Red Blooded

The other day, I passed off a few comments about certain professional cyclists and how, in my opinion, said cyclists are major dopers. While I will always believe, in my opinion, that said cyclists have synthetically enhanced their athletic performances, I was thinking about a story I recently read regarding Lance Armstrong while I was showering the other day (which is when I normally think of guys who shave their legs and wear tight shorts--when I’m naked and wet . . . ugh, gross).

Anyway, I forgot if this particular story took place during the 2003 or 2004 Tour de France, but the account is rather heroic which is why it seems to have wedged itself in my memory. I’m sure you’ve heard it before, although I’ll recant it here in case you haven’t.

During one of the Tour’s premier mountain stage, Floyd Landis, riding for US Postal, had paced and pulled his captain, Lance Armstrong, up the final climbs. By this point late in the stage, there were only two other riders who had managed to keep pace: Jan Ullrich and his teammate, Andreas Kloden. (Now that I’m writing it, this must have been the 2004 Tour.) Having done an excellent job and most likely feeling not so much threatened by either of the T-Mobile riders, Armstrong asked his domestique, “How bad do you want to win a stage in the Tour de France, Floyd?”

“Real bad,” Floyd said.

“How fast can you ride downhill?”

“Real fast.”

Pulling up next to his teammate, Lance patted Floyd on the back and said, “Ride like you stole something, Floyd.”

With the proverbial nod from his boss, Landis was off and began racing down the hill toward the stage’s finish.

Seeing this, Ullrich decided to chase down Landis, which absolutely infuriated Armstrong. Why chase a guy who isn’t a threat to win the race? Why chase after a guy who’s ranked way back within the General Classification?

Once Ullrich took off, so did Armstrong and Kloden. Eventually, they reeled in Landis with only a few kilometers to go. Unfortunately, having done the pulling for his captain all afternoon, Landis had little left in the gas tank to sprint away for the win and allowed the T-Mobile riders to creep up.

So what happened? When Kloden took off next to make an attempt to win the stage, Armstrong simply wasn’t having it and sprinted over the finish line first, which, in my opinion, was a fantastic move--a move that reminds me of that old saying, “You mess with me, you mess with my whole family!” In this situation, it would be the reverse--“Mess with my family and you mess with me,”--although it feels the same, doesn’t it?

Within this story, another subplot exists: the Americans versus the Germans. For Ullrich and Kloden to chase Landis was a huge mistake in that it only managed to piss off the champ, the same guy who made Ullrich look ridiculous so many years past. How dumb do you have to be to realize chasing down one of Armstrong’s teammates--again, one who was nowhere near a threat to win the overall--is only going to serve the purpose of upsetting Armstrong? And what’s that old adage about the Texan? The only way to beat Armstrong is not to make him mad. Beating Armstrong makes him mad. Here’s a guy who will pedal until he dies if he wants to prove a point, and you go and mess with his family?

Excuse my French, but Jan Ullrich must be one dumb f#ck.

Aside from the German’s stupidity, I like the story as it seems to speak to the champ’s athletic character (doping or not). As much as Armstrong’s teammates have sacrificed selflessly for the greater good (at least it appears that way as an outsider looking in), Armstrong went the distance during that stage not for personal glory, but rather as a matter of sticking up for his people by sending the message, If my boy doesn’t get it, you sure as hell ain’t getting it either.

That’s good work, in my opinion.

Flats & Dopers

So yesterday, after all that miserable rain, I decided to suit up and ride over to the park. I didn’t have anything fancy planned, just an hour-and-a-half of getting the heart rate up to 150 or so and I was doing exactly that, trying not to get all too aggravated with the dirty water saturating the back of my jacket and shorts, when I suffered a flat.

As I’m sure everyone reading this can attest, getting a flat when it’s cold, dark, and wet completely sucks the big donkey.

Pulling to the side of the road in Prospect Park, I unclipped both the computer and headlight from my handlebars, flipped my baby over, removed the wheel, and promptly made a complete mess. Changing a tire always means dirty fingers, but changing a tire in the wet means very dirty fingers, not to mention dirty fingernails, dirty palms, and dirty everything.

After quickly swapping out the punctured tube for a new one (there was no way I was going to spend the extra few minutes finding the leak and patching it in the dark), I inflated the tire with a canister of CO2 (that stuff makes a stem mighty cold and it does so mighty fast), tossed the old tube in the trash (with such wet, dirty fingers, I didn’t much feel like getting the back of my jersey filthy by saving the tube I had just removed), shoved the wheel back in the frame, replaced the computer and headlight, and started on my way again.

By the time that happened, I had had enough of riding for the evening, so I went home.

What’s the point? I think I might start carrying my pump around with me again. That CO2 can be a pain in the ass. Further, I might drop the saddle bag in favor of a shoving a spare tube, tire levers, and a patch kit in a sandwich bag and hauling it around in the back of my jerseys. Finally, I’m worried I might be boring you guys to tears with these updates, so I wanted to begin incorporating content surrounding other avenues of cycling. What avenues?

Floyd Landis the Doper.

Anyone who truly believes that past and present frontrunners in the Tour de France--Armstrong, Ullrich, Basso, Landis, Hamilton, Mayo, etc.--are riding without synthetic help need to schedule an appointment with a mental health expert and have their heads checked. Understandably, by grouping Armstrong in this alleged-doper category, I’m committing something of a cardinal sin. There are those out there in the cycling community who, due to Armstrong’s cancer foundation and comparable good deeds, feel the man is in a class entirely of his own and that his VO2 max and lactate threshold are enough to allow him to race up impossibly tall mountains in France while other world-class cyclists fall far off his wheel.

To those people I offer a single argument.

Yeah, right.

At the same time, I do recognize that, if all things are considered equal, it’s fair to say that Lance Armstrong is not just the best, but the best of the dopers. In that regard, Armstrong truly is a champion. For me, that statement is much easier to swallow rather than sticking my head in the sand and believing Lance never stuck a needle in his ass.

Stepping away from Armstrong for a moment, let’s think about the Tour de France and how cycling has almost become anonymous with doping.

In any sport, there will always be those athletes who simply rise above the rest due to superior gifts: Kareem Abdul Jabaar, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Michael Jordan, Troy Aikmen, Peyton Manning, The Fridge, Lawrence Taylor, Randy Moss, Babe Ruth, Yogi Bera, DiMaggio, Hank Aaron, Pete Sampras, John McEnroe, Tiger Woods, Minnesota Fats, Ricky Carmichael, Jeremy McGrath, Mick Doohan (I’m not counting NASCAR drivers as I see that less of a talent and more of a money thing, meaning if you’ve got the money for a fast car, you can learn to race), etc. All these men had extraordinary talent which is why we all know their names as well as we do. Their talent revolved around coordination, timing, aggression, practice--all that good stuff most of us don’t have in the same abundance they did.

Not to take away from cycling, but it’s basically an endurance event. Sure, you need strong legs and lungs as well as a big heart (a lot of heart is needed in any competitive activity), but pedaling a bike up a hill doesn’t require too much hand-eye coordination, does it?

Let me reiterate that I’ve grown to love the sport of cycling, but compared to the stick-and-ball athletes, how much talent does riding a bicycle require? The point I’m trying to make is, you’ve got a peloton of almost 200 riders who start the Tour de France every year. Are the guys who finish in the rear of the pack that much less gifted than the frontrunners? Or are the frontrunners giving themselves an unfair advantage via dope? In other words, if I train just as hard as the next guy for the same length of time, what’s to stop me from winning a local cycle race? Endurance is built through training and repetition, no?

For example, when Tyler Hamilton was racing to win the Tour de France, he was Mr. Nice Guy. He was the hard worker the same way Armstrong has always been considered a hard worker. No way was Mr. Nice Guy a doper. Couldn’t be. Sure enough, when Hamilton’s doping schedule was recently discovered, it included an extensive program of blood doping, EPO, steroids, and more.

Hamilton was a frontrunner in 2003 and 2004 riding for CSC and Phonak, respectively. And it’s now known he was a major doper.

This year, Basso and Ullrich were dropped prior to the start of the Tour due to doping allegations. Think they’re really just allegations?

Yeah, right.

At the end of the day, there’s no doubt in my mind as to the true nature of professional cycling at the level at which these guys are riding: Armstrong, Ullrich, and company. How anyone can believe otherwise truly amazes me.

What do you think?

Tour of Brooklyn (and Queens)

Last night, over a splendid homemade dinner of spaghetti and meatballs (well, not that splendid, but close enough), I thought to myself, Do I really want to spend another two hours riding in Prospect Park tomorrow? Typically, I join the SIBA group rides every Saturday and Sunday, although this week, I didn’t much feel like making the trek out to Staten Island both days. Tomorrow I’ll join when the guys are planning on climbing hills all morning as opposed to the usual perimeter ride, but today, I figured I’d stay in Brooklyn.

