The Pushers

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

“Crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Check it out.”

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

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

“How much you want, champ?”

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

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

“Two hunnert a pop, champ.”

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

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

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

As usual, thanks for reading.

Mashing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Open Up and Inhale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now I’m done.

Cycling on Video

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another of Lance training:

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

And finally one titled VAS Road Cycling Reel:

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

Number Three

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

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

Seriously, I just don’t get it.

Another Rodent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Own Little Field Test

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Big One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inconvenient

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What size?" the owner asked.

"Twenty-seven inch wheel," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Extreme to Another

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

I can now consider myself a miracle worker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My gear’s wet,” I said.

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

“Let's go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes You Ask Why

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up In The Hills

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

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

Two hours later, I found out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace.

Been Too Long

It's been a while since I last threw a leg over my bike and honestly, I'm a bit torn up about that. Of course, I've got a handful of excuses: girlfriend's in town after being away for two months, had to move from the city to Brooklyn this past weekend, but I could've dragged myself out of bed early and rode in the rain (for those of you outside the tri-state metro area, it's been nothing but rain all weekend) before I began lugging box after box from the Upper East Side to Brooklyn Heights. I could've, but I didn't.

Regardless, what I've failed to mention so far is the mountain biking me and the two Picco's did a week ago in south Jersey. The previous evening, I held a short conversation with Mr. Picco #1 (#1 being the older of the two): "Supposed to rain tomorrow." So I said, "Then I guess I can drink to my heart's content," which I did. Unfortunately, when I peeled open my eyes the following morning, I saw blue sky and sun, which meant packing a few things and riding all the way downtown to the truck I had left behind the previous evening considering I was too drunk to drive. Then I drove to Staten Island where Mr. Picco #1 was ready and waiting, both his beautiful mountain bikes loaded atop his Explorer.

An hour later, we were in Jersey, in Mercer Park? Don't recall the name exactly, although I'm sure I'll get a call from Mr. Picco #1 shortly correcting me.

While Mr. Picco #1 went about the bicycle maintenance (as they said in the Jerky Boys, "I don't know shit about this tunin',"), Mr. Picco #2 arrived in a VW bus most people would describe as atrocious, although that Mr. Picco #2, the man has a fetish for everything Volkswagen. Myself, I've never understood it, but you do what you gotta do, and that seems to be exactly what Mr. Picco #2 has in mind when it comes to his VW bus.

"This, my friend," I said, surveying the bus, "is embarrassment on four wheels."

Soon, the riding began: a pleasant, rolling course through the woods and fields that kept us entertained until I noticed my ass kind of rolling from left to right. "Flat!"

Then Kenny got a flat. Then my tire went flat again, and then again. Before that I went over the bars trying to clear a log the size of a baby's wrist (I could've used a dirty sexual innuendo there, but I'm trying to keep things clean). Then I think Mr. Picco #1 and Mr. Picco #2 went over the bars. Mr. Picco #2 definitely threw it away going down a straight, which simply boggled my mind. Poor bastard smacked his some sort of knot in the small of his back, and if you know Mr. Picco #2, you know the boy takes issue with his back.

Eventually, our day came to an end. Lots of good riding, lots of good times despite the flats. Then on to a terrific lunch at Chez Mr. Picco #2 with his lovely family: hot dogs, steak, chicken, salad, and lots of iced tea. That Mr. Picco #2, he sure does know how to entertain, but so does Mr. Picco #1. That guy's got an-dooly sausage out the wah-zoo. Those Piccos and their grills--they know what they're doing.

Now I live in Brooklyn, so no more riding in Central Park, which is kind of too bad. I enjoyed riding in the that park, althouogh I certainly won't miss those nights during concerts when the park staff incessantly stops cyclists to let pedestrians past. Kind of gets on your nerves after a while, but now I'll be hauling it in Prospect Park, getting ready for the next race. Should be fun.

What Am I Missing?

Maybe it's me, but I just don't get the attitude some road cyclists carry along with their ridiculously over-priced mules. When I'm down at the motocross track, I don't care if a guy's turning fifty second laps or five minute laps, chances are he's gonna be cool if you walk up to him off the track and introduce yourself.

