The problem I have with most blogs is how boring they are. I’m unsure how many other blogs any of the three of you peruse (three people--my audience is HUGE--but then again, if I had anything worthwhile to say, I’m sure more people might actually visit this lame page), but go on ahead and browse any number of personal blogs you can find on the www.blogger.com homepage. Sorry to say, but 99% of the stuff out there is crap. I know, I know. It’s the thought that counts, right? Well, not when it comes to entertainment. When you go to the theater and the movie sucks, you don’t walk out with your girlfriend and/or wife (imagine going to the movies with your wife and your girlfriend? If you can pull that off, you could make millions teaching other guys how to do the same) and say, “Well, that was an utter waste of $20, although I’m sure the director and screenwriter meant well.” Am I right or am I right?
So, as usual, what’s my point? Well, as usual, I really don’t have a point other than to inform you, the reader, that keeping your entertainment in mind is my first consideration when putting together these incessant updates. To try and put that in perspective, I’m sure most of you read either Bicycling, Cycle Sport USA, ROAD, or some other cycling-related monthly. With Bicycling, which I read myself, have you ever found yourself thinking, They write the same damn crap every month? I mean, how many times have you spotted a subtitle on the cover page that reads 30 Seconds to a Faster Bike and then, once you’ve reached page 88, the genius editors at Rodale inform you to lube your chain and check the air pressure in your tires before every ride? I’ve been reading that magazine for about six months and I must have read the same damn tips about nine times. I see it once more and someone at Bicycling is going to get one of those nasty letters senior citizens typically write to just about everybody with whom they come into contact (I’ve received a few myself simply for driving twenty-seven in a twenty-five).
So while all of the above may have seemed like a tangent, my point is, when you write about the same subject over and over, it can become a bit tedious to keep things fresh. Do you guys want a recap from this morning’s ride or would you prefer it if I elaborated upon what it feels like when your doctor examines the rash on your crotch, hands you a prescription for Valtrex, and says, “Hey, it happens to a lot of us, so don’t feel bad?” Come on. Stop pretending like you’ve never been down that road before. Just kidding. While I don’t have genital herpes (although if you met some of the girls I’ve met, you’d probably assume I did), I really, really enjoy making up nonsense like that, so if you want it, I can certainly write it. Just let me know via the COMMENTS link below. Believe it or not, I actually like sitting here at this desk with my fingers flying over the keyboard, but that’s a whole other story.
With all that said, I’ll forego retelling the tale of the morning when, after dropping my shorts and asking my doctor if the thing on the side of the thing was just extra skin, he quickly corrected me by explaining, “Ahh, no--that’s actually a wart and your dermatologist will have to freeze it off with nitrous,” and talk about . . . my day. (Jesus, are there any words more terrifying than hearing a girl say, “Tell me about your day?”
First off, it’s a good fifty-minute drive from Pleasantville to New Dorp High School, so I’m sure you can read between the lines there. Regardless, once I dressed (in my car, in a frozen, empty parking lot, like a complete pervert) I caught up with Ed Dalton at the 7-Eleven (does anyone know what the hell 7-Eleven actually stands for?) where he was busy cranking out a few hundred pushups on the cold cement just outside the front doors while telling strangers to go fuck themselves as they walked in and out. Ha! I’m sorry, Ed, that one just sort of slipped out, although I’m sure you’ll appreciate the joke.
So the ride starts, okay? It’s Ed, big Joe, Tommy (not T-Mobile Tommy--Trek Tommy), Rose, Andy, and Hugo, although Hugo arrived at the parking lot by walking in the grass through Miller Field. Wait, I forgot about John. Is his last name Candela? The guy with the Colnago? Of course, I could have asked him myself, but every time he passed me this morning, he went by so fast I never had time to get the question out.
Hugo had a flat, which was apparently his third that morning. Colnago John takes off the wheel and shows Hugo a hole in his tire the size of a dime and then proceeds to not only remove the tire and repair the tube, but to pump it up as well. This was about the third time I’ve seen Hugo suffer a flat and then stand aside while a friend went about the tedious task of pumping the repaired tube to a hundred pounds of pressure. Even though I’m thirty-three-years-old, I can only hope that someone able-bodied offers to pump up my tires in the event I ever get a flat during a group ride. (And now that I said it, you know I’ll get one the next time I’m out on Staten Island with the guys.)
Ready to roll, the group hit the road and I don’t know about everybody else, although I was simply ecstatic we didn’t have to ride through puddles of dirty, salty water. When we reached Fr. Capodanno Boulevard, I began worrying about that short climb to reach McClean Avenue. Why? Most mornings I don’t worry about that hill, but this morning was different. Over the past week or two, on those nights when I wasn’t packing, I was out getting tanked with a few friends from work. Usually, that’s not much an issue, but there are those occasions when ex-smokers, while drinking, begin smoking again.
There--I said it. I admit it, and to complicate matters, all the packing and drinking and smoking meant I made zero effort to get on the trainer after work, so before this morning, the last time I logged any miles had been Tuesday. That, combined with consciously ruining with my lungs, meant I felt like a frozen pile of dog shit as soon as I threw a bike over the leg at eight o’clock in the glorious a.m. today.
And I did feel like shit for the first thirty minutes or so, but soon the lungs began to clear out and all the days I had missed on the bike didn’t seem to matter too much (it’s all relative, isn’t it?) by the time we reached Front Street. I tried taking a pull after clicking up into one of the tallest gears on my bike to get my cadence down around 50 to make the legs work harder than the lungs (part of a new block of workouts as per Chris Carmichael’s The Ultimate Ride training book) although it lasted all of about a minute once Colnago John went blowing by me.
With that out of the way, we reached the ferry when Andy, Trek Tommy, and Rose dropped back.
“Are we waiting for them, patron?” Dr. Rob asked Ed.
“There’s three of them,” Ed said. “Let’s go.”
Is this getting boring now? I sort of feel like it is, so let’s get this wrapped up.
Somewhere on Richmond Terrace, I felt good--better than I normally do--so I moved to the front we got it up to about twenty miles-per-hour in not much of a wind. Dr. Rob was right behind me and I like it when he’s back there considering he’s always good with the words of encouragement/motivation. After a few minutes, he asked that we slow it down. Thinking someone had fallen back due to a mechanical, I immediately sat up, causing Joe to almost crash into my rear wheel.
Good job, Steve-o. Real good.
Eventually Colnago John moved to the front and stayed there for almost the entire ride. The dude’s strong the way Backbreaker Brent’s strong. Those boys just hop out front, settle in, and go.
Coming down Richmond Avenue, I usually try to jump out and see what’s up, but today, I decided sitting on Ed’s wheel was a better idea and I expressed as much once we reached Arthur Kill Road: “Ed, I was pretty content to just sit behind you the whole way down Richmond Avenue,” to which Joe added, “Steve even said, ‘Screw Dalton--let’s just hang him out to dry up front.’”
“My exact words, Ed,” I said. “Verbatim.”
And that’s it. That was the ride. Heading up that last bit of a hill half a mile before the bagel shop, I decided I’d slam on the gas. Halfway up, I spotted a wheel on my right, so I hauled as hard as I could haul, causing my heart rate to shoot up to 185. By the time I reached the top, my heart told me I could take that kind of idiocy and blow it my ass. A few seconds later, the rest of the guys went flying, which I interpreted as, “Nice move, jackass.” And they were right.
P.S. Dr. Rob, during the ride you mentioned a web site listing rides in New York. What was that URL again? If you hit the link directly below this that reads COMMENTS, you can leave it right in there. I’d appreciate it.
Monday, February 26
Thursday, February 22
Movin' On Up
So this is it. Two more nights in Brooklyn and then I’m gone, up to Westchester. Pleasantville, to be exact, and somehow, in my head, I’ve got it stuck that this was a good idea, but if you asked me, “How much do you really know about Westchester?” I’d have to answer, “Not much, to be honest with you.”
See, I’m assuming the roads will be both quieter and nicer than what we have on Richmond Terrace, although I could be wrong. I’ve only been on two or three roads in Pleasantville and while those seemed fantastic, the rest of that specific town as well as the rest of Westchester may turn out to be a total nightmare. The possibility exists that every other drive may attempt to knock me clear off the road into the nearest ditch (no doubt Staten Island drivers would make similar attempts if we actually had ditches on Staten Island). The possibility exists that the hordes of living dead who stalk through the outskirts of Pleasantville randomly attack cyclists during the prime biking hours of 5 - 8 AM and 5 - 8:30 PM and within a few weeks time, I’ll join their ranks. And finally, the possibility exists that after moving to Pleasantville, I may frequent the town’s one bar and meet myself a nice middle-aged married woman with whom I can start a short yet lively affair. Why married? Married women go home at the end of the night.
Just kidding, although I have considered meeting and dating someone who’s terminally ill so there’s no chance of ever falling into a long-term relationship.
Just kidding, again.
Anyway, I’ve come to accept over the years that there exists some sort of invisible yet ridiculous magnet that occasionally draws me back to Staten Island. It kills me to admit that, but it’s true. I mention it considering the rest of the guys on this past Sunday’s group ride all seemed to cheer up the moment I mentioned I’d be moving fifty-five miles away. Sorry to break up the party, although considering (a) my family is on Staten Island, and (b) killer whales make friends faster than I do, I’m sure I’ll be back on the Island for a ride as soon as . . . this weekend?
See, I’m assuming the roads will be both quieter and nicer than what we have on Richmond Terrace, although I could be wrong. I’ve only been on two or three roads in Pleasantville and while those seemed fantastic, the rest of that specific town as well as the rest of Westchester may turn out to be a total nightmare. The possibility exists that every other drive may attempt to knock me clear off the road into the nearest ditch (no doubt Staten Island drivers would make similar attempts if we actually had ditches on Staten Island). The possibility exists that the hordes of living dead who stalk through the outskirts of Pleasantville randomly attack cyclists during the prime biking hours of 5 - 8 AM and 5 - 8:30 PM and within a few weeks time, I’ll join their ranks. And finally, the possibility exists that after moving to Pleasantville, I may frequent the town’s one bar and meet myself a nice middle-aged married woman with whom I can start a short yet lively affair. Why married? Married women go home at the end of the night.
Just kidding, although I have considered meeting and dating someone who’s terminally ill so there’s no chance of ever falling into a long-term relationship.
Just kidding, again.
Anyway, I’ve come to accept over the years that there exists some sort of invisible yet ridiculous magnet that occasionally draws me back to Staten Island. It kills me to admit that, but it’s true. I mention it considering the rest of the guys on this past Sunday’s group ride all seemed to cheer up the moment I mentioned I’d be moving fifty-five miles away. Sorry to break up the party, although considering (a) my family is on Staten Island, and (b) killer whales make friends faster than I do, I’m sure I’ll be back on the Island for a ride as soon as . . . this weekend?
Thursday, February 15
$500 or $5,000?
I’ll be the first to admit I was considering buying a new bike. Actually, I still am going to buy a new bike, but not the same bike I had originally planned to buy.
Once I learned that as an employee of Avenue A I might become the recipient of a generous discount on Jamis bicycle purchases, I immediately thought, Perfect time to put the aluminum Giant to bed and step up with a carbon fiber frame.
Can you blame me for thinking as much? The discount is going to be significant, so I saw little downside to investing roughly $1,300 in a bike that would cost around $2,000 in a shop or online. I thought, $1,300? What’s the big deal? No sweat. Drop in the bucket.
Let’s get real, though. Where I come from, large means $100, so when something costs $1,300, that’s thirteen large as far as I’m concerned. More importantly, is a bike that’s made out of carbon fiber going to make me any faster? Probably not. Well, I know this is an argument with both sides and there’s probably someone out there right now reading this (as unlikely as that may seem) and thinking, Actually, brainiac, a carbon fiber bike will make you faster, and he or she would be almost right for thinking as much. That may seem contradictory to my first statement, but let me put it out there like this.
Yes, I recognize that the lighter the bike, the better off I’ll be. I recognize that a carbon frame means a smoother ride and better components mean smoother, more accurate shifting. I get all that, really, I do. I recognize that better equipment overall generally translates into improved performance.
Yet let me say this. I come from the motocross community. After not having ridden for years and years, I bought my first new bike in 2001 and, a few months later, while flipping through motocross magazines a frame of mind where I began thinking that if I had a better exhaust pipe, lighter pegs, aluminum handlebars, Michelin tires, and a Pro Circuit piston, I’d be that much faster out on the track. Luckily, I soon learned that frame of mind would leave me with nothing other than a thick credit card bill because every time I made my way out to the track either (a) ten-year-old kids on beat-up minibikes would blow past me, or (b) I would blow past those guys with all the tricked-out after-market parts covering their bikes.
In other words, it’s all mental (when it comes to motocross, at least). As long as the bike is running well, it’s up to the guy sitting in the seat twisting the throttle. Sure, if you’re fitness level is shit you won’t finish five laps on the track, but if you lack pure talent, you’ll never have the balls to twist that throttle the way it wants to be twisted.
What I like about cycling is that you can be as good as you want to be. I really don’t think it matters if you’ve got a $500 or $5,000 bike under you. Yes, I know one is nicer than the other, but let me put it this way. Take two semi-professional cyclists of perfectly equal talents and conditioning. Put one on my aluminum Giant. Put the other on a $2,000+ carbon frame bike. How much space separates them at the finish line?
With all that said, I think I’m going to stick with my aluminum bike for now, although I am planning on investing in a better set of wheels because if I break one more spoke someone at Giant is definitely going to die. Also, I’ve had this unnatural curiosity to ride a fixed gear bike, so it’s only a matter of time before you see me on one of those ridiculous machines.
Once I learned that as an employee of Avenue A I might become the recipient of a generous discount on Jamis bicycle purchases, I immediately thought, Perfect time to put the aluminum Giant to bed and step up with a carbon fiber frame.
Can you blame me for thinking as much? The discount is going to be significant, so I saw little downside to investing roughly $1,300 in a bike that would cost around $2,000 in a shop or online. I thought, $1,300? What’s the big deal? No sweat. Drop in the bucket.
