Full Circle

"Could you take this to your Dad on your way over there?" my father-in-law asked.  "Sure, what is it?" I replied.  "A baguette pan."  With that, a seemingly benign conversation set into motion what I consider a remarkable turn of events.  Events that have caused me to do a lot of thinking.

My dad seemed pleasantly surprised by his unexpected gift.  While most would consider a baguette pan to be a "white elephant", chucking it aside atop a mountain of useless kitchen items, not my dad.  Scoffing at bread machines and sending gluten-free freaks scurrying, dad is always baking up and perfecting some new and tasty breads.  As if he needed a reason and anxious to test out his new toy, he set to work.  Bread-making is a labor of love that requires artisan-like craftsmanship and time.  But on this visit, the family was in tow and the kids were growing restless and punchy.  As far as they were concerned, we had overstayed our welcome and it was time to go.  Time had run out.  "We better get going," I said.  "But the bread will be ready in ten minutes," my mom said "C'mon, I'll throw it in a bag for you."  Despite all of the screaming and chaos I capitulated, "Okay."

With hot French bread in hand and family loaded up, it was time to head across town to the other grandparents' house.  Tired of highway driving, we opted for the Salem Avenue scenic and slightly downtrodden route.  The old Tasty Bird Poultry Company (now out of business), Pinky's Fried Chicken (formerly a Lou's Broaster Hut and a Rally's, now all out of business), an old Red Lobster (now a fully functional funeral home), and a beggar on the I-75 on-ramp.  "Don't stop, Go!"  my wife urged as we approached the yellow light.  Too late, I had to stop.

It'll be okay I thought to myself.  This guy looked pretty bedraggled; too pathetic to try any funny business.  Just don't make eye contact I again reasoned, then he may want something.  His sign simply read "Hungry+Homeless."  "Should we give him something?" my wife asked.  No way was I giving this guy beer money (it's a shame that we have to think this way), but his sign said nothing about money.  "Give him a loaf of bread" she said.  Pausing for a moment I grabbed one of the loaves, shoved it in a bag, and thrust it out my now open window.  "Dude, my dad just made this, it's still hot," I said handing it to him.  Without missing a beat, he grabs it and stuffs it inside his jacket.  "Merry Christmas" he said stoically.  For the first time I make eye contact with him; he seriously looked as if he would cry.

I felt somewhat skeptical about the guy's situation, but I also felt pretty good about what just transpired.  Our intentions were good and it really made me reflect on the day's events.  What if I forget to bring the baguette pan?  What if I decide not to wait for the bread to be ready?  What if that guy really was hungry and doesn't get the bread?  Our decisions, intentional or otherwise, insignificant or colossal, affect our daily lives, those of others, and our future. It's pretty amazing when you think about it.  So many days and people pass right by and no thought is given to how we impact their destiny, most of the time without even knowing it.

I wonder what became of that loaf of bread.  I wonder what became of that dude?

Greatest Gifts

Tis always the season for something and many people use this time of the year to reflect.  Why not reflect on some of the greatest gifts given or received?

Rather than focusing on the former and staying away from intangibles and fluffy thoughts (such as the obvious and far too overused "it's better to give than to receive" and "this season, give the gift that keeps on giving, give the gift of life"), I present this; aren't some of the best gifts the ones that you never knew you wanted?  Okay, I'll admit, that Sega Genesis of '91 kicked ass, and the Hungry Hungry Hippos of '83 made for hours of entertainment (to this day, Pinkie is still the best).  But despite me keeping my Sega through college (and making good use of it too), neither stood the test of time.  Breaking or otherwise falling by the wayside of life, only to be left in a scrap heap and a memory.

So what am I talking about?  Nothing more than slippers and a bottle to name a few. Several Christmases ago I received some slippers from my mom.  I had gone thirty years without and didn't feel the need to change now.  That is, until now.  Now there's not a wintry day that I can go without.  So much so, that when I wore through that original pair, I went out the same day and bought another. The other happened to be a Nalgene bottle that I received from my wife.  I drink a lot of water and was tired of spending two bucks a pop on throw away plastic bottles.  For the eight dollars that one bottle cost, I have gotten six liters of water a day for the past year.  I won't go anywhere without that bottle and won't drink out of anything else. 

While these gifts fall short of Castle Greyskull or a chemistry set for "wow" potential, they more than make up for it in practicality and usage.  It's unexpected treasures like these that sometimes make a Christmas season.

Ich bin kaput/Winter mode

I'm doing something that I haven't done here before: filling this post with my own self pity and doubling up on the topics.

I just haven't been myself lately. Sick for three out of the last four weeks, plenty of motivation but no impetus, and my knee is wrecked. Though I cannot cite when it happened, I can tell you that it has only gotten worse. Two doctors and four diagnoses later, and I can barely walk. This sucks. Thankfully, it is winter time, and the mileage and bike riding have slacked off (though I am not usually accustomed to this much slacking). Winter represents a hibernation for most cyclists.  A time to build endurance with long, slow paced rides and a time to recover. Having been prescribed six weeks of physical therapy, I should have plenty of time for that. 

Facing a mandatory reprieve from cycling, I decided to join up once more with the Charleston Winter Bike League.  Like a dog let loose before being neutered, I wanted one more fling with the bike.  At first I wasn't crazy with the idea of this ride, but after going a few weeks ago, I was sold.  This is a great ride concept with great people and even features some off-road sections that got me feeling like Paris-Roubaix.  The rest of the ride was nostalgic, even down to the pee breaks taken alongside an old logging road.  It was like a scene from one of those old Tour de France posters where all of the riders stop for a smoke and a beer.  Too bad my bones were sawing away again at the tendons in my knee.  What a shame that it will be missing out on these rides.  

I'm doing something that I haven't done here before: hanging up the bike for six weeks.

Guernica

Guernica

Pablo Picasso

ca. 1937

Dollars Dehumanize

Something caught my eye during a recent trip.  On the horizon, huge steel and glass obelisks; a city skyline.  A few, made totally of glass, caught my attention for another reason; people.  Forty stories in the air, window-washers danced on the slanted mirrored surface of this monolith. Enamored, I stared and thought, "what an exciting job!?...like a thrill ride. I'm sure these people are well compensated for their skills and risks." Nope.

According to most internet sources, window washers pull down a hefty $20,000 a year (equaling the poverty level for a family of three). Considering that these jobs predominantly exist in major metropolitan areas, I can only assume that this salary wouldn't pay for rent in the same building.  No scaffolding and for no reason.  Does someone really need to risk their life for clean windows?  Apparently the tenants of this building thought so.

I suppose that in this economy (or any economy for that matter), if there is a demand for a service, there will be a supply; such is the power of the dollar.  A corporation will stoop just low enough to allow others to eek out an existence (and gladly do so at that) for the dollar at the end of the stick. It's the capitalistic caste system at work and it is evident right here in my own town in the form of human signs.  Have you seen these?  People paid to stand on busy street corners holding signs, usually touting "Going out of business" or "Total liquidation, everything must go" on them.  Perhaps these places would still be in business if they weren't paying people to hold signs; last time I checked, it didn't cost anything to drive a stake into the ground.

Why are people risking their lives for clean windows?  They have to.  What is it that drives a wedge between dignity and humanity?  The dollar.

Charlotte's got a lot?

Destination of the week, Charlotte, NC. Breaking tradition for Thanksgiving this year, we decided to pack up the kids and get out of town and Charlotte, the queen city of the Carolinas, provided a logical choice. Not too intimidating, plenty of on-goings for the holiday, and just big enough. First order of business:  check into the hotel and find dinner.

This shouldn't be a problem, being a large city and all.  Just need a restaurant that is not too pretentious, not a bar, and kid friendly and one that simply does not exist in the city.  Our desperate search yielded no less than forty upscale and eclectically named establishments that were devoid of humans. These places would have been better off all being named The Empty Table. Where was everyone?  The answer began to reveal itself as did the city's seedy underbelly.  On this night, only the city bus stops were inhabited; filled with society's undesirables doing stereotypical stuff. Shooting dice, drinking out of brown paper bag ghetto-sleeves, noshing on a dinner of corn flakes. Honestly it wasn't really that bad and certainly far from the worst situation I have been in, but cities are no place for young children.