Wish I could say the same for the "serious" cyclists I notice in Central Park.

Like I said, though, maybe it's just me, and I mean that. Maybe it's just the clowns in Central Park who are getting on my nerves day after day.

When I first began riding, more than enough guys with top-shelf helmets, colorful jerseys, and expensive carbon fiber bikes (not to mention the shaved legs, which is a route I will never take) would pass me on the park's loop. Being new to the sport, I made it a habit--albeit an incredibly short-lived habit--to glance over and say hello. Nothing elaborate, just a quick nod of the head and, "How's it going?"

Usually, the response included a look fitting for the filthiest of the homeless, as if I had just asked the passing cyclist if he'd mind sharing his wife/girlfriend in bed.

These cyclists, they're an odd bunch to say the least. Regardless, I no longer bother with the pleasantries although in the event someone has a hello for me, I'll be sure to open my mouth and make the effort to say hi in return.

Further, maybe I have been riding motocross too long, because my attitude toward the cyclists behind me is basically, "You've got brakes. Learn how to use them." What I mean is, if I have to swerve a few feet to the left or right to avoid a pothole, a kid, or a jogger, I don't feel like listening to some jackass behind me yelling, "On your right! On your right!" You know what, buddy? Shut your mouth and hit the brakes. If I feel like sliding from one side of the lane to the other, I guess you're just going to have to deal with that, aren't you?

Perfect example. Last night, I get in Central Park not long after 6:30 which means cars are still permitted. On the uphill approach to the 92nd Street intersection (at least I think it's 92nd Street), the light turned red just as a cop in a scooter pulled up behind me. Recently, city officials have been contemplating banning cycling in the park, so I thought, Let me slow it down rather than blow through this red light while there's a cop right on my ass. In doing so, I drifted to the right several feet to avoid some crossing pedestrians when immediately I hear one of those stereotypical dickheads I've just described above start yelling, "On your right! On your right!"

See what I'm saying about the brakes? Learn how to use 'em. I really don't give a flying f#ck if I messed up this guy's drive/momentum. Also, when I've got the inside line going into a corner, I'll go as wide as I please on the exit. If you don't like me moving over on you, too bad. You've got brakes. Learn how to use 'em. I'll worry about what's going on in front of me, let alone what's behind me.

Fuel Factor

I don’t know what’s up with my riding, but I think I’m getting worse, if that’s possible, and I’m sure it is. While that may be a bit of an overstatement, it took me just over fifty-eight minutes to finish three laps in Central Park on Tuesday evening and a hair over an hour to do the same three laps at five this morning, I’m concerned.

The first time I reached the big hill at the north end of the park this morning, I stood up and charged most of the way, planting my butt in the seat and downshifting for the last few meters. The second time around, I kept my butt in the seat and did what I could. The third time around, I felt miserable, my speed dropping from roughly thirteen miles-per-hour to maybe ten, possibly nine.

Over the past two days, I had been telling myself that I would push as hard as possible in an attempt to shave thirty or so seconds off my time from Tuesday night. I thought I had it until those last few miles when, every time I reached and uphill, I knew I was spent, completely out of gas.

I could make excuses and attribute the slide in performance to the time of day. I usually train in the evening when I’m running on a full tank of fuel. Leaving the house this morning, I did so on an empty stomach with nothing other than a bottle of water to keep me going. Could riding so early in the morning cause a lapse in my time by over a minute?

I’ll try again Saturday, but not so damn early in the morning. I’ll get up, have some cereal, maybe a tangerine, wait half an hour, and then hit the road. If I’m able to beat fifty-eight minutes, then I’ll know this morning’s miserable performance had everything to do with the lack of fuel. If I can’t beat fifty-eight minutes, then I’m more of a mess than I previously thought and I have zero business trying to race a bicycle.

#407

At 6:45 this morning, I was spanked in the biggest way possible. I was spanked the way a pissed-off mom who just ran out of her Zoloft prescription spanks a screaming kid in the middle of Toys ‘R Us. I got spanked the same way the Boston Red Sox spanked the New York Yankees (it pains me to write that, but it’s true) I got spanked . . . well, you get the point.