Let’s get real, though. Where I come from, large means $100, so when something costs $1,300, that’s thirteen large as far as I’m concerned. More importantly, is a bike that’s made out of carbon fiber going to make me any faster? Probably not. Well, I know this is an argument with both sides and there’s probably someone out there right now reading this (as unlikely as that may seem) and thinking, Actually, brainiac, a carbon fiber bike will make you faster, and he or she would be almost right for thinking as much. That may seem contradictory to my first statement, but let me put it out there like this.
Yes, I recognize that the lighter the bike, the better off I’ll be. I recognize that a carbon frame means a smoother ride and better components mean smoother, more accurate shifting. I get all that, really, I do. I recognize that better equipment overall generally translates into improved performance.
Yet let me say this. I come from the motocross community. After not having ridden for years and years, I bought my first new bike in 2001 and, a few months later, while flipping through motocross magazines a frame of mind where I began thinking that if I had a better exhaust pipe, lighter pegs, aluminum handlebars, Michelin tires, and a Pro Circuit piston, I’d be that much faster out on the track. Luckily, I soon learned that frame of mind would leave me with nothing other than a thick credit card bill because every time I made my way out to the track either (a) ten-year-old kids on beat-up minibikes would blow past me, or (b) I would blow past those guys with all the tricked-out after-market parts covering their bikes.
In other words, it’s all mental (when it comes to motocross, at least). As long as the bike is running well, it’s up to the guy sitting in the seat twisting the throttle. Sure, if you’re fitness level is shit you won’t finish five laps on the track, but if you lack pure talent, you’ll never have the balls to twist that throttle the way it wants to be twisted.
What I like about cycling is that you can be as good as you want to be. I really don’t think it matters if you’ve got a $500 or $5,000 bike under you. Yes, I know one is nicer than the other, but let me put it this way. Take two semi-professional cyclists of perfectly equal talents and conditioning. Put one on my aluminum Giant. Put the other on a $2,000+ carbon frame bike. How much space separates them at the finish line?
With all that said, I think I’m going to stick with my aluminum bike for now, although I am planning on investing in a better set of wheels because if I break one more spoke someone at Giant is definitely going to die. Also, I’ve had this unnatural curiosity to ride a fixed gear bike, so it’s only a matter of time before you see me on one of those ridiculous machines.
Tuesday, February 6
Read Between the Lines
One tends to hear a fair amount of unexpected comments when riding a bicycle with a group. For example:
“You know, if I had killed my wife after our honeymoon, I’d be getting out of jail right about now. Maybe even sooner.”
Take a guess who tossed out that one recently. Further, considering I’m only thirty-three (a spring chicken compared to some of my middle-aged compatriots), there are a fair amount of jokes which seem to be old-hat to a lot of these guys yet are fresh to my ears.
“The three biggest lies in the world? The check’s in the mail, I won’t come in your mouth, and I’ll respect you in the morning.”
I almost choked on my bagel the first time I heard that one.
This gem came just the other day right as we were leaving the bagel shop discussing attractive women:
“Most of the lesbos I know look like Dalton.”
That one received a big round of applause from the few of us who both (a) had the day off, and (b) decided to brave the frigid weather.
Apart from the one-liners, one of the better qualities a person can have in this world is the ability to roll with a joke and I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who can do it better than Mr. Dalton. I give you these examples:
While trying to keep up with Anne and Brent on the hill-climbing ride a few weeks ago, we were flying downhill and quickly approaching a T in the road ahead when Anne turned and announced, “Make a left up here.” She then peered over my shoulder at Mr. Dalton behind me and added, “You go straight, Ed.”
Ed’s response? “Okay! See you at the bottom.”
Or another time while repairing a flat on the side of Fr. Capodanno Boulevard. Some jackass in a SUV (there’s a lot to be said about jackasses and SUVs, although I’ll keep those particular comments to myself) held down his horn as he passed for no reason whatsoever other than the fact that he was a complete and utter jackass.
“F#cking Staten Island as$hole,” Ed commented.
“Friend of yours?” Joe asked.
“Probably,” Ed said.
See what I mean about rolling with the joke? It’s a true talent.
“You know, if I had killed my wife after our honeymoon, I’d be getting out of jail right about now. Maybe even sooner.”
Take a guess who tossed out that one recently. Further, considering I’m only thirty-three (a spring chicken compared to some of my middle-aged compatriots), there are a fair amount of jokes which seem to be old-hat to a lot of these guys yet are fresh to my ears.
“The three biggest lies in the world? The check’s in the mail, I won’t come in your mouth, and I’ll respect you in the morning.”
I almost choked on my bagel the first time I heard that one.
This gem came just the other day right as we were leaving the bagel shop discussing attractive women:
“Most of the lesbos I know look like Dalton.”
That one received a big round of applause from the few of us who both (a) had the day off, and (b) decided to brave the frigid weather.
Apart from the one-liners, one of the better qualities a person can have in this world is the ability to roll with a joke and I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who can do it better than Mr. Dalton. I give you these examples:
While trying to keep up with Anne and Brent on the hill-climbing ride a few weeks ago, we were flying downhill and quickly approaching a T in the road ahead when Anne turned and announced, “Make a left up here.” She then peered over my shoulder at Mr. Dalton behind me and added, “You go straight, Ed.”
Ed’s response? “Okay! See you at the bottom.”
Or another time while repairing a flat on the side of Fr. Capodanno Boulevard. Some jackass in a SUV (there’s a lot to be said about jackasses and SUVs, although I’ll keep those particular comments to myself) held down his horn as he passed for no reason whatsoever other than the fact that he was a complete and utter jackass.
“F#cking Staten Island as$hole,” Ed commented.
“Friend of yours?” Joe asked.
“Probably,” Ed said.
See what I mean about rolling with the joke? It’s a true talent.
Sunday, January 28
Sweet Memory
I wanted to ride with the dudes on Staten Island this morning (Sunday), although when the alarm went off at seven and I took a glance out the window, everything was soaking wet and the clouds were still drizzling. So instead of hauling my butt out of bed and packing my gear for the ten-mile drive to New Dorp, I killed the alarm and rolled over. Call me crazy, although I don’t see the attraction of riding in a paceline with dirty street water spitting into my face for two hours.
Later that morning, once the sun had broke through, I got dressed and hit the rode for a two-hour ride, working in a handful of fast-pedal exercises, bumping my cadence up above 110. For whatever reason, Chris Carmichael thinks this is a good idea. Feels funny to do so while on the bike, but if Carmichael thinks it’s good training, that’s enough for me.
Usually, I would keep to Prospect Park and stay out of traffic, but after six months of riding in a 3.4-mile loop, the experience gets a bit boring. Instead, I did my normal loop down Ocean Parkway, through Brighton Beach to the path that runs along the Belt Parkway, over Marine Parkway Bridge, and then back again. Granted, the stoplights that line Ocean Parkway are numerous, although I approach that conundrum with 5-10 second standing sprints each time I take off from a red light. A steady, continuous pace would be a better for training, but sometimes, especially when you live in NYC, you just have to roll with the punches.
Okay, enough about that crap.
Somewhere on Richmond Terrace yesterday morning, Ed Dalton called out, “Stevie!”
“Yo.”
“Slow it up.”
I think that was the first time I’ve heard those words directed at me, but honestly, it’s not because I’m fast. Far from it, actually. Now that the weather has turned to real winter weather (meaning below freezing temperatures), the group rides on the Island have become progressively smaller. Further, it probably makes sense to slow things down a notch in such weather, to not tax the body so much, but every time I get in line and notice my heart rate monitor reading 119, I get nervous. Why? I can’t help but think of my first and only race (so far) last August. That was the Category 5 criterium in Prospect Park that saw me get spanked by six minutes in a forty-five minute race.
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but bear with me on this one. It’ll only take a minute or two.
I could sit here and hide behind the excuse that I had only been riding for a month when I entered the race (I bought the bike on July 4th and raced August 5th . . . or was it the 6th?), but I hate excuses. There are two things I dislike in day-to-day life: excuses and exaggeration. For example, years ago a friend tried to convince me that a tree was growing in the middle of Great Kills road. “It’s right in the middle of the street,” he claimed, and when we drove by, sure enough, a tree had grown through the pavement about six inches from the curb. “That’s the middle of the street?” I asked, pointing out the window. “If that’s the middle of the street, then what’s that?” I then pointed past the steering wheel to where a double-yellow line would have been if the Transportation Department ever decided to paint one on that particular street.
Anyway, back to the race. After the first lap, I got dropped on the longest climb in the park (which really isn’t that long), in the biggest way. They just spit me out the rear without so much as an adios and left me panting like a dog in hundred-degree heat. I think of that experience every time I throw a leg over my bike. I’m sure it’ll never fully leave, but since then, every time I’m out on the road, I can’t help but remember how physically demanding it was to ride that pace. I could go ahead and make the argument that I’m in much better shape now than I was in early August, but it’s not enough. I don’t even want to risk falling back on reasoning like that. If I do, I might grow complacent, and if I grow complacent, I have no doubt the next race this spring/early summer will see me spit out the back once again.
So when I’m on Staten Island with the guys and it’s freezing and only a few of us show up to ride, I have something of a mental block when it comes to putting it on cruise control, even for a few minutes. I know damn well that if the rest of the guys in that group wanted to step on the gas, they’d leave me for far, far behind. It happened a few weeks ago when T-Mobile Tommy and Lester took off on Richmond Avenue and never let up. Within minutes, I was once again kicked out the back and I never caught up until the bagel shop. A week later, same thing. Dr. Rob and Lester wanted to go on the hill near Killimeyer’s (I have no doubt I just mangled the spelling of Killimeyer’s). About a minute later, they were completely out of sight. Gone.
My point is, if I push toward the front and make a few pathetic attempts at sprints, it’s due to that race from last year. Those fifty minutes of complete decimation and embarrassment have lodged themselves in my brain and, fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I’ve been unable to let go. If I mention I want to pull up front most of the ride, it’s only to push myself, to get ready for what I know is going to happen in the coming months.
As for disliking excuses? That’s a whole other story.
Later that morning, once the sun had broke through, I got dressed and hit the rode for a two-hour ride, working in a handful of fast-pedal exercises, bumping my cadence up above 110. For whatever reason, Chris Carmichael thinks this is a good idea. Feels funny to do so while on the bike, but if Carmichael thinks it’s good training, that’s enough for me.
Usually, I would keep to Prospect Park and stay out of traffic, but after six months of riding in a 3.4-mile loop, the experience gets a bit boring. Instead, I did my normal loop down Ocean Parkway, through Brighton Beach to the path that runs along the Belt Parkway, over Marine Parkway Bridge, and then back again. Granted, the stoplights that line Ocean Parkway are numerous, although I approach that conundrum with 5-10 second standing sprints each time I take off from a red light. A steady, continuous pace would be a better for training, but sometimes, especially when you live in NYC, you just have to roll with the punches.
Okay, enough about that crap.
Somewhere on Richmond Terrace yesterday morning, Ed Dalton called out, “Stevie!”
“Yo.”
“Slow it up.”
I think that was the first time I’ve heard those words directed at me, but honestly, it’s not because I’m fast. Far from it, actually. Now that the weather has turned to real winter weather (meaning below freezing temperatures), the group rides on the Island have become progressively smaller. Further, it probably makes sense to slow things down a notch in such weather, to not tax the body so much, but every time I get in line and notice my heart rate monitor reading 119, I get nervous. Why? I can’t help but think of my first and only race (so far) last August. That was the Category 5 criterium in Prospect Park that saw me get spanked by six minutes in a forty-five minute race.
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but bear with me on this one. It’ll only take a minute or two.
I could sit here and hide behind the excuse that I had only been riding for a month when I entered the race (I bought the bike on July 4th and raced August 5th . . . or was it the 6th?), but I hate excuses. There are two things I dislike in day-to-day life: excuses and exaggeration. For example, years ago a friend tried to convince me that a tree was growing in the middle of Great Kills road. “It’s right in the middle of the street,” he claimed, and when we drove by, sure enough, a tree had grown through the pavement about six inches from the curb. “That’s the middle of the street?” I asked, pointing out the window. “If that’s the middle of the street, then what’s that?” I then pointed past the steering wheel to where a double-yellow line would have been if the Transportation Department ever decided to paint one on that particular street.
Anyway, back to the race. After the first lap, I got dropped on the longest climb in the park (which really isn’t that long), in the biggest way. They just spit me out the rear without so much as an adios and left me panting like a dog in hundred-degree heat. I think of that experience every time I throw a leg over my bike. I’m sure it’ll never fully leave, but since then, every time I’m out on the road, I can’t help but remember how physically demanding it was to ride that pace. I could go ahead and make the argument that I’m in much better shape now than I was in early August, but it’s not enough. I don’t even want to risk falling back on reasoning like that. If I do, I might grow complacent, and if I grow complacent, I have no doubt the next race this spring/early summer will see me spit out the back once again.
So when I’m on Staten Island with the guys and it’s freezing and only a few of us show up to ride, I have something of a mental block when it comes to putting it on cruise control, even for a few minutes. I know damn well that if the rest of the guys in that group wanted to step on the gas, they’d leave me for far, far behind. It happened a few weeks ago when T-Mobile Tommy and Lester took off on Richmond Avenue and never let up. Within minutes, I was once again kicked out the back and I never caught up until the bagel shop. A week later, same thing. Dr. Rob and Lester wanted to go on the hill near Killimeyer’s (I have no doubt I just mangled the spelling of Killimeyer’s). About a minute later, they were completely out of sight. Gone.
My point is, if I push toward the front and make a few pathetic attempts at sprints, it’s due to that race from last year. Those fifty minutes of complete decimation and embarrassment have lodged themselves in my brain and, fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I’ve been unable to let go. If I mention I want to pull up front most of the ride, it’s only to push myself, to get ready for what I know is going to happen in the coming months.
As for disliking excuses? That’s a whole other story.
