Five in the morning?

So I’ve got another update. I know how much everyone looks forward to my amazingly interesting updates so here it is.

For starters, I slipped a ring on my girlfriend’s finger Saturday night. She said yes, she called her parents, she called her sister, and then we commenced drinking until we could drink no more. And considering I was still a bit drunk when I just happened to wake up around 6:30, there was no way in hell I was in any shape to throw a leg over a bike, so I relaxed my way into the day.

Apart from the change in my relationship status, I went on a group ride this morning. It’s been a while since my last group ride and I spotted what looked like a decent training ride on the NYCC site last night:

Pace: B17
4 laps in Central Park
Double paceline

Sounds promising, doesn’t it? It sounded promising to me until I rolled to the start and found the ride leader, a pleasant woman with her named printed on two pieces of masking tape stuck to the front and back of her helmet, lecturing one of the riders on how a paceline works.

Now taking the time to explain how a paceline works is all well and good, but how much of a lecture does one really need? Isn’t the best way to get used to riding in a paceline to simply ride in an actual paceline?

Normally, I wouldn’t care so much, but I point all this out as I tragically found myself in the midst of another group of riders who (a) seemed to prefer chatting over riding, and (b) had a tendency to get on my goddam nerves. How does someone get on my nerves? The same way he or she would get on your goddam nerves.

One of the two woman in the group (who shall remain nameless), she had something to say about everything. “See how he’s doing it? That’s the way you ride. Keep your cadence nice and steady. No, no, no. Don’t hit your brakes. You’re doing it wrong. When you pull off, watch the other guy as he pulls off and the two of you should drift back evenly, kind of like a ballet. Hey! Slow it down! Otherwise I’ll get up front and pull.”

And you know what’s ironic? This same woman who had something to say to everyone, who had a million tips on how to ride a bike (even though no one was asking for her help), she was so busy shooting off her goddam mouth she ran right into the back of the guy in front of her and fell over.

Can you believe that crap?

And the pace. We were nowhere near 17 MPH at any point. By the second lap, I checked my computer and saw the average pace was closer to 14 MPH. Don’t take that the wrong way, though. I’m not saying I’m this maniacal speed demon, but if you’re going to advertise a ride with a 17 MPH pace, it’s a bit ridiculous to breeze around the park as if we’ve got all the time in the world.

So as soon as the ride leader asked, “Does everyone know what an interval is? Should we do some intervals?” I clicked up a gear and took off and that was that.

The moral of this story? If you want to train at 5:45 in the morning, do so at your own risk.

That Time of the Year

It’s that time of the year.

The weather had begun to turn and it’s now that time of the year when it takes only five minutes to get ready rather than twenty. It’s the time of the year when the windproof bib tights are stuffed into the back of the drawer along with the booties and the lobster gloves. Yeah, you still have to break out the leg and arm warmers the next few weeks, and you might still have to wear a cap and long-fingered gloves if your ride early enough in the day, but that’s a small price to pay for the weather finally breaking.

It’s that time of the year when you can actually feel the sun on your back when you’re out for a ride. It’s that time of year when, if you’re lucky enough to be out on a day warmer than seventy degrees, you can smell the tar melting on the road when you stop at a traffic light. (“Smells like summer,” you inevitably mutter to yourself.)

It’s that time of the year when you can actually feel the sweat dripping down your nose as you climb a long, steady hill.

It’s that time of the year when you actually want to ride. It’s the time of the year when more than three guys show up for the weekend jaunt out of town.

It’s the time of the year when you think, “You know, I wouldn’t mind signing up for a few races this summer.”

It’s the time of the year when you think, “I wonder how much better I could get with a coach and a power meter.”

It’s that time of the year when you can actually fit a ride in after work because it won’t get dark until 8:30.

It’s that time of the year when you might even fit in a ride before work because it’s warm enough to not feel like your eyeballs are freezing.

It’s that time of the year when Versus begins broadcasting bicycle races every Sunday afternoon.

It’s that time of the year when your significant other might ask you to take them out for a quick spin in the park and it’s the time of the year when you actually feel like taking a leisurely spin around town.

It’s just that time of the year, the time of year everyone enjoys.

Who's Coming to Moab?

So here’s the deal.

Mr. Picco, Dr. Rob, and myself have discussed organizing a mountain biking trip to Moab, Utah this October. The reason I’m posting this online is to gauge whether or not anyone else might be interested in joining us.

(Neither Mr. Picco nor Dr. Rob has actually confirmed they’re definitely going, but that’s immaterial at this point.)

Before I delve into the details, I’m aware the name of this blog is Road Riding and here I am proposing a mountain biking adventure vacation but we’re all adults here so where’s the harm in a bit of cross-training from road to off-road?

Further, this trip idea is certainly not being crafted in the hopes of a “boys only” ride as my lovely lady friend has expressed interest in joining. Of course, she’s never even been on a mountain bike, but she’s promised her fitness is going to be in top form come October. Considering we’re looking at a beginner / intermediate level tour, it’s not like anyone needs to know how to bunny hop over twelve-inch logs to take the trip.

Now, let’s get down to the good stuff.

If you're even wondering what mountain biking in Moab is like, check out this video (and if you're initials are SJK and you're reading this--DON'T BE AFRAID! We won't be doing anything as intense as the riding below):



Dr. Rob recommended I check out a pair of tour providers online: Western Spirit Cycles and Rim Tours.

So I did exactly that and I found 4-day tours every week in October. Each week you have options to either start your tour on Wednesday and reach an end by Saturday, or start your tour on Sunday and end on Wednesday.

Myself, I’d rather start Wednesday and end Saturday, flying back to NYC on Sunday as a Saturday night stay = cheaper airfare.

