The Many Faces of Cyclists

One thing in which I never fail to find entertainment are the many faces of cyclists, and I mean that literally.

Understandably, like many other endurance sports, cycling is difficult. Especially in the northeast where you can never seem to ride far without encountering some sort of hill, be it short or tall, long or not so long. Granted, we don’t exactly have the same mountain passes that they have over in Europe, but then again, we have a lot of things that they don’t: supermarkets, gas sold by the gallon rather than the liter, clean-shaven women (joking), etc.

And because it’s such a difficult sport, because it burns the lungs as well as the legs, the fact of the matter is, cyclists wear their suffering in plain view and often for extended periods of time. I say I find these faces entertaining not because I believe those faces are exaggerated, but rather, the faces themselves can be quite comical. Especially when they’re a bit on the extreme side, or better yet, when they’re not really necessary.

For example, if you’re a fan, you’ve seen plenty of these two faces:



You can tell they’re both suffering and for all the right reasons: they’ve probably just blitzed up a long mountain road at a speed that might test a Vespa’s patience.

You’ve also seen faces like this one.



Again, if you’re a fan, here’s a guy who just turned on the turbo chargers while heading up a hill with something greater than a 15% incline. We’ve all been there (or most of us, anyway). To paraphrase David Anthony, this guy, behind this face, is giving serious thought to selling all his cycling equipment and dropping the sport like a bad habit the second the race ends.

Check out this joker.



My understanding is that the reason Cadel keeps his head cocked to the side the way he does is that it’s somehow related to a collarbone issue.

Whatever. No doubt, you’ve encountered those cyclists who ride head-cocked-to-the-side-at-all-times. Again, I’m sure there are explanations for such a phenomenon, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t look a bit . . . odd.

There’s also this face.



Apparently, this guy spent enough time in the red that he had to stop to catch his breath. We’ve all been there and we all know how much it hurts. Some people have tossed their cookies in such a situation. Myself, I’m not much of a cookie-tosser in these situations.

What about these guys?



Sure, they’re not making any faces at all. They don’t need to make any faces. Their outfits and their shapes seem to indicate that they’re heading out for a ride because they’re more interested in coffee shop pastries than they are in getting those heart rates up anywhere near what would be considered strenuous cardiovascular activity.

Finally, there are two more incidences when cyclists make faces and it’s during these scenarios that I find myself a bit baffled by the picture of suffering such cyclists wear. And again, you’ve seen it, I’ve seen it, we’ve all seen it.

Here’s the scenario. You just reached the Jersey side of the GWB and there’s a group of cyclists just ahead of you who have decided that, after twenty-five minutes of riding, it’s time for a quick break. You know, just to regroup and make sure no one got dropped after leaving the Central Park Boathouse. As you’re taking the right to head toward 9W, there’s a guy leading on his top tube, rearview mirror clipped to his glasses, saddlebag the size of Governor’s Island, and while it’s apparent he stopped pedaling minutes ago, he still looks like this:



You’re not riding anymore! Enough with the face! And if you really do feel the way your face looks, turn yourself around and head back to the city. If a trot over the GWB leaves you feeling like this, Piermont is DEFINITELY out of the question.

And finally, there’s always Mr. I-Can’t-Ride-With-My-Mouth-Closed.



The open mouth, meaning he’s breathing hard, is completely unrelated to heart rate. This guy’s heart rate pegged at 88 but he’s gonna look like he’s closer to 188 as he hits the granny-gear as he spins his way over Cat’s Paw hill at 4 MPH.

And if you don’t believe me, if you think this is all tomfoolery, everything above, grab your bike and head out for a ride on a pleasant morning. Look closely enough and you’ll see the many faces of cyclists.

Wiggins & His Weight Loss

During the 2009 Tour de France, Bradley Wiggins was riding uphill a lot faster than he had during previous years. Known primarily as a track cyclist and time trialist, the word on the street regarding Wiggins’ improved climbing performances had to do with (a) training, and (b) weight loss.

Let’s disregard part (a) for now and focus on part (b). Quite simply, part (b) is pure crap.