Tuesday, January 23
The Very, Very Cold
Goddam it was cold yesterday. Pulling myself out of bed while it was still dark outside, I thought (as I’m sure everyone who wakes up before dawn to ride a bicycle in the middle of winter thinks), What the hell is wrong with me?
That’s a good question. Actually, it’s a damn good question--one that I’ve been asking myself for longer than I care to remember.
Anyway, I made it to Staten Island already having donned my polypro sock liners, wool socks, and neopro socks. Three layers of socks to try and ward off the eighteen-degree temperature in which we were about to ride like a bunch of raving lunatics. Then again, you could say, “Why climb Mount Everest?” Because it’s there to be done, I guess, the same way the bike sits in the hall or the garage and stares at you every time you walk by, wondering when you’re going to take it out again.
By 8:20, I was dressed and out of the warmth of my truck, standing around a deserted parking lot in New Dorp with a bunch of other lunatics willing to go cycling for a few hours in below-freezing weather. As we waited until the usual 8:35 to see if any latecomers would arrive, I began wondering how long it would take before my toes went numb. I began wondering if it would get so bad that I’d have to quit, turn around, and ride as fast as possible back to the truck in the hopes I wouldn’t permanently lose the feeling in my toes. The night before, I had considering swapping out the clipless pedals for a pair of platforms with toe clips so I could ride with my gore-tex hiking boots. In hindsight, that might not have been such a bad idea.
During the first twenty or so minutes of the ride, my fingers were colder than . . . colder than . . . uh, you know . . . they were cold, okay? Freezing, actually, yet as usual, they felt fine after the first short climb when we reached McClean Avenue, once the heart rate was up and pumping. Half an hour after that, the toes began going numb, but not dangerously numb. Rather, the numbness was somewhat bearable, if that’s at all possible. By the time we reached Richmond Avenue, though, it was time to step on the gas just enough to push the heart rate out of that 120-130 zone up into the 160-170 zone. If not, my toes would have turned into frozen extremities a la carte by the time we hit the bagel shop and as Joe C. and I stepped it up a bit, I could hear Ed Dalton’s voice in the back of my head, “What’s the point of going on a group ride if you’re not going to ride in a group?” He’s got a point, of course, but I think you should be allowed to bend the etiquette a bit when the temperature is below freezing and you’ve been out riding for more than an hour.
By the time we reached the bagel shop, Tommy summed up the morning’s experience perfectly when he said, “My feet are gone. Totally gone.”
And then, rather than take the loop down to Hylan Boulevard, we made the right out of the bagel shop’s parking lot and hitched it over to the Richmond Parkway service road. Not five minutes after leaving the parking lot, I stood up on one of the rolling hills to get the heart rate back up a bit, to try and keep the damn feet from freezing again, when I heard Ed Dalton sprinting up behind me. How did I know it was Ed? I could hear the squeal of a chain in desperate need of some oil. Expecting Ed and the entire wagon train behind him sitting in the draft, I pushed down on the pedals even harder yet when I glanced over, there was Andy and his bright green winter jacket.
Two minutes later, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me.
“You really didn’t want Andy to pass you, huh?”
Stopped at the next red light, I turned around and explained, “Andy, when you came up behind me on that last hill I could hear your chain and I thought it was him.” I pointed at Ed.
It is what it is, I guess, but that was Sunday. It was cold. It was colder than cold. It’s only January and already I’m thinking about summer.
That’s a good question. Actually, it’s a damn good question--one that I’ve been asking myself for longer than I care to remember.
Anyway, I made it to Staten Island already having donned my polypro sock liners, wool socks, and neopro socks. Three layers of socks to try and ward off the eighteen-degree temperature in which we were about to ride like a bunch of raving lunatics. Then again, you could say, “Why climb Mount Everest?” Because it’s there to be done, I guess, the same way the bike sits in the hall or the garage and stares at you every time you walk by, wondering when you’re going to take it out again.
By 8:20, I was dressed and out of the warmth of my truck, standing around a deserted parking lot in New Dorp with a bunch of other lunatics willing to go cycling for a few hours in below-freezing weather. As we waited until the usual 8:35 to see if any latecomers would arrive, I began wondering how long it would take before my toes went numb. I began wondering if it would get so bad that I’d have to quit, turn around, and ride as fast as possible back to the truck in the hopes I wouldn’t permanently lose the feeling in my toes. The night before, I had considering swapping out the clipless pedals for a pair of platforms with toe clips so I could ride with my gore-tex hiking boots. In hindsight, that might not have been such a bad idea.
During the first twenty or so minutes of the ride, my fingers were colder than . . . colder than . . . uh, you know . . . they were cold, okay? Freezing, actually, yet as usual, they felt fine after the first short climb when we reached McClean Avenue, once the heart rate was up and pumping. Half an hour after that, the toes began going numb, but not dangerously numb. Rather, the numbness was somewhat bearable, if that’s at all possible. By the time we reached Richmond Avenue, though, it was time to step on the gas just enough to push the heart rate out of that 120-130 zone up into the 160-170 zone. If not, my toes would have turned into frozen extremities a la carte by the time we hit the bagel shop and as Joe C. and I stepped it up a bit, I could hear Ed Dalton’s voice in the back of my head, “What’s the point of going on a group ride if you’re not going to ride in a group?” He’s got a point, of course, but I think you should be allowed to bend the etiquette a bit when the temperature is below freezing and you’ve been out riding for more than an hour.
By the time we reached the bagel shop, Tommy summed up the morning’s experience perfectly when he said, “My feet are gone. Totally gone.”
And then, rather than take the loop down to Hylan Boulevard, we made the right out of the bagel shop’s parking lot and hitched it over to the Richmond Parkway service road. Not five minutes after leaving the parking lot, I stood up on one of the rolling hills to get the heart rate back up a bit, to try and keep the damn feet from freezing again, when I heard Ed Dalton sprinting up behind me. How did I know it was Ed? I could hear the squeal of a chain in desperate need of some oil. Expecting Ed and the entire wagon train behind him sitting in the draft, I pushed down on the pedals even harder yet when I glanced over, there was Andy and his bright green winter jacket.
Two minutes later, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me.
“You really didn’t want Andy to pass you, huh?”
Stopped at the next red light, I turned around and explained, “Andy, when you came up behind me on that last hill I could hear your chain and I thought it was him.” I pointed at Ed.
It is what it is, I guess, but that was Sunday. It was cold. It was colder than cold. It’s only January and already I’m thinking about summer.
Friday, January 19
Adios to R & A
Overall, I’m really not one to complain (yeah, right), yet just when I was starting to think the guys at R&A weren’t all that bad, they go and act like a bunch of complete dickwads.
Considering the weather yesterday, I knew there wasn’t much chance I would go home after work and eagerly suit up to ride in the snow that had turned into rain once I climbed the stairs out of the subway station. Instead, I figured it was about time I stepped up to the financial plate and plunk down a few hundred on a decent trainer. After doing the reading and reading the research, I decided on the Blackburn Trakstand Ultra, a contraption which is neither fluid nor magnetic. Instead, it works on what Blackburn calls “centriforce.” I know, I know, this is all incredibly exciting, but at the end of the day, all “centriforce” really means is that the faster the housing spins, the harder a trio of steel ball bearings presses against a flywheel which presses against a friction compound plate which raises resistance.
Like I said, it’s terribly exciting.
Regardless, after plunking down three large (“large to me is $100) for this thing, I lugged it home on the bus and five minutes after stepping through my door, I began tearing open the box to get at my new toy. Immediately, I had a problem: the instructions were missing. Considering it was already past seven o’clock, calling R&A was out of the question as those jokers would have been gone for the evening. I tried calling anyway, but of course, no one answered the phone.
Determined to take my new trainer for a spin, I went online to Blackburn’s web site but the only instruction page/manual they have posted is one for a tire pump. And their customer service hours are 8-5 CST.
I was not only screwed. I was absolutely steaming. Leave it to the jackasses at R&A to sell their customers equipment without the proper instructions.
Regardless, the unit came out of the box 100% assembled, meaning a mildly intelligent chimp could probably figure out how to use it, although there are those times when you just want to make sure you’re doing something 100% right. For example, the unit came with three extra ball bearings and, based on what I had read in reviews, these were to be used to increase resistance. Looking down at the resistance housing, wanting to avoid pulling it apart without the proper background materials, having those instructions would have been grand.
After forty minutes or so, I hooked up my bike and got the thing going as I thought best which turned out to be good enough, but if I had had the instructions, I could have cut that time down to ten minutes. Remember that saying, time is money? Well, time is money, or at least I think of it that way.
For the longest time I had been thinking of investing in a trainer and I’m glad I did. Despite last night’s debacle, I now have the instructions as Blackburn’s customer service emailed them to me in less than five minutes after contacting them today after Al at R&A proved himself completely useless when we spoke. See dialogue below. Even without the instructions, though, the unit proved to work well as per the resistance. Since I’ve never used any other trainer, I can’t really speak to how quiet the thing is, but it seemed relatively quiet to me despite my downstairs neighbor banging on his ceiling/my floor, but he’s a cocksucker, so he deserves some noise anyway.
#
R&A Dialogue
Phone ringing.
“R&A.”
“I bought a Blackburn trainer from you guys last night but there were no instructions in the box.”
“You want to bring it in and we’ll show you how to use it?”
“I was hoping I could stop in and you could just give me the directions.”
“If they weren’t in the box then it doesn’t come with directions.”
“Well could you look in another box to see if they might be in there and then maybe I can get a copy?”
“You’ll have to call me back later.”
Click. “Asshole.”
When your daddy owns the store, I guess you have some sort of a right to treat the customers like a bunch of tools.
Considering the weather yesterday, I knew there wasn’t much chance I would go home after work and eagerly suit up to ride in the snow that had turned into rain once I climbed the stairs out of the subway station. Instead, I figured it was about time I stepped up to the financial plate and plunk down a few hundred on a decent trainer. After doing the reading and reading the research, I decided on the Blackburn Trakstand Ultra, a contraption which is neither fluid nor magnetic. Instead, it works on what Blackburn calls “centriforce.” I know, I know, this is all incredibly exciting, but at the end of the day, all “centriforce” really means is that the faster the housing spins, the harder a trio of steel ball bearings presses against a flywheel which presses against a friction compound plate which raises resistance.
Like I said, it’s terribly exciting.
Regardless, after plunking down three large (“large to me is $100) for this thing, I lugged it home on the bus and five minutes after stepping through my door, I began tearing open the box to get at my new toy. Immediately, I had a problem: the instructions were missing. Considering it was already past seven o’clock, calling R&A was out of the question as those jokers would have been gone for the evening. I tried calling anyway, but of course, no one answered the phone.
Determined to take my new trainer for a spin, I went online to Blackburn’s web site but the only instruction page/manual they have posted is one for a tire pump. And their customer service hours are 8-5 CST.
I was not only screwed. I was absolutely steaming. Leave it to the jackasses at R&A to sell their customers equipment without the proper instructions.
Regardless, the unit came out of the box 100% assembled, meaning a mildly intelligent chimp could probably figure out how to use it, although there are those times when you just want to make sure you’re doing something 100% right. For example, the unit came with three extra ball bearings and, based on what I had read in reviews, these were to be used to increase resistance. Looking down at the resistance housing, wanting to avoid pulling it apart without the proper background materials, having those instructions would have been grand.
After forty minutes or so, I hooked up my bike and got the thing going as I thought best which turned out to be good enough, but if I had had the instructions, I could have cut that time down to ten minutes. Remember that saying, time is money? Well, time is money, or at least I think of it that way.
For the longest time I had been thinking of investing in a trainer and I’m glad I did. Despite last night’s debacle, I now have the instructions as Blackburn’s customer service emailed them to me in less than five minutes after contacting them today after Al at R&A proved himself completely useless when we spoke. See dialogue below. Even without the instructions, though, the unit proved to work well as per the resistance. Since I’ve never used any other trainer, I can’t really speak to how quiet the thing is, but it seemed relatively quiet to me despite my downstairs neighbor banging on his ceiling/my floor, but he’s a cocksucker, so he deserves some noise anyway.
#
R&A Dialogue
Phone ringing.
“R&A.”
“I bought a Blackburn trainer from you guys last night but there were no instructions in the box.”
“You want to bring it in and we’ll show you how to use it?”
“I was hoping I could stop in and you could just give me the directions.”
“If they weren’t in the box then it doesn’t come with directions.”
“Well could you look in another box to see if they might be in there and then maybe I can get a copy?”
“You’ll have to call me back later.”
Click. “Asshole.”
When your daddy owns the store, I guess you have some sort of a right to treat the customers like a bunch of tools.
Tuesday, January 16
Under and Over the Bridge
Sunday morning I wake up and as soon as I hear the rain hitting the window next to my bed, I think, Screw that. A few seconds later, I was asleep again, dreaming of carbon fiber frames that only weigh two-and-a-half ounces, polypropylene sock liners, and winning the first Category 5 race of the upcoming season in Prospect Park.
Obviously, I have some grand, grand dreams.
Make a short story long, by the time I actually got out of bed and sucked down a bowel of Raisin Nut Bran (which I highly recommend, by the way), the rain had since stopped and I figured I’d go out and get on the bike even though I neglected to make the rainy trip out to Staten Island to ride with the guys in the rain. I could have gotten out of bed to do a few miles with the group, but who wants dirty rainwater spitting in their face, up their nose, and in their mouth when you’re riding behind the guy or girl in front of you? Who needs that? Sure, I’m a fan of the sport, but I also have a day job, meaning I’ll leave riding in the miserably wet weather to the pros who are getting paid to push those pedals and drink down that foul rain water (mixed with some motor oil, I might add).
Again, make a short story long, I packed three fat-free Fig Newtons in some tin foil, filled the water bottle with Cytomax, checked the pressure in the tires, strapped on my helmet, and hit the road. Where would I ride on this misty Sunday morning? Over the Brooklyn Bridge and across Chambers Street to the path along the West Side Highway. From downtown I pedaled into a slight headwind (better to deal with it going there rather than coming back) all the freaking way up through Harlem to the George Washington Bridge.
