Poughkeepsie Critierium

Another big race this morning, or big for me, at least. I had a choice between racing in Prospect Park for the second time this season or trying something different in Poughkeepsie. For those of you who live south of Westchester (which is probably all three people who read this page once every few months), Poughkeepsie probably sounds like a long haul for a bicycle race, but it’s only fifty miles from Pleasantville, so I figured I’d give it a shot.

Big mistake. Huge. Gross tactical error, although I’ll take my beating like a man. At nine this morning, roughly twenty Category 5 riders handed me my ass in a 20-lap criterium in downtown Poughkeepsie.

About a month ago, I raced Category 5 in Prospect Park and did well enough to stay with the main / lead group for the entire seventeen miles. After a year or riding and training, I was happy with that, so I felt good about doing well again today up in Poughkeepsie. I trained hard all week and expected things to go well this morning, yet as I stood on the line waiting for the race organizer to finish his speech, I noticed almost all of the other riders around me not only sporting team kits, but shaved legs as well. Maybe that’s how they roll up here in Putnam County, I thought, eyeballing the Sasquatch-thick fur covering my own legs. Maybe that’s just how these guys roll.

Clearly, I was kidding myself. The race in Poughkeepsie turned out to be a far cry from your standard Prospect Park criterium where the organizers (whoever they are) set up a table on the side of the road and use a bullhorn that needed new batteries in 1985. I’m joking, but apparently in Poughkeepsie, when these Putnam Country organizers roll, they roll big. (If I use the term roll one more time in the course of this update, feel free to slap me right across the face.) Take a look at the Start / Finish line below:



The organizers had an open-sided trailer upon which they sat during the course of the race. They had set up bleachers across the street for spectators. They had porta-a-pottys. They had a hospitality table set up under a tent. Around the mile-long course, they had not only piled hay bales around the poles in each corner, but they zip-tied squares of plywood over all the sewer grates to ensure no one’s wheel got caught up. And you know that orange plastic fencing they use at construction sites? They wrapped the outside of each corner with that stuff to ensure none of us went slamming through any storefronts if we overshot a turn.

I mean, these guys were taking their shit seriously. While warming up, I had to swerve around more than a few street cleaners as they went over every inch of pavement on the course.

As I said, the organization behind this criterium was rather serious, so the team kits, the shaved legs, and the expensive aero rims really should not have surprised me. I shouldn’t have been surprised one bit, but what was I going to do? Myself, I don’t see much point in going to line and thinking anything other than, I’m the baddest motherf*cker out here. If you can get yourself in that mind frame (or something similar), at least you’re going out there with confidence and based on what I saw in my first true criterium, you’re going to need some confidence when negotiating 45-degree corners at 22 MPH surrounded on all sides.

When the whistle blew, the sprinting began. In the space of two laps, I quickly learned how important it is to stay near the front as the pack approaches each turn considering once the first few riders cut through the corner, everyone hammers on the pedals to get the speed up again. With that said, I used the tailwind on the back stretch to jump out of the draft and position myself within the top ten and sat there for the next two or three laps. The accelerations out of the corners were taking their toll on my lungs, as was the headwind on the finish line stretch, although the group seemed to take a breather for a few seconds each time we had the wind behind us so I figured we’d settle in until the last lap or two.

Another gross tactical error. It was around lap six or seven that the pace shot up a few miles-per-hour. Someone must have took the lead and decided to shake things up a bit because until that point, things were tough yet manageable. With my heart rate already up to 185 - 190, the pack just spit me out the back and left me for dead.

How embarrassing.

Actually, a big guy (wearing a team kit, of course) who must have dropped back initially came barreling by a few seconds later. Hopping on his wheel, I proposed we work together to see what we could do, but after two laps of sitting behind He-Man, I told him I was doing everything I could just to stay with him and let him go off on his own.

And that was it. I sat in no-man’s land all by myself for a few laps and the worst part about the rest of the race wasn’t getting lapped. Rather, the worst part about going out and getting dropped on that kind of a course is when people clap and cheer as you’re passing the bleachers. I know they mean well, and encouragement should always be considered a good thing, but I knew that they knew that I had been dropped, and when I get dropped, I’d prefer invisibility. It’s surprising more bikes don’t come equipped with reliable cloaking devices for such situations.

With one lap to go, I rolled up next to a guy who had been dropped before I had been dropped. I was a lap down and he was two laps down, so rather than bust our asses to get over the line, we put the pace on cruise control and chatted for a minute. He had driven up with a friend from Virginia Beach, which struck me as a long-ass ride for a 20-lap race, but he did mention a night out in Manhattan tonight, so who can blame a few southern boys for wanting to hit the Big Apple for an evening?

Changing out of my riding gear, I rode back to the Start / Finish line to (a) check my placing, which was 14th out of 17, and (b) snap off some more pics as the Category 4 riders were getting started.





P.S. I witnessed another crash this morning, this one fifty feet ahead of me in the middle of a corner. Both of the guys who went down seemed all right as I rode by, but golly, for such light machines, bikes make a hell of a lot of noise when they hit pavement.

P.S.S. And if it wasn’t for those two guys who crashed, I would have finished 16th out of 17.

Again, how embarrassing.

From Lance to Landis

About a week after Floyd Landis’s book hit the shelves, the Irish sports journalist David Walsh released From Lance to Landis: Inside the American Doping Controversy at the Tour de France. A day or two after it came out, I took another trip down to the Strand in Union Square and picked up a copy of the hardcover for the low, low bargain price of $12.97.

Understandably, I realize my previous book reviews tend to be a bit long-winded (because I feel it’s important that if you’re going to review a book, you might as well support the review with actual information), so I’m going to attempt to spare everyone from dozing off while I do this.