This morning, I promptly arrived at the Wollman Rink parking lot in Prospect Park at five AM, meaning it was still dark. Glancing around the empty parking lot, I thought, Am I in the right place? Turned out I was definitely in the right place. I had simply arrived way, way too early as most of the other riders didn’t begin appearing until six.

First, I went through what I decided would be my pre-race routine: after unloading my bike from the back of the truck and strapping on my shoes, I sat on the tailgate watching everyone else inflate tires and dress in all of the sportiest gear--colorful jerseys, wonderful bibs, and fast-looking carbon fiber bicycles--while I posed in my fabulously red Champion athletic shirt.

(I’m one of those guys who refuses to invest in an authentic cycling jersey until I know I’m fast enough to run the pace of the Category 5 group. If I did well this morning, I’d hop online immediately thereafter and order something nice. If not, I’d stick with the athletic shirts.)

At some point, I realized I needed to ride a few feet up the road to register and collect my number. Since I had arrived so early, I walked up to the Pre-Reg desk and gave them my name. In return, the nice gentleman handed me something to sign (I may very well have signed my immortal soul over to the devil, but at six on a Saturday morning while feeling anxious because it was my first race, those were simply chances I was willing to take) and a number: 407. Grabbing a few safety pins, I headed back to the truck to go about securing my digits to the back of my shirt.

Eventually, I figured it was time to get to the line. According to the web site where I had registered for the race, Categories 1-3 would launch at 6:30 exactly. Category 4 a few minutes after that, and Category 5 at 6:36.

Somehow, I found myself on the front line of the Category 5 group which was surely far from the best idea I’ve ever had. Why would someone with no bicycle racing experience want to start in a position that would control the beginning pace? Unfortunately, that’s simply the position in which I found myself. To complicate matters, I noticed my seat had somehow come slightly loose. Of all the frigging days for this to happen, I thought, wiggling my seat up and down, hoping it would stay relatively stable for the next seventeen miles.

To make matters even worse, I had the most difficult time clipping my left cleat in the pedal once the whistle blew. Earlier, while standing on line, I had noticed I was the only rider without the larger cleat/pedal style (forgive my ignorance with the terminology), a mistake I’ll be sure to correct before the next race, but for this morning, I coasted along trying desperately to get my damn shoe attached to the damn pedal so I could not just keep up, but start to catch the group of thirty riders who were starting to put some serious distance on me.

Eventually, the cleat slipped into the pedal and I began moving forward in earnest to catch the rest of the riders. It took a minute or so heading uphill, but I got there, and I’m going to do my best to give you, the reader, my first impressions of riding competitively in a group.

The sound of roughly sixty feet spinning in unison is rather entertaining, as is the sound of the same number of tires rapidly rolling across blacktop. That, combined with the rush of wind, creates something of an initially exhilarating experience (I know I’m using a disgusting amount of adverbs here, but bear with me for as long as you can--thanks). Left and right, riders slip ahead and inch behind. Not only are you taking care to avoid touching your front wheel to the rear wheel belonging to the guy/girl ahead of you, but you keep glancing over your shoulder to check on what’s up behind your back. Halfway through the first lap, I was feeling good. Part of me knew I would have a very hard time managing that pace for five laps, but another part of me didn’t really want to hear it. That part simply wanted to pedal and race and burn away the anxieties I had prior to the conductor blowing the whistle and starting the race, so I increased my tempo and inched toward the front of the group which sat a second or so behind the pace motorcycle (the organizer had instructed we were, under no circumstances, to pass the pace motorcycle). In making that effort to move toward the front, I was forced left outside the peloton (I’m not going to keep writing “group of riders” or “group of racers,” so I’m just going to go ahead and use “peloton”) and quickly found myself surprised by how much harder I had to pedal with the wind directly in my face as opposed to drafting behind another rider. I then found out something else about racing. Once you’re outside a certain line, it’s not so easy to just hop back in there.

I have so much to learn.

Regardless, I eventually found myself behind another rider and feeling a lot better. With one lap down, we crossed the Start/Finish line and began approaching the one big hill in the park (big is a relative term, I know) when I heard someone close to the front say, “Break!” to which I immediately wanted to reply, “What the hell for?”

