This morning, at roughly 8:30, I knocked Kenny Picco off his bike because he deserved it.
Just kidding. He didn’t really deserve it. At 8:30, Mr. Picco and I were cruising through Floyd Bennett field warming up for a time trial (as hard as I tried to convince Mr. Picco to spend the $15 to register for the race, he refused, explaining he’s a conscientious objector to time trial racing formats . . . whatever that means) minding nobody’s business but our own. With Picco on my wheel, I pointed to the left as I wanted to cut a U-turn and start heading back the way we came although considering we were only a hundred feet or so from an upcoming STOP sign, I should have tossed in a “slowing” or “stopping” hand signal. I didn’t, though, because clearly I’m not that bright, and when I began swerving left to cut the U-turn, I inadvertently cut across Picco’s front wheel which was overlapped with my rear wheel and the next thing I know, Mr. Picco’s on the ground.
Says a lot about my riding and communication skills, doesn’t it?
Luckily for not just his wife but also the rest of the world, Mr. Picco survived. (I can hear Paul Sherwin’s color commentary voice in my head: “He has done it--he has survived!”) He took a few scrapes, including a bloody knee, but Mr. Picco got back up and pedaled away like the Staten Island badass we all know (and love). In hindsight, I should have snapped off a few pics of the bloody knee to show the world just how much of a badass he actually is (I can again hear Paul Sherwin’s voice in my head: “Look at the blood on Kenny’s right knee there. He went down very hard indeed yet he’s on the attack again,”), although it slipped my mind. Instead, I offered Mr. Picco a Dunkin Donuts napkin and a bottle of water to wash the wound which he did without so much as a grimace, just like Rambo would have done if Rambo had been in the same situation.
Apart from Mr. Picco’s spill, I had my number---116--pinned to the back of my jersey and reached the staging area (sounds a lot more official than it really was) a few minutes before it was time to start.
“It’s four laps, right?” I asked the guy with the megaphone calling out rider’s numbers.
“Five laps,” he said.
I glanced at Mr. Picco. “Good thing I asked, huh?”
At the line, a guy in a golf shirt (withought a megaphone) explained the rules while another guy put his hands under my ass and took hold of my . . . seat post.
“Five laps,” the guy in the golf shirt explained, as if he could just tell by looking at me that I had no idea what I was doing. “And you better go fast considering you’re wearing a yellow jersey.”
What can I say? My yellow Cannondale jersey is the most form-fitting jersey I own.
“No drafting,” he continued. “If you’re going to pass someone, move out of their line at least five to ten bike lengths out. And stay to the right of the orange cones.”
A girl standing to my left, the one holding the stopwatch, announced, “Thirty seconds.”
I had both shoes clipped in. I began tilting to the right and I started worrying that, even with the guy-the official seat post holder--keeping me upright, I might fall, so I compensated by leaning left. Least I could do for the guy who had to grab over two hundred asses in one morning, almost all of them belonging to men wearing tights.
It was then that I realized I hadn’t reset my computer after having taking some leisurely spins with Mr. Picco half an hour before. I glanced at the girl with the stopwatch. “Do I have time--”
“Five seconds, four, three . . .”
Needless to say, I did not have time to reset my computer, which is such a bummer considering it was my first ever time trial.
Off the line, I cranked it up to just under 25 MPH, made the first right hand turn, held that pace until my heart race reached 175, and then backed it off to 22 MPH so my heart rate dropped to 170. At the next right, I hit the headwind and dropped the speed even further to try and keep my heart rate between 170 and 175. The plan was to keep it in that range and then hammer it as much as possible during the last lap, heart rate be damned.
All that pretty much went according to plan, yet a few things began bothering me during the race. First, I got passed, and not just by guys riding time trial bikes wearing one-piece skin suits, but by guys without aero bars riding the same Cannibal category I was riding. Getting passed upsets me, plain and simple, and while it does serve as some sort of motivation, I wanted to try and ride something of a smart race by holding a steady speed the entire way without fading, meaning no matter how pissed I might have got, I needed to let that go.
Second, my ass was killing me. I don’t know if it has to do with the fact that perhaps I need a saddle softer than the Fizik I’m riding now or if it had to do with my hands being in the drops the entire 11.5 miles, but my poor butt was screaming for help. And who wants to deal with that?
Finally, I’m the kind of guy who likes to move his hands around while he rides, and I mean move them around a lot. Keeping them in the drops for as long as I did meant that they, much like my butt, were rather unhappy with the treatment they were receiving.
Yet by the time I hit lap number four, I almost lost count of how much of the race was left. I do this all the time, in all walks of life, and I was worried I would do it this morning. On the fourth lap, I somehow got it into my head it was the fifth lap.
Don’t get excited--I didn’t quit riding after four laps. Realizing I most likely miscounted, I kept going to put in the five laps and finish the race, yet I’ve spent the past half an hour (it’s now 5:00 PM Sunday evening) analyzing whether or not I might have actually ridden six laps.
Let me explain the dilemma.
Crossing the line, I hit a button on my heart rate monitor watch to see I had been riding for 39 minutes and 57 seconds (take about five or six seconds off considering I didn’t start timing until I was a few seconds off the line and a few seconds over the line when I finished). At first, I thought, “Forty minutes for 11.5 miles? Maybe that headwind was stronger than I thought.” Because I had neglected to reset my computer, I didn’t have much else to go on, so I asked Mr. Picco. “Any idea how many laps I did?”
When he said, “I thought you only did four,” it really didn’t help my ego, but then again, I had knocked the guy off his bike an hour earlier, so helping my ego probably wasn’t top of his priority list.
So again, after having analyzed the situation over the past thirty minutes, I’ve reached two conclusions.
1. I actually rode six laps and averaged 20.8 MPH over the 13.8 miles. A small part of me is tempted to believe I actually rode an extra lap because whenever I glanced down at my computer, I was never below 18 MPH. Heading into the wind over half the course, I averaged between 18-19 MPH and on the other half of the course, I was always between 20-22 MPH, meaning the 20.8 MPH seems accurate.
2. I only rode five laps yet despite my computer, I did so averaging 17.3 MPH. This would mean my computer needs a touch of calibration. This is probably the correct scenario as I most likely did not ride six laps, yet if it is the correct scenario, I only managed 17.3 MPH? That’s freaking pathetic! The guy parked next to me who also rode the Cannibal category did the course in 28:00 or so (at least that’s what he said). How in the world did I mess it up and come in at 39:57? Humiliating.
Anyway, that’s the story. I’m hoping they post the times on the website shortly so I can put the above to bed and move on with life.
And if anyone ever wants to find out firsthand what it’s like to take a spill on the pavement, just let me know as I seem to be getting good at handling stuff like that.
Sunday, June 3
Friday, June 1
Wednesday, May 30
Time Trial at Floyd Bennett Field
It's this Sunday, June 3rd. And they have a Cannibal category (as I don't have a TT bike or aero bars) which I've entered. 8 AM start times. Just over 11 miles. $15 registration fee. I'm in there. Anyone want to get in there with me? Here's the link:
FLOYD BENNETT FIELD INDIVIDUAL TIME TRIAL
FLOYD BENNETT FIELD INDIVIDUAL TIME TRIAL
Tuesday, May 29
Where to Draw the Line
While realizing I’m relatively new to the sport, I can’t help but think of doping every time I think of professional racing. Don’t get me wrong--it’s not like I spend my day pondering the life of a professional cyclist and what it might be like to line up for any of the one-day classics or major stage races. That’s not what I mean. What I do mean is, how much of a difference does doping actually make?
With all the hoopla in the media lately about this one confessing and that one confessing (see previous post titled I Got Your Confession Right Here to read about how I really feel regarding Bjarne Riis and his recent admission), how can I not ask myself such questions? Does a needle in the ass or chewing a few lemon-flavored Starburst filled with testosterone really make that much of a difference? What exactly does it feel like when climbing a mountain when your blood is filled with juice? Is it that much easier? Or is the pain the same yet your average speed climbs a few miles per hour?
Obviously, I’ve got lots of questions, so can we get our hands on a former professional to take a ride with us one of these days so he can elaborate on all of the above?
And what about the professional women racers? Are they on the juice too? If so, can you imagine a soigneur rubbing down one of the girls and asking if they want a bit of synthetic testosterone for the following day’s competition? "Put a little hair on your chest for the big race?"
Further, not to give Bjarne Riis any more credit than he deserves, but during his confession, he did state that if a racer lacks the talent, all the drugs in the world aren’t going to help. While I have zero experience with doping, I’d have to agree with Mr. Riis on that one as it seems intuitive.
For example, think of the Tour de France. Roughly a hundred and eighty racers come together for the biggest bicycle race in the world. Maybe twenty of them actually have a shot at winning based granted half of those twenty aren’t sacked based on doping allegations. These twenty represent the cream of the crop, the best of the best from around the world.
How many of them are doping? All of them? If they are, the winner is still the best of the best considering the playing field across those top twenty was equal in terms of equipment, dope, nutrition, etc. What it comes down to is talent, right? The point being, Riis has a point.
I still want to know if the premier sprinters are doping. I’ve read that the sprinters will pop a huge caffeine pill not far from the finish, but that’s only what I’ve read. I know I’ve said it before, but take a guy like Robbie McEwen. Dude can sprint at 45 MPH but put him in the mountains and he hangs all the way in the back. My inclination is to say he’s not a doper. Does a racer need testosterone to sprint? Or just to hang with the peloton during those long flat stages?
As a final word on doping (not really final, but you know what I mean), I was speaking with Mr. Picco yesterday morning before the botched group ride when he offered me a can of Red Bull. To me, as much as I enjoy a can of the delicious nectar, drinking eight ounces of pure caffeine/sugar before a ride is the equivalent of doping. I’m sure that sounds somewhat ridiculous, but getting hopped up on a serious caffeine rush would cause me to ride a bit harder than I normally would. Again, there’s a lot of gray area there, but it is what it is. At least in my head.
With all the hoopla in the media lately about this one confessing and that one confessing (see previous post titled I Got Your Confession Right Here to read about how I really feel regarding Bjarne Riis and his recent admission), how can I not ask myself such questions? Does a needle in the ass or chewing a few lemon-flavored Starburst filled with testosterone really make that much of a difference? What exactly does it feel like when climbing a mountain when your blood is filled with juice? Is it that much easier? Or is the pain the same yet your average speed climbs a few miles per hour?
Obviously, I’ve got lots of questions, so can we get our hands on a former professional to take a ride with us one of these days so he can elaborate on all of the above?
And what about the professional women racers? Are they on the juice too? If so, can you imagine a soigneur rubbing down one of the girls and asking if they want a bit of synthetic testosterone for the following day’s competition? "Put a little hair on your chest for the big race?"
Further, not to give Bjarne Riis any more credit than he deserves, but during his confession, he did state that if a racer lacks the talent, all the drugs in the world aren’t going to help. While I have zero experience with doping, I’d have to agree with Mr. Riis on that one as it seems intuitive.
For example, think of the Tour de France. Roughly a hundred and eighty racers come together for the biggest bicycle race in the world. Maybe twenty of them actually have a shot at winning based granted half of those twenty aren’t sacked based on doping allegations. These twenty represent the cream of the crop, the best of the best from around the world.
How many of them are doping? All of them? If they are, the winner is still the best of the best considering the playing field across those top twenty was equal in terms of equipment, dope, nutrition, etc. What it comes down to is talent, right? The point being, Riis has a point.
I still want to know if the premier sprinters are doping. I’ve read that the sprinters will pop a huge caffeine pill not far from the finish, but that’s only what I’ve read. I know I’ve said it before, but take a guy like Robbie McEwen. Dude can sprint at 45 MPH but put him in the mountains and he hangs all the way in the back. My inclination is to say he’s not a doper. Does a racer need testosterone to sprint? Or just to hang with the peloton during those long flat stages?
As a final word on doping (not really final, but you know what I mean), I was speaking with Mr. Picco yesterday morning before the botched group ride when he offered me a can of Red Bull. To me, as much as I enjoy a can of the delicious nectar, drinking eight ounces of pure caffeine/sugar before a ride is the equivalent of doping. I’m sure that sounds somewhat ridiculous, but getting hopped up on a serious caffeine rush would cause me to ride a bit harder than I normally would. Again, there’s a lot of gray area there, but it is what it is. At least in my head.
Sunday, May 27
Seven-Minute Headstart
Where the hell did the Staten Island guys go this morning? I showed up in New Dorp a few minutes before 8:30 when Andy informed I had just missed the A group as they had apparently started early today. Of all the days they have to start before the usual 8:30 departure, they had to embark ahead of schedule today? The day when I drive down from the depths of Westchester? Unbelievable.
Actually, it’s nobody’s fault other than my own as I should have given Mr. Dalton or Dr. Rob a call on Saturday to ensure those guys would even be riding today, although lucky for me, I ran into Anne on the way out of the parking lot.
“They already left.”
“They already . . . oh shit. I forgot they were leaving early today.”
So the chase was on. According to Richie (who had rolled up with Andy and Hugo), the rest of the guys had seven minutes on us. How he knew it was seven minutes exactly is beyond me, but that was the number I had in my head as Anne and I stepped on the gas.
Halfway along Fr. Capodanno, my heart rate reached 170. While I don’t know my max, I know my average from a 3-mile time trial is 175 and that’s pushing it as hard as I can. By the time Anne went vaulting past me up the hill leading to McClean Avenue, I was up around 180 and I don’t think it dropped below 170 for the next hour, which hurt. A lot.
Even with taking short cuts straight down Bay Street and past those long straights out near the West Shore Expressway, Anne and I either (a) never caught up, or (b) completely passed whoever was out this morning. I’m not sure how that would even be possible considering we spent at least ten or fifteen minutes hanging at the bagel shop waiting for somebody, anybody to show up, but sure enough, no one rolled in while we were waiting.
And that was it. Anne and I easily averaged 20 MPH in an effort to catch a group that never materialized yet if I don’t admit that Anne did a hell of a lot more pulling than I did, I’d feel as if I were lying, so let me say this: Anne did most of the pulling. To be exact, I’d say she did at least sixty to seventy percent of the work all the way to the bagel shop. And on that last hill before the break? Halfway to the top I tried to keep up with Anne but she didn’t seem to have much intention of slowing in the least, so I figured, Screw that, and simply backed off. If I could only use two words to describe the way Anne rides, I’d use the same two words that I would apply to the way, Ed, Rob, Brent, Tommy, and the Polish brothers ride: f*ckin’ badass.