"Tomorrow we could reconcile things," I thought.  Get some great breakfast, enjoy the Thanksgiving Day parade, wear out the kids at a park, and then chow down for dinner.  And, with the exception of breakfast, that is how it worked.  Turns out the only places open for breakfast on Thanksgiving were those that value holidays less than dollars; Dean and Deluca and Starbucks! How much does it cost to feed a family of four at one of these places?  I'm ashamed to say, but thankful we found them.  The parade was fun and Freedom Park proved to be even better.  Situated between the affluent suburbs of Dilworth and Southend, the park was a welcomed respite.  I began noticing people enjoying their surroundings and with it, I also began noticing all of the bike paths, bike racks, and bike shops throughout the city.  Charlotte is a big draw for mountain enthusiasts and roadies alike and also hosts a professional criterium each August.  This town did have some redeeming qualities.

Thanksgiving dinner was mediocre and a bit stressful, but with good company. We headed for home the next evening, but not before tooling around for another day and not before doing some reflecting.  I am far from a person who believes in fate, faith, or karma, but the tribulations of that first night in town struck me.  I started to feel that I was meant to see those that had truly fallen on hard times.  It made me appreciate what I had, and for that, I am thankful.

Rants

"Lennox Lewis, I'm coming for you man. My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I'm just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat his children. Praise be to Allah!"

--Iron Mike Tyson

Lunatic, cannibal, and quote machine

Apparently also a devout Muslim

"Three against one, it's not a big surprise...Don't stand on my dog or I cut your head off!"

--World Road Champ Cadel Evans

Perennial whiner and underachiever

See also: Schizophrenic

"The last thing I want to do with my time on the Earth is spend it with annoying people."

--My wife

in reference to Christmas shopping

I tend to agree (in reference to all of the time)

Screw Blue

Hate is a strong word, but hate is what I feel toward the University of Michigan. There, I got it out of my system. To even utter the name of that wretched place strikes me to my core (therefore that university will herein be referred to as "them", "they", or "group of despicable sucks"). More than willing them to lose every football game from now to eternity, I bid they go straight to hell and die. A plague on all their houses, including the Big House. Why do I feel the urge to spat on anyone sporting the maize and blue? I bleed scarlet and gray, that's why.

My appreciation for football came during my formative years. Starting with running endless pass routes with my brother in the backyard and graduating to barnyard football games, Madden, and Monday Night Football; football consumed the dreary fall afternoons in Ohio. Ohioans love football; Ohio State Football. Look, we have the Bengals and the Browns, okay!? Lovable losers. The real fate of Ohio Football (and to be honest that of the free world) rests with the Buckeyes. National Titles and undefeated seasons hinge on one game. Mediocre and crappy seasons hinge on one game. Life and death hinges on one game; the last game: OSU v. that "Group of Despicable Sucks". You know who I'm talkin' about. The stage is set.

Rewind to the '90s. Ohio State is graced with legendary names like Galloway, Germaine, George, Boston, Pace, Katzenmoyer (too many to list). Unfortunately, the Bucks are also graced by John Cooper. Year after year the Buckeyes are either mediocre or National Title contenders and year after year (for a decade) they manage to lose to those wankers! My college house mates and I had made it tradition to each drink a 40oz. of malt liquor per quarter during the big game. This usually ended in a lot of slurred swearing by late in the fourth. Our one win during the Cooper-era only bought us a lousy Rose Bowl trip since we couldn't put MSU to bed. Frustration.

Enter Jim Tressel. Finally someone that recognized that all of Buckeye nation teeters on the brink of one game. After five years of drowning ourselves in Magnum and King Cobra, no more. Three trips to the promised land, one National Title, and most importantly, only one loss to those pansies from up north. My college buddies and I still call each other during the big game to mock the other team or to vent. It has been awhile since we got belligerent together and shouted hate slogans at the other team (Author's note: To be exact, it was January 3, 2003; a date that every Ohio State fan will remember. My buddy Ted and I decided that it would be a good idea to trade off Irish Car Bombs for every Buckeye touchdown. Good thinking until the game went to double overtime. Anyway, despite not knowing my own name, I was able to tell everyone in Englewood Ohio who the f-ing National Champs were!).

For tradition's sake, I think I'll pour back a few beers this year, root on the Bucks, and give ol' Ted a call. I dunno if I can do the malt liquor anymore and I'll have to keep the obscenities to a minimum, but know this: Hail to the Victors bitches!

Dream Ride

I have done races, centuries, and double centuries, but it was last year's Tour de Tuck that spawned an idea for my dream ride. Climbing the mountains of the Blue Ridge provides for much challenge, solitude, and soul searching. Battling feelings of self doubt and accomplishment; surrounding yourself in pain and beauty. Why not do it for a week? My own mini Tour: Five stages, 476 miles. The Blue Ridge Parkway.

Yup, here's the plan: Me and four other dudes roll up to Virginia, take to the bikes, and end up on the other side of Asheville 5 days later. We have a fully stocked SAG wagon, rotate drivers, and keep ourselves well fed. It is that simple. Look, these guys did it. I lifted some information from here and there and this is what I came up with:

Stage 1: Waynesville to Peaks of Otter: 86 miles, 8600' total ascent.

What a nice way to start the tour. One hundred feet of elevation for every mile. An appetizer for the main courses to come.

Stage 2: Peaks of Otter to Fancy Gap: 113 miles, 9700' total ascent.

The legs will be feeling it today. The second longest day of the tour only has one major climb, but the rest of the profile looks like a saw blade. Make it past this stage and your body should become acclimated to the pain and numbness that still awaits.

Stage 3: Fancy Gap to Blowing Rock: 95 miles, 8700' total ascent.

Through the halfway point and into North Carolina, no looking back now. Thankfully today is an easier day, as tomorrow is the queen stage.

Stage 4: Blowing Rock to Mount Pisgah: 117 miles, 13, 900' total ascent.

By all accounts, a beast of a day; this alone could be anyone's most difficult day on a bike. Precede this with the first three stages and it becomes epic. The denouement. Passing near Grandfather Mountain and Mt. Mitchell, this stage features two peaks in excess of 5600'. As if this weren't enough, the last 20 miles contain nine tunnels and are all uphill.

Stage 5: Mount Pisgah to Cherokee: 60 miles, 6200' total ascent.

Make sure you set aside at least four hours for the finale, for the shortest day also contains the highest peak; the Richland Balsam at over 6000'. The last ten miles of descending should prove to be quick and emotional, but no worries, you'll have the rest of your life to reflect on what you just did.

Who is in? What is your dream ride? What's next?

Scallops, Wilted Spinach, and Warm Vinaigrette

This dish was inspired by our neighbor, a chef, a few years ago after my wife asked her to make us an anniversary dinner. I'd like to think that my version compares to that meal, though I couldn't hold a candle to her cooking prowess. I can always aspire to something, no?

For the salad.

Start by warming a handful of crushed walnuts in a pan over low heat. Higher heat will make the fats of the walnuts burn, so this will take some time. You want these added to the salad while still warm and have the smoky flavor of burnt toast. Meanwhile, toss a few good handfuls of baby spinach with some Watercress or other tasty green (Arugula, Dandelion, etc). Add some thinly sliced red onion and you're almost ready for plating.

Now the vinaigrette.

Fifty percent fresh lemon juice, fifty percent extra virgin olive oil, two cloves minced garlic, and Kosher coarse salt to taste. Set aside for later; that was tough.

Scallops.

Cook enough of these for about three large sea scallops per person. Sear the scallops over medium high heat in butter and olive oil until just golden (about 3-4 minutes per side). Again, if the heat is too high, the butter will burn and the oil will break down. Watch it.

Now bring it all together. Add the warm walnuts to the spinach and sprinkle with chunks of goat cheese. Top with the scallops and drizzle with warmed vinaigrette. The warmth of the walnuts, scallops, and vinaigrette will wilt the spinach and, combined with the creaminess of the goat cheese, will meld the flavors together. The simplicity of this dish is spoken through the ingredients and the preparation. The taste speaks for itself.

Milk: A Horror Story

It is 1986, a young boy sits in his kitchen. Clad only in tighty-whiteys, he is feverishly shoveling his milk and sugar laden Cheerios down his throat. "Hurry up!" his brother demands, "We're going to be late for church!" In a desperate attempt to finish the last of the floating-Os, he lifts the bowl to his face. The sweet, super-saturated sugary goodness graces his lips. The last few remaining oats, having avoided the spoon, will not escape the ritual act of drinking the milk from the bottom of the bowl. Then it happens.