With that in mind, I broke out the New York City Bicycle Map last night and attempted to plot a route. From Brooklyn Heights, I would take the usual streets to Prospect Park, yet instead of entering the park on 3^rd Street, I followed Prospect Park West around the southern tip until I connected with Ocean Parkway. Actually, I was forced to make something of a detour as I couldn’t connect so easily with Ocean Parkway. After climbing a walkway over what I think was Prospect Expressway, I found myself on the corner of Canton and Ft. Hamilton Parkway (all these damn Parkways). Outside a Burger King, I consulted the bike map, turned around, finally found Ocean Parkway, and started south.

Riding under the Belt Parkway, I reached Brighton Beach and made a left on Neptune which soon became Emmons Avenue, riding past the party boats (I’m assuming that’s Sheepshead Bay, but then again, I really have no idea). Once Emmons reached an end, it took me a moment to locate the bicycle path that runs parallel to the Belt Parkway. A few moments later, I hopped on that and followed it all the way down to Floyd Bennett Field that, at this time of the year, seemed relatively deserted. I was looking forward to riding through the field as my understanding is that races are held there during the summer months. I would have liked to get a sense for the course, yet instead, I continued along the bike path until I reached a bridge that carried me over into what I believe was Far Rockaway. Granted, this was my first time ever in Rockaway, Far or Near, although the ride over the bridge kicked me in the ass big time yet not due to the climb, but the wind. That damn howling wind practically froze the right side of my face as I headed southeast over the water.

Once across, I made a left, the wind now at my back. The path that hugged the water was crap: glass, gaping holes, rocks, and at one point, I had to veer off the path completely where I almost threw it away in the sand. When that path reached its end, I again consulted the map to figure out exactly where I was. Indeed, it was Rockaway. As a quick detour, I made a right down B 110^th Street until I reached the boardwalk. In this kind of weather, riding near a beach is so completely desolate and depressing. Sort of reminded me of Coney Island in Requiem for a Dream. If you haven’t seen that movie and you don’t care much for depressing dramas, waste neither your time nor your money as that movie starts off bad and just gets progressively worse and worse.

Finished with the boardwalk, I started forward again and when I reached B 95^th Street, I had a left to make and another bridge to climb: the Veterans Memorial Bridge. I now had the wind on my left, which felt as if it was picking up speed, making my life that much more of a pain in the ass. Riding along, I noticed one of my sleeves coming undone. The windbreaker I’ve been wearing since autumn--that garish neon yellow thing from PricePoint.com--has removable sleeves and as I road along in Queens (first time for everything, right?), the zipper on my right sleeve was coming apart. Pulling to the side of the road, I peeled off the jacket (which, standing in that cold wind, I definitely did not want to do) along with my gloves and tried fixing the problem. Nothing was working as the zipper was three-quarters of the way apart and totally jammed.

“I really don’t need this right now,” I mumbled under my breath, cursing PricePoint’s shitty product. My fingers almost numb, I ripped the zipper off and tossed the sleeve in a nearby trashcan. Could I have saved it and fixed it later? Of course, but I never plan on using that damn jacket again as anything other than a vest, so off I went less a sleeve.

Over the bridge, I followed the bike lane to 165^th Street where I made a left, followed by a right, another left, and then one more right, all of which eventually returned me to the bike path that parallels Belt Parkway. That’s where I made another left and began battling a friend, the freaking wind.

Do I go into detail about how the wind kept knocking me back, causing me to downshift lower and lower? You know what it’s like to ride into the wind, although it always seems that much worse when you know you’re another twenty miles from home (or your car) because you know the wind isn’t going to leave you alone for a second during those twenty miles, and that’s what I had in front of me once I reached the Belt Parkway.

Regardless, I rode until the Dunkin Donuts on Emmons Avenue where I stopped for a glazed donut, a plain bagel with butter, and the box of raisins I had in the back of my jersey. I sat inside for ten minutes until my hands and feet felt like they were mine again, and then I hit the road for the last leg of the tour. At Ocean Parkway, I turned north and took it all the way up into Park Slope, did half a loop in the park, cut through North Slope, through a small slice of Cobble Hill, and made my way home to the corner of Clinton and Atlantic.

After almost four hours on the bike, after a hair under fifty miles (an average 14.2 MPH kind of sucks), my face is now covered with a mix of sun and wind-burn and my legs are ready for a long nap, yet once I swallowed a few Hot Pockets washed down with a tall glass of iced tea, I walked to R&A for a new jacket: a nice black and silver Pearl Izumi that only set me back $151.73 including tax. When you really think about it, that’s a shitload of cash for a freaking polyester jacket, but it’s a hell of a lot better than that yellow tent I was wearing.

See you in the hills.

In My Face

Now that it’s cold (or getting colder, I should say), it’s windy. What is it about the wind arriving as soon as the temperature drops? Why can’t the wind arrive when it’s hot and humid and all everyone wants is a simple breeze? Why does the wind have to pick up when the last thing you want is a blast of freezing air in your face? Who the hell manages these things?

Riding in Prospect Park yesterday, the wind seemed to attack from all angles yet it struck the hardest while climbing the one decent climb near the north end of the loop. Combined with the fact that according to 1010 WINS the temperature was a brisk thirty-two degrees when I left the house, the weather yesterday made for some extremely chilly hands and feet. After an hour of battling the wind and climbing that stupid hill at nine miles-per-hour (compared to the usual thirteen or fourteen, I’ll have you know) and after an hour of riding with my hands curled into fists in an attempt to provide some protection for my fingers, I called it quits. Further, by the time I reached home, my feet were starting to go numb. To try and remedy the situation from happening again, I stopped by Paragon Sporting Goods this afternoon in the hopes of finding a better pair of socks and a warmer pair of gloves.

I was about to invest $44 in a pair of cold weather Pearl Izumi gloves, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Simply, I get the feeling I could find a great pair of gloves that will keep my hands just as warm in some sort of camping gear store and I’ll end up spending a lot less than $44.

Conversely, I did pick up a pair of Woolie Boolie socks for $11.95 and they’re considering warmer than the cotton socks I’ve been wearing. In the event you end up with cold toes even with booties, you might want to give the wool socks a try. They seem to work.

That’s pretty much it, dudes. It’s late, it’s been a long day, and I’m starting to get the feeling I’m going to be riding into the wind for the coming months. That sucks. I can’t stand headwinds. Blah.

Picco, do some sort of rain dance but substitute a few wind moves and make my life a bit easier.

#

On another note, is anyone interested in joining me to in San Francisco in mid-February to check out the prologue and first stage of the Tour of California? I'm giving it serious thought. Tour starts on February 18th, which is a Sunday. I'm thinking of flying out some time Friday, enjoying the city Friday night and all day Saturday, watching the individual time trials on Sunday and then possibly the following stage in Sausalito on Monday, flying home either Monday night or, better yet, Tuesday morning.

Thoughts?

Summer Time & the Living's Easy

I don’t think I realized how much I’ve missed riding in the warm weather until a few minutes ago. Sitting here, working on another story (a story about Dean and MaryLou, if you can believe it), I paused for a moment and leaned my head back. Without even trying, I found myself riding east on 78^th Street a few weeks after I bought the Giant. I remember this like it was yesterday (there’s a cliché of a statement if there ever was one). After a few laps in Central Park, I was heading home and as I approached Park Avenue, I spotted a vixen on a bike up ahead, waiting for the light. As I pulled next to her, I smiled and nodded hello. She did the same, which is surprising considering how most serious cyclists never seem to bother themselves with anything that even remotely resembles courtesy (which until this day still strikes me as arrogant and fucked up).

I say this girl was a serious cyclist based on her gear: sexy Cervelo bike with those time trial bar extensions, serious Sidi cycling shoes with Look pedals, wrap-around Nike sunglasses, and a skin-tight white and maroon jersey on top of black lycra shorts.

I, on the other hand, was wearing Kenny Picco’s old blue helmet complete with the swath of velcro on top, a baggy t-shirt, regular gym shorts, no sunglasses (I still don’t have a good pair of sunglasses), and flat pedals.

“Nice bike,” I said.

“Thanks.” The girl smiled again and, when the light turned green, I was the first to go considering I didn’t have cleats to deal with.

On the corner of Lexington Avenue, we again pulled next to one another.

“Riding in the park?” I asked. This may sound like a pick-up move, but it wasn’t. Really. Just making conversation on a Saturday morning.

“Yep.”

“How many laps, if you don’t mind me asking?” She seemed like a good rider and I was curious to find out how many laps a “serious” rider would complete.

“Only two,” she said. “I have a race tomorrow.”

“Really?”

The light turned green and off we went again. On the corner of Third Avenue, we stopped for another red light.

“How long is the race?” I asked.

“Only twenty-five miles, but it’s a hilly course.”

“How do you find out about bicycle races?”

The girl shrugged. “Magazines, online . . .”

“Are you going to win?” I asked.

She laughed. “I don’t know.”

