while on the trainer, I started experiencing the false shifting. Staring down at the cassette, I fingered the shifter for a taller gear. When nothing happened (other than the false shifting to stop), I realized the rear derailleur had only been doing what I had been telling it to do.

Problem solved. Finally.

Also, I keep reading about this 5 Boro Bike Tour and the more I read about how crowded it becomes, the less I feel like dealing with thousands of other bikers (and you know most of them are going to be those angry, shit-kicking girls with the short haircuts, the extra rolls, the all-men-are-assholes attitudes, and those "One Less Car" t-shirts heavy with armpit sweat). I've also heard through the grapvine--the grapevine being those team cyclists who invariably . . . well, I'm not even going to get into it--that unless you sort of cheat by skipping the starting area and just jumping out onto the course, it basically takes forever to reach Staten Island (the final borough in the five borough ride).

With that said, is anyone planning on the all-day cycling festival? If so, what's the plan, Stan?

Can I Get an Hallelujah?!

Judging from the overwhelming response to my previous post, it’s clear I’ve managed to capture the attention of hundreds of cyclists interested in reading my marvelous writings.

Okay, let’s move on.

Almost two months after having moved to Pleasantville from Brooklyn, I finally forked over the $20 to join the WCC--Westchester Cycling Club. Not that I’m tight (although I am), I had become so familiar with riding with the group on Staten Island every weekend that it became easy, but not in a physical sense. It became easy because I had grown familiar with (a) the names and faces, and (b) the actual route we ride every week. It’s the same idea as staying at the same job even though you know you could make more money with another company: rather than leave, you stick with what you know, and that’s what I had been doing until today.

Regardless, I joined WCC, spotted a B+ ride scheduled for this morning out of Katonah lead by Joe Gasperino (hopefully, Joe has no issues with the law and won’t mind to me referring to him by his full name online), and figured, “It’s time to do some group riding closer to home.”

Now, after having finished forty miles with Joe and those guys, the most important thing I can say is, what some people consider a B+ pace is not what other people consider a B+ pace. Don’t get me wrong--my intention is not to knock other guys with whom I’ve ridden in the past, but the B+ guys up here are serious.

That and there are too many hills around here.

Can you blame me for thinking I’d be all right in the B+ group considering my limited frame of reference? I’m not making excuses--those of you who know me should know that I have a serious aversion to (a) excuses, and (b) the kind of bullshit people toss around when they say things like, “Man, I’m not feeling too good today,” and then take off on their own after a few miles. All I’m saying is that in my simple mind I figured that if I could hang with the B+ guys on Staten Island, I hoped to at least keep up with a B+ group in Westchester.

Wrong.

As for the ride, there’s a street somewhere up here in Westchester called Keeler Avenue. It’s a street that, with any luck, I’ll never see again. For the Staten Island crowd, the ascent is similar to Hillside Terrace, but a hell of a lot more deceiving in that, just when you think you’ve reached the top, just when you look down and see your heart rate has reached 189, you glance up to see another fifteen-degree bitch of a rise, leaving you incapable of doing anything other than muttering the words, “Holy frigging Christ.”

Halfway up that last bitch of a hill, I lost any sense of pride I might have had at the beginning of the morning and unclipped. My intention was to reach for my cell phone and call 911 for the EMT crew, but when Joe passed me with a smile and a “Tough climb, huh?” I figured I’d walk my broken ass the fifty-feet or so to the top and then try to remount.

Luckily, Joe and the rest of the guys (Brian, Bud, Ken, Mike, Bill, and Patrick) were kind enough to wait for me at the turns, although the fact that riders I had just met had to stop and wait for me, well, that’s just plain embarrassing.

Still, it was a good morning, a good ride, and I look forward to my next crucifixion as soon as possible.

Answer Me This

I have a question for the more mechanically-inclined readers.

I’m having an issue when I hook up the new bike to my trainer. Not long after I begin pedaling, I’m experiencing some sporadic false shifting, meaning it both sounds and feels like I’m shifting, but the gear doesn’t actually shift.