Now, you would think that someone, some city official or park ranger, might have the common sense to place a handful of signs pointing cyclists (or rollerbladers, or walkers, etc.) in the direction of the bridge from the greenway. You might think that someone would have the brains to do this considering the GWB is a major crossing from NYC into New Jersey and vice versa, yet has anyone taken this concept into consideration?
Nope. Riding the greenway under the bridge, I knew I’d have to turn off somewhere to get on the bridge. It took me a few tries, although eventually a guy and his dog pointed me toward Ft. Washington (Street or Avenue, I can’t remember) and told me to make a right that would steer me toward the bridge. Actually, the guy did all the talking while his dog squatted down to do his business.
Then, once over the bridge on the New Jersey side, I was hoping I might catch a sign--either for cyclists or drivers--pointing toward 9W.
Nope. I stopped to ask another cyclist who pointed me in the right direction.
“Go down this way,” he said, pointing north while chewing on a bagel, “and when you get to the T, make a left. Then when you get to the light, make a right. That’s 9W.”
I wish I could sit here and extol the virtues of a ride along 9W, although sadly, I cannot. Once over the GWB, the fog had settled in for the day that made it impossible to see anything other than a wall of white beyond fifty feet or so. Riding through all that mist, my glasses fogged over, rendering them useless, and my gloves began turning white.
Despite the fog and damp, I’m sure 9W is a fantastic ride when you can actually see something. At the same time, though, I can’t say it was a bad ride either. Dealing with the wet road, the occasional drizzle, and the thick fog is what riding through the winter is all about, isn’t it? I may harbor something of a gripe considering I rode all that way looking forward to something a bit more scenic, but by no means was my Sunday ride unfulfilling. On the contrary, I believe that it’s during those rides when the conditions are much less than ideal, those rides when you’re alone and you’re pushing yourself progressively harder and harder that you finish with a greater sense of accomplishment. After pounding out those final five miles (out of a total of fifty-six for the day), those three fat-free Fig Newtons devoured an hour earlier, running on not much more than fumes, I finally reached home and popped a pair of Lean Pockets in the microwave before I even undressed. I wanted food and I wanted it as soon as possible.
Maybe relaxing after the ride is over is the second-best part of cycling. Maybe staring blankly out the window at the fog after the ride is over is what makes the effort worthwhile, knowing you were already out there suffering in the inclement weather only a few feet outside your front door. To me, there’s a lot to be said for busting your ass for three-and-a-half hours and them coming home, cleaning up, and sitting down to a quiet, warm meal of whatever it is you feel like eating.
And that was my Sunday.
Obviously, I have some grand, grand dreams.
Make a short story long, by the time I actually got out of bed and sucked down a bowel of Raisin Nut Bran (which I highly recommend, by the way), the rain had since stopped and I figured I’d go out and get on the bike even though I neglected to make the rainy trip out to Staten Island to ride with the guys in the rain. I could have gotten out of bed to do a few miles with the group, but who wants dirty rainwater spitting in their face, up their nose, and in their mouth when you’re riding behind the guy or girl in front of you? Who needs that? Sure, I’m a fan of the sport, but I also have a day job, meaning I’ll leave riding in the miserably wet weather to the pros who are getting paid to push those pedals and drink down that foul rain water (mixed with some motor oil, I might add).
Again, make a short story long, I packed three fat-free Fig Newtons in some tin foil, filled the water bottle with Cytomax, checked the pressure in the tires, strapped on my helmet, and hit the road. Where would I ride on this misty Sunday morning? Over the Brooklyn Bridge and across Chambers Street to the path along the West Side Highway. From downtown I pedaled into a slight headwind (better to deal with it going there rather than coming back) all the freaking way up through Harlem to the George Washington Bridge.
Now, you would think that someone, some city official or park ranger, might have the common sense to place a handful of signs pointing cyclists (or rollerbladers, or walkers, etc.) in the direction of the bridge from the greenway. You might think that someone would have the brains to do this considering the GWB is a major crossing from NYC into New Jersey and vice versa, yet has anyone taken this concept into consideration?
Nope. Riding the greenway under the bridge, I knew I’d have to turn off somewhere to get on the bridge. It took me a few tries, although eventually a guy and his dog pointed me toward Ft. Washington (Street or Avenue, I can’t remember) and told me to make a right that would steer me toward the bridge. Actually, the guy did all the talking while his dog squatted down to do his business.
Then, once over the bridge on the New Jersey side, I was hoping I might catch a sign--either for cyclists or drivers--pointing toward 9W.
Nope. I stopped to ask another cyclist who pointed me in the right direction.
“Go down this way,” he said, pointing north while chewing on a bagel, “and when you get to the T, make a left. Then when you get to the light, make a right. That’s 9W.”
I wish I could sit here and extol the virtues of a ride along 9W, although sadly, I cannot. Once over the GWB, the fog had settled in for the day that made it impossible to see anything other than a wall of white beyond fifty feet or so. Riding through all that mist, my glasses fogged over, rendering them useless, and my gloves began turning white.
Despite the fog and damp, I’m sure 9W is a fantastic ride when you can actually see something. At the same time, though, I can’t say it was a bad ride either. Dealing with the wet road, the occasional drizzle, and the thick fog is what riding through the winter is all about, isn’t it? I may harbor something of a gripe considering I rode all that way looking forward to something a bit more scenic, but by no means was my Sunday ride unfulfilling. On the contrary, I believe that it’s during those rides when the conditions are much less than ideal, those rides when you’re alone and you’re pushing yourself progressively harder and harder that you finish with a greater sense of accomplishment. After pounding out those final five miles (out of a total of fifty-six for the day), those three fat-free Fig Newtons devoured an hour earlier, running on not much more than fumes, I finally reached home and popped a pair of Lean Pockets in the microwave before I even undressed. I wanted food and I wanted it as soon as possible.
Maybe relaxing after the ride is over is the second-best part of cycling. Maybe staring blankly out the window at the fog after the ride is over is what makes the effort worthwhile, knowing you were already out there suffering in the inclement weather only a few feet outside your front door. To me, there’s a lot to be said for busting your ass for three-and-a-half hours and them coming home, cleaning up, and sitting down to a quiet, warm meal of whatever it is you feel like eating.
And that was my Sunday.
Tuesday, January 9
Arnold the Cyclist
Just tonight, while fixing myself a plate of nachos (see my wonderful recipe below), I decided to pop in my Big Six DVD and watch highlights from Lance Armstrong’s first six Tour de France wins. If I had anything that remotely resembled a social life, I would have grabbed my phone and made a few calls to schedule a night out with a saucy young vixen, but it’s Monday. Who the hell wants to go out for Mexican on a Monday night? More to the point, all the saucy young vixens I know have expressed on several occasions that they think I’m ugly and that my mother dresses me funny.
Admittedly, the saucy young vixens have a point.
Regardless, I was in the middle of flipping a chicken cutlet and watching Lance crash during the 2003 race. I can do this as my tiny kitchen boasts a huge pass-thru window, so I can cook and stay tuned to the action on the TV at the same time, yet as cool as that sounds, trust me, it doesn’t mean much to saucy young vixens. The moment Lance hit the ground and then remounted to sprint all the way up the rest of the climb, I thought, Cyclists are a lot like bodybuilders were back in the 80s and 90s. Not that I’ve ever been the biggest fan of professional bodybuilding (I think one look at me will confirm that statement), although as a teenager, I would occasionally flip through a copy of Flex or something similar. Back then, all those guys who spent at least nine hours a day in the gym and had biceps the size of watermelons all had the same stupid answers when interviewers inquired regarding drug use: “I’ve been blessed with good genes.”
And a rotating supply of hypodermic needles in which they pumped gallon after gallon of steroids and human growth hormones into their asses.
While I can’t speak for the cyclists of old, the cyclists of today sure do sound a lot like the freaky, ‘roid-rage prone juiceheads used to sound. At least most professional bodybuilders are beginning to admit they’re the products of serious synthetic enhancements. I don’t remember what video or TV show it was where I saw this, although not long ago, I caught a clip of an interview with two bodybuilders who looked as though someone had stuck the end of a bike pump valve in their respective asses and blew them up to well over the recommended 120 PSI. The juicehead standing to the left put it simply when he said, “When you look at us, it should be obvious what we’re doing. You can’t get like this without using steroids.” The juicer on the right nodded his approval.
I understand there’s a lot of corporate money floating around in professional cycling, but wouldn’t it be nice to inhale a flash of the truth rather than swallowing the same mouthful of shit year after year? Rather than the incessant, adamant refusals when the subject of doping arises, wouldn’t it be a blast of fresh air to hear Ivan Basso proclaim, “Basta! Of course I dope, you moron! How the f#ck do you think I climbed all those freaking mountains in the Giro as fast as I did? Eating my shredded wheat? God, you people are so freaking dumb.”
At the same time, for my own flimsy reasons, I’m of the belief that the sprinters, racers such as Thor Hushovd (Thor is such a cool name, isn’t it?), Robbie McEwen, and company, are not dopers. Go ahead and call me ignorant, yet don’t the sprinters typically struggle once a stage race reaches the major climbs? Okay, maybe these guys take the occasional injection, but compared to someone like Tyler Hamilton who, according to recent reports, was spending seven months of the year living on the equivalent of a black market pharma cocktail, the sprinters look like a bunch of saints.
While we’re speaking of dopers, how about that Joe Cuomo guy? A few weeks ago, he disappears to have “surgery.” Then, on his first morning back with the group, he’s up front during most of the ride with his face in the wind while most of us are in the back breathing hard. I think it was T-Mobile Tommy who mentioned Joe’s name had come up in Operacion Puerto, although since sixty-eight-year-old Joe no longer contests the Giro, the Tour, or the Vuelta, none of the Spanish authorities made a stink about it. More importantly, they probably couldn’t find Staten Island on the map.
#
Steve's Macho-Nacho Dish
1 plate of nacho chips
1 chicken cutlet sliced into strips
½ cup taco mix cheese or sharp cheddar cheese
½ tomato diced
Salsa
Sour cream
Spread nacho chips on plate. Spread chicken atop nachos. Spread a generous helping of cheese over chicken and nachos. Microwave until cheese melts. Remove plate from microwave and sprinkle diced tomato over plate. Season with salsa and sour cream to taste. Enjoy. Upon finishing, open windows around house/apartment. As is typically expected, ingesting Mexican food may result in pungent flatulence. Keep air freshener handy. Apply Vick’s Vapor rub under nostrils on upper lip to maintain consciousness during severe emergencies.
Admittedly, the saucy young vixens have a point.
Regardless, I was in the middle of flipping a chicken cutlet and watching Lance crash during the 2003 race. I can do this as my tiny kitchen boasts a huge pass-thru window, so I can cook and stay tuned to the action on the TV at the same time, yet as cool as that sounds, trust me, it doesn’t mean much to saucy young vixens. The moment Lance hit the ground and then remounted to sprint all the way up the rest of the climb, I thought, Cyclists are a lot like bodybuilders were back in the 80s and 90s. Not that I’ve ever been the biggest fan of professional bodybuilding (I think one look at me will confirm that statement), although as a teenager, I would occasionally flip through a copy of Flex or something similar. Back then, all those guys who spent at least nine hours a day in the gym and had biceps the size of watermelons all had the same stupid answers when interviewers inquired regarding drug use: “I’ve been blessed with good genes.”
And a rotating supply of hypodermic needles in which they pumped gallon after gallon of steroids and human growth hormones into their asses.
While I can’t speak for the cyclists of old, the cyclists of today sure do sound a lot like the freaky, ‘roid-rage prone juiceheads used to sound. At least most professional bodybuilders are beginning to admit they’re the products of serious synthetic enhancements. I don’t remember what video or TV show it was where I saw this, although not long ago, I caught a clip of an interview with two bodybuilders who looked as though someone had stuck the end of a bike pump valve in their respective asses and blew them up to well over the recommended 120 PSI. The juicehead standing to the left put it simply when he said, “When you look at us, it should be obvious what we’re doing. You can’t get like this without using steroids.” The juicer on the right nodded his approval.
I understand there’s a lot of corporate money floating around in professional cycling, but wouldn’t it be nice to inhale a flash of the truth rather than swallowing the same mouthful of shit year after year? Rather than the incessant, adamant refusals when the subject of doping arises, wouldn’t it be a blast of fresh air to hear Ivan Basso proclaim, “Basta! Of course I dope, you moron! How the f#ck do you think I climbed all those freaking mountains in the Giro as fast as I did? Eating my shredded wheat? God, you people are so freaking dumb.”
At the same time, for my own flimsy reasons, I’m of the belief that the sprinters, racers such as Thor Hushovd (Thor is such a cool name, isn’t it?), Robbie McEwen, and company, are not dopers. Go ahead and call me ignorant, yet don’t the sprinters typically struggle once a stage race reaches the major climbs? Okay, maybe these guys take the occasional injection, but compared to someone like Tyler Hamilton who, according to recent reports, was spending seven months of the year living on the equivalent of a black market pharma cocktail, the sprinters look like a bunch of saints.
While we’re speaking of dopers, how about that Joe Cuomo guy? A few weeks ago, he disappears to have “surgery.” Then, on his first morning back with the group, he’s up front during most of the ride with his face in the wind while most of us are in the back breathing hard. I think it was T-Mobile Tommy who mentioned Joe’s name had come up in Operacion Puerto, although since sixty-eight-year-old Joe no longer contests the Giro, the Tour, or the Vuelta, none of the Spanish authorities made a stink about it. More importantly, they probably couldn’t find Staten Island on the map.
#
Steve's Macho-Nacho Dish
1 plate of nacho chips
1 chicken cutlet sliced into strips
½ cup taco mix cheese or sharp cheddar cheese
½ tomato diced
Salsa
Sour cream
Spread nacho chips on plate. Spread chicken atop nachos. Spread a generous helping of cheese over chicken and nachos. Microwave until cheese melts. Remove plate from microwave and sprinkle diced tomato over plate. Season with salsa and sour cream to taste. Enjoy. Upon finishing, open windows around house/apartment. As is typically expected, ingesting Mexican food may result in pungent flatulence. Keep air freshener handy. Apply Vick’s Vapor rub under nostrils on upper lip to maintain consciousness during severe emergencies.
