Brilliant Copywriting

I know I'm not the only one who, upon seeing the advertisement below, has asked him or herself, "This can't be right."



Ridiculously expensive? Am I reading that correctly? An ad for a product that plays on how expensive it is?

From what I understand, Speedplay (the people who make these pedals) are located in San Diego, so they're aware of the current economic climate facing most of the world, especially here in the United States. With that said, why the F#CK would you run an print ad that includes copy that reads, "Ridiculously Expensive?"

I'm thinking someone at Speedplay managed to seriously piss off their copywriter a few days before the magazines went to production.

Hours Upon Hours

One of the advantages to being unemployed is that I can now spend a ridiculous amount of time on the bike.

The disadvantages, of course, are numerous, although as long as I don’t spend too much time on the bike--meaning more than six or seven hours a day--I’m hoping to keep those disadvantages to a minimum by finding another fantastic job as soon as humanly possible.

And while I haven’t been unemployed long (was laid off last week, so it’s only been a few days, to be honest), the shift from an eight or nine-hour work day to a zero-hour work day means I can’t easily double the amount of weekday riding I had been doing. Now, instead of riding between sixty and ninety minutes a day during the week, I can now spend at least two hours a day riding, perhaps even three hours.

What all of this time one the bike is going to amount to, I have no idea. Stronger riding? It better amount to stronger riding although I’m still a bit ambivalent about the NYVelocity training program. I could be wrong, but I just get the feeling I’m not where I was mid-summer last year in terms of power. Riding around with my heart rate in either my endurance zone (134 to 146 BPM) or my tempo zone (147 to 154 BPM) for a few hours doesn’t make me feel as if I’m really making progress. Sure, I throw in a few sub-threshold (155 to 165 BPM) intervals here or there, but man, I just don’t know.

And the good thing about being an unemployed cyclist is that it doesn’t cost me anything to throw a leg over the bike and hit the road. Sure, there’s the cost of the food needed while out for a while--bananas, almonds, Clif Bars, muffins, etc.--but these are minimal costs. If these costs are going to have a serious effect one one’s bank account while unemployed, I think it’d be safe to say that the hours dedicated to riding should probably be spent on a job search.

Fortunately, I’m not in that position. Despite the current economic climate (a term I’ve come to loathe over the past several months), there are still jobs in the advertising industry and I can still afford to bring Clif Bars out on rides. Granted, there are less of them compared to this time a year ago, but they are out there, and finding one will only be a matter of time (hopefully less time than more time).

So how about that Tom Boonen taking his third Paris-Roubaix title? Granted, the guy did get a bit lucky when everyone behind him managed to crash, but god almighty, Boonen is one bad-ass motherf#cker. Hincapie is too, but that poor bastard can’t catch a break in that race. Would have been nice to see an American pull off the win, but to the victor go the spoils, no?

I'm Back!

Three months of no written communication. That’s a long time, no? It’s a long time for one person to be as lazy as they can be when it comes to keeping the online world abreast of what’s new in my life as it relates to cycling. And when I say lazy, god, I mean that in every freaking sense of the world.

Regardless, there’s been a fair amount happening in this so-called life of mine. Nothing terribly exciting, mind you, but then again, when was the last time someone called you with a piece of news so terribly exciting that you found yourself thinking, “For the love of christ, that IS exciting news!”

Not that I’m making excuses, but to be honest, there are times--like the past several months, for example--when writing is a lot like going to the gym. Once you’re finally at the gym and exercising, it doesn’t seem so bad. It’s getting to the gym that causes so much procrastination, and that’s exactly what happens with me when it comes to updating certain blogs. Once I actually sit down to write the damn thing, I feel fine. It’s just a matter of opening Word and making the actual effort the gets me flustered.

But here I am, once again baring my cycling soul to the world. (Not really, but it sounds good, doesn’t it?)

Let’s start where I left off, which was late-November, I believe. The only incident of note that happened between late-November and the end of the year was a trip to the in-laws mini-mansion in a golf country club in south Florida. I mention this as, now that I’m married, I figured, “I’m going to be down here at least once or twice a year for the foreseeable future, so I’ve got choices. I can (a) rent a bike every time I come down, (b) buy an inexpensive bike to keep down here, or (c) I can upgrade from the Jamis, ship the new bike to New York, and then ship the Jamis down to Florida.

Needless to say, I pursued option C and, as a result, I’m not the proud owner of a new Scott. Not a bad looking bike, right?



So that happened and, upon returning to NYC, I boxed up the Jamis and shipped that bitch down to the in-laws. And then, on my first ride out on the Scott, a goddam taxi driver hit me.

Can you believe that shit? The good news is that I’m fine, as was the bike with the exception of the rear wheel. It was a low-speed incident in that this dumb fuck tried making a right from the left lane and hit me dead center (at all of 5 MPH, mind you, hence the fact that no real damage was done).

What happened to the wheel? It had managed to wedge itself beneath the car’s front bumper and, as the driver crept forward (assumably looking over his left shoulder to check for oncoming traffic and not bothering to look where he was going which just happened to be straight into a very important local cyclist . . . me), it was somewhat tweaked. See below:



So that happened.

What else?

Training began in earnest in mid-January after a lactate threshold test at Cadence Cycling Center.