With my pea-like brain, I’m assuming this is the result of either one of two things. First, because the frame is a lot less stiff than the aluminum frame I was riding, perhaps my weight is causing the frame to flex once I set the rear skewer in the trainer and that, in turn, is creating tension on the rear derailleur cable where it sits in the cable guide under the crank housing.

Any thoughts on that one?

Second, I was thinking it may have something to do with the tension where the trainer meets the skewer, although I tend to settle the connector (whatever that thing is called) against the skewer so that it doesn’t push the chain stays any closer together than they already are. Does that make sense? In other words, I don’t think the trainer is in any way pushing against the rear derailleur.

Any other thoughts? If anyone reads this in the next day or so and talk to Trek Tommy (again, my apologies, although I don’t know his last name), put the question to him and let me know. That dude seems to know everything about bike mechanics. If you happen to talk to him and remember to ask him the above, you can click on the little white envelope icon at the end of this post and shoot me an email. Or just call me at 718-619-1501. I’d appreciate that.

(Between you and me, I get the feeling the problem is related to number one above, the issue with the cable tension. If it is, I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to relieve the issue.)

Finally, I tried reading The Death of Marco Pantani by Matt Rendell, but after fifty pages, I gave up. When every other word is the name of some obscure Italian village or long Italian name, the reading gets a bit tedious after a while. In the event I ever find myself with absolutely nothing else to do--and I mean nothing--maybe I’ll pick it up again, but until then, Mr. Pantani’s biography is going to have to wait.

Easter Sunday

Dr. Rob put a beating on everybody today, or he put a beating on me, at least.

Rolling out of bed this morning, I all but forgot that today’s Easter Sunday, so when I arrived at the parking lot in New Dorp, I expected to find a bigger crew than I did. By 8:35, three of us hit the road: Dr. Rob, Joe, and me. On Fr. Cappodanno, we picked up Horace and Dr. Rob’s friend, Greg (always distinguished in his bright red Saeco tights).

So that made for a five-man team and considering the wind this morning (aptly described as “hellacious” by Dr. Rob), I expected a strong yet manageable ride. Dr. Rob, though, he had other plans.

Once we hit Front Street, Dr. Rob took the lead position and began pedaling hellaciously. Sitting on his wheel, my heart rate already jacked up, I thought, If he can keep this up the entire ride, good for him, but god knows I’ll be in the back hanging on for dear life by the time we reach Bay Street.

Dr. Rob, though, he rides the way I expect most other serious cyclists ride: he takes his turn up front, does what he can do, and then pulls aside to let the next guy in line do some work.

That lasted for about six minutes. Dr. Rob did some work, I did some work, Joe did some work, Horace took a pull, and then Greg got up front and stayed there way too long. Regardless, the first rotation was almost flawless. When it came time for the second rotation, Dr. Rob did his thing, I did my thing, and then when I drifted back, Horace drifted back with me, leaving Joe and Greg in the wind. Then Dr. Rob jumped up front and I followed and once Joe had been up front for a few minutes, I hopped in front and then Dr. Rob hopped in front of me and it was just a frigging mess for the rest of the ride and the reason I say Dr. Rob put a beating on me today is that the dude had his face in the wind almost all day. Even out on Richmond Avenue, I was busting my ass to stay on his wheel and then, when he pulled aside, I was unable to lift my pace the 2-3 miles-per-hour more to keep the line steady. Dr. Rob looked at me and I looked back and if I had the air in my lungs, I would have said, “This is all I got right now.” A minute or so later, still sitting on Dr. Rob’s wheel, I sat up and let Horace and Joe go by. Horace stood on the pedals, but just to get up to Dr. Rob’s wheel. Luckily, I was able to keep those guys in sight, but they quickly put twenty or so seconds on me, while Greg had fallen so far behind I couldn’t even see the guy any more.