How much does a guided tour cost? About $795. What does it include? You can check that out HERE on the Western Spirit Cycling site.

So how would we get there?

The cheapest and most convenient option seems to fly Delta to Salt Lake City ($360), rent a car ($275 for a full-size premium car for Tuesday through Sunday), get a hotel Tuesday night ($99 a night), get picked up by Western Spirit Wednesday morning, rent a bike ($40 daily, Specialized FSR), get back Saturday night ($99 for the hotel), drive back to SLC Sunday, and fly home.

So who’s in? Based on some initial math and research I did online, I’m thinking the total average per person cost for the entire trip would be roughly $1,750, give or take a few bucks.

Check it out online. If you’re interested, either shoot me a note at okaysplendid@yahoo.com or give me a ring on my cell at 914-610-6870 and we’ll work this out and book it ASAP.

Riding in the DR

Hola. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Not that I have any solid excuse as to why it’s been so long between posts (I never really do have a good excuse other than laziness, do I), although I was in the Dominican Republic last week for my first-ever Caribbean vacation in Punta Cana. My girlfriend and I flew down on Tuesday for a six-day, five-night stay at the Excellence Resort--an adults only slice of Caribbean heaven (a solid, solid recommendation from my good friend, Mr. Picco).

As I’m sure most of you have been to the Caribbean, if not the Dominican Republic, I’ll spare you all the fantastic details of the actual vacation, although what is worthy of note is the 45-minute bike tour in which my lady friend and I participated.

You go to these places, these all-inclusive resorts (and they’re all-inclusive because anything exclusive of the resort really isn’t worth doing or seeing), and when you find out they offer a bike tour, you tend to imagine they’ll hand you some sort of shitty straight-bar or mountain bike with a chain that hasn’t seen a drop of lube in three or four years and that you’ll end up doing one or two laps around the jogging track that encircles the 0.4 mile wide resort grounds.

Close, but no cigar. The bikes weren’t exactly mountain bikes and they weren’t exactly straight-bar bikes either. Under a tarp and chained to a basic bike rack, the tour guide--the same Dominican dude who led the aerobics program at the pool a few hours earlier--went about handing us the most banged-up single-speed cruisers I’ve ever seen in my life. Each chain looked and sounded as if it reached its half-life in terms of maximum rust potential, the tires were inflated just enough to keep the rims from squeaking across the pavement, the handlebars were loose enough so that they swung at least an inch in any direction within the head tube, and the yellow paint jobs had seen better days in 1967. The only thing about the bikes that seemed to work fairly well were the foot brakes but considering how little air the tires had, I doubt we ever reached a max speed higher than 11 or 12 MPH and never really needed brakes at all.

And rather than simply circling the resort, the bike tour took us outside the front gates along the same road the bus had followed to bring us to the resort from the airport two days earlier with scenery including . . . nothing. Nothing at all other than a few palm trees, a small motel that our tour guide casually informed me rented rooms on an hourly rate, some clouds through which the setting sun poked through, some tour busses that passed a hell of a lot closer to cyclists and pedestrians than they do here in NYC, some cows a few pounds too skinny, and dirt.

That was it. That was the bike tour. A full 45 minutes of not all that much. While riding behind Stephanie (that’s my lady friend), I took a few seconds of video with the camera which you can check out below, as well as some pics, but like I said, not a whole lot to see.











And for our next trick . . . I mean vacation, I’m going to attempt to plan a mountain biking tour out in Moab, Utah, so stay tuned for updates on that if anyone’s interested in joining. If so, let me know.

Gracias.

All In A Day's Work

Today was not my day. Rather than hitting the road, I should have gotten out of bed at my leisure this morning, had a bowl of cereal, walked over to the gym, and sat my ass on a spin bike for an hour. But no. When I woke up and spotted the sunshine outside, I just had to throw a leg over my bike, didn’t I? I just had to gear up and roll up toward the GWB and that’s exactly where the problems began.

When I left the apartment this morning, the temperature was maybe around 25 or 26 degrees and what does that mean other than it was cold? It means ice. It means goddam fucking ice which is exactly what my rear tire hit as I was rolling down the sidewalk about to make a right to take the ramp up toward the bridge.

I was lucky, though. Rather than slam on my side, I slammed on my side atop the four-foot concrete wall / divider, although it wasn’t that bad. I caught the top of the wall with my left hand, managed to keep my feet in the pedals, and also managed to keep my right hand on the brake which kept the bike from completely sliding out from under me.

It could have been worse. Had I caught the top of the wall with my chin, I would have did some serious damage although thanks to my lightning-like reflexes, all was fine.

Five minutes later, while making a hard left and then a hard right past one of the guards-in-a-box near the eastern side of the bridge path, I was about to take my hands off the brakes when WHAM! the bike slid out from under me. Half a second later, I was on the ground.

Considering how thin a layer of ice had covered the sidewalk on that particular stretch, I never noticed the damn ice. Immediately, the guard-in-the-box got out of her box and asked, “Are you all right?”

She didn’t seem too interested in telling me to slow down or be careful as I was riding up to the box and that is absolutely fucking bewildering. While I don’t exactly know what the guard-in-the-box’s job is, I would imagine part of it includes salting the patches of ice or at least putting out a few cones so cyclists, runners, and pedestrians know to be careful, but I guess that’s just too much to ask of one person, isn’t it?

Regardless, no major damage was done but going down on your side and almost going down on your side doesn’t really forebode well for the rest of the ride. While the route alone 9W was mostly quiet and uneventful (thank god), a chunk of snow did fall from atop a telephone pole and land directly in my lap with only a few miles to go as I was heading back toward the city.