The light turned green and we rode side-by-side. I glanced over and said, “That’s totally the wrong attitude. You have to go to that line thinking that you’re the baddest mother out there.”

The girl glanced at me, unsure what to say. Once we passed Second Avenue, I nodded toward the side of the street and started to brake. “This is me. Good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” she said, gliding by on her red and black Cervelo. “So long.”

Never saw her again, but that’s beside the point. What is the point? Not just riding in the warm weather, but riding in the warm weather when you first started riding. As kids, everyone rides a bike, but not for the same reasons we ride now. As a kid, you ride a bike because it’s faster than walking. You ride because that’s just what kids do. Eventually the day arrives when your mom or dad broke out that first bike and said, “Here it is, kiddo.” For those of us reading this page, this probably happened some time in the sixties or seventies. Personally, I became the owner of my first bike around 1979 or so, near the time I turned six. It was white and maroon and had a striped banana seat and training wheels. After a few hours of riding in the parking lot down at Gateway Park, the training wheels came off, although I think it also had streamers hanging out of the bar ends, which would have been cool.

Anyway, you didn’t ride to get in shape back then because you were already in shape. You rode because that’s just what kids do--they ride bikes. When you reached your teen years, you probably had some sort of BMX machine and you rode because you were too young to drive. Imagine if you had to walk everywhere in those days? Christ, that would have taken forever, or you never would have made it anywhere. Still, the furthest my friends and I would typically ride on a summer evening was the 7-Eleven on the corner of Lincoln and North Railroad. Between Slurpees and candy bars (typically stolen candy bars by hiding them in the Slurpees), we spent countless hours practicing freestyle tricks in the convenient store’s parking lot, which I’m sure must have driven the owners relatively insane, but there were worse things we could have been doing, right?

Afterward, once I started driving, I never touched a bike. To me, a road bike was simply a “ten-speed,” and I’m sure a lot of other people referred to and thought of road bikes the same way. Either way, ten-speeds were a major pain in the ass considering those levers you had to use to shift gears and they never seemd to work correctly and all that crap. With all that in mind, I never went near a ten-speed.

Years ago, though, I did manage to hop on a mountain bike a few times with Mr. Picco when he used to ride (notice the past tense, “used to” ride, Mr. Picco), although I never cared much for trudging through the woods in the sweltering heat and humidity. Heat I can handle, although humidity, especially in the woods, was typically enough so that one afternoon I simply turned around and left while everyone else kept riding. Quite simply, mountain biking wasn’t my thing. I preferred my dirtbike and riding motocross--something on which I could simply twist the throttle and go.

The only other time I found myself on a bike was during college. Having to complete a certain number of phys-ed credits, I enrolled in the College of Staten Island’s cycling class, which meant riding a beat-up mountain bike on the road for a few hours once a week. At the time, maybe I was twenty-one or twenty-two. Even after having smoked for a few years, I could still climb Todt Hill Road without breaking much of a sweat wearing jeans, a work jacket, and construction boots. Then again, most guys who grew up active in any sort of athletics would have done the same. The only hill I couldn’t manage during that class was the backside of Hillside Terrace. I don’t recall the exact name of the street, but rather than climb up toward Wagner College from Clove Road, we made the approach from the other end. Considering the instructor forbid all the men in the class from shifting off the largest front sprocket, I made it halfway up and then called it quits. That damn hill is simply too steep for the big chain ring.

And now, more than ten years later, I bought a “ten-speed” on a whim; bought in the hopes I would enjoy it more than spending a few hours a week in a gym, indoors, trying to get in shape. I bought the bike and went for a ride in Prospect Park with Mr. Picco the same morning, getting the feel for the shifting between low and tall gears. Later that afternoon, I took the bike on the ferry, got off downtown, and pedaled up the West side until I reached the Boathouse and then made a right, cutting home to the Upper East Side. This was July 4^th, 2006. R&A was probably one of the only bike shops open that day.

In the coming weeks, I would ride in the evening after work in Central Park. Climbing up the hill, wearing my baggy t-shirts and gym shorts with Kenny’s blue helmet (complete with velcro strap), I marveled at the other riders who would not only pass me, but continue to pedal once they reached the top. Coasting down the backside, I would ask myself, Do these guys ever stop pedaling?

Soon the days turned into weeks and I eventually invested in my first pair of cycling shorts (to save my aching guiche), short-fingered gloves, my own helmet, and a pair of cycling shoes so I could finally spin the way I wanted to spin. Needless to say, my first evening out in the clipless shoes and I quickly fell over on the corner of 79^th Street and Third Avenue. How embarrassing.

I don’t know how it really happened, although despite the pain every rider experiences when pushing up a hill, I wanted more. As a lot of other cyclists say, “I got the bug,” and while I enjoyed returning home from work every day, getting dressed, and hitting the park for a few laps almost every evening, I enjoyed the weekend rides even more. Why? There’s something about bright yellow summer sunshine that simply lifts the mood, isn’t there? When Saturday rolls around, there’s no need for an alarm. You get up around seven or eight (depending upon how much you had to drink the previous evening), take your time over breakfast, take your time getting dressed, check the air pressure in the tires, take the bike outside, take a deep breath of summer air, smile, and off you go. It’s on those Saturdays when it’s neither too hot nor too chilly and the sun’s up overhead that cycling feels as good as it should. You ride down the road and maybe there’s a mountain in the distance, or just a short but steep hill, but it’s not that bad. Even when you’re climbing, it’s not that bad because if you’re alone, you can always stop and if you do, it’s not like you’re going to freeze in the cold wind. It’s summer. It’s sunny. The sky’s blue and the water in your bottle is still cold. You might be out of breath and sweating against your sweat-wicking jersey, but it’s all okay. Again, it’s summer and you’re out riding either alone or with friends. What could be worse?

As I leaned by head back a few moments ago, that’s everything that ran through the ol’ noggin. Riding in the summer. Ah, April can’t come soon enough.

Chasing Lance

Ten minutes ago, I finished reading Martin DuGard’s Chasing Lance, a book surrounding Lance’s final Tour de France race in 2005. It was something I had found in the library earlier this week, so I figured if I could get my hands on it for free (I hardly ever stop by the library for the purpose of borrowing books as their selection is typically so shitty), why not take it with me? So far, I’ve read almost everything there is to read either about Lance Armstrong, including Armstrong’s It’s Not About the Bike and Every Second Counts, as well as Lance Armstrong’s War by Daniel Coyle. Each book I’ve enjoyed immensely (even It’s Not About the Bike, something I read well before I began cycling), although when reading Armstrong’s words, I feel it necessary that a reader must keep an eye on what’s bullshit and what’s not. That’s not to say Armstrong is slinging a bunch of bullshit at his readers, but like any memoir or autobiography (I should really look up the difference between the two genres because as of right now, I have no idea as to what that difference may be), people tend to either (a) get a bit confused when digging through the past, or worse yet, (b) simply gloss over pertinent facts with a thick layer of bullshit. If you think I’m wrong, get your hands on a copy of James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces.

Regardless, Martin DuGard’s book is the weakest of the four mentioned above. Too often, Dugard strays off course by either spending too much time discussing the geographical history surrounding each of the cities hosting the Tour’s starts and finishes or elaborating upon the day-to-day minutiae of traveling through France to report on the biggest bike race in the world. In other words, while DuGard does somewhat of a decent job touching upon the actual cycling and cyclists, he’s laced his work with much too much filler.

I don’t know about you, but when I pick up a book titled Chasing Lance, I want to read about Lance, his teammates, his tactics, his team director (that silly Belgian who seems to have difficulty pronouncing the ‘th’ sound in English, making the word weather sound like wedder, which is simply hilarious as far as I’m concerned). When I read a book about the Tour de France, I really don’t give a rat’s ass if, at the base of the Col de la Schlucht near the village of Saint-Die-des-Vosges, a monk and mapmaker living in the area during 1506 had decided that Amerigo Vespucci had actually been the first explorer to discover the New World instead of Christopher Columbus. Spare me the details, bud--I want to read about bicycle racing. I want the inside scoop. Tell me about how you happened to hop in a porta-potty a few minutes before the first mountain stage was scheduled to begin and you just so happened to bump into Lance himself as he sat there on the plastic bowl with a steroid-filled needle hanging out of his ass. That’s the kind of stuff I want to read. Whether or not you and your writer-friend-travel-mate rocked out to Pearl Jam as you ground the rental car’s clutch to shit while crawling to the top of the Tourmalet may seem interesting to you, but trust me, you’re the only one in that select group who actually wants to hear about it.

And that’s the problem with this book. As much as the title would have potential readers believe they’re going to be reading about Lance Armstrong, they’re not. There is very little in this work dedicated to actual Lance interviews and Lance material. In other words, you could probably pick up a DVD copy of the 2005 Tour de France and learn as much just from watching a few minutes with the sound off as you could from reading this piece of crap book.