And that was that. Dr. Rob went back for Greg, so Joe and I relaxed while Horace took off on his own. After slow-pedaling our way down Arthur Kill to the service road, Dr. Rob and Greg were still nowhere to be seen, so Joe and I picked up the pace on our own, once again into the frigging wind.

Goddam wind.

Reaching the bagel shop, we had Horace ahead by thirty seconds or so and as much as I wanted to at least make the effort to catch him, I asked Joe to pull over for a minute so I could shove a few Fig Newtons down my throat as I hadn’t eaten since 6:30 and my hands and arms were beginning to feel a bit shaky. As we caught a quick rest and I munched, Joe explained he doesn’t eat before the morning rides. How in the world he goes out and does forty-five miles without any breakfast is beyond me.

It was good that we stopped, though. Dr. Rob and Greg caught up and we rolled. Not far past the bagel shop, some lady rode up on Dr. Rob’s ass and honked (not at his ass--at him) and Dr. Rob flew into a fit. It was just one of those things. I flew into a fit myself a few weeks ago when a fat bastard in a SUV tried honking me out of the way on Bay Street. Absolutely infuriated me, so I can understand why Dr. Rob was still screaming by the time we hit Main Street and the bitch in her BMW was long gone.

And once we hit the boulevard, the wind was finally at our backs. Horace was gone so the four of us cruised until Great Kills where, once again, Dr. Rob began hammering.

Unbelievable.

They're Here

My bikes, they finally arrived on Tuesday. “They’ll be ready Thursday,” Paulo had said, Paulo from Julio Bicycle, so I picked them up yesterday. When I first walked in--after having left the office at 2:30 as I could no longer contain my enthusiasm--I stepped up to the counter with a ridiculous grin on my face and said hello to Willey.

“I’m here to pick up my bikes,” I said. “The Jamis bikes.”

Willey frowned. “What bikes?”

As I opened my mouth to inhale, ready to inform Willey that he and his colleagues did indeed have a pair of Jamis bikes somewhere in his shop, fully assembled and waiting for your truly, Willey then nodded, smiled, and pointed toward the other side of the shop. “Right over there.”

I turned, my eyes immediately focusing in on my brand-spanking new 2007 Jamis Xenith Comp, its carbon fiber frame a beautiful mix of black and chrome, the Shimano 105 drive train calling my name, begging me to shift, the Easton handle bars and carbon fiber seat post waving hello, and finally, the Selle San Marco Ponza saddle, all but ready to support my monkey-thin butt cheeks.

Grabbing the stem and the saddle, I lifted the bike a few inches off the floor, testing its weight. While not as light as a $5,000 Cervelo, my new Jamis was considerably lighter than the aluminum Giant I’ve been riding the past nine months.

Taking a deep breath and returning the bike to the floor, I thought, I haven’t been this excited in a long time.

Just behind the new road bike stood the new mountain bike, a grey-framed Dakar XCR Comp with R-Seven fork, Fox shock, Avid Juicy 3 disc brakes, Shimano XT rear derailleur, Mavic wheels, and Maxxis knobbies. Since I know so little about mountain bikes--and road bikes, too, now that I’m thinking about it--that’s about as much as I can tell you.

After paying Willey & Paulo for their services rendered, I returned home, stashed the mountain bike in my bedroom, and carried the new road bike to the basement where I began transferring the water bottle cage, pedals, and frame pump from the Giant to the Xenith. Finished, I was running up the stairs when I happened to glance out the window to see snow falling.

How’s that for bad luck? On the same damn day I bring home a pair of new bikes, it begins to snow outside. Could my timing have been any lousier?

Screw it, I thought, continuing to change into my riding gear. If it doesn’t stop snowing by the time I’m ready to go, I’ll just sit by the window and wait until it does stop.

Fortunately, the snow quit by the time I pulled on my jacket, so I carried the new bike down the front steps, threw a leg over the frame, clipped in my right foot, and took off.