Monday, January 8
Going Nowhere Fast
From immediately behind me came Ed Dalton’s voice, and I knew that voice was pointed straight at me.
“You had to f#ck around, didn’t you?”
A few minutes earlier, I had jumped out of the line at twenty-four miles-per-hour and tried to make my way to the front with my face in the wind. Within a few seconds, realizing there wasn’t much of a chance in hell I would have the gas to pull in front of T-Mobile Tommy who had been leading the group, I sat up and let our petite peloton slide up the road. Just before slowing down, I glanced over my shoulder at a blue jacket that, I believe, belonged to Dr. Rob. Without the legs or the lungs to reach the front, I felt like I was letting him down, as well as anyone who might have been holding his wheel.
These things happen, I guess.
As for Ed’s admonishment, he was absolutely right. I did indeed feel like f#cking around during most of the ride, although not in a malicious way. Rather, it was quite simple. You have your good days and you have your bad days. Compared to last Sunday when my lungs felt as though they were full of cement, this morning was a vast improvement. It’s days like today, days when I’m feeling good, that I’m probably too quick to stand up and sprint off the front from time to time knowing damn well the rest of the group is going to catch me the moment my butt hits the saddle and I start wheezing from the fifteen seconds of all-out effort I just decided to waste.
Maybe it was the shoes. I invested in my first pair of Sidis--a pair of shoes that actually fit right yet cost a ridiculous $230--which I wore for the first time this morning. How did they feel? Marvelous, baby. Absolutely marvelous (in that I could still feel my toes an hour into the ride).
Overall, though, we had a great ride today. At least I think so. The seventy-degree temperatures that rolled through the area on Saturday seemed to remind everyone that eventually the winter will reach an end and spring will soon arrive, meaning the collective attitude this morning was one of . . . there is a reason we do this despite freezing our asses off in the wind.
On a separate note, I swung in R&A on 5th Avenue this afternoon to grab a new tire. One of the salesman in the shop, Felix, is turning out to be something of a righteous dude. After providing a few pointers on tires and rolling speed and so forth, he not only provided some good advice, but the guy took my bike, tuned up the gearing, fixed a broken spoke in the rear wheel, and then trued it properly. Granted, I did lay out $97 on a pair of Vittoria tires, although the tune up certainly saved me a few bucks and I can now expect much smoother shifting considering I’ve been fiddling with the rear derailleur on my own and generally making a mess of things.
So in the event you find yourself in R&A, I would recommend asking for Felix. He seems to be one of the few guys in there without an attitude issue.
#
Steve’s Open-Face Chicken Sandwich
1 chicken cutlet, sautéed or grilled
1 slice toast (white, wheat, multi-grain, whatever)
Shredded mozzarella or cheddar cheese
1-2 tablespoons salsa
Toast the toast while melting the cheese on top of the chicken cutlet in the microwave. Once the cheese is melted, remove from microwave and place the chicken on top of the toast. Sit down at the table with a glass of soda, water, Crystal Light, or whatever. Spoon salsa on top of cheese-covered chicken. Eat with fork and knife or with your fingers. Enjoy. Repeat as necessary.
“You had to f#ck around, didn’t you?”
A few minutes earlier, I had jumped out of the line at twenty-four miles-per-hour and tried to make my way to the front with my face in the wind. Within a few seconds, realizing there wasn’t much of a chance in hell I would have the gas to pull in front of T-Mobile Tommy who had been leading the group, I sat up and let our petite peloton slide up the road. Just before slowing down, I glanced over my shoulder at a blue jacket that, I believe, belonged to Dr. Rob. Without the legs or the lungs to reach the front, I felt like I was letting him down, as well as anyone who might have been holding his wheel.
These things happen, I guess.
As for Ed’s admonishment, he was absolutely right. I did indeed feel like f#cking around during most of the ride, although not in a malicious way. Rather, it was quite simple. You have your good days and you have your bad days. Compared to last Sunday when my lungs felt as though they were full of cement, this morning was a vast improvement. It’s days like today, days when I’m feeling good, that I’m probably too quick to stand up and sprint off the front from time to time knowing damn well the rest of the group is going to catch me the moment my butt hits the saddle and I start wheezing from the fifteen seconds of all-out effort I just decided to waste.
Maybe it was the shoes. I invested in my first pair of Sidis--a pair of shoes that actually fit right yet cost a ridiculous $230--which I wore for the first time this morning. How did they feel? Marvelous, baby. Absolutely marvelous (in that I could still feel my toes an hour into the ride).
Overall, though, we had a great ride today. At least I think so. The seventy-degree temperatures that rolled through the area on Saturday seemed to remind everyone that eventually the winter will reach an end and spring will soon arrive, meaning the collective attitude this morning was one of . . . there is a reason we do this despite freezing our asses off in the wind.
On a separate note, I swung in R&A on 5th Avenue this afternoon to grab a new tire. One of the salesman in the shop, Felix, is turning out to be something of a righteous dude. After providing a few pointers on tires and rolling speed and so forth, he not only provided some good advice, but the guy took my bike, tuned up the gearing, fixed a broken spoke in the rear wheel, and then trued it properly. Granted, I did lay out $97 on a pair of Vittoria tires, although the tune up certainly saved me a few bucks and I can now expect much smoother shifting considering I’ve been fiddling with the rear derailleur on my own and generally making a mess of things.
So in the event you find yourself in R&A, I would recommend asking for Felix. He seems to be one of the few guys in there without an attitude issue.
#
Steve’s Open-Face Chicken Sandwich
1 chicken cutlet, sautéed or grilled
1 slice toast (white, wheat, multi-grain, whatever)
Shredded mozzarella or cheddar cheese
1-2 tablespoons salsa
Toast the toast while melting the cheese on top of the chicken cutlet in the microwave. Once the cheese is melted, remove from microwave and place the chicken on top of the toast. Sit down at the table with a glass of soda, water, Crystal Light, or whatever. Spoon salsa on top of cheese-covered chicken. Eat with fork and knife or with your fingers. Enjoy. Repeat as necessary.
Friday, January 5
Shameless Plug
This is what most people in any professional line of work would call a "shameless plug." A lot of you know that I ride motocross (or try to ride) in the summer, so here's a link to you really crappy camera work (I simply asked a stranger on the track to work my Sony Cybershot) and even worse riding.
(And if anyone's interested in doing a bit of dirtbike riding this summer, just let me know. I only have the one bike, but one bike is enough.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaR8nmbe0RE
(And if anyone's interested in doing a bit of dirtbike riding this summer, just let me know. I only have the one bike, but one bike is enough.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaR8nmbe0RE
Tuesday, January 2
Written on New Year's Eve
This is it. This is the last installation in 2006. In less than four hours, we’ll reach 2007.
How. Exciting.
More importantly, let me tell you about the steak I broiled for dinner about two hours ago. After a short nap, I dragged myself out of bed (I can’t stand falling asleep when the sun’s still up and then waking when it’s dark--has a tendency to make me feel like a lazy bum) and held a short, internal debate as to whether I should go out for an early dinner alone to celebrate the coming new year or if I should spend the cash on groceries and make my own dinner.
Rather than drop the money on a few rolls of sushi, I walked across the street to Key Food and spent $21.74 on chicken cutlets, Hebrew National hot dogs, hot dog rolls, a block of mozzarella cheese, and a juicy steak. The plan was to cook the steak as my New Year’s Eve dinner along with a baked potato topped with olive oil and melted cheddar cheese.
Nice, right? As I stated in an earlier blog, one of the benefits of cycling is that the occasional splurge on a rich meal is well deserved after a long morning on the bike.
While setting the dining table for one (utterly depressing), I popped in a copy of Sex and Lucia on DVD. With the medium-rare steak and a delectable baked potato on my plate next to a tall glass of Coke (I’m not much of a wine or beer drinker), I hit PLAY on the remote control and dug in. Despite how wonderfully the steak and potato satisfied both my mouth and stomach, I had a hard time concentrating on the movie and my dinner at the same time. This, in turn, led to a second internal debate--should I switch off the movie until I finished eating? Keeping up with the subtitles (it’s a Spanish movie with Paz Vega) and carving a steak at the same time was becoming a major pain in my ass.
Rather than do anything about it, I forged ahead, eating, cutting, and watching the movie at the same time. I pride myself on my multitasking skills. More importantly, the steak was too good to step away from it for even a few seconds. It was too good to even consider dropping the fork so I might grab the remote control and simply hit PAUSE. Instead, I simply cut, speared, chewed, and watched all at the same time. As people always say, it’s hard work, but somebody has to do it.
When the steak disappeared, I then helped myself to a bowl of Hagen Daaz chocolate-chocolate fudge ice cream. A large bowl, I might add, all the while still taking in Sex and Lucia.
It’s a fantastic movie, by the way, although certainly not for kids’ eyes (in case anyone reading this has underage kids, and no, Picco, you can’t borrow it until I get back all my other stuff).
With dinner and dessert over, I settled into the sofa and took the movie all the way to its wonderful end. Then I got up, cleared the table, finished the Pepsi, and sat down at my desk to write all the magnificently boring words you see above. With all that said the question now becomes, why bother? Why bother writing about a single dinner? A single piece of red meat? Why bother telling you about Sex and Lucia? Of all the above, what the f#ck does any of it have to do with cycling?
Why have I wasted your precious time?
For starters, steak is the kind of dish that not only tastes fantastic when you’re chomping on a piece of filet, it’s also enjoyable to read about steak. Come on. Every pair of eyes that hits this page loves the sight of a nice, thick slab of T-bone, rib eye, or prime rib (choose your poison), so I figured writing about a slab of meat might finally do this blog some justice.
Second, it’s the last day of 2006, and as a result, I get to write about anything I want. With the exception of finding cycling when I invested the $600 in my bike, I can’t wait to put this year in the history books and get on with 2007. 2006 was filled with potholes and I can only hope the next year, starting tomorrow, will be a much smoother ride.
Finally, while there’s a lot to be said and written when it comes to cycling, what am I really going to write about which you haven’t heard already? Yes, there is the professional cycling angle, and we will discuss all that good stuff in 2007 rather than bore you with my personal anecdotes, but it’s New Year’s Eve and I had a steak. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
Before I wrap this up, I did want to make mention of something Dr. Rob said this morning toward the end of our ride. The group had pared itself down to only a few riders including Ed Dalton, Vito, Dr. Rob, and myself. Making the right through Gateway, we each took our respective turns pulling at the front, which was a pleasure. From my point of view, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of rotation at the front of the line during our group rides. That’s just me, though.
Anyway, once we hit the end of the paved road near the back half of the park, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me and said, “That’s the kind of riding I like the best: when it hurts but you know you can ride that pace for a while if you had to ride it, when the sun’s out and it’s not too windy, when it’s a nice day and you’re with friends and everything’s just right.”
[DISCLAIMER: Of course, I paraphrased the above. If I had had either (a) a personal secretary with me at the time, or (b) a voice recorder, I would have asked Dr. Rob to repeat himself so I could have quoted him directly. Alas, I had neither (a) nor (b) so the above is the best I can do. Regardless, I did want to give credit where credit is due and source Dr. Rob with such a wonderful quote.]
“That was poetry,” I said. “Sheer poetry. I’m going to put that on the blog.”
“Make sure I get credit,” Dr. Rob said, laughing.
Please see the DISCLAIMER above.
How. Exciting.
More importantly, let me tell you about the steak I broiled for dinner about two hours ago. After a short nap, I dragged myself out of bed (I can’t stand falling asleep when the sun’s still up and then waking when it’s dark--has a tendency to make me feel like a lazy bum) and held a short, internal debate as to whether I should go out for an early dinner alone to celebrate the coming new year or if I should spend the cash on groceries and make my own dinner.
Rather than drop the money on a few rolls of sushi, I walked across the street to Key Food and spent $21.74 on chicken cutlets, Hebrew National hot dogs, hot dog rolls, a block of mozzarella cheese, and a juicy steak. The plan was to cook the steak as my New Year’s Eve dinner along with a baked potato topped with olive oil and melted cheddar cheese.
Nice, right? As I stated in an earlier blog, one of the benefits of cycling is that the occasional splurge on a rich meal is well deserved after a long morning on the bike.
While setting the dining table for one (utterly depressing), I popped in a copy of Sex and Lucia on DVD. With the medium-rare steak and a delectable baked potato on my plate next to a tall glass of Coke (I’m not much of a wine or beer drinker), I hit PLAY on the remote control and dug in. Despite how wonderfully the steak and potato satisfied both my mouth and stomach, I had a hard time concentrating on the movie and my dinner at the same time. This, in turn, led to a second internal debate--should I switch off the movie until I finished eating? Keeping up with the subtitles (it’s a Spanish movie with Paz Vega) and carving a steak at the same time was becoming a major pain in my ass.
Rather than do anything about it, I forged ahead, eating, cutting, and watching the movie at the same time. I pride myself on my multitasking skills. More importantly, the steak was too good to step away from it for even a few seconds. It was too good to even consider dropping the fork so I might grab the remote control and simply hit PAUSE. Instead, I simply cut, speared, chewed, and watched all at the same time. As people always say, it’s hard work, but somebody has to do it.
When the steak disappeared, I then helped myself to a bowl of Hagen Daaz chocolate-chocolate fudge ice cream. A large bowl, I might add, all the while still taking in Sex and Lucia.
It’s a fantastic movie, by the way, although certainly not for kids’ eyes (in case anyone reading this has underage kids, and no, Picco, you can’t borrow it until I get back all my other stuff).
With dinner and dessert over, I settled into the sofa and took the movie all the way to its wonderful end. Then I got up, cleared the table, finished the Pepsi, and sat down at my desk to write all the magnificently boring words you see above. With all that said the question now becomes, why bother? Why bother writing about a single dinner? A single piece of red meat? Why bother telling you about Sex and Lucia? Of all the above, what the f#ck does any of it have to do with cycling?