When all the butts began rising out of the seats, so did mine. I thought, If they’re going to sprint up this hill, so will I. My legs and my lungs, on the other hand, they had different ideas, and that was when the peloton (there’s that word again) slowly but surely left me behind.

As my friend said after the race, “It’s a humbling experience, isn’t it?”

Humbling and also embarrassing, that’s easy to admit; yet at the same time it’s also motivational. Now I know where I need to be so I can ride competitively. The riding I had been doing during the week might have been enough in terms of miles, but by way of intensity, I’ve got a long way to go.

I take some pride in the fact that I finished the race, the full five laps (17 miles). Flipping through the screen on my new cycling computer, I realized I had finished in just over fifty-one minutes. When I asked the organizer the Category 5 winner’s time, he checked his clipboard and said, “Forty-five minutes.” I finished six minutes off the pace, which is incredibly pathetic, but again, I now know where I need to be.

That was my morning. How was your Saturday morning?

The Enemy

For the first time, I brought my MP3 player out on the bike tonight. A week ago, I put the effort into creating a “Cycling” playlist on my Zen Micro including badass songs such as Superunknown by Soundgarden, Feel Good by Gorillaz, Hysteria by Muse, and Sex Type Thing by Stone Temple Pilots, to name a few.

The reason today was the first time wearing the headphones while riding had nothing to do with other than forgetting to grab the damn things every night I walked out of the apartment with the bike. This afternoon, though, I made a mental note, and I even went so far as to tie a little red string around my finger, in case you’re wondering.

Anyway, the music was a welcome addition to the exercise. I’m not sure if I'll be able to listen to the same twenty-five or so tunes every time I go out for a ride, but I’ll keep up with the same soundtrack until I grow tired of what I’ve put together. Part of the reason I had avoided filling my head with music while I rode immediately after I began cycling had to do with the fact that I was somewhat concerned with losing the ability to detect traffic and other cyclists approaching from the rear (my rear, that is). Putting that concern to bed, I strapped my Zen Micro to my arm and headed to Central Park for an eighteen-mile ride in ninety-five degree weather.

(Honestly, the heat’s not so bad when you’re on a bike. Granted, I’m riding both in the evening and in the shade when the sun’s dropping damn close to the horizon, yet it’s the breeze that makes the steamy heat bearable. If not for the breeze whipping over my skin, I could never bring myself to exercise in this weather, although one of the advantages of riding in extreme weather such as today’s is the lack of traffic. Not that it’s so bad riding through the park when the lanes are filled with chicks, but it can be somewhat of a pain when flocks of self-righteous pedestrians decide to cross Park Drive without so much as a glance to their left or right.)

Anyway, about halfway through my ride, I was cruising through a section of the park which I lovingly refer to as Horseshit Alley considering the steep volumes of horseshit that layer the right side of the street from the tourist carriages when I heard someone behind me screaming, “On your left! On your left!”

I understand what this means. I understand someone’s about to pass me on the left and this person is ensuring that I avoid swerving to my left as they pass. I’ve heard it before and I’m sure I’ll hear it plenty more during my time on the bike, but what irritated me this particular time was that this particular donkey about to pass began clapping his hands, as if he were dealing with some sort of circus animal.

Regardless of the clapping, the real problem was that I was fast approaching a jogger on my left and I had another biker on my right, meaning I had little room to maneuver. God forbid Mr. Clap My Hands had to slow down a bit, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I spotted not another cyclist but a goddam fruit loop wearing inline skates.

You know the kind of skates and skater to which I’m referring: the guy with the bicycle helmet, the bicycle jersey, the bicycle shorts, the ridiculous goattee, and those inline skates with nineteen wheels. That’s who I had attempting to pass me on the left and he wasn't alone. Oh no. There was a line of at least ten of them bearing down on me.

As soon as Mr. Clap My Hands began inching past, my immediate reaction was: “I don’t think so, [expletive deleted].” Rather than let them go, I clicked up a gear, got my ass off the seat, and began to sprint.