The Pushers

Years ago, before Rudy Guiliani stepped into City Hall as head honcho and began cleaning up New York City in earnest, there existed certain corners and certain streets where one was almost always sure to walk through a medley of questionable characters who would inevitably ask the same question over and over and over.

“Crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed?"

Remember the guys I’m talking about? Remember the corner of 42^nd Street and 8^th Avenue? And their usual spot down on 6^th Avenue and West 8^th Street (was it West 8^th or Waverly Place)? You couldn’t make it ten feet without a constant barrage by a strategically placed platoon of drug-dealing losers asking if you wanted to get high. And if you did feel like getting high, I’m sure the jackals had their pockets stuffed with dime bags of pure oregano. Not that I would know, of course. Seriously. I never bought weed off any of those losers, let alone crack, coke, dope, or any kind of smoke for that matter. I don’t think I ever actually bought weed, now that I’m thinking of it.

The reason I mention all this is that, despite the fantastic work done in this city by not only Guiliani but Bloomberg as well (can you tell which way my tree swings when it comes to political party affiliations?), I ran into another one of these clowns just yesterday. Yes, it was as much of a shock to me as I’m sure it is to you as you sit at home reading this, but let me set the stage first.

It’s late afternoon on an unseasonably warm afternoon in late November. After the long group ride on Sunday, I realized my front brake pads were due for changing, so throwing a light sweater over my shoulders, I grabbed my keys and walked out the door. My destination? R&A Cycles on 5^th Avenue. Not that I care much for the abrasive clowns who work in that particular establishment, but they’re the closest bike shop with a decent selection of not just bikes, but everything in between (I could smack myself for giving them that small bit of positive promotion). Twenty minutes later, I walked in, paid $10 for a pair of pads (which seemed like something of a rip-off if you want my opinion), and pocketed my purchase. On my way out the door, I spotted a scruffy looking black guy hovering to the right, standing just beyond the shop’s front windows. Of course, the moment I decided to make eye contact with this fool--it has been a long while since the crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed days, so I saw little danger in making said eye contact--he opened his horrible mouth and asked the question: “Hey bro? Crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed, EPO?”

EPO? Did this loser just offer to sell me EPO? Under any other circumstances, under normal circumstances, I simply would have went about my business without so much as a word, but this was way too interesting to not investigate further.

“What was that last thing you just said?” I asked.

My drug-dealing homeboy glanced left and right down the street, checking for the po-lice.

“Whatcha want, bro? You want somethin’? You wanna ride with the big boys?”

“Did you say EPO?” I asked, glancing up and down the street myself to see if anyone else was witnessing this surreal exchange.

“Check it out.”

The homeboy quickly pulled open his jacket and flashed a few tiny glass bottles of clear liquid, each of them strung to the inside of his coat, much like those old street dealers who would hang hundreds of fake and stolen watches from the insides of their lapels. Homeboy flicked one of the vials with a fingernail and explained, “The real deal, bro. You could climb Mount Ev’rest with this shit right here.”

Before I could ask another question, homeboy pulled open the other side of his jacket to show me several hypodermic syringes in sterile wrappers bound together with a single rubber band.

“How much you want, champ?”

I thought about that. Standing on 5^th Avenue in Park Slope, I asked myself just how bad I want to win one of those races held in Prospect Park almost every Saturday morning during the summer. I also thought about the measly $5 left in my wallet after having just spent $10 on the brake pads.

“How much?” I asked, knowing fully well I would never in my life buy or use EPO (let alone from the loser standing in front of me) just so I could pedal a bicycle faster, although I was curious as to the price.

“Two hunnert a pop, champ.”

“Have a nice day,” I said decisively and walked away. From behind me, I could hear the homeboy lowering his price with every step I took, but it really didn’t matter.

With all that said, it’s amazing to think that drug-dealers are now pushing performance-enhancing drugs rather than just crack, coke, dope, smoke, and weed. Further, they now have the brains to target geographically, meaning they do their pushing in the places where all the cyclists eventually end up: the bike shop. On one hand, it’s a great sign as it means more people are cycling, which is always good for the sport, not to mention the environment (didn’t expect to hear that from a registered Republican, did you). More people mean bigger events which means more TV coverage which means more corporate sponsorship dollars which means bigger talent which means more people. Everybody wins, even the EPO-pushing losers on the corner of 5^th Avenue in Brooklyn, but that also represents the downside. If this guy was selling, that means somebody has been buying. In Brooklyn? I could see this happening in Europe where cycling seems a lot more fanatical than it does here in the States, but on 5^th Avenue? Take a quick step back from the scenario and try to get objective about this. First, how in the world did this homeboy get his hands on EPO? It’s a drug typically administered to cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy treatment, correct? It’s manufactured in labs owned by huge drug conglomerates, so how the hell did several vials fall into this jackass’s hands? Further, who’s giving him business and taking the syringes with their purchase? Can buyers find instructions online at DIY.com regarding the proper manner in which EPO is to be injected? Just what the hell is this world coming to?!

What’s the moral of this story? If Uncle Stevie begins telling you something that sounds too good or too sensational to be true, then it probably is too fantastic to be true. No one standing outside R&A is pushing EPO on unsuspecting kids like myself and I’m not even sure if a website with the URL DIY.com even exists. If it does, it’s unlikely they have instructions posted on how to inject EPO. Why did I bother with the above? The thought came to me recently, “What if those a-hole drug dealers on the street starting pushing stuff like EPO? How weird would that be?” Figured I’d have some fun with it.

As usual, thanks for reading.

Mashing

Upon arriving at the Miller Field parking lot this morning, Ed Dalton (seemingly the ride’s leader week after week) announced, “Tomorrow morning. Eight AM. Cheesequake, if anyone’s interested.” Later, about a third of the way through this morning’s group ride (Saturday), Ed asked me, “Coming out tomorrow?”

I had to think about that for a moment. “Maybe.”

It’s been almost a month since my first ride with Dr. Rob and his pedal-bending associates Brent, Anne, and Joe. It’s an experience that I look upon often with weary eyes, meaning that group ride that starts in the Cheesequake commuter parking lot and ends in the same place is a mother of a bitch, and that’s putting it lightly.

It’s a bitch for me, at least. With only a few months of riding under my legs, part of me feels as though I might do well to beg off tomorrow’s ride. These same legs are somewhat tired after this morning’s ride in Staten Island--a ride during which I found myself dropped on the last few miles across Hylan Boulevard due to a much higher than usual pace--as well as yesterday’s two-hour, thirty-four mile excursion in Prospect Park. At the same time, another part of me thinks, “No pain, no gain.” Isn’t that what they say (whoever the hell they are)?

Understandably, the benefit of group rides is that they push you in places when you typically wouldn’t push yourself and that’s a good thing. When racing season comes along, every guy and girl on that line is going to want to push the pace, so why not prepare myself?

Chances are I’ll end up going. I’ll end up going and once we hit the hills, I’ll start breathing hard while I wonder what the hell I was thinking. And then, if I’m lucky enough to even reach the top of the hill near the lighthouse, I’ll all but collapse off my bike and kindly request of my heart that it quit pumping at 300 beats-per-minute while the rest of the guys get stuck waiting for me (and my unprepared heart). Once my tongue retracts back into my mouth, we’ll again hammer the pace to the north end of Sandy Hook and if I’m really lucky, I’ll get dropped there as well. The pace will relax as we past the old army barracks and then it’ll pick up again as we speed out and away from the beach. Then we’re in the hills again for a long, steady climb past the Stewart’s fast food joint. Considering how shot to hell I felt on that first Cheesequake ride, I don’t remember much of the rest with the exception of two things. First, we stopped at a convenient store in a town. Which store? Which town? This reporter has no idea, but the stop was more than welcome. After the stop, I believe Dr. Rob said something to the effect of: “Only another fifteen miles to go. No problem.”

Maybe for him, but for me, those fifteen miles were long--damn long. Do I want to do it again tomorrow? Do I want to torture myself for another three-and-a-half hours first thing in the morning?

Might as well. According to the forecast, the temperature is supposed to hit the sixties tomorrow. That’s more than enough reason, right?

#

Now it’s Sunday, a few minutes past five o’clock in the afternoon (or early evening, depending on what you normally consider five o’clock). There are another two hours to go before primetime TV begins because on Sundays, primetime begins at seven rather than eight (as it does Monday through Saturday), but that’s not the point. The point is that, after roughly 63 miles of riding through the hills of New Jersey this morning, I have survived, and while my legs might tell a different story if they had the ability to write their own blog, I survived somewhat better than I did the first time I rode the Cheesequake commuter parking lot ride.

Why? A few reasons, really. First, Dr. Rob and Brent were delayed this morning. Since Dr. Rob seems to know the route through Jersey like the back of his hand, the rest of us--Ed, Joe, Kelly, Tommy, and Lester (a quick word about this man later)--figured we’d hit the road at just a few minutes after eight.