Why have I wasted your precious time?
For starters, steak is the kind of dish that not only tastes fantastic when you’re chomping on a piece of filet, it’s also enjoyable to read about steak. Come on. Every pair of eyes that hits this page loves the sight of a nice, thick slab of T-bone, rib eye, or prime rib (choose your poison), so I figured writing about a slab of meat might finally do this blog some justice.
Second, it’s the last day of 2006, and as a result, I get to write about anything I want. With the exception of finding cycling when I invested the $600 in my bike, I can’t wait to put this year in the history books and get on with 2007. 2006 was filled with potholes and I can only hope the next year, starting tomorrow, will be a much smoother ride.
Finally, while there’s a lot to be said and written when it comes to cycling, what am I really going to write about which you haven’t heard already? Yes, there is the professional cycling angle, and we will discuss all that good stuff in 2007 rather than bore you with my personal anecdotes, but it’s New Year’s Eve and I had a steak. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
Before I wrap this up, I did want to make mention of something Dr. Rob said this morning toward the end of our ride. The group had pared itself down to only a few riders including Ed Dalton, Vito, Dr. Rob, and myself. Making the right through Gateway, we each took our respective turns pulling at the front, which was a pleasure. From my point of view, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of rotation at the front of the line during our group rides. That’s just me, though.
Anyway, once we hit the end of the paved road near the back half of the park, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me and said, “That’s the kind of riding I like the best: when it hurts but you know you can ride that pace for a while if you had to ride it, when the sun’s out and it’s not too windy, when it’s a nice day and you’re with friends and everything’s just right.”
[DISCLAIMER: Of course, I paraphrased the above. If I had had either (a) a personal secretary with me at the time, or (b) a voice recorder, I would have asked Dr. Rob to repeat himself so I could have quoted him directly. Alas, I had neither (a) nor (b) so the above is the best I can do. Regardless, I did want to give credit where credit is due and source Dr. Rob with such a wonderful quote.]
“That was poetry,” I said. “Sheer poetry. I’m going to put that on the blog.”
“Make sure I get credit,” Dr. Rob said, laughing.
Please see the DISCLAIMER above.
Friday, December 29
The Cycling Mentality
Someone’s going to have to explain the cycling ego to me because I really don’t get it. In my head, I often try to compare the little I know of general cycling mentality against that of other sports I’ve played during my athletic tenure: basketball, baseball, roller hockey, and swimming (ranked in order of how much time was spent with each from the most time to the least). Understandably, we’re not talking about apples to apples here. I know I’m being somewhat cryptic, so let me explain.
Last weekend I found myself on the road with a few guys--guys with whom I don’t normally ride. Based on the little I know of them personality and character-wise, great people all around, although every time I hopped to the front to try and do my fair share of pulling in the wind, someone else would immediately pull out in front of me and settle in.
Why? I know I block more than enough wind and create a rather sweet draft given my height. Before pulling to the front, I was sure to check my speedometer that read 17.6 MPH and once I took the lead after a short burst to get there, I knocked it back down to the same speed, so what’s the problem? Is there a leader-of-the-pack mentality of which I’m unaware even on these friendly group rides? Is the newcomer not welcome to do his fair share of the work?
Same thing happened this morning. Well, almost. Every time I was in the front and the group reached a hill, a select few felt compelled to sprint to the top despite the already strong pace. The only reason I mention this is that whenever I hopped out of line to give it some gas going up a hill, I would reach the top to find myself alone, no one in the group interested in chasing whatsoever.
I came close to breeching the subject simply to ascertain what the thinking was behind the chase-don’t chase mentality. Normally, these are the things that simply bounce off me. These are the things that fall into that category of life that simply does not matter. That’s the stuff you just let slide and the above has slid, to a certain degree. I’ll be the first to admit how far I have to go when it comes to cycling and my conditioning, yet I guess I’m curious in trying to figure out what exactly was going on (if anything). Why stand up and sprint past me on every hill (and I mean every hill) yet let me go when the situations were reversed? Why not let me pull at the front if I haven’t heightened the pace?
As I said, I just don’t get the overall cycling mentality. Someone needs to clue me in big time.
Last weekend I found myself on the road with a few guys--guys with whom I don’t normally ride. Based on the little I know of them personality and character-wise, great people all around, although every time I hopped to the front to try and do my fair share of pulling in the wind, someone else would immediately pull out in front of me and settle in.
Why? I know I block more than enough wind and create a rather sweet draft given my height. Before pulling to the front, I was sure to check my speedometer that read 17.6 MPH and once I took the lead after a short burst to get there, I knocked it back down to the same speed, so what’s the problem? Is there a leader-of-the-pack mentality of which I’m unaware even on these friendly group rides? Is the newcomer not welcome to do his fair share of the work?
Same thing happened this morning. Well, almost. Every time I was in the front and the group reached a hill, a select few felt compelled to sprint to the top despite the already strong pace. The only reason I mention this is that whenever I hopped out of line to give it some gas going up a hill, I would reach the top to find myself alone, no one in the group interested in chasing whatsoever.
I came close to breeching the subject simply to ascertain what the thinking was behind the chase-don’t chase mentality. Normally, these are the things that simply bounce off me. These are the things that fall into that category of life that simply does not matter. That’s the stuff you just let slide and the above has slid, to a certain degree. I’ll be the first to admit how far I have to go when it comes to cycling and my conditioning, yet I guess I’m curious in trying to figure out what exactly was going on (if anything). Why stand up and sprint past me on every hill (and I mean every hill) yet let me go when the situations were reversed? Why not let me pull at the front if I haven’t heightened the pace?
As I said, I just don’t get the overall cycling mentality. Someone needs to clue me in big time.
Tuesday, December 26
Inside the Postal Bus
Understandably, literacy doesn’t run all too deep across the likes of native Staten Islanders, and I can say that as I spent 32 years living in Staten Italy. At the same time, I do realize there are exceptions to every rule, meaning that while it usually requires (a) several roofies along with (b) a hell of a lot of persuading to get Mr. Picco to throw a leg over one of his many bicycles, one never has to beat him over the head with a book to get him to do some reading. If you ever wonder why you’re Verizon bill is so high, ask Picco how much reading he gets done while on the job. Yet while I can’t speak for the few others who peruse this page (check me out using these big words like literacy and peruse--I must be feeling edge-u-mah-kated this morning), I would certainly make the recommendation to give Michael Barry’s Inside the Postal Bus: My Ride with Lance Armstrong and the U.S. Postal Cycling Team a shot in the event you find yourself with some free time and want to do some cycling-related reading.
(And no, Picco, you can’t borrow the book until you return all those adult DVDs I lent you a few months back.)
Now that I’ve made the recommendation, I guess I’m going to have to support it with some facts, aren’t I? Well, I’ll give it a shot, so here we go.
For starters, the author, Michael Barry, was a rider with the Postal squad for several years and is still riding with the Discovery team. The dude grew up in Canada, the son of a former British bicycle racer, which explains a lot. Grew up riding and racing, joined the Postal squad, blah, blah, blah. What sets this book apart from the others--Lance Armstrong’s War, 21 Day in July, Chasing Lance, etc.--is that the reader expects a much more in-depth look at the inner workings of a cycling team and, based on the book’s subtitle, a fresh look at what it’s like to work as one of Lance Armstrong’s teammate.
Overall, the book does provide most of those things listed above with the exception of Lance. As Michael Barry was not chosen as part of Postal’s Tour de France team in 2005 (the book was published in 2005) and considering Lance doesn’t do all too much racing with the exception of the Tour, Barry had little to offer by way of Lance insights. Granted, that makes the subtitle seem a bit misleading, although put yourself in the publishers shoes. Don’t you think you could produce better sales with Lance’s name in the title of the book? If I had been the boys at VeloPress, I probably would have done the same damn thing.
Still, the book mostly lives up the its Inside the Postal Bus main title. Barry does a good job elaborating and explaining his teammates: their personalities, their habits, their quirks, their diets, their senses of humor, etc. For instance: “Triki Beltran . . . grew up the son of an olive farmer close to the town of Jaen in Andalusia. In his passport his name reads Manuel Beltran, but he earned the nickname “Triki” because of his weakness for cookies. El Triki is the Spanish version of “Cookie Monster” on Sesame Street . . .
“Triki brings his father’s olive oil to each race for us to use with our pasta [and] rice at meals. Whenever a new rider comes to the team or a guest sits at the table, Triki starts in, seizing any opportunity to promote his product. He focuses so intensely on teaching us about olives that he doesn’t notice George Hincapie mocking him with imitations of Forrest Gump’s friend Bubba talking about shrimp . . .
“Triki struggles with English more than anyone on the team. In the south of Spain, the Andalusians speak with a distinctive accent, typically dropping the “s” in words. When they cheer for Lance, they say, “Armtrong!” At the 2004 Pays Basque, a tough stage race in the Basque region of Spain, we faced snow at the start. Triki pointed outside and said, “Look, no.” Upset with all the laughter when he spoke English, he then said, “Triki no peak Engli, Triki only peak pani.”
When describing teammates as well as team-related process and protocol, Barry does a fantastic job in his writings. One by one, you get to know the layout of the team and each rider’s personality, including Triki, Chechu Rubiera, Dave Zabriskie, Ekimov (I’m not touching his first name), and others. There are also short essay inserts by Christian Vande Velde and George Hincapie, which keep the reading fresh by providing alternate points of view. Barry starts the book by walking the reader through the first days after he joined the team for training and how those hours came along and then soon launches into the 2004 season.
Regarding Chechu: “In 2002 when we were racing in Spain, Dave Zabriskie asked Chechu why one of the riders in the peloton had red and yellow clothing, bike, and helmet. Chechu, who is normally quiet, considerate, and soft-spoken, was offended and said, “That is the Spanish flag, bitch, and he is the national champion.”
Nice, right? I think it’s the bitch that really pulls it together for me.
Yet with all the good, you have to take some of the bad too. Interestingly, Barry will begin a certain chapter or paragraph describing a race or stage for which he and the team is preparing, yet he often fails to take us through to the end of the race. It’s somewhat frustrating to find yourself drawn into stage eight of the Vuelta a Espana with Barry describing in detail the opening miles and the oppressive heat, yet he leaves off and jumps to a new stage (or even a new topic) without so much as providing an inclination as to how the day ended or who crossed the finish line first. In other words, don’t lead me halfway through the final period and then switch channels to underwater basket weaving two minutes before the final buzzer. That, my friends, is just wrong, yet unfortunately, Barry works in that manner all too much.
At the end of the day, the book should be titled: Inside the Life of a Professional Cyclist Who Drinks A Lot of Coffee. Throughout the book, I don’t think five pages pass without at least one reference to how much coffee Barry and his teammates drink on a daily basis. As someone who isn’t a coffee-drinker, the constant references become slightly annoying after a while. Further, while the book does provide a glimpse of the Postal team, Barry doesn’t have all too much to say regarding Johan Bruyneel and Lance Armstrong, the two guys who seem to be the brains behind the entire operation.
Regardless, it’s not a bad read. I found my copy used on Amazon.com for $8.60 or so. With shipping, I believe it came out to $11 or $12, which is considerably cheaper than the $21.95 listed on the back cover for a new copy.
And again, Picco, don’t even think about asking to borrow the book until you return my copies of Saving Ryan’s Privates and Weapons of Ass Destruction #17.
(And no, Picco, you can’t borrow the book until you return all those adult DVDs I lent you a few months back.)
Now that I’ve made the recommendation, I guess I’m going to have to support it with some facts, aren’t I? Well, I’ll give it a shot, so here we go.
For starters, the author, Michael Barry, was a rider with the Postal squad for several years and is still riding with the Discovery team. The dude grew up in Canada, the son of a former British bicycle racer, which explains a lot. Grew up riding and racing, joined the Postal squad, blah, blah, blah. What sets this book apart from the others--Lance Armstrong’s War, 21 Day in July, Chasing Lance, etc.--is that the reader expects a much more in-depth look at the inner workings of a cycling team and, based on the book’s subtitle, a fresh look at what it’s like to work as one of Lance Armstrong’s teammate.
Overall, the book does provide most of those things listed above with the exception of Lance. As Michael Barry was not chosen as part of Postal’s Tour de France team in 2005 (the book was published in 2005) and considering Lance doesn’t do all too much racing with the exception of the Tour, Barry had little to offer by way of Lance insights. Granted, that makes the subtitle seem a bit misleading, although put yourself in the publishers shoes. Don’t you think you could produce better sales with Lance’s name in the title of the book? If I had been the boys at VeloPress, I probably would have done the same damn thing.
Still, the book mostly lives up the its Inside the Postal Bus main title. Barry does a good job elaborating and explaining his teammates: their personalities, their habits, their quirks, their diets, their senses of humor, etc. For instance: “Triki Beltran . . . grew up the son of an olive farmer close to the town of Jaen in Andalusia. In his passport his name reads Manuel Beltran, but he earned the nickname “Triki” because of his weakness for cookies. El Triki is the Spanish version of “Cookie Monster” on Sesame Street . . .
“Triki brings his father’s olive oil to each race for us to use with our pasta [and] rice at meals. Whenever a new rider comes to the team or a guest sits at the table, Triki starts in, seizing any opportunity to promote his product. He focuses so intensely on teaching us about olives that he doesn’t notice George Hincapie mocking him with imitations of Forrest Gump’s friend Bubba talking about shrimp . . .
“Triki struggles with English more than anyone on the team. In the south of Spain, the Andalusians speak with a distinctive accent, typically dropping the “s” in words. When they cheer for Lance, they say, “Armtrong!” At the 2004 Pays Basque, a tough stage race in the Basque region of Spain, we faced snow at the start. Triki pointed outside and said, “Look, no.” Upset with all the laughter when he spoke English, he then said, “Triki no peak Engli, Triki only peak pani.”
When describing teammates as well as team-related process and protocol, Barry does a fantastic job in his writings. One by one, you get to know the layout of the team and each rider’s personality, including Triki, Chechu Rubiera, Dave Zabriskie, Ekimov (I’m not touching his first name), and others. There are also short essay inserts by Christian Vande Velde and George Hincapie, which keep the reading fresh by providing alternate points of view. Barry starts the book by walking the reader through the first days after he joined the team for training and how those hours came along and then soon launches into the 2004 season.