Twenty feet later, I stopped. The saddle was much too low, so removing my trusty allen key from my pocket, I pulled the seat post up about two inches, tightened the bolts, and got back on--perfect.

Well, not perfect. The Giant I had been riding was technically a “sports touring” bike, while the Jamis is more of a racing bike, meaning my butt feels a lot farther back than it did on the Giant. That’s fine as it pushes me into a more aerodynamic position, although it took a few minutes to get comfortable with the new feel.

Ultimately, though, the new bike is a huge change for the better. Considering the drive train is all 105 (except the rear derailleur, which is an Ultegra . . . did I say that already?), it shifts a hell of a lot smoother than the shifting I’ve been doing. The brakes are 105s too, so that’s a huge improvement. The bike’s lighter, but it also feels lighter when climbing and it feels just as good as the aluminum frame did during the few sprints I put together while out on the road yesterday.

And that’s it. I’ve only spent a little over an hour on the new bitch, but so far, so good.

Tomorrow, granted it doesn’t snow (goddam f#cking snow--see my previous post, Enough Already), I’m expecting Mr. Picco to arrive here in Pleasantville for a few hours of mountain biking in Graham Hills Park, which is only 2-3 miles from my place.

Did I miss anything? No, I think that’s it. Another fantastically boring post for you.

Two Things

First, I got Paulo on the line today--Paulo from Julio Bicycle (and that’s not a typo--it’s not Julio’s Bicycle, it’s just Julio Bicycle without the ‘s). My bikes have arrived and they’re assembling them as we speak. If you’re at all wondering what the 2007 Jamis Xenith Comp looks like, check it out via the below link:

http://www.jamisbikes.com/usa/bikes/07_bikes/xenithcompsl.html

Second, I caught an update on Velonews.com just before I left work this evening that Spanish authorities associated with Operacion Puerto have linked Jan Ullrich’s DNA to a few of the bags of blood and plasma found in Dr. Fuentes’s offices.

That’s huge. All this time, Ullrich’s been telling the press, “I’ve never cheated.” Clearly, Jan, you have been cheating. Of course, there’s the chance that whoever performed the DNA test did so incorrectly, although I’m sure whoever that person was double-checked prior to releasing such a statement.

And this isn’t a urine sample we’re discussing. My understanding is that the DNA tests are solid in that they leave a hell of a lot less room for error than standard drug tests.

At the same time, though, I think most sensible, rational fans are aware that when any of the top cyclists across the world make blanket statements such as, “I don’t dope,” or, “I’ve never doped,” they’re saying that simply because (a) they’d lose their jobs if they didn’t say it, (b) there’s a chance they may spend some time in prison if they didn’t say it, and (c) that’s just what cyclists do--deny, deny, deny. Actually, all doping athletes have a tendency to deny, but it seems to be these anemic-thin cyclists who do it the most. (With so much growth hormone in their veins, you think a few of them might develop a bicep or two.) It also seems like so many rabid cyclist fans are the first to bury their heads in the sand when it comes to doping. I say that as I’ve come across more than enough die-hard Armstrong fans online who have ripped me apart after suggesting Armstrong doped. I believe I made mention of this within a previous post, but I once put forth something to the effect of, “Considering Armstrong’s athleticism and fanatical training, is it possible he won seven tours naturally? Indeed, it is. Yet, is it likely? Not really.”

Once that hit the message boards, plenty of yokels had it in for me, which is why I say the cyclists fans all too often stick their heads in the sand and refuse to accept reason. If all the guys who openly embrace clean racing and who willingly provide whatever blood, urine, and DNA samples are required are the same guys who get spit out the back of the peloton the minute the Tour reaches the mountains, what does that say about guys like Floyd Landis, Jan Ullrich, Lance Armstrong, and Ivan Basso? Are they truly that gifted?

Probably not.

Another Short Note

I was in Vegas late last week, which is why I failed to show up for either the Saturday or Sunday rides on Staten Island this week--just too damned tired after having arrived home at almost three in the morning on Saturday. I was out there in the desert for a business meeting and the conference kicked off with the following video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gmP4nk0EOE

Cool, right?

