My bikes, they finally arrived on Tuesday. “They’ll be ready Thursday,” Paulo had said, Paulo from Julio Bicycle, so I picked them up yesterday. When I first walked in--after having left the office at 2:30 as I could no longer contain my enthusiasm--I stepped up to the counter with a ridiculous grin on my face and said hello to Willey.
“I’m here to pick up my bikes,” I said. “The Jamis bikes.”
Willey frowned. “What bikes?”
As I opened my mouth to inhale, ready to inform Willey that he and his colleagues did indeed have a pair of Jamis bikes somewhere in his shop, fully assembled and waiting for your truly, Willey then nodded, smiled, and pointed toward the other side of the shop. “Right over there.”
I turned, my eyes immediately focusing in on my brand-spanking new 2007 Jamis Xenith Comp, its carbon fiber frame a beautiful mix of black and chrome, the Shimano 105 drive train calling my name, begging me to shift, the Easton handle bars and carbon fiber seat post waving hello, and finally, the Selle San Marco Ponza saddle, all but ready to support my monkey-thin butt cheeks.
Grabbing the stem and the saddle, I lifted the bike a few inches off the floor, testing its weight. While not as light as a $5,000 Cervelo, my new Jamis was considerably lighter than the aluminum Giant I’ve been riding the past nine months.
Taking a deep breath and returning the bike to the floor, I thought, I haven’t been this excited in a long time.
Just behind the new road bike stood the new mountain bike, a grey-framed Dakar XCR Comp with R-Seven fork, Fox shock, Avid Juicy 3 disc brakes, Shimano XT rear derailleur, Mavic wheels, and Maxxis knobbies. Since I know so little about mountain bikes--and road bikes, too, now that I’m thinking about it--that’s about as much as I can tell you.
After paying Willey & Paulo for their services rendered, I returned home, stashed the mountain bike in my bedroom, and carried the new road bike to the basement where I began transferring the water bottle cage, pedals, and frame pump from the Giant to the Xenith. Finished, I was running up the stairs when I happened to glance out the window to see snow falling.
How’s that for bad luck? On the same damn day I bring home a pair of new bikes, it begins to snow outside. Could my timing have been any lousier?
Screw it, I thought, continuing to change into my riding gear. If it doesn’t stop snowing by the time I’m ready to go, I’ll just sit by the window and wait until it does stop.
Fortunately, the snow quit by the time I pulled on my jacket, so I carried the new bike down the front steps, threw a leg over the frame, clipped in my right foot, and took off.
Twenty feet later, I stopped. The saddle was much too low, so removing my trusty allen key from my pocket, I pulled the seat post up about two inches, tightened the bolts, and got back on--perfect.
Well, not perfect. The Giant I had been riding was technically a “sports touring” bike, while the Jamis is more of a racing bike, meaning my butt feels a lot farther back than it did on the Giant. That’s fine as it pushes me into a more aerodynamic position, although it took a few minutes to get comfortable with the new feel.
Ultimately, though, the new bike is a huge change for the better. Considering the drive train is all 105 (except the rear derailleur, which is an Ultegra . . . did I say that already?), it shifts a hell of a lot smoother than the shifting I’ve been doing. The brakes are 105s too, so that’s a huge improvement. The bike’s lighter, but it also feels lighter when climbing and it feels just as good as the aluminum frame did during the few sprints I put together while out on the road yesterday.
And that’s it. I’ve only spent a little over an hour on the new bitch, but so far, so good.
Tomorrow, granted it doesn’t snow (goddam f#cking snow--see my previous post, Enough Already), I’m expecting Mr. Picco to arrive here in Pleasantville for a few hours of mountain biking in Graham Hills Park, which is only 2-3 miles from my place.
Did I miss anything? No, I think that’s it. Another fantastically boring post for you.
Friday, April 6
Wednesday, April 4
Two Things
First, I got Paulo on the line today--Paulo from Julio Bicycle (and that’s not a typo--it’s not Julio’s Bicycle, it’s just Julio Bicycle without the ‘s). My bikes have arrived and they’re assembling them as we speak. If you’re at all wondering what the 2007 Jamis Xenith Comp looks like, check it out via the below link:
http://www.jamisbikes.com/usa/bikes/07_bikes/xenithcompsl.html
Second, I caught an update on Velonews.com just before I left work this evening that Spanish authorities associated with Operacion Puerto have linked Jan Ullrich’s DNA to a few of the bags of blood and plasma found in Dr. Fuentes’s offices.
That’s huge. All this time, Ullrich’s been telling the press, “I’ve never cheated.” Clearly, Jan, you have been cheating. Of course, there’s the chance that whoever performed the DNA test did so incorrectly, although I’m sure whoever that person was double-checked prior to releasing such a statement.
And this isn’t a urine sample we’re discussing. My understanding is that the DNA tests are solid in that they leave a hell of a lot less room for error than standard drug tests.
At the same time, though, I think most sensible, rational fans are aware that when any of the top cyclists across the world make blanket statements such as, “I don’t dope,” or, “I’ve never doped,” they’re saying that simply because (a) they’d lose their jobs if they didn’t say it, (b) there’s a chance they may spend some time in prison if they didn’t say it, and (c) that’s just what cyclists do--deny, deny, deny. Actually, all doping athletes have a tendency to deny, but it seems to be these anemic-thin cyclists who do it the most. (With so much growth hormone in their veins, you think a few of them might develop a bicep or two.) It also seems like so many rabid cyclist fans are the first to bury their heads in the sand when it comes to doping. I say that as I’ve come across more than enough die-hard Armstrong fans online who have ripped me apart after suggesting Armstrong doped. I believe I made mention of this within a previous post, but I once put forth something to the effect of, “Considering Armstrong’s athleticism and fanatical training, is it possible he won seven tours naturally? Indeed, it is. Yet, is it likely? Not really.”
Once that hit the message boards, plenty of yokels had it in for me, which is why I say the cyclists fans all too often stick their heads in the sand and refuse to accept reason. If all the guys who openly embrace clean racing and who willingly provide whatever blood, urine, and DNA samples are required are the same guys who get spit out the back of the peloton the minute the Tour reaches the mountains, what does that say about guys like Floyd Landis, Jan Ullrich, Lance Armstrong, and Ivan Basso? Are they truly that gifted?
Probably not.
http://www.jamisbikes.com/usa/bikes/07_bikes/xenithcompsl.html
Second, I caught an update on Velonews.com just before I left work this evening that Spanish authorities associated with Operacion Puerto have linked Jan Ullrich’s DNA to a few of the bags of blood and plasma found in Dr. Fuentes’s offices.
That’s huge. All this time, Ullrich’s been telling the press, “I’ve never cheated.” Clearly, Jan, you have been cheating. Of course, there’s the chance that whoever performed the DNA test did so incorrectly, although I’m sure whoever that person was double-checked prior to releasing such a statement.
And this isn’t a urine sample we’re discussing. My understanding is that the DNA tests are solid in that they leave a hell of a lot less room for error than standard drug tests.
At the same time, though, I think most sensible, rational fans are aware that when any of the top cyclists across the world make blanket statements such as, “I don’t dope,” or, “I’ve never doped,” they’re saying that simply because (a) they’d lose their jobs if they didn’t say it, (b) there’s a chance they may spend some time in prison if they didn’t say it, and (c) that’s just what cyclists do--deny, deny, deny. Actually, all doping athletes have a tendency to deny, but it seems to be these anemic-thin cyclists who do it the most. (With so much growth hormone in their veins, you think a few of them might develop a bicep or two.) It also seems like so many rabid cyclist fans are the first to bury their heads in the sand when it comes to doping. I say that as I’ve come across more than enough die-hard Armstrong fans online who have ripped me apart after suggesting Armstrong doped. I believe I made mention of this within a previous post, but I once put forth something to the effect of, “Considering Armstrong’s athleticism and fanatical training, is it possible he won seven tours naturally? Indeed, it is. Yet, is it likely? Not really.”
Once that hit the message boards, plenty of yokels had it in for me, which is why I say the cyclists fans all too often stick their heads in the sand and refuse to accept reason. If all the guys who openly embrace clean racing and who willingly provide whatever blood, urine, and DNA samples are required are the same guys who get spit out the back of the peloton the minute the Tour reaches the mountains, what does that say about guys like Floyd Landis, Jan Ullrich, Lance Armstrong, and Ivan Basso? Are they truly that gifted?
Probably not.
Monday, April 2
Another Short Note
I was in Vegas late last week, which is why I failed to show up for either the Saturday or Sunday rides on Staten Island this week--just too damned tired after having arrived home at almost three in the morning on Saturday. I was out there in the desert for a business meeting and the conference kicked off with the following video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gmP4nk0EOE
Cool, right?
Further, while in Vegas, we came across a midget in a green tux:
I was under the mistaken impression that perhaps a midget in a green tux would be lucky, although I ended the night $200 in the hole. Maybe it's Chinese midgets that are lucky. I could very well have the two mixed up.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gmP4nk0EOE
Cool, right?
Further, while in Vegas, we came across a midget in a green tux:
I was under the mistaken impression that perhaps a midget in a green tux would be lucky, although I ended the night $200 in the hole. Maybe it's Chinese midgets that are lucky. I could very well have the two mixed up.
A Kid On Christmas
Does anyone else suffer from impatience the way I do? I ask as, after speaking with a rep from Jamis bikes during the middle of last week, this same rep expressed the bike shop to which I’m having my brand-spanking new bikes shipped should have received them by today at the latest.
“We’re in Jersey,” the rep told me. This was last Thursday. “They’re going out today and if they don’t get them tomorrow, they should have them by Monday the latest.”
Go ahead and call me hopeful, but I dropped in the shop--Julio Bicycle in Chappaqua--on Saturday for two reasons. First, I needed more spokes after having broken two spokes on two separate rides last week. As a result, I can now change a spoke and true a wheel in under fifteen minutes. Second, I was under the crazy impression that perhaps I would walk in the shop and find my new Xenith Comp road bike and Dakar XCR Comp mountain bike sitting in the back of the shop waiting for me to take them home.
Of course, no such luck.
Either way, there are a few reasons why I’m having the bikes shipped to Julio’s. First, the place is only two miles from my place here in Pleasantville. Further, the guys who run the joint are extremely cool. I had called in advance to let them know to expect the bikes to arrive, but still, they’re yet to take delivery.
(I would have had them sent to Conrad’s, but Mr. Sang charges $150 to have a bike assembled upon delivery where Julio and his guys only charge $69, which is something of a no-brainer, isn’t it?)
Repeating the Jamis rep’s words in my head, I called Julio’s again this afternoon and talked to Willey. “I talked to Paulo on Saturday,” I said, explaining the situation.
“Let me talk to him and have him call you back,” Willey said.
Of course, Paulo didn’t call back, which I’m assuming means my new bikes still haven’t arrived.
If I don’t hear from Paulo or Willey by tomorrow, the rep at Jamis gets another call from yours truly to see what’s up. I would have to imagine that these shipments require signatures upon delivery, so the last thing I want to hear is that the bikes were shipped but no one knows where they are. Admittedly, my imagination often jumps to the worst possible scenario, and while I doubt that’s going to happen, I need to plan for such a scenario.
Chances are the bikes will show up some time this week and be ready for me by Friday or Saturday the latest. Further, do I need a brand-spanking new bike tonight considering my only plans are to ride the trainer in the basement? Not at all, although that’s not the point. The point is, when you spend a lot of money on something, something practical that you’re going to use, you want to use it right away, and for me, right away means three days ago. The fact that Jamis said the shop would have the bikes by today and they still don’t have them is doing nothing short of driving me up a frigging wall.
I’m sure you can understand, but then again, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re the kind of rational, patient person I should be and, if you are, I take my hat off to you, kind sir.
At the end of the day, I just want my bikes. I paid for them and the fact that mail service takes a few days is completely regardless. I want ‘em and I want ‘em now.
“We’re in Jersey,” the rep told me. This was last Thursday. “They’re going out today and if they don’t get them tomorrow, they should have them by Monday the latest.”
Go ahead and call me hopeful, but I dropped in the shop--Julio Bicycle in Chappaqua--on Saturday for two reasons. First, I needed more spokes after having broken two spokes on two separate rides last week. As a result, I can now change a spoke and true a wheel in under fifteen minutes. Second, I was under the crazy impression that perhaps I would walk in the shop and find my new Xenith Comp road bike and Dakar XCR Comp mountain bike sitting in the back of the shop waiting for me to take them home.
Of course, no such luck.
Either way, there are a few reasons why I’m having the bikes shipped to Julio’s. First, the place is only two miles from my place here in Pleasantville. Further, the guys who run the joint are extremely cool. I had called in advance to let them know to expect the bikes to arrive, but still, they’re yet to take delivery.
(I would have had them sent to Conrad’s, but Mr. Sang charges $150 to have a bike assembled upon delivery where Julio and his guys only charge $69, which is something of a no-brainer, isn’t it?)
Repeating the Jamis rep’s words in my head, I called Julio’s again this afternoon and talked to Willey. “I talked to Paulo on Saturday,” I said, explaining the situation.
“Let me talk to him and have him call you back,” Willey said.
Of course, Paulo didn’t call back, which I’m assuming means my new bikes still haven’t arrived.
If I don’t hear from Paulo or Willey by tomorrow, the rep at Jamis gets another call from yours truly to see what’s up. I would have to imagine that these shipments require signatures upon delivery, so the last thing I want to hear is that the bikes were shipped but no one knows where they are. Admittedly, my imagination often jumps to the worst possible scenario, and while I doubt that’s going to happen, I need to plan for such a scenario.
Chances are the bikes will show up some time this week and be ready for me by Friday or Saturday the latest. Further, do I need a brand-spanking new bike tonight considering my only plans are to ride the trainer in the basement? Not at all, although that’s not the point. The point is, when you spend a lot of money on something, something practical that you’re going to use, you want to use it right away, and for me, right away means three days ago. The fact that Jamis said the shop would have the bikes by today and they still don’t have them is doing nothing short of driving me up a frigging wall.
I’m sure you can understand, but then again, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re the kind of rational, patient person I should be and, if you are, I take my hat off to you, kind sir.
At the end of the day, I just want my bikes. I paid for them and the fact that mail service takes a few days is completely regardless. I want ‘em and I want ‘em now.
Small Change
I believe I've revised the settings on this page so anyone can leave comments as opposed to only registered members, so it no longer has to be a boring, one-way conversation. You now have the chance to tear me up via the comments field. Also, I've been somewhat delinquent in posting anything new as I was in Vegas for most of last week for business, but I should have something new and exciting up shortly. Well, maybe not exciting, but at least it'll be new.
Also, if you click on the tiny mail icon below, you can email the post to a friend. Not that you will, but in the event you want to . . .
Also, if you click on the tiny mail icon below, you can email the post to a friend. Not that you will, but in the event you want to . . .
Monday, March 26
Steak and Strangers
So last night was the SIBA dinner-dance and although I didn’t witness a whole lot of dancing (actually, I didn’t see anybody dancing, although my back was to the room the entire night), we did indeed have dinner.
What first struck me when I walked into the Marina Grand down near the Great Kills Yacht Club was not the ever-present smell of salt water (which brought back a ton of childhood memories), but the fact that I recognized all of five or six faces amongst forty or so guests. I stepped inside, shook hands with Mr. Dalton who introduced me to his wife, and looked around. As a friend had warned me, I was the youngest person in the room by twenty or thirty years, although I found myself standing there thinking, Is this the SIBA dinner?
Over the past few months, only a handful of members have shown up to ride on the weekends and I guess I somehow got it in my head that these people--Ed, Trek Tommy, Colnago John, Brent, Kelly, Anne, Rose, T-Mobile Tommy, Horace, Andy, Hugo, Glenn, etc.--made up the core membership of SIBA. Clearly, based on last night’s attendance, there are a hell of a lot more cyclists who belong to the club, although I’m going to go out on a limb and assume most of the members put the gear away when the temperatures drop below forty and wait until next spring before they pick up the habit again.
How little I know.
Regardless, after the awards were handed out, there was a serious amount of metal on our table. Considering Horace pretty much won everything a person can win on a bicycling in the Empire State Games in his age group, he took an award for doing as much. Further, Ed took an award for winning his age group in the NYC Triathlon, and Rose received a medal for most-improved rider, which means I found myself seated around a bad-ass group of cyclists.
Then we had steak for dinner and before the cake came out, I hit the road hoping to make it back to Westchester before I fell asleep.
Next thing I knew, today had arrived when my alarm went off at 6:18. I opened my eyes to find my cat less than three inches from my face, staring at me with that look she gives me every morning, the one that says, “Don’t you think it’s time you put some f#cking food in my bowl, food guy? I ask you to do one simple thing every day and here you are, sleeping on the job.”
Considering it was Sunday, I had choices. I could eat, pack, and drive to Staten Island for the group ride, or I could eat, get dressed, and ride a few miles to try and find a group ride that starts at 7:30 not far from here in Pleasantville. Or I could kill the alarm and just go back to bed with the idea of riding solo later in the morning. Take a guess what happened?
At 10:30, I hit the road with a revised cue sheet in my pocket and put in a solid 45 miles up here in the hills. And like I’ve been saying, there are hills up here, like Cheesequake, but more of them.
Two-and-a-half hours later, I clicked out of the pedals in front of my place to find my rear wheel rubbing against the brakes. Believe it or not, I broke another spoke and god only knows how long I had been riding with the rim rubbing against the brakes like that. Regardless, I just ordered a new bike, so we’ll see if the flex of a carbon fiber frame will help prevent all these freaking broken spokes (which I seem to suffer once a month at least).
Oi. I’m exhausted. It’s nap time.
What first struck me when I walked into the Marina Grand down near the Great Kills Yacht Club was not the ever-present smell of salt water (which brought back a ton of childhood memories), but the fact that I recognized all of five or six faces amongst forty or so guests. I stepped inside, shook hands with Mr. Dalton who introduced me to his wife, and looked around. As a friend had warned me, I was the youngest person in the room by twenty or thirty years, although I found myself standing there thinking, Is this the SIBA dinner?