Milk runs down the side of his face, the spoon shifts, he loses his grip. Almost in slow-motion, the bowl falls, dousing the boy from head to toe. He sits frozen, coated in the sour, sticky solution and dotted with Cheerios. "Nice one," as more sibling encouragement arrives, "don't just sit there, get in the tub!" His world spiraling out of control, he stumbles to the bathtub for relief that cannot come soon enough. Thoughts and movements become disjointed while the boy disconnects himself from what is happening. As he is tries to block out the situation and shutdown his senses, there is one that will never leave him: the smell. The rank, foul milk smell induces dry-heaves and the boy gags uncontrollably.

Milk and cheerios had infiltrated my hair, ears, and even my underwear. That's right. This is my horror story. Ever since that fateful day milk has been my nemesis; making me wretch at the sight or smell of it. As a kid, after finishing my cereal, I would race to the kitchen, cereal bowl at arms length, dry heaving all the way (somewhere my sister is laughing). I even switched to using water for my Corn Flakes. Water plus cereal sucks. It's mushy. Ultimately I would give up milk entirely.

Twenty years and a couple of kids later and milk and I are on speaking terms again. It was impossible for it to be any other way. Kids love milk, it literally is their lifeblood. Is there anything more mammalian? And as such, you have to get used to having milk spilled on you, puked on you, or otherwise bathing in milk. Finding a few randomly hidden sippy-cups filled with month old curdled milk could cure any phobia. While I am still bothered by a little milk spillage, it doesn't bring me to the verge of panic-stricken vomiting anymore. And yes, I can again drink the milk from the bottom of the bowl.

Drug Addict

Me: Hello, my name is Geoff.

Support Group: Hi Geoff!

Me: I am an addict. I have been a drug abuser for several years now.

Support Group: Tell us about your problem Geoff.

Me: Well, in addition to my affliction with crank, I abuse another drug.

Support Group: What is it?

Me: This...

This is the most powerful drug on the planet; abused by more than a third of Americans every day and I am one of them. Caffeine. Despite my efforts to shake it, I have failed.

But why? Many will argue that caffeine is actually good for you; helping to improve focus, giving you a energy and enhancing performance. True. In moderation it does all of these things, but like other drugs, when done daily, you develop a tolerance. And like other drugs, there are side effects: jitters, elevated heart rates, headaches, sleeplessness, and dehydration to name a few. Caffeine also has an human LD50 value around 3 grams (about the amount in 20 venti Starbucks coffees).

Why would I want to quit caffeine? Therein lies the problem. I don't want to quit caffeine. I've quit soda, nicotine (yes, I smoked...dumbest thing ever), and beer (to some extent). So why not caffeine? I enjoy it. Coffee is my vehicle. Rather than quit, I want to limit my intake so that I can still get that occasional wicked-coffee head rush or that performance boost from my energy drink (the UCI actually regulates caffeine as a stimulant, not that I'm in any danger of being sanctioned). The plan will be to switch to decaf and then go cold-turkey on caffeine's ass once the withdrawal symptoms subside. Sometime after the first of the year I will resolve to be resolute and save the good stuff for when it's needed.

20,000

Together a bicycle and a human are the most efficient transportation machines ever known. Apart they are less efficient or altogether inanimate. Apart one is the most sophisticated life form; what we lack in physical prowess, agility, and speed is countered through ingenuity. The other, born from this ingenuity, allows us to travel great distances at speeds otherwise unachievable under our own power.

20,000 miles is what I have logged on a bike. To be able to power oneself across such a distance is phenomenal and liberating. Three and a half years, several sets of tires and chains, and plenty of time later, cycling has changed me. It has both transformed and consumed me. No longer sedentary, I find myself in better shape now than I have ever been. I have more appreciation for things. Spending all of that time in the saddle will do that for you. The time spent alone on the road allows for much personal reflection, self doubt, failure and achievement, and more than anything, an outlet. Even in the social environment of a group, the mind does battle with itself. It has made me think.

I wish I could use a bike as my primary mode of transport for everything: commuting, running errands, exercise, and recreation; and I could if it were more socially acceptable in America. Cars and highways dominate the landscape. Cyclists are viewed as nuisances; delaying motorists from getting to their destination. It is unfortunate that rather than being seen as another human (one with a family mind you), I'm a moving roadblock. I impede others from being able to hurriedly get to such important destinations as WalMart, their job (that they hate), or church. I'm not suggesting that bikes would solve all of our societal problems, just a lot of them. Until we come to our senses, I will continue to do my best at shirking the norm and racking up miles on my bike.

Saratoga Springs

Destination of the week: Saratoga, NY; a town where natural springs flow freely and the influence of horse racing abounds. The horse statues that line the streets are accompanied by countless boutiques, arcades, galleries, and restaurants. The town, centrally located to Montreal and NYC has a swanky-smarmy feel. Swanky from the ancient mafioso homes surrounding the town, smarmy from the influx of college kids from the local Skidmore College.

I happened to be in town with others on "business" so I made it a point to do some early morning, and sometimes late night venturing. Being a foodie and given that meals were on the company's dime, I decided to sample as much of the local fare as possible. A veritable Tour de Food; here's a tasting.

Breakfast

Compton's. There are certain expectations that come with a name like Compton. If it's Straight Outta Compton is must be good. Not the case here. The only disappointing meal of the entire trip came out of necessity rather than choice; work started early and Compton's is the only place open at 4:00 am (when the bars close!). Less like a greasy spoon and more like Alice's restaurant, even down to the waitress.

Uncommon Grounds Coffee. Cool coffee shop and great bagel selection. Nothing special beyond that; just good people.

Dinner

Forno Bistro. Standard Italian: Quaint, cozy, and dimly-lit with wine flowing everywhere. The Prosciutto and Fontina chicken was deliciouso.

Maestros. Could be the best food that I've ever eaten. Nothing on the menu was even remotely affordable, but thanks to their Prix Fixe menu, I was able to eat like a king on a beggar's budget. They brought chocolate, made in-house, to sample after your meal. The waitress said it usually makes the bill more palatable.

The Local. Perhaps my favorite place of the week had it not been for the $20 beer (it's a long story). A pub featuring traditional Irish fare where the locals have there own beer mugs reserved. "I'd like a pint of Smithwicks in mug #93 please," says our accomplice Muskrat Mark. The $20 beer you ask? Creme Brulee Stout by Southern Tier. Worth every penny and now available whenever I want it.

Cantina. Awesomely upscale Mexican. It never hurts to serve Margaritas by the gallon either.

Most of the restaurants feature sidewalk dining which we took full advantage of citing the mid 60s temperatures and lack of flesh eating insects. A final special thanks goes out to the fine folks at Desperate Annie's. Despite trying to make the 4:00am last call on our final night, our livers weren't having it, but DA's did their best to help. Foosball, Wild Turkey, and wafts of vomit blowing in from Caroline Street brought me right back to my college days. Man I'm too old for this.

Sylva

Destination of the month: Sylva, North Carolina. This small town, bordering Dillsboro, finds itself tucked in the shadow of the Blue Ridge mountains. Between them, the two towns consist all of about two miles. If size doesn't deter you, then the locals might.

To clarify, you will probably never find more welcoming, friendly, and helpful people anywhere. The kind of Southern hospitality that just doesn't exist in South Cackalacky. It's more of a righty-lefty issue; Patchoulli-laden natty dreads versus mulletted trucker hats, Toyota Prius versus Chevy Four-by-Four, you get the picture. It's just this that makes Sylva a great place to visit, but I couldn't live there, at least not now.

It is the perfect place for a summer mountain home. Though small, the Jackson County seat has a lot to offer (at least it appeared that way during my short stay). Surrounded by mountains and rivers yet only forty miles from Metropolitania (Asheville, and yes I made up that word). But don't assume that you'll have to make a run into town to find civilization, the streets Sylva and Dillsboro are lined with things to do.

Upscale and down home restaurants (like Kosta's authentic Greek), Bed and Breakfasts, and shops abound. There's a local brewery and The Dillsboro Chocolate Company/Espresso bar combines a few of my favorite things. Speaking of favorites, the area offers some of the best on and off-road cycling around. Ample bike lines, beautiful scenery, and the coolest bike shop ever make it a desitnation location for me. Be sure to add this to your weekend getaway list.