I began riding harder than I have ever ridden in Central Park, absolutely attacking the ensuing series of hills while stomping on the pedals, clicking up through the gears. Two minutes after I started the attack (check me out, using racing-related terms like attack), I glanced over my shoulder to see how much distance I had put on the stupid skaters.

Not much. They were less than two seconds behind me and showing no sign of slowing. It was then that I thought, “This really shouldn’t be happening.”

Did you have any idea inline speed skaters were so damn fast? No kidding, I must have been pushing at least twenty miles an hour. How the hell were these guys keeping up?

Rather than back off, I kept on the attack, absolutely pushing myself until my chest was heaving and my thighs felt ready to ignite into flames. I actually pushed until I could take it no longer, until my legs told me to go [expletive deleted] myself and I felt ready to collapse. As soon as I let off the gas, the freaking skaters passed me and never looked back.

On one hand, I’m sort of happy I got pissed the way I did and pushed myself harder than I’ve pushed since I bought the bike. On the other hand, I got showed up by a bunch of glorified rollerbladers. I had no idea these freaking skaters were as fast as they were. After slowing for a few seconds, I decided to see if I could catch up and pass them again up the big hill on the north end of the park.

I thought wrong. They were long gone.

Almost a lap later, I was again overtaken by a trio of fast-looking cyclists, all of them wearing matching red and white gear (I’ve seen them before yet have no idea who the hell they are). And then they were immediately overtaken by another group of inline speed skaters, which meant I felt a lot better about myself.

Actually, I'm lying. It doesn't make me feel better about myself at all. Who the hell am I trying to kid? I got passed by rollerbladers. Clearly, I'm not working as hard as I should be on the bike. That's gotta change.

The Warm Up

Saturday morning’s the morning of the big race. I’ve been on the bike almost a month (and I’m yet to clean and lube the chain--kill me) and now it’s time to see how I’m doing so yesterday afternoon I registered for one of the Kissena Racing Club races held in Prospect Park, Brooklyn taking place Saturday morning at 6:30 in the AM.

I have no idea what to expect. I’m planning on simply showing up, getting my number, and seeing if I can keep up with the other Category 5 riders. If I get dropped (which I probably will), I’ll know that I need to ride a lot harder than I have been the past four weeks. If I don’t get dropped (which I probably won’t), I’ll work harder any way in the hopes of improving my ranking week to week.

That’s it, really. After the race, which is only 17 miles, I’ll probably do a few more laps to get the total mileage up to around 30 or so. I’ll know exactly how far I’ve ridden for the day as I ordered a cycling computer online this past Monday. Figured it was time as I want to keep better track of how long I spend on the bike per ride, my average speed, and cadence. Yes, I bought a model with cadence, although it’s not wireless so it only set me back a few pennies under $30. I also invested in a red taillight for those evenings when I know I’ll be out and about well after the sun sets and the street lights kick on. For $8, how can a guy go wrong?

Otherwise, I’ll remove my saddle bag just before the race along with the hand pump I have mounted to the frame because now that I’m such a serious racer, I need to drop as much unnecessary weight as possible.

Mr. Picco--your gift arrived in the mail while I was out of town. In the event we run into each other Saturday morning and I actually remember to bring it--along with Lance Armstrong’s Every Second Counts--I’ll hand it off to you then.

Stephen Donaldson stars in Falling Down

While riding my bike yesterday evening, I tipped over in the street--again. God almighty, it’s so horrendously embarrassing to come to a complete stop and simply fall over in the middle of a crowded intersection in one of the biggest cities in the world.

As per my previous installment, I spent the second half of Sunday riding on normal pedals. Later that night, I swapped the flat pedals for the fancy racing pedals in preparation of riding Monday night, although I’m assuming my feet became a bit too acquainted with the normal peddles considering I tipped over on the corner of 3rd Avenue and 79th Street, less than two blocks from my apartment on 2nd and 78th.

And when I say it was crowded, we’re talking during rush hour at 6:30 in the evening. There were people everywhere. Such a crushing blow to the aspiring ego.

Of course, like anyone would have, I tried to be the funny guy as I quickly rose to my feet. A middle-aged man in a suit looked as though he was ready to ask if I was all right when I practically yelled, “Does more damage to the ego than anything else. That's terrible, huh?”