Over the past few months, only a handful of members have shown up to ride on the weekends and I guess I somehow got it in my head that these people--Ed, Trek Tommy, Colnago John, Brent, Kelly, Anne, Rose, T-Mobile Tommy, Horace, Andy, Hugo, Glenn, etc.--made up the core membership of SIBA. Clearly, based on last night’s attendance, there are a hell of a lot more cyclists who belong to the club, although I’m going to go out on a limb and assume most of the members put the gear away when the temperatures drop below forty and wait until next spring before they pick up the habit again.
How little I know.
Regardless, after the awards were handed out, there was a serious amount of metal on our table. Considering Horace pretty much won everything a person can win on a bicycling in the Empire State Games in his age group, he took an award for doing as much. Further, Ed took an award for winning his age group in the NYC Triathlon, and Rose received a medal for most-improved rider, which means I found myself seated around a bad-ass group of cyclists.
Then we had steak for dinner and before the cake came out, I hit the road hoping to make it back to Westchester before I fell asleep.
Next thing I knew, today had arrived when my alarm went off at 6:18. I opened my eyes to find my cat less than three inches from my face, staring at me with that look she gives me every morning, the one that says, “Don’t you think it’s time you put some f#cking food in my bowl, food guy? I ask you to do one simple thing every day and here you are, sleeping on the job.”
Considering it was Sunday, I had choices. I could eat, pack, and drive to Staten Island for the group ride, or I could eat, get dressed, and ride a few miles to try and find a group ride that starts at 7:30 not far from here in Pleasantville. Or I could kill the alarm and just go back to bed with the idea of riding solo later in the morning. Take a guess what happened?
At 10:30, I hit the road with a revised cue sheet in my pocket and put in a solid 45 miles up here in the hills. And like I’ve been saying, there are hills up here, like Cheesequake, but more of them.
Two-and-a-half hours later, I clicked out of the pedals in front of my place to find my rear wheel rubbing against the brakes. Believe it or not, I broke another spoke and god only knows how long I had been riding with the rim rubbing against the brakes like that. Regardless, I just ordered a new bike, so we’ll see if the flex of a carbon fiber frame will help prevent all these freaking broken spokes (which I seem to suffer once a month at least).
Oi. I’m exhausted. It’s nap time.
Monday, March 19
Enough Already
I don’t know about everybody else, but all this snow is really starting to get on my nerves. After temperatures in the late-fifties and early-sixties during the first half of last week, how could it not? What the hell ever happened to global warming? According to Al Gore, shouldn’t I be catching a tan right now? Instead, I had to spend half an hour yesterday digging my truck out of more than a foot of snow. Despite Mr. Gore’s incessant warnings (it’s hard to imagine a blockhead like Al Gore actually giving a rat’s ass about the earth’s environment if it didn’t give him a shot at office . . . again), the industrial smokestacks of the world--especially those in China if it means cheaper prices here in the good ol’ US of A--can blast out as much pollution as they want if it’s going to mean more enjoyable weather between the months of November and April.
I know what everyone’s going to say. First, I’ve just gone and pissed off every Democrat in the room and, considering this is New York, that means everybody’s all bent out of shape because I took a jab at their favorite nancy-boy, Al Gore. Second, my understanding is that if global temperatures continue to climb 0.10 degree every year for the next thousand years, the polar ice caps will begin melting at an alarming rate, meaning our oceans will rise approximately five inches by the time I reach my ninety-sixth birthday.
Last time I checked, five inches isn’t all that much. I think we can give away five inches, even if it means moving closer to the center of the country. Have any of these raving environmentalists ever driven from one coast to the other? I hate to burst anyone’s bubble, but I’ve got news for those of you who consider yourselves raving environmentalists--we got land, and we got lots of it. We can spare five inches on either of our coasts. We can do five inches standing on our heads. Sure, it may mean the Hollywood elite in Malibu may have to pack up their stolen Norman Rockwell paintings and move closer to Pasadena to avoid drowning in those extra five inches of water, but they can live with that (and afford it, too). Likewise, with the exception of the smell, I can’t imagine a few more inches of the East River causing much of a problem for Manhattan. And, most importantly, by the time I hit ninety-six (I should say if I hit ninety-six), I’m sure I’ll find myself a lot more concerned with getting in and out of the bathtub on a daily basis than whether or not the tide has risen half a foot.
With all that said, what’s the big frigging deal? If a little more pollution is going to mean a lot less snow this time of the year, I’m all for it. I had plans this weekend, big plans to log some miles on the bike, but once Friday morning rolled around and I woke to find a blanket of snow covering the landscape outside my bedroom window, I hit the shower cursing Al Gore and all his do-gooder friends attempting to keep me and everyone else in the Northeast in a perpetual state of frozen irritation for the twelve weeks following Christmas (I’m way too politically incorrect to use the term holidays instead of Christmas and if that offends the sensibilities of anyone who holds Judaic or Islamic beliefs, well, too bad for you).
So enough with all the concern and all the worry over the polar ice caps. For starters, none of us will ever lay eyes on anything remotely resembling an actual ice cap, so who cares if we inadvertently whittle ‘em down a few notches? And like I said, we’ve got plenty of land. Worse case scenario, everyone living on either coast has to pick up and settle down someplace new and exciting, like Kentucky and Nebraska. I’ve heard good things about Nebraska--real good things.
I know what everyone’s going to say. First, I’ve just gone and pissed off every Democrat in the room and, considering this is New York, that means everybody’s all bent out of shape because I took a jab at their favorite nancy-boy, Al Gore. Second, my understanding is that if global temperatures continue to climb 0.10 degree every year for the next thousand years, the polar ice caps will begin melting at an alarming rate, meaning our oceans will rise approximately five inches by the time I reach my ninety-sixth birthday.
Last time I checked, five inches isn’t all that much. I think we can give away five inches, even if it means moving closer to the center of the country. Have any of these raving environmentalists ever driven from one coast to the other? I hate to burst anyone’s bubble, but I’ve got news for those of you who consider yourselves raving environmentalists--we got land, and we got lots of it. We can spare five inches on either of our coasts. We can do five inches standing on our heads. Sure, it may mean the Hollywood elite in Malibu may have to pack up their stolen Norman Rockwell paintings and move closer to Pasadena to avoid drowning in those extra five inches of water, but they can live with that (and afford it, too). Likewise, with the exception of the smell, I can’t imagine a few more inches of the East River causing much of a problem for Manhattan. And, most importantly, by the time I hit ninety-six (I should say if I hit ninety-six), I’m sure I’ll find myself a lot more concerned with getting in and out of the bathtub on a daily basis than whether or not the tide has risen half a foot.
With all that said, what’s the big frigging deal? If a little more pollution is going to mean a lot less snow this time of the year, I’m all for it. I had plans this weekend, big plans to log some miles on the bike, but once Friday morning rolled around and I woke to find a blanket of snow covering the landscape outside my bedroom window, I hit the shower cursing Al Gore and all his do-gooder friends attempting to keep me and everyone else in the Northeast in a perpetual state of frozen irritation for the twelve weeks following Christmas (I’m way too politically incorrect to use the term holidays instead of Christmas and if that offends the sensibilities of anyone who holds Judaic or Islamic beliefs, well, too bad for you).
So enough with all the concern and all the worry over the polar ice caps. For starters, none of us will ever lay eyes on anything remotely resembling an actual ice cap, so who cares if we inadvertently whittle ‘em down a few notches? And like I said, we’ve got plenty of land. Worse case scenario, everyone living on either coast has to pick up and settle down someplace new and exciting, like Kentucky and Nebraska. I’ve heard good things about Nebraska--real good things.
Monday, March 12
Rolling With the Hills
I’m going to bed early tonight. It’s now 7:18 on Sunday evening and if I hopped between the sheets right now, I’d probably fall asleep inside of nineteen seconds and if I didn’t set my alarm, I could probably sleep until Wednesday.
After taking my sweet-ass time getting up this morning, I helped myself to five Eggos (delicious), two glasses of OJ, spent an hour reading The Count of Monte Cristo while waiting for the temperature to reach fifty, and then hit the road, my cue sheet in my pocket.
(I’m not going to lie to you. Getting geared up in my the comfort of my own place and then stepping out the front door with my bike is such a luxury compared to loading the bike in the truck, driving to Staten Island, getting dressed in my truck, and then reversing the process a few hours later.)
Which cue sheet? The one I mapped out on Friday before leaving the office--the one I put together using Google Maps online. As far as I could tell, the ride up to Bear Mountain would take roughly twenty-five miles or so. After a few miles in the park, I would be able to put sixty-five miles under my belt in a single ride, give or take a few miles.
Taking a right out of town and then another right onto Hardscrabble Road, the first ten minutes of the ride had nothing to offer but climbing. Glancing down at my heart rate monitor, I had been on the bike all of eleven minutes and already I felt ready to pass out.
What I can say is this, though: there are hills up here, amigos. Big ones. Lots of ‘em. Granted, I’m not talking Alpe D’Huez, but you know the rolling hills on the Cheesequake ride? The ride I put together today was like that--just more frigging hills, and steeper, too. As a matter of fact, the rolling hills never stop--ever. Well, there was a two-mile stretch along the New Croton Reservoir that were relatively flat, but outside of that, you’re either going up or you’re going down and considering how much faster we all seem to go when we’re going down, it felt like I spent my entire afternoon going up.
After thirty miles, I began what looked to be a never-ending climb up Albany Post Road north of Peekskill and simply turned around. After thirty miles, I was still a relatively long haul from Bear Mountain, so I figured sixty-miles roundtrip would be enough. Of course, I’m somewhat disappointed in myself for ditching when I did, although with only a Clif Bar in my jersey and half a bottle of water left, I knew I’d need all those calories simply for the ride back. Actually, I became somewhat concerned with the possibility of running out of gas on the way back, so when I spotted a deli in the middle of nowhere on Maple Avenue, I pulled off and offered a twenty to a girl taking out a bag of trash.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” she said, tossing the garbage in the bin.
I checked my watch. “It’s only 2:30.”
“We close at two on Sundays.” She pointed at a sign hanging from the front of the store.
“Come on, kiddo, all I need is a Gatorade and a Powerbar,” I said, again offering her the twenty, feeling very much like a crackhead begging a dealer to hook me up.
She did hook me up, thankfully. While they didn’t have Powerbars, they did have Nature Valley granola bars, and I enjoyed every dry bite sitting on the side of Route 134, still half an hour from Pleasantville (which is where I live, in case you’re wondering).
Rolling up to my house, I hit the STOP button on the heart rate monitor. Three-and-a-half hours of riding, fifty-five miles. How did I come in under sixty miles? Well, on the way out, I made a few wrong turns where certain corners were without street signs (and ended up doing a bit of muddy cyclecross at one point), hence the extra mileage.
On paper, taking that long to ride fifty-five miles may seem like a walk in the park. If I were you, I’d probably be saying the same thing, but fifty-five miles in the hills really kicked me in the ass. After showering and stuffing my face with food, I took a walk into town to grab a few groceries and on the way back, walking up the steps to the front of the house, I almost had to stop considering how heavy my legs felt.
That’s enough bitching from me. We’ve all been on those long solo rides that, when considering the long miles back, you think to yourself, Jesus Christ, worrying if you’re even going to make it. You do, though, and you’re a better rider for it.
And that’s it. I know Pleasantville is considerably farther from Staten Island compared to Cheesequake, but when the weather finally turns, some of the views on the ride I did today will be quite impressive, so if anyone’s interested in crucifying himself in the hills up here, I’ll print up some cue sheets and we’ll hit the road.
Adios.
After taking my sweet-ass time getting up this morning, I helped myself to five Eggos (delicious), two glasses of OJ, spent an hour reading The Count of Monte Cristo while waiting for the temperature to reach fifty, and then hit the road, my cue sheet in my pocket.
(I’m not going to lie to you. Getting geared up in my the comfort of my own place and then stepping out the front door with my bike is such a luxury compared to loading the bike in the truck, driving to Staten Island, getting dressed in my truck, and then reversing the process a few hours later.)
Which cue sheet? The one I mapped out on Friday before leaving the office--the one I put together using Google Maps online. As far as I could tell, the ride up to Bear Mountain would take roughly twenty-five miles or so. After a few miles in the park, I would be able to put sixty-five miles under my belt in a single ride, give or take a few miles.
Taking a right out of town and then another right onto Hardscrabble Road, the first ten minutes of the ride had nothing to offer but climbing. Glancing down at my heart rate monitor, I had been on the bike all of eleven minutes and already I felt ready to pass out.
What I can say is this, though: there are hills up here, amigos. Big ones. Lots of ‘em. Granted, I’m not talking Alpe D’Huez, but you know the rolling hills on the Cheesequake ride? The ride I put together today was like that--just more frigging hills, and steeper, too. As a matter of fact, the rolling hills never stop--ever. Well, there was a two-mile stretch along the New Croton Reservoir that were relatively flat, but outside of that, you’re either going up or you’re going down and considering how much faster we all seem to go when we’re going down, it felt like I spent my entire afternoon going up.
After thirty miles, I began what looked to be a never-ending climb up Albany Post Road north of Peekskill and simply turned around. After thirty miles, I was still a relatively long haul from Bear Mountain, so I figured sixty-miles roundtrip would be enough. Of course, I’m somewhat disappointed in myself for ditching when I did, although with only a Clif Bar in my jersey and half a bottle of water left, I knew I’d need all those calories simply for the ride back. Actually, I became somewhat concerned with the possibility of running out of gas on the way back, so when I spotted a deli in the middle of nowhere on Maple Avenue, I pulled off and offered a twenty to a girl taking out a bag of trash.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” she said, tossing the garbage in the bin.
I checked my watch. “It’s only 2:30.”
“We close at two on Sundays.” She pointed at a sign hanging from the front of the store.
“Come on, kiddo, all I need is a Gatorade and a Powerbar,” I said, again offering her the twenty, feeling very much like a crackhead begging a dealer to hook me up.
She did hook me up, thankfully. While they didn’t have Powerbars, they did have Nature Valley granola bars, and I enjoyed every dry bite sitting on the side of Route 134, still half an hour from Pleasantville (which is where I live, in case you’re wondering).
Rolling up to my house, I hit the STOP button on the heart rate monitor. Three-and-a-half hours of riding, fifty-five miles. How did I come in under sixty miles? Well, on the way out, I made a few wrong turns where certain corners were without street signs (and ended up doing a bit of muddy cyclecross at one point), hence the extra mileage.
On paper, taking that long to ride fifty-five miles may seem like a walk in the park. If I were you, I’d probably be saying the same thing, but fifty-five miles in the hills really kicked me in the ass. After showering and stuffing my face with food, I took a walk into town to grab a few groceries and on the way back, walking up the steps to the front of the house, I almost had to stop considering how heavy my legs felt.
That’s enough bitching from me. We’ve all been on those long solo rides that, when considering the long miles back, you think to yourself, Jesus Christ, worrying if you’re even going to make it. You do, though, and you’re a better rider for it.
And that’s it. I know Pleasantville is considerably farther from Staten Island compared to Cheesequake, but when the weather finally turns, some of the views on the ride I did today will be quite impressive, so if anyone’s interested in crucifying himself in the hills up here, I’ll print up some cue sheets and we’ll hit the road.
Adios.
Thursday, March 8
Sprints
I’ve come to enjoy the occasional sprint. I don’t know why, but I just do. What’s a ride without clicking up into a tall gear, getting out of the saddle, and seeing just how fast you can go? It’s the same thing as rolling to the bottom of a ten-mile climb and seeing just how far you can make it before your legs decide they’ve had enough, although the sprints, or my sprints, I should say, never seem to last for more than twenty seconds or so. Are they supposed to last longer? I have no idea, although one would assume that the longer one has been riding, the longer one could hold that top-end speed.
Personally, though, I tend to self-destruct. I sit in someone’s draft long enough or the pace relaxes for a few minutes and I mistakenly begin to think I have more energy than I really do. Then, once I pull out of the line and step on the gas, it doesn’t take long to realize I tried to do too much way too soon. That point is particularly hammered home when, not long after I start to sprint, the rest of the group goes speeding by, leaving me along with my aching lungs.
Still, I don’t care. There are those times when you just want to stand up and see what you can do no matter how quickly you know you’ll fade. At least I think so.
Moving on, let’s talk about last Sunday. On Saturday, I made it out to Staten Island for the morning ride considering the forecast called for temperatures in the mid-fifties. When we reached the bagel shop, Mr. Ed Dalton said, “Cheesequake. Tomorrow. Eight-thirty.”
I thought about that. From my place in Pleasantville to Cheesequake, it’s a 75-mile drive, which is a hell of a haul to go bike riding. At the same time, though, we haven’t been out on that route in a long while. Since I had a whole lot of nothing planned for Sunday morning, I thought, Don’t worry about the drive--just get out and ride.
At six in the morning on Sunday, I rolled out of bed. By six-thirty, I was in the car. After dropping a copy of Crank in the mail to send back to Netflix (the movie sucked, so save your money and don’t bother renting it), I took I-287 into Jersey and caught the Parkway all the way down to Cheesequake. At a few minutes after eight, I rolled into the parking lot, killed the engine, pushed the seat back, and helped myself to something of a nap. At eight-twenty, I opened my eyes, expecting the guys to begin rolling in. At eight-thirty, I started thinking that perhaps the start time had been pushed back. At nine, I gave Dr. Rob a ring and left a voicemail, wondering what was going on. By nine-twenty, after sitting in my truck for almost three hours, I decided it was time to go.
Cutting through Staten Island on the way back to Westchester, I spotted Ed Dalton and Trek Tommy on the service road near Richmond Avenue. Pulling off the expressway, I swung to the side of the road and threw the transmission into PARK. When the guys rolled up, I leaned out the window and asked, “What happened?”