Years ago, we heard a similar story about Lance Armstrong. He came back from testicular cancer and, as a result of losing a lot of weight (as Paul Sherwen once commentated, “He did lose a lot of weight due that illness he had,”), he was going uphill a lot faster than he had previously in his career.

Can we, once and for all, recognize this as total bullsh*t?

For the most part, cyclists are notoriously thin. Further, when someone drops ten to fifteen pounds, it’s usually pretty damn obvious. It’s especially obvious when the person who’s lost all that weight didn’t really have ten to fifteen pounds to spare.

Of course, you don’t have to take my word for it. Let’s go to the tape. Let’s check the pictures which are widely available online.

Here’s Lance pre-cancer, during the early 1990s:



He’s not exactly looking chubby, is he? Further, he doesn’t even look overly athletic. Rather, he looks like a typical road cyclist: well-defined legs and an incredibly slender upper body.

Now here he is in 1999 at the Tour de France:



Granted, he may appear a bit more ripped in the above pic, but I think that probably has to do with the perceived level of exertion, meaning he’s riding a lot harder in the 1999 pic than he is riding alongside Greg LeMond.

Regardless of the definition, where exactly did this massive weight loss come from? As far as I’m concerned, the pre-cancer physique and the 1999 Tour de France physique appear pretty damn identical, so when commentators this year were talking about Bradley Wiggins and his alleged weight loss, I decided to do the same exercise: go to the tape.

Here’s Wiggins when he rode for Cofidis:





And now here he is, this year.



My eyesight is just fine. I’m not seeing seven kilograms (the amount of weight Wiggins claims to have lost), which translates into 15.4 pounds, of weight loss. Fifteen pounds is a lot, especially to these guys.

Between you and me, I don’t think the improved performance Wiggins put together has anything to do with weight loss. And if it’s not weight loss, then what is it? I’m sure you can figure that one out on your own. For example, check out this interview on NYVelocity.com. Here’s a clip:

Amusing

The Complete Trip (with pics)

Granted it’s been almost three weeks since I flew to Las Vegas for that Western Spirit mountain biking trip, although I keep finding myself daydreaming about certain trails, certain views, certain snippets of campfire conversation, certain hills, and certain everything about that trip. And while I won’t go as far to say that it was the best trip I’ve ever taken, I will say that it definitely ranks up there in the top three vacations of all time. (I genuinely believe that, as one grows older, one grows much more appreciative of vacation time, especially when that vacation time includes six days of engaging in one of one’s biggest passions, this particular passion being cycling.)

While in Utah, though, cell phone reception was spotty at best so I was unable to provide frequent updates with decent pictures. Now that I’ve had ample time to review and edit all of the 400+ pictures I took during the trip, I wanted to provide a more in-depth review of the trip, as well as access to some of the better of those 400+ pics, so let’s get that underway.

We began bright and early on Sunday morning as the Western Spirit guides were picking us up at 7:30 in the AM. The logistics for the first day basically included loading our stuff onto the van, driving a few hours to our camp in Red Canyon, setting up our tents and whatnot, having lunch, and then a few hours of biking the trails before heading back to camp for the night.

By 8:00 AM, pretty much all of us were outside congregating around the Western Spirit van. The group included:

Western Spirit Guide #1: Heather Dangerous (I don’t believe that’s her real last name, but that’s what they called her.)




Western Spirit Guide #2: Ben Lyman (A pleasant young man from Portland, Oregon who just got engaged and apparently owns several chickens.)


Western Spirit Guide #3: Tim Bateman (A talented and likeable rider from North Caroline who currently resides in Moab and appreciates the term, “Ho dang!”)



And then there were eight guests, myself included. From left to right, we had Craig from San Francisco, Jon from Sydney, Australia, Bonnie from Long Island, Andy from Tucson, Jennifer from Washington DC, Andy's son Finn, (Tim), myself, (Ben), and Kevin from California



So that first day, after lunch and after setting up camp, it was time to ride.