I bought a new trainer as the Blackburn crapped out on me. Picked up a Kurt Kinetic Road Machine fluid trainer and this thing is worlds better than the Blackburn. Even comes with a lifetime warranty.

Signed up for the 6-week bike repair course at Bicycle Habitat downtown. After almost three years of riding, I feel I’m pretty fluid with wrenching on bikes, but I figured I’d take the course anyway as I’ve been tossing around the idea of eventually getting out of advertising and possibly opening up a little bike repair shop. I enjoy working with my hands and I certainly enjoy bikes, so why not marry the two?

Got dropped in my first CRCA race of the season and by my own goddam teammates. I don’t know what these two guys--David Anthony and Mitch Jacaruso--did during the off-season--but considering how fast they’ve been hauling ass uphill, I’d say they’re going to be ready to an upgrade to the B field my mid-season. Like I said, it was the first club race of the season, March 28th, and everything was fine the first lap. We (the NYVelocity guys) were mostly at the front of the field, keeping things under control, and then, once we hit Harlem Hill on the second lap, David and Mitch went by me (and I was either second or third from the front of the peloton) as if we were standing still. Try as I might to keep up, once my heart rate hit 192 and it didn’t look like things were going to relax any time soon, I sat up and called it a morning.

Apparently, I still have a long way to go.

Next race, this Sunday morning, but it’s not a CRCA race. It’s some sort of Spring Racing Series and it’s only two or three laps in Central Park. Teammates who have entered some of the series previous events have warned, “Stay near the front! A lot of those guys can’t ride for shit.”

Why do I do this to myself? Why?

Finally, I don’t know if anyone’s tried climbing that last climb on River Road lately but I can tell you from firsthand experience that the potholes are ten times worse than they were this time last year. Just a head’s up.

What Have I Done

I think I might have made a mistake. Actually, I think I might have made several mistakes all at once--mistakes that are going to cost me some major time in the next eight to twelve months.

For starters, when the team (as in NYVelocity) told all of us to take at least two to four weeks off the bike, I took that literally and, rather than cross-train with another sport, I have done absolutely nothing over the past four weeks other than eat, drink, and sleep.

Why has so much time off the bike been a mistake? Because when I went for a ride yesterday, I approached a small hill that looked like this . . .



. . . and it not only took me half-an-hour to reach the top, but my heart rate shot up to 197 as well. And while I’ve got about thirty days before training for the 2009 season begins, I can’t even conceive of heading out for a ride that lasts longer than an hour-and-a-half or, god forbid, a group ride, especially with the team. (Deep down in my heart, I know that most of the guys on the team have been training their asses off despite the coaches telling us to take it easy. Too many type-A personalities who take this shit waaaayyyyy too seriously.)

Apart from the lack of training, I nominated myself to be voted in as Communications Director of the Century Road Club Association (of which NYVelocity is a sub-team). This means I’ll be the person responsible for daily and weekly updates to the club’s site, CRCA.net.

Am I a web designer? Do I know anything about HTML coding? NOPE, although apparently, the site is hosted on WordPress which is the same program I use for my other useless blog, ExpectTheWorst.com. Still, the CRCA site is a lot more complicated than my rinky-dink blog, so I have no doubt I’ll be logging some serious hours at the computer trying to keep things flowing on the site.



Wow. I can’t wait.

Garmin 705 Product Review

This thing blows. That's as good as a review as you're going to get from me.

Set it up last night and went for a ride over the GWB this morning. Was very much looking forward to riding anywhere but 9W and that's exactly what my compadre and I did. For twenty miles, we took any turn we wanted and sailed along the side rides of central New Jersey.

After an hour-and-a-half of riding, we decided it was time to head back.

"All I have to do is hit GO HOME," I said, "and we should be in good shape."

(FYI, I had entered my home address earlier, so the computer knew where I needed to go.)

Ten minutes later, the Garmin had yet to calculate a way back. Luckily, I knew where we were, so we started toward 9W. After another ten minutes had passed, the goddam piece of crap still hadn't calculated a route home.

"Maybe I did something wrong," I said.

Nope. I did everything right. At home, I tried calculating a few different routes, but none of them worked. As a result, we're returning this piece of shit to J&R this afternoon.

It's disappointing, to say the least. Now I'm back to cue sheets. Last time I ever buy a Garmin.

Garmin

MY CUE SHEET DAYS ARE OVER, AMIGOS!

Check out what the lady friend presented me with as a wedding gift only moments ago.



God almighty, I'm so pissed at myself for not opening the box from UPS as soon as I came in this evening. Like a total dumbass, I paid the package no mind when I spotted Stephanie's name on the label and went out for a quick, off-season ride. When I came in, she said, "That package on the table? I think that's the Garmin I ordered for you."

You mean I could've hooked that baby to my bars and went for a ride tonight? I could've watched my location on the map as I made a circle in Central Park? You mean I now have to wait until tomorrow before giving it a first try? How the hell am I supposed to sleep tonight?

Bernard Kohl Tests Positive

So Bernard Kohl got busted for CERA, huh? If you haven’t heard the news, you can read about it by clicking here and that should take you to the update on Velonews.com.