Make a long story short, a few people had cancelled for Cheesequake the night before so Ed and the others decided to save it for another day. Somebody--and I’m not going to name names here--forgot to give me a ring which meant that the guy who lives the farthest from Cheesequake (and that’s a fifty-five mile margin) was the only guy to make the trip out.
No big deal. Certainly, there are worse things in the world and it’s not like it was intentional, although in an attempt to avoid anything like that happening again, let me put this out there.
My mobile number is 718-619-1501. That’s important so I’m going to write it again.
718.619.1501
1 (718) 619-1501
(718) 619 1501
1.718.619.1501
That’s my phone number and my name is Steve. I live in the middle of freaking Westchester, which means central New Jersey is something of a haul for me. In the event a schedule ride changes or gets cancelled, don’t hesitate to give me a ring. Even if it’s three in the morning and my phone is off--I tend to check for messages as soon as I get out of bed, especially on days when I’m about to make a 150-mile round trip for a bike ride. Even if the schedule isn’t changing, go ahead and feel free to give me a ring anyway. I like bikes, like to talk about bikes and racing and training and professional racers. I can even talk about other things, like chics and cars and motorcycles. Even finance and 401Ks. Maybe even real estate and REITs.
If you want, you can even email me at okaysplendid@yahoo.com, although I hardly ever check that over the weekend as I don’t have internet access at home. (I’m online all day at work as it’s my job, so the last thing I need is to get online when I’m home relaxing.)
And that’s it. Did I miss anything?
Personally, though, I tend to self-destruct. I sit in someone’s draft long enough or the pace relaxes for a few minutes and I mistakenly begin to think I have more energy than I really do. Then, once I pull out of the line and step on the gas, it doesn’t take long to realize I tried to do too much way too soon. That point is particularly hammered home when, not long after I start to sprint, the rest of the group goes speeding by, leaving me along with my aching lungs.
Still, I don’t care. There are those times when you just want to stand up and see what you can do no matter how quickly you know you’ll fade. At least I think so.
Moving on, let’s talk about last Sunday. On Saturday, I made it out to Staten Island for the morning ride considering the forecast called for temperatures in the mid-fifties. When we reached the bagel shop, Mr. Ed Dalton said, “Cheesequake. Tomorrow. Eight-thirty.”
I thought about that. From my place in Pleasantville to Cheesequake, it’s a 75-mile drive, which is a hell of a haul to go bike riding. At the same time, though, we haven’t been out on that route in a long while. Since I had a whole lot of nothing planned for Sunday morning, I thought, Don’t worry about the drive--just get out and ride.
At six in the morning on Sunday, I rolled out of bed. By six-thirty, I was in the car. After dropping a copy of Crank in the mail to send back to Netflix (the movie sucked, so save your money and don’t bother renting it), I took I-287 into Jersey and caught the Parkway all the way down to Cheesequake. At a few minutes after eight, I rolled into the parking lot, killed the engine, pushed the seat back, and helped myself to something of a nap. At eight-twenty, I opened my eyes, expecting the guys to begin rolling in. At eight-thirty, I started thinking that perhaps the start time had been pushed back. At nine, I gave Dr. Rob a ring and left a voicemail, wondering what was going on. By nine-twenty, after sitting in my truck for almost three hours, I decided it was time to go.
Cutting through Staten Island on the way back to Westchester, I spotted Ed Dalton and Trek Tommy on the service road near Richmond Avenue. Pulling off the expressway, I swung to the side of the road and threw the transmission into PARK. When the guys rolled up, I leaned out the window and asked, “What happened?”
Make a long story short, a few people had cancelled for Cheesequake the night before so Ed and the others decided to save it for another day. Somebody--and I’m not going to name names here--forgot to give me a ring which meant that the guy who lives the farthest from Cheesequake (and that’s a fifty-five mile margin) was the only guy to make the trip out.
No big deal. Certainly, there are worse things in the world and it’s not like it was intentional, although in an attempt to avoid anything like that happening again, let me put this out there.
My mobile number is 718-619-1501. That’s important so I’m going to write it again.
718.619.1501
1 (718) 619-1501
(718) 619 1501
1.718.619.1501
That’s my phone number and my name is Steve. I live in the middle of freaking Westchester, which means central New Jersey is something of a haul for me. In the event a schedule ride changes or gets cancelled, don’t hesitate to give me a ring. Even if it’s three in the morning and my phone is off--I tend to check for messages as soon as I get out of bed, especially on days when I’m about to make a 150-mile round trip for a bike ride. Even if the schedule isn’t changing, go ahead and feel free to give me a ring anyway. I like bikes, like to talk about bikes and racing and training and professional racers. I can even talk about other things, like chics and cars and motorcycles. Even finance and 401Ks. Maybe even real estate and REITs.
If you want, you can even email me at okaysplendid@yahoo.com, although I hardly ever check that over the weekend as I don’t have internet access at home. (I’m online all day at work as it’s my job, so the last thing I need is to get online when I’m home relaxing.)
And that’s it. Did I miss anything?
Monday, February 26
The Big Dogs
The problem I have with most blogs is how boring they are. I’m unsure how many other blogs any of the three of you peruse (three people--my audience is HUGE--but then again, if I had anything worthwhile to say, I’m sure more people might actually visit this lame page), but go on ahead and browse any number of personal blogs you can find on the www.blogger.com homepage. Sorry to say, but 99% of the stuff out there is crap. I know, I know. It’s the thought that counts, right? Well, not when it comes to entertainment. When you go to the theater and the movie sucks, you don’t walk out with your girlfriend and/or wife (imagine going to the movies with your wife and your girlfriend? If you can pull that off, you could make millions teaching other guys how to do the same) and say, “Well, that was an utter waste of $20, although I’m sure the director and screenwriter meant well.” Am I right or am I right?
So, as usual, what’s my point? Well, as usual, I really don’t have a point other than to inform you, the reader, that keeping your entertainment in mind is my first consideration when putting together these incessant updates. To try and put that in perspective, I’m sure most of you read either Bicycling, Cycle Sport USA, ROAD, or some other cycling-related monthly. With Bicycling, which I read myself, have you ever found yourself thinking, They write the same damn crap every month? I mean, how many times have you spotted a subtitle on the cover page that reads 30 Seconds to a Faster Bike and then, once you’ve reached page 88, the genius editors at Rodale inform you to lube your chain and check the air pressure in your tires before every ride? I’ve been reading that magazine for about six months and I must have read the same damn tips about nine times. I see it once more and someone at Bicycling is going to get one of those nasty letters senior citizens typically write to just about everybody with whom they come into contact (I’ve received a few myself simply for driving twenty-seven in a twenty-five).
So while all of the above may have seemed like a tangent, my point is, when you write about the same subject over and over, it can become a bit tedious to keep things fresh. Do you guys want a recap from this morning’s ride or would you prefer it if I elaborated upon what it feels like when your doctor examines the rash on your crotch, hands you a prescription for Valtrex, and says, “Hey, it happens to a lot of us, so don’t feel bad?” Come on. Stop pretending like you’ve never been down that road before. Just kidding. While I don’t have genital herpes (although if you met some of the girls I’ve met, you’d probably assume I did), I really, really enjoy making up nonsense like that, so if you want it, I can certainly write it. Just let me know via the COMMENTS link below. Believe it or not, I actually like sitting here at this desk with my fingers flying over the keyboard, but that’s a whole other story.
With all that said, I’ll forego retelling the tale of the morning when, after dropping my shorts and asking my doctor if the thing on the side of the thing was just extra skin, he quickly corrected me by explaining, “Ahh, no--that’s actually a wart and your dermatologist will have to freeze it off with nitrous,” and talk about . . . my day. (Jesus, are there any words more terrifying than hearing a girl say, “Tell me about your day?”
First off, it’s a good fifty-minute drive from Pleasantville to New Dorp High School, so I’m sure you can read between the lines there. Regardless, once I dressed (in my car, in a frozen, empty parking lot, like a complete pervert) I caught up with Ed Dalton at the 7-Eleven (does anyone know what the hell 7-Eleven actually stands for?) where he was busy cranking out a few hundred pushups on the cold cement just outside the front doors while telling strangers to go fuck themselves as they walked in and out. Ha! I’m sorry, Ed, that one just sort of slipped out, although I’m sure you’ll appreciate the joke.
So the ride starts, okay? It’s Ed, big Joe, Tommy (not T-Mobile Tommy--Trek Tommy), Rose, Andy, and Hugo, although Hugo arrived at the parking lot by walking in the grass through Miller Field. Wait, I forgot about John. Is his last name Candela? The guy with the Colnago? Of course, I could have asked him myself, but every time he passed me this morning, he went by so fast I never had time to get the question out.
Hugo had a flat, which was apparently his third that morning. Colnago John takes off the wheel and shows Hugo a hole in his tire the size of a dime and then proceeds to not only remove the tire and repair the tube, but to pump it up as well. This was about the third time I’ve seen Hugo suffer a flat and then stand aside while a friend went about the tedious task of pumping the repaired tube to a hundred pounds of pressure. Even though I’m thirty-three-years-old, I can only hope that someone able-bodied offers to pump up my tires in the event I ever get a flat during a group ride. (And now that I said it, you know I’ll get one the next time I’m out on Staten Island with the guys.)
Ready to roll, the group hit the road and I don’t know about everybody else, although I was simply ecstatic we didn’t have to ride through puddles of dirty, salty water. When we reached Fr. Capodanno Boulevard, I began worrying about that short climb to reach McClean Avenue. Why? Most mornings I don’t worry about that hill, but this morning was different. Over the past week or two, on those nights when I wasn’t packing, I was out getting tanked with a few friends from work. Usually, that’s not much an issue, but there are those occasions when ex-smokers, while drinking, begin smoking again.
There--I said it. I admit it, and to complicate matters, all the packing and drinking and smoking meant I made zero effort to get on the trainer after work, so before this morning, the last time I logged any miles had been Tuesday. That, combined with consciously ruining with my lungs, meant I felt like a frozen pile of dog shit as soon as I threw a bike over the leg at eight o’clock in the glorious a.m. today.
And I did feel like shit for the first thirty minutes or so, but soon the lungs began to clear out and all the days I had missed on the bike didn’t seem to matter too much (it’s all relative, isn’t it?) by the time we reached Front Street. I tried taking a pull after clicking up into one of the tallest gears on my bike to get my cadence down around 50 to make the legs work harder than the lungs (part of a new block of workouts as per Chris Carmichael’s The Ultimate Ride training book) although it lasted all of about a minute once Colnago John went blowing by me.
With that out of the way, we reached the ferry when Andy, Trek Tommy, and Rose dropped back.
“Are we waiting for them, patron?” Dr. Rob asked Ed.
“There’s three of them,” Ed said. “Let’s go.”
Is this getting boring now? I sort of feel like it is, so let’s get this wrapped up.
Somewhere on Richmond Terrace, I felt good--better than I normally do--so I moved to the front we got it up to about twenty miles-per-hour in not much of a wind. Dr. Rob was right behind me and I like it when he’s back there considering he’s always good with the words of encouragement/motivation. After a few minutes, he asked that we slow it down. Thinking someone had fallen back due to a mechanical, I immediately sat up, causing Joe to almost crash into my rear wheel.
Good job, Steve-o. Real good.
Eventually Colnago John moved to the front and stayed there for almost the entire ride. The dude’s strong the way Backbreaker Brent’s strong. Those boys just hop out front, settle in, and go.
Coming down Richmond Avenue, I usually try to jump out and see what’s up, but today, I decided sitting on Ed’s wheel was a better idea and I expressed as much once we reached Arthur Kill Road: “Ed, I was pretty content to just sit behind you the whole way down Richmond Avenue,” to which Joe added, “Steve even said, ‘Screw Dalton--let’s just hang him out to dry up front.’”
“My exact words, Ed,” I said. “Verbatim.”
And that’s it. That was the ride. Heading up that last bit of a hill half a mile before the bagel shop, I decided I’d slam on the gas. Halfway up, I spotted a wheel on my right, so I hauled as hard as I could haul, causing my heart rate to shoot up to 185. By the time I reached the top, my heart told me I could take that kind of idiocy and blow it my ass. A few seconds later, the rest of the guys went flying, which I interpreted as, “Nice move, jackass.” And they were right.
P.S. Dr. Rob, during the ride you mentioned a web site listing rides in New York. What was that URL again? If you hit the link directly below this that reads COMMENTS, you can leave it right in there. I’d appreciate it.
So, as usual, what’s my point? Well, as usual, I really don’t have a point other than to inform you, the reader, that keeping your entertainment in mind is my first consideration when putting together these incessant updates. To try and put that in perspective, I’m sure most of you read either Bicycling, Cycle Sport USA, ROAD, or some other cycling-related monthly. With Bicycling, which I read myself, have you ever found yourself thinking, They write the same damn crap every month? I mean, how many times have you spotted a subtitle on the cover page that reads 30 Seconds to a Faster Bike and then, once you’ve reached page 88, the genius editors at Rodale inform you to lube your chain and check the air pressure in your tires before every ride? I’ve been reading that magazine for about six months and I must have read the same damn tips about nine times. I see it once more and someone at Bicycling is going to get one of those nasty letters senior citizens typically write to just about everybody with whom they come into contact (I’ve received a few myself simply for driving twenty-seven in a twenty-five).
So while all of the above may have seemed like a tangent, my point is, when you write about the same subject over and over, it can become a bit tedious to keep things fresh. Do you guys want a recap from this morning’s ride or would you prefer it if I elaborated upon what it feels like when your doctor examines the rash on your crotch, hands you a prescription for Valtrex, and says, “Hey, it happens to a lot of us, so don’t feel bad?” Come on. Stop pretending like you’ve never been down that road before. Just kidding. While I don’t have genital herpes (although if you met some of the girls I’ve met, you’d probably assume I did), I really, really enjoy making up nonsense like that, so if you want it, I can certainly write it. Just let me know via the COMMENTS link below. Believe it or not, I actually like sitting here at this desk with my fingers flying over the keyboard, but that’s a whole other story.
With all that said, I’ll forego retelling the tale of the morning when, after dropping my shorts and asking my doctor if the thing on the side of the thing was just extra skin, he quickly corrected me by explaining, “Ahh, no--that’s actually a wart and your dermatologist will have to freeze it off with nitrous,” and talk about . . . my day. (Jesus, are there any words more terrifying than hearing a girl say, “Tell me about your day?”
First off, it’s a good fifty-minute drive from Pleasantville to New Dorp High School, so I’m sure you can read between the lines there. Regardless, once I dressed (in my car, in a frozen, empty parking lot, like a complete pervert) I caught up with Ed Dalton at the 7-Eleven (does anyone know what the hell 7-Eleven actually stands for?) where he was busy cranking out a few hundred pushups on the cold cement just outside the front doors while telling strangers to go fuck themselves as they walked in and out. Ha! I’m sorry, Ed, that one just sort of slipped out, although I’m sure you’ll appreciate the joke.
So the ride starts, okay? It’s Ed, big Joe, Tommy (not T-Mobile Tommy--Trek Tommy), Rose, Andy, and Hugo, although Hugo arrived at the parking lot by walking in the grass through Miller Field. Wait, I forgot about John. Is his last name Candela? The guy with the Colnago? Of course, I could have asked him myself, but every time he passed me this morning, he went by so fast I never had time to get the question out.
Hugo had a flat, which was apparently his third that morning. Colnago John takes off the wheel and shows Hugo a hole in his tire the size of a dime and then proceeds to not only remove the tire and repair the tube, but to pump it up as well. This was about the third time I’ve seen Hugo suffer a flat and then stand aside while a friend went about the tedious task of pumping the repaired tube to a hundred pounds of pressure. Even though I’m thirty-three-years-old, I can only hope that someone able-bodied offers to pump up my tires in the event I ever get a flat during a group ride. (And now that I said it, you know I’ll get one the next time I’m out on Staten Island with the guys.)
Ready to roll, the group hit the road and I don’t know about everybody else, although I was simply ecstatic we didn’t have to ride through puddles of dirty, salty water. When we reached Fr. Capodanno Boulevard, I began worrying about that short climb to reach McClean Avenue. Why? Most mornings I don’t worry about that hill, but this morning was different. Over the past week or two, on those nights when I wasn’t packing, I was out getting tanked with a few friends from work. Usually, that’s not much an issue, but there are those occasions when ex-smokers, while drinking, begin smoking again.
There--I said it. I admit it, and to complicate matters, all the packing and drinking and smoking meant I made zero effort to get on the trainer after work, so before this morning, the last time I logged any miles had been Tuesday. That, combined with consciously ruining with my lungs, meant I felt like a frozen pile of dog shit as soon as I threw a bike over the leg at eight o’clock in the glorious a.m. today.
And I did feel like shit for the first thirty minutes or so, but soon the lungs began to clear out and all the days I had missed on the bike didn’t seem to matter too much (it’s all relative, isn’t it?) by the time we reached Front Street. I tried taking a pull after clicking up into one of the tallest gears on my bike to get my cadence down around 50 to make the legs work harder than the lungs (part of a new block of workouts as per Chris Carmichael’s The Ultimate Ride training book) although it lasted all of about a minute once Colnago John went blowing by me.
With that out of the way, we reached the ferry when Andy, Trek Tommy, and Rose dropped back.
“Are we waiting for them, patron?” Dr. Rob asked Ed.
“There’s three of them,” Ed said. “Let’s go.”
Is this getting boring now? I sort of feel like it is, so let’s get this wrapped up.
Somewhere on Richmond Terrace, I felt good--better than I normally do--so I moved to the front we got it up to about twenty miles-per-hour in not much of a wind. Dr. Rob was right behind me and I like it when he’s back there considering he’s always good with the words of encouragement/motivation. After a few minutes, he asked that we slow it down. Thinking someone had fallen back due to a mechanical, I immediately sat up, causing Joe to almost crash into my rear wheel.
Good job, Steve-o. Real good.
Eventually Colnago John moved to the front and stayed there for almost the entire ride. The dude’s strong the way Backbreaker Brent’s strong. Those boys just hop out front, settle in, and go.