Now if you don’t mind, today’s my birthday (properly pronounced birfday), so I have to get back on the couch and kill a few hours in front of the TV.
Actually, it’s nobody’s fault other than my own as I should have given Mr. Dalton or Dr. Rob a call on Saturday to ensure those guys would even be riding today, although lucky for me, I ran into Anne on the way out of the parking lot.
“They already left.”
“They already . . . oh shit. I forgot they were leaving early today.”
So the chase was on. According to Richie (who had rolled up with Andy and Hugo), the rest of the guys had seven minutes on us. How he knew it was seven minutes exactly is beyond me, but that was the number I had in my head as Anne and I stepped on the gas.
Halfway along Fr. Capodanno, my heart rate reached 170. While I don’t know my max, I know my average from a 3-mile time trial is 175 and that’s pushing it as hard as I can. By the time Anne went vaulting past me up the hill leading to McClean Avenue, I was up around 180 and I don’t think it dropped below 170 for the next hour, which hurt. A lot.
Even with taking short cuts straight down Bay Street and past those long straights out near the West Shore Expressway, Anne and I either (a) never caught up, or (b) completely passed whoever was out this morning. I’m not sure how that would even be possible considering we spent at least ten or fifteen minutes hanging at the bagel shop waiting for somebody, anybody to show up, but sure enough, no one rolled in while we were waiting.
And that was it. Anne and I easily averaged 20 MPH in an effort to catch a group that never materialized yet if I don’t admit that Anne did a hell of a lot more pulling than I did, I’d feel as if I were lying, so let me say this: Anne did most of the pulling. To be exact, I’d say she did at least sixty to seventy percent of the work all the way to the bagel shop. And on that last hill before the break? Halfway to the top I tried to keep up with Anne but she didn’t seem to have much intention of slowing in the least, so I figured, Screw that, and simply backed off. If I could only use two words to describe the way Anne rides, I’d use the same two words that I would apply to the way, Ed, Rob, Brent, Tommy, and the Polish brothers ride: f*ckin’ badass.
Now if you don’t mind, today’s my birthday (properly pronounced birfday), so I have to get back on the couch and kill a few hours in front of the TV.
Saturday, May 26
I Got Your Confession Right Here
A couple of things. Yesterday, a publisher partner took us--us being the fantastic team of professionals I work with day after day after day--to lunch at Del Frisco’s, a posh, midtown steakhouse, and that’s always a pleasant way to kick off a holiday weekend. After sitting down at 12:30, we continually gorged ourselves with fresh crab cakes, jumbo shrimps (I realize it’s supposed to be just “shrimp,” but the “shrimps” with the extra S just sounds kind of cool, doesn’t it?), cajun corn, potatoes au gratin, and tremendously thick and juicy slabs of beef. Then, around 2:30, the waitress came over to inquire regarding dessert and the fastest way to ascertain whether or not you’ve eaten too much is when a single girl at the table fails to express interest in free chocolate.
“The onion rings never came out,” our host mentioned to the server and as a result of those six simple words, not only did the manager stop by to apologize, but they sent out several of the thickest slices of cake I have ever seen in my life: chocolate, lemon, cheesecake, and something that looked like a fried bag of pure chocolate. Maybe it was souffle?
Twenty minutes later, I found myself practically trotting toward Grand Central in the hopes of (a) making a 3:17 train, and (b) that my stomach might hold out until I reached home, lest I near the verge of exploding, meaning I’d have to make use of one of the MetroNorth bathrooms, and who the hell ever wants to do that?
Sitting on the crowded train, a few concerns kept swirling around in my head. First, I was desperately holding on to the hope that no one would sit next to me. I realize my monthly pass only allows me a single seat, but give me a break. I don’t know about everybody else, but I don’t think a day’s ever gone by when I found myself on either a train or bus thinking, Maybe I’ll get lucky and that sweaty 350 pound slob walking down the aisle with the oversized briefcase will sit next to me. Second, I was also hoping the conductor would arrive ASAP to check tickets. The reason I say that is, the minute the train pulls from the station is prime time to fall asleep and if the conductors take their sweet time reaching the car in which you’re seated, they’re going to wake you up in the middle of a restful, 30-minute nap, yet I got lucky yesterday and the conductor showed up just after the Harlem-125th Street stop a few minutes outside Grand Central.
Finally, I realized that if I went home and did the napping thing the right way, I may have very well succumbed to a massive heart attack while I snoozed considering the amount of red meat ingested during lunch. So rather than risk my life because of a ribeye steak, I figured I’d go riding. Then I got to thinking, rather than a road ride, I’d break out the mountain bike--the bike I’ve only ridden once since buying it over a month ago.
Now usually, I wouldn’t be the biggest fan of riding off-road alone. It’s something I would never dream of doing on my dirtbike. When it comes to motocross, I don’t do those illegal off-road places. Why not? Let’s say I’m out riding through one of those spots where I can find myself a mile from my truck and all alone and I make a mistake and go down and f*ck myself up in a big way, meaning I break something (on me, not the bike). That happens and how the hell am I going to get out? I tend to think of mountain biking in the same light. Yes, I realize I’m a lot less likely to break something fragile while mountain biking compared to motocross, but I’d hate to have to lay in the middle of a trail as dusk comes on and hope someone comes along to carry my broken ass out to where the EMT can reach me.
Regardless, I grabbed the bike and drove the two miles to Graham Hills park. Despite the above concerns, I’m glad I went. I took a few spills, of course, and ended up with a few scrapes, but a few scrapes around the elbows, knees, and shins are okay. Such scrapes are a testament to a man’s manly-man-ness. Such scrapes say to the world, Not only am I active and doing something to keep myself in good shape, but I’m also quite daring. Not really, but you know what I mean, yet on the other hand, a hard cast that’s put in place to set a broken bone sort of says, While I’m active and daring, I sometimes suffer from a lack of good judgement. I realize there are exceptions to every rule, but for the most part, the above statement stands.
In hindsight, though, I don’t think I’m ready for a place like Graham Hills. I very much consider myself a beginner on the mountain bike, and Graham Hills trails are more suited to intermediate/advanced riders (at least according to www.wmba.org, the Westchester Mountain Biking Association) considering the long passages of jagged rocks and technical descents featuring, you guessed it, jagged rocks. Going down is one thing, but going down and landing across a crop of rocks is an entirely different story.
Still, it was a pleasure to get out on the trails with and come across other mountain bikers--cyclists who actually act cordially and take the breath to say hello, unlike most of the road riders up here who won’t even bother glancing over at you when passing on the opposite side of the road. At the top of an ascent in Graham Hills, I bumped into a pair of riders and introduced myself while removing a twig from my rear derailleur. They explained the riding at Blue Mountain is not only bigger but a bit easier to handle for beginners and that there’s some sort of one-day mountain biking expo event taking place up there on June 10th. Hear that, Picco? Something we may want to look into.
Finally, Bjarne Riis, the guy who runs the CSC team, the guy who won the 1996 Tour de France, came out of the closet yesterday and admitted to taking drugs during his career, including 1996 when he won the Tour. Here’s a link to the full article:
Bjarne Riis Confesses
While it’s great that so many cyclists are coming clean, it’s also a big load of shit. The only reason these guys are admitting to wrongdoing is the fact that there’s so much pressure on them these past few months via the media. None of these guys seem tormented by guilt when they’re actually taking the drugs and winning races. Nope, they only seem to get a bit teary-eyed when they’re on the verge of litigation and/or two-year bans from racing, meaning they’re about to lose a hell of a lot of money. With that said, Mr. Riis can take his heartfelt, emotional confession and blow it out his ass. He won the Tour de France more than ten years ago and there’s an eight-year statute of limitations on these things, so it’s quite convenient he waited as long as he did, isn’t it?
“The onion rings never came out,” our host mentioned to the server and as a result of those six simple words, not only did the manager stop by to apologize, but they sent out several of the thickest slices of cake I have ever seen in my life: chocolate, lemon, cheesecake, and something that looked like a fried bag of pure chocolate. Maybe it was souffle?
Twenty minutes later, I found myself practically trotting toward Grand Central in the hopes of (a) making a 3:17 train, and (b) that my stomach might hold out until I reached home, lest I near the verge of exploding, meaning I’d have to make use of one of the MetroNorth bathrooms, and who the hell ever wants to do that?
Sitting on the crowded train, a few concerns kept swirling around in my head. First, I was desperately holding on to the hope that no one would sit next to me. I realize my monthly pass only allows me a single seat, but give me a break. I don’t know about everybody else, but I don’t think a day’s ever gone by when I found myself on either a train or bus thinking, Maybe I’ll get lucky and that sweaty 350 pound slob walking down the aisle with the oversized briefcase will sit next to me. Second, I was also hoping the conductor would arrive ASAP to check tickets. The reason I say that is, the minute the train pulls from the station is prime time to fall asleep and if the conductors take their sweet time reaching the car in which you’re seated, they’re going to wake you up in the middle of a restful, 30-minute nap, yet I got lucky yesterday and the conductor showed up just after the Harlem-125th Street stop a few minutes outside Grand Central.
Finally, I realized that if I went home and did the napping thing the right way, I may have very well succumbed to a massive heart attack while I snoozed considering the amount of red meat ingested during lunch. So rather than risk my life because of a ribeye steak, I figured I’d go riding. Then I got to thinking, rather than a road ride, I’d break out the mountain bike--the bike I’ve only ridden once since buying it over a month ago.
Now usually, I wouldn’t be the biggest fan of riding off-road alone. It’s something I would never dream of doing on my dirtbike. When it comes to motocross, I don’t do those illegal off-road places. Why not? Let’s say I’m out riding through one of those spots where I can find myself a mile from my truck and all alone and I make a mistake and go down and f*ck myself up in a big way, meaning I break something (on me, not the bike). That happens and how the hell am I going to get out? I tend to think of mountain biking in the same light. Yes, I realize I’m a lot less likely to break something fragile while mountain biking compared to motocross, but I’d hate to have to lay in the middle of a trail as dusk comes on and hope someone comes along to carry my broken ass out to where the EMT can reach me.
Regardless, I grabbed the bike and drove the two miles to Graham Hills park. Despite the above concerns, I’m glad I went. I took a few spills, of course, and ended up with a few scrapes, but a few scrapes around the elbows, knees, and shins are okay. Such scrapes are a testament to a man’s manly-man-ness. Such scrapes say to the world, Not only am I active and doing something to keep myself in good shape, but I’m also quite daring. Not really, but you know what I mean, yet on the other hand, a hard cast that’s put in place to set a broken bone sort of says, While I’m active and daring, I sometimes suffer from a lack of good judgement. I realize there are exceptions to every rule, but for the most part, the above statement stands.
In hindsight, though, I don’t think I’m ready for a place like Graham Hills. I very much consider myself a beginner on the mountain bike, and Graham Hills trails are more suited to intermediate/advanced riders (at least according to www.wmba.org, the Westchester Mountain Biking Association) considering the long passages of jagged rocks and technical descents featuring, you guessed it, jagged rocks. Going down is one thing, but going down and landing across a crop of rocks is an entirely different story.
Still, it was a pleasure to get out on the trails with and come across other mountain bikers--cyclists who actually act cordially and take the breath to say hello, unlike most of the road riders up here who won’t even bother glancing over at you when passing on the opposite side of the road. At the top of an ascent in Graham Hills, I bumped into a pair of riders and introduced myself while removing a twig from my rear derailleur. They explained the riding at Blue Mountain is not only bigger but a bit easier to handle for beginners and that there’s some sort of one-day mountain biking expo event taking place up there on June 10th. Hear that, Picco? Something we may want to look into.
Finally, Bjarne Riis, the guy who runs the CSC team, the guy who won the 1996 Tour de France, came out of the closet yesterday and admitted to taking drugs during his career, including 1996 when he won the Tour. Here’s a link to the full article:
Bjarne Riis Confesses
While it’s great that so many cyclists are coming clean, it’s also a big load of shit. The only reason these guys are admitting to wrongdoing is the fact that there’s so much pressure on them these past few months via the media. None of these guys seem tormented by guilt when they’re actually taking the drugs and winning races. Nope, they only seem to get a bit teary-eyed when they’re on the verge of litigation and/or two-year bans from racing, meaning they’re about to lose a hell of a lot of money. With that said, Mr. Riis can take his heartfelt, emotional confession and blow it out his ass. He won the Tour de France more than ten years ago and there’s an eight-year statute of limitations on these things, so it’s quite convenient he waited as long as he did, isn’t it?
Friday, May 25
The Turtle, the Hare, & the Deer
Now that the weather has begun to turn, meaning you can ride in the evening with a pair of shorts and a long-sleeve jersey (as opposed to seven layers of lycra), I’ve been hitting the road after I get home from work. And what that means is my ride usually starts before the street lights begin to click on yet it ends once it’s full dark. No big deal, right? Just strap on the Cateye headlight and blinking taillight? Well, I do all that and while the bright flashing lights do keep the cars away from me (mostly), the wildlife here in Westchester just don’t seem to get it.
I used to have the same problem when I lived in Brooklyn and spent most of my time riding in Prospect Park. Between running over squirrels and rats, not to mention dodging the occasional pigeon, I thought the vermin in the park had it in for me, although now that I’m up in the woods, I’ve got bigger issues to handle.
For instance, last night. I’m plowing along down a flat piece of road. I glance down at my watch to check my heart rate. I look back up and what’s in the middle of the road about fifty feet ahead of me? A deer. Not a big antler motherf*cker, but a doe. Still, does may seem cute when you’re flying along the expressway at 70 MPH in your SUV and you spot a few chewing cud on the side of the road, but when you’re on a bicycle and they’re right there in front of you, there really isn’t all that much to find cute, especially when one of them is looking at you as if she’s thinking it necessary to kick you in the head in the name of self-preservation.
Then there was the white rabbit, the hare. There I am, cruising along, when a snow-white rabbit jumps out of the bushes and pauses for a moment, as if its unsure if it wants to run out in front of my bike. No doubt the rabbit is fully aware that if it tries running in front of me, I’ll swerve to avoid mangled rabbit in my spokes, yet swerving means I go in one of two directions: left into oncoming traffic or right into the curb.
Goddam rabbits. I got lucky when the rabbit decided to let me pass unscathed, yet I imagined the rabbit in the bushes huddled with a few friends: “Shh! Here he comes. Ready? One. Two. Three. Go, Mike, go!” And then, when the white rabbit’s friends watch me endo over the curb and land face first in the nearest driveway, they would no doubt have a blast laughing their asses off. “Nice work, Mike, now let’s go mess with some mountain bikers.”