When it comes to this read, my humble opinion is, if you’re at all interested in the professional side to cycling, go out and buy the book. It’s almost long at 334 pages, but those 334 pages are interesting pages. Will the book convince you that both Lance Armstrong and Floyd Landis have doped (meaning they cheated) during their professional careers? I believe it will. It sheds a lot of light on their individual careers, although most of the book is dedicated to investigating Armstrong.

For example, the book starts out by highlighting the early career of a teen cyclist by the name of Greg Strock. The kid had talent, rode for the national team, and then was doing amateur stuff overseas while working with a Belgian trainer and his buddy soigneur who gave the kid lots of injections along the way. Eventually, Strock became way too sick and stayed that way long enough so that he returned to the States. When his doctors here in the US figured out what it was, they realized it was something that almost everyone gets at one point in his or her life (think of it as something like a cold), but it affected Strock so much worse than usual--exhausted all the time, constantly sleeping, joint and hip pain, etc--that it basically ended his cycling career.

So why does David Walsh open with a chapter about a guy you’ve never heard of? Because while Greg Strock was a year younger than Lance Armstrong, they were both riding for Chris Carmichael on the national team at the same time. Armstrong was on the A team and Strock was on the B team. They rode under similar supervision for years and later, once Strock was sick and decided against a future in cycling, it’s noted that his condition, as serious as i was, typically produces a high incidence to testicular cancer in other men who have suffered the same condition.

It’s not hard to put two and two together.

Then, while it’s circumstantial, there is evidence that is quiet damning. Frankie Andreu, Armstrong’s former teammate on the Motorola and US Postal teams, makes this statement: “God knows what happened during that winter, but Lance came back the spring of ’96 and he was frickin’ huge. He looked like a linebacker. It was ‘Holy sh*t, man, he is big.’ Obviously, we all noticed it and he knew we did. He said something about [Dr. Michele] Ferrari not realizing the effect the weight room was going to have . . . but with Lance it was more than just seeing him big. I mean, he was big, but he could now rip the cranks off the bike like never before.”

Dr. Michele Ferrari is the Italian sports doctor who I believe is now in jail for helping athletes dope. Maybe he’s not in jail, although I do know an Italian court found him guilty of unethical practices in his dealings with athletes. And this is the doctor Lance chose to hire after a few seasons in the early ‘90s after EPO hit the peloton. Walsh explains that it was mostly the Italian teams doing it and they were destroying everyone, including Armstrong and his teammates. The rest of the riders knew what was going on, but most of the team doctors, especially on Motorola, weren’t advocating that kind of “medical program” for their riders. But then Lance hooks up with Ferrari and he starts trouncing everyone . . . convincingly.

The list goes on and on. In the end, the evidence is circumstantial and based mostly on depositions during civil lawsuits, testimony provided by Lance’s former teammates, his former soigneur, and others who have contact with him within the realm of professional cycling.

It’s also interesting to note that during a deposition, an instant message conversation between Frankie Andreu and Jonathan Vaughters was entered as evidence. During the conversation between the two former teammates, Vaughters explains to Andreu that Landis told him that on the second rest day of the 2004 Tour de France, both Armstrong and the team’s director, Johan Bruyneel, called Landis to the bathroom so he could watch as the two men flushed his blood refill down the toilet.

By that point in the race, Landis had already signed with the Phonak team for 2005 and if anyone isn’t aware, Armstrong never handled defections from his team in a very professional manner. So if Armstrong was confident he could win the Tour that year without a ton of help from Landis, why not mess with him a bit?

If you ask me, it’s all rather f*cked up, yet somehow believable at the same time.

Again, it’s a good book. Well worth the time to read it.

And apparently it’s impossible for me to write a review under 850 words. That’s my bad.

Group Riding Basics

Get this. We’re all of five or ten miles into a B ride in Westchester this morning and already the group of twenty-something riders has split. I’ve noticed this tends to happen on B rides on those mornings when no one’s scheduled a B+ ride. What happens is, all these people show up for a B ride and within minutes, those guys who you know can hold a B+/A- pace just go off the front, and that’s exactly what happened not long after we left the parking lot at 8:30 this morning.

Then, not long after the group split, this one guy decides to hit the gas on a long downhill, so most of us grab his wheel once the downhill turns into a flat. We reach a short hill and still we stay behind the same guy who went nuts going down the last hill, but on the next hill, that same guy seems to be running out of steam, so most of us go right around him. Reaching the top of the hill, I didn’t see much point in slowing down to wait for anybody and neither did the other guys behind me, yet a few minutes later, I hear a voice behind me and this particular voice--it’s a woman’s voice, mind you--is all but yelling at me for dropping so-and-so after he so graciously pulled us all along.

I turn around and there’s this woman behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses and she’s pointing her chin straight at me.

“You mean the guy with the red bike?” I ask. I know what she’s saying and I know who she’s talking about because there’s only one guy in the group who’s gone way so far off the front.

Rather than answer my question, she says, “Now I’m going to sit on your wheel and let you pull me around the next thirty miles.”

I guess this is supposed to be something of a threat, but it’s Sunday morning and I left my anger management toolbox at home. I’ve got half a mind to stop, fish my cell phone from my bag, and give Dr. Rob a call and ask him what “Martha” looks like (I’ve never met Martha, although I’ve heard the name on various SIBA rides).

Considering I don’t really know this woman from a hole in the wall (and I would have been content if she remained in anonymous status), getting on my case because I don’t wait for some guy who likes to blast down hills but can’t hold the pace when we’re going up the same hills sort of brings out the motocrosser / asshole in me, meaning I’ve got half a mind to toss in a brake check just to f*ck with her. I won’t, of course, but one of the things I’ve learned from the Staten Island crew is that if you’re going to go screeching downhill, you might as well have the balls to keep your speed up when you start heading the other way. Otherwise, you kind of look like a jackass (as I certainly have in the past), so glancing back, I extend an invitation. “You want to sit on my wheel, lady, you be my guest.”