Regarding Chechu: “In 2002 when we were racing in Spain, Dave Zabriskie asked Chechu why one of the riders in the peloton had red and yellow clothing, bike, and helmet. Chechu, who is normally quiet, considerate, and soft-spoken, was offended and said, “That is the Spanish flag, bitch, and he is the national champion.”
Nice, right? I think it’s the bitch that really pulls it together for me.
Yet with all the good, you have to take some of the bad too. Interestingly, Barry will begin a certain chapter or paragraph describing a race or stage for which he and the team is preparing, yet he often fails to take us through to the end of the race. It’s somewhat frustrating to find yourself drawn into stage eight of the Vuelta a Espana with Barry describing in detail the opening miles and the oppressive heat, yet he leaves off and jumps to a new stage (or even a new topic) without so much as providing an inclination as to how the day ended or who crossed the finish line first. In other words, don’t lead me halfway through the final period and then switch channels to underwater basket weaving two minutes before the final buzzer. That, my friends, is just wrong, yet unfortunately, Barry works in that manner all too much.
At the end of the day, the book should be titled: Inside the Life of a Professional Cyclist Who Drinks A Lot of Coffee. Throughout the book, I don’t think five pages pass without at least one reference to how much coffee Barry and his teammates drink on a daily basis. As someone who isn’t a coffee-drinker, the constant references become slightly annoying after a while. Further, while the book does provide a glimpse of the Postal team, Barry doesn’t have all too much to say regarding Johan Bruyneel and Lance Armstrong, the two guys who seem to be the brains behind the entire operation.
Regardless, it’s not a bad read. I found my copy used on Amazon.com for $8.60 or so. With shipping, I believe it came out to $11 or $12, which is considerably cheaper than the $21.95 listed on the back cover for a new copy.
And again, Picco, don’t even think about asking to borrow the book until you return my copies of Saving Ryan’s Privates and Weapons of Ass Destruction #17.
Sunday, December 24
Almost End of the Line
There is definitely something about the holidays that drags people out of the house to do the things you wouldn’t typically expect them to do on a major holiday such as Christmas (or Hanukah for those of the Jewish persuasion). Maybe it has to do with the fact that everyone realizes the chances to escape from these Hallmark holidays--holidays meaning in-laws, cooking, caroling, too many cookies, watching A Christmas Story for the umpteenth time, etc.--are few and far between so if you actually have the opportunity to duck out for a few hours, you better take that opportunity because it may be a long while before you can do it again.
Most likely, this is exactly what everyone was thinking when the alarms began clicking on this morning. After a friend called last night and cancelled--that friend would be Kenny Picco, if anyone’s wondering--a mountain biking trip we had scheduled for this morning, I thought, I wonder if any of the Staten Island gang will be out riding the day before Christmas. Packing my gear last night and setting my own alarm for 6:45 AM, I figured that even if no one other than myself arrived at Miller Field this morning, I would go out and put in some miles regardless, so the potential downsides were slim.
By 8:30, with the sun well overhead, there were more riders in the parking lot than there have been in a while. Why? It’s the holidays, of course. Everyone wants out of the house, almost everything is closed tomorrow, and most everyone has the day off (for those of us who are yet to reach the age of retirement), so why not show up and ride for a few hours?
Needless to say, we had a full crew, including Grandmaster Ed Dalton, Big Horace, Kelly, Tommy, Vito, Rob, some guy without a helmet, and maybe one or two others I’m unable to recall off the top of my head. Once we reached Fr. Capodanno, we picked up Lester, his brother, Dr. Rob, and Greg. That makes roughly twelve, which, based on my experience, is a decent amount of boys and girls for a Sunday ride. Granted, I’ve never ridden with these guys in the summer, but based on winter standards, a dozen is a good group.
More importantly, what that means is the casual insults were flying nonstop. In the space of just over two hours, I heard more references to girlfriends with boys’ names, short dresses, push-up bras, thongs, and pantyhose than I’ve ever heard in my life. Riding with these guys, there seem to be some jokes that just never get old. For example, I don’t think ten minutes pass without hearing Ed yell out, “Hey Vito, where’s your girlfriend today?” Or, “You know, I bet you’d look pretty good in a push-up bra.”
I don’t know what the story is between Ed and Vito, although obviously they’re close considering the banter. Riding with Ed is like riding with an Irish gangster who decided to take up cycling. As a further example, Ed made reference to Brent’s girlfriend last weekend as we started the hill-climb ride.
“I’m going to pretend I know who you’re talking about,” Brent replied.
“You know,” Ed said, “your girlfriend so-and-so. The one who looks cute in tights.” Ed actually mentioned a guy’s name, but I don’t remember it. Sue me.
“Actually,” Brent said, “you make mention of his posterior much more than I do.”
Whatever the case may be, whoever may be hurling the insults, and whoever may be the recipient of said insults, it was a good ride this morning despite that goddam incessant wind. Ed pulled, Rob pulled, Dr. Rob pulled, and I even hopped in front a few times (I would do so more often as I know I break a fair amount of wind with my height and I want to do my share of the work, although most of the group doesn’t seem interested in riding behind me for much longer than a few seconds--someone’s always pulling out in front of me), although by the time we reached the end of Richmond Terrace, most of the team was gone. The guy without a helmet, Lester, his brother, Kelly, and Horace were nowhere to be found. Someone must have suffered a flat or just plain backed off. You never know when someone’s nursing a cold that makes nineteen miles-per-hour with a headwind feel like thirty. And then, some days, your legs or your lungs simply refuse to cooperate.
Random tangent: here’s a link to a nine-minute video clip from the 1987 Tour de France I found on YouTube.com. I don’t know who half the riders are (actually, I don’t know who any of them are, although I believe I might have spotted Greg LeMond), although it’s entertaining to watch the guys kick ass up those climbs almost twenty years ago:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QO9CfgoZ5c
(If the link is not live--meaning you're unable to click on it--simply copy and paste into your browser and that should work.)
That’s about it, really. I can’t think of much else to say (which is probably a good thing, at least for the few people who actually read this thing).
Finally, here’s another link to another cycling clip: four-minutes overlapped with a great tune by Muse. In one sequence, the camera is following a T-Mobile rider along what appears to be an uphill time trial when some schmuck in the crowd jumps into the middle of the road to snap a pic. Unfortunately for the rider, the dick-for-brains fan has his eye glued to the camera too long so that when he tries to sidestep out of the way, he jumps right into the rider, knocking him to the ground. God, can you imagine the embarrassment of (a) doing something so incredibly stupid in the first place, and (b) having to live with such stupidity caught on video for the rest of your life. Also, I have to imagine that if the kid with the camera knocked over a French rider, some of the other fans nearby probably slapped him around a bit after the fact (which he most likely deserved). Anyway, here’s the link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pCLfOlEBdA
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year!
Most likely, this is exactly what everyone was thinking when the alarms began clicking on this morning. After a friend called last night and cancelled--that friend would be Kenny Picco, if anyone’s wondering--a mountain biking trip we had scheduled for this morning, I thought, I wonder if any of the Staten Island gang will be out riding the day before Christmas. Packing my gear last night and setting my own alarm for 6:45 AM, I figured that even if no one other than myself arrived at Miller Field this morning, I would go out and put in some miles regardless, so the potential downsides were slim.
By 8:30, with the sun well overhead, there were more riders in the parking lot than there have been in a while. Why? It’s the holidays, of course. Everyone wants out of the house, almost everything is closed tomorrow, and most everyone has the day off (for those of us who are yet to reach the age of retirement), so why not show up and ride for a few hours?
Needless to say, we had a full crew, including Grandmaster Ed Dalton, Big Horace, Kelly, Tommy, Vito, Rob, some guy without a helmet, and maybe one or two others I’m unable to recall off the top of my head. Once we reached Fr. Capodanno, we picked up Lester, his brother, Dr. Rob, and Greg. That makes roughly twelve, which, based on my experience, is a decent amount of boys and girls for a Sunday ride. Granted, I’ve never ridden with these guys in the summer, but based on winter standards, a dozen is a good group.
More importantly, what that means is the casual insults were flying nonstop. In the space of just over two hours, I heard more references to girlfriends with boys’ names, short dresses, push-up bras, thongs, and pantyhose than I’ve ever heard in my life. Riding with these guys, there seem to be some jokes that just never get old. For example, I don’t think ten minutes pass without hearing Ed yell out, “Hey Vito, where’s your girlfriend today?” Or, “You know, I bet you’d look pretty good in a push-up bra.”
I don’t know what the story is between Ed and Vito, although obviously they’re close considering the banter. Riding with Ed is like riding with an Irish gangster who decided to take up cycling. As a further example, Ed made reference to Brent’s girlfriend last weekend as we started the hill-climb ride.
“I’m going to pretend I know who you’re talking about,” Brent replied.
“You know,” Ed said, “your girlfriend so-and-so. The one who looks cute in tights.” Ed actually mentioned a guy’s name, but I don’t remember it. Sue me.
“Actually,” Brent said, “you make mention of his posterior much more than I do.”
Whatever the case may be, whoever may be hurling the insults, and whoever may be the recipient of said insults, it was a good ride this morning despite that goddam incessant wind. Ed pulled, Rob pulled, Dr. Rob pulled, and I even hopped in front a few times (I would do so more often as I know I break a fair amount of wind with my height and I want to do my share of the work, although most of the group doesn’t seem interested in riding behind me for much longer than a few seconds--someone’s always pulling out in front of me), although by the time we reached the end of Richmond Terrace, most of the team was gone. The guy without a helmet, Lester, his brother, Kelly, and Horace were nowhere to be found. Someone must have suffered a flat or just plain backed off. You never know when someone’s nursing a cold that makes nineteen miles-per-hour with a headwind feel like thirty. And then, some days, your legs or your lungs simply refuse to cooperate.
Random tangent: here’s a link to a nine-minute video clip from the 1987 Tour de France I found on YouTube.com. I don’t know who half the riders are (actually, I don’t know who any of them are, although I believe I might have spotted Greg LeMond), although it’s entertaining to watch the guys kick ass up those climbs almost twenty years ago:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QO9CfgoZ5c
(If the link is not live--meaning you're unable to click on it--simply copy and paste into your browser and that should work.)
That’s about it, really. I can’t think of much else to say (which is probably a good thing, at least for the few people who actually read this thing).
Finally, here’s another link to another cycling clip: four-minutes overlapped with a great tune by Muse. In one sequence, the camera is following a T-Mobile rider along what appears to be an uphill time trial when some schmuck in the crowd jumps into the middle of the road to snap a pic. Unfortunately for the rider, the dick-for-brains fan has his eye glued to the camera too long so that when he tries to sidestep out of the way, he jumps right into the rider, knocking him to the ground. God, can you imagine the embarrassment of (a) doing something so incredibly stupid in the first place, and (b) having to live with such stupidity caught on video for the rest of your life. Also, I have to imagine that if the kid with the camera knocked over a French rider, some of the other fans nearby probably slapped him around a bit after the fact (which he most likely deserved). Anyway, here’s the link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pCLfOlEBdA
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year!
Sunday, December 17
The View
Despite having ridden just over thirty-eight miles through some of Staten Island’s hills this morning (along with Ed Dalton, Anne, and Backbreaker Brent (who supposedly does get tired while riding, although that’s self-reported information so it’s kind of hard to believe)), I figured I’d do a bit more riding this evening. After lounging across the sofa for almost two hours munching on tortilla chips and salsa while watching The Bourne Supremacy for the second time in the past several months, I happened to glance over at my bike standing all by its lonesome in the front hall. Once the movie ended, I wiped the salt from my fingers, drained my cup of ice water, strapped on a pair of latex gloves, swapped the clipless pedals for a pair of regular, old-school flat pedals, tied down the cuffs of my jeans, and hit the road. Two minutes and fifty-eight seconds after stepping out my front door, I reached the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Nice night for a spin. Mild weather, meaning no need for a hat or gloves, even on top of the bridge. Having to duck past only a handful of brainless tourists with their backs turned to oncoming bicycle traffic (in the bicycle lane), I stopped here and there along the way to pull out my camera and click off a few snapshots. Below are a few of the results that I’ve toyed with a bit via Photoshop, although I only did so with the purest of artistic intentions in mind.
Saturday, December 16
Red Blooded
The other day, I passed off a few comments about certain professional cyclists and how, in my opinion, said cyclists are major dopers. While I will always believe, in my opinion, that said cyclists have synthetically enhanced their athletic performances, I was thinking about a story I recently read regarding Lance Armstrong while I was showering the other day (which is when I normally think of guys who shave their legs and wear tight shorts--when I’m naked and wet . . . ugh, gross).
Anyway, I forgot if this particular story took place during the 2003 or 2004 Tour de France, but the account is rather heroic which is why it seems to have wedged itself in my memory. I’m sure you’ve heard it before, although I’ll recant it here in case you haven’t.
During one of the Tour’s premier mountain stage, Floyd Landis, riding for US Postal, had paced and pulled his captain, Lance Armstrong, up the final climbs. By this point late in the stage, there were only two other riders who had managed to keep pace: Jan Ullrich and his teammate, Andreas Kloden. (Now that I’m writing it, this must have been the 2004 Tour.) Having done an excellent job and most likely feeling not so much threatened by either of the T-Mobile riders, Armstrong asked his domestique, “How bad do you want to win a stage in the Tour de France, Floyd?”
“Real bad,” Floyd said.
“How fast can you ride downhill?”
“Real fast.”
Pulling up next to his teammate, Lance patted Floyd on the back and said, “Ride like you stole something, Floyd.”
With the proverbial nod from his boss, Landis was off and began racing down the hill toward the stage’s finish.
Seeing this, Ullrich decided to chase down Landis, which absolutely infuriated Armstrong. Why chase a guy who isn’t a threat to win the race? Why chase after a guy who’s ranked way back within the General Classification?