So all I can say is, in the unlikely event you find yourself riding a bicycle in Westchester after the sun goes down, watch your ass. These jackass bunnies are not messing around up here.
I used to have the same problem when I lived in Brooklyn and spent most of my time riding in Prospect Park. Between running over squirrels and rats, not to mention dodging the occasional pigeon, I thought the vermin in the park had it in for me, although now that I’m up in the woods, I’ve got bigger issues to handle.
For instance, last night. I’m plowing along down a flat piece of road. I glance down at my watch to check my heart rate. I look back up and what’s in the middle of the road about fifty feet ahead of me? A deer. Not a big antler motherf*cker, but a doe. Still, does may seem cute when you’re flying along the expressway at 70 MPH in your SUV and you spot a few chewing cud on the side of the road, but when you’re on a bicycle and they’re right there in front of you, there really isn’t all that much to find cute, especially when one of them is looking at you as if she’s thinking it necessary to kick you in the head in the name of self-preservation.
Then there was the white rabbit, the hare. There I am, cruising along, when a snow-white rabbit jumps out of the bushes and pauses for a moment, as if its unsure if it wants to run out in front of my bike. No doubt the rabbit is fully aware that if it tries running in front of me, I’ll swerve to avoid mangled rabbit in my spokes, yet swerving means I go in one of two directions: left into oncoming traffic or right into the curb.
Goddam rabbits. I got lucky when the rabbit decided to let me pass unscathed, yet I imagined the rabbit in the bushes huddled with a few friends: “Shh! Here he comes. Ready? One. Two. Three. Go, Mike, go!” And then, when the white rabbit’s friends watch me endo over the curb and land face first in the nearest driveway, they would no doubt have a blast laughing their asses off. “Nice work, Mike, now let’s go mess with some mountain bikers.”
So all I can say is, in the unlikely event you find yourself riding a bicycle in Westchester after the sun goes down, watch your ass. These jackass bunnies are not messing around up here.
Sunday, May 20
The Turtle
Big news. Exciting news. While out on my ride today, I came across a turtle on the side of the road. Don’t ask me what kind of turtle because I won’t have an answer. Nor do I care about what kind of turtle this turtle was, this green, angry turtle on the side of the road. I’m not an expert on turtles, so we’re just going to have to accept the fact that it was a generic, unclassified turtle.
Now that we have that out of the way, here’s the turtle:
Not a bad-looking turtle, right? When was the last time you saw such a good-looking amphibian? (Are turtles amphibians?) I moved a bit closer for a better shot:
“If you’re thinking of crossing,” I explained to the turtle, checking traffic, “you might as well do it now.”
No answer. Obviously, this turtle had a bit of an attitude problem. I spent a moment deciding if I should take it up with him (it could have been a her, but judging from the look on the turtle’s face, I’d say it was a him) but then dropped the idea. No sense trying to dissuade a turtle from a nasty attitude. Instead, I considered picking up the turtle and walking him across the street to avoid turtle-kill, although this turtle could have been a snapper. I know I just said I don’t know what kind of turtle it was, but I’ve heard about snapper turtles and judging from the spike-like knobs lining its tail, I thought it might be a snapper and snappers are known to snap off fingers considering they usually feed on fish, lizards, women, and small children. Needless to say, attempting to pick up the turtle was out of the question.
Yet rather than continue along my way on Hunterbrook Road and leave the turtle to his own devices, I decided to have a bit of fun. Placing my bike against a nearby telephone pole, I took out my phone again, the phone equipped with the camera, and moved as close to the turtle as I felt comfortable. It was time for a turtle fashion shoot. Holding out the camera, I leaned in.
“Give me sexy, baby!”
“Give me pouty!”
“Give me sultry!”
“Give me angry!”
When it comes to fun, turtles are anti-fun. I couldn’t even get this guy to crack a hint of a smile. “Dude,” I told him. “You suck.”
Then I left him alone and continued along, minding nobody’s business but my own.
Apart from the turtle, I made a few changes to my usual solo ride up here in Westchester. I added a few lefts and a few rights, bringing the mileage up to fifty-five, which I finished in a hair over three hours at an average 16 MPH pace. Major kick in the ass, but fun. I had been considering possibly joining the ride on Staten Island this morning, but now that gas is almost $16 a gallon, I figured my bank account would thank me if I kept my activities local today.
And that’s it. I don’t know if anybody’s seen this video yet, but it’s funny. Terrible, but funny.
Break It Down
Now that we have that out of the way, here’s the turtle:
Not a bad-looking turtle, right? When was the last time you saw such a good-looking amphibian? (Are turtles amphibians?) I moved a bit closer for a better shot:
“If you’re thinking of crossing,” I explained to the turtle, checking traffic, “you might as well do it now.”
No answer. Obviously, this turtle had a bit of an attitude problem. I spent a moment deciding if I should take it up with him (it could have been a her, but judging from the look on the turtle’s face, I’d say it was a him) but then dropped the idea. No sense trying to dissuade a turtle from a nasty attitude. Instead, I considered picking up the turtle and walking him across the street to avoid turtle-kill, although this turtle could have been a snapper. I know I just said I don’t know what kind of turtle it was, but I’ve heard about snapper turtles and judging from the spike-like knobs lining its tail, I thought it might be a snapper and snappers are known to snap off fingers considering they usually feed on fish, lizards, women, and small children. Needless to say, attempting to pick up the turtle was out of the question.
Yet rather than continue along my way on Hunterbrook Road and leave the turtle to his own devices, I decided to have a bit of fun. Placing my bike against a nearby telephone pole, I took out my phone again, the phone equipped with the camera, and moved as close to the turtle as I felt comfortable. It was time for a turtle fashion shoot. Holding out the camera, I leaned in.
“Give me sexy, baby!”
“Give me pouty!”
“Give me sultry!”
“Give me angry!”
When it comes to fun, turtles are anti-fun. I couldn’t even get this guy to crack a hint of a smile. “Dude,” I told him. “You suck.”
Then I left him alone and continued along, minding nobody’s business but my own.
Apart from the turtle, I made a few changes to my usual solo ride up here in Westchester. I added a few lefts and a few rights, bringing the mileage up to fifty-five, which I finished in a hair over three hours at an average 16 MPH pace. Major kick in the ass, but fun. I had been considering possibly joining the ride on Staten Island this morning, but now that gas is almost $16 a gallon, I figured my bank account would thank me if I kept my activities local today.
And that’s it. I don’t know if anybody’s seen this video yet, but it’s funny. Terrible, but funny.
Break It Down
Tuesday, May 15
Sheer Entertainment
It's been a while since my last update and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or if it's a bad thing. Granted, a lot has happened not just in life in general (because when you really think about it, one week--seven days--is a hell of a long time), but in the cycling world as well.
Like what? Good question. For starters, Petacchi won a stage in the Giro yesterday which, to me, is big news. While I don't know Petacchi from a hole in the wall, my understanding is that he broke his kneecap last year and hasn't really been himself since then, meaning his top-end speed just hasn't been what it was. Yet whenever I read an article about Petacchi, I somehow feel bad for the guy. Can you imagine you're on top of your game, you're kicking ass, and then a crash comes close to ruining your career? THAT would suck the big donkey.
So he won yesterday. That happened, and McEwen won the day before. Again, I've never met the guy, never spoke to him, yet I somehow like it when he wins a stage by sprinting his ass off. I also enjoy watching his interviews since I can understand everything he's saying. Plus, the guy genuinely seems to enjoy winning.
Maybe I just want to train myself into a sprinter. I've said it before, but there's something about grabbing the drops, standing up, putting your head down, and completely unloading on the pedals.
Aside from all that, a bunch of us went out for the Cheesequake ride on Sunday morning--the bunch made up of Ed, Dr. Rob, his boy Greg, Trek Tommy, the Polish brothers Lester & Robert, and . . . I think that was it. No! Big Joe was there pounding away as usual. Unfortunately, we didn't take any pictures, so not much to report other than the usual bickering among the boys.
Shifting gears for a minute, I came across some entertaining videos on Youtube.com. Check out the links below:
Adult Swim: Star Wars
The Matrix Clip
Family Guy Contest
And that's all I got right now.
Like what? Good question. For starters, Petacchi won a stage in the Giro yesterday which, to me, is big news. While I don't know Petacchi from a hole in the wall, my understanding is that he broke his kneecap last year and hasn't really been himself since then, meaning his top-end speed just hasn't been what it was. Yet whenever I read an article about Petacchi, I somehow feel bad for the guy. Can you imagine you're on top of your game, you're kicking ass, and then a crash comes close to ruining your career? THAT would suck the big donkey.
So he won yesterday. That happened, and McEwen won the day before. Again, I've never met the guy, never spoke to him, yet I somehow like it when he wins a stage by sprinting his ass off. I also enjoy watching his interviews since I can understand everything he's saying. Plus, the guy genuinely seems to enjoy winning.
Maybe I just want to train myself into a sprinter. I've said it before, but there's something about grabbing the drops, standing up, putting your head down, and completely unloading on the pedals.
Aside from all that, a bunch of us went out for the Cheesequake ride on Sunday morning--the bunch made up of Ed, Dr. Rob, his boy Greg, Trek Tommy, the Polish brothers Lester & Robert, and . . . I think that was it. No! Big Joe was there pounding away as usual. Unfortunately, we didn't take any pictures, so not much to report other than the usual bickering among the boys.
Shifting gears for a minute, I came across some entertaining videos on Youtube.com. Check out the links below:
Adult Swim: Star Wars
The Matrix Clip
Family Guy Contest
And that's all I got right now.
Tuesday, May 8
Basso's BS
Basso admits only to 'attempted' doping
'All my wins have been achieved in a proper and clean manner'By Agence France Presse
This report filed May 8, 2007
Ivan Basso said Tuesday that even though he had planned to blood dope for the 2006 Tour de France, he had actually never taken banned drugs or used blood transfusions.
Basso's comments at a press conference follow his admission on Monday to the Italian Olympic Committee (CONI) that he was involved in the Operación Puerto blood doping scandal that rocked last year's Tour de France.
"I have never taken banned substances and I have never employed blood doping," last year's Giro d'Italia told reporters in an emotional statement he read prior to the start of a press conference he had called.
"I did admit having attempted to use doping for the (2006) Tour de France and I am ready to pay the penalty for that," Basso said. "All my wins have been achieved in a proper and clean manner and I have every intention of returning to action and continuing with the job I love once I have paid the penalty."
The 29-year-old Basso, one of the favorites for this year's Tour de France was among dozens of riders implicated in the Operación Puerto doping affair.
Basso said he is willing to accept the consequences.
The scandal erupted before last year's Tour De France when Spanish police uncovered an alleged blood doping network run by doctor Eufemiano Fuentes.
Police seized nearly 200 bags of blood and a collection of doping products on a raid on Fuentes's laboratory in Madrid. Police also seized Fuentes's diaries full of codenames of cyclists and documents which suggested the doctor had been paid to manipulate and store blood.
The 2006 Tour was deprived of its top names such as Basso and 1997 winner Jan Ullrich who were barred from competing after their implication in the Puerto case.
This year, all three grand tour organizers have been piling the pressure on cycling authorities to act against implicated riders in an effort to avoid a repeat of last year's Tour fiasco in this year's major national tours, the first of which begins on Saturday in Italy.
Basso had consistently denied any wrongdoing, but last week he parted company with the Discovery Channel team after CONI reopened its inquiry into allegations against him.
He was initially acquitted by CONI of any involvement in the scandal after the first hearing due to what Italy governing body for sport had described as insufficient evidence. But CONI reopened its investigation after German officials successfully connected nine bags of blood to Ullrich.
Basso, with lawyer Massimo Martelli at his side, admitted that he had had dealings with Fuentes calling them "moments of weakness which will stay with me for the rest of my life and for which I intend to pay the price."
"Yes, I am ‘Birillo,'" said Basso, referring to a codename that appeared in Fuentes's records.
"I am fully aware that an attempt at doping is tantamount to doping, but I am asking to be excused for this and that should be enough," he said. "All my victories were obtained in an honest manner and nobody can contest what I achieved in the 2006 Giro d'Italia no more than the other results I achieved during my career."
'All my wins have been achieved in a proper and clean manner'By Agence France Presse
This report filed May 8, 2007
Ivan Basso said Tuesday that even though he had planned to blood dope for the 2006 Tour de France, he had actually never taken banned drugs or used blood transfusions.
Basso's comments at a press conference follow his admission on Monday to the Italian Olympic Committee (CONI) that he was involved in the Operación Puerto blood doping scandal that rocked last year's Tour de France.
"I have never taken banned substances and I have never employed blood doping," last year's Giro d'Italia told reporters in an emotional statement he read prior to the start of a press conference he had called.
"I did admit having attempted to use doping for the (2006) Tour de France and I am ready to pay the penalty for that," Basso said. "All my wins have been achieved in a proper and clean manner and I have every intention of returning to action and continuing with the job I love once I have paid the penalty."
The 29-year-old Basso, one of the favorites for this year's Tour de France was among dozens of riders implicated in the Operación Puerto doping affair.
Basso said he is willing to accept the consequences.
The scandal erupted before last year's Tour De France when Spanish police uncovered an alleged blood doping network run by doctor Eufemiano Fuentes.
Police seized nearly 200 bags of blood and a collection of doping products on a raid on Fuentes's laboratory in Madrid. Police also seized Fuentes's diaries full of codenames of cyclists and documents which suggested the doctor had been paid to manipulate and store blood.
The 2006 Tour was deprived of its top names such as Basso and 1997 winner Jan Ullrich who were barred from competing after their implication in the Puerto case.
This year, all three grand tour organizers have been piling the pressure on cycling authorities to act against implicated riders in an effort to avoid a repeat of last year's Tour fiasco in this year's major national tours, the first of which begins on Saturday in Italy.
Basso had consistently denied any wrongdoing, but last week he parted company with the Discovery Channel team after CONI reopened its inquiry into allegations against him.
He was initially acquitted by CONI of any involvement in the scandal after the first hearing due to what Italy governing body for sport had described as insufficient evidence. But CONI reopened its investigation after German officials successfully connected nine bags of blood to Ullrich.
Basso, with lawyer Massimo Martelli at his side, admitted that he had had dealings with Fuentes calling them "moments of weakness which will stay with me for the rest of my life and for which I intend to pay the price."
"Yes, I am ‘Birillo,'" said Basso, referring to a codename that appeared in Fuentes's records.