“Don’t hit too many holes.”

Now she’s pushing buttons. “I don’t hit the holes--just follow my f*cking line.” And shut the hell up, I wanted to add, but what good does it do to get angry?

A few miles go by, I’m on the front and as soon as we reach the next downhill, guess who goes blowing by? And I don’t mean he charges to the front and gives me a break. If I was in the front doing 20 MPH, this guy goes by at 25 MPH and just keeps going . . . until we get to the next hill.

Eventually the pack slows down as we’re making a turn and I let the little lady go by. A few seconds later, just as we start going uphill again, I pull up next to her.

“What were you complaining about?” Before she can answer, I follow that up with, “What?”

She tried explaining that if Mr. Downhill is going to have the decency to pull us along for a while, we should at least have the common courtesy to wait for Mr. Downhill when we reach the top of an uphill.

“Well, for starters, I wouldn’t call what he does pulling considering no one’s on his wheel,” I say. Mr. Downhill is only a few feet ahead of us, so I’m hoping he’s getting an earful. “Second, no one asked him to go charging to the front. No one told him to put his nose in the wind. He can sit in the draft as long as he likes, but if he’s going to go nuts on every downhill while the rest of us save a bit for the hills and he gets dropped, that’s not my problem.”

Then, just to be a dick, I stayed right on her wheel as she stayed on Mr. Downhill’s wheel. Halfway up the next hill, me and everybody else pulled around them and just kept going, yet sure enough, once we reached the top and started drifting downhill and I sat up to let the rest of the group catch, guess who went barreling past me until the next hill?

From now on, I’m leading my own rides. If I get lucky, all of three or four guys will show up, so I won’t have to deal with the kind of stuff I had to put up with this morning. I looked at one of the guys next to me, this guy Glen I had met a few weeks earlier, and asked, “Why am I getting yelled at because someone else can’t keep up?”

Later, to cap off an obviously perfect afternoon, I drove to the other side of Pleasantville to attend my first-ever session with a mental health professional. I know, it’s hard to believe I’m as angry as I am, but it’s true. Figured it was high time to talk to a professional to figure out what the problem is, so I make the appointment, show up a few minutes early, and when I ring the doorbell, I hear a window slide open and someone say, “What time is your appointment?”

“3:30,” I answer.

“You’re ten minutes early. Wait outside.”

“No problem,” I said. Walking back to my truck, I got in, turned around, and flipped the doctor the bird when he opened the door and waved to me.

I need attitude from some jackhole psychiatrist when there are a million of them out there I can go see? I think not.

1-Year Anniversary

It was exactly a year ago today that I walked into R&A in Brooklyn with Mr. Picco and bought my very first bicycle (not counting the BMX stuff when I was a teenager), the blue Giant OCR2 sports touring bike, for $600, water bottle cage included. From there, Mr. Picco and I drove the few blocks to Prospect Park for a few laps, spinning through the tons of foot traffic carrying coolers and beach chairs on their way to Independence Day cook-outs. Little did I know at the time that in the space of another two months, I would move to Brooklyn Heights and spend almost every day riding in Prospect Park, enough so that I’m now intimately familiar with every inch of that damn 3.4 mile loop.

A lot happens over the course of a year. I had been riding barely a month when I was dense enough to try and race in Prospect Park. In hindsight, it might have been one of the best things I could have done so early in my riding career. Those seventeen miles were quick to prove just how far I still had to go on the bike and, rather than demoralize me, rather than turn me off from the sport, the experience only served as motivation.

Not long afterward, the fall arrived and weather began to turn, meaning it was time to begin investing in things long-sleeve jerseys, tights, wool socks, booties, and a garish neon yellow windbreaker that would eventually fail me on a chilly day all the way out near JFK airport, although it turned out as a good thing as its failure (failure as in the zipper on the removable sleeve came undone) forced me to buy my first piece of Pearl Izumi apparel, a much more aesthetically pleasing black and silver winter jacket. Pleased with its quality, I now invest almost exclusively in Pearl Izumi apparel.

It was probably not long before that afternoon that I ordered a copy of Chris Carmichael’s training book, The Ultimate Ride. At the same time, I bought a heart rate monitor, did my first set of field tests (3-mile time trials), and began training within a specific heart rate zone while incorporating sprints and fast-pedal exercises.

That was when I still lived in Brooklyn. At the end of October (I realize the chronological order here is somewhat screwed up, but I just returned from mountain biking and I’m struggling to fend off a nap as I write this, so please, reader, bear with me), Mr. Picco hosted a terrific Oktoberfest party in his yard and it was then that I met Mr. Dr. Rob. Toward the end of the night, he mentioned a 100K training ride he had planned in Cheesequake the following day. I should have realized I was getting in way over my head by the way Dr. Rob sort of paused and smiled when I asked if I could tag along. A smarter man would have immediately picked up on the signal and took a rain check for another day, maybe after putting some more miles in his legs, but you know Dr. Rob, he’s a nice guy, so I got the invite regardless. I showed up, met Dr. Rob, Anne, Brent, and Joe C. and by the time we hit those three consecutive hills, I fell right out the back, thinking to myself, You are WAY out of your league here, kiddo.

Maybe two or three months later, after Dr. Rob introduced me to Ed Dalton and the SIBA group, Mr. Dalton invited me on the Cheesequake ride, to which I replied, “Honestly, I’m kind of scared of that ride.” And I was scared of the ride, the hills, the lactic acid that I knew would build up and stay in my legs as everyone just blasted away up every hill we encountered.