That’s the kind of crap I really don’t need in my life, but I guess when you’re dumb enough to hit the road in icy, 25 degree temperatures, you sort of get what you deserve, don’t you?

Read All About It

For starters: my bad.

I realize I’ve neglected updating this page with as much frequency as I did in the past, although I have placed a fair amount of effort into the updates on the new blog. While the content is unrelated to cycling, I’m confident there’s a fair amount of entertainment to be had, so if you have a moment, check out www.ExpectTheWorst.com.

Before you do that, though, there are some cycling topics to discuss.

First and probably least important, the professional cycling team Astana has been barred from competing in both the Giro d’Italia and the Tour de France.

In my humble opinion, that’s a good thing. After everything I’ve read, it seems as though Johan Bruyneel made a damn good living making sure his team riders were doped up enough to win the biggest bike race in the world--which means he’s the mother of all cheats--and anybody who couldn’t see that has their head in the sand, so hats off to ASO for putting their foot down. If you genuinely believe Lance and Alberto won their Tours clean, wake up and smell the EPO.

Second, it’s f#cking freezing outside although I’ve been using those disposable toe warmers you can find in just about any sporting goods store and my feet have never been happier. Was out riding for over two hours this morning and not a single complaint from my toes, so the toe warmers are definitely worth the $0.99 / pair cost.

Third, I was thinking of starting a racing team in Westchester before I moved back to the city at the end of the year considering Westchester didn’t seem to have a single racing team but when I thought about it some more, I realized it wasn’t really a racing team I was interested in launching. To be more accurate, I wanted to start a team/group that could possibly race, but a bunch of guys who would definitely ride on the weekends and maybe a bit during the week with a bit more cohesiveness than a club group ride.

Know what I mean?

To me, the issue with club rides is that more often than not, you really don’t know the guy ahead of you or the guy (or girl) behind you. The group on Staten Island is the exception to that, but based on what I’ve experience elsewhere, club rides really don’t seem to have the structure and cohesiveness of a team ride.

Then, based on what I’ve only seen from team rides, they seem way, way too fucking serious. What I’m looking for is a team but without the elitist attitude they all seem to hold so dear. I know I’ve said this before, but every goddam time I pass a few team riders on the road, I say hello and they barely even look at me. What’s up with that?

So again, I’m thinking of starting something, maybe something like the CRCA.

Whatever. It’s a thought that will continue to linger until I do something about it.

Anyway, has anyone signed on for the Montauk Century on May 18th? I registered but only for the 65-mile option. Not much desire to be on my bike for more than five hours on a spring Sunday, but let me know if anyone else is heading out as I’ll be there.

And that’s about it for now, I guess.

Sheldon Brown Dies of Massive Heart Attack

Read the article HERE.

Not that I ever met the guy or new the guy, but I've been to his website for mechanical advice I don't know how many times, so it feels like big news.

Leukemans gets two-year ban

This just in from VeloNews:

Belgian cyclist Bjorn Leukemans was handed a two-year ban by the Flemish anti-doping authorities Thursday following his positive test for testosterone.

Leukemans tested positive for the banned performance enhancer at an out-of-competition test on September 26, four days prior to the world championship road race in Stuttgart, where he finished 13th.

That's big news. I mean, you NEVER hear of cyclists using performance-enhancing drugs let alone failing drug tests. What the hell is this sport coming to?

Chain Stretch Already?

So, a few things.

First, I finally spent a few bucks on a workstand (to be totally honest, I bought it with a pair of gift certificates) and, god almighty, that thing has changed my life. How has it changed my life?

It was only a few weeks ago that I asked Trek Tommy to take a gander at my bike considering the vibration I was getting in the top two or three tallest gears. For the longest time the issue had me stumped--had me stumped for months, actually--but not five minutes after mounting my ride on my new Spin Doctor Race Repair stand (these companies really should be paying me for all the free advertising I’ve been giving them via this well-read blog page), I realized upon close inspection that the chain wasn’t fully seated on the chainring, meaning there was a fair amount of space between the chain and the concave space between the teeth on the chainring.

Know what I mean, Vern?

Afterward, I spent the remainder of the night wondering exactly what would cause such an issue. Not one to be outsmarted by a few tubes of carbon and some Japanese components, I hopped online and posted a note on Google Groups, the rec.bicycles.misc group, specifically.

(If you want to go ahead and check it out for yourself, CLICK HERE. I’ve always found it useful to post tech questions, but it also allows you to search for information--any type of cycling information for which you might be looking.)

Anyway, two gents posted replies explaining that my issue sounded like my chain had stretched to the point where it was no longer engaging the chainrings properly and so for the first time in my cycling career, I decided to gauge the chain length.

I know. I’m a goddam genius.

I had always heard you could use a ruler or a tape measure and that if you held one end of the ruler to the center of a rivet on the chain that the opposite end of the ruler--exactly twelve inches--should align against the center of another rivet. When the end of my ruler was nowhere near a rivet, I realized I was dealing with a worn chain.

(Now if someone had told me chains wear after only 4,000 miles, then I probably would have thought of this sooner.)

Regardless, I hiked it over to Toga Bikes on 64th and West End Avenue (quite the goddam shop they have there) for a new Dura-Ace chain and the guy behind the counter recommended a new cassette as well, but rather than drop $209 on a Dura-Ace 10-speed cassette, I spent $70 on the 105 cassette. Do I need to be that much lighter? Probably not.

Anyway, it worked out perfectly as I had recently bought a folding chain-breaking tool when I bought the work stand, so I was ready to do what I had to do. Removed the rear wheel, removed the old, grease-covered cassette (which did look as though some teeth were more worn than others), installed the sparkling new 105 cassette, and then tackled the chain.