"I am fully aware that an attempt at doping is tantamount to doping, but I am asking to be excused for this and that should be enough," he said. "All my victories were obtained in an honest manner and nobody can contest what I achieved in the 2006 Giro d'Italia no more than the other results I achieved during my career."
Monday, May 7
Did I Call It or Did I Call It?
Basso admits involvement in Puerto scandal
Lawyer: 'He wanted to lift a weight off his conscience'
By Agence France Presse
This report filed May 7, 2007
Ivan Basso on Monday confessed to the anti-doping prosecutor of the Italian Olympic Committee (CONI) that he was involved in the Operación Puerto blood doping scandal.
CONI said the 2006 Giro winner came to them of his own accord and offered to cooperate with their investigation and clarify his part in the scandal.
The 29-year-old Basso now faces a ban from cycling of up to two years and an additional two-year exclusion from riding on ProTour teams. If his doping is connected to his 2006 Giro win, authorities could also strip him of that title.
"He wasn't feeling good and he wasn't calm, and he wanted to lift a weight off his conscience," said Basso's lawyer Massimo Martelli. "During the interrogation he was shaking, but then he regained his composure to show great character."
Ivano Fanini, owner of Italian cycling team Amore and Vita, was happy to see Basso come clean.
"I knew it would finish this way and it could be a great chance for things to change," he said. "Basso has shown his intelligence and understands that this is the right road to take.
"He mustn't only think about saving himself, and I hope that what he has done proves to be important."
Basso, last year's Giro d'Italia winner and a pre-race favorite for the 2007 Tour de France, is one of dozens of riders implicated in the Puerto investigation.
The scandal erupted before last year's Tour De France when Spanish police uncovered an alleged blood doping network run by doctor Eufemiano Fuentes.
Police discovered bags of blood and doping products on a raid on Fuentes's laboratory in Madrid, along with codenames of cyclists and documents which suggested the doctor had been paid to manipulate and store blood.
Last year, Basso's implication in the scandal cost him his place at the Tour de France.
UCI president Pat McQuaid expressed his dismay at hearing the news.
"Most of all I am very sad that a talented rider like Basso seems to have been involved in some illicit practices," he said. "On the other hand I'm trying to look at this news in a more positive light. Our constant efforts, with our other cycling partners, to put cyclists under pressure are paying off.
"Right now it's not easy to break the rules," he added.
Last week Basso parted company with the Discovery Channel team after CONI had called him to a hearing to answer doping charges.
Up until now Basso had protested his innocence. He was initially acquitted by CONI of any involvement in the scandal due to what Italy's governing body for sport described as insufficient evidence.
But CONI reopened its investigation after German officials matched blood seized in the Puerto raids to 1997 Tour winner Jan Ullrich. Until now, Basso had refused to submit to DNA testing, but in recent weeks the pressure to do so was increasing.
Lawyer: 'He wanted to lift a weight off his conscience'
By Agence France Presse
This report filed May 7, 2007
Ivan Basso on Monday confessed to the anti-doping prosecutor of the Italian Olympic Committee (CONI) that he was involved in the Operación Puerto blood doping scandal.
CONI said the 2006 Giro winner came to them of his own accord and offered to cooperate with their investigation and clarify his part in the scandal.
The 29-year-old Basso now faces a ban from cycling of up to two years and an additional two-year exclusion from riding on ProTour teams. If his doping is connected to his 2006 Giro win, authorities could also strip him of that title.
"He wasn't feeling good and he wasn't calm, and he wanted to lift a weight off his conscience," said Basso's lawyer Massimo Martelli. "During the interrogation he was shaking, but then he regained his composure to show great character."
Ivano Fanini, owner of Italian cycling team Amore and Vita, was happy to see Basso come clean.
"I knew it would finish this way and it could be a great chance for things to change," he said. "Basso has shown his intelligence and understands that this is the right road to take.
"He mustn't only think about saving himself, and I hope that what he has done proves to be important."
Basso, last year's Giro d'Italia winner and a pre-race favorite for the 2007 Tour de France, is one of dozens of riders implicated in the Puerto investigation.
The scandal erupted before last year's Tour De France when Spanish police uncovered an alleged blood doping network run by doctor Eufemiano Fuentes.
Police discovered bags of blood and doping products on a raid on Fuentes's laboratory in Madrid, along with codenames of cyclists and documents which suggested the doctor had been paid to manipulate and store blood.
Last year, Basso's implication in the scandal cost him his place at the Tour de France.
UCI president Pat McQuaid expressed his dismay at hearing the news.
"Most of all I am very sad that a talented rider like Basso seems to have been involved in some illicit practices," he said. "On the other hand I'm trying to look at this news in a more positive light. Our constant efforts, with our other cycling partners, to put cyclists under pressure are paying off.
"Right now it's not easy to break the rules," he added.
Last week Basso parted company with the Discovery Channel team after CONI had called him to a hearing to answer doping charges.
Up until now Basso had protested his innocence. He was initially acquitted by CONI of any involvement in the scandal due to what Italy's governing body for sport described as insufficient evidence.
But CONI reopened its investigation after German officials matched blood seized in the Puerto raids to 1997 Tour winner Jan Ullrich. Until now, Basso had refused to submit to DNA testing, but in recent weeks the pressure to do so was increasing.
Sunday, May 6
Bear Mountain . . . Again
You know what the problem is with driving up to Bear Mountain to do hill repeats? After spending half an hour pedaling to the top, you freeze your ass off on the descent. Even with the leg warmers, athletic t-shirt, and long-sleeve jersey, those first few minutes heading back down are damn cold.
It’s also a problem when you’re heart rate’s pumped up to 170 and a pair of attractive young ladies pass you as if you were standing still. I first spotted them on the side of the road just past the traffic circle. They look dangerous, I thought. One had a green bike, one had a red bike, and they both had ponytails, but the one with the red bike, she was wearing what appeared to be either an extremely short denim skirt over her tights or a pair of extremely short denim jeans. When was the last time you saw someone wearing denim on a road bike climbing Bear Mountain? And rather than a saddle bag, she had something strapped around her waist and hanging just over her butt that resembled a miniature messenger bag. By far, they were two of the most fashion conscious cyclists upon which I have ever laid eyes. I heard them approaching as they rode up behind me and when I glanced over my shoulder (admittedly, I was wearing my outrageously loud day-glo yellow jersey today . . . of all the goddam days to wear that thing), the first one said hello. “Hi,” I said, attempting to get a handle on the second girl, the one riding the red bike (don’t ask me what bikes they were riding--obviously my attention was elsewhere), and whether or not she was wearing shorts or a skirt.
Unfortunately, that’s going to have to remain a mystery as she simply went by too fast for me to tell. I guess we’ll never know.
After three and a half climbs, I decided I had had enough. On my way out, just over the Bear Mountain Bridge, I stopped at the scenic overview to have a hot dog and snap off a few pics. I’m big on the pictures lately.
Two other things. This Saturday morning there’s a race in Prospect Park which I’m planning on trying, Category 5. If anyone’s interested, you can find info and register online at www.racelistings.com. Also, I’m planning on killing off some brain cells tonight when I watch Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. Just thought you might want to know about that.
It’s also a problem when you’re heart rate’s pumped up to 170 and a pair of attractive young ladies pass you as if you were standing still. I first spotted them on the side of the road just past the traffic circle. They look dangerous, I thought. One had a green bike, one had a red bike, and they both had ponytails, but the one with the red bike, she was wearing what appeared to be either an extremely short denim skirt over her tights or a pair of extremely short denim jeans. When was the last time you saw someone wearing denim on a road bike climbing Bear Mountain? And rather than a saddle bag, she had something strapped around her waist and hanging just over her butt that resembled a miniature messenger bag. By far, they were two of the most fashion conscious cyclists upon which I have ever laid eyes. I heard them approaching as they rode up behind me and when I glanced over my shoulder (admittedly, I was wearing my outrageously loud day-glo yellow jersey today . . . of all the goddam days to wear that thing), the first one said hello. “Hi,” I said, attempting to get a handle on the second girl, the one riding the red bike (don’t ask me what bikes they were riding--obviously my attention was elsewhere), and whether or not she was wearing shorts or a skirt.
Unfortunately, that’s going to have to remain a mystery as she simply went by too fast for me to tell. I guess we’ll never know.
After three and a half climbs, I decided I had had enough. On my way out, just over the Bear Mountain Bridge, I stopped at the scenic overview to have a hot dog and snap off a few pics. I’m big on the pictures lately.
Two other things. This Saturday morning there’s a race in Prospect Park which I’m planning on trying, Category 5. If anyone’s interested, you can find info and register online at www.racelistings.com. Also, I’m planning on killing off some brain cells tonight when I watch Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. Just thought you might want to know about that.
Saturday, May 5
Ivan Basso & the NY Yankees
So, there’s a lot going on everywhere and it seems like it’s going on all the time. It seems that way to me, at least. For instance, last night a few of us took the 4 train up to Yankee Stadium for the 7:05 game (why 7:05 and not 7:00?) against Seattle. Things were looking good considering (a) we were three rows from the field behind the visitor’s dugout, (b) the Yankees scored six runs in the first inning, and (c) we had a few hot dogs as soon as we sat down. I raise that last point as hot dogs are simply delicious. Yet despite the smiles . . .
. . . Seattle somehow managed to score eight goddam runs in the fifth inning. I say somehow managed although I know exactly how they did it: Joe Torre put a fat bastard by the name of Colten Bean on the mound and Fat Boy Bean started his evening by walking two consecutive batters. When he finally threw a strike, the entire stadium went nuts, which is just plain embarrassing when you’re pitching in the major leagues. Fifteen minutes later, as Bean failed to produce a single out and the stadium became eerily quiet, a guy a few rows back yelled, “Would somebody please get somebody out?!”
Once the Yanks relinquished their lead and fell behind 14-8, it was time to leave, so we left.
So that happened. This morning, I decided to sleep in until 9:30, which is always a nice way to start the weekend. After a bowl of Frosted Flakes, I geared up and hit the road for my usual 45-mile training ride. More than once I pulled to the side of the road to snap off a few pics so my wonderful readers (all two of you) might get some idea as to what the scenery is like up here in the sticks.
After the ride, I stopped in the local barber shop for a trim. Since the guys who run the shop are old school, the trim included the hot lather on the back of my neck with the straight-edge razor treatment, not to mention a few words from the old guy cutting my hair.
“You gotta beautiful hair, you know that?”
“. . . thanks.”
I don’t have a pic of the haircut, so go ahead and call me an unprofessional journalist. I’m okay with that.
In other exciting developments, Ivan Basso has left the Discovery team. Why? Do you even have to ask? Come on. Let’s get real here. Basso knows that once he provides the authorities with a DNA sample (meaning they’re going to stick a Q-Tip in his mouth)--which it’s looking like he’s definitely going to have to do--that sample is going to prove a link between him, the evil Dr. Fuentes, and Operacion Puerto. With that said, Basso’s departure from the Discovery team seems like a preemptive strike on the team’s behalf, most likely coordinated by Johan Bruyneel. I can only imagine the talk Bruyneel must have given Basso: “If you’re going down, there isn’t a chance in hell we’re going down with you. And gain some weight, you skinny f#ck.”
What else? Oh, right. I did a fair amount of drinking this week, but it wasn’t my fault. On Tuesday, a few of us from the office had dinner with Univision.com (properly pronounced you-knee-viz-ee-ohne). Why we were having dinner with Univision is a whole other story, but we had to have something to wash down all those empanadas and quesadillas, so why not wash them down with pomegranate margaritas, right? After three or four of those, the night and my life in general felt a hell of a lot better. And what is it about drinking, or to be more accurate, tying on a buzz, that makes everything seem so important? It’s almost as if the evening becomes something of a film negative in that catching an early train and getting home to get a good night’s sleep for the next day’s presentation takes a backseat in favor of spending time thinking about and discussing all the bigger pictures in your life. Of course, the outcomes of those drunken discussions never tend to lead any place good, do they? You wake up the next morning and think, What the hell was I thinking?
Anyway, after the pomegranate margaritas, I stumbled my way to Grand Central Terminal and took this because I’m good like that:
The next night, I had a date. Yes, another goddam date. I’m in my mid-thirties and I’m dating. Wow. Fantastic. Great. Hurray for me.
Once again on my way to Grand Central Station after a few drinks, I took another pic:
Absolutely thrilling, isn’t it?
You know what I really want to know? I know I’m shifting gears here, but the bunch sprinters like Boonen, Freire, and McEwen--are they doping too? My understanding is that they take a dose of caffeine the size of a horse pill about ten kilometers from the finish line, but do those guys have the needles in their asses like the favorites? Can we get McEwen on the phone and ask him? I’d really like to know.
That’s it for now. Tomorrow I think I’m going to drive up to Bear Mountain and just do climbing repeats all morning: 4.5 miles up, 4.5 miles down, repeat. Sounds boring but I hear it’s effective. And if I take any more pics, trust me, you guys will be the first to know.
. . . Seattle somehow managed to score eight goddam runs in the fifth inning. I say somehow managed although I know exactly how they did it: Joe Torre put a fat bastard by the name of Colten Bean on the mound and Fat Boy Bean started his evening by walking two consecutive batters. When he finally threw a strike, the entire stadium went nuts, which is just plain embarrassing when you’re pitching in the major leagues. Fifteen minutes later, as Bean failed to produce a single out and the stadium became eerily quiet, a guy a few rows back yelled, “Would somebody please get somebody out?!”
Once the Yanks relinquished their lead and fell behind 14-8, it was time to leave, so we left.
So that happened. This morning, I decided to sleep in until 9:30, which is always a nice way to start the weekend. After a bowl of Frosted Flakes, I geared up and hit the road for my usual 45-mile training ride. More than once I pulled to the side of the road to snap off a few pics so my wonderful readers (all two of you) might get some idea as to what the scenery is like up here in the sticks.
After the ride, I stopped in the local barber shop for a trim. Since the guys who run the shop are old school, the trim included the hot lather on the back of my neck with the straight-edge razor treatment, not to mention a few words from the old guy cutting my hair.
“You gotta beautiful hair, you know that?”
“. . . thanks.”
I don’t have a pic of the haircut, so go ahead and call me an unprofessional journalist. I’m okay with that.