And instead of packing it in and taking off for a few months, we rode through the winter--long yet somewhat manageable training rides in Staten Island. Rides that started off with freezing fingers then ended up with okay fingers but freezing feet. And the hill climb ride on a Thursday morning, just Ed and I, avoiding patches of ice as we crossed over Rockland Avenue and worked our way up Manor Road to Ocean Terrace.

In mid-winter came a move to Pleasantville in Westchester yet instead of hitting the roads, I hit the trainer in the basement until the snow began to clear. Soon I bought a new bike, the Jamis I ride now and the switch from aluminum to carbon fiber was definitely a switch for the better considering the number of spokes I broke on the Giant’s rear wheel.

As soon as the temperature began to lift somewhat, I put the trainer away in favor of the roads yet riding through unfamiliar territory proved a major pain in the ass. Reaching the bottom of a hill, I had no idea how long the incline might continue, so I struggled and swore under my breath every time I came around a corner to see the hill heading up another quarter of a mile. Soon, though, the roads became more familiar, as did the sights, so now I know when to push and when to settle in to a friendly, seven mile-per-hour pace.

A month ago, my first time trial. Nothing too long, only eleven miles, but enough test myself. Averaging just under twenty miles-per-hour, I again realize how far I still need to go until my legs can handle more of a beating and get the bike going faster.

Two weeks after that, the second race of the year, a return to Prospect Park and since that experience has already been dissected and discussed, not much need to go there again.

And now here I sit, a year come and gone.

Name That Quote

Let’s play Name That Quote, meaning take a guess who said the following:

“God forbid anything happened to my wife, I think I’d get myself a little [derogatory term used in reference to a homosexual man]: someone to cook and clean around the house and, if he ever left, what the f*ck would I care?”

Do I even have to put a name to the quote? I think for most of you, the answer to that question is obvious, yet I titled this updated Name That Quote not just for that single quote, but to shed some light into what it’s like riding with some of the crew from the Staten Island Bicycling Association. And I’m not talking about the guys who show up every once in a while who aren’t really associated with the club. I’m talking about the guys who are there week after week and have been there week after week for years upon years.

Anyway, Name That Quote is a fun game to play, especially after a long yet terrific four-hour ride that both started and ended in Cheesequake on this beautiful morning (the kind of morning that reminds you just how sweet life can be when you’re with friends doing something you want to be doing under a perfect blue sky) with a small, select group. While the wind did pick up at certain times, I was only privy to snatches of conversation here and there, but I got enough to develop a sense of the overall tone. For example, here’s another one that references a wife:

“. . . it’s the psychological torture that drives me crazy. I’d actually prefer it if she just punched me in the face.”

Someone replied, “It’d be quicker.”

Ten minutes later I heard this one:

“So last night I’m sitting on the couch watching TV when my wife says, ‘We never go on dates any more.’ I’m sitting there thinking, ‘We’ve been married thirty-four years--why the hell would we go on a date?’ so I said to her, ‘Where we going with this?’”

And then there are the references to marriage as it relates to cycling.

“Every Saturday night my wife asks me, ‘You’re going riding tomorrow?’ as if it’s some sort of surprise. We’ve been living together for X-number of years and I’ve got the bike in the living room, the bike stand in the basement, the bike magazines on the coffee table, the jerseys in the closet, and I’m sitting there watching a bike race on TV. What the hell am I hiding?”

This is why I never spend money on comedy clubs. Sure, it cost me a couple bucks in gas to get from Pleasantville to Staten Island (or Cheesequake), but that’s not just gas money. It’s not even the comic value. At the end of the day, it’s terrific material for this, the blog in addition to comic value. I mean, who wouldn’t want to ride with these guys? I can tell you it’s not like that up here in Westchester. Speaking of which, what I should do is invite the SIBA crew to join one of the Westchester Cycling Club group rides so the guys up here can see just how interesting a 50-mile ride can be, hills and all.

Corey Martinez Video

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.

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.

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?

Finally Took the Camera & Pointed It At Me

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.

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?

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.

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.

Jens Voigt Video Clip

Check out Jens Voigt getting all worked up. Interesting.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

This Kid Has Balance

Mountain Bike Video (:16)

Stunt of the Century

Stunt of the Century 2

Freeriding

Insane Motorcycle Crash

Time Trial at Floyd Bennett Field

It's this Sunday, June 3rd. And they have a Cannibal category (as I don't have a TT bike or aero bars) which I've entered. 8 AM start times. Just over 11 miles. $15 registration fee. I'm in there. Anyone want to get in there with me? Here's the link:

FLOYD BENNETT FIELD INDIVIDUAL TIME TRIAL

Where to Draw the Line

While realizing I’m relatively new to the sport, I can’t help but think of doping every time I think of professional racing. Don’t get me wrong--it’s not like I spend my day pondering the life of a professional cyclist and what it might be like to line up for any of the one-day classics or major stage races. That’s not what I mean. What I do mean is, how much of a difference does doping actually make?

With all the hoopla in the media lately about this one confessing and that one confessing (see previous post titled I Got Your Confession Right Here to read about how I really feel regarding Bjarne Riis and his recent admission), how can I not ask myself such questions? Does a needle in the ass or chewing a few lemon-flavored Starburst filled with testosterone really make that much of a difference? What exactly does it feel like when climbing a mountain when your blood is filled with juice? Is it that much easier? Or is the pain the same yet your average speed climbs a few miles per hour?

Obviously, I’ve got lots of questions, so can we get our hands on a former professional to take a ride with us one of these days so he can elaborate on all of the above?

And what about the professional women racers? Are they on the juice too? If so, can you imagine a soigneur rubbing down one of the girls and asking if they want a bit of synthetic testosterone for the following day’s competition? "Put a little hair on your chest for the big race?"

Further, not to give Bjarne Riis any more credit than he deserves, but during his confession, he did state that if a racer lacks the talent, all the drugs in the world aren’t going to help. While I have zero experience with doping, I’d have to agree with Mr. Riis on that one as it seems intuitive.