Coming down Richmond Avenue, I usually try to jump out and see what’s up, but today, I decided sitting on Ed’s wheel was a better idea and I expressed as much once we reached Arthur Kill Road: “Ed, I was pretty content to just sit behind you the whole way down Richmond Avenue,” to which Joe added, “Steve even said, ‘Screw Dalton--let’s just hang him out to dry up front.’”
“My exact words, Ed,” I said. “Verbatim.”
And that’s it. That was the ride. Heading up that last bit of a hill half a mile before the bagel shop, I decided I’d slam on the gas. Halfway up, I spotted a wheel on my right, so I hauled as hard as I could haul, causing my heart rate to shoot up to 185. By the time I reached the top, my heart told me I could take that kind of idiocy and blow it my ass. A few seconds later, the rest of the guys went flying, which I interpreted as, “Nice move, jackass.” And they were right.
P.S. Dr. Rob, during the ride you mentioned a web site listing rides in New York. What was that URL again? If you hit the link directly below this that reads COMMENTS, you can leave it right in there. I’d appreciate it.
Thursday, February 22
Movin' On Up
So this is it. Two more nights in Brooklyn and then I’m gone, up to Westchester. Pleasantville, to be exact, and somehow, in my head, I’ve got it stuck that this was a good idea, but if you asked me, “How much do you really know about Westchester?” I’d have to answer, “Not much, to be honest with you.”
See, I’m assuming the roads will be both quieter and nicer than what we have on Richmond Terrace, although I could be wrong. I’ve only been on two or three roads in Pleasantville and while those seemed fantastic, the rest of that specific town as well as the rest of Westchester may turn out to be a total nightmare. The possibility exists that every other drive may attempt to knock me clear off the road into the nearest ditch (no doubt Staten Island drivers would make similar attempts if we actually had ditches on Staten Island). The possibility exists that the hordes of living dead who stalk through the outskirts of Pleasantville randomly attack cyclists during the prime biking hours of 5 - 8 AM and 5 - 8:30 PM and within a few weeks time, I’ll join their ranks. And finally, the possibility exists that after moving to Pleasantville, I may frequent the town’s one bar and meet myself a nice middle-aged married woman with whom I can start a short yet lively affair. Why married? Married women go home at the end of the night.
Just kidding, although I have considered meeting and dating someone who’s terminally ill so there’s no chance of ever falling into a long-term relationship.
Just kidding, again.
Anyway, I’ve come to accept over the years that there exists some sort of invisible yet ridiculous magnet that occasionally draws me back to Staten Island. It kills me to admit that, but it’s true. I mention it considering the rest of the guys on this past Sunday’s group ride all seemed to cheer up the moment I mentioned I’d be moving fifty-five miles away. Sorry to break up the party, although considering (a) my family is on Staten Island, and (b) killer whales make friends faster than I do, I’m sure I’ll be back on the Island for a ride as soon as . . . this weekend?
See, I’m assuming the roads will be both quieter and nicer than what we have on Richmond Terrace, although I could be wrong. I’ve only been on two or three roads in Pleasantville and while those seemed fantastic, the rest of that specific town as well as the rest of Westchester may turn out to be a total nightmare. The possibility exists that every other drive may attempt to knock me clear off the road into the nearest ditch (no doubt Staten Island drivers would make similar attempts if we actually had ditches on Staten Island). The possibility exists that the hordes of living dead who stalk through the outskirts of Pleasantville randomly attack cyclists during the prime biking hours of 5 - 8 AM and 5 - 8:30 PM and within a few weeks time, I’ll join their ranks. And finally, the possibility exists that after moving to Pleasantville, I may frequent the town’s one bar and meet myself a nice middle-aged married woman with whom I can start a short yet lively affair. Why married? Married women go home at the end of the night.
Just kidding, although I have considered meeting and dating someone who’s terminally ill so there’s no chance of ever falling into a long-term relationship.
Just kidding, again.
Anyway, I’ve come to accept over the years that there exists some sort of invisible yet ridiculous magnet that occasionally draws me back to Staten Island. It kills me to admit that, but it’s true. I mention it considering the rest of the guys on this past Sunday’s group ride all seemed to cheer up the moment I mentioned I’d be moving fifty-five miles away. Sorry to break up the party, although considering (a) my family is on Staten Island, and (b) killer whales make friends faster than I do, I’m sure I’ll be back on the Island for a ride as soon as . . . this weekend?
Thursday, February 15
$500 or $5,000?
I’ll be the first to admit I was considering buying a new bike. Actually, I still am going to buy a new bike, but not the same bike I had originally planned to buy.
Once I learned that as an employee of Avenue A I might become the recipient of a generous discount on Jamis bicycle purchases, I immediately thought, Perfect time to put the aluminum Giant to bed and step up with a carbon fiber frame.
Can you blame me for thinking as much? The discount is going to be significant, so I saw little downside to investing roughly $1,300 in a bike that would cost around $2,000 in a shop or online. I thought, $1,300? What’s the big deal? No sweat. Drop in the bucket.
Let’s get real, though. Where I come from, large means $100, so when something costs $1,300, that’s thirteen large as far as I’m concerned. More importantly, is a bike that’s made out of carbon fiber going to make me any faster? Probably not. Well, I know this is an argument with both sides and there’s probably someone out there right now reading this (as unlikely as that may seem) and thinking, Actually, brainiac, a carbon fiber bike will make you faster, and he or she would be almost right for thinking as much. That may seem contradictory to my first statement, but let me put it out there like this.
Yes, I recognize that the lighter the bike, the better off I’ll be. I recognize that a carbon frame means a smoother ride and better components mean smoother, more accurate shifting. I get all that, really, I do. I recognize that better equipment overall generally translates into improved performance.
Yet let me say this. I come from the motocross community. After not having ridden for years and years, I bought my first new bike in 2001 and, a few months later, while flipping through motocross magazines a frame of mind where I began thinking that if I had a better exhaust pipe, lighter pegs, aluminum handlebars, Michelin tires, and a Pro Circuit piston, I’d be that much faster out on the track. Luckily, I soon learned that frame of mind would leave me with nothing other than a thick credit card bill because every time I made my way out to the track either (a) ten-year-old kids on beat-up minibikes would blow past me, or (b) I would blow past those guys with all the tricked-out after-market parts covering their bikes.
In other words, it’s all mental (when it comes to motocross, at least). As long as the bike is running well, it’s up to the guy sitting in the seat twisting the throttle. Sure, if you’re fitness level is shit you won’t finish five laps on the track, but if you lack pure talent, you’ll never have the balls to twist that throttle the way it wants to be twisted.
What I like about cycling is that you can be as good as you want to be. I really don’t think it matters if you’ve got a $500 or $5,000 bike under you. Yes, I know one is nicer than the other, but let me put it this way. Take two semi-professional cyclists of perfectly equal talents and conditioning. Put one on my aluminum Giant. Put the other on a $2,000+ carbon frame bike. How much space separates them at the finish line?
With all that said, I think I’m going to stick with my aluminum bike for now, although I am planning on investing in a better set of wheels because if I break one more spoke someone at Giant is definitely going to die. Also, I’ve had this unnatural curiosity to ride a fixed gear bike, so it’s only a matter of time before you see me on one of those ridiculous machines.
Once I learned that as an employee of Avenue A I might become the recipient of a generous discount on Jamis bicycle purchases, I immediately thought, Perfect time to put the aluminum Giant to bed and step up with a carbon fiber frame.
Can you blame me for thinking as much? The discount is going to be significant, so I saw little downside to investing roughly $1,300 in a bike that would cost around $2,000 in a shop or online. I thought, $1,300? What’s the big deal? No sweat. Drop in the bucket.
Let’s get real, though. Where I come from, large means $100, so when something costs $1,300, that’s thirteen large as far as I’m concerned. More importantly, is a bike that’s made out of carbon fiber going to make me any faster? Probably not. Well, I know this is an argument with both sides and there’s probably someone out there right now reading this (as unlikely as that may seem) and thinking, Actually, brainiac, a carbon fiber bike will make you faster, and he or she would be almost right for thinking as much. That may seem contradictory to my first statement, but let me put it out there like this.
Yes, I recognize that the lighter the bike, the better off I’ll be. I recognize that a carbon frame means a smoother ride and better components mean smoother, more accurate shifting. I get all that, really, I do. I recognize that better equipment overall generally translates into improved performance.
Yet let me say this. I come from the motocross community. After not having ridden for years and years, I bought my first new bike in 2001 and, a few months later, while flipping through motocross magazines a frame of mind where I began thinking that if I had a better exhaust pipe, lighter pegs, aluminum handlebars, Michelin tires, and a Pro Circuit piston, I’d be that much faster out on the track. Luckily, I soon learned that frame of mind would leave me with nothing other than a thick credit card bill because every time I made my way out to the track either (a) ten-year-old kids on beat-up minibikes would blow past me, or (b) I would blow past those guys with all the tricked-out after-market parts covering their bikes.
In other words, it’s all mental (when it comes to motocross, at least). As long as the bike is running well, it’s up to the guy sitting in the seat twisting the throttle. Sure, if you’re fitness level is shit you won’t finish five laps on the track, but if you lack pure talent, you’ll never have the balls to twist that throttle the way it wants to be twisted.
What I like about cycling is that you can be as good as you want to be. I really don’t think it matters if you’ve got a $500 or $5,000 bike under you. Yes, I know one is nicer than the other, but let me put it this way. Take two semi-professional cyclists of perfectly equal talents and conditioning. Put one on my aluminum Giant. Put the other on a $2,000+ carbon frame bike. How much space separates them at the finish line?
With all that said, I think I’m going to stick with my aluminum bike for now, although I am planning on investing in a better set of wheels because if I break one more spoke someone at Giant is definitely going to die. Also, I’ve had this unnatural curiosity to ride a fixed gear bike, so it’s only a matter of time before you see me on one of those ridiculous machines.
Tuesday, February 6
Read Between the Lines
One tends to hear a fair amount of unexpected comments when riding a bicycle with a group. For example:
“You know, if I had killed my wife after our honeymoon, I’d be getting out of jail right about now. Maybe even sooner.”
Take a guess who tossed out that one recently. Further, considering I’m only thirty-three (a spring chicken compared to some of my middle-aged compatriots), there are a fair amount of jokes which seem to be old-hat to a lot of these guys yet are fresh to my ears.
“The three biggest lies in the world? The check’s in the mail, I won’t come in your mouth, and I’ll respect you in the morning.”
I almost choked on my bagel the first time I heard that one.
This gem came just the other day right as we were leaving the bagel shop discussing attractive women:
“Most of the lesbos I know look like Dalton.”
That one received a big round of applause from the few of us who both (a) had the day off, and (b) decided to brave the frigid weather.
Apart from the one-liners, one of the better qualities a person can have in this world is the ability to roll with a joke and I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who can do it better than Mr. Dalton. I give you these examples:
While trying to keep up with Anne and Brent on the hill-climbing ride a few weeks ago, we were flying downhill and quickly approaching a T in the road ahead when Anne turned and announced, “Make a left up here.” She then peered over my shoulder at Mr. Dalton behind me and added, “You go straight, Ed.”
Ed’s response? “Okay! See you at the bottom.”
Or another time while repairing a flat on the side of Fr. Capodanno Boulevard. Some jackass in a SUV (there’s a lot to be said about jackasses and SUVs, although I’ll keep those particular comments to myself) held down his horn as he passed for no reason whatsoever other than the fact that he was a complete and utter jackass.
“F#cking Staten Island as$hole,” Ed commented.
“Friend of yours?” Joe asked.
“Probably,” Ed said.
See what I mean about rolling with the joke? It’s a true talent.
“You know, if I had killed my wife after our honeymoon, I’d be getting out of jail right about now. Maybe even sooner.”
Take a guess who tossed out that one recently. Further, considering I’m only thirty-three (a spring chicken compared to some of my middle-aged compatriots), there are a fair amount of jokes which seem to be old-hat to a lot of these guys yet are fresh to my ears.
“The three biggest lies in the world? The check’s in the mail, I won’t come in your mouth, and I’ll respect you in the morning.”
I almost choked on my bagel the first time I heard that one.
This gem came just the other day right as we were leaving the bagel shop discussing attractive women:
“Most of the lesbos I know look like Dalton.”
That one received a big round of applause from the few of us who both (a) had the day off, and (b) decided to brave the frigid weather.
Apart from the one-liners, one of the better qualities a person can have in this world is the ability to roll with a joke and I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who can do it better than Mr. Dalton. I give you these examples:
While trying to keep up with Anne and Brent on the hill-climbing ride a few weeks ago, we were flying downhill and quickly approaching a T in the road ahead when Anne turned and announced, “Make a left up here.” She then peered over my shoulder at Mr. Dalton behind me and added, “You go straight, Ed.”
Ed’s response? “Okay! See you at the bottom.”
Or another time while repairing a flat on the side of Fr. Capodanno Boulevard. Some jackass in a SUV (there’s a lot to be said about jackasses and SUVs, although I’ll keep those particular comments to myself) held down his horn as he passed for no reason whatsoever other than the fact that he was a complete and utter jackass.
“F#cking Staten Island as$hole,” Ed commented.
“Friend of yours?” Joe asked.
“Probably,” Ed said.
See what I mean about rolling with the joke? It’s a true talent.
Sunday, January 28
Sweet Memory
I wanted to ride with the dudes on Staten Island this morning (Sunday), although when the alarm went off at seven and I took a glance out the window, everything was soaking wet and the clouds were still drizzling. So instead of hauling my butt out of bed and packing my gear for the ten-mile drive to New Dorp, I killed the alarm and rolled over. Call me crazy, although I don’t see the attraction of riding in a paceline with dirty street water spitting into my face for two hours.
Later that morning, once the sun had broke through, I got dressed and hit the rode for a two-hour ride, working in a handful of fast-pedal exercises, bumping my cadence up above 110. For whatever reason, Chris Carmichael thinks this is a good idea. Feels funny to do so while on the bike, but if Carmichael thinks it’s good training, that’s enough for me.
Usually, I would keep to Prospect Park and stay out of traffic, but after six months of riding in a 3.4-mile loop, the experience gets a bit boring. Instead, I did my normal loop down Ocean Parkway, through Brighton Beach to the path that runs along the Belt Parkway, over Marine Parkway Bridge, and then back again. Granted, the stoplights that line Ocean Parkway are numerous, although I approach that conundrum with 5-10 second standing sprints each time I take off from a red light. A steady, continuous pace would be a better for training, but sometimes, especially when you live in NYC, you just have to roll with the punches.
Okay, enough about that crap.
Somewhere on Richmond Terrace yesterday morning, Ed Dalton called out, “Stevie!”
“Yo.”
“Slow it up.”
I think that was the first time I’ve heard those words directed at me, but honestly, it’s not because I’m fast. Far from it, actually. Now that the weather has turned to real winter weather (meaning below freezing temperatures), the group rides on the Island have become progressively smaller. Further, it probably makes sense to slow things down a notch in such weather, to not tax the body so much, but every time I get in line and notice my heart rate monitor reading 119, I get nervous. Why? I can’t help but think of my first and only race (so far) last August. That was the Category 5 criterium in Prospect Park that saw me get spanked by six minutes in a forty-five minute race.
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but bear with me on this one. It’ll only take a minute or two.
I could sit here and hide behind the excuse that I had only been riding for a month when I entered the race (I bought the bike on July 4th and raced August 5th . . . or was it the 6th?), but I hate excuses. There are two things I dislike in day-to-day life: excuses and exaggeration. For example, years ago a friend tried to convince me that a tree was growing in the middle of Great Kills road. “It’s right in the middle of the street,” he claimed, and when we drove by, sure enough, a tree had grown through the pavement about six inches from the curb. “That’s the middle of the street?” I asked, pointing out the window. “If that’s the middle of the street, then what’s that?” I then pointed past the steering wheel to where a double-yellow line would have been if the Transportation Department ever decided to paint one on that particular street.
Anyway, back to the race. After the first lap, I got dropped on the longest climb in the park (which really isn’t that long), in the biggest way. They just spit me out the rear without so much as an adios and left me panting like a dog in hundred-degree heat. I think of that experience every time I throw a leg over my bike. I’m sure it’ll never fully leave, but since then, every time I’m out on the road, I can’t help but remember how physically demanding it was to ride that pace. I could go ahead and make the argument that I’m in much better shape now than I was in early August, but it’s not enough. I don’t even want to risk falling back on reasoning like that. If I do, I might grow complacent, and if I grow complacent, I have no doubt the next race this spring/early summer will see me spit out the back once again.
So when I’m on Staten Island with the guys and it’s freezing and only a few of us show up to ride, I have something of a mental block when it comes to putting it on cruise control, even for a few minutes. I know damn well that if the rest of the guys in that group wanted to step on the gas, they’d leave me for far, far behind. It happened a few weeks ago when T-Mobile Tommy and Lester took off on Richmond Avenue and never let up. Within minutes, I was once again kicked out the back and I never caught up until the bagel shop. A week later, same thing. Dr. Rob and Lester wanted to go on the hill near Killimeyer’s (I have no doubt I just mangled the spelling of Killimeyer’s). About a minute later, they were completely out of sight. Gone.
My point is, if I push toward the front and make a few pathetic attempts at sprints, it’s due to that race from last year. Those fifty minutes of complete decimation and embarrassment have lodged themselves in my brain and, fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I’ve been unable to let go. If I mention I want to pull up front most of the ride, it’s only to push myself, to get ready for what I know is going to happen in the coming months.
As for disliking excuses? That’s a whole other story.
Later that morning, once the sun had broke through, I got dressed and hit the rode for a two-hour ride, working in a handful of fast-pedal exercises, bumping my cadence up above 110. For whatever reason, Chris Carmichael thinks this is a good idea. Feels funny to do so while on the bike, but if Carmichael thinks it’s good training, that’s enough for me.