Like so many other rides, those first miles usually express themselves so deceptively, much like that girl in the club wearing not more than a bikini top and skin-tight hot pants, the girl you think you’ll be leaving with later that night before her boyfriend walks in and rips her out from under you (figuratively speaking, of course). If you’re not careful, those first twenty miles will basically mess with your head. If you fail to conserve, the next thing you know you’re ready to hop out of the saddle and press the pace harder than it’s already moving. There you are, a content little smile covering your face, thinking you’ve got this, no big deal, piece of cake, right?

F#cking wrong. This morning, I was more than happy to sit in the draft during most of those twenty miles because I knew what lay ahead and I knew I was going to need every single ounce of energy on which I could lay my hands. When the hills came, the hills that kick you in the ass before Sandy Hook, I wouldn’t say I was ready, but I would say I knew what to expect, which doesn’t exactly make it easier, but somehow, it makes the pain a bit more bearable.

As we began nearing the apex of the third, biggest, and baddest of the three monsters, I couldn’t help but let out a quick: “Holy shit!” At the same time, I couldn’t help but hear Phil Liggett’s commentating voice in my head: “Would the top of [insert hill/mountain name here] please come as soon as possible.”

Once you’re in and out of the flats of Sandy Hook--those lovely, delicious flats where you can get behind the biggest guy in the paceline and sit happily in his glorious draft--there are more hills. There are hills all the way back to the parking lot, but to a certain degree, you almost feel that if you can take on the biggest of the three bitches and live through that, then you can live through the rest of them . . . granted the pace quietly slips back to sixteen-miles-per-hour or so.

Despite all the pontificating above, the real reason I survived this ride better today than I previously did is all due to the overall pace. The first time out, Dr. Rob & Company felt comfortable at a pace with which I was uncomfortable and, unfortunately, they had to wait on my sorry ass. Today, Dr. Rob and Backbreaker Brent (Backbreaker simply because they guy’s legs and lungs never seem to tire--I’m not even sure if he leaks a single drop of sweat on these 60+ mile rides) were late, which meant conserving a lot of energy over those first twenty miles. And after Sandy Hook, the pace was simply not as insane as it could have been.

#

As an interesting side note: Lester. Who the hell is Lester? Understandably, Lester has probably glanced at me a few times these past two days and asked himself: “Who the hell is the dork with the neon yellow wind breaker riding the shitty Giant?”

Good question, Lester, but the people reading this already know who I am, so we get to talk about my impressions of you, big guy (how thrilling).

Yesterday morning, while sitting on the back of the line cruising down Fr. Capodanno Boulevard, I happened to glance over my shoulder and find something of a bulky character sitting on my wheel, a guy in a wind breaker almost as yellow as mine (a yellow a lot less harsh than mine, which should speak to the man’s elevated sense of style) and a spanking looking Trek of roughly the same color.

A few moments later, the rider in front of me also happened to glance over her shoulder and spot the hulking character behind me. “Hey,” she yelled toward the rest of the group, “look who it is. It’s Lester.”

Considering what I now know of Lester--which isn’t much--I can say this. According to Dr. Rob, Lester rode on the Polish National team for many years and has placed in the Tour of Poland (which sounds relatively amazing to a beginning cyclist such as myself). He also has leg muscles that, when watching them squeeze and contract from behind, the side, or in front (and don’t take that out of context because my tree definitely doesn’t swing that way), cause a casual observer to realize that if the man has a whim to jump out of the saddle and start hammering on the pedals, he will most likely tear the entire goddam road to pieces. Apart from that, the only other two pieces of information I have about Lester are (a) he is known to enjoy a beer or two during schedule stops on group rides, and (b) I can barely understand a word he says. After introducing myself this morning and offering a handshake, Lester asked me a question that I believe referred to Saturday morning’s ride. Never one to ask another man to repeat himself more than once, I just went ahead and answered the question as best as I could: “Those last few miles on Hylan, I sort of fell off the pace and dropped back.” Whether or not this was the answer Lester was looking for, who knows?

Open Up and Inhale

Good ride today, good ride. I was expecting better weather, although I really shouldn’t complain as the rain held off (and it’s still holding off as I write this at 3:29 PM Saturday afternoon).

As the wind was a bit brisk, I started off out of the parking lot solo, spinning at a slow pace until the rest of the group caught me near Sand Lane. From there, it seemed to be the usual spots where the tempo picked up: up the hill to the corner of McClean, down that street that runs parallel to Bay Street (can’t think of the name of it for the life of me), about halfway along Richmond Terrace, on that lifeless street near 440 past the Hilton (or is it a Marriot?), south on Richmond Avenue, and parts of Arthur Kill Road before the final home stretch on Hylan Boulevard. Actually, I think we hit over 30 miles per hour on Richmond Avenue, which is impressive. Well, it’s impressive to me, at least.

As usual, I got a bit ahead of myself as we were heading down Arthur Kill Road. Just before the hill that climbs up to Island Cycles (motorcycles), I started clicking up through the gears in an attempt to get as much momentum going as I could, thinking I might make it all the way to the crest of the short yet steep hill in a sprint. Three-quarters of the way to the top and leading the group, my lungs decided they had had enough. Planting my butt in the saddle, guess who went blowing past me as if I were standing still? Anne and Kelly. If not for the fact that I could barely breathe, I would have called out something clever and witty such as, “You guys aren’t supposed to chase me down. When I attack, you’re supposed to just let me go. Those are the rules.”

To whose rules am I referring? I have no idea.

Actually, it was such a good ride today, I think I’m going to splurge on the toll for the Verrazanno Bridge and join the same ride again tomorrow morning.

#

[Author’s Note: The above pound symbol--#--typically denotes a shift in time or space. In other words, when you see the # symbol on this page, it means I want to change the subject and considering I lack the literary acumen to create a fluid transition from paragraph to paragraph, I’ll use the # symbol instead. I’m sure we can all live happily with that.]

Apart from the actual cycling, there are aspects of cycling that I’ve come to truly love, including the food. Understandably, this may sound odd. “What’s to love about PowerBars?” some might say, but this isn’t just about PowerBars so much. Rather, it’s more about how justified I feel in eating the large quantities I eat as a result of spending several hours a day on a bicycle.

For example, I wear a heart rate monitor while riding. One of the wonderful features of this monitor includes Calories Burned and after riding for over two hours this morning, I allegedly burned 1,980 calories. Is that a lot? Who can say for sure, although it definitely makes me feel justified in devouring as much food on which I can lay my hands when the rides over and I’m home. Sitting at my dining table, I happily inhaled an egg and cheese sandwich on white toast (two scrambled eggs with a single slice of Yellow American cheese cooked in a pan sprayed with “0 Trans Fat” Mazola cooking spray, along with half a bottle of VitaminWater, a small bowl of crimson grapes, half a glass of orange juice, and one packet of instant oatmeal.

An hour later, I cooked up a serving of Lipton’s Noodle Soup. Less than half an hour after that, I’m already thinking about what I’m going to cook for dinner. I’m thinking chicken wings as I sit down to watch the movie I rented this afternoon: Monster House.

You know what else I like about the food that comes after cycling? So many diets state that carbs should be avoided. Now that I’ve got two wheels under me, I’ll eat all the damn spaghetti I want. I love spaghetti! Who doesn’t love spaghetti? I’ve got three boxes in the pantry simply waiting for me as I write this. Maybe I’ll have spaghetti for dinner. Shit, maybe I’ll have the leftovers for breakfast before tomorrow’s ride. That’s how much I love spaghetti.

Further, rather than spend money on actual PowerBars, I’ve made like a hippie and I’m now cooking up my own energy bars. Can you believe that? Actually, it’s really easy. Here’s how I do it:

In a large bowl, I mix ½ cup peanuts, ½ cup raisins, 2 cups raw oatmeal, and 2 cups Rice Crispies. In a separate bowl, I mix about a cup of peanut butter with ½ cup of light brown sugar. Finally, I pour in about ¾ cup of light corn syrup and mix as well as I can. The mixture is then microwaved for two minutes after which I add two teaspoons of vanilla extract.

Now comes the sticky part--mixing the peanut butter and sugar with the oatmeal and everything else. Literally, it’s sticky, which makes it something of a pain in the ass. I tried doing it with my bare hands after rubbing some olive oil into them, but that failed to keep the mixture from sticking to my digits. Next time, perhaps I’ll try plastic gloves.

In the end, I dump the final mix into a non-stick pan and begin to flatten it out with a plastic spatula until it’s roughly ¾ of an inch to an inch thick. I cover the warm, gooey mess (get your head out of the gutter!) with plastic wrap and let it sit overnight so it hardens. The following morning, finito. Every time I go riding, I cut out a chunk, wrap it in tinfoil, and I’m ready to go. Much tastier than a PowerBar as far as I’m concerned, and a hell of a lot cheaper as well.