For example, think of the Tour de France. Roughly a hundred and eighty racers come together for the biggest bicycle race in the world. Maybe twenty of them actually have a shot at winning based granted half of those twenty aren’t sacked based on doping allegations. These twenty represent the cream of the crop, the best of the best from around the world.

How many of them are doping? All of them? If they are, the winner is still the best of the best considering the playing field across those top twenty was equal in terms of equipment, dope, nutrition, etc. What it comes down to is talent, right? The point being, Riis has a point.

I still want to know if the premier sprinters are doping. I’ve read that the sprinters will pop a huge caffeine pill not far from the finish, but that’s only what I’ve read. I know I’ve said it before, but take a guy like Robbie McEwen. Dude can sprint at 45 MPH but put him in the mountains and he hangs all the way in the back. My inclination is to say he’s not a doper. Does a racer need testosterone to sprint? Or just to hang with the peloton during those long flat stages?

As a final word on doping (not really final, but you know what I mean), I was speaking with Mr. Picco yesterday morning before the botched group ride when he offered me a can of Red Bull. To me, as much as I enjoy a can of the delicious nectar, drinking eight ounces of pure caffeine/sugar before a ride is the equivalent of doping. I’m sure that sounds somewhat ridiculous, but getting hopped up on a serious caffeine rush would cause me to ride a bit harder than I normally would. Again, there’s a lot of gray area there, but it is what it is. At least in my head.

Seven-Minute Headstart

Where the hell did the Staten Island guys go this morning? I showed up in New Dorp a few minutes before 8:30 when Andy informed I had just missed the A group as they had apparently started early today. Of all the days they have to start before the usual 8:30 departure, they had to embark ahead of schedule today? The day when I drive down from the depths of Westchester? Unbelievable.

Actually, it’s nobody’s fault other than my own as I should have given Mr. Dalton or Dr. Rob a call on Saturday to ensure those guys would even be riding today, although lucky for me, I ran into Anne on the way out of the parking lot.

“They already left.”

“They already . . . oh shit. I forgot they were leaving early today.”

So the chase was on. According to Richie (who had rolled up with Andy and Hugo), the rest of the guys had seven minutes on us. How he knew it was seven minutes exactly is beyond me, but that was the number I had in my head as Anne and I stepped on the gas.

Halfway along Fr. Capodanno, my heart rate reached 170. While I don’t know my max, I know my average from a 3-mile time trial is 175 and that’s pushing it as hard as I can. By the time Anne went vaulting past me up the hill leading to McClean Avenue, I was up around 180 and I don’t think it dropped below 170 for the next hour, which hurt. A lot.

Even with taking short cuts straight down Bay Street and past those long straights out near the West Shore Expressway, Anne and I either (a) never caught up, or (b) completely passed whoever was out this morning. I’m not sure how that would even be possible considering we spent at least ten or fifteen minutes hanging at the bagel shop waiting for somebody, anybody to show up, but sure enough, no one rolled in while we were waiting.

And that was it. Anne and I easily averaged 20 MPH in an effort to catch a group that never materialized yet if I don’t admit that Anne did a hell of a lot more pulling than I did, I’d feel as if I were lying, so let me say this: Anne did most of the pulling. To be exact, I’d say she did at least sixty to seventy percent of the work all the way to the bagel shop. And on that last hill before the break? Halfway to the top I tried to keep up with Anne but she didn’t seem to have much intention of slowing in the least, so I figured, Screw that, and simply backed off. If I could only use two words to describe the way Anne rides, I’d use the same two words that I would apply to the way, Ed, Rob, Brent, Tommy, and the Polish brothers ride: f*ckin’ badass.

Now if you don’t mind, today’s my birthday (properly pronounced birfday), so I have to get back on the couch and kill a few hours in front of the TV.

I Got Your Confession Right Here

A couple of things. Yesterday, a publisher partner took us--us being the fantastic team of professionals I work with day after day after day--to lunch at Del Frisco’s, a posh, midtown steakhouse, and that’s always a pleasant way to kick off a holiday weekend. After sitting down at 12:30, we continually gorged ourselves with fresh crab cakes, jumbo shrimps (I realize it’s supposed to be just “shrimp,” but the “shrimps” with the extra S just sounds kind of cool, doesn’t it?), cajun corn, potatoes au gratin, and tremendously thick and juicy slabs of beef. Then, around 2:30, the waitress came over to inquire regarding dessert and the fastest way to ascertain whether or not you’ve eaten too much is when a single girl at the table fails to express interest in free chocolate.

“The onion rings never came out,” our host mentioned to the server and as a result of those six simple words, not only did the manager stop by to apologize, but they sent out several of the thickest slices of cake I have ever seen in my life: chocolate, lemon, cheesecake, and something that looked like a fried bag of pure chocolate. Maybe it was souffle?

Twenty minutes later, I found myself practically trotting toward Grand Central in the hopes of (a) making a 3:17 train, and (b) that my stomach might hold out until I reached home, lest I near the verge of exploding, meaning I’d have to make use of one of the MetroNorth bathrooms, and who the hell ever wants to do that?

Sitting on the crowded train, a few concerns kept swirling around in my head. First, I was desperately holding on to the hope that no one would sit next to me. I realize my monthly pass only allows me a single seat, but give me a break. I don’t know about everybody else, but I don’t think a day’s ever gone by when I found myself on either a train or bus thinking, Maybe I’ll get lucky and that sweaty 350 pound slob walking down the aisle with the oversized briefcase will sit next to me. Second, I was also hoping the conductor would arrive ASAP to check tickets. The reason I say that is, the minute the train pulls from the station is prime time to fall asleep and if the conductors take their sweet time reaching the car in which you’re seated, they’re going to wake you up in the middle of a restful, 30-minute nap, yet I got lucky yesterday and the conductor showed up just after the Harlem-125th Street stop a few minutes outside Grand Central.