I couldn’t wait for that freaking light to change. As soon as it changed from red to green, I stomped on those pedals and put as much distance between the scene of the stupidity and myself as possible.

Then I had a fantastic 12-mile ride in Central Park where I absolutely tore up the road and managed to keep it on two wheels. How nice.

Landis wins 2006 Tour de France

After riding the non-stop hills in Central Park every evening (which is a far cry from the Alps, I realize, but work with me here), it’s a nice change to put down some miles in the flats, which is exactly what Mr. Ken Picco and I accomplished yesterday morning.

Actually, I’m not so sure if I would slap a “flat” label on Gateway National Park in Staten Island. Not that the park has any hills, although understandably, when I say “flats,” it sort of sounds as if we rode through miles upon miles of flat fields surrounded by millions of stalks of corn. Gateway’s flat, all right, although it’s only about a mile and a half long, so you ride in, turn around, ride out, and do it all over again--no corn, no sunflowers, and no strawberry fields.

The original plan included south Jersey with Mr. Picco’s brother, Mr. Eddie Picco (is his full name Edward, or just Eddie? I don’t think I’ve ever thought to ask, although I have asked, “When you were a kid and spotted a yellow school bus, did you think ‘Board of Ed’ had anything to do with you?”) which would have been nice if not for the fact that (a) the skies were threatening rain, and (b) Mr. Eddie Picco had to work, so nix on riding in the strawberry fields of Cranbury, New Jersey.

After a short phone call with Mr. Ken Picco at eight yesterday morning--during which KP229 sounded as if he had as much enthusiasm for cycling as Courtney Love has for rehab--we decided on a multi-lap ride (sounds a lot more sophisticated than it really is, doesn’t it?) in Gateway. By ten, we were geared up and leaving for the park, dark clouds over our heads (how poetic).

Fortunately, the less than desirable weather worked to our advantage in that the park was relatively quiet in terms of traffic. Often, KP229 and I were able to ride side-by-side, which felt appropriate considering Floyd Landis today won the 2006 Tour de France after a leisurely 96-mile ride into Paris (can you even conceive of a 96-mile ride feeling leisurely?). Rather than sip champagne as we rode, KP229 blew me a few kisses while I cranked out a few farts, although I made sure to only release my deadly gasses while Kenny rode behind me. As a result of my noxious fumes, I was able to keep Mr. Ken Picco from drafting my rear wheel, ensuring he worked just as hard as I did in the headwind as we rode away from the beach.

Perhaps this is how Lance Armstrong managed to win seven consecutive Tour de France races? As it is with most things in life, it’s certainly possible, isn’t it? Can you imagine the headlines?

LANCE WINS FIFTH TOUR, THANKS TEAM AND CHEVY’S TEX MEX.

Geez, I’m on a roll tonight.

Anyway, we put in twenty miles. We could’ve ridden harder than we did, but give us a break. It was Sunday, the Lord’s Day, which means cyclists are forbidden from sweating profusely for more than fifteen minutes. Regardless, let this serve as warning to Mr. Ken Picco. We are going to begin riding with a much higher frequency (we really means you, buddy), young man. Later this year, I’m thinking of investing in a mountain bike so once the weather begins to turn, we can throw on some fleeces, some leg warmers, and really begin tearing shit up off-road. By the time we reach summer next year, you’ll be wearing a jersey that reads American BAD-ASS and sipping champagne from your insulated water bottle during the last ten laps of our weekly sixty-mile rides. And if you’re thinking otherwise, I’m going to have a little gift for you in the coming 1-2 weeks that should put you in the right mindset to ride more often (and it’s not EPO).

Finally, I bought some new pedals--cheap, black, flat, plastic pedals that I can use when I’m simply cruising through the city streets so I don’t have to bother with clipping and unclipping my road shoes. Unclipping my left foot at every red light really annoys the ever-loving-shit out of me.

Also, the Barnes & Noble on 86th Street is selling classic literature on CD at great prices. I spotted Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities--12 CDs, 13.5 hours--for $19.95. For an audio book, that’s a bargain. I think it would be fun to catch up on some of the classics while riding, but that’s just me.