To wrap up this ridiculously long post, I wanted to make a comment about energy gels. So far, I’ve only tasted the Vanilla Bean flavor (in addition to the Apples & Cinnamon packet Mr. KP provided me), but that one flavor has been enough to convince me that energy gels are glorified cake icing. Come on. To anyone reading this who’s sucked down one of those things, what’s the first thing that comes to mind when you’re swallowing? Birthday cake, right? Don’t try to deny it. That shit is cake batter all the way.

And now I’m done.

Cycling on Video

If you're not already aware, there are some rather decent cycling videos you can watch for free online. I've already pointed Mr. KP in this direction already, but I know a lot of people are unaware of YouTube.com (owned by Google who also owns this site, Blogger.com). No, I don't work for Google (although I'd like to as they seem to really be taking over the Internet the same way Microsoft has a lock on operating software), but I handle online media planning for a living, so I'm online all the time as it's simply my job.

Okay, where were we? We were talking about cycling videos online, right? Check out the below links. FYI, if you have a dial-up connection, you may find yourself frustrated with a slow download time. In that event, let me offer you my sincerest apologies.

Here's a really good one about Lance and his former US Postal team:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Za6Hd9uJOg

(If you can't simply click on the above, copy and paste into your browser.)

Here's one of Jan Ullrich attacking during one of the Tour's mountain stages:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l39ahBFGnuk

Another of Lance training:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8EbDmhzRKQ

And finally one titled VAS Road Cycling Reel:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2vAnVtASIE

Number Three

You’re not going to believe this, but I hit a pigeon this morning while riding in Prospect Park. Honestly, I don’t know what it is with me and the animals, but I can’t seem to make it a few days without colliding with some sort of wildlife (if you can even call rats, squirrels, and pigeons wildlife).

Coming around the bend where the park drive narrows to a single lane, a pigeon situated on the side of the road decided it would be a good time to take to the air. Flapping it’s gray wings, it darted in a forty-five degree flight path straight in front of me. Pressing my chin to my chest to protect my face, the top of my helmet crashed against the stupid bird, knocking it a few feet forward until it regained its composure and kept flying.

Seriously, I just don’t get it.

Another Rodent

I don’t know what the story is with me and the creatures, but I hit a squirrel this morning (in case I don’t have the opportunity to post this online until tomorrow, today is Sunday) while cruising down Henry Street on the way to a ride in Prospect Park.

A few weeks ago, I hit a rat in the park and today, a squirrel. What’s next? A raccoon? A possum, maybe? God forbid I hit anything that large and no doubt I’ll take a quick trip over the handlebars. Like the rat, though, I didn’t hit the squirrel head-on. Instead, I think I nipped his tail. I definitely hit some part of the rodent considering the bike shook as if I hit a pothole, but the little bastard kept on a-runnin’ after the impact, so I would have to imagine I ran over some inconsequential piece of its anatomy.

One might think that NYC animals would have better street smarts. After all, we’re talking about creatures born and raised in and around the five boroughs. Even those animals that grow up in one of the city’s many parks must be subjected to pedestrians, cyclists, and motorists on a daily basis, so my point is, what don’t these freaking animals understand? What part of “look both ways before you cross” don’t they get? The squirrel I hit this morning, he scurried out into the middle of the road, decided to pause once he saw me coming along the right side of the road at 16 mph, and then jumped in front of my wheel as if I had all the time in the world to stop.

I mean, just how dumb can a squirrel be? What ever happened to survival of the fittest? With brains like that, the damn squirrel deserves to get hit!

Regardless, I made it to the park a few minutes later and only put in an hour and fifteen minutes rather than the scheduled two hours. After yesterday, my legs weren’t really up to another two-hour ride, and besides, the saddle was killing my butt. Two days ago, I had the bright idea to switch the plush saddle I had been riding on the past several months with the pain-in-the-you-know-what saddle that came with the bike when I bought it back in July. Why would such a brilliant idea occur to me? Figured my backside would be ready for a stiffer seat by now, although apparently not.

Speaking of yesterday, I had a great ride with a great bunch of people out in Staten Island. At 8:30 in the chilly A.M., a glorious mass of cyclists formed in the parking lot outside New Dorp High School. The previous evening, I had placed a call to Dr. Rob and asked if he’d be riding this weekend. This is the same Dr. Rob who all but crucified me in New Jersey two weeks prior in the hills around Cheesequake and Sandy Hook. He quickly informed me he would be unavailable the following morning, although that I might benefit from joining a group ride that followed the perimeter of the island for roughly fifty miles.

As usual, I made an attempt to persuade Mr. Picco to join the road ride, although Mr. Picco has a serious aversion to (a) riding a bicycle in cold weather, and (b) road riding regardless of the weather as well as the beautiful Independent Fabrication bicycle he keeps housed in his basement (where it collects dust). I tried one last time to get the guy out of his house via text message forty minutes before the ride was scheduled to begin: Come on, Picco. 40 mins.

Needless to say, it didn’t happen. Mr. Picco likes road cycling on cold days as much as a meter maid likes a diet--some things just ain’t gonna happen.

At eight o’clock outside the school, I introduced myself to Mr. Ed Dalton. While speaking with Dr. Rob Friday night, he had explained, “Look for a guy with a beard. His name’s Ed Dalton. I’ll give him a ring and tell him you’re going to be there if you want to join.”

In forty degree weather, I then proceeded to gear up: tights, form-fitting undershirt, long-sleeve jersey, cycling shorts, wool socks, neoprene booties, bright yellow wind-resistant jacket, skull cap, helmet, and gloves. What I’m sitting here trying to tell you is that it was freaking FREEZING out there yesterday morning. At least it felt freezing standing around in a pair of tights (again, articles of clothing I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in public without a bicycle).

By eight-thirty, at least twenty cyclists had arrived and I began thinking to myself, Geez. If this turns out anything like that last training ride in New Jersey, I’m going to get royally spanked yet again. I thought this as I spotted two familiar faces in the crowd: Joe, the sixty-eight-year-old guy who completely blew me away in the Jersey hills with Dr. Rob, and Anne, a young lady who did the exact same thing as Joe had done in the same hills. Eyeing the crowd, I thought, This is going to be one very embarrassing morning.

Eventually, the ride started off to an easy pace as all rides do (and should) and headed down to Fr. Capadanno Boulevard (if I’ve misspelled Capadanno, I guess that’s something with which we’re just going to have to live, aren’t we?). As we approached Sand Lane, I pulled up next to Joe to say hello when I noticed everyone making a right turn into the roundabout. Holding up my arm to signal to the one person behind me that I’d be making a right as well, Joe said, “Just go straight.” Considering almost everyone had made the right into the roundabout, the group of riders who had continued along the boulevard had seriously dwindled to a select few.

“Where is everyone else going?” I asked Ed.

“They ride at a different pace,” he explained as we started the short climb toward McClean Avenue.

Overall, the ride did indeed take us around the perimeter of the island at a comfortable pace with a few bursts along the way where the speed picked up to an average of 20-23 mph--something to get the heart rate up and going--something to make you sweat. The few hills we encountered along the 46-mile ride were nothing humongous, nothing that made you want to turn around and call it a day. They were there, of course (the hills are always there, aren’t they?), and they weren’t easy, but I’ll venture to say they were manageable.

I met some nice people yesterday morning, but then again, I always seem to meet nice people on the bike. It’s a pleasure to find yourself surrounded by people with the same interest. I’m looking forward to next week’s ride.

My Own Little Field Test

A few weeks ago, I picked up a copy of Chris Carmichael’s The Ultimate Ride: Get Fit, Get Fast, and Start Winning with the World’s Top Cycling Coach. What makes this clown the world’s top cycling coach? Well, he was Armstrong’s coach through all seven of his Tour de France victories, so yeah, I’d say that sort of makes him the world’s top cycling coach.

Before I even get started with this, I’m well aware that a lot of guys, after reading the above, would lament, “Don’t worry about the science of riding yet, you idiot. Just get out there and ride your legs off.” At a certain level, I sort of agree with that thinking, but you know what? If I’m going to put in the effort I’ve been putting in since I bought the bike on July 4th, why shouldn’t I approach the effort with some sort of thinking above and beyond ride hard and ride long? Without a cycling computer with a cadence feature and a heart rate monitor, how do I know if I’m really riding hard enough? Or if I ride too hard, am I negating my efforts?

See my thinking behind investing in both the book and a $40 CatEye heart rate monitor?

Anyway, Carmichael recommends beginning with a 3-mile field test on a flat road with few turns as a way to gauge average heart rate, so I drove to Sandy Hook yesterday morning to do exactly that. I rode three miles at a hard pace, yet a pace I felt I could sustain if necessary. My average heart rate? 163. Total time? 9:43 with a headwind. Average speed? 18.8. Average cadence? No clue.

With the first field test completed, I decided to tick off another with the wind at my back. Average heart rate? 161. Total time? 9:25. Average speed? 19.4.

Just to prove how much of a geek I am, I whipped out my cell phone and made a voice recording of all the data. Sounds odd, sure, but it beats carrying a pen and paper in my jersey.