Finally, I realized that if I went home and did the napping thing the right way, I may have very well succumbed to a massive heart attack while I snoozed considering the amount of red meat ingested during lunch. So rather than risk my life because of a ribeye steak, I figured I’d go riding. Then I got to thinking, rather than a road ride, I’d break out the mountain bike--the bike I’ve only ridden once since buying it over a month ago.

Now usually, I wouldn’t be the biggest fan of riding off-road alone. It’s something I would never dream of doing on my dirtbike. When it comes to motocross, I don’t do those illegal off-road places. Why not? Let’s say I’m out riding through one of those spots where I can find myself a mile from my truck and all alone and I make a mistake and go down and f*ck myself up in a big way, meaning I break something (on me, not the bike). That happens and how the hell am I going to get out? I tend to think of mountain biking in the same light. Yes, I realize I’m a lot less likely to break something fragile while mountain biking compared to motocross, but I’d hate to have to lay in the middle of a trail as dusk comes on and hope someone comes along to carry my broken ass out to where the EMT can reach me.

Regardless, I grabbed the bike and drove the two miles to Graham Hills park. Despite the above concerns, I’m glad I went. I took a few spills, of course, and ended up with a few scrapes, but a few scrapes around the elbows, knees, and shins are okay. Such scrapes are a testament to a man’s manly-man-ness. Such scrapes say to the world, Not only am I active and doing something to keep myself in good shape, but I’m also quite daring. Not really, but you know what I mean, yet on the other hand, a hard cast that’s put in place to set a broken bone sort of says, While I’m active and daring, I sometimes suffer from a lack of good judgement. I realize there are exceptions to every rule, but for the most part, the above statement stands.

In hindsight, though, I don’t think I’m ready for a place like Graham Hills. I very much consider myself a beginner on the mountain bike, and Graham Hills trails are more suited to intermediate/advanced riders (at least according to www.wmba.org, the Westchester Mountain Biking Association) considering the long passages of jagged rocks and technical descents featuring, you guessed it, jagged rocks. Going down is one thing, but going down and landing across a crop of rocks is an entirely different story.

Still, it was a pleasure to get out on the trails with and come across other mountain bikers--cyclists who actually act cordially and take the breath to say hello, unlike most of the road riders up here who won’t even bother glancing over at you when passing on the opposite side of the road. At the top of an ascent in Graham Hills, I bumped into a pair of riders and introduced myself while removing a twig from my rear derailleur. They explained the riding at Blue Mountain is not only bigger but a bit easier to handle for beginners and that there’s some sort of one-day mountain biking expo event taking place up there on June 10th. Hear that, Picco? Something we may want to look into.

Finally, Bjarne Riis, the guy who runs the CSC team, the guy who won the 1996 Tour de France, came out of the closet yesterday and admitted to taking drugs during his career, including 1996 when he won the Tour. Here’s a link to the full article:

Bjarne Riis Confesses

While it’s great that so many cyclists are coming clean, it’s also a big load of shit. The only reason these guys are admitting to wrongdoing is the fact that there’s so much pressure on them these past few months via the media. None of these guys seem tormented by guilt when they’re actually taking the drugs and winning races. Nope, they only seem to get a bit teary-eyed when they’re on the verge of litigation and/or two-year bans from racing, meaning they’re about to lose a hell of a lot of money. With that said, Mr. Riis can take his heartfelt, emotional confession and blow it out his ass. He won the Tour de France more than ten years ago and there’s an eight-year statute of limitations on these things, so it’s quite convenient he waited as long as he did, isn’t it?

The Turtle, the Hare, & the Deer

Now that the weather has begun to turn, meaning you can ride in the evening with a pair of shorts and a long-sleeve jersey (as opposed to seven layers of lycra), I’ve been hitting the road after I get home from work. And what that means is my ride usually starts before the street lights begin to click on yet it ends once it’s full dark. No big deal, right? Just strap on the Cateye headlight and blinking taillight? Well, I do all that and while the bright flashing lights do keep the cars away from me (mostly), the wildlife here in Westchester just don’t seem to get it.

I used to have the same problem when I lived in Brooklyn and spent most of my time riding in Prospect Park. Between running over squirrels and rats, not to mention dodging the occasional pigeon, I thought the vermin in the park had it in for me, although now that I’m up in the woods, I’ve got bigger issues to handle.

For instance, last night. I’m plowing along down a flat piece of road. I glance down at my watch to check my heart rate. I look back up and what’s in the middle of the road about fifty feet ahead of me? A deer. Not a big antler motherf*cker, but a doe. Still, does may seem cute when you’re flying along the expressway at 70 MPH in your SUV and you spot a few chewing cud on the side of the road, but when you’re on a bicycle and they’re right there in front of you, there really isn’t all that much to find cute, especially when one of them is looking at you as if she’s thinking it necessary to kick you in the head in the name of self-preservation.

Then there was the white rabbit, the hare. There I am, cruising along, when a snow-white rabbit jumps out of the bushes and pauses for a moment, as if its unsure if it wants to run out in front of my bike. No doubt the rabbit is fully aware that if it tries running in front of me, I’ll swerve to avoid mangled rabbit in my spokes, yet swerving means I go in one of two directions: left into oncoming traffic or right into the curb.

Goddam rabbits. I got lucky when the rabbit decided to let me pass unscathed, yet I imagined the rabbit in the bushes huddled with a few friends: “Shh! Here he comes. Ready? One. Two. Three. Go, Mike, go!” And then, when the white rabbit’s friends watch me endo over the curb and land face first in the nearest driveway, they would no doubt have a blast laughing their asses off. “Nice work, Mike, now let’s go mess with some mountain bikers.”