Once Ullrich took off, so did Armstrong and Kloden. Eventually, they reeled in Landis with only a few kilometers to go. Unfortunately, having done the pulling for his captain all afternoon, Landis had little left in the gas tank to sprint away for the win and allowed the T-Mobile riders to creep up.
So what happened? When Kloden took off next to make an attempt to win the stage, Armstrong simply wasn’t having it and sprinted over the finish line first, which, in my opinion, was a fantastic move--a move that reminds me of that old saying, “You mess with me, you mess with my whole family!” In this situation, it would be the reverse--“Mess with my family and you mess with me,”--although it feels the same, doesn’t it?
Within this story, another subplot exists: the Americans versus the Germans. For Ullrich and Kloden to chase Landis was a huge mistake in that it only managed to piss off the champ, the same guy who made Ullrich look ridiculous so many years past. How dumb do you have to be to realize chasing down one of Armstrong’s teammates--again, one who was nowhere near a threat to win the overall--is only going to serve the purpose of upsetting Armstrong? And what’s that old adage about the Texan? The only way to beat Armstrong is not to make him mad. Beating Armstrong makes him mad. Here’s a guy who will pedal until he dies if he wants to prove a point, and you go and mess with his family?
Excuse my French, but Jan Ullrich must be one dumb f#ck.
Aside from the German’s stupidity, I like the story as it seems to speak to the champ’s athletic character (doping or not). As much as Armstrong’s teammates have sacrificed selflessly for the greater good (at least it appears that way as an outsider looking in), Armstrong went the distance during that stage not for personal glory, but rather as a matter of sticking up for his people by sending the message, If my boy doesn’t get it, you sure as hell ain’t getting it either.
That’s good work, in my opinion.
Thursday, December 14
Flats & Dopers
So yesterday, after all that miserable rain, I decided to suit up and ride over to the park. I didn’t have anything fancy planned, just an hour-and-a-half of getting the heart rate up to 150 or so and I was doing exactly that, trying not to get all too aggravated with the dirty water saturating the back of my jacket and shorts, when I suffered a flat.
As I’m sure everyone reading this can attest, getting a flat when it’s cold, dark, and wet completely sucks the big donkey.
Pulling to the side of the road in Prospect Park, I unclipped both the computer and headlight from my handlebars, flipped my baby over, removed the wheel, and promptly made a complete mess. Changing a tire always means dirty fingers, but changing a tire in the wet means very dirty fingers, not to mention dirty fingernails, dirty palms, and dirty everything.
After quickly swapping out the punctured tube for a new one (there was no way I was going to spend the extra few minutes finding the leak and patching it in the dark), I inflated the tire with a canister of CO2 (that stuff makes a stem mighty cold and it does so mighty fast), tossed the old tube in the trash (with such wet, dirty fingers, I didn’t much feel like getting the back of my jersey filthy by saving the tube I had just removed), shoved the wheel back in the frame, replaced the computer and headlight, and started on my way again.
By the time that happened, I had had enough of riding for the evening, so I went home.
What’s the point? I think I might start carrying my pump around with me again. That CO2 can be a pain in the ass. Further, I might drop the saddle bag in favor of a shoving a spare tube, tire levers, and a patch kit in a sandwich bag and hauling it around in the back of my jerseys. Finally, I’m worried I might be boring you guys to tears with these updates, so I wanted to begin incorporating content surrounding other avenues of cycling. What avenues?
Floyd Landis the Doper.
Anyone who truly believes that past and present frontrunners in the Tour de France--Armstrong, Ullrich, Basso, Landis, Hamilton, Mayo, etc.--are riding without synthetic help need to schedule an appointment with a mental health expert and have their heads checked. Understandably, by grouping Armstrong in this alleged-doper category, I’m committing something of a cardinal sin. There are those out there in the cycling community who, due to Armstrong’s cancer foundation and comparable good deeds, feel the man is in a class entirely of his own and that his VO2 max and lactate threshold are enough to allow him to race up impossibly tall mountains in France while other world-class cyclists fall far off his wheel.
To those people I offer a single argument.
Yeah, right.
At the same time, I do recognize that, if all things are considered equal, it’s fair to say that Lance Armstrong is not just the best, but the best of the dopers. In that regard, Armstrong truly is a champion. For me, that statement is much easier to swallow rather than sticking my head in the sand and believing Lance never stuck a needle in his ass.
Stepping away from Armstrong for a moment, let’s think about the Tour de France and how cycling has almost become anonymous with doping.
In any sport, there will always be those athletes who simply rise above the rest due to superior gifts: Kareem Abdul Jabaar, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Michael Jordan, Troy Aikmen, Peyton Manning, The Fridge, Lawrence Taylor, Randy Moss, Babe Ruth, Yogi Bera, DiMaggio, Hank Aaron, Pete Sampras, John McEnroe, Tiger Woods, Minnesota Fats, Ricky Carmichael, Jeremy McGrath, Mick Doohan (I’m not counting NASCAR drivers as I see that less of a talent and more of a money thing, meaning if you’ve got the money for a fast car, you can learn to race), etc. All these men had extraordinary talent which is why we all know their names as well as we do. Their talent revolved around coordination, timing, aggression, practice--all that good stuff most of us don’t have in the same abundance they did.
Not to take away from cycling, but it’s basically an endurance event. Sure, you need strong legs and lungs as well as a big heart (a lot of heart is needed in any competitive activity), but pedaling a bike up a hill doesn’t require too much hand-eye coordination, does it?
Let me reiterate that I’ve grown to love the sport of cycling, but compared to the stick-and-ball athletes, how much talent does riding a bicycle require? The point I’m trying to make is, you’ve got a peloton of almost 200 riders who start the Tour de France every year. Are the guys who finish in the rear of the pack that much less gifted than the frontrunners? Or are the frontrunners giving themselves an unfair advantage via dope? In other words, if I train just as hard as the next guy for the same length of time, what’s to stop me from winning a local cycle race? Endurance is built through training and repetition, no?
For example, when Tyler Hamilton was racing to win the Tour de France, he was Mr. Nice Guy. He was the hard worker the same way Armstrong has always been considered a hard worker. No way was Mr. Nice Guy a doper. Couldn’t be. Sure enough, when Hamilton’s doping schedule was recently discovered, it included an extensive program of blood doping, EPO, steroids, and more.
Hamilton was a frontrunner in 2003 and 2004 riding for CSC and Phonak, respectively. And it’s now known he was a major doper.
This year, Basso and Ullrich were dropped prior to the start of the Tour due to doping allegations. Think they’re really just allegations?
Yeah, right.
At the end of the day, there’s no doubt in my mind as to the true nature of professional cycling at the level at which these guys are riding: Armstrong, Ullrich, and company. How anyone can believe otherwise truly amazes me.
What do you think?
Monday, December 11
Tour of Brooklyn (and Queens)
Last night, over a splendid homemade dinner of spaghetti and meatballs (well, not that splendid, but close enough), I thought to myself, Do I really want to spend another two hours riding in Prospect Park tomorrow? Typically, I join the SIBA group rides every Saturday and Sunday, although this week, I didn’t much feel like making the trek out to Staten Island both days. Tomorrow I’ll join when the guys are planning on climbing hills all morning as opposed to the usual perimeter ride, but today, I figured I’d stay in Brooklyn.
With that in mind, I broke out the New York City Bicycle Map last night and attempted to plot a route. From Brooklyn Heights, I would take the usual streets to Prospect Park, yet instead of entering the park on 3rd Street, I followed Prospect Park West around the southern tip until I connected with Ocean Parkway. Actually, I was forced to make something of a detour as I couldn’t connect so easily with Ocean Parkway. After climbing a walkway over what I think was Prospect Expressway, I found myself on the corner of Canton and Ft. Hamilton Parkway (all these damn Parkways). Outside a Burger King, I consulted the bike map, turned around, finally found Ocean Parkway, and started south.
Riding under the Belt Parkway, I reached Brighton Beach and made a left on Neptune which soon became Emmons Avenue, riding past the party boats (I’m assuming that’s Sheepshead Bay, but then again, I really have no idea). Once Emmons reached an end, it took me a moment to locate the bicycle path that runs parallel to the Belt Parkway. A few moments later, I hopped on that and followed it all the way down to Floyd Bennett Field that, at this time of the year, seemed relatively deserted. I was looking forward to riding through the field as my understanding is that races are held there during the summer months. I would have liked to get a sense for the course, yet instead, I continued along the bike path until I reached a bridge that carried me over into what I believe was Far Rockaway. Granted, this was my first time ever in Rockaway, Far or Near, although the ride over the bridge kicked me in the ass big time yet not due to the climb, but the wind. That damn howling wind practically froze the right side of my face as I headed southeast over the water.
Once across, I made a left, the wind now at my back. The path that hugged the water was crap: glass, gaping holes, rocks, and at one point, I had to veer off the path completely where I almost threw it away in the sand. When that path reached its end, I again consulted the map to figure out exactly where I was. Indeed, it was Rockaway. As a quick detour, I made a right down B 110th Street until I reached the boardwalk. In this kind of weather, riding near a beach is so completely desolate and depressing. Sort of reminded me of Coney Island in Requiem for a Dream. If you haven’t seen that movie and you don’t care much for depressing dramas, waste neither your time nor your money as that movie starts off bad and just gets progressively worse and worse.
Finished with the boardwalk, I started forward again and when I reached B 95th Street, I had a left to make and another bridge to climb: the Veterans Memorial Bridge. I now had the wind on my left, which felt as if it was picking up speed, making my life that much more of a pain in the ass. Riding along, I noticed one of my sleeves coming undone. The windbreaker I’ve been wearing since autumn--that garish neon yellow thing from PricePoint.com--has removable sleeves and as I road along in Queens (first time for everything, right?), the zipper on my right sleeve was coming apart. Pulling to the side of the road, I peeled off the jacket (which, standing in that cold wind, I definitely did not want to do) along with my gloves and tried fixing the problem. Nothing was working as the zipper was three-quarters of the way apart and totally jammed.
“I really don’t need this right now,” I mumbled under my breath, cursing PricePoint’s shitty product. My fingers almost numb, I ripped the zipper off and tossed the sleeve in a nearby trashcan. Could I have saved it and fixed it later? Of course, but I never plan on using that damn jacket again as anything other than a vest, so off I went less a sleeve.
Over the bridge, I followed the bike lane to 165th Street where I made a left, followed by a right, another left, and then one more right, all of which eventually returned me to the bike path that parallels Belt Parkway. That’s where I made another left and began battling a friend, the freaking wind.
Do I go into detail about how the wind kept knocking me back, causing me to downshift lower and lower? You know what it’s like to ride into the wind, although it always seems that much worse when you know you’re another twenty miles from home (or your car) because you know the wind isn’t going to leave you alone for a second during those twenty miles, and that’s what I had in front of me once I reached the Belt Parkway.
Regardless, I rode until the Dunkin Donuts on Emmons Avenue where I stopped for a glazed donut, a plain bagel with butter, and the box of raisins I had in the back of my jersey. I sat inside for ten minutes until my hands and feet felt like they were mine again, and then I hit the road for the last leg of the tour. At Ocean Parkway, I turned north and took it all the way up into Park Slope, did half a loop in the park, cut through North Slope, through a small slice of Cobble Hill, and made my way home to the corner of Clinton and Atlantic.
After almost four hours on the bike, after a hair under fifty miles (an average 14.2 MPH kind of sucks), my face is now covered with a mix of sun and wind-burn and my legs are ready for a long nap, yet once I swallowed a few Hot Pockets washed down with a tall glass of iced tea, I walked to R&A for a new jacket: a nice black and silver Pearl Izumi that only set me back $151.73 including tax. When you really think about it, that’s a shitload of cash for a freaking polyester jacket, but it’s a hell of a lot better than that yellow tent I was wearing.
See you in the hills.
Thursday, December 7
In My Face
Now that it’s cold (or getting colder, I should say), it’s windy. What is it about the wind arriving as soon as the temperature drops? Why can’t the wind arrive when it’s hot and humid and all everyone wants is a simple breeze? Why does the wind have to pick up when the last thing you want is a blast of freezing air in your face? Who the hell manages these things?
Riding in Prospect Park yesterday, the wind seemed to attack from all angles yet it struck the hardest while climbing the one decent climb near the north end of the loop. Combined with the fact that according to 1010 WINS the temperature was a brisk thirty-two degrees when I left the house, the weather yesterday made for some extremely chilly hands and feet. After an hour of battling the wind and climbing that stupid hill at nine miles-per-hour (compared to the usual thirteen or fourteen, I’ll have you know) and after an hour of riding with my hands curled into fists in an attempt to provide some protection for my fingers, I called it quits. Further, by the time I reached home, my feet were starting to go numb. To try and remedy the situation from happening again, I stopped by Paragon Sporting Goods this afternoon in the hopes of finding a better pair of socks and a warmer pair of gloves.
I was about to invest $44 in a pair of cold weather Pearl Izumi gloves, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Simply, I get the feeling I could find a great pair of gloves that will keep my hands just as warm in some sort of camping gear store and I’ll end up spending a lot less than $44.
Conversely, I did pick up a pair of Woolie Boolie socks for $11.95 and they’re considering warmer than the cotton socks I’ve been wearing. In the event you end up with cold toes even with booties, you might want to give the wool socks a try. They seem to work.
That’s pretty much it, dudes. It’s late, it’s been a long day, and I’m starting to get the feeling I’m going to be riding into the wind for the coming months. That sucks. I can’t stand headwinds. Blah.
Picco, do some sort of rain dance but substitute a few wind moves and make my life a bit easier.
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On another note, is anyone interested in joining me to in San Francisco in mid-February to check out the prologue and first stage of the Tour of California? I'm giving it serious thought. Tour starts on February 18th, which is a Sunday. I'm thinking of flying out some time Friday, enjoying the city Friday night and all day Saturday, watching the individual time trials on Sunday and then possibly the following stage in Sausalito on Monday, flying home either Monday night or, better yet, Tuesday morning.
Thoughts?
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