I now realize that disassembling and assembling a new chain is actually quite simple. I’d imagine that most bike repair is proably as simple, but that’s beside the point. At first, I simply installed the new chain but it wasn’t until I shifted onto the small chainring did I realize I was going to need to remove some links to make the whole package work properly.

No sweat. The Park Tools web site is a terrific resource for tech issues and it explained the procedure perfectly--measure the proper length for the chain from the smallest cog and the small chain ring, make sure the chain isn’t rubbing against the bottom portion of the pulleys, and you’re set.

The one small error I made was when I installed the rivet. I think I might have went a quarter-turn too tight as that link was rather stiff and I had to work it up and down with a fair amount of lube before it wanted to work correctly. Speaking of which, I should check that later tonight.

And I’m still having crank-creaking issues. After my last group ride on SI, I loosened and re-tightened all the bolts on the crank arms, but I’m still getting noise, so I have to tackle that again, yet I’m feeling so good from the chain-changing success, I feel that maybe I’ll take apart the bottom bracket, clean and lube, and then put that f#cker back together.

Finally, I recently learned of another cycling blog that’s pretty damn entertaining. It’s a local guy and when it comes to bloggers, especially cycling-specific bloggers, you could do a lot worse, so I recommend you give this guy a shot and check out his page, which is www.bikesnobnyc.blogspot.com.

Potholes And Those Damn . . .

I went riding on Staten Island yesterday. Yep, now that I’m living in Manhattan almost 100%, I figured I’d tie the bike to the back of the girlfriend’s car and join the Staten Island club for the round-the-island-dodge-the-potholes-and-bicycle-friendly-drivers ride.

Rather than provide a play-by-play, there are a few things about riding on Staten Island that I’ve missed the past ten months and there are a few things about riding on Staten Island that I will never miss.

THINGS I WILL NEVER MISS ABOUT STATEN ISLAND:

1. Goddam effing drivers, commonly referred to Joey Macaroni, Joey Goombah, Fat Joey, Fat Danny, etc.

2. Goddam effing road quality

3. Goddam effing beautiful scenery

4. Goddam effing bike lanes in the most useless areas

4. Goddam effing dump

5. Goddam effing drivers . . . wait, I mentioned that one already, but I guess they’re worth mentioning again

THINGS I MISS ABOUT STATEN ISLAND:

I don’t technically miss anything about Staten Island with the exception of the club rides. As per my notes above, I could do without the potholes and whatnot, but the characters and conversation are second-to-none and since I simply can’t seem to find such colorful exchanges in any of the other cycling groups, I occasionally return for a ride on Staten Island. Sure, I probably did more damage to my bike yesterday in three hours than I did all summer, but isn’t it worth it to listen to Dr. Rob go off once in a while? Isn’t it worth it to listen to Ed and Vito calmly telling each other to go f#ck one another?

I think it is.

The Sunshine State

So I’m down here in Florida on vacation. I’m in Wellington, Florida, to be exact and, rather than ship my bike down or invest in a piece of bike luggage, I rented a bike from a place in Palm Beach. To be exact, my girlfriend rented it for me. Rented it for three days, to be even more exact. When a girl doesn’t ride but she rents a bike for you to ride, is that true love? As Kenny Picco said, “Dude, she TOTALLY hooked you up.”

That she did.

Anyway, like I was saying, it’s now December 23rd and I’m in Florida. Been here since Thursday and I’ve been out riding two hours every morning in the lovely Florida weather. No tights. No long-finger gloves. No sweat-wicking caps. Not frosty breath. No constantly dripping nose. No booties. No feet warmers. Every morning I’ve hit the road with my Camelbak, my pump stuffed in the Pump Port, a few granola bars, a few gels, my cell phone, driver’s license, and a couple of bucks. I throw a leg over my rented Trek 2.1 wearing a short-sleeved jersey, a pair of shorts, gloves, a helmet, and that’s it.

And I’m doing all this in the end of December. Who’s better than me?

Apart from riding in eighty-degree weather a few days before Christmas (and as all us northeasterners know, that’s just wrong on so many different levels), the roads down here are not only pristine, but they’re flat as boards and straight as rails. For instance, I’ve been riding from Point A to Point B along Route 441:




As I said, flat as a board and straight as a rail, although 441 does come complete with a bike lane, at least until you hit Boca.

My starting point every morning has been here, this community where the Katzman family (my girlfriend’s family, obviously) lives . . .



. . . which is this far from the beach.



When we first rented the bike, I started from Palm Beach and followed the following route:



Nice ride along the water, but A1A is only a two-lane road, so I had a fair amount of traffic bearing down on me from behind.

But then I made a right there on 802 and started heading west when (a) a few drops of rain began falling from the sky, (b) the neighborhood demographics changed from over-the-top mansions along A1A to considerably smaller haciendas and plenty of Dos Amigos convenient stores, and (c) I began to encounter a sweltering headwind, but hey, if you don’t have hills, the least you can do is ride into a headwind, right?

And that was it. That was the trip. Sure, I probably could have been a bit more adventurous and made a few more left and rights, but when all the streets are straight and flat, what’s the point? I would basically leave the Katzman compound, head south on 441 for an hour or so and then turn around and return to the Katzman compound to find my girlfriend lounging by the pool. After a quick shower, I’d join, wait for happy hour, have a few drinks, have dinner, maybe do a bit of swimming, and then repeated the following day.

I’m assuming this is how debutantes live. They have their own activity on the side but most of the free time is spent drinking and lounging. Not sure how I feel about that. Put a gun to my head for saying this, but maybe there is something to be said for working.

Jesus, did I really just say that?

Cordial? Manners? Couth?

