We Might As Well Dope

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

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

Why Bother?

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

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

“What plan?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe I won’t. Who the hell knows.

Coaching Session

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But really, what’s the big deal?

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

“I’m sure you’re real sorry.”

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

I'm Done

I think I’m done with the NYCC.

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

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

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

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

Know what I mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just To Validate That Last Post . . .

That's me all the way on the right.

196

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

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

How utterly exciting.

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

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

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

How embarrassing.

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

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

Why was it not completely mellow?

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

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

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

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

Absolutely brilliant.

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

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

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

Unfortunately, that turned out to be a mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five in the morning?

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

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

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

Pace: B17
4 laps in Central Park
Double paceline

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

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

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

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

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

Can you believe that crap?

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

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

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

That Time of the Year

It’s that time of the year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who's Coming to Moab?

So here’s the deal.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

So how would we get there?

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

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

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

Riding in the DR

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

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

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

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

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

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











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

Gracias.

All In A Day's Work

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read All About It

For starters: my bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Know what I mean?

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s about it for now, I guess.

Sheldon Brown Dies of Massive Heart Attack

Read the article HERE.

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

Leukemans gets two-year ban

This just in from VeloNews:

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

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

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

Chain Stretch Already?

So, a few things.

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

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

Know what I mean, Vern?

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

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

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

I know. I’m a goddam genius.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Potholes And Those Damn . . .

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

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

THINGS I WILL NEVER MISS ABOUT STATEN ISLAND:

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

2. Goddam effing road quality

3. Goddam effing beautiful scenery

4. Goddam effing bike lanes in the most useless areas

4. Goddam effing dump

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

THINGS I MISS ABOUT STATEN ISLAND:

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

I think it is.

The Sunshine State

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

That she did.

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

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

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




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

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



. . . which is this far from the beach.



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



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

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

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

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

Jesus, did I really just say that?

Cordial? Manners? Couth?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warm Feet Delivered Straight To Your Home

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

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

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

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

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

Heading South Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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