In other exciting developments, Ivan Basso has left the Discovery team. Why? Do you even have to ask? Come on. Let’s get real here. Basso knows that once he provides the authorities with a DNA sample (meaning they’re going to stick a Q-Tip in his mouth)--which it’s looking like he’s definitely going to have to do--that sample is going to prove a link between him, the evil Dr. Fuentes, and Operacion Puerto. With that said, Basso’s departure from the Discovery team seems like a preemptive strike on the team’s behalf, most likely coordinated by Johan Bruyneel. I can only imagine the talk Bruyneel must have given Basso: “If you’re going down, there isn’t a chance in hell we’re going down with you. And gain some weight, you skinny f#ck.”
What else? Oh, right. I did a fair amount of drinking this week, but it wasn’t my fault. On Tuesday, a few of us from the office had dinner with Univision.com (properly pronounced you-knee-viz-ee-ohne). Why we were having dinner with Univision is a whole other story, but we had to have something to wash down all those empanadas and quesadillas, so why not wash them down with pomegranate margaritas, right? After three or four of those, the night and my life in general felt a hell of a lot better. And what is it about drinking, or to be more accurate, tying on a buzz, that makes everything seem so important? It’s almost as if the evening becomes something of a film negative in that catching an early train and getting home to get a good night’s sleep for the next day’s presentation takes a backseat in favor of spending time thinking about and discussing all the bigger pictures in your life. Of course, the outcomes of those drunken discussions never tend to lead any place good, do they? You wake up the next morning and think, What the hell was I thinking?
Anyway, after the pomegranate margaritas, I stumbled my way to Grand Central Terminal and took this because I’m good like that:
The next night, I had a date. Yes, another goddam date. I’m in my mid-thirties and I’m dating. Wow. Fantastic. Great. Hurray for me.
Once again on my way to Grand Central Station after a few drinks, I took another pic:
Absolutely thrilling, isn’t it?
You know what I really want to know? I know I’m shifting gears here, but the bunch sprinters like Boonen, Freire, and McEwen--are they doping too? My understanding is that they take a dose of caffeine the size of a horse pill about ten kilometers from the finish line, but do those guys have the needles in their asses like the favorites? Can we get McEwen on the phone and ask him? I’d really like to know.
That’s it for now. Tomorrow I think I’m going to drive up to Bear Mountain and just do climbing repeats all morning: 4.5 miles up, 4.5 miles down, repeat. Sounds boring but I hear it’s effective. And if I take any more pics, trust me, you guys will be the first to know.
Sunday, April 29
Up and Up and Up
On Saturday, I went out for a ride all by my lonesome up here in Westchester and every time I came to the foot of a climb (which seemed to happen about every three minutes) I backed off the gas and took it easy considering I had the number 87 looming in the back of my head. Why 87? Dr. Rob and Ed Dalton had called me earlier in the week and invited me to this morning’s George Washington Bridge < Bear Mountain < George Washington Bridge 87-mile ride.
At first glance you might think, “Christ, 87 miles? Are you nuts?” Maybe, but if the boys who invited me didn’t think I could finish the ride, they wouldn’t have invited me, and I appreciate that.
Despite the invite, I went ahead and did a Tom Boonen this morning, meaning I made a mess of things. First, during a downhill on a particularly nasty section of 9W, without fair warning, I squeezed by in the six inches between Anne and the shoulder. Normally, no big deal, but we were moving along pretty fast and due to the potholes we were avoiding, she could have bumped me and vice versa, which could have been a disaster.
That was bonehead move number one. Keep in mind I didn’t do it with the intention of being a bonehead--I saw a line and I simply went for it. As I’m significantly heavier than Anne, Ed, and Dr. Rob, I get rolling down hills faster than the rest of those guys, but that’s not an excuse. I should have waited and I didn’t, so again, bonehead move number one.
Let’s move on to bonehead moves number two and three, which weren’t so much sloppy riding, just sloppy conversation.
Five miles into the ride, Dr. Rob and I were having a laugh at the expense of one of our mutual friends when I said, “F#cking union guys.” On the surface, no big deal, right? Well, it’s not exactly the thing you say when you’re in the company of either (a) people who still work in a union, or (b) people who used to work union jobs.
Bonehead comment number three came at the bottom of Bear Mountain, just as I reached the end of the descent. At the top of the mountain, I took off as I always enjoy hanging it out on long, steep downhills, laying the bike over and railing it through the turns. When Dr. Rob caught up a few seconds later, I said, “Dude, you ride downhill slower than my grandmother.” I only said it because the only time I can actually put a few seconds on those guys is when we’re going downhill and while I don’t remember what he said in response, I think I struck something of a chord because with about twenty-five miles to go, Dr. Rob was gone, and I mean GONE. That dude starts his engine on those hills and disappears. No doubt Anne and Ed could have done the same (I have this nagging suspicion they kept the pace below their comfort zone today to make sure I made it all the way back to the bridge), but Dr. Rob left and never looked back.
Now that I’ve made good on all my jackass maneuvers today, let’s talk about the actual ride.
Long. Extremely long. That’s the key take-away. 87 miles is a long, long time to spend on the bike even when averaging 15 MPH.
And there was the Bear Mountain climb. It’s roughly 4.5 miles in length yet, in my head, I had it set as a 4.5 mile Hillside Terrace-like climb. To those of you unfamiliar with Staten Island, Hillside Terrace is a 0.25 or 0.50-mile climb that feels straight up when you’re actually trying to climb it, although if you put a gun to my head (don’t take that literally, Mr. Dalton), I’d say the actual gradient is somewhere between 12 to 15 percent. That may not sound like much, but when you’re standing on your pedals with the bike in the lowest gear and you can still only crank out 4 MPH, that means you’re on a bitch of a hill.
Bear Mountain, though, I think Bicycling magazine listed the average gradient at 4.5 percent and, while it felt a bit steeper (and actually was steeper in a few sections), it’s a manageable climb granted you settle into your own rhythm and don’t push it into the red zone.
At the start, as Anne passed me, she commented, “You look comfortable.”
I glanced toward the bottom bracket. “Compact crank.”
And that’s pretty much it. The only other thing I can say this morning’s ride is that when you hit the 50 to 55-mile mark, you hit some flat sections of 9W, which is misleading because you begin thinking to yourself, “I feel good. I think I can do this.” Then the next big hill comes along and halfway up your attitude changes quite fast. Once your calves start singing in pain that voice in your head changes it tune: “Okay, I was wrong. Big time. I so can’t do this. Somebody call a taxi.” Then you look up the road and Dr. Rob’s no longer even on the horizon and Ed’s glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there because if you’re not, everybody has to slow down their pace for your tired ass, and who wants to be that guy?
#
Here are some pics from the ride:
Leaving the GWB area, we took a park road off 9W unaware that the road had been closed due to some massive landslides, which left us with two options--go back and or big. We went big and did the cyclecross thing.
And then as soon as we got over the fallen trees and trekked through the mud, it was clean-cleaning time.
After the 4.5 mile climb to the top of Bear Mountain.
Then, ten miles from the finish line, we had a flat.
At first glance you might think, “Christ, 87 miles? Are you nuts?” Maybe, but if the boys who invited me didn’t think I could finish the ride, they wouldn’t have invited me, and I appreciate that.
Despite the invite, I went ahead and did a Tom Boonen this morning, meaning I made a mess of things. First, during a downhill on a particularly nasty section of 9W, without fair warning, I squeezed by in the six inches between Anne and the shoulder. Normally, no big deal, but we were moving along pretty fast and due to the potholes we were avoiding, she could have bumped me and vice versa, which could have been a disaster.
That was bonehead move number one. Keep in mind I didn’t do it with the intention of being a bonehead--I saw a line and I simply went for it. As I’m significantly heavier than Anne, Ed, and Dr. Rob, I get rolling down hills faster than the rest of those guys, but that’s not an excuse. I should have waited and I didn’t, so again, bonehead move number one.
Let’s move on to bonehead moves number two and three, which weren’t so much sloppy riding, just sloppy conversation.
Five miles into the ride, Dr. Rob and I were having a laugh at the expense of one of our mutual friends when I said, “F#cking union guys.” On the surface, no big deal, right? Well, it’s not exactly the thing you say when you’re in the company of either (a) people who still work in a union, or (b) people who used to work union jobs.
Bonehead comment number three came at the bottom of Bear Mountain, just as I reached the end of the descent. At the top of the mountain, I took off as I always enjoy hanging it out on long, steep downhills, laying the bike over and railing it through the turns. When Dr. Rob caught up a few seconds later, I said, “Dude, you ride downhill slower than my grandmother.” I only said it because the only time I can actually put a few seconds on those guys is when we’re going downhill and while I don’t remember what he said in response, I think I struck something of a chord because with about twenty-five miles to go, Dr. Rob was gone, and I mean GONE. That dude starts his engine on those hills and disappears. No doubt Anne and Ed could have done the same (I have this nagging suspicion they kept the pace below their comfort zone today to make sure I made it all the way back to the bridge), but Dr. Rob left and never looked back.
Now that I’ve made good on all my jackass maneuvers today, let’s talk about the actual ride.
Long. Extremely long. That’s the key take-away. 87 miles is a long, long time to spend on the bike even when averaging 15 MPH.
And there was the Bear Mountain climb. It’s roughly 4.5 miles in length yet, in my head, I had it set as a 4.5 mile Hillside Terrace-like climb. To those of you unfamiliar with Staten Island, Hillside Terrace is a 0.25 or 0.50-mile climb that feels straight up when you’re actually trying to climb it, although if you put a gun to my head (don’t take that literally, Mr. Dalton), I’d say the actual gradient is somewhere between 12 to 15 percent. That may not sound like much, but when you’re standing on your pedals with the bike in the lowest gear and you can still only crank out 4 MPH, that means you’re on a bitch of a hill.
Bear Mountain, though, I think Bicycling magazine listed the average gradient at 4.5 percent and, while it felt a bit steeper (and actually was steeper in a few sections), it’s a manageable climb granted you settle into your own rhythm and don’t push it into the red zone.
At the start, as Anne passed me, she commented, “You look comfortable.”
I glanced toward the bottom bracket. “Compact crank.”
And that’s pretty much it. The only other thing I can say this morning’s ride is that when you hit the 50 to 55-mile mark, you hit some flat sections of 9W, which is misleading because you begin thinking to yourself, “I feel good. I think I can do this.” Then the next big hill comes along and halfway up your attitude changes quite fast. Once your calves start singing in pain that voice in your head changes it tune: “Okay, I was wrong. Big time. I so can’t do this. Somebody call a taxi.” Then you look up the road and Dr. Rob’s no longer even on the horizon and Ed’s glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there because if you’re not, everybody has to slow down their pace for your tired ass, and who wants to be that guy?
#
Here are some pics from the ride:
Leaving the GWB area, we took a park road off 9W unaware that the road had been closed due to some massive landslides, which left us with two options--go back and or big. We went big and did the cyclecross thing.
And then as soon as we got over the fallen trees and trekked through the mud, it was clean-cleaning time.
After the 4.5 mile climb to the top of Bear Mountain.
Then, ten miles from the finish line, we had a flat.
Saturday, April 28
Bike Routes
Make sure you check out the link in the right-hand navigation bar. Just found a site with bike routes mapped against Google Maps. Seems interesting. Or simply check out www.bikely.com.
Friday, April 27
Breaking The Chain
Last week, I ordered a copy of Willy Voet’s Breaking the Chain--a short memoir written by a former soigneur (a glorified massage therapist) which speaks to the rampant drug use among the ranks of professional cyclists.
Voet’s story is relatively simple. As a long time soigneur workign with the Festina team, he was en route to a race and driving a car packed with performance-enhancing drugs (as opposed to drugs which don’t enhance performance) and I’m not talking about Red Bull or Monster Energy drink. This dude was rolling with a fair amount of human growth hormone, EPO, and steroids--everything the team doctor had been buying up for the riders. Unfortunately for Mr. Willy, he was stopped by customs agents and tossed in jail, all of which resulted in what’s commonly referred to as the 1998 Festina scandal.
(Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Rob was not a part of the Festina team during the late nineties. Just a quick FYI.)
While the writing is at times disconnected and a bit difficult to follow, the subject matter more than makes up for whatever faults Willy Voet has as a writer. According to the author, almost every one of the top professional cyclists are doped up, especially those who race the Grand tours. Voet even doped himself as a young amateur dabbling with amphetamines (and sadly relates how his father all but turned his back on him when he decided to quit doping and quit racing seriously, which, when you think about it, is kind of fucked up) and, to a certain degree, is able to relate to the mentality and state of mind of a a cyclist riding while super-charged. Basically, it lends the book a sense of credibility in addition to the fact that the man was responsible for sticking the HGH-filled needle in the asses belonging to plenty of professional riders.
What’s also interesting is when Voet elaborates on evading drug controls and tests. He points out that many of the doctors hired by the UCI to configure the drug tests are the same doctors employed by professional teams (or at least they were during Voet’s career) who help the riders avoid detection, which is the same as the government hiring Boeing to decide where the government should buy its planes (bad analogy, but work with me, it’s late on a Friday night and I drank too much Red Bull today). Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?
Ultimately, Voet suggests that cyclists don’t really consider it cheating when they stick a needle in their ass or pop a few capsules of steroids. Why would it be cheating if all your competitors are doing it? Personally, I believe this idea is supported if you watch the short press conference with Jan Ullrich just after he’s learned T-Mobile booted him from the 2006 Tour de France due to Operacion Puerto. Standing in front of the cameras, his eyes absently floating from one spot to another, Ullrich explains (among other things), “I’ve never done anything wrong.” As an outsider looking in, the concept may be difficult to swallow, but try putting yourself in the riders’ shoes. Your every day existence, your entire career, is cycling. You’re surrounded by teammates and other team personnel day after day after day. Despite what you understand of the rules of cycling, the rules by the book, almost all of the people around you are not just accepting, but requesting injections. They’re looking strong on the bike. You see this again and again and again so, after a while, after finding yourself submersed in this performance-enhancing culture, would you think of jumping on the bandwagon as doing something wrong? Sure, maybe at first, but what about a few months after that first shot of EPO? A few years? Of course, there are always the stories of the champions who forfeited their titles by readily admitting to drug use (think David Millar), but how many people in the world--let alone cyclists--can claim such honesty and integrity? Very few, amigos. Extremely few, actually, so I don’t want to hear anything along the lines of, “Well, if I were in that situation . . .” because you simply don’t know until you’ve been there and done that. I know I’ve hypothesized above, but given what we know about human nature and human greed (as a professional, going faster means possibly winning racers which means possibly making more money), I don’t think the above scenario is all too difficult to buy.
As a result, Breaking the Chain is an interesting read and highly recommended from yours truly.