The Tour de Tuck (Part 2)

And this is how I spent Saturday. Bogged down with bottles, food, and enough cold weather gear to cross the tundra. Thankfully I wasn't going to need the gear, but I wasn't taking any chances after yesterday. The plan was to ride with the group (as everyone does) for the first twenty miles, shadow my teammates over the first climb, and then attack somewhere near the top of the second.

Attack teammates!? I know it doesn't sound right, but before you go callin' me Alberto, just remember it's friendly competition. Bragging rights for next year were at stake. I planned to go near the top of Balsam Mountain (near mile 54 on map) where there was still some climbing left. If I could open up a gap and hold them off on the descent (remember these guys go downhill like banshees), there was a good chance of not seeing them again. It only took 300 yards of climbing before my plans were shot.

They were gone. They had latched on to a strong group of guys at the front and were out of sight in minutes. Crap. Oh well, I'll just ride my own pace and see what happens. So I did. I was in a small group of three when an older guy lifted the pace and I decided to follow. He was riding just out of my comfort zone, but I knew if I could hang on, I would settle be able to in. We quickly gapped the other two on the way to the first summit, where I shifted into the biggest gear and dropped him on the downhill. I also dropped a load in my pants...

The Parkway has long sweeping descents. You can see for miles. The Parkway has bears! "Holy S@%t!" I said to myself. A 400-lb Black Bear jumps out of the woods, shoots me a look, then darts across the road before disappearing on the other side. I tap my breaks, contemplate being eaten, and squeal like a school girl as I rolled past it. Very cool, very scary, but no time to consider what just happened. There was more climbing ahead and who should pass me but the same guy that I had left on the descent. This would be the theme for the day. I passed this guy on every downhill only to have him drop me on the climbs (all except one, that is). We eventually committed to working the final 15 miles together.

More climbing, more downhills. I was beginning to develop a rhythm. At the base of the penultimate climb, I was able to make out the figures of my teammates in the distance. I couldn't believe it. I had caught them and I would have my chance to execute "the plan". Now I was feeling really good. After riding for awhile as a group, I eased into a bigger gear and began grinding away. That was enough to gap Rob. I saw he had drifted back about fifty yards and the next time I checked, he was gone. A few miles later and I tried to shake John. Same results, only this time, I couldn't get out of sight. He kept coming back until he eventually passed me.

To make a long story short, I had to stop four times after this to pee, for water, dropped chain etc. I lost sight of John and went barreling ass down a long descent to catch him. The last time I saw him was at the base of Charley's Creek; a one mile climb with some sections at 15% grade. I'm not sure who Charley was, but he must have been a real SOB. It was the hardest part of the ride (mile 67 on map) and I wasn't going to catch John after that. Rob caught back up to me after ninety miles. I looked over at him and said, "I was hoping I wouldn't see you again." He laughed and made that statement a reality, torching me. While I didn't meet my goal, I did finish within eight minutes of others and I improved on my time from last year. Overall an awesome day.

The Stats.

104.7 Miles in 6:26:26

Highest Peak/Grade--Richland Balsam at 6053 feet, Charley's Creek at 15%

Total Ascent/Top Speed--11070 feet, 47.8 mph

Calories Burned--4519

Fun Factor--9.5/10

The Tour de Tuck (Part 1)

Headed up to the mountains of North Carolina for the 4th annual Tour de Tuck. The Tour is a 105-mile suffer fest with nearly 11,000 feet of climbing, including the penultimate climb over the Richland Balsam mountain, the highest point on the Blue Ridge Parkway at 6053 feet. The forecasters called for highs in the low 70s and a 60% chance of rain; potentially hellish conditions for an already epic ride.

Loaded up the unofficial team van with John and Rob and made for the mountains. This was my second Tour and their fourth (since the Tour's inception). Though not a race, the route is timed, and a friendly competition had developed between them with John always coming out on top. Last year they had graciously invited me along and gave me a 30-minute trouncing en route to the finish. No surprise really. Both of them are consistently some of the strongest riders around. What was surprising is that I was able to hang with them for 65 miles before getting dropped. This year was going to be different. I wanted to get some of my time back; not just finish alongside them, but ahead.

This year would be different. Rob had the brilliant (and I mean that sincerely) idea to head up early and get in some mountain miles on a route called "The Ring of Fire." 40 miles, 5000 feet of ascent over two major climbs (some at over 10% grade) and potential suicide for Saturday's chances. Why not? You only get to do this once a year. I was all in. Committed. It was sunny and warm as we set off on the Ring of Fire, but all this was about to change.

Working the stiffness from my legs and tuning my lungs to climbing became the objective of the day. The first climb hit us straightaway with some tough gradients laden with gravel. The gravel made climbing that much more difficult and descending that much more terrifying. Descending has never been my strong point; I descend like a 14-year old girl. While the three of us reached the summit together, Rob and John quickly dropped me on the descent. I wasn't taking any risks. Between the gravel, wet roads, and hairpin switchbacks I had other things to worry about. When you're hitting turns at 40 mph on 23 millimeter tires you have to put a lot of trust in your machine. Hit a patch, your toast. Brake too much, rims overheat, brakes melt, and tires explode. Brake too little and well...

By the time things had flattened out and we had regrouped, my arms were so sore from braking that I could barely grip the bars, but there were bigger issues. Rain. First sprinkles, then buckets followed by a steady pour. I like riding in the rain. It's miserable, a blow to the psyche, and invigorating. The problem wasn't the rain, it was the temperature. My bike computer showed that the temperature had dropped 10 degrees in an hour. This was okay for the next climb, but made the descent absolutely hypothermic. My fingers and feet had lost feeling near the top and braking and shifting now required extreme concentration. I couldn't feel the bar so I had to focus completely on my shifters and force my brain to make the appendages at the end of my arms work. It was so hard they actually burned, and a couple of times, slipped off of my levers. I thought for sure that I was in the worst shape, until I saw Rob.

As we neared the bottom I could see that he had slipped back and his bike's frame appeared to be made of rubber. Very uncharacteristic. "You okay?" I asked. I could now see that his wobbling was caused by shivering. The shivering would stop on flat ground and instantly start up again with any kind of speed. "Dude will you ride with me?" he said to John. That's it. Now I knew we couldn't go on and stopping just made us colder. Luckily at that moment, a cyclist-friendly passerby offered Rob a ride back to our car, which he informed us was only a few miles away. I dreamed of sitting in the car, heater on full blast, getting warm and dry. It would take a good thirty minutes for the shivering to stop and I was beginning to question the logic of the Ring of Fire. Tomorrow would tell.

Something new, something old

So a few weeks ago, facing the prospect of doing no more races this year, I got this half-cracked idea that I could attempt a sprint triathlon. Something to keep my competitive juices flowing and keep me fit. Something to break me out of the doldrums of cycling. What!? Did I just say that? It is true, I had hit a lull (that I was soon to snap out of...more to follow). In the meantime, I had work to do. Biking check. Running, although not my favorite, not an issue. Swimming not so much. I can't swim.

Okay, so I can't swim well. But really, it's only 0.3 miles. How hard is that? Two bucks and 25 meters of community pool later, the dreams of the sprint triathlon were shattered. Swimming is a vile activity. Any sport that requires your body to demand more oxygen and then robs you of the ability to get it is not fine by me. "Just stop and catch your breath," you say. This works fine and dandy in a bathtub, not eight feet of water. But still you argue, "It's all about timing your strokes." Again, too much thinking, not enough breathing. Swim, lose your breath, die; Stop swimming, sink, drown. No thank you to either one. Though not entirely defeated, swimming and triathlons will have to stay on the back burner.

On the other hand, I have rekindled my liking of the Fat Tire (yes, both the beer and the ride). After wrenching on and cleaning up the old Cannondale, she is now ride worthy, complete with new lock and lights. I've been riding it with the family, running errands on it and riding in the dark before work. I had forgotten how fun it was to ride off of the road and I even have the sense that my wife may have a touch of the Crank Addiction (she needs to get more comfortable handling the bike, but she's already promised to dominate on the road). I plan on using it to cross train this winter and perhaps ride it during lunch at work. Who knows, maybe it will blossom into something? Though I doubt it will supplant the roadie in me. There is just something that gets lost when you have to drive somewhere to ride your bike.

Working Schlep

Two weeks into the Tom, Dick, and Harry work schedule. Gone are the seven day, sleepless work weeks. Stress and serotonin levels are returning to normal. Yup, nine to five..(insert record screeching to a stop here)...