You know, at the end of the day, if you put a gun to my head, I really don’t give a shit if these guys are doping. Years ago, before taking up cycling, I had a brief conversation with a real estate broker (he was showing me a condo for sale in Jersey City) about athletes and steroids. Lance Armstrong’s name was raised and, at the time, I had no clue as to whether or not Lance was on the sauce, although I specifically remember telling the broker, “If these guys want to use drugs, then let them use drugs. Who gives a shit?”

“Yeah, but they’re role models,” the broker argued. “Kids look up to them.”

In hindsight, the “kids look up to them” comment was redundant as I fully understand what a role model is and how a role model is expected to act, but give me a break. It’s a weak argument all around. If a professional athlete--in other words, a person who makes a living from their athletic ability--has the opportunity to create a better living for him or herself via drug use and if they’re relatively sure they can get away with it, they’re going to do it. Ethics and integrity are words and their meanings can be bent, so let’s not get started on the ethical argument of cheating via performance-enhancing drugs.

FYI, there’s a movie out there called Bigger, Faster, Stronger. I caught it in the theaters while it was out for a single weekend before becoming a DVD and while it doesn’t necessarily focus on cycling at all, it is a decent take on drug use in the athletic arena.

So here’s where I’m going with this. Bernard Kohl finished third in the 2008 Tour de France and won the polka-dot jersey. Carlos Sastre and Cadel Evans (don’t even get me started on that frigging pansy) beat Bernard Kohl and, as we all know, the Tour is won in the mountains and in the time trials. If Sastre and Evans beat Kohl, does that mean they were taking CERA or some other performance-enhancing drug as well?

I’d make that assumption. Yep, I’d have no trouble making that assumption whatsoever.

Schumacher Tests Positive for CERA

You can read all about it here.

Did I or did I not call this in one of my previous posts? Did I not write these very words:

The Tour started last Saturday, there’s apparently no clear leader just yet (unless you consider Kim Kirchen a contender for the overall which would be something of a mistake), and somehow, Stefan Schumacher won the first individual time trial.

Where the hell did that come from? What in the world did Schumacher snort or inject to pull a performance like that out of his ass? What was also interesting is that Phil Liggett made a post-race note that Johan Bruyneel had tipped his hat to Schumacher to win the first time trial and what that tells me is that Bruyneel probably sold Schumacher whatever it was that he either injected or snorted to go as fast as he did.

But hey, maybe I’m just being a cynic. But I don’t think so. Schumacher beat Cancellara? I’d tip my hat to drugs. Lots of drugs.

Based on today's update on Schumacher in Velonews.com and considering Johan Bruyneel had predicted Schumacher would do well, perhaps Bruyneel has a side gig going on selling CERA. Wouldn't that be interesting.

Just The Other Night

So you’re never going to believe who I saw in Central Park on Wednesday night.

Luckily, this has been a recovery week for me according to my training schedule. That means I’m supposed to hop on the bike for no more than an hour a day and, better yet, I’m not supposed to let my heart rate climb above 125. (Dr. Rob, I know you really don’t understand what I’m trying to say when I say “recovery ride,” but it’s when you get on a bike and not go nuts at the bottom of every hill.)

So I’m in the Park Wednesday night doing exactly that. I’m spinning along with my heart rate around 108, enjoying the view for once (rather than blasting along with my eyes dropping out of my head), when some maniac goes flying by me at warp speed. Trying to get a look at the guy before he disappeared around a bend, I thought, “You know, that dude looks familiar.”

And since I hadn’t seen this dude in quite some time, I clicked up a few gears, hit the big chain ring, and went full gas in an attempt to catch him. About a minute later, I pulled up behind the guy, recognized his familiar musk, and thought, “My man.”

Pulling up alongside the maniac, I smiled and yelled, “Lester!”

Yep. It was Lester the crazy Polack. He was wearing a green team kit, riding the same yellow Trek he’s been riding since I met him (which really wasn’t all that long ago), and he had a beer in one hand. All right, I’m lying about the beer, but there he was, tearing up the road in Central Park. And now that I had his attention and as happy as I was to bump into him, I knew I was in for a rough few minutes considering I can barely understand a word the guy says (and I’m sure he feels the same way about me).

“Good to see you, buddy,” I said. “What are you doing up here in the city?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I working here. In the city.”

After a few quick pleasantries, we got onto the subject of racing.

“So I hear you’ve been racing in Brooklyn,” I said.

“Yes. Brooklyn. Prospect Park. Every Saturday. All summer. I race . . . five. You know? Group five?”

“Category five?”

“Yeah. Five. The races. I win. All. So I move. Four.”

(Granted, he doesn’t really talk like this, but what I’m translating here is all I really understand when he speaks.)

“They bumped you up to Category four?”

“Yeah. Half five. Half four.”

I took this as him moving from Category Five to Four halfway through the season.

“This Saturday. Last race this year.”

(This Saturday was also the last CRCA race but, again, after a week of recovery riding, I would have been a dead weight out there in the field, so I skipped it.)

And that was it. We shook hands and went our separate ways, Lester leaving a long trail of aftershave in his wake.

Getting A Flat In The Tour

So Carlos Sastre won the Tour, huh? Didn’t he ride on the ONCE team? Didn’t Johan Bruyneel also ride for the ONCE team?

Now I’m not saying that just because two professional Spanish cyclists rode for the same team that was known for its aggressive doping means they were and/or are both dopers. Again, I’m not saying that. I’m simply insinuating that they’re both rabid dopers.