Can we all agree that time trial helmets are one of the more ridiculous cycling products ever invented? Granted, I realize there are aerodynamic benefits to be had from wearing such an awkward-looking device one one’s head while one is in the midst of a time trial, but let’s be honest. While cyclist and cycling fans the world over may have glazed over their initial impressions of time trial helmets (which we can abbreviate as TTH for the remainder of this update) once the aerodynamic function of the elven-shaped helmet have been explained, they’re still ridiculous.

Are we all on the same page? I know they might look cool (“might” being the operative word there) while watching one of the pros blast along at 30 MPH hunched over their aerobars, but you really should admit to yourself that whenever you’ve seen a cyclist not hunched over their bike and wearing the TTH while standing around, it looks like a fashion gone horribly, horribly wrong.

With all that said, from this day forward, I’m taking an anti-TTH stance. Even in the unlikely event I turn into a time-trialing freak and spend 98% of my disposable income on time trial bikes and time trial equipment I will never, EVER, lay a TTH upon my head. I’m sure you’re as okay with that as I am, but I wanted to toss it out there anyway.

Shifting gears, I went for a ride this morning. As I’m all but living in the Upper West Side now, I rolled out of the apartment, hooked a left on 71st Street, a right on West End Avenue, a left on 72nd Street, and a right on Riverside Drive which took me all the way to 165th Street where I made another right and climbed the short yet relatively steep hill that leads to . . . you know, I really should pay better attention. I made a left at the next traffic light--whatever that street is--and then made my glorious yet freezing way to the GWB.

On my way over the bridge, I was sitting behind a pair of girl (cyclists) waiting for bridge path to widen so I could pass safely when some douchebag wearing a local team kit began yelling at me to hold my line (which I was holding just fine, thank you very much) so he could squeeze by on the left.

My initial instinct, of course, was to unclip my left shoe and kick the little douchebag in the head, but I’m something of a rational and well-adjust human being so I let it go. It’s nice to let things go (when you can, although some people really do need a kick in the head once in a while), so just like that, I let it go, but I thought to myself, Let’s check something out.

For the remainder of the ride, I waved at every cyclist passing on the opposite side of the street and said, “How’s it going?” to every person I passed on my side of the street.

Survey says? Sorry, but most road cyclists are douchebags. Correction: most roadies act like douchebags.

Of all the cyclists to whom I either waved or said hello, NONE of those wearing team kits acknowledged me whatsoever. Of those riders not wearing team kits, I would say only 10% to 20% acknowledged me with a wave or a nod of the head.

What the hell is it about a matching jersey and tights that causes roadies to act the way they do? It absolutely bewilders me. Regardless, my new policy, along with never, EVER wearing a TTH, will now include waving and saying hello to every cyclist I see on the road, acknowledgement or not. I’m not going to let incessant douchebag behavior turn me into a douchebag. Nuh-uh. Not me.

Warm Feet Delivered Straight To Your Home

So the new Pearl Izumi AmFib MTB booties? They FREAKING rock! Highly recommended.

I’ve been spending the week here in the city and last night I went for a ride in Central Park last night. Snow? Yes, it was snowing, but hardly enough to stick. On Park Drive, the snow was only sticking on those parts of the street where an underpass existed (sort of like a bridge?) and even in those spots it was only a thin covering.

Regardless, the temperatures were way down in the thirties and my feet were comfy. Granted, I now stick those air-activated toe warmers to the top of my thick wool socks before slipping my feet into my size 50 Sidis before slipping those into the new booties, but I don’t think my feet could have been any more comfortable than they were last night.

Also, if you suffer from big feet the way I do (meaning you probably also suffer from another uncommon condition, but it’s not the kind of condition anyone would ever complain of), the XXL Pearl Izumi booties are a pleasure to get on. Last winter, I was wearing Craft booties but they were so damn tight the zipper eventually gave out. The AmFib booties fit like a snug glove--no hassles.

And that’s that. If you don’t use the toe warmers, I highly recommend those as well. Sure, they’re going to cost a couple of bucks--about $1.50 a pair--but isn’t it worth it for warm toes? It damn well is to me and they supposedly stay warm for 6 hours. Supposedly . . .

Heading South Again

It’s starting to look like my days in Westchester may be numbered. For those of you who know me well enough, you may be assuming I’ve gone and punched out another high school kid and the authorities of the pleasant village of Pleasantville have finally asked that I pack my bags and leave for the sake of their obnoxious high school students. (As usual, that’s a whole other story.) I’m happy to say that I’ll be leaving Pleasantville of my own free will (as it should be with a name like Pleasantville). As I said, it’s looking as though I may be moving back into Manhattan not long after the New Year passes.

Of course, I don’t want to jinx myself by talking about it too much before it actually happens, but come on. It’s important to plan accordingly based on where you think your life is heading and I definitely think this is where my life is heading--living not far from Central Park (once again).

So what does that mean? In other words, who gives a shit if I’m moving from Westchester to Manhattan? Well, for starters, it means I can be one of the cool kids again. Go ahead and say it: Donaldson, you never really were one of the cool kids and it’s hard to imagine you ever will be one of the cool kids. Maybe there’s something to that and maybe there isn’t, but I figured I’d toss it out there anyway. When I say I’ll be one of the cool kids again, I mean I won’t have to spend almost three hours a day commuting to and from work (because really, that does suck the big donkey). I won’t have to schedule myself around the Metronorth train schedule. I won’t have to drive two miles to the Shoprite in Thornwood. Instead, I can walk two blocks to an over-crowded and over-priced Food Emporium on the corner of 68th and Broadway. (Who’s better than me?) I won’t have to do a lot of the thing suburbanites have to do (although I can’t seem to think of any one of them right now), which is nice.