Now, I've seen some people around here that don't work, or that don't do real work, but does anyone really work nine to five? Not in America. Work, work harder, be inefficient and work longer, die. For the past eight years I've been working a rotating shift, seven days a week, at about ten hours a day. Holding on and holding out. Holding on for my next day or two off. Holding out for a regular job schedule and what comes with it: a pay cut, meetings, video and teleconferences, more meetings, and never seeing the sun when Eastern Standard Time returns. Is it any wonder why we, as a society, are so jacked up?

Stacking and re-stacking our beans. Rearranging our hill of beans. Having someone tell us our hill is all wrong and to fix our hill of beans. For what? At least on my other schedule I was home during the day. I could see my family for more than an hour, get in a ride here or there, do some stuff around the house. You know, all of the things that I'm working for. Please don't get me wrong, I don't want my old schedule back and at this point, I'm just happy to have a job, but whose idea was the forty-hour work week? And since when is forty hours not enough?

Someone needs to revisit this from the top down, until then we're all just a bunch of working schleps.

Deep Thoughts

If trees could scream, would we be so cavalier about cutting them down? We might, if they screamed all the time, for no good reason.

If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is, "God is crying." And if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is "probably because of something you did."

If you saw two guys named Hambone and Flippy, which one do you think liked dolphins the most? I'd say Flippy, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong though. It's Hambone.

all by Jack Handey.

DeepThoughtsByJackHandey.com

Waffeling Around

Tuesday summer evenings in Mt. Pleasant usually mean a trip to the farmers market is in order. This is a great place to get cheap produce, a bite to eat, and just hang out and watch the locals. You get to know some of the vendors, try new foods each week, and look for reasons to come back. This year, as part of the city's plan to remodel Coleman Boulevard (which didn't really need any re-doing...but smoke 'em if you got 'em), the town built a hardened open air structure to host the Tuesday night affair. Seeing this, I was more than pleased in their decision to support an already great event.

The result? This year there are even more vendors, slightly less green-space, and more foodies! Yes, I love food. It's one of the reasons I ride my bike; so I can try new foods and lots of them. So I was extremely delighted when my two interests made an appearance at this year's farmers market in the form of a Waffel stand (no, this is really how you spell it). You're thinking, "Okay, waffels are food, but what does this have to do with cycling?" Waffels are synonymous with Belgium. Belgium is synonymous with cycling (and beer). The greatest cyclists and cycling fans in the world are Belgian. Names like Eddy Merckxx, Tom Boonen, Johan Museeuw. Races like Paris-Roubaix, Liege-Bastogne-Liege, and La Fleche Wallone. As I ate my waffel (or waffels as it turned out), I pictured myself along the cobbled roads of Europe. Gritty cyclists racing by throngs of drunken fans. I was in foodie/roadie heaven. I was in disbelief.

Five bucks for two waffels! The guy at the waffel stand was killing it too. I talked to him a bit and asked how he started his 'business'. His 'business' consisted of him slinging batter into a waffel iron and charging $2.50 a pop for the delicious morsels. He said he'd spent some time abroad in college and remembers eating street waffels all of the time in the Netherlands. I guess this is how ideas are started and fortunes made. After all, my five dollars had just covered this guy's entire overhead. Not hinting at all towards his recipe, my brain cranked into the 53x11 gear (that's the big gear for all of you non-crank addicts) and I plotted my assault on Waffelville. It became my whole goal to replicate them. So much so, that after doing some research and as soon as my family was in bed, I snuck out to the store to purchase the necessary items. What follows is what I came up with; my version of the Liege Waffel.

Liege Waffel

Set aside some time for this one, this is a true waffel love affair requiring a few intermediary steps. It first requires making a sponge. Allow one package yeast and a spoonful of sugar (it makes the medicine go down) and flour to proof in one and a third cups of warm milk. Add this brew to an egg and mix until smooth with about one and three-quarters cup of flour. Allow to rise until mighty big and fluffy.

Next make a paste out of 2 spoonfuls of sugar, a dash of salt and baking powder, a quarter cup of flour, a stick of butter and three-quarter cup of Turbinado sugar (or any large crystal sugar). The goal here is to have some sugar undissolved so as to caramelize and in the waffel iron, which you should probably have on at this point. Combine with sponge and allow to rest before forming into equal rounds. This should resemble more of a dough at this point. Cook in waffel iron until done or until you cannot stand it any longer.

Don a cycling cap and indulge, but be careful. These are dangerous and far from low-Cal. Best share them or hoard them all to yourself. I am on to you Waffel man.

Pilgrimage

Destination of the month: Dayton, Ohio. Birthplace of aviation (sorry North Carolina, you're nothing more than a surrogate mother to this one) and me. Yep, I'm an Ohioan, a Daytonian, and darn proud of it. Ohio was a welcome refreshment. The foliage was greener, air was fresher, drivers were not idiots. Dayton in particular has a heritage with the bicycle and the airplane, so I spent some time doing some riding around the beautiful countryside. Cornfields and soybeans as far as you can see and the occasional fly-by from a WWII plane or fighter jet showing off for people in town for the International Air Show.

My wife and I have made this trip part of our annual plan for the past three years. Load up the household, escape the blast furnace that is South Carolina, and enjoy some controlled chaotic relaxation with our families. Part of the plan was for me to drive around the city and snap some photos of my favorite landmarks and visit some of the city's history (like the Wright Brothers Cycle shop). None of this came to fruition as we were both very busy and most of these landmarks now reside in the ghetto. What hath happened to my fair city?

Driving down two of the town's major arteries, Main St. (go figure) and Salem Ave., one is confronted with graffitied, abandoned buildings, vacant and overgrown lots, and people on street corners. The sprawl has even reached some of the countryside. Industrial parks and new buildings springing up next to empty ones. "It must be cheaper to build new than to renovate," I blurt out. "Why not just use existing buildings and shouldn't that be a requirement?" retorts my wife. Yup. If you're not going to reuse it, blow it up and make green space. This seems to have been the trend for some time now, but perhaps today's economy has been particularly cruel. Things appear to have taken a step-change for the worse.

Never one to look at the positives (though I'm trying to get better at this), I did find some solace during my travels (by bike and otherwise). I was encouraged by the quaint surrounding towns still untouched by Sprawlville; by the blue skies, green grass, and smell of Ohio sweet corn that permeates the air; by the culture of the people (some of whom still give a crap about their city). Whatever happens, I will always have a special place for my hometown. My love for family and Ohio will always bring me back.

Dayton Renaissance

Fresh off of two decent performances, I decided to tackle my third race in a week at the Team Dayton Renaissance Criterium. Held at the Renaissance Festival near Dayton, this race seemed more like a mini road race than a crit. No city steets here. An open field, some hay bales, and plywood medeval castles. You could actually see the entire course from the start line.

Knowing this was a smaller race, I spent all week riding and building myself up. I could win this one. I wouldn't do any work during the race. Just sit there, smile, and wait for just the right moment to dole out some pain. I was brimming with confidence. Did I mention that I was also brimming with about six beers, a bunch of chips and brownies, and a host of other food that I had gorged myself with the day before? Umph. I felt like crap. Add a stiff headwind on the back section and a big digger of a hill in turn four leading to the finishing straight and it was time to switch to plan B: just sit there, grimace, and have a nice big cup of suffer.

Neither plan really worked. The field was pretty small (about 20) and was mostly comprised of Team Dayton riders (it was afterall their race). It came as no surprise then, that their strategy was to control the front and keep sending guys on solo breaks to break the spirit of the field. With this in mind, I stayed near the front and fought off every urge to chase the next guy as Team Dayton kept blocking on the front. After a few laps, yesterday's food had begun migrating to my esophagus and the herky-jerky race pace was killing me. The field was strung out at 30 mph on the backstretch, down to 17 mph into the headwind, and jumping out of the saddle on the finishing hill. I was fighting my bike and the urge to puke the whole way.

A prime lap raised the pace and for some stupid reason I thought, "Yeah, a prime!" "Just what I wanted, a new water bottle valued at just over 2 dollars!" I had no idea what the prime might be, but it was probably something along those lines; probably something worth blowing completely up over. Throw the plans out the window kids, papa needs a brand new water bottle. Okay, so I didn't win it. Instead, I decided to assert my dominance over the field by taking a flyer on the front, much to the glee of my family. While I lead the field by all of 20 yards, I could hear the race announcer, "...and there goes a serious attack from the rider from South Cackalacky!?" That felt pretty cool, although I knew my attack was short lived and far from serious. A few seconds later, two kids (half of my age) blow my doors off and I struggle to latch on. Now this was a serious break. If I could only hang on and work with them, we may have a shot. Too bad that at this point I was gassed.