With the field tests completed, I logged in another few miles and then split back to Brooklyn. This morning, I got out of bed at seven looking forward to my first CTS (Carmichael Training Systems) workout: 2 hours of Foundation Miles with five :10 second PowerStarts worked in.

How absolutely thrilling. I calculated that 89% of my average heart rate (measured during the field test) should be 144--a pace I felt I could maintain comfortably for the two-hour ride.

And I did just that. Actually, once the two hours were completed, my average heart rate climbed to 148, but what are a few points? What’s the big deal? I logged 30 miles in Prospect Park (only decent place to ride around here without traffic, although I admit, it does get a bit boring after a while) at just under two hours and now the legs feel good.

Tomorrow’s workout includes only a one-hour FM (foundationmiles at 89% average heart rate). I’m starting to like this Carmichael guy, but let’s see how I do next year in the Kissena Club races in the Park. If I can finish with the lead group in Category Five, then maybe I’ll actually call him the world’s top cycling coach if we ever meet. If not . . . whatever.

The Big One

I’ve been sitting here staring at a blank screen the past ten minutes thinking about a ride I took yesterday. It was long, over sixty miles, and it was hard--hard enough so that a day later, my legs still feel like rubber. Beyond that, exactly what should I describe about the ride that isn’t going to bore you to tears?

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. Maybe someone does want the details, although by this point in our lives, isn’t time a much sought after commodity? Don’t we all feel like we run out of time each day by the time we make it to bed (and probably later than we should be getting to bed)? What I mean is, why bother with the details if they’re only going to take up your time? If I had anything remotely interesting to say about yesterday, I would say it. I went riding with a few guys and a girl and I was the new comer. I was the guy who, halfway through the ride, started to slow everyone down a bit. Geez, I was that guy. Again. That sucks.

Actually, perhaps there are a few things to say. First off, a big thanks to KP and Dr. Rob. KP introduced me and Dr. Rob extended the invite to take the ride out in New Jersey for the morning.

Other than that, it was cold and there were hills, but not bad hills. Not Alp d’Huez climbs, just Jersey hills, although three of them kicked me in the ass bad. I mean big time. The first, I kept up, but halfway up the second, I fell behind. And I stopped on a mother of a short yet incredibly steep climb. I stopped and walked. What’s the word I’m looking for here? That’s right. The right word would be bitch. Halfway up I dismounted and walked, like a bitch.

My legs and lungs have a long, long way to go.

Riding through Sandy Hook park was entertaining. I’ve only had the opportunity to do it a few times, although I enjoy sitting in a line with other riders and churning away. While pedaling through the park, I thanked the cycling gods for the flat road as well as the draft. If not for everyone else blocking the wind, I would have called a taxi, loaded up the bike, and got the hell out of there.

With ten miles to go, my legs turned into rubber/jelly/Jell-O. The flats were fine but as soon as we hit anything of an incline, every system in my body began screaming, “DON’T YOU THINK YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH ALREADY?”

By the time we reached our cars, I had burned over 3,800 calories (according to my heart rate monitor, at least), so I figured I could at least treat myself to as much food as I wanted. At Subway, I downed a foot-long chicken sub, half a bag of chips, and a few sips of Coke. A few hours later, I ate a box of mac & cheese, and two hours after that, a chicken burrito bowl at Chipotle.

As hard as it was, I loved it. Sounds counter-intuitive, doesn’t it? What bothers me more than the pain, though, was holding up the entire ride. As they say: my bad.

Rob, Brent, Anne, and Joe--pleasure meeting everyone. Thanks for your patience.

Inconvenient

Wednesday night, while riding in Prospect Park, I ran over a rat.

Like small children are known to do, this particular rat sort of jumped out into the road out of nowhere. Of course, it didn't help that I had been peering over my shoulder to check for traffic behind me, but of the sixty odd minutes I spent biking in the park Wednesday night, why in the world did that stupid rat choose those few seconds when I was glancing behind me to try and cross the street. Was it really so important that he/she cross at that very moment? He couldn't have let me by first? I mean, the nerve.

Actually, when I say I "ran over the rat," allow me to clarify. My front wheel did not cross over the rat's midsection. If it had, I may have very well gone over the bars, and while I failed to catch exactly which part of the rat my tire struck, I believe it may have happened near the ass region because immediately after the impact, I glanced over my shoulder again to see the rat running in the direction from which it had come. The reason I say the "ass region" is simple. If it had been the head area, the rat's cheese-eating days probably would have reached an end considering I weigh just over 200 pounds. Same goes for the midsection. Probably would have ended with some blood and guts on the asphalt if I had hit the little bastard in the stomach.

Regardless, even though it was only a rat, I sort of felt bad after the fact. In the event that I hit more than tail, I would have to imagine I inadvertently inflicted some damage on the poor bastard, and what's a busted rat to do? It's not like he can make an appointment with his primary care physician. Not like it can ask a buddy, "Does that look infected to you?" Again, I know it's just a rat, but the damn thing was simply trying to cross the road and I almost killed it. Even as I write this, I can't help but wonder if it's out there in Prospect Park somewhere, dragging around the sorry, broken ass I helped break. Probably cursing my name and every other damn cyclist it spots from the weeds while it sniffs around for discarded gummy bears and knishes.

Kind of makes me go all mush inside. If I were a true gentleman, I'd go back to the scene of the accident and leave out some cheese for the poor bastard. Maybe I'll do that tonight. Toss down a few slices of yellow American for Mr. Rat, kind of like a twisted tribute to his busted ass.

Apart from the rat, I broke another spoke yesterday. It happened at a terribly convenient time--two laps into my planned eight lap ride in Central Park.

Sunday's are my "long ride" day, so I dragged myself out of bed at eight, geared up, filled the water bottles, trekked over the Brooklyn Bridge (which, as far as I'm concerned, is some of the most dangerous riding in the country considering the dick-for-brain tourists who can't seem to comprehend that the lane with the picture of a bicycle is for bicycles only), and dodged many a taxi on the way to the park. Swinging onto Park Drive, I glanced up and thought, "Where the hell are all these joggers going?"

Turns out yesterday was an 18-mile training run for the upcoming NYC Marathon. God, people really love to run as there were easily hundreds of joggers clogging the lanes. Myself, I don't really see the attraction of running anywhere, which is why I have the damn bicycle.

Anyway, while weaving my way in and out of joggers and more freaking clueless tourists--surprisingly, not one person yelled at me to slow down--I stood up to start climbing the hill at the north end of the park when I heard an unusually sharp clank come from the rear wheel.

"Oh. Shit. Please. No. Not now. Don't." I pulled over to check whatever damage had been done and sure enough, one of the spokes had busted off at the nipple.

Ten miles from Brooklyn and I had a broken spoke, which meant I had a wobbly rear wheel. Fantastic.

This is the second time this has happened to me. The first time, I let the guys in a bike shop fix it for $10 even though it's somewhat contradicts my nature to pay anyone to handle any sort of mechanical repair for me, so yesterday, I stopped in the bike shop on Atlantic Avenue and asked for a few spokes.

"What size?" the owner asked.

"Twenty-seven inch wheel," I said.

"Right, but I need to know how long the spokes are."

I walked back to my apartment and returned with the wheel.

Looking over the tire, the owner said, "You realize, this is a lot easier if we do it."

"I gotta learn sometime," I said, and that I did. Over the course of the next several hours, I ended up spending roughly $35 on the tools I needed to removed the cassette, another $30 on stuff I bought in Target as I was walking back from the bike shop in Park Slope (the place on Atlantic Avenue) didn't have the chain whip I needed, and $5 on lunch. What should have been a 30-minute job turned into a 4-hour logistical nightmare. After installing the new spoke, I had a miserable time attempting to true the rim so that it spun without wobbling.

At one point, I surrendered and tried to bring the wheel back to the shop so the experts could true it for me, although by five, they were already closed.

Eventually, I got the bitch done and took the bitch out for a test drive. It's all good.

One Extreme to Another

Yesterday, I managed to get Kenny Picco on his bike without having to put something on the calendar two weeks in advance.

I can now consider myself a miracle worker.

Despite how well the afternoon turned out, the morning started off on a fairly miserable note. When the alarm sounded, I opened my eyes to dark skies and the pitter-patter of rain drops splashing against the window next to my head. Every instinct in my body instructed me to kill the alarm--not just hit SNOOZE, but to turn the damn thing off completely--roll over, and get back to the serious business of sleeping in late, although a small voice in the back of my head reminded me of how seven-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong would ride regardless of the inclement weather.

Where this small voice came from, I’ll never know. Why I even bothered to listen to it is another story all together.

So like a complete jackass, I packed my gear, grabbed my bike, and stepped out the front door into a drizzling rain with the hopes it would clear up by the time I reached Sandy Hook. Why Sandy Hook? Why travel so far in such cheerless weather? I recently invested in a copy of 30 Bicycle Tours in New Jersey and wanted to feel like I was getting the most for my $7.