Voet’s story is relatively simple. As a long time soigneur workign with the Festina team, he was en route to a race and driving a car packed with performance-enhancing drugs (as opposed to drugs which don’t enhance performance) and I’m not talking about Red Bull or Monster Energy drink. This dude was rolling with a fair amount of human growth hormone, EPO, and steroids--everything the team doctor had been buying up for the riders. Unfortunately for Mr. Willy, he was stopped by customs agents and tossed in jail, all of which resulted in what’s commonly referred to as the 1998 Festina scandal.
(Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Rob was not a part of the Festina team during the late nineties. Just a quick FYI.)
While the writing is at times disconnected and a bit difficult to follow, the subject matter more than makes up for whatever faults Willy Voet has as a writer. According to the author, almost every one of the top professional cyclists are doped up, especially those who race the Grand tours. Voet even doped himself as a young amateur dabbling with amphetamines (and sadly relates how his father all but turned his back on him when he decided to quit doping and quit racing seriously, which, when you think about it, is kind of fucked up) and, to a certain degree, is able to relate to the mentality and state of mind of a a cyclist riding while super-charged. Basically, it lends the book a sense of credibility in addition to the fact that the man was responsible for sticking the HGH-filled needle in the asses belonging to plenty of professional riders.
What’s also interesting is when Voet elaborates on evading drug controls and tests. He points out that many of the doctors hired by the UCI to configure the drug tests are the same doctors employed by professional teams (or at least they were during Voet’s career) who help the riders avoid detection, which is the same as the government hiring Boeing to decide where the government should buy its planes (bad analogy, but work with me, it’s late on a Friday night and I drank too much Red Bull today). Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?
Ultimately, Voet suggests that cyclists don’t really consider it cheating when they stick a needle in their ass or pop a few capsules of steroids. Why would it be cheating if all your competitors are doing it? Personally, I believe this idea is supported if you watch the short press conference with Jan Ullrich just after he’s learned T-Mobile booted him from the 2006 Tour de France due to Operacion Puerto. Standing in front of the cameras, his eyes absently floating from one spot to another, Ullrich explains (among other things), “I’ve never done anything wrong.” As an outsider looking in, the concept may be difficult to swallow, but try putting yourself in the riders’ shoes. Your every day existence, your entire career, is cycling. You’re surrounded by teammates and other team personnel day after day after day. Despite what you understand of the rules of cycling, the rules by the book, almost all of the people around you are not just accepting, but requesting injections. They’re looking strong on the bike. You see this again and again and again so, after a while, after finding yourself submersed in this performance-enhancing culture, would you think of jumping on the bandwagon as doing something wrong? Sure, maybe at first, but what about a few months after that first shot of EPO? A few years? Of course, there are always the stories of the champions who forfeited their titles by readily admitting to drug use (think David Millar), but how many people in the world--let alone cyclists--can claim such honesty and integrity? Very few, amigos. Extremely few, actually, so I don’t want to hear anything along the lines of, “Well, if I were in that situation . . .” because you simply don’t know until you’ve been there and done that. I know I’ve hypothesized above, but given what we know about human nature and human greed (as a professional, going faster means possibly winning racers which means possibly making more money), I don’t think the above scenario is all too difficult to buy.
As a result, Breaking the Chain is an interesting read and highly recommended from yours truly.
Here It Is
My email address is okaysplendid@yahoo.com. In case anyone was wondering. Dr. Rob's been wondering.
Monday, April 23
Dr. Rob, Vito, & Taiko Drums
This weekend proved rather eventful with the actual events beginning Saturday morning (Friday evening I had nothing on my plate other than cleaning the bike and pumping some gas at the self-service station), yet rather than walk through a recap in chronological order, let’s work in reverse and start now (late Sunday afternoon), moving back to Saturday as we progress. Ready?
For starters, I’ve been suffering from the worst gas these past few hours. Maybe I had too many energy bars today and, combined with the disgusting amount of Chinese food I ate last night (in addition to a strawberry smoothie, a Coke, a can of Red Bull, and then a strawberry shake), my stomach is in severely rough shape. It’s actually so bad that, every time I crank one out as I sit here on my couch, the heavy stench causes me to scoot to the other side of the sofa so I don’t have to sit in an invisible cloud of my own gastrointestinal making.
Other than my incessant flatulence, I went here about an hour ago:
For those of you who are unaware, this is what the inside of a typical Cold Stone Creamery looks like. And for those of you who are unfamiliar with Cold Stone, it’s an ice cream shop where teenage ice cream artists stand behind the counter and use oversized spoons to mash together ice cream with your choice of ingredients--ingredients such as fudge, nuts, caramel, birthday cake (yes, birthday cake), candy, cheesecake, fruit, and more.
So that happened, but before that, I ate about a dozen chicken wings I made at home while watching the first few stages of the 2006 Tour de France on DVD. During the final sprint of stage 6, when it’s clear McEwen’s going to win his third stage after Tom Boonen’s attempts have been fruitless, it’s absolutely hysterical to hear Phil Liggett announce, “It looks like it’s going to be McEwen as Boonen’s made a mess of it again!”
Put yourself in Tom Boonen’s shoes. You’re have a particularly shitty week to start with and the TV announcer is explaining to millions of viewers and fans how you’ve “made a mess of it again.” How utterly demoralizing.
And before the chicken wings, well, that was the big Sunday ride. Ed Dalton and Dr. Rob called yesterday afternoon to let me know the group would be riding Cheesequake at eight this morning. When Dr. Rob called and I spotted his name on the caller ID, I picked up the phone and said, “Oh, so you call me this time?” (See previous post.)
I had already done seventy miles on Saturday so I thought, Kill myself with another sixty-four miles the very next day? Why not?
Unfortunately, disaster struck seven miles from the end of the ride when I came around the corner to see Vito on the ground clutching his elbow. While I didn’t actually witness the crash, eyewitness reporting (courtesy of Ed Dalton) explained that Vito had been looking behind him when he hit a rock about the size of a softball.
(Goddam farts are killing me--I can barely breath in here.)
Here’s a snapshot of the aftermath:
Despite what must have been a gnarly get-off, Vito only suffered some minor road rash, a few bruises, and a bruised elbow (Dr. Rob called a few minutes ago to let me know Vito’s x-rays showed nothing was broken, which is always good news).
So that happened, but before he went down, Vito was absolutely killing it along with Ed (see above), Anne (see above), Dr. Rob, Joe, and the two Polish brothers, Lester and Robert (all of whom are not shown above). Once we hit the hills, those seven absolutely demolished the inclines and flew. They’re strong riders to begin with, but they were really on the gas today (or I was really off, but I think it’s more of the former rather than the latter) and they put a huge beating on Tommy, Greg, and myself. No excuses--they were just riding really well out front, especially Dr. Rob who kept surprising me with how often he kept stepping on the gas.
Hats off to all those guys--everyone rode a great 100K today.
Before this morning’s ride, there was yesterday afternoon and last night. Oh, wait. Before I go back that far, I wanted to talk about this guy:
That’s Robert, Lester’s younger brother. Robert came over from Poland maybe six or seven months ago and his English is limited to maybe four words--yes, no, okay, and beer, although even yes and no are debatable.
I’ve included a snapshot of Robert in this update (with Dr. Rob in the distance) for a few reasons. First, he’s the only guy I know with legs whiter than mine, which makes me feel pretty good about myself. Second, according to his brother (that would be Lester), Robert was not just a professional bicycle racer in Poland, but Robert was a very good professional bicycle racer in Poland. According to Lester (all of this is according to Lester, really), when Lester would place, Robert would win. With that said, why Robert now smokes a pack of cigarettes a day is something of a mystery, but like they say, it is what it is. What kills me even more is that every time Robert goes flying by (and Robert never just casually passes me--he literally goes flying by every time he charges to the front), he sort of smiles and nods, which is fine, but underneath the smile, I get the sense that if he could speak English, he’d say something to the effect of, “If you think I’m strong now, wait until I finally decide to quit smoking . . . punk.”
Okay, so back to last night. I’ll make this quick, but I went out for the first time in a long time. With a girl. We went to Chinatown for a tasting menu event, which meant I stuffed myself on way too much Chinese food for about $7, after which we watched a forty-five minute taiko drum concert. Here’s another snapshot:
So that happened. Here’s the girl:
You know what? It’s right now eight o’clock on Sunday evening and after the amount of riding I did the past two days, I really need to go to bed, as in right now, so I’ll wrap this up tomorrow in a second installment.
#
Okay, it’s Monday morning and I’m feeling a hell of a lot better. Well, let’s say I’m somewhat refreshed although my legs feel like they could do without a week on the bike.
Where was I? Right. The Chinese food with the girl. The girl does have a name but she graduated from Vassar only a few years ago and, from what I understand, Vassar girls get all bent out of shape if you use their real names in personal blogs, so I’ll refrain.
Like I said, though, she went to Vassar. What does that mean? In my opinion, if you tell a Vassar girl, “You like nice today,” she’ll most likely respond with, “What’s that supposed to mean?” That make sense? Overall, Vassar girls are just pissed off, especially if you try to pick up the check at dinner or hold the door open for them.
Anyway, after Chinatown, we had a quick drive over to Brooklyn to sit on the promenade for a while as the sun set (believe me, it sounds a lot more romantic than it actually was), after which we had ice cream and then drove back to her place in Queens where we watched Planet Earth for an hour after which it was time to leave.
Earlier in the day, I put together the longest bike ride of my young biking life. There was a 35-mile B ride scheduled to start at 9:30 from the Goldens Bridge train station. At first glance, 35 miles seemed a bit light, so I figured I’d ride to the start from my place in Pleasantville, roughly 15 miles. No problem, right? Well, at first it wasn’t. Actually, I shouldn’t say any part of the ride was a problem because for the most part, it was a fantastic ride during a fantastic day. At the start, it looked as if we’d have a group of eight or ten, yet when 9:30 arrived and the group leader (basically, the guy who’s supposed to know the route) failed to arrive, we all sort of looked at each.
“Well, I know the roads around here and I have to catch a train a few minutes before twelve, so I’m just going to go.”
That was Julie, the lone female who showed up. As I had plans in Chinatown with the Vassar girl (while I say Vassar girl, remember, she graduated a few years ago, so I guess she’s more of a woman now), I wasn’t about to sit around and wait while the rest of the guys were going to sort things out.
So Julie and I took off. She told me about the bike she was riding, only her second ride on it (Giant), and I told her about the bike I was riding, only a few weeks old. Then we had company as the rest of the group decided to tag along.
And that was it. For about 40 miles, Julie told us where to go and took us down some sweet roads. Afterward, we ended up back at the parking lot and then it was time to do the 18 miles back to Pleasantville. I know I had said it was only 15 miles, but I was wrong. Checking the computer on my bike once I reached Goldens Bridge, it turned out to be 18 miles, so I had another eighteen ahead of me to get home.
All was well until mile sixty-five. Despite the Clif Bar I had devoured half an hour earlier, I was done--completely out of gas, not to mention the Camelbak was empty. So what do you do when you’re only a few miles from home and need some energy to get you over those last few hills? You stop at the nearest gas station, purchase a bottle of Coke and a Snickers bar, load yourself up with as much sugar as possible, get back on the bike, and do what you have to do.
Worked for me.
And that was the weekend, the whole enchilada.
(PS: As the Sunday ride was getting underway, Ed, Dr. Rob, and Vito were busy slinging comments back and forth--the usual. Ed glanced at me and asked, "Miss us?" Are you kidding? Who in their right mind could fail to find entertainment in Ed's incessasnt barrage of comments and responses such as:
"Shut up, faggot."
"She's twelve? Too old."
"You know, Vito, you'd look real nice in a sundress.")
For starters, I’ve been suffering from the worst gas these past few hours. Maybe I had too many energy bars today and, combined with the disgusting amount of Chinese food I ate last night (in addition to a strawberry smoothie, a Coke, a can of Red Bull, and then a strawberry shake), my stomach is in severely rough shape. It’s actually so bad that, every time I crank one out as I sit here on my couch, the heavy stench causes me to scoot to the other side of the sofa so I don’t have to sit in an invisible cloud of my own gastrointestinal making.
Other than my incessant flatulence, I went here about an hour ago:
For those of you who are unaware, this is what the inside of a typical Cold Stone Creamery looks like. And for those of you who are unfamiliar with Cold Stone, it’s an ice cream shop where teenage ice cream artists stand behind the counter and use oversized spoons to mash together ice cream with your choice of ingredients--ingredients such as fudge, nuts, caramel, birthday cake (yes, birthday cake), candy, cheesecake, fruit, and more.
So that happened, but before that, I ate about a dozen chicken wings I made at home while watching the first few stages of the 2006 Tour de France on DVD. During the final sprint of stage 6, when it’s clear McEwen’s going to win his third stage after Tom Boonen’s attempts have been fruitless, it’s absolutely hysterical to hear Phil Liggett announce, “It looks like it’s going to be McEwen as Boonen’s made a mess of it again!”
Put yourself in Tom Boonen’s shoes. You’re have a particularly shitty week to start with and the TV announcer is explaining to millions of viewers and fans how you’ve “made a mess of it again.” How utterly demoralizing.
And before the chicken wings, well, that was the big Sunday ride. Ed Dalton and Dr. Rob called yesterday afternoon to let me know the group would be riding Cheesequake at eight this morning. When Dr. Rob called and I spotted his name on the caller ID, I picked up the phone and said, “Oh, so you call me this time?” (See previous post.)
I had already done seventy miles on Saturday so I thought, Kill myself with another sixty-four miles the very next day? Why not?
Unfortunately, disaster struck seven miles from the end of the ride when I came around the corner to see Vito on the ground clutching his elbow. While I didn’t actually witness the crash, eyewitness reporting (courtesy of Ed Dalton) explained that Vito had been looking behind him when he hit a rock about the size of a softball.
(Goddam farts are killing me--I can barely breath in here.)
Here’s a snapshot of the aftermath:
Despite what must have been a gnarly get-off, Vito only suffered some minor road rash, a few bruises, and a bruised elbow (Dr. Rob called a few minutes ago to let me know Vito’s x-rays showed nothing was broken, which is always good news).
So that happened, but before he went down, Vito was absolutely killing it along with Ed (see above), Anne (see above), Dr. Rob, Joe, and the two Polish brothers, Lester and Robert (all of whom are not shown above). Once we hit the hills, those seven absolutely demolished the inclines and flew. They’re strong riders to begin with, but they were really on the gas today (or I was really off, but I think it’s more of the former rather than the latter) and they put a huge beating on Tommy, Greg, and myself. No excuses--they were just riding really well out front, especially Dr. Rob who kept surprising me with how often he kept stepping on the gas.