So all I can say is, in the unlikely event you find yourself riding a bicycle in Westchester after the sun goes down, watch your ass. These jackass bunnies are not messing around up here.

The Turtle

Big news. Exciting news. While out on my ride today, I came across a turtle on the side of the road. Don’t ask me what kind of turtle because I won’t have an answer. Nor do I care about what kind of turtle this turtle was, this green, angry turtle on the side of the road. I’m not an expert on turtles, so we’re just going to have to accept the fact that it was a generic, unclassified turtle.

Now that we have that out of the way, here’s the turtle:



Not a bad-looking turtle, right? When was the last time you saw such a good-looking amphibian? (Are turtles amphibians?) I moved a bit closer for a better shot:



“If you’re thinking of crossing,” I explained to the turtle, checking traffic, “you might as well do it now.”

No answer. Obviously, this turtle had a bit of an attitude problem. I spent a moment deciding if I should take it up with him (it could have been a her, but judging from the look on the turtle’s face, I’d say it was a him) but then dropped the idea. No sense trying to dissuade a turtle from a nasty attitude. Instead, I considered picking up the turtle and walking him across the street to avoid turtle-kill, although this turtle could have been a snapper. I know I just said I don’t know what kind of turtle it was, but I’ve heard about snapper turtles and judging from the spike-like knobs lining its tail, I thought it might be a snapper and snappers are known to snap off fingers considering they usually feed on fish, lizards, women, and small children. Needless to say, attempting to pick up the turtle was out of the question.

Yet rather than continue along my way on Hunterbrook Road and leave the turtle to his own devices, I decided to have a bit of fun. Placing my bike against a nearby telephone pole, I took out my phone again, the phone equipped with the camera, and moved as close to the turtle as I felt comfortable. It was time for a turtle fashion shoot. Holding out the camera, I leaned in.

“Give me sexy, baby!”



“Give me pouty!”



“Give me sultry!”



“Give me angry!”



When it comes to fun, turtles are anti-fun. I couldn’t even get this guy to crack a hint of a smile. “Dude,” I told him. “You suck.”

Then I left him alone and continued along, minding nobody’s business but my own.

Apart from the turtle, I made a few changes to my usual solo ride up here in Westchester. I added a few lefts and a few rights, bringing the mileage up to fifty-five, which I finished in a hair over three hours at an average 16 MPH pace. Major kick in the ass, but fun. I had been considering possibly joining the ride on Staten Island this morning, but now that gas is almost $16 a gallon, I figured my bank account would thank me if I kept my activities local today.

And that’s it. I don’t know if anybody’s seen this video yet, but it’s funny. Terrible, but funny.

Break It Down

Sheer Entertainment

It's been a while since my last update and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or if it's a bad thing. Granted, a lot has happened not just in life in general (because when you really think about it, one week--seven days--is a hell of a long time), but in the cycling world as well.

Like what? Good question. For starters, Petacchi won a stage in the Giro yesterday which, to me, is big news. While I don't know Petacchi from a hole in the wall, my understanding is that he broke his kneecap last year and hasn't really been himself since then, meaning his top-end speed just hasn't been what it was. Yet whenever I read an article about Petacchi, I somehow feel bad for the guy. Can you imagine you're on top of your game, you're kicking ass, and then a crash comes close to ruining your career? THAT would suck the big donkey.

So he won yesterday. That happened, and McEwen won the day before. Again, I've never met the guy, never spoke to him, yet I somehow like it when he wins a stage by sprinting his ass off. I also enjoy watching his interviews since I can understand everything he's saying. Plus, the guy genuinely seems to enjoy winning.

Maybe I just want to train myself into a sprinter. I've said it before, but there's something about grabbing the drops, standing up, putting your head down, and completely unloading on the pedals.

Aside from all that, a bunch of us went out for the Cheesequake ride on Sunday morning--the bunch made up of Ed, Dr. Rob, his boy Greg, Trek Tommy, the Polish brothers Lester & Robert, and . . . I think that was it. No! Big Joe was there pounding away as usual. Unfortunately, we didn't take any pictures, so not much to report other than the usual bickering among the boys.

Shifting gears for a minute, I came across some entertaining videos on Youtube.com. Check out the links below:

Adult Swim: Star Wars

The Matrix Clip

Family Guy Contest

And that's all I got right now.

Basso's BS

Basso admits only to 'attempted' doping
'All my wins have been achieved in a proper and clean manner'By Agence France Presse
This report filed May 8, 2007
Ivan Basso said Tuesday that even though he had planned to blood dope for the 2006 Tour de France, he had actually never taken banned drugs or used blood transfusions.



Basso's comments at a press conference follow his admission on Monday to the Italian Olympic Committee (CONI) that he was involved in the Operación Puerto blood doping scandal that rocked last year's Tour de France.

"I have never taken banned substances and I have never employed blood doping," last year's Giro d'Italia told reporters in an emotional statement he read prior to the start of a press conference he had called.

"I did admit having attempted to use doping for the (2006) Tour de France and I am ready to pay the penalty for that," Basso said. "All my wins have been achieved in a proper and clean manner and I have every intention of returning to action and continuing with the job I love once I have paid the penalty."

The 29-year-old Basso, one of the favorites for this year's Tour de France was among dozens of riders implicated in the Operación Puerto doping affair.


Basso said he is willing to accept the consequences.

The scandal erupted before last year's Tour De France when Spanish police uncovered an alleged blood doping network run by doctor Eufemiano Fuentes.

Police seized nearly 200 bags of blood and a collection of doping products on a raid on Fuentes's laboratory in Madrid. Police also seized Fuentes's diaries full of codenames of cyclists and documents which suggested the doctor had been paid to manipulate and store blood.