Usually, I would keep to Prospect Park and stay out of traffic, but after six months of riding in a 3.4-mile loop, the experience gets a bit boring. Instead, I did my normal loop down Ocean Parkway, through Brighton Beach to the path that runs along the Belt Parkway, over Marine Parkway Bridge, and then back again. Granted, the stoplights that line Ocean Parkway are numerous, although I approach that conundrum with 5-10 second standing sprints each time I take off from a red light. A steady, continuous pace would be a better for training, but sometimes, especially when you live in NYC, you just have to roll with the punches.
Okay, enough about that crap.
Somewhere on Richmond Terrace yesterday morning, Ed Dalton called out, “Stevie!”
“Yo.”
“Slow it up.”
I think that was the first time I’ve heard those words directed at me, but honestly, it’s not because I’m fast. Far from it, actually. Now that the weather has turned to real winter weather (meaning below freezing temperatures), the group rides on the Island have become progressively smaller. Further, it probably makes sense to slow things down a notch in such weather, to not tax the body so much, but every time I get in line and notice my heart rate monitor reading 119, I get nervous. Why? I can’t help but think of my first and only race (so far) last August. That was the Category 5 criterium in Prospect Park that saw me get spanked by six minutes in a forty-five minute race.
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but bear with me on this one. It’ll only take a minute or two.
I could sit here and hide behind the excuse that I had only been riding for a month when I entered the race (I bought the bike on July 4th and raced August 5th . . . or was it the 6th?), but I hate excuses. There are two things I dislike in day-to-day life: excuses and exaggeration. For example, years ago a friend tried to convince me that a tree was growing in the middle of Great Kills road. “It’s right in the middle of the street,” he claimed, and when we drove by, sure enough, a tree had grown through the pavement about six inches from the curb. “That’s the middle of the street?” I asked, pointing out the window. “If that’s the middle of the street, then what’s that?” I then pointed past the steering wheel to where a double-yellow line would have been if the Transportation Department ever decided to paint one on that particular street.
Anyway, back to the race. After the first lap, I got dropped on the longest climb in the park (which really isn’t that long), in the biggest way. They just spit me out the rear without so much as an adios and left me panting like a dog in hundred-degree heat. I think of that experience every time I throw a leg over my bike. I’m sure it’ll never fully leave, but since then, every time I’m out on the road, I can’t help but remember how physically demanding it was to ride that pace. I could go ahead and make the argument that I’m in much better shape now than I was in early August, but it’s not enough. I don’t even want to risk falling back on reasoning like that. If I do, I might grow complacent, and if I grow complacent, I have no doubt the next race this spring/early summer will see me spit out the back once again.
So when I’m on Staten Island with the guys and it’s freezing and only a few of us show up to ride, I have something of a mental block when it comes to putting it on cruise control, even for a few minutes. I know damn well that if the rest of the guys in that group wanted to step on the gas, they’d leave me for far, far behind. It happened a few weeks ago when T-Mobile Tommy and Lester took off on Richmond Avenue and never let up. Within minutes, I was once again kicked out the back and I never caught up until the bagel shop. A week later, same thing. Dr. Rob and Lester wanted to go on the hill near Killimeyer’s (I have no doubt I just mangled the spelling of Killimeyer’s). About a minute later, they were completely out of sight. Gone.
My point is, if I push toward the front and make a few pathetic attempts at sprints, it’s due to that race from last year. Those fifty minutes of complete decimation and embarrassment have lodged themselves in my brain and, fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I’ve been unable to let go. If I mention I want to pull up front most of the ride, it’s only to push myself, to get ready for what I know is going to happen in the coming months.
As for disliking excuses? That’s a whole other story.
Tuesday, January 23
The Very, Very Cold
Goddam it was cold yesterday. Pulling myself out of bed while it was still dark outside, I thought (as I’m sure everyone who wakes up before dawn to ride a bicycle in the middle of winter thinks), What the hell is wrong with me?
That’s a good question. Actually, it’s a damn good question--one that I’ve been asking myself for longer than I care to remember.
Anyway, I made it to Staten Island already having donned my polypro sock liners, wool socks, and neopro socks. Three layers of socks to try and ward off the eighteen-degree temperature in which we were about to ride like a bunch of raving lunatics. Then again, you could say, “Why climb Mount Everest?” Because it’s there to be done, I guess, the same way the bike sits in the hall or the garage and stares at you every time you walk by, wondering when you’re going to take it out again.
By 8:20, I was dressed and out of the warmth of my truck, standing around a deserted parking lot in New Dorp with a bunch of other lunatics willing to go cycling for a few hours in below-freezing weather. As we waited until the usual 8:35 to see if any latecomers would arrive, I began wondering how long it would take before my toes went numb. I began wondering if it would get so bad that I’d have to quit, turn around, and ride as fast as possible back to the truck in the hopes I wouldn’t permanently lose the feeling in my toes. The night before, I had considering swapping out the clipless pedals for a pair of platforms with toe clips so I could ride with my gore-tex hiking boots. In hindsight, that might not have been such a bad idea.
During the first twenty or so minutes of the ride, my fingers were colder than . . . colder than . . . uh, you know . . . they were cold, okay? Freezing, actually, yet as usual, they felt fine after the first short climb when we reached McClean Avenue, once the heart rate was up and pumping. Half an hour after that, the toes began going numb, but not dangerously numb. Rather, the numbness was somewhat bearable, if that’s at all possible. By the time we reached Richmond Avenue, though, it was time to step on the gas just enough to push the heart rate out of that 120-130 zone up into the 160-170 zone. If not, my toes would have turned into frozen extremities a la carte by the time we hit the bagel shop and as Joe C. and I stepped it up a bit, I could hear Ed Dalton’s voice in the back of my head, “What’s the point of going on a group ride if you’re not going to ride in a group?” He’s got a point, of course, but I think you should be allowed to bend the etiquette a bit when the temperature is below freezing and you’ve been out riding for more than an hour.
By the time we reached the bagel shop, Tommy summed up the morning’s experience perfectly when he said, “My feet are gone. Totally gone.”
And then, rather than take the loop down to Hylan Boulevard, we made the right out of the bagel shop’s parking lot and hitched it over to the Richmond Parkway service road. Not five minutes after leaving the parking lot, I stood up on one of the rolling hills to get the heart rate back up a bit, to try and keep the damn feet from freezing again, when I heard Ed Dalton sprinting up behind me. How did I know it was Ed? I could hear the squeal of a chain in desperate need of some oil. Expecting Ed and the entire wagon train behind him sitting in the draft, I pushed down on the pedals even harder yet when I glanced over, there was Andy and his bright green winter jacket.
Two minutes later, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me.
“You really didn’t want Andy to pass you, huh?”
Stopped at the next red light, I turned around and explained, “Andy, when you came up behind me on that last hill I could hear your chain and I thought it was him.” I pointed at Ed.
It is what it is, I guess, but that was Sunday. It was cold. It was colder than cold. It’s only January and already I’m thinking about summer.
That’s a good question. Actually, it’s a damn good question--one that I’ve been asking myself for longer than I care to remember.
Anyway, I made it to Staten Island already having donned my polypro sock liners, wool socks, and neopro socks. Three layers of socks to try and ward off the eighteen-degree temperature in which we were about to ride like a bunch of raving lunatics. Then again, you could say, “Why climb Mount Everest?” Because it’s there to be done, I guess, the same way the bike sits in the hall or the garage and stares at you every time you walk by, wondering when you’re going to take it out again.
By 8:20, I was dressed and out of the warmth of my truck, standing around a deserted parking lot in New Dorp with a bunch of other lunatics willing to go cycling for a few hours in below-freezing weather. As we waited until the usual 8:35 to see if any latecomers would arrive, I began wondering how long it would take before my toes went numb. I began wondering if it would get so bad that I’d have to quit, turn around, and ride as fast as possible back to the truck in the hopes I wouldn’t permanently lose the feeling in my toes. The night before, I had considering swapping out the clipless pedals for a pair of platforms with toe clips so I could ride with my gore-tex hiking boots. In hindsight, that might not have been such a bad idea.
During the first twenty or so minutes of the ride, my fingers were colder than . . . colder than . . . uh, you know . . . they were cold, okay? Freezing, actually, yet as usual, they felt fine after the first short climb when we reached McClean Avenue, once the heart rate was up and pumping. Half an hour after that, the toes began going numb, but not dangerously numb. Rather, the numbness was somewhat bearable, if that’s at all possible. By the time we reached Richmond Avenue, though, it was time to step on the gas just enough to push the heart rate out of that 120-130 zone up into the 160-170 zone. If not, my toes would have turned into frozen extremities a la carte by the time we hit the bagel shop and as Joe C. and I stepped it up a bit, I could hear Ed Dalton’s voice in the back of my head, “What’s the point of going on a group ride if you’re not going to ride in a group?” He’s got a point, of course, but I think you should be allowed to bend the etiquette a bit when the temperature is below freezing and you’ve been out riding for more than an hour.
By the time we reached the bagel shop, Tommy summed up the morning’s experience perfectly when he said, “My feet are gone. Totally gone.”
And then, rather than take the loop down to Hylan Boulevard, we made the right out of the bagel shop’s parking lot and hitched it over to the Richmond Parkway service road. Not five minutes after leaving the parking lot, I stood up on one of the rolling hills to get the heart rate back up a bit, to try and keep the damn feet from freezing again, when I heard Ed Dalton sprinting up behind me. How did I know it was Ed? I could hear the squeal of a chain in desperate need of some oil. Expecting Ed and the entire wagon train behind him sitting in the draft, I pushed down on the pedals even harder yet when I glanced over, there was Andy and his bright green winter jacket.
Two minutes later, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me.
“You really didn’t want Andy to pass you, huh?”
Stopped at the next red light, I turned around and explained, “Andy, when you came up behind me on that last hill I could hear your chain and I thought it was him.” I pointed at Ed.
It is what it is, I guess, but that was Sunday. It was cold. It was colder than cold. It’s only January and already I’m thinking about summer.
Friday, January 19
Adios to R & A
Overall, I’m really not one to complain (yeah, right), yet just when I was starting to think the guys at R&A weren’t all that bad, they go and act like a bunch of complete dickwads.
Considering the weather yesterday, I knew there wasn’t much chance I would go home after work and eagerly suit up to ride in the snow that had turned into rain once I climbed the stairs out of the subway station. Instead, I figured it was about time I stepped up to the financial plate and plunk down a few hundred on a decent trainer. After doing the reading and reading the research, I decided on the Blackburn Trakstand Ultra, a contraption which is neither fluid nor magnetic. Instead, it works on what Blackburn calls “centriforce.” I know, I know, this is all incredibly exciting, but at the end of the day, all “centriforce” really means is that the faster the housing spins, the harder a trio of steel ball bearings presses against a flywheel which presses against a friction compound plate which raises resistance.
Like I said, it’s terribly exciting.
Regardless, after plunking down three large (“large to me is $100) for this thing, I lugged it home on the bus and five minutes after stepping through my door, I began tearing open the box to get at my new toy. Immediately, I had a problem: the instructions were missing. Considering it was already past seven o’clock, calling R&A was out of the question as those jokers would have been gone for the evening. I tried calling anyway, but of course, no one answered the phone.
Determined to take my new trainer for a spin, I went online to Blackburn’s web site but the only instruction page/manual they have posted is one for a tire pump. And their customer service hours are 8-5 CST.
I was not only screwed. I was absolutely steaming. Leave it to the jackasses at R&A to sell their customers equipment without the proper instructions.
Regardless, the unit came out of the box 100% assembled, meaning a mildly intelligent chimp could probably figure out how to use it, although there are those times when you just want to make sure you’re doing something 100% right. For example, the unit came with three extra ball bearings and, based on what I had read in reviews, these were to be used to increase resistance. Looking down at the resistance housing, wanting to avoid pulling it apart without the proper background materials, having those instructions would have been grand.
After forty minutes or so, I hooked up my bike and got the thing going as I thought best which turned out to be good enough, but if I had had the instructions, I could have cut that time down to ten minutes. Remember that saying, time is money? Well, time is money, or at least I think of it that way.
For the longest time I had been thinking of investing in a trainer and I’m glad I did. Despite last night’s debacle, I now have the instructions as Blackburn’s customer service emailed them to me in less than five minutes after contacting them today after Al at R&A proved himself completely useless when we spoke. See dialogue below. Even without the instructions, though, the unit proved to work well as per the resistance. Since I’ve never used any other trainer, I can’t really speak to how quiet the thing is, but it seemed relatively quiet to me despite my downstairs neighbor banging on his ceiling/my floor, but he’s a cocksucker, so he deserves some noise anyway.
#
R&A Dialogue
Phone ringing.
“R&A.”
“I bought a Blackburn trainer from you guys last night but there were no instructions in the box.”
“You want to bring it in and we’ll show you how to use it?”
“I was hoping I could stop in and you could just give me the directions.”
“If they weren’t in the box then it doesn’t come with directions.”
“Well could you look in another box to see if they might be in there and then maybe I can get a copy?”
“You’ll have to call me back later.”
Click. “Asshole.”
When your daddy owns the store, I guess you have some sort of a right to treat the customers like a bunch of tools.
Considering the weather yesterday, I knew there wasn’t much chance I would go home after work and eagerly suit up to ride in the snow that had turned into rain once I climbed the stairs out of the subway station. Instead, I figured it was about time I stepped up to the financial plate and plunk down a few hundred on a decent trainer. After doing the reading and reading the research, I decided on the Blackburn Trakstand Ultra, a contraption which is neither fluid nor magnetic. Instead, it works on what Blackburn calls “centriforce.” I know, I know, this is all incredibly exciting, but at the end of the day, all “centriforce” really means is that the faster the housing spins, the harder a trio of steel ball bearings presses against a flywheel which presses against a friction compound plate which raises resistance.
Like I said, it’s terribly exciting.
Regardless, after plunking down three large (“large to me is $100) for this thing, I lugged it home on the bus and five minutes after stepping through my door, I began tearing open the box to get at my new toy. Immediately, I had a problem: the instructions were missing. Considering it was already past seven o’clock, calling R&A was out of the question as those jokers would have been gone for the evening. I tried calling anyway, but of course, no one answered the phone.
Determined to take my new trainer for a spin, I went online to Blackburn’s web site but the only instruction page/manual they have posted is one for a tire pump. And their customer service hours are 8-5 CST.
I was not only screwed. I was absolutely steaming. Leave it to the jackasses at R&A to sell their customers equipment without the proper instructions.
Regardless, the unit came out of the box 100% assembled, meaning a mildly intelligent chimp could probably figure out how to use it, although there are those times when you just want to make sure you’re doing something 100% right. For example, the unit came with three extra ball bearings and, based on what I had read in reviews, these were to be used to increase resistance. Looking down at the resistance housing, wanting to avoid pulling it apart without the proper background materials, having those instructions would have been grand.
After forty minutes or so, I hooked up my bike and got the thing going as I thought best which turned out to be good enough, but if I had had the instructions, I could have cut that time down to ten minutes. Remember that saying, time is money? Well, time is money, or at least I think of it that way.
For the longest time I had been thinking of investing in a trainer and I’m glad I did. Despite last night’s debacle, I now have the instructions as Blackburn’s customer service emailed them to me in less than five minutes after contacting them today after Al at R&A proved himself completely useless when we spoke. See dialogue below. Even without the instructions, though, the unit proved to work well as per the resistance. Since I’ve never used any other trainer, I can’t really speak to how quiet the thing is, but it seemed relatively quiet to me despite my downstairs neighbor banging on his ceiling/my floor, but he’s a cocksucker, so he deserves some noise anyway.
#
R&A Dialogue
Phone ringing.
“R&A.”
“I bought a Blackburn trainer from you guys last night but there were no instructions in the box.”
“You want to bring it in and we’ll show you how to use it?”
“I was hoping I could stop in and you could just give me the directions.”
“If they weren’t in the box then it doesn’t come with directions.”
“Well could you look in another box to see if they might be in there and then maybe I can get a copy?”
“You’ll have to call me back later.”
Click. “Asshole.”
When your daddy owns the store, I guess you have some sort of a right to treat the customers like a bunch of tools.
Tuesday, January 16
Under and Over the Bridge
Sunday morning I wake up and as soon as I hear the rain hitting the window next to my bed, I think, Screw that. A few seconds later, I was asleep again, dreaming of carbon fiber frames that only weigh two-and-a-half ounces, polypropylene sock liners, and winning the first Category 5 race of the upcoming season in Prospect Park.
Obviously, I have some grand, grand dreams.
Make a short story long, by the time I actually got out of bed and sucked down a bowel of Raisin Nut Bran (which I highly recommend, by the way), the rain had since stopped and I figured I’d go out and get on the bike even though I neglected to make the rainy trip out to Staten Island to ride with the guys in the rain. I could have gotten out of bed to do a few miles with the group, but who wants dirty rainwater spitting in their face, up their nose, and in their mouth when you’re riding behind the guy or girl in front of you? Who needs that? Sure, I’m a fan of the sport, but I also have a day job, meaning I’ll leave riding in the miserably wet weather to the pros who are getting paid to push those pedals and drink down that foul rain water (mixed with some motor oil, I might add).
Again, make a short story long, I packed three fat-free Fig Newtons in some tin foil, filled the water bottle with Cytomax, checked the pressure in the tires, strapped on my helmet, and hit the road. Where would I ride on this misty Sunday morning? Over the Brooklyn Bridge and across Chambers Street to the path along the West Side Highway. From downtown I pedaled into a slight headwind (better to deal with it going there rather than coming back) all the freaking way up through Harlem to the George Washington Bridge.
Now, you would think that someone, some city official or park ranger, might have the common sense to place a handful of signs pointing cyclists (or rollerbladers, or walkers, etc.) in the direction of the bridge from the greenway. You might think that someone would have the brains to do this considering the GWB is a major crossing from NYC into New Jersey and vice versa, yet has anyone taken this concept into consideration?