Hats off to all those guys--everyone rode a great 100K today.
Before this morning’s ride, there was yesterday afternoon and last night. Oh, wait. Before I go back that far, I wanted to talk about this guy:
That’s Robert, Lester’s younger brother. Robert came over from Poland maybe six or seven months ago and his English is limited to maybe four words--yes, no, okay, and beer, although even yes and no are debatable.
I’ve included a snapshot of Robert in this update (with Dr. Rob in the distance) for a few reasons. First, he’s the only guy I know with legs whiter than mine, which makes me feel pretty good about myself. Second, according to his brother (that would be Lester), Robert was not just a professional bicycle racer in Poland, but Robert was a very good professional bicycle racer in Poland. According to Lester (all of this is according to Lester, really), when Lester would place, Robert would win. With that said, why Robert now smokes a pack of cigarettes a day is something of a mystery, but like they say, it is what it is. What kills me even more is that every time Robert goes flying by (and Robert never just casually passes me--he literally goes flying by every time he charges to the front), he sort of smiles and nods, which is fine, but underneath the smile, I get the sense that if he could speak English, he’d say something to the effect of, “If you think I’m strong now, wait until I finally decide to quit smoking . . . punk.”
Okay, so back to last night. I’ll make this quick, but I went out for the first time in a long time. With a girl. We went to Chinatown for a tasting menu event, which meant I stuffed myself on way too much Chinese food for about $7, after which we watched a forty-five minute taiko drum concert. Here’s another snapshot:
So that happened. Here’s the girl:
You know what? It’s right now eight o’clock on Sunday evening and after the amount of riding I did the past two days, I really need to go to bed, as in right now, so I’ll wrap this up tomorrow in a second installment.
#
Okay, it’s Monday morning and I’m feeling a hell of a lot better. Well, let’s say I’m somewhat refreshed although my legs feel like they could do without a week on the bike.
Where was I? Right. The Chinese food with the girl. The girl does have a name but she graduated from Vassar only a few years ago and, from what I understand, Vassar girls get all bent out of shape if you use their real names in personal blogs, so I’ll refrain.
Like I said, though, she went to Vassar. What does that mean? In my opinion, if you tell a Vassar girl, “You like nice today,” she’ll most likely respond with, “What’s that supposed to mean?” That make sense? Overall, Vassar girls are just pissed off, especially if you try to pick up the check at dinner or hold the door open for them.
Anyway, after Chinatown, we had a quick drive over to Brooklyn to sit on the promenade for a while as the sun set (believe me, it sounds a lot more romantic than it actually was), after which we had ice cream and then drove back to her place in Queens where we watched Planet Earth for an hour after which it was time to leave.
Earlier in the day, I put together the longest bike ride of my young biking life. There was a 35-mile B ride scheduled to start at 9:30 from the Goldens Bridge train station. At first glance, 35 miles seemed a bit light, so I figured I’d ride to the start from my place in Pleasantville, roughly 15 miles. No problem, right? Well, at first it wasn’t. Actually, I shouldn’t say any part of the ride was a problem because for the most part, it was a fantastic ride during a fantastic day. At the start, it looked as if we’d have a group of eight or ten, yet when 9:30 arrived and the group leader (basically, the guy who’s supposed to know the route) failed to arrive, we all sort of looked at each.
“Well, I know the roads around here and I have to catch a train a few minutes before twelve, so I’m just going to go.”
That was Julie, the lone female who showed up. As I had plans in Chinatown with the Vassar girl (while I say Vassar girl, remember, she graduated a few years ago, so I guess she’s more of a woman now), I wasn’t about to sit around and wait while the rest of the guys were going to sort things out.
So Julie and I took off. She told me about the bike she was riding, only her second ride on it (Giant), and I told her about the bike I was riding, only a few weeks old. Then we had company as the rest of the group decided to tag along.
And that was it. For about 40 miles, Julie told us where to go and took us down some sweet roads. Afterward, we ended up back at the parking lot and then it was time to do the 18 miles back to Pleasantville. I know I had said it was only 15 miles, but I was wrong. Checking the computer on my bike once I reached Goldens Bridge, it turned out to be 18 miles, so I had another eighteen ahead of me to get home.
All was well until mile sixty-five. Despite the Clif Bar I had devoured half an hour earlier, I was done--completely out of gas, not to mention the Camelbak was empty. So what do you do when you’re only a few miles from home and need some energy to get you over those last few hills? You stop at the nearest gas station, purchase a bottle of Coke and a Snickers bar, load yourself up with as much sugar as possible, get back on the bike, and do what you have to do.
Worked for me.
And that was the weekend, the whole enchilada.
(PS: As the Sunday ride was getting underway, Ed, Dr. Rob, and Vito were busy slinging comments back and forth--the usual. Ed glanced at me and asked, "Miss us?" Are you kidding? Who in their right mind could fail to find entertainment in Ed's incessasnt barrage of comments and responses such as:
"Shut up, faggot."
"She's twelve? Too old."
"You know, Vito, you'd look real nice in a sundress.")
Friday, April 20
The New Blackberry Has A Camera
As if you couldn't tell? Here are some more pics of the raptors (miniature, flesh-eating prehistoric creatures) I work with:
The Rides
And rather than talk about the new bikes, I figured it'd work a lot easier if I simply uploaded some pics of the new rides. Genius, I know.
The Schedule
So here’s what I’m thinking for the next few days.
Tomorrow’s a rest day. I may hop on the trainer to do some light spinning considering I neglected to ride Wednesday night due to the Ranger’s game, but doing so really depends on whether or not anything more interesting comes up before taking the train home tomorrow evening.
Saturday, I think I’m going to hop on a B ride that leaves from Goldens Bridge which is a few miles north of here. Since I struggled with the B+ pace last week, maybe I won’t feel like I’m going to die by the end of this ride (maybe being the operative word there).
Oh, I forgot. Before leaving work tomorrow, I think I’ll join the USA Cycling organization so I can begin racing whenever and wherever. Right now, the plan is to start getting in Category 5 local races once the weather begins to improve, possibly by mid-May. I get the feeling that failing to join the USA Cycling organization wouldn’t be all that big of a deal when registering for races, although I know that eventually I’ll come into contact with some bureaucratic tool who won’t let me race if I’m not an existing member, so for the few bucks a year, it’s not worth the potential hassle.
And then on Sunday, the plan right now is to either (a) do some mountain biking if the weather holds out (and let’s pray to whoever we pray to that it does), or (b) drive up to Bear Mountain and spend a few hours killing myself on the long climb up there. While I’ve been riding all winter, it’s time to really kick myself in the ass to get ready for the rest of the spring and summer. If anybody has any interest in joining me up there, leave a comment and we’ll set it up.
Finally, what the hell is up with this guy?
I read about this kid not too long ago and what strikes me about him is the fact that he weighs all of ninety pounds or so. Have you ever seen a picture of this kid just walking along? Would somebody tell this kid to get the EPO needle out of his ass and give him a few Big Macs? I say EPO as, judging from his diminutive frame, the kid’s obviously not on the growth hormone regimen.
Despite Brajkovic’s lack of a single upper-body muscle, Team Discovery seems to be kicking some cycling ass since Leipheimer’s victory at the Tour of California. Since they’re losing Discovery as their title sponsor, Johan Bruyneel is probably taking it into his own hands to personally inject each of his team leaders with the performance-enhancing cocktails necessary to ensure they win some races, get some good PR coverage, and all but ensure they find another sponsor to cough up a few million to bankroll the 2008 season. Or perhaps Bruyneel simply pulled Brajkovic aside and explained, “Look, chicken wing, get out there and do what it is we pay you to do--win! And gain some weight, you skinny f#ck. I'm getting sick and tired of looking at you like that."
Tomorrow’s a rest day. I may hop on the trainer to do some light spinning considering I neglected to ride Wednesday night due to the Ranger’s game, but doing so really depends on whether or not anything more interesting comes up before taking the train home tomorrow evening.
Saturday, I think I’m going to hop on a B ride that leaves from Goldens Bridge which is a few miles north of here. Since I struggled with the B+ pace last week, maybe I won’t feel like I’m going to die by the end of this ride (maybe being the operative word there).
Oh, I forgot. Before leaving work tomorrow, I think I’ll join the USA Cycling organization so I can begin racing whenever and wherever. Right now, the plan is to start getting in Category 5 local races once the weather begins to improve, possibly by mid-May. I get the feeling that failing to join the USA Cycling organization wouldn’t be all that big of a deal when registering for races, although I know that eventually I’ll come into contact with some bureaucratic tool who won’t let me race if I’m not an existing member, so for the few bucks a year, it’s not worth the potential hassle.
And then on Sunday, the plan right now is to either (a) do some mountain biking if the weather holds out (and let’s pray to whoever we pray to that it does), or (b) drive up to Bear Mountain and spend a few hours killing myself on the long climb up there. While I’ve been riding all winter, it’s time to really kick myself in the ass to get ready for the rest of the spring and summer. If anybody has any interest in joining me up there, leave a comment and we’ll set it up.
Finally, what the hell is up with this guy?
I read about this kid not too long ago and what strikes me about him is the fact that he weighs all of ninety pounds or so. Have you ever seen a picture of this kid just walking along? Would somebody tell this kid to get the EPO needle out of his ass and give him a few Big Macs? I say EPO as, judging from his diminutive frame, the kid’s obviously not on the growth hormone regimen.
Despite Brajkovic’s lack of a single upper-body muscle, Team Discovery seems to be kicking some cycling ass since Leipheimer’s victory at the Tour of California. Since they’re losing Discovery as their title sponsor, Johan Bruyneel is probably taking it into his own hands to personally inject each of his team leaders with the performance-enhancing cocktails necessary to ensure they win some races, get some good PR coverage, and all but ensure they find another sponsor to cough up a few million to bankroll the 2008 season. Or perhaps Bruyneel simply pulled Brajkovic aside and explained, “Look, chicken wing, get out there and do what it is we pay you to do--win! And gain some weight, you skinny f#ck. I'm getting sick and tired of looking at you like that."
Thursday, April 19
Rangers Win First Round of the Playoffs
Again, while absolutely unrelated to cycling, Mr. Picco and I attended game four of the NY Rangers - Atlanta Thrashers quarterfinals last night. For some time, the score sat at 2-2 until the Rangers put the puck in the net to make it 3-2. 18,000 fans went nuts and then, in the third period, Jagr scored an empty-netter, wrapping up the game at 4-2. Needless to say, everyone went nuts, including Mr. Picco.
Wednesday, April 18
Ms. Pinkberry
While utterly unrelated to cycling, below is a snapshot of the tool who sits next to me in the office:
My Fantastic Ability of Deduction
So last night, I'm on the trainer, sort of just hoping I won't experience any false shifting. I had actually written to Jamis over the weekend regarding the issue and they were about as much help as the jackasses who work in R&A.
Regardless, after five minutes of riding, I started having the same issue as always when I realized it was doing what it was doing because I had mis-shifted, meaning I was the source of the problem. What happened was this: upon shifting into a lower gear while on the trainer, I started experiencing the false shifting. Staring down at the cassette, I fingered the shifter for a taller gear. When nothing happened (other than the false shifting to stop), I realized the rear derailleur had only been doing what I had been telling it to do.
Problem solved. Finally.
Also, I keep reading about this 5 Boro Bike Tour and the more I read about how crowded it becomes, the less I feel like dealing with thousands of other bikers (and you know most of them are going to be those angry, shit-kicking girls with the short haircuts, the extra rolls, the all-men-are-assholes attitudes, and those "One Less Car" t-shirts heavy with armpit sweat). I've also heard through the grapvine--the grapevine being those team cyclists who invariably . . . well, I'm not even going to get into it--that unless you sort of cheat by skipping the starting area and just jumping out onto the course, it basically takes forever to reach Staten Island (the final borough in the five borough ride).
With that said, is anyone planning on the all-day cycling festival? If so, what's the plan, Stan?
Regardless, after five minutes of riding, I started having the same issue as always when I realized it was doing what it was doing because I had mis-shifted, meaning I was the source of the problem. What happened was this: upon shifting into a lower gear while on the trainer, I started experiencing the false shifting. Staring down at the cassette, I fingered the shifter for a taller gear. When nothing happened (other than the false shifting to stop), I realized the rear derailleur had only been doing what I had been telling it to do.
Problem solved. Finally.
Also, I keep reading about this 5 Boro Bike Tour and the more I read about how crowded it becomes, the less I feel like dealing with thousands of other bikers (and you know most of them are going to be those angry, shit-kicking girls with the short haircuts, the extra rolls, the all-men-are-assholes attitudes, and those "One Less Car" t-shirts heavy with armpit sweat). I've also heard through the grapvine--the grapevine being those team cyclists who invariably . . . well, I'm not even going to get into it--that unless you sort of cheat by skipping the starting area and just jumping out onto the course, it basically takes forever to reach Staten Island (the final borough in the five borough ride).
With that said, is anyone planning on the all-day cycling festival? If so, what's the plan, Stan?
Saturday, April 14
Can I Get an Hallelujah?!
Judging from the overwhelming response to my previous post, it’s clear I’ve managed to capture the attention of hundreds of cyclists interested in reading my marvelous writings.
Okay, let’s move on.
Almost two months after having moved to Pleasantville from Brooklyn, I finally forked over the $20 to join the WCC--Westchester Cycling Club. Not that I’m tight (although I am), I had become so familiar with riding with the group on Staten Island every weekend that it became easy, but not in a physical sense. It became easy because I had grown familiar with (a) the names and faces, and (b) the actual route we ride every week. It’s the same idea as staying at the same job even though you know you could make more money with another company: rather than leave, you stick with what you know, and that’s what I had been doing until today.
Regardless, I joined WCC, spotted a B+ ride scheduled for this morning out of Katonah lead by Joe Gasperino (hopefully, Joe has no issues with the law and won’t mind to me referring to him by his full name online), and figured, “It’s time to do some group riding closer to home.”
Now, after having finished forty miles with Joe and those guys, the most important thing I can say is, what some people consider a B+ pace is not what other people consider a B+ pace. Don’t get me wrong--my intention is not to knock other guys with whom I’ve ridden in the past, but the B+ guys up here are serious.
That and there are too many hills around here.
Can you blame me for thinking I’d be all right in the B+ group considering my limited frame of reference? I’m not making excuses--those of you who know me should know that I have a serious aversion to (a) excuses, and (b) the kind of bullshit people toss around when they say things like, “Man, I’m not feeling too good today,” and then take off on their own after a few miles. All I’m saying is that in my simple mind I figured that if I could hang with the B+ guys on Staten Island, I hoped to at least keep up with a B+ group in Westchester.