Luckily, I was completely packed in the truck when it started to pour. Even luckier, the rain had let up almost all the way by the time I parked in the first lot at Sandy Hook. I felt pretty good pulling on my new Under Armor long-sleeve base layer (I get such a hard-on for new cycling gear--something for which I should probably seek counseling) and my new Nashbar jersey. I felt even better during that first mile along the park road, yet I felt like killing somebody when thunder cracked overhead and the rain started coming down harder than the Yankees spanking the Mets in the World Series.

(I know I could have done better with that one, Picco, but I couldn’t help myself.)

After ten miles, I pulled it in. If Lance wants to ride in the rain, let him ride in the rain. Unlike Mr. Armstrong, no one is paying me to ride a bicycle, so what the hell was I thinking? I’m either (a) joining a gym so I can ride a stationary bike when it’s raining, or (b) investing in a trainer so I can ride in my apartment when it even looks like it’s going to drizzle outside.

Heading back to Staten Island, I made sure to stop in the Taco Bell on Route 36 for a ghettofabulous meal of cheesy fiesta potatoes, one soft beef taco, a steak quesadilla, and a jumbo-sized Mountain Dew. I would have ordered a small Mountain Dew, although I recently read a book by Lance Armstrong’s trainer, Chris Carmichael, and he recommends always order the super-sized soda when eating out. Clearly, the guy’s a professional, so who would I be to contradict the man by ordering water?

By the time I left Jersey, the skies had cleared up and the goddam sunshine was everywhere. At Kenny Picco’s place, he regaled me with tales of his recent vacation in North Carolina’s Outer Banks until I felt fully regaled. For a moment, we discussed heading out for a ride considering the day had taken a turn for the better.

“My gear’s wet,” I said.

Kenny pointed to the corner of his basement. “The dryer’s right there.”

“Let's go.”

We stepped outside to discuss the possibility further when the sweet sounds of Queen’s Bicycle Race reached our ears from a neighbor’s stereo across the street:

Bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my
Bicycle races are coming your way
So forget all your duties oh yeah
Fat bottomed girls they'll be riding today
So look out for those beauties oh yeah
On your marks get set go
Bicycle race bicycle race bicycle race
All I want to do is
Bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
Bicycle bicycle bicycle bicycle
Bicycle race

Kenny looked at me. “I guess we kind of have to go now, huh?”

I think the correct term for such a situation would be coincidental. I know a lot of people would say ironic, although I’d disagree.

And that was it. I tossed my soggy gear in the dryer, held his wife’s hair dryer in my shoes for a few minutes, and off we went to ride twelve or so miles on the flat road in Gateway Park.

I’m also going to own Mr. Picco’s ass this coming Sunday, a day which he agreed to go riding again. Hopefully, we’ll hit Central Park for a few laps, or at least Prospect Park. Get ready to sweat, Mr. Picco.

Sometimes You Ask Why

This past Sunday morning, I went out and did my longest ride to date--51 miles in Prospect Park (I lacked the patience to drive anywhere more scenic when I got out of bed that day)--although that’s not really what I wanted to talk about today. If I did, if I took you through the details of my ride, you’d probably find yourself incredibly bored by the second or third paragraph, and who needs that in their life?

I could also discuss the 40 miles I did on Staten Island the Sunday before, the ride that took me up and over Todt Hill, up Howard Avenue near Wagner College, back up the service road, and then up the backside of Todt Hill. Finished with the climbing, I went and did another 20 miles in Gateway National Park, which was a pleasure considering it’s completely flat.

See how quickly that gets tired? Do I feel like reading about all the minute details of everyone else’s Sunday ride? Not really. Sure, that probably makes me sound like something of a dick, but let’s be honest. How much different is my ride from yours? Probably not much, right? With that said, I wanted to talk about what I’ve found in riding and why I continue to ride.

That’s a big question for all of us on bicycles, isn’t it? Whether it’s on the road or off the road, why do we keep doing it? Why punish ourselves the way we do? Why cause our lungs and legs to burn for hours at a time? Why set the alarm for seven in the morning just so I can strap on a pair of tight shorts--shorts I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing off the bike--and proceed to practically crucify myself for the next 2-4 hours?

Now, I believe the truth in this matter is that the answer is probably different for everybody, although perhaps there’s a common thread that snakes through the entire cycling community. Speaking for myself, the answers have sort of crystallized during the past few weeks.

First, I do it because I have this selfish desire to become both fast and powerful on a bicycle. I do it so I can average 24 miles-per-hour in Central Park rather than the measly 18-19 I’ve been doing so far. I do it so no one ever passes me when I’m riding the loop through Prospect Park. I do it so I might win a race.

More importantly, I continue to ride because I’ve come to realize that the pain of pushing myself progressively harder and harder every week helps fix all the other pain that comes from the rest of life. In the movie Fight Club, Jack states: “After fighting, everything else in life got the volume turned down,” and that’s sort of how it is with cycling. This past week, I had some of the worst days and nights I’ve had in a long, long time and if it wasn’t for my bike, they probably would have been a lot worse than they turned out to be. I probably would have ended up a lot drunker than I did, yet somehow, the pain of biking up a mountain or a big hill helps ease the pain associated with everything else in life, just like Jack said. Somehow, it seems to make everything else all right. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know why. It just works, at least for me.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Up In The Hills

This morning I tackled my first mountain ride and when I say mountain, I don’t mean L’Alp d’Huez caliber. I don’t mean the kind of ridiculously difficult nonsense guys like Lance Armstrong seem to enjoy riding every Sunday afternoon. Since I’m still getting my lungs back after ten years of smoking (oof--ten years?), let’s be as upfront about that as possible. Rather than pack my bike in a box and fly eight hours to pointy mountain ranges throughout France, I packed my bike in the back of my pick-up truck and spent two hours driving to New Paltz located in wonderful upstate New York.

One of the things about riding in the mountains is the expectations. Of course, I’ve spent the past two months kicking my ass in Central and Prospect Parks, and while both those spots are great for training, the hills don’t go on and on the way the hills go on and on in the Catskills and Adirondacks. With that said, I was halfway over the George Washington Bridge wondering, “Just how freaking long will I be able to ride those freaking hills up there before I either (a) quit, or (b) die?”

Two hours later, I found out.

New Paltz would be a quaint town if not for the fact that it’s host to a SUNY school, which means lots of confused college kids wearing a lot of tie-dye t-shirts, overgrown beards, black-framed eyeglasses that were cool five years ago in Soho, and psuedo-intellectual attitudes that seem to go nowhere fast. Regardless, just outside New Paltz sits a mountain area that is home to some fantastic rock climbing as well as a small yet intriguing park called Lake Minnewaska. I chose this particular locale considering I’m already familiar with the roads but, more importantly, the route that leads out of New Paltz into the mountains is long and severely uphill, so I figured, “I’ll deal with the two-hour drive and see what I can do for the day.”

Long and uphill is exactly what it was. Actually, I may be exaggerating a bit. While I don’t recall the numbers of the exact routes I traveled today, the ride does become very uphill once you make a right at the stop sign and begin climbing the road that leads directly to Lake Minnewaska, my primary destination. Was it long? A few miles, at best, but a few miles of incessant hill climbing is a lot more than what I’m used to here in Brooklyn and Manhattan.

I’m not going to lie. Even with the gearing set to the easiest possible combination (and I have three sprockets up front) I had to stop three times before I reached Lake Minnewaska--three freaking times. If I had been wearing a heart rate monitor, I have no doubt the screen would have read: “Are you nuts? What the hell are you trying to prove? STOP PEDALING!”

Although now that I’ve done it, I can say it’s a hell of a lot easier going down than it is going up. That’s obvious, of course, but once you’re on the other side (or turned around, which is what I did), it’s amazing how quickly the brain forgets about the pain you just went through to reach the summit.

And I hit 37 miles-per-hour on the way down without pedaling. Does that, in any way, speak to the steepness of the hill going up? I’m not being a wiseass--just asking.

Heading back toward the parking lot where I had left my truck, I decided to explore some of the side streets near the village limits and discovered some pleasant, rolling roads that cut through the flats just south of Lake Minnewaska. After 25 miles, I returned to the truck to fill up on water, take a short breather, and then explore some more. On the road leading to Lake Mohonk, I decided to bear to the right when everybody else took a left (to get to Mohonk) and found an extremely long and flat street which allowed me to cruise at 17 miles-per-hour even with a headwind.

Finally, once my ass felt completely numb, I turned around and started back to the truck for the last time. Once I pulled it in, I was out of water and the trip odometer read 40.07. Next week, I want more hills (or more flats at a higher pace) so I can show off my new Corona jersey. I invested in that sucker Friday afternoon and now that I now the pleasures of riding in a real cycling jersey, I don’t think I’m going back to t-shirts any time soon.

Peace.