Further, while in Vegas, we came across a midget in a green tux:



I was under the mistaken impression that perhaps a midget in a green tux would be lucky, although I ended the night $200 in the hole. Maybe it's Chinese midgets that are lucky. I could very well have the two mixed up.

A Kid On Christmas

Does anyone else suffer from impatience the way I do? I ask as, after speaking with a rep from Jamis bikes during the middle of last week, this same rep expressed the bike shop to which I’m having my brand-spanking new bikes shipped should have received them by today at the latest.

“We’re in Jersey,” the rep told me. This was last Thursday. “They’re going out today and if they don’t get them tomorrow, they should have them by Monday the latest.”

Go ahead and call me hopeful, but I dropped in the shop--Julio Bicycle in Chappaqua--on Saturday for two reasons. First, I needed more spokes after having broken two spokes on two separate rides last week. As a result, I can now change a spoke and true a wheel in under fifteen minutes. Second, I was under the crazy impression that perhaps I would walk in the shop and find my new Xenith Comp road bike and Dakar XCR Comp mountain bike sitting in the back of the shop waiting for me to take them home.

Of course, no such luck.

Either way, there are a few reasons why I’m having the bikes shipped to Julio’s. First, the place is only two miles from my place here in Pleasantville. Further, the guys who run the joint are extremely cool. I had called in advance to let them know to expect the bikes to arrive, but still, they’re yet to take delivery.

(I would have had them sent to Conrad’s, but Mr. Sang charges $150 to have a bike assembled upon delivery where Julio and his guys only charge $69, which is something of a no-brainer, isn’t it?)

Repeating the Jamis rep’s words in my head, I called Julio’s again this afternoon and talked to Willey. “I talked to Paulo on Saturday,” I said, explaining the situation.

“Let me talk to him and have him call you back,” Willey said.

Of course, Paulo didn’t call back, which I’m assuming means my new bikes still haven’t arrived.

If I don’t hear from Paulo or Willey by tomorrow, the rep at Jamis gets another call from yours truly to see what’s up. I would have to imagine that these shipments require signatures upon delivery, so the last thing I want to hear is that the bikes were shipped but no one knows where they are. Admittedly, my imagination often jumps to the worst possible scenario, and while I doubt that’s going to happen, I need to plan for such a scenario.

Chances are the bikes will show up some time this week and be ready for me by Friday or Saturday the latest. Further, do I need a brand-spanking new bike tonight considering my only plans are to ride the trainer in the basement? Not at all, although that’s not the point. The point is, when you spend a lot of money on something, something practical that you’re going to use, you want to use it right away, and for me, right away means three days ago. The fact that Jamis said the shop would have the bikes by today and they still don’t have them is doing nothing short of driving me up a frigging wall.

I’m sure you can understand, but then again, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re the kind of rational, patient person I should be and, if you are, I take my hat off to you, kind sir.

At the end of the day, I just want my bikes. I paid for them and the fact that mail service takes a few days is completely regardless. I want ‘em and I want ‘em now.

Small Change

I believe I've revised the settings on this page so anyone can leave comments as opposed to only registered members, so it no longer has to be a boring, one-way conversation. You now have the chance to tear me up via the comments field. Also, I've been somewhat delinquent in posting anything new as I was in Vegas for most of last week for business, but I should have something new and exciting up shortly. Well, maybe not exciting, but at least it'll be new.

Also, if you click on the tiny mail icon below, you can email the post to a friend. Not that you will, but in the event you want to . . .

Steak and Strangers

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.

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.

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.

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?

The Big Dogs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good job, Steve-o. Real good.

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

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

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

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

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

Movin' On Up

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

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

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

Just kidding, again.

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

$500 or $5,000?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read Between the Lines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friend of yours?” Joe asked.

“Probably,” Ed said.

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