And Cadel Evans lost, but with that girly voice and the weird way in which his head tilts to the right when he rides, he deserved to lose. God, can you imagine if he won? Can you imagine the uncountable number of interviews we’d be subjected to with that high-pitch whine he calls a voice? Makes you wonder if all those years of riding destroyed the precious equipment below the belt.

While we’re talking about the Tour, let’s talk about the third-place finisher, Bernard Kohl, the same guy who won the polka dot jersey (which, deep down, you all realize is probably the ugliest goddam jersey you’ve ever seen in your life). For starters, where in the world did Kohl come from? Not that I’m the epitome of blogging on the latest and greatest when it comes to professional cycling, but really, where did he come from? No doubt he’s been a professional for some time, but I don’t think I heard his name mentioned once during all the hours I spent watching the 2006 TdF 12-hour DVD set and while I’m only halfway through the 2007 set, I don’t think I heard his name once during that race either.

So who is he? Where did he come from? Where’s he scoring his performance-enhancing drugs? Most importantly, what the hell is that thing in his mouth where his front teeth are supposed to be? It looks like he forgot to spit out that thing the dentist shoves in your mouth before he takes an X-ray and now it’s stuck between his upper lip and teeth. I have to wonder how the guy eats as it seems that thing in his mouth is pointing straight toward the camera rather than pointing down.

Apart from the Tour, I had a big, bad race yesterday. Actually, it wasn’t all that big or bad, but the coordination and planning when it comes to racing when you’re on a team is . . . delightful.

Sunday morning, CRCA held the club’s Master championship race which means little to me, but it also meant that the B field was split into A/B and B/C, so the B riders had the option of riding up or riding down. The evening before the race, one of the team captains/lieutenants had listed online not only who would be racing the following morning (based on team field limits), but who would be playing what role in terms of working toward the front of the pack, who would take it easy and save energy for the sprint, etc.

Now that is what I was looking for in terms of joining and racing with a team. Strategy and tactics.

When the race started, everything was going relatively well—better than the last two races, at least—when I heard the blast of a tube puncturing: pssssssssssssttt! Glancing at the wheels around me, I thought, “Well, that certainly sucks,” and then I realized it was my tube that had punctured.

Over the past two years, I’ve only been in a handful of races and of those handful, I’ve been dropped three times. The first time it happened, it was my first race ever and I deserved to get dropped. The second time it happened was during a criterium in Poughkeepsie last spring and, while I don’t think I deserved to get dropped, I think the Category 4 riders who had dropped down into Category 5 should’ve kept their shaved legs in Category 4 where they belong. The third time it happened was only a few weeks ago and if you’d like to read my excuse as to why I got dropped, you can read all about that right here.

The reason I bring all this up is that every time I’ve been dropped, I’ve always prayed for a flat tire just before getting dropped. If I had luckily suffered a flat tire before getting dropped, I wouldn’t have been dropped. Instead, I would have had to have stopped. I wouldn’t have had a choice in the matter. See what I mean?

So there I am Sunday morning, feeling okay, staying near the front of the pack where I was supposed to stay, when I get a flat with half a lap to go. Half a freaking lap to go. For the love of god, why does everything have to go wrong now that I’m wearing a team kit?

Anything But The Tour

Since I’m about two days behind on Tour coverage, I don’t want to talk about that just now. Even if I was up to speed on the Tour, I don’t think any of you actually listen to anything I have to say regarding the professional scene anyway, so with that, here’s the other update.

Despite any of my previous rhetoric, I stepped up and joined a racing team. Team NYVelocity.

Yes, yes, very exciting news, I know. Actually, it’s not all that exciting at all . . . well, I’m lying. To be brutally honest, I was a bit excited when one of the team owners emailed me to the extend of, “Just got some new team kits in so come on down and grab one before they’re gone.”

So now I wear a team kit 99% of the time whenever I throw a leg over my bike. This is what it looks like.



Not bad, right? I do appreciate the color scheme with the white and blues. Nothing glaringly overt such as the orange of Euskatel-Euskadi (even though I have admitted in the past to admiring those orange jerseys).

And this is the first time I’ve ever worn bib shorts. Picco swears by them and I have to say they’re not all that bad.

Further, now that I’ve joined the team--which is a Category 4 & 5 developmental team, by the way--I have a training program I have to follow. It’s been somewhat counter-intuitive as the time I’m spending on the bike has increased significantly but at a considerably lower pace. Whereas I used to spend between 2-3 hours on the bike during the week (excluding weekends) at an average heart rate around 160 with some intervals tossed in, I’m not spending between 6-7 hours on the bike per week but riding at what they call an endurance pace where I’m supposed to keep my heart rate between 129 and 141. Compared to 160, a heart rate of 135 is all but a walk in the park.

How did they draw together the training program? After joining the team, I was subjected to a lactate threshold test at Cadence Cycling & Multisport Center. Essentially, they set up my bike on a trainer, had me warm-up for 10 minutes, explained I needed to keep my cadence at 100 or higher, and then set the resistance at 150 watts. After two minutes of that, they pricked my finger for a drop of blood, measured my level of lactic acid, asked my Rate of Perceived Exertion (RPE) on a scale of 1 through 10 (with 10 being the hardest), and then increased resistance to 170 watts two minutes later.