Sort of. While it also means I’ll have the convenience of riding in Central Park during the week--wide road, no traffic, etc.--I’m losing the long weekend rides through the back roads. Sure, I can ride over the GWB and up 9W every Saturday and Sunday, but honestly, 9W really isn’t that nice. I see myself occasionally hopping back on Metronorth to catch a ride with the Westchester club, maybe something that starts in lower half of the country around Hartsdale or Scarsdale.

You know, I almost forgot one other major consequence of possibly moving back into the city. I’m thinking that perhaps I’ll join CRCA, but again, I don’t want to be one of those guys who talks about what he wants to do and then never actually does it. While joining CRCA is not that big of a deal in and of itself, it means I could try to join one of their sponsored racing teams. The question is, though, do I want to do that? Do I want to spend weekends traveling to races in the Northeast? I mean, I enjoy racing locally in Prospect Park, but I don’t want to make a career out of racing. I don’t need to deal with teammates who spend every waking moment poring over the strategy for next weekend’s race. In other words, I want to have fun, ride hard, and hop in a few races, but I don’t want to go so far that riding my bike is no longer enjoyable.

That make sense? Maybe I’ll just join CRCA as a racing member, not join a specific team, race a few club races in Central Park, show up for a few of their coaching sessions (free for members, I believe), enjoy wearing the CRCA jersey, and leave it at that. I think that may work. I want to have fun and take it semi-seriously, but I don’t need to find myself surrounded by a bunch of wanna-be ProTour racers.

And that’s it, I think. That’s how I see my cycling changing if . . . I mean when I move back into the city. Any thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? And I mean suggestions other than throwing myself out a window, so don’t even think about it.

Winter Training Begins

All right, all right, all right. So it’s been a long while since my last post. Go ahead and sue me, but these things happen.

Actually, I don’t mean to sound like a whiney douchebag, although I do have two excuses in that (a) it has been ridiculously busy at work, and (b) it’s cold outside and when it’s cold outside, it’s not as much fun to ride as it is when it’s warm outside. Am I right or am I right?

Speaking of the cold, it wasn’t long ago that I arrived home on a weeknight, suited up for temperatures in the high-forties, strapped the blinking headlight to the handlebars and the blinking taillight to the seat post, and hit the road for my usual 18-mile weekday training ride. Honestly, it was the first time since last spring that I had to wear full-fingered gloves, a baselayer, a long-sleeved jersey, leg warmers, my Woolie Boolie socks, and my riding cap under my helmet. I mention all this as, once my ride was over and I climbed the stairs to the front door of my house and stepped inside, I had one of those flashbacks, but not the drug-induced kind of flashback. The moment I stepped inside out of the cold, an entire winter’s worth of riding came back to me all at once. Know what I mean? The season’s change and you spend so long riding on warm mornings with just a jersey and a pair of shorts that you forget how long it takes to gear up when the temperature drops below fifty. You almost forget how good it feels to get home, blow your nose with a tissue (as opposed to umpteen snot-shots while on the road), peel off all the layers, and hop in a hot shower. It’s the shower that always does it for me. Spending a few minutes under the warm water as the mirror and windows begin to fog and then getting dressed in fresh clothes and then sitting down for a satisfying meal? Putting up with the wind-chill almost seems worth it when you think of it like that, doesn’t it?

Speaking of the cold, though, I pulled myself out of bed a little after seven this past Sunday morning (and leaving your girlfriend/wife in bed under the covers to go for a ride in twenty-eight degree weather is never too easy of a thing to do) and geared up for a brisk, two-hour blast. And you know me and my size 14 cycling shoes--finding booties that fit is close to impossible, especially considering I have shoes of the mountain biking variety (that’s a whole other story, so let’s not even bother), so I tend to simply roll with the Woolie Boolie socks, a second pair of thick neoprene socks over the Woolie Boolies, and a regular pair of Pearl Izumi toe warmers.

Needless to say, an hour into the ride, I found myself desperately searching for either a convenient store or a grocery store or any sort of public establishment where I might sit down for ten minutes in order to regain the feeling in my toes. Of course, this is not new news. This has happened to every person reading this page, although I’m happy to report that over the weekend I came to realize that Pearl Izumi (one of my favorite apparel manufacturers, fyi) does indeed make an AmFib bootie specifically of the mountain biking variety and they also happen to make this bootie up to size XXL for those cyclists with shoes size 49+.

I don’t know about you, but I’m excited. Really excited. As soon as I found out about the MTB booties in just my size, I quickly hopped online and promptly spent $49.95 of my hard-earned money on a pair of new Pearl Izumi AmFib Mountain Biking booties. Will my feet soon be thanking me? You’re damn right they will be. Especially when I also invest in a few pairs of those air-activated heated insoles. The heated insoles combined with the booties? Cold weather? Freezing temperatures? I’ve got your freezing temperatures right here, tough guy!

Swing Batter, Swing

So I’m on the road last night with about five minutes left in my usual weekday training ride. You know how it is: you’re not far from home and the road is relatively quiet so why not stand up and blast out a few sprints before you pull the throttle down to idle and cool down the engines? That’s exactly what I started doing and in the middle of the second sprint while approaching a wide-open intersection, I spotted a mid-sized SUV nearing the STOP sign to my right. No need to push my luck, I thought, taking my foot off the gas.

Thank god I did. If not, I would have ended up as road kill last night. The driver happened to reach the STOP sign on the right—I had neither a STOP sign nor any type of signal—a moment before I did and apparently, she missed the blinking headlight on my handlebars. Apparently, even while under the street lights, she missed every piece of reflective clothing on my body and decided to go for it, meaning she came within 2-3 feet of broad siding me straight into oblivion.