Nope. Riding the greenway under the bridge, I knew I’d have to turn off somewhere to get on the bridge. It took me a few tries, although eventually a guy and his dog pointed me toward Ft. Washington (Street or Avenue, I can’t remember) and told me to make a right that would steer me toward the bridge. Actually, the guy did all the talking while his dog squatted down to do his business.
Then, once over the bridge on the New Jersey side, I was hoping I might catch a sign--either for cyclists or drivers--pointing toward 9W.
Nope. I stopped to ask another cyclist who pointed me in the right direction.
“Go down this way,” he said, pointing north while chewing on a bagel, “and when you get to the T, make a left. Then when you get to the light, make a right. That’s 9W.”
I wish I could sit here and extol the virtues of a ride along 9W, although sadly, I cannot. Once over the GWB, the fog had settled in for the day that made it impossible to see anything other than a wall of white beyond fifty feet or so. Riding through all that mist, my glasses fogged over, rendering them useless, and my gloves began turning white.
Despite the fog and damp, I’m sure 9W is a fantastic ride when you can actually see something. At the same time, though, I can’t say it was a bad ride either. Dealing with the wet road, the occasional drizzle, and the thick fog is what riding through the winter is all about, isn’t it? I may harbor something of a gripe considering I rode all that way looking forward to something a bit more scenic, but by no means was my Sunday ride unfulfilling. On the contrary, I believe that it’s during those rides when the conditions are much less than ideal, those rides when you’re alone and you’re pushing yourself progressively harder and harder that you finish with a greater sense of accomplishment. After pounding out those final five miles (out of a total of fifty-six for the day), those three fat-free Fig Newtons devoured an hour earlier, running on not much more than fumes, I finally reached home and popped a pair of Lean Pockets in the microwave before I even undressed. I wanted food and I wanted it as soon as possible.
Maybe relaxing after the ride is over is the second-best part of cycling. Maybe staring blankly out the window at the fog after the ride is over is what makes the effort worthwhile, knowing you were already out there suffering in the inclement weather only a few feet outside your front door. To me, there’s a lot to be said for busting your ass for three-and-a-half hours and them coming home, cleaning up, and sitting down to a quiet, warm meal of whatever it is you feel like eating.
And that was my Sunday.
Obviously, I have some grand, grand dreams.
Make a short story long, by the time I actually got out of bed and sucked down a bowel of Raisin Nut Bran (which I highly recommend, by the way), the rain had since stopped and I figured I’d go out and get on the bike even though I neglected to make the rainy trip out to Staten Island to ride with the guys in the rain. I could have gotten out of bed to do a few miles with the group, but who wants dirty rainwater spitting in their face, up their nose, and in their mouth when you’re riding behind the guy or girl in front of you? Who needs that? Sure, I’m a fan of the sport, but I also have a day job, meaning I’ll leave riding in the miserably wet weather to the pros who are getting paid to push those pedals and drink down that foul rain water (mixed with some motor oil, I might add).
Again, make a short story long, I packed three fat-free Fig Newtons in some tin foil, filled the water bottle with Cytomax, checked the pressure in the tires, strapped on my helmet, and hit the road. Where would I ride on this misty Sunday morning? Over the Brooklyn Bridge and across Chambers Street to the path along the West Side Highway. From downtown I pedaled into a slight headwind (better to deal with it going there rather than coming back) all the freaking way up through Harlem to the George Washington Bridge.
Now, you would think that someone, some city official or park ranger, might have the common sense to place a handful of signs pointing cyclists (or rollerbladers, or walkers, etc.) in the direction of the bridge from the greenway. You might think that someone would have the brains to do this considering the GWB is a major crossing from NYC into New Jersey and vice versa, yet has anyone taken this concept into consideration?
Nope. Riding the greenway under the bridge, I knew I’d have to turn off somewhere to get on the bridge. It took me a few tries, although eventually a guy and his dog pointed me toward Ft. Washington (Street or Avenue, I can’t remember) and told me to make a right that would steer me toward the bridge. Actually, the guy did all the talking while his dog squatted down to do his business.
Then, once over the bridge on the New Jersey side, I was hoping I might catch a sign--either for cyclists or drivers--pointing toward 9W.
Nope. I stopped to ask another cyclist who pointed me in the right direction.
“Go down this way,” he said, pointing north while chewing on a bagel, “and when you get to the T, make a left. Then when you get to the light, make a right. That’s 9W.”
I wish I could sit here and extol the virtues of a ride along 9W, although sadly, I cannot. Once over the GWB, the fog had settled in for the day that made it impossible to see anything other than a wall of white beyond fifty feet or so. Riding through all that mist, my glasses fogged over, rendering them useless, and my gloves began turning white.
Despite the fog and damp, I’m sure 9W is a fantastic ride when you can actually see something. At the same time, though, I can’t say it was a bad ride either. Dealing with the wet road, the occasional drizzle, and the thick fog is what riding through the winter is all about, isn’t it? I may harbor something of a gripe considering I rode all that way looking forward to something a bit more scenic, but by no means was my Sunday ride unfulfilling. On the contrary, I believe that it’s during those rides when the conditions are much less than ideal, those rides when you’re alone and you’re pushing yourself progressively harder and harder that you finish with a greater sense of accomplishment. After pounding out those final five miles (out of a total of fifty-six for the day), those three fat-free Fig Newtons devoured an hour earlier, running on not much more than fumes, I finally reached home and popped a pair of Lean Pockets in the microwave before I even undressed. I wanted food and I wanted it as soon as possible.
Maybe relaxing after the ride is over is the second-best part of cycling. Maybe staring blankly out the window at the fog after the ride is over is what makes the effort worthwhile, knowing you were already out there suffering in the inclement weather only a few feet outside your front door. To me, there’s a lot to be said for busting your ass for three-and-a-half hours and them coming home, cleaning up, and sitting down to a quiet, warm meal of whatever it is you feel like eating.
And that was my Sunday.
Tuesday, January 9
Arnold the Cyclist
Just tonight, while fixing myself a plate of nachos (see my wonderful recipe below), I decided to pop in my Big Six DVD and watch highlights from Lance Armstrong’s first six Tour de France wins. If I had anything that remotely resembled a social life, I would have grabbed my phone and made a few calls to schedule a night out with a saucy young vixen, but it’s Monday. Who the hell wants to go out for Mexican on a Monday night? More to the point, all the saucy young vixens I know have expressed on several occasions that they think I’m ugly and that my mother dresses me funny.
Admittedly, the saucy young vixens have a point.
Regardless, I was in the middle of flipping a chicken cutlet and watching Lance crash during the 2003 race. I can do this as my tiny kitchen boasts a huge pass-thru window, so I can cook and stay tuned to the action on the TV at the same time, yet as cool as that sounds, trust me, it doesn’t mean much to saucy young vixens. The moment Lance hit the ground and then remounted to sprint all the way up the rest of the climb, I thought, Cyclists are a lot like bodybuilders were back in the 80s and 90s. Not that I’ve ever been the biggest fan of professional bodybuilding (I think one look at me will confirm that statement), although as a teenager, I would occasionally flip through a copy of Flex or something similar. Back then, all those guys who spent at least nine hours a day in the gym and had biceps the size of watermelons all had the same stupid answers when interviewers inquired regarding drug use: “I’ve been blessed with good genes.”
And a rotating supply of hypodermic needles in which they pumped gallon after gallon of steroids and human growth hormones into their asses.
While I can’t speak for the cyclists of old, the cyclists of today sure do sound a lot like the freaky, ‘roid-rage prone juiceheads used to sound. At least most professional bodybuilders are beginning to admit they’re the products of serious synthetic enhancements. I don’t remember what video or TV show it was where I saw this, although not long ago, I caught a clip of an interview with two bodybuilders who looked as though someone had stuck the end of a bike pump valve in their respective asses and blew them up to well over the recommended 120 PSI. The juicehead standing to the left put it simply when he said, “When you look at us, it should be obvious what we’re doing. You can’t get like this without using steroids.” The juicer on the right nodded his approval.
I understand there’s a lot of corporate money floating around in professional cycling, but wouldn’t it be nice to inhale a flash of the truth rather than swallowing the same mouthful of shit year after year? Rather than the incessant, adamant refusals when the subject of doping arises, wouldn’t it be a blast of fresh air to hear Ivan Basso proclaim, “Basta! Of course I dope, you moron! How the f#ck do you think I climbed all those freaking mountains in the Giro as fast as I did? Eating my shredded wheat? God, you people are so freaking dumb.”
At the same time, for my own flimsy reasons, I’m of the belief that the sprinters, racers such as Thor Hushovd (Thor is such a cool name, isn’t it?), Robbie McEwen, and company, are not dopers. Go ahead and call me ignorant, yet don’t the sprinters typically struggle once a stage race reaches the major climbs? Okay, maybe these guys take the occasional injection, but compared to someone like Tyler Hamilton who, according to recent reports, was spending seven months of the year living on the equivalent of a black market pharma cocktail, the sprinters look like a bunch of saints.
While we’re speaking of dopers, how about that Joe Cuomo guy? A few weeks ago, he disappears to have “surgery.” Then, on his first morning back with the group, he’s up front during most of the ride with his face in the wind while most of us are in the back breathing hard. I think it was T-Mobile Tommy who mentioned Joe’s name had come up in Operacion Puerto, although since sixty-eight-year-old Joe no longer contests the Giro, the Tour, or the Vuelta, none of the Spanish authorities made a stink about it. More importantly, they probably couldn’t find Staten Island on the map.
#
Steve's Macho-Nacho Dish
1 plate of nacho chips
1 chicken cutlet sliced into strips
½ cup taco mix cheese or sharp cheddar cheese
½ tomato diced
Salsa
Sour cream
Spread nacho chips on plate. Spread chicken atop nachos. Spread a generous helping of cheese over chicken and nachos. Microwave until cheese melts. Remove plate from microwave and sprinkle diced tomato over plate. Season with salsa and sour cream to taste. Enjoy. Upon finishing, open windows around house/apartment. As is typically expected, ingesting Mexican food may result in pungent flatulence. Keep air freshener handy. Apply Vick’s Vapor rub under nostrils on upper lip to maintain consciousness during severe emergencies.
Admittedly, the saucy young vixens have a point.
Regardless, I was in the middle of flipping a chicken cutlet and watching Lance crash during the 2003 race. I can do this as my tiny kitchen boasts a huge pass-thru window, so I can cook and stay tuned to the action on the TV at the same time, yet as cool as that sounds, trust me, it doesn’t mean much to saucy young vixens. The moment Lance hit the ground and then remounted to sprint all the way up the rest of the climb, I thought, Cyclists are a lot like bodybuilders were back in the 80s and 90s. Not that I’ve ever been the biggest fan of professional bodybuilding (I think one look at me will confirm that statement), although as a teenager, I would occasionally flip through a copy of Flex or something similar. Back then, all those guys who spent at least nine hours a day in the gym and had biceps the size of watermelons all had the same stupid answers when interviewers inquired regarding drug use: “I’ve been blessed with good genes.”
And a rotating supply of hypodermic needles in which they pumped gallon after gallon of steroids and human growth hormones into their asses.
While I can’t speak for the cyclists of old, the cyclists of today sure do sound a lot like the freaky, ‘roid-rage prone juiceheads used to sound. At least most professional bodybuilders are beginning to admit they’re the products of serious synthetic enhancements. I don’t remember what video or TV show it was where I saw this, although not long ago, I caught a clip of an interview with two bodybuilders who looked as though someone had stuck the end of a bike pump valve in their respective asses and blew them up to well over the recommended 120 PSI. The juicehead standing to the left put it simply when he said, “When you look at us, it should be obvious what we’re doing. You can’t get like this without using steroids.” The juicer on the right nodded his approval.
I understand there’s a lot of corporate money floating around in professional cycling, but wouldn’t it be nice to inhale a flash of the truth rather than swallowing the same mouthful of shit year after year? Rather than the incessant, adamant refusals when the subject of doping arises, wouldn’t it be a blast of fresh air to hear Ivan Basso proclaim, “Basta! Of course I dope, you moron! How the f#ck do you think I climbed all those freaking mountains in the Giro as fast as I did? Eating my shredded wheat? God, you people are so freaking dumb.”
At the same time, for my own flimsy reasons, I’m of the belief that the sprinters, racers such as Thor Hushovd (Thor is such a cool name, isn’t it?), Robbie McEwen, and company, are not dopers. Go ahead and call me ignorant, yet don’t the sprinters typically struggle once a stage race reaches the major climbs? Okay, maybe these guys take the occasional injection, but compared to someone like Tyler Hamilton who, according to recent reports, was spending seven months of the year living on the equivalent of a black market pharma cocktail, the sprinters look like a bunch of saints.
While we’re speaking of dopers, how about that Joe Cuomo guy? A few weeks ago, he disappears to have “surgery.” Then, on his first morning back with the group, he’s up front during most of the ride with his face in the wind while most of us are in the back breathing hard. I think it was T-Mobile Tommy who mentioned Joe’s name had come up in Operacion Puerto, although since sixty-eight-year-old Joe no longer contests the Giro, the Tour, or the Vuelta, none of the Spanish authorities made a stink about it. More importantly, they probably couldn’t find Staten Island on the map.
#
Steve's Macho-Nacho Dish
1 plate of nacho chips
1 chicken cutlet sliced into strips
½ cup taco mix cheese or sharp cheddar cheese
½ tomato diced
Salsa
Sour cream
Spread nacho chips on plate. Spread chicken atop nachos. Spread a generous helping of cheese over chicken and nachos. Microwave until cheese melts. Remove plate from microwave and sprinkle diced tomato over plate. Season with salsa and sour cream to taste. Enjoy. Upon finishing, open windows around house/apartment. As is typically expected, ingesting Mexican food may result in pungent flatulence. Keep air freshener handy. Apply Vick’s Vapor rub under nostrils on upper lip to maintain consciousness during severe emergencies.
Monday, January 8
Going Nowhere Fast
From immediately behind me came Ed Dalton’s voice, and I knew that voice was pointed straight at me.
“You had to f#ck around, didn’t you?”
A few minutes earlier, I had jumped out of the line at twenty-four miles-per-hour and tried to make my way to the front with my face in the wind. Within a few seconds, realizing there wasn’t much of a chance in hell I would have the gas to pull in front of T-Mobile Tommy who had been leading the group, I sat up and let our petite peloton slide up the road. Just before slowing down, I glanced over my shoulder at a blue jacket that, I believe, belonged to Dr. Rob. Without the legs or the lungs to reach the front, I felt like I was letting him down, as well as anyone who might have been holding his wheel.
These things happen, I guess.
As for Ed’s admonishment, he was absolutely right. I did indeed feel like f#cking around during most of the ride, although not in a malicious way. Rather, it was quite simple. You have your good days and you have your bad days. Compared to last Sunday when my lungs felt as though they were full of cement, this morning was a vast improvement. It’s days like today, days when I’m feeling good, that I’m probably too quick to stand up and sprint off the front from time to time knowing damn well the rest of the group is going to catch me the moment my butt hits the saddle and I start wheezing from the fifteen seconds of all-out effort I just decided to waste.
Maybe it was the shoes. I invested in my first pair of Sidis--a pair of shoes that actually fit right yet cost a ridiculous $230--which I wore for the first time this morning. How did they feel? Marvelous, baby. Absolutely marvelous (in that I could still feel my toes an hour into the ride).
Overall, though, we had a great ride today. At least I think so. The seventy-degree temperatures that rolled through the area on Saturday seemed to remind everyone that eventually the winter will reach an end and spring will soon arrive, meaning the collective attitude this morning was one of . . . there is a reason we do this despite freezing our asses off in the wind.
On a separate note, I swung in R&A on 5th Avenue this afternoon to grab a new tire. One of the salesman in the shop, Felix, is turning out to be something of a righteous dude. After providing a few pointers on tires and rolling speed and so forth, he not only provided some good advice, but the guy took my bike, tuned up the gearing, fixed a broken spoke in the rear wheel, and then trued it properly. Granted, I did lay out $97 on a pair of Vittoria tires, although the tune up certainly saved me a few bucks and I can now expect much smoother shifting considering I’ve been fiddling with the rear derailleur on my own and generally making a mess of things.
So in the event you find yourself in R&A, I would recommend asking for Felix. He seems to be one of the few guys in there without an attitude issue.
#
Steve’s Open-Face Chicken Sandwich
1 chicken cutlet, sautéed or grilled
1 slice toast (white, wheat, multi-grain, whatever)
Shredded mozzarella or cheddar cheese
1-2 tablespoons salsa
Toast the toast while melting the cheese on top of the chicken cutlet in the microwave. Once the cheese is melted, remove from microwave and place the chicken on top of the toast. Sit down at the table with a glass of soda, water, Crystal Light, or whatever. Spoon salsa on top of cheese-covered chicken. Eat with fork and knife or with your fingers. Enjoy. Repeat as necessary.
“You had to f#ck around, didn’t you?”
A few minutes earlier, I had jumped out of the line at twenty-four miles-per-hour and tried to make my way to the front with my face in the wind. Within a few seconds, realizing there wasn’t much of a chance in hell I would have the gas to pull in front of T-Mobile Tommy who had been leading the group, I sat up and let our petite peloton slide up the road. Just before slowing down, I glanced over my shoulder at a blue jacket that, I believe, belonged to Dr. Rob. Without the legs or the lungs to reach the front, I felt like I was letting him down, as well as anyone who might have been holding his wheel.
These things happen, I guess.
As for Ed’s admonishment, he was absolutely right. I did indeed feel like f#cking around during most of the ride, although not in a malicious way. Rather, it was quite simple. You have your good days and you have your bad days. Compared to last Sunday when my lungs felt as though they were full of cement, this morning was a vast improvement. It’s days like today, days when I’m feeling good, that I’m probably too quick to stand up and sprint off the front from time to time knowing damn well the rest of the group is going to catch me the moment my butt hits the saddle and I start wheezing from the fifteen seconds of all-out effort I just decided to waste.
Maybe it was the shoes. I invested in my first pair of Sidis--a pair of shoes that actually fit right yet cost a ridiculous $230--which I wore for the first time this morning. How did they feel? Marvelous, baby. Absolutely marvelous (in that I could still feel my toes an hour into the ride).