So every four minutes, resistance increased by 20 watts and they drew a drop of blood to determine the amount of lactic acid in my blood. I lasted until either 270 watts or 290 watts when my RPE hit 8 or 9 and that was it, the test ended.

That’s how my training zones were developed which I then printed and taped to my stem. Like I said, very exciting.

More of the Tour

I’m almost aggravated Cadel Evans is wearing the yellow jersey in the Tour. Actually, I am aggravated he’s in the lead and I say that as the leader of the longest and hardest bike race in the world should sound a bit more like a man and a bit less like an eleven-year-old girl.

Has anybody caught a sound bite of the Aussie with the face shaped like a poached egg? His girly voice ranks right up there with the likes of Mike Tyson and Mike Richter. I mean, if you’re going to win a race, you could at least try to sound a bit more like Stefan Schumacher. Despite my Kraut-bashing post, that guy has a voice that could make the most frigid, middle-aged feminist cream her jeans.

(Not long ago I caught a quick, post-stage interview with Cadel Evans and when the interviewer asked, “Is this a new Cadel Evans we’re seeing,” Evans responded with that godawful girly voice and said, “No, it’s the old Cadel coming back.”

Who the fuck talks like that?)

Furthermore, has Cadel Evans ever attacked on a slope with a gradient steeper than 2.3%? When was the last time you ever heard Phil Liggett or Paul Sherwen say, “And there goes Cadel Evans, attacking up the slopes of the Hautacam?” That’s right. You’ve never heard either of the two Brits say anything even remotely close to that, so how is that little weasel wheel-sucked his way into a yellow jersey?

Pathetic.

Speaking of pathetic, there’s Saunier Duval. Until yesterday afternoon, I was a few days behind in catching up on the Tour coverage on TV. Of course, I had heard about Ricco. I had also heard that Saunier Duval pulled out of the Tour. And then I watched on TV as two other Saunier Duval riders pulled a 1-2 finish on a mountain stage.

Is anybody else connecting the dots on why Saunier Duval pulled out of the race?

First, Ricco is busted for EPO (a new form of EPO called CERA). Then two of his teammates rip up the field on a mountain stage. And then the team withdraws.

If these guys weren’t doping their riders, I’ll be dipped in shit. I’m sure they at least knew about it and rather than risk the negative publicity in the event two more of their riders were busted, why not just withdraw the entire team instead?

It’s probably for the best, though. Not only does it seem that the Saunier Duval riders are doped to the gills, but they are some of the ugliest motherfuckers. Have you taken a good look at Piepoli? Mother of god, that man looks like Gargamel in a team kit.

Italian Riccardo Ricco positive for EPO at Tour

I knew it!

That was one of the few things I forgot to drop in my last post regarding the Tour update.

Here's this kid, Riccardo Ricco. How old is he? 24? And he's winning hilly stages and mountain stages in the Giro and the Tour? And he's reaching the finishing line looking like he's barely breathing hard?

Are you f#cking kidding me?

What I'm failing to understand is the actual EPO. I get how it works but don't the riders realize there are tests that detect EPO? Or have the tests evolved so that they're getting past whatever the riders use to mask the EPO?

Whatever. Regardless. Glad they busted that punk. I never really liked him anyway.

Le Tour and the Cookie Monster

So there’s a lot going on. The Tour started last Saturday, there’s apparently no clear leader just yet (unless you consider Kim Kirchen a contender for the overall which would be something of a mistake), and somehow, Stefan Schumacher won the first individual time trial.

Where the hell did that come from? What in the world did Schumacher snort or inject to pull a performance like that out of his ass? What was also interesting is that Phil Liggett made a post-race note that Johan Bruyneel had tipped his hat to Schumacher to win the first time trial and what that tells me is that Bruyneel probably sold Schumacher whatever it was that he either injected or snorted to go as fast as he did.

But hey, maybe I’m just being a cynic. But I don’t think so. Schumacher beat Cancellara? I’d tip my hat to drugs. Lots of drugs.

Speaking of drugs, Mr. Manuel My-Doctor-Forgot-To-Tell-Me-There’s-A-New-Test-That-Can-Detect-EPO Beltran just got tagged for EPO use and they’re saying he’s the fourth of Armstrong’s previous teammates who’s been busted for drug use. And one of Armstrong’s frozen B urine samples from 1999 (or 2000) tested positive for EPO once they finally had a test that could detect EPO. And there’s a lot of circumstantial evidence that Lance was doping his entire career, so why in the world can someone believe Lance won clean?

Did I say that?

You know what was nice about watching the media coverage regarding Beltran? All the Versus boys completely tore him apart. Phil Liggett, Paul Sherwen, Bob Roll, and Craig Hummer all did nothing other than rake the jackass over the coals with some rather harsh words for typically boring-ass commentators.

#

Right now it’s Sunday night. Spent the weekend in Connecticut meeting/visiting with the fiancée’s family and when we returned home this evening, I caught up with yesterday’s TdF stage (handily DVR’d for my viewing pleasure) and watched as Mark Cavendish completely destroyed the field for the sprint to the line.