Now I know that every person laying eyes on this blog page has most likely spent a fair amount of time riding a bicycle and, if you haven’t, I’m sure you can relate. If you don’t ride, you’ve either seen cyclists get hit or snake through close calls, or you’ve almost hit a cyclist yourself, probably both. The reason I put the energy into describing the above, though, is not because almost getting murdered by a middle-aged woman behind the wheel of an SUV (most likely rushing to some parent-teacher conference . . . go ahead and call me sexist, I’m fine with that) is anything unique to me and my ride last night. The reason I mention what happened last night has to do with how such a close-call invariably causes one to fly into an uncontrollable rage.

When you’re driving along in your own SUV and someone almost blows through a STOP sign, it’s annoying, but with a few tons of metal surrounding your fragile personal frame, it never really seems like that big of a deal. Chances are you’ve got air bags to keep your pretty / handsome face from smashing into the steering wheel in the event of a head-on collision. You have disc brakes to stop all four wheels and more than enough rubber-to-asphalt surface area to get you stopped that much faster.

When you’re doing 35 MPH on tires less than an inch wide with wire-pull brakes and someone blows a STOP sign and your heart rate jumps to 210, we’re talking about a whole other ball game. Without that sturdy steel frame and air bags to keep you safe, some jackass in a SUV failing to take half a second to actually look for oncoming traffic no longer means a simple inconvenience settled with a finger poised in the air. When you’re on your bike, a sloppy driver could mean a nasty spill. It could mean road rash. It could mean a broken bone or a few broken bones. It could mean finding yourself without the ability to move your toes or your legs. It could mean a coma from which you never recover, or if the driver is really that much of an asshole, it could mean not only your last ride, but your last thought, your last day, your last minute, your last breath. It could mean never seeing you wife/husband/girlfriend/husband again. It could mean never seeing your kids again. It could mean that some irresponsible dipshit takes away every fucking thing you were looking forward to for the rest of your life whether you’re twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, or seventy-years-old.

And considering it only takes three-tenths of a second to realize how close you just came to losing everything, you get mad. You get madder than mad. Pardon the cliché, but you fly into something closely resembling an uncontrollable rage and, if you don’t, then you damn well should. And while I’m not advocating violence—only if you’re with a riding group you can trust—it never hurts to toss the offending driver a gratuitous verbal ass-beating just so he or she is aware of how much of a moron he or she actually is. It’s sort of like George Carlin says when discussing survival of the fittest: “The kid who swallows too many marbles deserves to die,” meaning the people who drive as bad as they do, they deserve a gratuitous verbal ass-beating at the very least.

Know what I’m saying?

Deep Breath

Like all of us, I battle with things. Every freaking day, I battle with both things we can all see and touch and some things we can’t see and touch. I mention this as I have zero intention on delving into a diatribe around my “feelings,” but rather, I felt like making mention of the constant battle of cycling and the need to improve.

Now, let me start by saying there is absolutely nothing wrong with striving to improve. Maybe it’s just a part of us as Americans that we constantly feel the need to do everything progressively better and better, but what’s wrong with that? Nothing, I say, but one can definitely take it too far. What do I mean by that? I mean that I believe the desire for improvement may often overshadow the enjoyment that comes with particular endeavors—endeavors like cycling.

It’s important, REALLY important, to keep in mind how much enjoyment can be had from tossing a leg over a bike and pedaling through five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, fifty, or even eighty miles (as insane as that may sound). It’s important—to me, at least, which is my usual disclaimer—to occasionally hop on the bike and just go for a ride without a pre-set agenda, without the heartrate monitor, and (god forbid), without the computer. I believe this is part of the reason why people own fixed-gear and/or single-speed bikes.

Now I’m not going out for a quick leisure ride tonight as tonight’s a night for improvement overall via intervals on the freaking trainer. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Jealous, aren’t you?

Me and the GWB

I went riding today and while I realize that a ride in and of itself is not exactly exciting news, it’s a matter of where I went riding that makes it mildly entertaining. After spending the night in the city--in the Upper West Side, specifically--I hit the road at seven-thirty this morning and made my way along Riverside Drive to the George Washington Bridge, into Jersey, and eventually back into New York just south of Nyack.

And that was it. That was my ride. Fifty-one miles later and three hours later, I returned to 72nd Street and Broadway.

(Another quick thanks to Benny for the bag of Clif products. After an hour-and-a-half of riding, I pulled over to chow down on a bag of lemon-lime Clif Shot Bloks to keep the energy up on the way back into the city. LOVE those things!)

A bit chilly this morning, no? Windy as well? During the approach to the GWB, I found myself a bit worried the wind might carry me over the railings and into the Hudson River, although oddly, the wind was the worst on Riverside Drive and not as brutal while crossing the bridge.

Apart from the rather uneventful yet entertaining ride this morning, my gearing seems to be a bit messy once again. I would have to imagine I need to fine-tune the rear derailleur with the barrel adjuster considering I’m getting a bit of chatter in the crank arms when they’re under stress, meaning when I’m pushing the pedals harder rather than pushing them lighter. My first thought is that the chain may be jumping the tiniest bit while toward the top end of the cassette, but the derailleur is shifting fine when I was working on it Saturday night. Again, it’s only when I’m on the road and actually pedaling that I can both hear and feel the chatter, but it was really breaking my concentration this morning, enough to make it that much less of an enjoyable ride.

Over the past year, I haven’t had the best of luck with Shimano gear. The next bike--assuming there is a next bike--may be Campagnolo. Give that stuff a shot. Dr. Rob seems to swear by it, so maybe there’s something in that.

And FYI, I realize I’ve been a bit lacking in my blog update responsibilities, although I promise to work on that and get these things up with some more regularity. And I also promise to try and make them a bit more interesting as well.