Overall, though, we had a great ride today. At least I think so. The seventy-degree temperatures that rolled through the area on Saturday seemed to remind everyone that eventually the winter will reach an end and spring will soon arrive, meaning the collective attitude this morning was one of . . . there is a reason we do this despite freezing our asses off in the wind.
On a separate note, I swung in R&A on 5th Avenue this afternoon to grab a new tire. One of the salesman in the shop, Felix, is turning out to be something of a righteous dude. After providing a few pointers on tires and rolling speed and so forth, he not only provided some good advice, but the guy took my bike, tuned up the gearing, fixed a broken spoke in the rear wheel, and then trued it properly. Granted, I did lay out $97 on a pair of Vittoria tires, although the tune up certainly saved me a few bucks and I can now expect much smoother shifting considering I’ve been fiddling with the rear derailleur on my own and generally making a mess of things.
So in the event you find yourself in R&A, I would recommend asking for Felix. He seems to be one of the few guys in there without an attitude issue.
#
Steve’s Open-Face Chicken Sandwich
1 chicken cutlet, sautéed or grilled
1 slice toast (white, wheat, multi-grain, whatever)
Shredded mozzarella or cheddar cheese
1-2 tablespoons salsa
Toast the toast while melting the cheese on top of the chicken cutlet in the microwave. Once the cheese is melted, remove from microwave and place the chicken on top of the toast. Sit down at the table with a glass of soda, water, Crystal Light, or whatever. Spoon salsa on top of cheese-covered chicken. Eat with fork and knife or with your fingers. Enjoy. Repeat as necessary.
Friday, January 5
Shameless Plug
This is what most people in any professional line of work would call a "shameless plug." A lot of you know that I ride motocross (or try to ride) in the summer, so here's a link to you really crappy camera work (I simply asked a stranger on the track to work my Sony Cybershot) and even worse riding.
(And if anyone's interested in doing a bit of dirtbike riding this summer, just let me know. I only have the one bike, but one bike is enough.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaR8nmbe0RE
(And if anyone's interested in doing a bit of dirtbike riding this summer, just let me know. I only have the one bike, but one bike is enough.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaR8nmbe0RE
Tuesday, January 2
Written on New Year's Eve
This is it. This is the last installation in 2006. In less than four hours, we’ll reach 2007.
How. Exciting.
More importantly, let me tell you about the steak I broiled for dinner about two hours ago. After a short nap, I dragged myself out of bed (I can’t stand falling asleep when the sun’s still up and then waking when it’s dark--has a tendency to make me feel like a lazy bum) and held a short, internal debate as to whether I should go out for an early dinner alone to celebrate the coming new year or if I should spend the cash on groceries and make my own dinner.
Rather than drop the money on a few rolls of sushi, I walked across the street to Key Food and spent $21.74 on chicken cutlets, Hebrew National hot dogs, hot dog rolls, a block of mozzarella cheese, and a juicy steak. The plan was to cook the steak as my New Year’s Eve dinner along with a baked potato topped with olive oil and melted cheddar cheese.
Nice, right? As I stated in an earlier blog, one of the benefits of cycling is that the occasional splurge on a rich meal is well deserved after a long morning on the bike.
While setting the dining table for one (utterly depressing), I popped in a copy of Sex and Lucia on DVD. With the medium-rare steak and a delectable baked potato on my plate next to a tall glass of Coke (I’m not much of a wine or beer drinker), I hit PLAY on the remote control and dug in. Despite how wonderfully the steak and potato satisfied both my mouth and stomach, I had a hard time concentrating on the movie and my dinner at the same time. This, in turn, led to a second internal debate--should I switch off the movie until I finished eating? Keeping up with the subtitles (it’s a Spanish movie with Paz Vega) and carving a steak at the same time was becoming a major pain in my ass.
Rather than do anything about it, I forged ahead, eating, cutting, and watching the movie at the same time. I pride myself on my multitasking skills. More importantly, the steak was too good to step away from it for even a few seconds. It was too good to even consider dropping the fork so I might grab the remote control and simply hit PAUSE. Instead, I simply cut, speared, chewed, and watched all at the same time. As people always say, it’s hard work, but somebody has to do it.
When the steak disappeared, I then helped myself to a bowl of Hagen Daaz chocolate-chocolate fudge ice cream. A large bowl, I might add, all the while still taking in Sex and Lucia.
It’s a fantastic movie, by the way, although certainly not for kids’ eyes (in case anyone reading this has underage kids, and no, Picco, you can’t borrow it until I get back all my other stuff).
With dinner and dessert over, I settled into the sofa and took the movie all the way to its wonderful end. Then I got up, cleared the table, finished the Pepsi, and sat down at my desk to write all the magnificently boring words you see above. With all that said the question now becomes, why bother? Why bother writing about a single dinner? A single piece of red meat? Why bother telling you about Sex and Lucia? Of all the above, what the f#ck does any of it have to do with cycling?
Why have I wasted your precious time?
For starters, steak is the kind of dish that not only tastes fantastic when you’re chomping on a piece of filet, it’s also enjoyable to read about steak. Come on. Every pair of eyes that hits this page loves the sight of a nice, thick slab of T-bone, rib eye, or prime rib (choose your poison), so I figured writing about a slab of meat might finally do this blog some justice.
Second, it’s the last day of 2006, and as a result, I get to write about anything I want. With the exception of finding cycling when I invested the $600 in my bike, I can’t wait to put this year in the history books and get on with 2007. 2006 was filled with potholes and I can only hope the next year, starting tomorrow, will be a much smoother ride.
Finally, while there’s a lot to be said and written when it comes to cycling, what am I really going to write about which you haven’t heard already? Yes, there is the professional cycling angle, and we will discuss all that good stuff in 2007 rather than bore you with my personal anecdotes, but it’s New Year’s Eve and I had a steak. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
Before I wrap this up, I did want to make mention of something Dr. Rob said this morning toward the end of our ride. The group had pared itself down to only a few riders including Ed Dalton, Vito, Dr. Rob, and myself. Making the right through Gateway, we each took our respective turns pulling at the front, which was a pleasure. From my point of view, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of rotation at the front of the line during our group rides. That’s just me, though.
Anyway, once we hit the end of the paved road near the back half of the park, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me and said, “That’s the kind of riding I like the best: when it hurts but you know you can ride that pace for a while if you had to ride it, when the sun’s out and it’s not too windy, when it’s a nice day and you’re with friends and everything’s just right.”
[DISCLAIMER: Of course, I paraphrased the above. If I had had either (a) a personal secretary with me at the time, or (b) a voice recorder, I would have asked Dr. Rob to repeat himself so I could have quoted him directly. Alas, I had neither (a) nor (b) so the above is the best I can do. Regardless, I did want to give credit where credit is due and source Dr. Rob with such a wonderful quote.]
“That was poetry,” I said. “Sheer poetry. I’m going to put that on the blog.”
“Make sure I get credit,” Dr. Rob said, laughing.
Please see the DISCLAIMER above.
How. Exciting.
More importantly, let me tell you about the steak I broiled for dinner about two hours ago. After a short nap, I dragged myself out of bed (I can’t stand falling asleep when the sun’s still up and then waking when it’s dark--has a tendency to make me feel like a lazy bum) and held a short, internal debate as to whether I should go out for an early dinner alone to celebrate the coming new year or if I should spend the cash on groceries and make my own dinner.
Rather than drop the money on a few rolls of sushi, I walked across the street to Key Food and spent $21.74 on chicken cutlets, Hebrew National hot dogs, hot dog rolls, a block of mozzarella cheese, and a juicy steak. The plan was to cook the steak as my New Year’s Eve dinner along with a baked potato topped with olive oil and melted cheddar cheese.
Nice, right? As I stated in an earlier blog, one of the benefits of cycling is that the occasional splurge on a rich meal is well deserved after a long morning on the bike.
While setting the dining table for one (utterly depressing), I popped in a copy of Sex and Lucia on DVD. With the medium-rare steak and a delectable baked potato on my plate next to a tall glass of Coke (I’m not much of a wine or beer drinker), I hit PLAY on the remote control and dug in. Despite how wonderfully the steak and potato satisfied both my mouth and stomach, I had a hard time concentrating on the movie and my dinner at the same time. This, in turn, led to a second internal debate--should I switch off the movie until I finished eating? Keeping up with the subtitles (it’s a Spanish movie with Paz Vega) and carving a steak at the same time was becoming a major pain in my ass.
Rather than do anything about it, I forged ahead, eating, cutting, and watching the movie at the same time. I pride myself on my multitasking skills. More importantly, the steak was too good to step away from it for even a few seconds. It was too good to even consider dropping the fork so I might grab the remote control and simply hit PAUSE. Instead, I simply cut, speared, chewed, and watched all at the same time. As people always say, it’s hard work, but somebody has to do it.
When the steak disappeared, I then helped myself to a bowl of Hagen Daaz chocolate-chocolate fudge ice cream. A large bowl, I might add, all the while still taking in Sex and Lucia.
It’s a fantastic movie, by the way, although certainly not for kids’ eyes (in case anyone reading this has underage kids, and no, Picco, you can’t borrow it until I get back all my other stuff).
With dinner and dessert over, I settled into the sofa and took the movie all the way to its wonderful end. Then I got up, cleared the table, finished the Pepsi, and sat down at my desk to write all the magnificently boring words you see above. With all that said the question now becomes, why bother? Why bother writing about a single dinner? A single piece of red meat? Why bother telling you about Sex and Lucia? Of all the above, what the f#ck does any of it have to do with cycling?
Why have I wasted your precious time?
For starters, steak is the kind of dish that not only tastes fantastic when you’re chomping on a piece of filet, it’s also enjoyable to read about steak. Come on. Every pair of eyes that hits this page loves the sight of a nice, thick slab of T-bone, rib eye, or prime rib (choose your poison), so I figured writing about a slab of meat might finally do this blog some justice.
Second, it’s the last day of 2006, and as a result, I get to write about anything I want. With the exception of finding cycling when I invested the $600 in my bike, I can’t wait to put this year in the history books and get on with 2007. 2006 was filled with potholes and I can only hope the next year, starting tomorrow, will be a much smoother ride.
Finally, while there’s a lot to be said and written when it comes to cycling, what am I really going to write about which you haven’t heard already? Yes, there is the professional cycling angle, and we will discuss all that good stuff in 2007 rather than bore you with my personal anecdotes, but it’s New Year’s Eve and I had a steak. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
Before I wrap this up, I did want to make mention of something Dr. Rob said this morning toward the end of our ride. The group had pared itself down to only a few riders including Ed Dalton, Vito, Dr. Rob, and myself. Making the right through Gateway, we each took our respective turns pulling at the front, which was a pleasure. From my point of view, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of rotation at the front of the line during our group rides. That’s just me, though.
Anyway, once we hit the end of the paved road near the back half of the park, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me and said, “That’s the kind of riding I like the best: when it hurts but you know you can ride that pace for a while if you had to ride it, when the sun’s out and it’s not too windy, when it’s a nice day and you’re with friends and everything’s just right.”
[DISCLAIMER: Of course, I paraphrased the above. If I had had either (a) a personal secretary with me at the time, or (b) a voice recorder, I would have asked Dr. Rob to repeat himself so I could have quoted him directly. Alas, I had neither (a) nor (b) so the above is the best I can do. Regardless, I did want to give credit where credit is due and source Dr. Rob with such a wonderful quote.]
“That was poetry,” I said. “Sheer poetry. I’m going to put that on the blog.”
“Make sure I get credit,” Dr. Rob said, laughing.
Please see the DISCLAIMER above.
Friday, December 29
The Cycling Mentality
Someone’s going to have to explain the cycling ego to me because I really don’t get it. In my head, I often try to compare the little I know of general cycling mentality against that of other sports I’ve played during my athletic tenure: basketball, baseball, roller hockey, and swimming (ranked in order of how much time was spent with each from the most time to the least). Understandably, we’re not talking about apples to apples here. I know I’m being somewhat cryptic, so let me explain.
Last weekend I found myself on the road with a few guys--guys with whom I don’t normally ride. Based on the little I know of them personality and character-wise, great people all around, although every time I hopped to the front to try and do my fair share of pulling in the wind, someone else would immediately pull out in front of me and settle in.
Why? I know I block more than enough wind and create a rather sweet draft given my height. Before pulling to the front, I was sure to check my speedometer that read 17.6 MPH and once I took the lead after a short burst to get there, I knocked it back down to the same speed, so what’s the problem? Is there a leader-of-the-pack mentality of which I’m unaware even on these friendly group rides? Is the newcomer not welcome to do his fair share of the work?
Same thing happened this morning. Well, almost. Every time I was in the front and the group reached a hill, a select few felt compelled to sprint to the top despite the already strong pace. The only reason I mention this is that whenever I hopped out of line to give it some gas going up a hill, I would reach the top to find myself alone, no one in the group interested in chasing whatsoever.
I came close to breeching the subject simply to ascertain what the thinking was behind the chase-don’t chase mentality. Normally, these are the things that simply bounce off me. These are the things that fall into that category of life that simply does not matter. That’s the stuff you just let slide and the above has slid, to a certain degree. I’ll be the first to admit how far I have to go when it comes to cycling and my conditioning, yet I guess I’m curious in trying to figure out what exactly was going on (if anything). Why stand up and sprint past me on every hill (and I mean every hill) yet let me go when the situations were reversed? Why not let me pull at the front if I haven’t heightened the pace?
As I said, I just don’t get the overall cycling mentality. Someone needs to clue me in big time.
Last weekend I found myself on the road with a few guys--guys with whom I don’t normally ride. Based on the little I know of them personality and character-wise, great people all around, although every time I hopped to the front to try and do my fair share of pulling in the wind, someone else would immediately pull out in front of me and settle in.
Why? I know I block more than enough wind and create a rather sweet draft given my height. Before pulling to the front, I was sure to check my speedometer that read 17.6 MPH and once I took the lead after a short burst to get there, I knocked it back down to the same speed, so what’s the problem? Is there a leader-of-the-pack mentality of which I’m unaware even on these friendly group rides? Is the newcomer not welcome to do his fair share of the work?
Same thing happened this morning. Well, almost. Every time I was in the front and the group reached a hill, a select few felt compelled to sprint to the top despite the already strong pace. The only reason I mention this is that whenever I hopped out of line to give it some gas going up a hill, I would reach the top to find myself alone, no one in the group interested in chasing whatsoever.
I came close to breeching the subject simply to ascertain what the thinking was behind the chase-don’t chase mentality. Normally, these are the things that simply bounce off me. These are the things that fall into that category of life that simply does not matter. That’s the stuff you just let slide and the above has slid, to a certain degree. I’ll be the first to admit how far I have to go when it comes to cycling and my conditioning, yet I guess I’m curious in trying to figure out what exactly was going on (if anything). Why stand up and sprint past me on every hill (and I mean every hill) yet let me go when the situations were reversed? Why not let me pull at the front if I haven’t heightened the pace?
As I said, I just don’t get the overall cycling mentality. Someone needs to clue me in big time.
Tuesday, December 26
Inside the Postal Bus
Understandably, literacy doesn’t run all too deep across the likes of native Staten Islanders, and I can say that as I spent 32 years living in Staten Italy. At the same time, I do realize there are exceptions to every rule, meaning that while it usually requires (a) several roofies along with (b) a hell of a lot of persuading to get Mr. Picco to throw a leg over one of his many bicycles, one never has to beat him over the head with a book to get him to do some reading. If you ever wonder why you’re Verizon bill is so high, ask Picco how much reading he gets done while on the job. Yet while I can’t speak for the few others who peruse this page (check me out using these big words like literacy and peruse--I must be feeling edge-u-mah-kated this morning), I would certainly make the recommendation to give Michael Barry’s Inside the Postal Bus: My Ride with Lance Armstrong and the U.S. Postal Cycling Team a shot in the event you find yourself with some free time and want to do some cycling-related reading.
(And no, Picco, you can’t borrow the book until you return all those adult DVDs I lent you a few months back.)
Now that I’ve made the recommendation, I guess I’m going to have to support it with some facts, aren’t I? Well, I’ll give it a shot, so here we go.
For starters, the author, Michael Barry, was a rider with the Postal squad for several years and is still riding with the Discovery team. The dude grew up in Canada, the son of a former British bicycle racer, which explains a lot. Grew up riding and racing, joined the Postal squad, blah, blah, blah. What sets this book apart from the others--Lance Armstrong’s War, 21 Day in July, Chasing Lance, etc.--is that the reader expects a much more in-depth look at the inner workings of a cycling team and, based on the book’s subtitle, a fresh look at what it’s like to work as one of Lance Armstrong’s teammate.
Overall, the book does provide most of those things listed above with the exception of Lance. As Michael Barry was not chosen as part of Postal’s Tour de France team in 2005 (the book was published in 2005) and considering Lance doesn’t do all too much racing with the exception of the Tour, Barry had little to offer by way of Lance insights. Granted, that makes the subtitle seem a bit misleading, although put yourself in the publishers shoes. Don’t you think you could produce better sales with Lance’s name in the title of the book? If I had been the boys at VeloPress, I probably would have done the same damn thing.
Still, the book mostly lives up the its Inside the Postal Bus main title. Barry does a good job elaborating and explaining his teammates: their personalities, their habits, their quirks, their diets, their senses of humor, etc. For instance: “Triki Beltran . . . grew up the son of an olive farmer close to the town of Jaen in Andalusia. In his passport his name reads Manuel Beltran, but he earned the nickname “Triki” because of his weakness for cookies. El Triki is the Spanish version of “Cookie Monster” on Sesame Street . . .
“Triki brings his father’s olive oil to each race for us to use with our pasta [and] rice at meals. Whenever a new rider comes to the team or a guest sits at the table, Triki starts in, seizing any opportunity to promote his product. He focuses so intensely on teaching us about olives that he doesn’t notice George Hincapie mocking him with imitations of Forrest Gump’s friend Bubba talking about shrimp . . .