They quickly dropped me like a bad habit and now the field was coming. I had to figure out how to recover and hang on. First to worst in one lap and struggling to stay on the wheel in front of me, who was struggling to stay on the wheel in front of him! Time to make a move. Out of the saddle and sprinting to latch on, my day was about to hit a new low; I get passed by some old dude with a beer gut the size of Vesuvius. Field splintered, I become a straggler just riding it out. There were 3 or 4 of us spread out and then reintegrated as we all recovered from our beatdown.

I flash my wife the "slit-throat" sign to inform her that I'm done and for her to inform my family members to stop cheering for me; as it will only make me feel worse. The remnant pack regrouped and starting working together for the final five laps. I gather my senses and quickly assess that I'm the strongest (and youngest) of this motley crew. Now it is a game. I decide to pretend that I'm in a long breakaway, like in the Tour de France, working to stay away from the chasing peleton. I worked with my enemies until one-to-go and then I turned on them like the female Praying Mantis.

Feeling worse than bad about my performance, I try to make myself puke only to fail at that too (but I did nearly rupture all of the blood vessels in my face from dry heaving). C'est la vie.

Apples

"Hey, Thom, Johan, do you like apples?" (LA)

"Yeah, we like apples" (JB)

"How do you like them f*&#@%in' apples?" (LA)

Lance Armstrong to Director Sportif and sponsor

Johan Bruyneel and Thomas Weisel during his ascent

to Sestriere in the 1999 TdF

My two-cents.

Third place in the Tour de France, the greatest bicycle race in the history of the world (and possibly the greatest sporting event as well), could only be disappointing to a 7-time winner. Do I think he could have won? No. Whether he chose not to follow the accelerations of his teammate or he couldn't, he is still the greatest TdF champion ever. Do I think he could have finished second? Yes. If not for the selfish antics of Alberto Contador, perhaps Astana could have swept the entire podium. Can he win next year? Not sure. But whatever his motivation for his comeback, he needs no more ammunition.

Kung Fu Dreams

If you know me or if you're a regular to this site, then by now you've figured out that I'm just not quite right. This won't do any to alleviate that feeling. I'll do my best to explain this one, although I'm not sure that I've figured it out for myself.

I had Kung Fu Dreams as a kid. They would shake me to my foundation, leave me questioning what the hell just happened, and occasionally, I still have them. What are Kung Fu dreams you ask? Allow me to provide you with some background.

First, when Fox hit the airwaves in the mid '80s in Dayton as WRGT, their programming was very limited. One show that quickly became a staple in my house was Kung Fu Theater. Two episodes, taped every Sunday from 2-6 am. Awesome graphic violence. Second, I had a lot of ear infections as a kid. These suck. When I slept, I could hear my pulse pounding in my ear as it was smashed against my head. Pow-pow, pow-pow, pow-pow. I often confused this sound with a gorilla, pounding it's chest, hunting me down (I know, don't ask). Lastly, our family had this huge, orange, old, four hundred pound chair in our living room. Though not the least bit comfortable, it was great for sleeping in; feet straight up, head smashed into the seat cushion.

Okay. Spend late Sunday morning watching Kung Fu Theater. Get tired from too much TV and the onset of an ear infection. Pass out in orange chair. In and out of rem-sleep with visions of Kung Fu ninjas chasing me with cymbals (the gorilla) and Punji sticks. Wake up. Punji sticks still in my ears (as the ear infection) and cymbals still banging in my head (as my pulse). Absolutely terrifying. I cannot recreate it and certainly cannot make this stuff up.

Tour d'Burg

While the rest of the world focuses on the Tour de France, Sunday my focus was on the Tour d'Burg (short for Miamisburg). While the best cyclists in the world roll past wineries, chateaus, and French farmland, the best cyclists in Ohio rolled past shirtless dudes with mullets and Daytonian suburbia with a hint of reefer. That's right. For the second year in a row, the Tour d'Burg would play host to the Ohio State Criterium Championships. And for the third year in a row, yours truly was there.

Coming off of a solid performance the day before and having finished second in the state last year, confidence was running high. I again had the whole family on hand to provide for the largest cheering section (special thanks again to everyone and to Chad for the photos), so lining up at the front for the start was easy; getting clipped into my pedals was another story. This is why lining up and staying at the front is important; it keeps you out of trouble. After some difficulty, I managed to settle myself down and begin battling for position. About five laps in, and all but a few of us were still jostling. There would be the occasional unsuccessful attack on the front, but largely, it seemed like the rest of the group had been broken like rented mules. Everyone just putting in an appearance and keeping the crit uneventful.

No complaints here. After barrelling through a cobbled section and getting closed out in a turn (I've never gripped the bars so hard. I thought my hands would fuse to the drops!), I was just happy not to have gone down. I felt great overall during the race. My legs had loosened up and I even managed to shoot my wife a smile about midway though. I'd been working on some speed techniques and decided to try them during the race. While staying in the same gear, I try to raise my cadence (rpm) but not my effort. I call it "keeping my legs light" (which is what I repeat to myself in my head). It seems to keep the lactic acid out of my legs while keeping my speed high.

I held steady at the front and had great position on the final few laps (which were miscounted by the officials). Despite this error and despite not getting out of the saddle for the sprint, I still managed a respectable eighth place (which would've been third had they counted laps

correctly). This is the kind of retrospective thinking to be careful of; over-analyzing, second guessing, hindsight etcetera. If you asked me during the field sprint if I gave it my all, I could not have answered you. I could barely breathe. Had you asked me again afterwards, I would have said that I should have gone earlier.

If instead of continuing this discussion with your conscience, you choose to learn from it, you will be rewarded. Next week, we will see if my experience pays dividends.

Troy Classic

This Saturday marked my third participation in the Troy Classic on the Square Criterium; easily one of my favorite events and this year was even better. The race looks extremely technical on paper. It features ten turns in a downtown setting, a roundabout, and stiff headwinds coming off the Little Miami river. Oh and did I mention that light rain was in the forecast. The kind of rain not hard enough to slow the pace, but light enough to shatter collar bones, put people into barriers, and nearly stop a field sprint on the final lap. It all happened. Despite the carnage, the course was in excellent shape with roads wide enough to hit every turn at full gas. This race has it all.

I came into the race with some serious apprehension. For one, I'd be racing with the CAT 3s in a fifty-three man field. CAT 3 should be synonymous with guys capable of inflicting long drawn-out efforts of pain. Guys capable of going right from the gun and soloing to victory (which is pretty much what happened). Secondly, this was to be my first race in awhile and on an inferior bike. Now, before you go on about, "the bike shouldn't matter, you're the engine." I know. It's a psychological advantage. Psychology is a huge advantage in any sport, particularly cycling. Enter my psychological advantage: the family. I found out a few hours before the start that my folks and a few of my in-laws would be in attendance. Partly to watch me and partly for the kids race that was to precede the Pro 1/2 race. No pressure.

It wouldn't be so bad if I got dropped and ended up riding the last few laps by myself, would it? You know, just to say that I didn't quit. That I stuck it out like some punch-drunk pugilist. I would get a few atta-boys. I'd still be a champion to my kids. Not so bad right? No. Not today. If sparing myself embarrassment meant only sticking with the pack, then so be it. At least I wouldn't be finishing with my tail between my legs. But I would have regrets...

For me, the 2009 edition of the Troy Classic can be split into three acts. The opener: wind and wheel sucking fury. Jostling for position. This is how most crits begin. Soon enough your lungs and legs adjust and you can switch your focus from survival to strategy. Intermission: ten laps of planning, saving energy, and finding out who to stay away from. On this day, I was that guy. I forgot how to corner. I couldn't turn to safe my life. This may have been me over-thinking the turns or perhaps revisiting the pile of very expensive carbon that assembled itself in front of me on the roundabout. Whatever it was, I managed to lock-up my rear wheel twice. I finally was able to regain my composure in time for the endgame (this after nearly crapping myself and receiving plenty of advice from the peloton). The finale: yo-yoing speed, going four-wide into the corners, and guys taking stupid risks; your standard criterium finish. I just held my place and with two to go, made my way to the front all the while thinking, "Dude, do you want that position or not?"