The 2006 Tour was deprived of its top names such as Basso and 1997 winner Jan Ullrich who were barred from competing after their implication in the Puerto case.

This year, all three grand tour organizers have been piling the pressure on cycling authorities to act against implicated riders in an effort to avoid a repeat of last year's Tour fiasco in this year's major national tours, the first of which begins on Saturday in Italy.

Basso had consistently denied any wrongdoing, but last week he parted company with the Discovery Channel team after CONI reopened its inquiry into allegations against him.

He was initially acquitted by CONI of any involvement in the scandal after the first hearing due to what Italy governing body for sport had described as insufficient evidence. But CONI reopened its investigation after German officials successfully connected nine bags of blood to Ullrich.

Basso, with lawyer Massimo Martelli at his side, admitted that he had had dealings with Fuentes calling them "moments of weakness which will stay with me for the rest of my life and for which I intend to pay the price."

"Yes, I am ‘Birillo,'" said Basso, referring to a codename that appeared in Fuentes's records.

"I am fully aware that an attempt at doping is tantamount to doping, but I am asking to be excused for this and that should be enough," he said. "All my victories were obtained in an honest manner and nobody can contest what I achieved in the 2006 Giro d'Italia no more than the other results I achieved during my career."

Did I Call It or Did I Call It?

Basso admits involvement in Puerto scandal
Lawyer: 'He wanted to lift a weight off his conscience'
By Agence France Presse
This report filed May 7, 2007


Ivan Basso on Monday confessed to the anti-doping prosecutor of the Italian Olympic Committee (CONI) that he was involved in the Operación Puerto blood doping scandal.

CONI said the 2006 Giro winner came to them of his own accord and offered to cooperate with their investigation and clarify his part in the scandal.

The 29-year-old Basso now faces a ban from cycling of up to two years and an additional two-year exclusion from riding on ProTour teams. If his doping is connected to his 2006 Giro win, authorities could also strip him of that title.

"He wasn't feeling good and he wasn't calm, and he wanted to lift a weight off his conscience," said Basso's lawyer Massimo Martelli. "During the interrogation he was shaking, but then he regained his composure to show great character."

Ivano Fanini, owner of Italian cycling team Amore and Vita, was happy to see Basso come clean.

"I knew it would finish this way and it could be a great chance for things to change," he said. "Basso has shown his intelligence and understands that this is the right road to take.

"He mustn't only think about saving himself, and I hope that what he has done proves to be important."

Basso, last year's Giro d'Italia winner and a pre-race favorite for the 2007 Tour de France, is one of dozens of riders implicated in the Puerto investigation.

The scandal erupted before last year's Tour De France when Spanish police uncovered an alleged blood doping network run by doctor Eufemiano Fuentes.

Police discovered bags of blood and doping products on a raid on Fuentes's laboratory in Madrid, along with codenames of cyclists and documents which suggested the doctor had been paid to manipulate and store blood.

Last year, Basso's implication in the scandal cost him his place at the Tour de France.

UCI president Pat McQuaid expressed his dismay at hearing the news.

"Most of all I am very sad that a talented rider like Basso seems to have been involved in some illicit practices," he said. "On the other hand I'm trying to look at this news in a more positive light. Our constant efforts, with our other cycling partners, to put cyclists under pressure are paying off.

"Right now it's not easy to break the rules," he added.

Last week Basso parted company with the Discovery Channel team after CONI had called him to a hearing to answer doping charges.

Up until now Basso had protested his innocence. He was initially acquitted by CONI of any involvement in the scandal due to what Italy's governing body for sport described as insufficient evidence.

But CONI reopened its investigation after German officials matched blood seized in the Puerto raids to 1997 Tour winner Jan Ullrich. Until now, Basso had refused to submit to DNA testing, but in recent weeks the pressure to do so was increasing.

Road to Roubaix Teaser

Check out this video on YouTube.com.

Bear Mountain . . . Again

You know what the problem is with driving up to Bear Mountain to do hill repeats? After spending half an hour pedaling to the top, you freeze your ass off on the descent. Even with the leg warmers, athletic t-shirt, and long-sleeve jersey, those first few minutes heading back down are damn cold.

It’s also a problem when you’re heart rate’s pumped up to 170 and a pair of attractive young ladies pass you as if you were standing still. I first spotted them on the side of the road just past the traffic circle. They look dangerous, I thought. One had a green bike, one had a red bike, and they both had ponytails, but the one with the red bike, she was wearing what appeared to be either an extremely short denim skirt over her tights or a pair of extremely short denim jeans. When was the last time you saw someone wearing denim on a road bike climbing Bear Mountain? And rather than a saddle bag, she had something strapped around her waist and hanging just over her butt that resembled a miniature messenger bag. By far, they were two of the most fashion conscious cyclists upon which I have ever laid eyes. I heard them approaching as they rode up behind me and when I glanced over my shoulder (admittedly, I was wearing my outrageously loud day-glo yellow jersey today . . . of all the goddam days to wear that thing), the first one said hello. “Hi,” I said, attempting to get a handle on the second girl, the one riding the red bike (don’t ask me what bikes they were riding--obviously my attention was elsewhere), and whether or not she was wearing shorts or a skirt.

Unfortunately, that’s going to have to remain a mystery as she simply went by too fast for me to tell. I guess we’ll never know.

After three and a half climbs, I decided I had had enough. On my way out, just over the Bear Mountain Bridge, I stopped at the scenic overview to have a hot dog and snap off a few pics. I’m big on the pictures lately.



Two other things. This Saturday morning there’s a race in Prospect Park which I’m planning on trying, Category 5. If anyone’s interested, you can find info and register online at www.racelistings.com. Also, I’m planning on killing off some brain cells tonight when I watch Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. Just thought you might want to know about that.