Wrong.
As for the ride, there’s a street somewhere up here in Westchester called Keeler Avenue. It’s a street that, with any luck, I’ll never see again. For the Staten Island crowd, the ascent is similar to Hillside Terrace, but a hell of a lot more deceiving in that, just when you think you’ve reached the top, just when you look down and see your heart rate has reached 189, you glance up to see another fifteen-degree bitch of a rise, leaving you incapable of doing anything other than muttering the words, “Holy frigging Christ.”
Halfway up that last bitch of a hill, I lost any sense of pride I might have had at the beginning of the morning and unclipped. My intention was to reach for my cell phone and call 911 for the EMT crew, but when Joe passed me with a smile and a “Tough climb, huh?” I figured I’d walk my broken ass the fifty-feet or so to the top and then try to remount.
Luckily, Joe and the rest of the guys (Brian, Bud, Ken, Mike, Bill, and Patrick) were kind enough to wait for me at the turns, although the fact that riders I had just met had to stop and wait for me, well, that’s just plain embarrassing.
Still, it was a good morning, a good ride, and I look forward to my next crucifixion as soon as possible.
Okay, let’s move on.
Almost two months after having moved to Pleasantville from Brooklyn, I finally forked over the $20 to join the WCC--Westchester Cycling Club. Not that I’m tight (although I am), I had become so familiar with riding with the group on Staten Island every weekend that it became easy, but not in a physical sense. It became easy because I had grown familiar with (a) the names and faces, and (b) the actual route we ride every week. It’s the same idea as staying at the same job even though you know you could make more money with another company: rather than leave, you stick with what you know, and that’s what I had been doing until today.
Regardless, I joined WCC, spotted a B+ ride scheduled for this morning out of Katonah lead by Joe Gasperino (hopefully, Joe has no issues with the law and won’t mind to me referring to him by his full name online), and figured, “It’s time to do some group riding closer to home.”
Now, after having finished forty miles with Joe and those guys, the most important thing I can say is, what some people consider a B+ pace is not what other people consider a B+ pace. Don’t get me wrong--my intention is not to knock other guys with whom I’ve ridden in the past, but the B+ guys up here are serious.
That and there are too many hills around here.
Can you blame me for thinking I’d be all right in the B+ group considering my limited frame of reference? I’m not making excuses--those of you who know me should know that I have a serious aversion to (a) excuses, and (b) the kind of bullshit people toss around when they say things like, “Man, I’m not feeling too good today,” and then take off on their own after a few miles. All I’m saying is that in my simple mind I figured that if I could hang with the B+ guys on Staten Island, I hoped to at least keep up with a B+ group in Westchester.
Wrong.
As for the ride, there’s a street somewhere up here in Westchester called Keeler Avenue. It’s a street that, with any luck, I’ll never see again. For the Staten Island crowd, the ascent is similar to Hillside Terrace, but a hell of a lot more deceiving in that, just when you think you’ve reached the top, just when you look down and see your heart rate has reached 189, you glance up to see another fifteen-degree bitch of a rise, leaving you incapable of doing anything other than muttering the words, “Holy frigging Christ.”
Halfway up that last bitch of a hill, I lost any sense of pride I might have had at the beginning of the morning and unclipped. My intention was to reach for my cell phone and call 911 for the EMT crew, but when Joe passed me with a smile and a “Tough climb, huh?” I figured I’d walk my broken ass the fifty-feet or so to the top and then try to remount.
Luckily, Joe and the rest of the guys (Brian, Bud, Ken, Mike, Bill, and Patrick) were kind enough to wait for me at the turns, although the fact that riders I had just met had to stop and wait for me, well, that’s just plain embarrassing.
Still, it was a good morning, a good ride, and I look forward to my next crucifixion as soon as possible.
Wednesday, April 11
Answer Me This
I have a question for the more mechanically-inclined readers.
I’m having an issue when I hook up the new bike to my trainer. Not long after I begin pedaling, I’m experiencing some sporadic false shifting, meaning it both sounds and feels like I’m shifting, but the gear doesn’t actually shift.
With my pea-like brain, I’m assuming this is the result of either one of two things. First, because the frame is a lot less stiff than the aluminum frame I was riding, perhaps my weight is causing the frame to flex once I set the rear skewer in the trainer and that, in turn, is creating tension on the rear derailleur cable where it sits in the cable guide under the crank housing.
Any thoughts on that one?
Second, I was thinking it may have something to do with the tension where the trainer meets the skewer, although I tend to settle the connector (whatever that thing is called) against the skewer so that it doesn’t push the chain stays any closer together than they already are. Does that make sense? In other words, I don’t think the trainer is in any way pushing against the rear derailleur.
Any other thoughts? If anyone reads this in the next day or so and talk to Trek Tommy (again, my apologies, although I don’t know his last name), put the question to him and let me know. That dude seems to know everything about bike mechanics. If you happen to talk to him and remember to ask him the above, you can click on the little white envelope icon at the end of this post and shoot me an email. Or just call me at 718-619-1501. I’d appreciate that.
(Between you and me, I get the feeling the problem is related to number one above, the issue with the cable tension. If it is, I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to relieve the issue.)
Finally, I tried reading The Death of Marco Pantani by Matt Rendell, but after fifty pages, I gave up. When every other word is the name of some obscure Italian village or long Italian name, the reading gets a bit tedious after a while. In the event I ever find myself with absolutely nothing else to do--and I mean nothing--maybe I’ll pick it up again, but until then, Mr. Pantani’s biography is going to have to wait.
I’m having an issue when I hook up the new bike to my trainer. Not long after I begin pedaling, I’m experiencing some sporadic false shifting, meaning it both sounds and feels like I’m shifting, but the gear doesn’t actually shift.
With my pea-like brain, I’m assuming this is the result of either one of two things. First, because the frame is a lot less stiff than the aluminum frame I was riding, perhaps my weight is causing the frame to flex once I set the rear skewer in the trainer and that, in turn, is creating tension on the rear derailleur cable where it sits in the cable guide under the crank housing.
Any thoughts on that one?
Second, I was thinking it may have something to do with the tension where the trainer meets the skewer, although I tend to settle the connector (whatever that thing is called) against the skewer so that it doesn’t push the chain stays any closer together than they already are. Does that make sense? In other words, I don’t think the trainer is in any way pushing against the rear derailleur.
Any other thoughts? If anyone reads this in the next day or so and talk to Trek Tommy (again, my apologies, although I don’t know his last name), put the question to him and let me know. That dude seems to know everything about bike mechanics. If you happen to talk to him and remember to ask him the above, you can click on the little white envelope icon at the end of this post and shoot me an email. Or just call me at 718-619-1501. I’d appreciate that.
(Between you and me, I get the feeling the problem is related to number one above, the issue with the cable tension. If it is, I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to relieve the issue.)
Finally, I tried reading The Death of Marco Pantani by Matt Rendell, but after fifty pages, I gave up. When every other word is the name of some obscure Italian village or long Italian name, the reading gets a bit tedious after a while. In the event I ever find myself with absolutely nothing else to do--and I mean nothing--maybe I’ll pick it up again, but until then, Mr. Pantani’s biography is going to have to wait.
Sunday, April 8
Easter Sunday
Dr. Rob put a beating on everybody today, or he put a beating on me, at least.
Rolling out of bed this morning, I all but forgot that today’s Easter Sunday, so when I arrived at the parking lot in New Dorp, I expected to find a bigger crew than I did. By 8:35, three of us hit the road: Dr. Rob, Joe, and me. On Fr. Cappodanno, we picked up Horace and Dr. Rob’s friend, Greg (always distinguished in his bright red Saeco tights).
So that made for a five-man team and considering the wind this morning (aptly described as “hellacious” by Dr. Rob), I expected a strong yet manageable ride. Dr. Rob, though, he had other plans.
Once we hit Front Street, Dr. Rob took the lead position and began pedaling hellaciously. Sitting on his wheel, my heart rate already jacked up, I thought, If he can keep this up the entire ride, good for him, but god knows I’ll be in the back hanging on for dear life by the time we reach Bay Street.
Dr. Rob, though, he rides the way I expect most other serious cyclists ride: he takes his turn up front, does what he can do, and then pulls aside to let the next guy in line do some work.
That lasted for about six minutes. Dr. Rob did some work, I did some work, Joe did some work, Horace took a pull, and then Greg got up front and stayed there way too long. Regardless, the first rotation was almost flawless. When it came time for the second rotation, Dr. Rob did his thing, I did my thing, and then when I drifted back, Horace drifted back with me, leaving Joe and Greg in the wind. Then Dr. Rob jumped up front and I followed and once Joe had been up front for a few minutes, I hopped in front and then Dr. Rob hopped in front of me and it was just a frigging mess for the rest of the ride and the reason I say Dr. Rob put a beating on me today is that the dude had his face in the wind almost all day. Even out on Richmond Avenue, I was busting my ass to stay on his wheel and then, when he pulled aside, I was unable to lift my pace the 2-3 miles-per-hour more to keep the line steady. Dr. Rob looked at me and I looked back and if I had the air in my lungs, I would have said, “This is all I got right now.” A minute or so later, still sitting on Dr. Rob’s wheel, I sat up and let Horace and Joe go by. Horace stood on the pedals, but just to get up to Dr. Rob’s wheel. Luckily, I was able to keep those guys in sight, but they quickly put twenty or so seconds on me, while Greg had fallen so far behind I couldn’t even see the guy any more.
And that was that. Dr. Rob went back for Greg, so Joe and I relaxed while Horace took off on his own. After slow-pedaling our way down Arthur Kill to the service road, Dr. Rob and Greg were still nowhere to be seen, so Joe and I picked up the pace on our own, once again into the frigging wind.
Goddam wind.
Reaching the bagel shop, we had Horace ahead by thirty seconds or so and as much as I wanted to at least make the effort to catch him, I asked Joe to pull over for a minute so I could shove a few Fig Newtons down my throat as I hadn’t eaten since 6:30 and my hands and arms were beginning to feel a bit shaky. As we caught a quick rest and I munched, Joe explained he doesn’t eat before the morning rides. How in the world he goes out and does forty-five miles without any breakfast is beyond me.
It was good that we stopped, though. Dr. Rob and Greg caught up and we rolled. Not far past the bagel shop, some lady rode up on Dr. Rob’s ass and honked (not at his ass--at him) and Dr. Rob flew into a fit. It was just one of those things. I flew into a fit myself a few weeks ago when a fat bastard in a SUV tried honking me out of the way on Bay Street. Absolutely infuriated me, so I can understand why Dr. Rob was still screaming by the time we hit Main Street and the bitch in her BMW was long gone.
And once we hit the boulevard, the wind was finally at our backs. Horace was gone so the four of us cruised until Great Kills where, once again, Dr. Rob began hammering.
Unbelievable.
Rolling out of bed this morning, I all but forgot that today’s Easter Sunday, so when I arrived at the parking lot in New Dorp, I expected to find a bigger crew than I did. By 8:35, three of us hit the road: Dr. Rob, Joe, and me. On Fr. Cappodanno, we picked up Horace and Dr. Rob’s friend, Greg (always distinguished in his bright red Saeco tights).
So that made for a five-man team and considering the wind this morning (aptly described as “hellacious” by Dr. Rob), I expected a strong yet manageable ride. Dr. Rob, though, he had other plans.
Once we hit Front Street, Dr. Rob took the lead position and began pedaling hellaciously. Sitting on his wheel, my heart rate already jacked up, I thought, If he can keep this up the entire ride, good for him, but god knows I’ll be in the back hanging on for dear life by the time we reach Bay Street.
Dr. Rob, though, he rides the way I expect most other serious cyclists ride: he takes his turn up front, does what he can do, and then pulls aside to let the next guy in line do some work.
That lasted for about six minutes. Dr. Rob did some work, I did some work, Joe did some work, Horace took a pull, and then Greg got up front and stayed there way too long. Regardless, the first rotation was almost flawless. When it came time for the second rotation, Dr. Rob did his thing, I did my thing, and then when I drifted back, Horace drifted back with me, leaving Joe and Greg in the wind. Then Dr. Rob jumped up front and I followed and once Joe had been up front for a few minutes, I hopped in front and then Dr. Rob hopped in front of me and it was just a frigging mess for the rest of the ride and the reason I say Dr. Rob put a beating on me today is that the dude had his face in the wind almost all day. Even out on Richmond Avenue, I was busting my ass to stay on his wheel and then, when he pulled aside, I was unable to lift my pace the 2-3 miles-per-hour more to keep the line steady. Dr. Rob looked at me and I looked back and if I had the air in my lungs, I would have said, “This is all I got right now.” A minute or so later, still sitting on Dr. Rob’s wheel, I sat up and let Horace and Joe go by. Horace stood on the pedals, but just to get up to Dr. Rob’s wheel. Luckily, I was able to keep those guys in sight, but they quickly put twenty or so seconds on me, while Greg had fallen so far behind I couldn’t even see the guy any more.
And that was that. Dr. Rob went back for Greg, so Joe and I relaxed while Horace took off on his own. After slow-pedaling our way down Arthur Kill to the service road, Dr. Rob and Greg were still nowhere to be seen, so Joe and I picked up the pace on our own, once again into the frigging wind.
Goddam wind.
Reaching the bagel shop, we had Horace ahead by thirty seconds or so and as much as I wanted to at least make the effort to catch him, I asked Joe to pull over for a minute so I could shove a few Fig Newtons down my throat as I hadn’t eaten since 6:30 and my hands and arms were beginning to feel a bit shaky. As we caught a quick rest and I munched, Joe explained he doesn’t eat before the morning rides. How in the world he goes out and does forty-five miles without any breakfast is beyond me.
It was good that we stopped, though. Dr. Rob and Greg caught up and we rolled. Not far past the bagel shop, some lady rode up on Dr. Rob’s ass and honked (not at his ass--at him) and Dr. Rob flew into a fit. It was just one of those things. I flew into a fit myself a few weeks ago when a fat bastard in a SUV tried honking me out of the way on Bay Street. Absolutely infuriated me, so I can understand why Dr. Rob was still screaming by the time we hit Main Street and the bitch in her BMW was long gone.
And once we hit the boulevard, the wind was finally at our backs. Horace was gone so the four of us cruised until Great Kills where, once again, Dr. Rob began hammering.
Unbelievable.
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