Hitting the final trip around the roundabout, I had a feeling of relief. Relief at being finished, at finishing respectably (I was 10th at the time), at finishing safely. Whoops, almost spoke too soon. With a flash of smoke and exploding rubber the two guys in front of me went down. In almost slow motion, I ride between their broken bikes and bodies while someone shouts, "Don't stop! Go, go, go!" My lost momentum costs me a few spots and letting up before the line costs me two more (a mistake I will never make again) for 15th. Good enough for one point. I'll take it.

The kids ended up being the real winners on the day as they seemed to enjoy themselves during the kids race. Medals and lollipops for all! Having the family there really meant a lot and helped keep me going. More riding and a few more races this week and then back to SC.

Lowcountry Boil

Get ready to get messy. If you live along the southeastern coast, specifically the Low Country, you're probably familiar with this dish. It is a summer tradition. It is akin to the hot dogs, hamburgers, and potato salad of the Midwest and it is simple. Invite about six friends over, break out your crab-crackers and cocktail sauce, and strap on a bib; eating this is a sport.

The base:

In a large Dutch oven, brown some chopped onions in olive oil. Add garlic, peppercorns, chopped tomatoes (fresh or canned), small new or fingerling potatoes, a bay leaf and some Old Bay or Cajun seasoning.

Cover and simmer on low heat until potatoes soften.

Now the good stuff; the seafood triumvirate.

With about ten minutes to go, jack up the heat, add the following, give a quick stir, and steam.

Crab: true veterans of this dish will insist on whole, local blue crabs. I find these to be too much work for too little reward. Go straight for King Crab legs.

Shrimp: a couple of pounds, shell on. If you want to get really authentic and super cheap, grab these off the boat or catch them yourself.

The Wild Card: this one is up to you. Lobster tails, mussels, even chunks of fish.

Top with a few broken ears of corn and cover.

This dish is best eaten outside. Cover a table with newspaper, dump it all out, lightly season and dive in. Plenty of napkins and cocktail sauce are necessary at this point. Wash down with a delicious Lager (or four).

The Title?

By now, if you're like me, you may be wondering (or perhaps not): what's up with the title of your blog? Yeah. Truth is, up until a last week, I really had no idea. As I sat on my bike, suffering, sucking wind, and watching the wheels in front of me pull away, I was unceremoniously dropped. I thought, "well, it was the best I could do." It's a mantra that I repeat in my daily life; at work, at home, in my mind. It's an excuse. It's an outright lie. It's the kind of thing, that if someone were to say to me, I would say "bullsh*t!" I know I can do better, I choose not to.

My chest nearly exploding, legs shattered, I drop into a lower gear and try to recover. On the road ahead, the group was splintered by the relentless pace and others are dropped. I start to recover. I start to think, "I can do better." Back into a bigger gear, I lift my cadence and focus on gobbling up the stragglers. One by one, we are re-integrated (though not completely) and my revelation is complete. Perhaps I should adopt the new title. I can do better.

The simple power of suggestion makes a huge difference. Wanting to do better and holding myself accountable have already begun to show results. Am I ready to change my title? Not yet. I kind of like the old one. At the time, it was born of my writing and lack of a better title. I'm not a writer so I'll tell my stories in the best way that I can, hence it's the best that I could do.

My parents often told me that if I do my best, then that is all that anyone could ever ask of you. Anyone except yourself. It is always easy to second guess yourself afterwards. "Was it really my best?" "Could I have done better?" "Maybe I should have done..." But if you ask yourself to do your best, and then at the moment when you feel you've done your best, tell yourself that you can do better, you probably will. Time to change the title? Nah. For now, it's the best I could do.

The Stare

I used to be able to hypnotize myself. I could get my brain to enter a hyper-sensory hibernation mode. I did this by staring at people doing mundane things. By focusing so intently on their accomplishment of some menial task, I was able to leave my body and become an observer from a different perspective. Sound weird? It is.

Put yourself in a public place, out in the open, and divorce yourself from everything (church is a good place to try this). Begin watching people until you find someone doing a completely thankless task; shelving books, mopping a floor, folding clothes. When you feel a wave washing over your brain, much like a pins and needles effect, it's working. Don't fight it. Soon you will be an observer from a different perspective; that of the person you were watching! I told you it was weird. Your brain and body are left completely behind like a TV that has been shutoff and crackles with static electricity.

The spell can be snapped in several ways: when you want it to, when the person your watching stops what their doing, or if someone physically touches you. You will feel like being awoke from a deep sleep. Refreshed, confused, rebooted. Try it. Get disconnected.

Bellum omnium contra omnes

"I show in the first place that the state of men without civil society (which state may be called the state of nature) is nothing but a war of all against all; and that in that war, all have a right to all things"

"When God speaketh to man, it must be either immediately or by mediation of another man, to whom He had formerly spoken by Himself immediately. How God speaketh to a man immediately may be understood by those well enough to whom He hath so spoken; but how the same should be understood by another is hard, if not impossible, to know. For if a man pretend to me that God hath spoken to him supernaturally, and immediately, and I make doubt of it, I cannot easily perceive what argument he can produce to oblige me to believe it."

"This considered, the kingdom of darkness… is nothing else but a confederacy of deceivers that, to obtain dominion over men in this present world, endeavour, by dark and erroneous doctrines, to extinguish in them the light…."

Thomas Hobbes

from Leviathan

ca. 1651

Christmas in July

I've decided to spend this July 4th in France. Actually, I'll be spending the better part of the entire month there with some brief visits to Monaco, Switzerland, Spain, and Italy. Sounds like a great trip and all from the comfort of my living room.

For the past twenty-three years I've been watching the Tour de France. I can remember growing up and watching the pageantry of the Tour. I became fixated with the amazing scenery, throngs of people, place names, and cycling. I can remember Greg Lemond battling for an 8 second win on the Tour's last stage, Miguel Indurain winning five Tours in a row, Lance's seven, and the ugliness of the Festina and Landis doping scandals. Each one different. Each one with a story. The 2003 Tour remains my favorite. I sat on the edge of my couch and watched every second of it. I even watched every replay. This year will be no different.

My wife says that in July she becomes a 'Tour widow'. I spend more time with my British friends Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen than anyone else. These guys are far and away the best commentators in the world. The mountains and towns of France and the cyclists' names roll out like poetry. Mountains like the Col du Marie Blanc, Le Mont Ventoux, Col du Galibier, or L'Alpe d'Huez. Cities like La Grand Bornand, Toulouse, Saint-Ettienne, or Futurescope. Even cycling terms or names sound like a thing of beauty; Mailliot Jeaune, le tete de le course, Sylvain Chavenel. The French even call the winds that blow across their countryside le Mistral. Say it. Le Mistral. L'Aple d'Huez. What is not to love?

This year's Tour promises to be one for the ages. The field is literally wide open. All the dopers have been left at home (hopefully) and the finale will likely be decided on the next to the last day on the slopes of the Ventoux. Will Carlos Sastre defend? Will Alberto Contador continue his dominance or become embroiled with teammate Lance Armstrong's quest for an eighth? Will there be a new winner? Eventually I will go to see the Tour. Until then, I'll stay tuned.

OBX

Destination of the week: North Carolina's Outer Banks. Think of it as the land of the lost; the land that time forgot, where the locals are as worn and weathered as the landscape. I think of it as vacation and a really kick ass place. A place to get sweaty, salted, sanded, and baked.

My family has vacationed here for awhile now, but this was our first return in nearly seven years. The place has changed a lot since then; strip malls and mega-marts popping up everywhere, more kiteboards than surfboards, and overall, less quirkiness. Apparently during our seven year absence, it had been discovered. It is the collection of hodge-podge and randomness that make the Outer Banks great. For me, the allure of the Outer Banks has faded some. Or perhaps, it was me. I no longer have to own a T-shirt and sticker from every surf shop on the island (my board barely saw the surf). I didn't feel the urge to purchase everything at every general store I visited (most of which, in my opinion, had lost their lustre and intrigue). I didn't stop at every roadside dune to check out the break (though I wanted to). I did get to do everything I wanted, almost.