God almighty, that boy is freakishly fast. Can you imagine how much fun it must be to say to strangers, “Hey. Buddy. Give me a flat road and I am the fastest bike rider on the face of the earth?” I mean, the guy gives new meaning to the term, “Ride it like you stole it.” Imagine if that kid was a bike thief?

Still, if the kid ever fails a drug test, I’ll personally break both of his goddam legs. I don’t care if he picks up a Tom Boonen-like coke problem, but if we find out he’d been taking anything illegal to boost those incredible performance’s of his, I’ll kill him.

Speaking of sprinters, it’s starting to look like Robbie McEwen’s age is catching up with him (and I only say that from a spectator’s point of view as the guy would make me look like a little girl if I ever tried to bring it in his presence). Not only has the Aussie not won a sprint, but judging from the replays, it doesn’t seem like he’s been anywhere even near the front when Cavendish has been running all over everybody.

That’s all I’ve got for now. While I do have some interesting personal news related to cycling (thank god) and a new picture to share, it’s late and I’ve gotta get some rest but check back soon for another update.

We Might As Well Dope

I can tell you with 100% accuracy that the best way to get motivated to train on a bicycle is to enter a race and then get dropped. After my embarrassing debacle in the CRCA club race Saturday morning, I went for a laid-back ride on Sunday and then took Monday off, although apparently, Saturday is now stuck in my subconcious considering I did a few laps in Central Park last night and never once let my heart rate drop below 175. And I say the embarrassing debacle is stuck in my subconcious as I really didn’t roll into the park last night thinking I was going to go balls-against-the-wall for an hour. It just happened. After a five-minute warm-up, I just couldn’t bring myself to slow down. The plan was to crank through some intervals but instead I somehow turned the entire ride into one long interval.

Aside from trying to asphyxiate myself, I recently read a copy of Johan Bruyneel’s We Might As Well Win manifesto and I can tell you it’s an entire load of hardboiled shit. While Johan Bruyneel may be referred to as a “master” tactician, I have little doubt the man systematically dopes his riders so the book should have been titled We Might As Well Dope And Win.

Why Bother?

I went into Saturday morning’s race with a plan. If there was one thing I took away from the coaching session I attended earlier in the week with Deirdre Murphy Bader (who you can read about by CLICKING HERE), it was that I had to make sure I had a plan.

“You always need a plan,” she explained, and on Friday afternoon, as my fiancée and I walked through Central Park, I asked her, “Do you want to know about my plan?”

“What plan?”

“The race is five laps,” I said. “The plan is to hang back for the first four laps and stay in the draft. Once we get over the big hill on the final lap, I’ll start moving to the front and I’ll stay as close to the front as I can without knocking myself out. If that big guy is up there, the guy who won the last race, I’ll stick to his wheel and see if I can follow him all the way until we’re near the line and then try to fly around him.”

Doesn’t sound bad, right? Sounds like a decent plan for a guy out there on my own without any teammates and it might’ve actually worked if it wasn’t for the fact that I got dropped halfway through the fourth goddam lap.

As embarrassing as that is to admit, I admit it. I got dropped. Spit out the back like a piece of unwanted trash.

And there I was, thinking I had a plan. There I was thinking, “Hey, I didn’t do so bad the last race. Maybe I can do better this race.”

But no, like a total punk, I got DROPPED. Ugh. How utterly depressing.

How does that happen, though? The last race, I felt good. Felt like I could’ve cracked the top ten if I had paid more attention at the end, so how did I get dropped yesterday?

The field seemed mostly the same, so I was racing against the same guys. Whether or not any Category 4s dropped down to the lower class, who the hell knows, but something odd did happen yesterday morning.

The Women’s class started behind us and apparently a women’s breakaway of four chicks caught and passed us while we were on our third lap. Somehow, this sparked a reaction from the front of the field and from that point on, all the guys on the front of our field seemed intent on keeping up with those four ladies who were hammering the pedals something fierce.

After a lap-and-a-half of having my heart rate pegged at 185 and after watching a few other guys peel off the back, I realized there was no way I could keep up that pace for another twenty minutes, so I sat up and soft pedaled my way to 72nd Street and went home.

That was a seven in the morning. I didn’t have much to say for a few hours afterward considering how pissed I felt at not having finished the race. After a three-hour visit to the beach at Robert Moses State Park with the good-looking Jewish girl with the diamond ring on her finger, we were driving home when I mentioned, “I think I might go for a ride when we get back to the city.”

Which I did. I went out for an hour to dodge the gazillions of ignorant tourists and asshole pedestrians walking in the middle of the street in Central Park. I just cruised. I was the guy who felt like he had been thrown off the horse and then wanted to get back on. Sounds retarded, but it’s true.

Then, while riding over the bridge into Jersey this morning, I had to ask myself, “Why bother racing?” I’ve never been a good endurance athlete, although I do enjoy riding the bike. I enjoy the occasional group ride, but at the end of the day, I’m just not that great going uphill on a bike. I can’t keep my heart rate at 190 for hours at a time and when push comes to shove, my sprint isn’t all that fantastic either.

So why bother with the racing? Why spend the money on the USCF license and more money on joining the CRCA? What’s the point of trying to win a local Category 5 race? I understand the desire to be competitive. That part I get, but why put myself through the disappointment? For the most part, we set up our lives to be disappointment-free, so why go through it?

Despite all my rhetoric, I’m sure I’ll continue to put myself through the disappointment time and time again.