“Triki struggles with English more than anyone on the team. In the south of Spain, the Andalusians speak with a distinctive accent, typically dropping the “s” in words. When they cheer for Lance, they say, “Armtrong!” At the 2004 Pays Basque, a tough stage race in the Basque region of Spain, we faced snow at the start. Triki pointed outside and said, “Look, no.” Upset with all the laughter when he spoke English, he then said, “Triki no peak Engli, Triki only peak pani.”
When describing teammates as well as team-related process and protocol, Barry does a fantastic job in his writings. One by one, you get to know the layout of the team and each rider’s personality, including Triki, Chechu Rubiera, Dave Zabriskie, Ekimov (I’m not touching his first name), and others. There are also short essay inserts by Christian Vande Velde and George Hincapie, which keep the reading fresh by providing alternate points of view. Barry starts the book by walking the reader through the first days after he joined the team for training and how those hours came along and then soon launches into the 2004 season.
Regarding Chechu: “In 2002 when we were racing in Spain, Dave Zabriskie asked Chechu why one of the riders in the peloton had red and yellow clothing, bike, and helmet. Chechu, who is normally quiet, considerate, and soft-spoken, was offended and said, “That is the Spanish flag, bitch, and he is the national champion.”
Nice, right? I think it’s the bitch that really pulls it together for me.
Yet with all the good, you have to take some of the bad too. Interestingly, Barry will begin a certain chapter or paragraph describing a race or stage for which he and the team is preparing, yet he often fails to take us through to the end of the race. It’s somewhat frustrating to find yourself drawn into stage eight of the Vuelta a Espana with Barry describing in detail the opening miles and the oppressive heat, yet he leaves off and jumps to a new stage (or even a new topic) without so much as providing an inclination as to how the day ended or who crossed the finish line first. In other words, don’t lead me halfway through the final period and then switch channels to underwater basket weaving two minutes before the final buzzer. That, my friends, is just wrong, yet unfortunately, Barry works in that manner all too much.
At the end of the day, the book should be titled: Inside the Life of a Professional Cyclist Who Drinks A Lot of Coffee. Throughout the book, I don’t think five pages pass without at least one reference to how much coffee Barry and his teammates drink on a daily basis. As someone who isn’t a coffee-drinker, the constant references become slightly annoying after a while. Further, while the book does provide a glimpse of the Postal team, Barry doesn’t have all too much to say regarding Johan Bruyneel and Lance Armstrong, the two guys who seem to be the brains behind the entire operation.
Regardless, it’s not a bad read. I found my copy used on Amazon.com for $8.60 or so. With shipping, I believe it came out to $11 or $12, which is considerably cheaper than the $21.95 listed on the back cover for a new copy.
And again, Picco, don’t even think about asking to borrow the book until you return my copies of Saving Ryan’s Privates and Weapons of Ass Destruction #17.
(And no, Picco, you can’t borrow the book until you return all those adult DVDs I lent you a few months back.)
Now that I’ve made the recommendation, I guess I’m going to have to support it with some facts, aren’t I? Well, I’ll give it a shot, so here we go.
For starters, the author, Michael Barry, was a rider with the Postal squad for several years and is still riding with the Discovery team. The dude grew up in Canada, the son of a former British bicycle racer, which explains a lot. Grew up riding and racing, joined the Postal squad, blah, blah, blah. What sets this book apart from the others--Lance Armstrong’s War, 21 Day in July, Chasing Lance, etc.--is that the reader expects a much more in-depth look at the inner workings of a cycling team and, based on the book’s subtitle, a fresh look at what it’s like to work as one of Lance Armstrong’s teammate.
Overall, the book does provide most of those things listed above with the exception of Lance. As Michael Barry was not chosen as part of Postal’s Tour de France team in 2005 (the book was published in 2005) and considering Lance doesn’t do all too much racing with the exception of the Tour, Barry had little to offer by way of Lance insights. Granted, that makes the subtitle seem a bit misleading, although put yourself in the publishers shoes. Don’t you think you could produce better sales with Lance’s name in the title of the book? If I had been the boys at VeloPress, I probably would have done the same damn thing.
Still, the book mostly lives up the its Inside the Postal Bus main title. Barry does a good job elaborating and explaining his teammates: their personalities, their habits, their quirks, their diets, their senses of humor, etc. For instance: “Triki Beltran . . . grew up the son of an olive farmer close to the town of Jaen in Andalusia. In his passport his name reads Manuel Beltran, but he earned the nickname “Triki” because of his weakness for cookies. El Triki is the Spanish version of “Cookie Monster” on Sesame Street . . .
“Triki brings his father’s olive oil to each race for us to use with our pasta [and] rice at meals. Whenever a new rider comes to the team or a guest sits at the table, Triki starts in, seizing any opportunity to promote his product. He focuses so intensely on teaching us about olives that he doesn’t notice George Hincapie mocking him with imitations of Forrest Gump’s friend Bubba talking about shrimp . . .
“Triki struggles with English more than anyone on the team. In the south of Spain, the Andalusians speak with a distinctive accent, typically dropping the “s” in words. When they cheer for Lance, they say, “Armtrong!” At the 2004 Pays Basque, a tough stage race in the Basque region of Spain, we faced snow at the start. Triki pointed outside and said, “Look, no.” Upset with all the laughter when he spoke English, he then said, “Triki no peak Engli, Triki only peak pani.”
When describing teammates as well as team-related process and protocol, Barry does a fantastic job in his writings. One by one, you get to know the layout of the team and each rider’s personality, including Triki, Chechu Rubiera, Dave Zabriskie, Ekimov (I’m not touching his first name), and others. There are also short essay inserts by Christian Vande Velde and George Hincapie, which keep the reading fresh by providing alternate points of view. Barry starts the book by walking the reader through the first days after he joined the team for training and how those hours came along and then soon launches into the 2004 season.
Regarding Chechu: “In 2002 when we were racing in Spain, Dave Zabriskie asked Chechu why one of the riders in the peloton had red and yellow clothing, bike, and helmet. Chechu, who is normally quiet, considerate, and soft-spoken, was offended and said, “That is the Spanish flag, bitch, and he is the national champion.”
Nice, right? I think it’s the bitch that really pulls it together for me.
Yet with all the good, you have to take some of the bad too. Interestingly, Barry will begin a certain chapter or paragraph describing a race or stage for which he and the team is preparing, yet he often fails to take us through to the end of the race. It’s somewhat frustrating to find yourself drawn into stage eight of the Vuelta a Espana with Barry describing in detail the opening miles and the oppressive heat, yet he leaves off and jumps to a new stage (or even a new topic) without so much as providing an inclination as to how the day ended or who crossed the finish line first. In other words, don’t lead me halfway through the final period and then switch channels to underwater basket weaving two minutes before the final buzzer. That, my friends, is just wrong, yet unfortunately, Barry works in that manner all too much.
At the end of the day, the book should be titled: Inside the Life of a Professional Cyclist Who Drinks A Lot of Coffee. Throughout the book, I don’t think five pages pass without at least one reference to how much coffee Barry and his teammates drink on a daily basis. As someone who isn’t a coffee-drinker, the constant references become slightly annoying after a while. Further, while the book does provide a glimpse of the Postal team, Barry doesn’t have all too much to say regarding Johan Bruyneel and Lance Armstrong, the two guys who seem to be the brains behind the entire operation.
Regardless, it’s not a bad read. I found my copy used on Amazon.com for $8.60 or so. With shipping, I believe it came out to $11 or $12, which is considerably cheaper than the $21.95 listed on the back cover for a new copy.
And again, Picco, don’t even think about asking to borrow the book until you return my copies of Saving Ryan’s Privates and Weapons of Ass Destruction #17.
Sunday, December 24
Almost End of the Line
There is definitely something about the holidays that drags people out of the house to do the things you wouldn’t typically expect them to do on a major holiday such as Christmas (or Hanukah for those of the Jewish persuasion). Maybe it has to do with the fact that everyone realizes the chances to escape from these Hallmark holidays--holidays meaning in-laws, cooking, caroling, too many cookies, watching A Christmas Story for the umpteenth time, etc.--are few and far between so if you actually have the opportunity to duck out for a few hours, you better take that opportunity because it may be a long while before you can do it again.
Most likely, this is exactly what everyone was thinking when the alarms began clicking on this morning. After a friend called last night and cancelled--that friend would be Kenny Picco, if anyone’s wondering--a mountain biking trip we had scheduled for this morning, I thought, I wonder if any of the Staten Island gang will be out riding the day before Christmas. Packing my gear last night and setting my own alarm for 6:45 AM, I figured that even if no one other than myself arrived at Miller Field this morning, I would go out and put in some miles regardless, so the potential downsides were slim.
By 8:30, with the sun well overhead, there were more riders in the parking lot than there have been in a while. Why? It’s the holidays, of course. Everyone wants out of the house, almost everything is closed tomorrow, and most everyone has the day off (for those of us who are yet to reach the age of retirement), so why not show up and ride for a few hours?
Needless to say, we had a full crew, including Grandmaster Ed Dalton, Big Horace, Kelly, Tommy, Vito, Rob, some guy without a helmet, and maybe one or two others I’m unable to recall off the top of my head. Once we reached Fr. Capodanno, we picked up Lester, his brother, Dr. Rob, and Greg. That makes roughly twelve, which, based on my experience, is a decent amount of boys and girls for a Sunday ride. Granted, I’ve never ridden with these guys in the summer, but based on winter standards, a dozen is a good group.
More importantly, what that means is the casual insults were flying nonstop. In the space of just over two hours, I heard more references to girlfriends with boys’ names, short dresses, push-up bras, thongs, and pantyhose than I’ve ever heard in my life. Riding with these guys, there seem to be some jokes that just never get old. For example, I don’t think ten minutes pass without hearing Ed yell out, “Hey Vito, where’s your girlfriend today?” Or, “You know, I bet you’d look pretty good in a push-up bra.”
I don’t know what the story is between Ed and Vito, although obviously they’re close considering the banter. Riding with Ed is like riding with an Irish gangster who decided to take up cycling. As a further example, Ed made reference to Brent’s girlfriend last weekend as we started the hill-climb ride.
“I’m going to pretend I know who you’re talking about,” Brent replied.
“You know,” Ed said, “your girlfriend so-and-so. The one who looks cute in tights.” Ed actually mentioned a guy’s name, but I don’t remember it. Sue me.
“Actually,” Brent said, “you make mention of his posterior much more than I do.”
Whatever the case may be, whoever may be hurling the insults, and whoever may be the recipient of said insults, it was a good ride this morning despite that goddam incessant wind. Ed pulled, Rob pulled, Dr. Rob pulled, and I even hopped in front a few times (I would do so more often as I know I break a fair amount of wind with my height and I want to do my share of the work, although most of the group doesn’t seem interested in riding behind me for much longer than a few seconds--someone’s always pulling out in front of me), although by the time we reached the end of Richmond Terrace, most of the team was gone. The guy without a helmet, Lester, his brother, Kelly, and Horace were nowhere to be found. Someone must have suffered a flat or just plain backed off. You never know when someone’s nursing a cold that makes nineteen miles-per-hour with a headwind feel like thirty. And then, some days, your legs or your lungs simply refuse to cooperate.
Random tangent: here’s a link to a nine-minute video clip from the 1987 Tour de France I found on YouTube.com. I don’t know who half the riders are (actually, I don’t know who any of them are, although I believe I might have spotted Greg LeMond), although it’s entertaining to watch the guys kick ass up those climbs almost twenty years ago:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QO9CfgoZ5c
(If the link is not live--meaning you're unable to click on it--simply copy and paste into your browser and that should work.)
That’s about it, really. I can’t think of much else to say (which is probably a good thing, at least for the few people who actually read this thing).
Finally, here’s another link to another cycling clip: four-minutes overlapped with a great tune by Muse. In one sequence, the camera is following a T-Mobile rider along what appears to be an uphill time trial when some schmuck in the crowd jumps into the middle of the road to snap a pic. Unfortunately for the rider, the dick-for-brains fan has his eye glued to the camera too long so that when he tries to sidestep out of the way, he jumps right into the rider, knocking him to the ground. God, can you imagine the embarrassment of (a) doing something so incredibly stupid in the first place, and (b) having to live with such stupidity caught on video for the rest of your life. Also, I have to imagine that if the kid with the camera knocked over a French rider, some of the other fans nearby probably slapped him around a bit after the fact (which he most likely deserved). Anyway, here’s the link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pCLfOlEBdA
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year!
Most likely, this is exactly what everyone was thinking when the alarms began clicking on this morning. After a friend called last night and cancelled--that friend would be Kenny Picco, if anyone’s wondering--a mountain biking trip we had scheduled for this morning, I thought, I wonder if any of the Staten Island gang will be out riding the day before Christmas. Packing my gear last night and setting my own alarm for 6:45 AM, I figured that even if no one other than myself arrived at Miller Field this morning, I would go out and put in some miles regardless, so the potential downsides were slim.
By 8:30, with the sun well overhead, there were more riders in the parking lot than there have been in a while. Why? It’s the holidays, of course. Everyone wants out of the house, almost everything is closed tomorrow, and most everyone has the day off (for those of us who are yet to reach the age of retirement), so why not show up and ride for a few hours?
Needless to say, we had a full crew, including Grandmaster Ed Dalton, Big Horace, Kelly, Tommy, Vito, Rob, some guy without a helmet, and maybe one or two others I’m unable to recall off the top of my head. Once we reached Fr. Capodanno, we picked up Lester, his brother, Dr. Rob, and Greg. That makes roughly twelve, which, based on my experience, is a decent amount of boys and girls for a Sunday ride. Granted, I’ve never ridden with these guys in the summer, but based on winter standards, a dozen is a good group.
More importantly, what that means is the casual insults were flying nonstop. In the space of just over two hours, I heard more references to girlfriends with boys’ names, short dresses, push-up bras, thongs, and pantyhose than I’ve ever heard in my life. Riding with these guys, there seem to be some jokes that just never get old. For example, I don’t think ten minutes pass without hearing Ed yell out, “Hey Vito, where’s your girlfriend today?” Or, “You know, I bet you’d look pretty good in a push-up bra.”
I don’t know what the story is between Ed and Vito, although obviously they’re close considering the banter. Riding with Ed is like riding with an Irish gangster who decided to take up cycling. As a further example, Ed made reference to Brent’s girlfriend last weekend as we started the hill-climb ride.
“I’m going to pretend I know who you’re talking about,” Brent replied.
“You know,” Ed said, “your girlfriend so-and-so. The one who looks cute in tights.” Ed actually mentioned a guy’s name, but I don’t remember it. Sue me.
“Actually,” Brent said, “you make mention of his posterior much more than I do.”
Whatever the case may be, whoever may be hurling the insults, and whoever may be the recipient of said insults, it was a good ride this morning despite that goddam incessant wind. Ed pulled, Rob pulled, Dr. Rob pulled, and I even hopped in front a few times (I would do so more often as I know I break a fair amount of wind with my height and I want to do my share of the work, although most of the group doesn’t seem interested in riding behind me for much longer than a few seconds--someone’s always pulling out in front of me), although by the time we reached the end of Richmond Terrace, most of the team was gone. The guy without a helmet, Lester, his brother, Kelly, and Horace were nowhere to be found. Someone must have suffered a flat or just plain backed off. You never know when someone’s nursing a cold that makes nineteen miles-per-hour with a headwind feel like thirty. And then, some days, your legs or your lungs simply refuse to cooperate.
Random tangent: here’s a link to a nine-minute video clip from the 1987 Tour de France I found on YouTube.com. I don’t know who half the riders are (actually, I don’t know who any of them are, although I believe I might have spotted Greg LeMond), although it’s entertaining to watch the guys kick ass up those climbs almost twenty years ago:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QO9CfgoZ5c
(If the link is not live--meaning you're unable to click on it--simply copy and paste into your browser and that should work.)
That’s about it, really. I can’t think of much else to say (which is probably a good thing, at least for the few people who actually read this thing).
Finally, here’s another link to another cycling clip: four-minutes overlapped with a great tune by Muse. In one sequence, the camera is following a T-Mobile rider along what appears to be an uphill time trial when some schmuck in the crowd jumps into the middle of the road to snap a pic. Unfortunately for the rider, the dick-for-brains fan has his eye glued to the camera too long so that when he tries to sidestep out of the way, he jumps right into the rider, knocking him to the ground. God, can you imagine the embarrassment of (a) doing something so incredibly stupid in the first place, and (b) having to live with such stupidity caught on video for the rest of your life. Also, I have to imagine that if the kid with the camera knocked over a French rider, some of the other fans nearby probably slapped him around a bit after the fact (which he most likely deserved). Anyway, here’s the link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pCLfOlEBdA
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year!
Sunday, December 17
The View
Despite having ridden just over thirty-eight miles through some of Staten Island’s hills this morning (along with Ed Dalton, Anne, and Backbreaker Brent (who supposedly does get tired while riding, although that’s self-reported information so it’s kind of hard to believe)), I figured I’d do a bit more riding this evening. After lounging across the sofa for almost two hours munching on tortilla chips and salsa while watching The Bourne Supremacy for the second time in the past several months, I happened to glance over at my bike standing all by its lonesome in the front hall. Once the movie ended, I wiped the salt from my fingers, drained my cup of ice water, strapped on a pair of latex gloves, swapped the clipless pedals for a pair of regular, old-school flat pedals, tied down the cuffs of my jeans, and hit the road. Two minutes and fifty-eight seconds after stepping out my front door, I reached the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Nice night for a spin. Mild weather, meaning no need for a hat or gloves, even on top of the bridge. Having to duck past only a handful of brainless tourists with their backs turned to oncoming bicycle traffic (in the bicycle lane), I stopped here and there along the way to pull out my camera and click off a few snapshots. Below are a few of the results that I’ve toyed with a bit via Photoshop, although I only did so with the purest of artistic intentions in mind.
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