Overall, the trip was billed as intermediate, although as soon as we hit some of the first miles of riding, I was thinking, “This feels a bit more technical than intermediate.” In hindsight, though, it really was intermediate--that first day just being a bit more technical than I think most of us were expecting.

Still, they really know how to get the juices flowing straight out of the gates. Some of the scenery on that first day was some of the best of the entire trip. Of course, every day was terrific, but looking back, some of the views and trails from the first day definitely stand out.

Here, have a look.








(That's Jon, the Australian.)


(Kevin & Jon just before the first day of riding reached an end.)



That night, we had a terrific dinner (the guides are excellent cooks and, at every meal, they never failed to ask the group, “Did everybody have enough to eat?” making sure no one feels hungry, which I certainly appreciated). Kevin and I were the last to call it a night after having watched our campfire burn to a smolder. By the time I settled into my sleeping bag--the guides having warned me it would get significantly colder as the night wore on--I realized a few things.

First, I have not been camping in years and getting used to sleeping on the ground--thin mat below my sleeping bag or not--would take some time.

Second, when the person in the tent next to yours, even if that tent is a good fifteen or twenty feet away, spends most of the night sounding like he’s going to spit up a lung, it’s extremely hard to get a good night’s sleep.

Third and most importantly, if the guides tell you to bundle up in anticipation of cold air, it’s best to listen. I was prepared with some warm base layers, a fleece jacket, and a warm hat, but it was absolutely FREEZING every night. I’m sure the fact that we were never below 7,000 feet in altitude had something to do with that, but if they tell you to bring warm clothes, for the love of god, bring warm clothes.

The next three days all sort of mesh together in my memory with the exception of the second day. It was on the second day that we hiked into Bryce National Park and this is what it looks like:

















After Bryce, we rode and rode and rode. We rode wide dirt roads and narrow, technical single track.



























Nights two and three, the camping was primitive, meaning to running water, no electricity, no nothing. What we did have, though, was the Groover: a tiny, portable toilet that was supposed to be hidden behind some trees on the side of the hill near camp. As I was the first person to actually use the Groover after dinner on the second night, I grabbed the roll of TP in the Ziploc bag, walked up to the Groover, dropped my shorts, sat down, and glanced over my shoulder to realize Tim had done a piss-poor job of positioning the Groover. While it was near some trees, pretty much everybody in camp was waving up at me as I sat there with my shorts around my ankles.

Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my entire life yet despite that embarrassment, I pushed on (literally) and finished the job at hand.

Heading back down to camp, I passed the TP to Jon as he was on his way up the hill to the Groover.

“You might want to--”

“Move it?” he said, laughing. “Yeah, we could all see you up there.”

As the guides were washing dishes, I walked up to Tim. “Great work with the Groover positioning, buddy. The entire camp just waved at me when I was up there taking care of my business.”

And then there was Kevin, this guy.



Kevin, Jon, and myself got along pretty well, sharing few laughs every day. Kevin was the only lawyer on the trip, which meant he all but threatened us all with lawsuits every time we passed him going uphill. He was also the only guy with the sense to bring a bottle of alcohol, which meant we spent our third night together getting toasty around a huge campfire sucking down screwdrivers.

On the fifth day, we reached Zion National Park. Absolutely stunning scenery. I tried to do it justice with some of these pics, but you really have to be there to appreciate it.

















And on that fifth night, the night we stayed in a lovely, lovely inn just outside Zion Park (at that point we were all extremely grateful for clean, soft beds, hot showers, and flush toilets), an infection invaded my big toe, leaving me somewhat crippled the morning of the sixth day, so I missed the hike through the river in Zion Park. Total bummer, but at least I didn’t miss any spectacular riding.

After that, they loaded us up and drove the group back to St. George. Rather than take the shuttle to Vegas that night for a redeye flight, I spent another night at the Ambassador Inn. Luckily, the same young lady was behind the front desk, so I borrowed her car once again (she was still driving on the gas I had put in her tank the previous week) and got myself over to Barnes & Noble to pick up a magazine and Out of Sight by Elmore Leonard.



And that was it.