Or maybe I won’t. Who the hell knows.

Coaching Session

So like I mentioned, I joined the Century Road Club Association. Last night I took advantage of one of the free coaching sessions.

You know, you reach a certain point after having ridden for a few years and you think to yourself, “How much is there about riding or racing a bike that I don’t know?” In my case, I’ve been on the bike two years this coming July 4th, so I would have to imagine there’s a shitload I don’t know about racing a bike. Sure, I’ve got some of the essentials in terms of sitting in the draft, conserving your energy, picking the right gear to start a sprint, cadence, intervals, etc., but by no means do I probably know as much as I should.

Hence, the coaching session and this particular session just so happened to be about sprinting and optimal leg speed.

So I show up. Early. I’m always early. I’m a bit obsessive-compulsive when it comes to being late. I despise being late. I like being on time, which means I’m always a few minutes early to ensure I’m not late. That’s just how that works. If I tell someone I’m going to be somewhere by 1:30, I’m going to be there by 1:30. And if for some reason I can’t make it by 1:30, whoever’s waiting for me at 1:30 is going to know before 1:30 that I’m unable to make it by 1:30. Again, that’s just how that works.

So again, I show up. Three other people show up and the coach shows up. The coach, she’s won races, championships, the whole nine yards. Apparently, she’s been doing this long enough and has won enough stuff to be in a situation to coach newbies like me. She explains we’re going to work on sprinting and, since there’s four of us, we’ll go two-at-a-time, side-by-side. “And make sure you’re in the small chain ring and in your sixteen-tooth cog.”

In other words, she wanted us to spin our brains out.

She sets herself up at the base of a small rise and says, “When you go by and I blow the whistle, get your hands in the drops, get your butt out of the saddle, and sprint for the intersection at the top of the hill.”

I’m paired up with the one girl in the group and she’s never ridden in a group, never sprinted. She’s done a few triathlons, so like the big man I am, I beat the girl with no sprinting experience, although sprinting in such a small girl is something of a tall order. Doesn’t exactly feel natural.

For the next set, we get to move up to the big chain ring and the nineteen-tooth cog. And now we’re doing lead-outs. The first guy leads out the following three. After we pass the light post at the bottom of the rise, it’s a free-for-all.

First time around, the guy ahead of me beats me, yet oddly enough, I notice him downshifting from a cog much smaller than nineteen, so clearly, even though it’s just a training session, he has to win the sprint.

Kind of defeats the purpose of working on leg speed, doesn’t it?

But really, what’s the big deal?

And for the last sprint, the coach has us go all the way back up the road and tells us, “Do whatever you want, but think about what your plan of attack is.”

So we ride up the road and, like the true road cyclists we are, we let the triathlete lead the way as the rest of us sit in her draft. By the time we reach the base of the rise, my cadence is already up to 130, so do I feel like I can just hop out of the saddle and accelerate any faster considering how fast my feet are turning?

Regardless, I gave it a shot, but as soon as one of the guys caught my creeping up on him, he moved to the right and, like a complete douche bag, cut me off. Remember, this wasn’t a race. It was a training session.

At the top of the rise, I pulled up next to him. “You almost hit me back there, amigo.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m sure you’re real sorry.”

This coming Saturday is the next CRCA race. Let’s see how that goes.

I'm Done

I think I’m done with the NYCC.

Over the course of roughly three weeks, I’ve been on three different NYCC group rides.

The first ride, that was a disaster and you can read about that by clicking HERE.

The following ride, I decided to step up my game and join a B 17/18 ride and while it was somewhat faster and slightly more entertaining than the B16 ride, it still left something to be desired. While the ride leader had the kind of sense of humor I can appreciate in a cyclist—lots of cursing, rude hand gestures, and flatulence . . . which kind of reminds me of Ed Dalton minus the flatulence—the posted average ride speeds were a bit misleading in that the actual average speeds tended to end up a few miles per hour slower than advertised.

I can understand this not being an issue if you’ve got an entire morning / afternoon to kill, but like most normal adults, I usually check the ride start time, the average expected speed, and then calculate when I’ll be home so I can try to schedule the rest of my day. When the actual ride is a lot slower than advertised, it kind of fucks up the rest of the weekend.

Know what I mean?

So with the above two rides under my belt, I attempted to step up my game that much more by joining an A19 ride this past Saturday morning that was scheduled to start at the Central Park Boathouse at 9:15 AM and while I had high hopes, my hopes were again let down. Why?

1. Ride leader shows up around 9:20 and asks us to follow him to 110th Street.

2. At 110th Street, we spend at least fifteen minutes with boring introductions not one of us would be able to remember five minutes later.

3. Time check. It’s now roughly 9:40 and the ride is yet to start. I’m supposed to be home between 12:30 and 1:00 and we have 62 miles to go. We better be doing 19 MPH.

4. On the Jersey side of the GWB, we again stop for a five minute talk from our flaming ride leader who’s sporting not just pink bar tape, but pink cables, pink rims, and pink tires.

5. At the entrance of River Road, we again pause for a minute so everyone can catch up.

6. At the ranger station at the end of River Road, we’re there for at least fifteen minutes while everyone loads up on water.

7. Is the average speed 19 MPH? Not even close, but there are a few guys and one French gal climbing a hell of a lot better than I am, but that usually happens when I ride.