Changing Colors

It was maybe two weeks ago that I happened to take a good look at my mountain bike leaning against the wall in the basement--the same bike I’ve ridden maybe three times since buying it earlier this year--when I thought to myself, You know, I really should carve out some time to get on that thing again before it gets too cold.

Sure enough the opportunity arose. Yesterday morning my lady friend Stephanie and I hit the road and headed north (actually, we first had to drive south until we made a right onto 287 West and then another right onto 87 North) up to the New Paltz area to do some off-road riding with a crew composed of Dr. Rob, his wife Cecilia (apologies if I misspell any names), Anne D., Benny and his wife May. Were we all riding? Nope. The girls, with the exception of Anne, went out for some hiking around Lake Minnewaska and then shopping through town while Dr. Rob led the rest of us through the trails, but before I even get started on that, Benny and May presented us with a mussette all but stuffed with Clif bars, Clif gel shots, and Clif shot blocks while we were getting ready.

“Mother of God,” I mumbled under my breath, my eyes feasting on the horde of nutritional goodies. Grabbing some orange Shot blocks and a vanilla gel, we were ready to roll.

We hit the road and got the legs warmed up with a ten-minute climb up to the trail. It’s never easy to start a ride with that much climbing, but sometimes you just do what you have to do, especially when the air’s as cool as it is and you know you’re in for a hell of a day.

(Honestly, my only concern starting the ride yesterday was that terrible duo, Dr. Rob and Anne. If those two nut jobs decided at any point to put the hammer down, I knew I’d be in for a painful morning. Thankfully, neither of the two decided they were in the mood to try and kill me, so it all worked out for the best and I can actually walk today.)

Overall, we had an unbelievable day, at least in my opinion. The weather cooperated, none of us had any mechanicals, no one crashed (except Anne, and I wouldn’t exactly call her tip-over a crash considering we were doing all of 3 MPH heading up one of the steepest parts of the trail and she was laughing as she went down), and everybody made it to lunch. Is that a good day in the mountains? I would say it is. I would say it was a terrific day.

Wait. I forgot about the traffic on the way home. Ah well. Sometimes you have to take the bad with the good. Know what I mean?

After roughly three-and-a-half hours on the bikes and a much-needed lunch at the Gilded Otter--where we met up with the ladies after their excursions--we were done for the day when that fabulous mussette that Benny and May had so graciously offered earlier in the day came back out of Dr. Rob’s trunk.

“Take the whole thing,” Benny offered. “I’m swimming in that stuff.”

“Are you sure?” The man had might as well just presented me with a check for a million dollars.

Anne didn’t want any and neither did Dr. Rob. “Are you sure?” I asked everybody again. I should’ve asked Stephanie to pinch me just to make sure I was awake. In the bag were at least half a dozen Clif bars, just as many gels, and a lot of Shot blocks.

“Take it,” Benny said.

That man now has a friend for life.

Below are some pics . . . oh, wait. I almost forgot the donuts. The girls picked up a box of apple cinnamon donuts in town before lunch. Polishing one off, Stephanie and I hopped in my truck. On the way out of the parking lot, I rolled down my window when Dr. Rob offered me another donut.

“Man, this was the best day EVER!” I said, grinning from ear to ear and stuffing my face with yet another donut.

Anyway, below are the pics from our excursion. Looking forward to the next round, amigos!















You know what? I probably should've taken a picture of all that stuff Benny and May brought, not to mention those donuts.

Down South

Saturday morning, I found myself back on Staten Island with my gear and my bike, ready to ride from New Dorp to St. George to whatever that industrial / junkyard area near the Bayonne Bridge is called to the Outerbridge past the mall down Arthur Kill Road up those godforsaken hills to the bagel shop and down Hylan Boulevard back to New Dorp.

Riding in Staten Island is always something of an adventure. If the gas-guzzling SUVs illegally hopping across the double-yellow line to speed head-on into bicycle traffic (meaning us) and blast through steady red lights don’t provide enough entertainment, all that’s required is a keen ear to absorb all the conversation one would never hear during a group ride with the Westchester Cycling Club. For example, after coming to a stop, Kelly realized a screw had embedded itself into her rear tire.

“I got screwed and I didn’t even realize it,” she said, to which someone else responded, “You going to try and pull it out or are you just going to leave it in?”

Apart from that, what I definitely don’t miss are the potholes. That’s not to say upper Westchester is pothole free, because it’s certainly not that, but after two-and-a-half hours on the road in Staten Island, I was amazed my bike was still in one piece.

So that happened. And other things happened, but nowhere near as exciting. I read on VeloNews.com that Johan Bruyneel may lead the Astana team and he may take Levi Leipheimer and Alberto Contador with him.

A quick word about Contador. I may be repeating myself here, but does anyone really believe that a twenty-four-year-old kid was in a position to beat a guy like Michael Rasmussen (who was probably swimming in EPO and other doping drugs) on natural ability alone? I think not.

And if Leipheimer’s going with Johan, does that mean Mr. Leipheimer’s comfortable and confident in Bruyneel’s ability to get his riders doped up as efficiently as possible without getting caught? I think so.

More on that. Take a guy like Basso who tells everyone, “Fuentes had my blood but I never doped. I only intended to dope.” Do Basso and his lawyers and the media actually expect us to believe a bunch of crap like that? They expect us to swallow a line like that after Basso absolutely destroyed everyone in the Giro? Are you kidding me?

I think I’ve been reading too much on professional cycling racing. I really need to tone it down, or better yet, just tune it out. While I enjoy watching some cycling on TV every now and again—and I admit to owning the 2006 Tour de France 12-hour DVD set—it really doesn’t do much for me when it comes to my own cycling, so why bother?