8. By 12:30, we’ve accomplished all of 30 miles out of a 62 mile road, so rather than order a sandwich and have a picnic with the rest of the group—which is clearly what they’re planning on doing when we stop at a tiny deli in the middle of nowhere—I peel off and TT home to reach our apartment by 1:50.

9. I walk in the door, see my fiancee on the couch flipping through a magazine, and calmly explain, “I know, I’m late. I’d done with those guys.”

10. Ten minutes later, I’m showered and we’re out the door to enjoy a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

Just To Validate That Last Post . . .

That's me all the way on the right.

196

I’m back on the racing train and, believe or not, no matter what I might have said in the past (if anything), I love racing my goddam bike.

To back up, though, I believe it was a few months ago when I wrote about possibly joining the Century Road Club Association when I had moved from Westchester to Manhattan and last week I finally took the plunge and shelled out the $58 (or was it $48?) to join the CRCA as a “racing” member.

How utterly exciting.

So after signing on the dotted line and checking out the 2008 racing schedule, it was time to actually race this past Saturday. I got out of bed at the ungodly hour of 4:50 in the AM, washed down a granola bar with a glass of OJ, pulled on the arm warmers (among other things), and hit the road. Lucky for me, the start / finish line was in the park near East 78th Street and considering the lady friend and I live on West 70th Street, I didn’t have to drag my ass all over the city just to make it to a race.

Twenty minutes later, a guy behind a folding table handed me number 196, which I had to pin to the back of my jersey and that meant I had to step aside, remove my helmet, remove my glasses, and then pull my jersey (with rear pockets stuffed with granola bars for the ride over the GWB I had planned after the race) over my head while still wearing my arm warmers and Mellow Johnny cycling cap and lay the jersey on the grass in order to affix the number to the back.

There were plenty of women in the vicinity, athletically built chicks decked out in team kits, and there I knelt, naked except for a pair of skin-tight lycra shorts and arm warmers.

How embarrassing.

Half an hour later, someone blew a whistle and about thirty-five category 5 riders clicked into thirty-five pedals and started a five-lap race around Central Park.

The first four laps? Rather uneventful with a mellow pace. There were times when a random dickwad would hop to the front and take off which would then result with the rest of the field stringing out into a long line, all of our heart rates pounding, but apart from those few occasions and apart from every dickwad trying to blast up the big hill on the north end of the park at twenty-miles-per-hour, it was kind of a mellow race, although please note I say “kind of” a mellow race.

Why was it not completely mellow?

Some kid with three inches of snot hanging from the tip of his nose was having the hardest of times keeping his bike straight every time we blasted over the hill. On one of the five occasions we blasted over the hill, he veered left and as soon as I slipped to the right to pass the brat, he immediately veered right. When I tried slipping to the left, he tilted left himself.

Look, I’m a nice guy and everything, but if you can’t handle your bike because you’re breathing too hard, get the fuck out of my way before you hurt somebody.

So there was that. And there were of course the idiots who really have a hard time holding a line through a sweeping corner, which is unfortunate because, when you think about holding your line, it’s really not all that hard.

And there are the clowns who absolutely need to get to the front so they simply ride over the orange cones lining the side of the street, thereby knocking them into the middle of the pack.

Absolutely brilliant.

And, of course, with roughly half a lap left, the pace picked up and I mean it picked up big time. But that happens in every bike race, right? And just like my last race in Prospect Park, three freaking clowns five feet in front of me almost hit the deck as things started getting crazy.

Now that’s part of the dilemma with these road races. We’re all amateurs. No one’s paying us to race. We don’t make a goddam dime if we win and I’m pretty damn sure all of us have a job to go to come Monday morning, so why in the world would we put ourselves in a situation where any random jackhole might overlap our wheel while we’re doing twenty-eight-miles-per-hour?

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? I, for one, have zero desire to break a collarbone (or worse) just for the glory of winning a Category 5 local club race so, with Prospect Park fresh in my memory, I kept the pace high but kept my distance by staying twenty or so riders back from the front.

Unfortunately, that turned out to be a mistake.

To reiterate, the start / finish line was atop a short yet mildly steep hill and as we neared the base of the hill, I was still somewhat toward the front, riding along and thinking to myself, I’m way too far back to even think about trying to sprint it out with these guys, but something odd happened.

I have to assume that after thirty miles of riding, some of the guys in the group might have been tired, because as we approached the hill, not everyone was opening up their sprint and I’m looking around thinking, Holy shit, this isn’t as crazy as I thought it was going to be and, Jesus, I actually have some room here.

So I went, but I went way too late and halfway up the hill, with maybe a hundred feet before the finish line, some clown cut off the guy in front of me and that meant I had to tap the brakes and by the time I got going again . . .

Regardless, I’m pretty sure that if I wasn’t in the top ten, I was definitely in the top fifteen and while the casual observer might say, “Still, you’re a big fat loser,” I really think I could have cracked the top ten, if not the top five, if not for the guys ahead of me slowing things down.

I know, I know. That sounds crazy, but believe it or not, once I realized I had the room to sprint, I was looking up and again, I know this is going to sound nuts, but I was actually passing guys as I moved up the hill.

Anyway, that was the race. Better luck next time.