It is the almost and everything that hasn't changed that will bring me back. The almost I refer to is the 'kid in a candy store' feeling. Unrealistic as it may be, I see something and say, "Ooh look, I want to do that!" Guess I'll have to come back. What hasn't changed is the awesome food and home cooking (which I ate too much of), great times with family, and killer surroundings. Trip highlights included relaxing with the fam, trips to the NC Aquarium and Jockey's Ridge, splashing in the waves at the legendary S-Curves, bonfires and S'mores on the beach, and some 'fishing.'

My Hatteras top five:

1. The Wave Magnet--The Hatteras Light. Been there before, but didn't make it this trip. Extremely cool.

2. The Atlantic--The awesome power of this wave machine. Huge glassy barrels and crushing power.

3. Outdoor showers--My next house will have one.

4. Highway 12--A simple one-lane stretch from Nags Head to Hatteras. It has to be considered one of America's greatest.

5. The vibe--Sea breeze with a light hint of fishiness fills the air. Shirt and shoes are optional everywhere. Everything is chill.

When you leave them, the Outer Banks evoke a great sadness. Sadness at leaving Nature's beauty, good times and memories, and vacation. The sadness of returning to work (like a kid at the end of Christmas break or summer vacation). Work is for sucks. The OBX is for me.

World Championship Wednesday

WCW. It's no coincidence that World Championship Wednesday (as I dubbed it) shares its initials with he former wrestling league. The team's newest training criterium promised to be a knock-down, drag-out fight. Last night was my first participation, and I must admit, that I wasn't feeling too good about it. Be it getting ten hours of sleep in the last 72, or just knowing some of the names that might show up, I had a feeling that I was going to get shelled. No, shellacked.

Last night's small group of six had me feeling better about my chances. Five of us would be racing for second as there was no chance that we'd beat one guy. The course is a .5 mile loop with wide roads, good pavement, and two turns in a yet to be developed subdivision; a far cry from the previous training crit on the old Navy base (insert any of the following synonyms: hood, ghetto, Compton, projects etc). Fifty minutes plus five laps for the World Title!...or just some recognition among the local cycling circle.

Down to business. The race was on at a steady 24-25 mph, but rather than feeling like a crit, it felt more like a team time trial. Each person took a lap-long pull at the front and rotated out. There were no attacks, though there were a few charges and a few people dropping out. The thought of sitting out a lap did cross my mind. It sounded enticing. It sounded demoralizing. "No, I won't quit," I told myself. There were only three of us still on the same lap and therefore I had a chance at second if it came to a sprint. The lap countdown had begun and on the bell lap, Jamie put in a huge pull. A 30+ mph, three-quarters of a lap lead out for the final sprint. I was in second coming into the final turn and I could feel third coming up fast. Apparently he was starting to feel it too, so I gave it what little I had left and managed to hold on. Second. I'll take that.

Don't expect those kind of results often, but do expect more appearances at the WCW crit. This was awesome crit training and loads of fun.

Royale with Cheese

Destination of the week: Port Royal, SC. Situated near Beaufort and about 90 miles south of Charleston, Port Royal is one of a countless number of small Low Country coastal towns revolving around easy living. It was recently voted one of the top ten "coolest small towns" in America by one of these worthless internet polls. Having been there before, I could agree that it is a quaint little town. Coolest towns in America? I think not. But since I was in town for some bike racing, I decided to make the most of my once a year visit.

The drive south of Charleston on US-17 is one of my favorites. It is a stretch of the American landscape filled with small towns, open brackish marshes, coastal creeks, and ancient forests. I arrived with a few hours to spare before my race, so I decided to check out some of the town and talk to the locals about how to spend my twelve hours in Port Royal (which is all anyone would ever need). The staff at the Old Village Coffee Haus were more than accommodating. They said I had to have dinner at the Dockside Restaurant and be back by 6:30 for the Saturday evening concert series. Decisions made easy.

After my race, I bummed around town for awhile checking things out. Port Royal is on a small peninsula surrounded by intercoastal waterways and just north of Paris Island. The town is shielded by massive Live Oaks and draped in Spanish Moss. The shrimping industry and Marine Corps presence can be seen everywhere. Every house and business has a large, welcoming porch. I was immediately struck by the shanty shacks next to new construction homes, the older local crowd next to the shirtless, mulletted yokels. A sign of a town growing in no particular direction.

I stuck around to watch the Pro race before heading back to my hotel to get cleaned up for dinner. This was a mistake. By the time I had returned, the Dockside restaurant's parking lot was packed, and by all accounts, I wasn't getting in anytime soon. Luckily I had been eyeing a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint on the edge of town (quite a step down, but I was hungry enough to eat the hind-end off a hobby horse). I decided to waive my other options, a Thai place in an old one-room schoolhouse or a sandwich cafe, for calzones and beer. Another mistake. I make better calzones. At least I could make it to the street concert for another beer, some dessert, and good music.

The street was filled with Port Royalty. Lawnchairs, kids, and the smell of steamed shrimp (quite a contrast to the burgers and potato salad of my Midwestern youth). The sounds of John

McCutcheon's folk and children's music were entertaining and a great endcap for the evening. Retiring for the night, I vow to be back next year, family in tow.

Low Country Challenge

Headed south this weekend to participate in the Low Country Challenge, an omnium consisting of an individual time trial (TT), a criterium, and a road race. This was the second year for the event and my second participation, but it was to be my first time doing a TT. I borrowed a pair of aerobars from a friend and had been working on time trialing over the 40-kilometer distance. I knew the winning time at this distance would be under an hour, an average speed of over 25 mph! I also knew that this was beyond me, so I was shooting for a respectable 1:10:00. This was more than achievable. During practice, I had done 43k in about 1:15 with traffic.

I had always been skeptical of time trials. Aerobars look goofy and who is there to race against but yourself? Exactly. The time trial is often called the race of truth. How hard can you push yourself for a sustained time period without blowing up? Sometimes you surprise yourself and sometimes the truth hurts, either way you learn something. While I did enjoy the time trialing experience, I decided to fore go the TT in favor of sleep. Work was again getting in the way of my professional cycling career.

Other than being more humid than a Norwegian sauna, Saturday's crit went off without much fanfare. The non-technical course and the officials cutting the race short, lent it to being one of the fastest criteriums I can remember. There was no respite the entire time, and my heart rate monitor showed it. I averaged 171 beats per minute, maxxing out at 183. This was after starting with a resting rate of 100 bpm (over 40 bpm higher than normal, thanks to nerves and Starbucks!). I stayed near the front throughout, but got passed twice in the sprint to end up with tenth.

I awoke for Sunday's road race to rain. Not wanting to trash the Tarmac, I considered riding the old bike. "Naah, you only live once right?" I reasoned. The course was another fairly non-technical route on the Marine Core Air Station in Beaufort. Forty-one miles, fresh pavement, a couple of torrential downpours, and not much more. The pack stayed together most of the time, letting breaks go and then letting them get reeled back. I chased one down myself, at about the 25 mile point, as a matter of a personal vendetta. I considered this break a potentially serious one, but mainly I just didn't want this guy to win. He had been riding like a moron, weaving everywhere, so I nailed him back and just sat on him.

I again stayed where I wanted and ended up in third position lining up for the sprint finish. Perfect, except that I was already on the limit. I felt myself fading and about 500 meters from the line, I gave it the last few digs for 17th. Nothing special, but I felt good for doing it.

Flight

As time passes and people grow older, all but the most poignant, exciting, inspiring, and sometimes painful memories fade into a blur; much like staring from the window of a speeding car. But it is for those memories which we remember that we look back and laugh, cry, shudder, or share stories. Please allow me to share a story here, told from two perspectives, taken over 20-years apart. It is one that is all of the above for me (except painful, though you would think I was torturing myself at the time).

I must have been eight or ten years old when I learned how to ride a bicycle. I can remember begging my parents to teach me. They would spend evenings, for what seemed like a month, running beside me, holding the seat of my brother's Green Grasshopper bike (complete with what he said was a special squared-off, slick grass rear tire and banana seat) or my sister's girlie BMX-lookin' bike (which I proudly rode, mind you, until I got a bike of my own). On occasion, unbeknown to me, they'd let go of the seat and let me ride for yards on end until I wobbled out of control and they were there to save me. The only painful part of my entire recollection came not from crashing, but from frustration.

My mantra became, "I give up! I'll never be able to ride I bike!" "I can't do it!", I'd sob. As frustrating as learning was to me, it had to be doubly frustrating to my parents. The cycle went like this: beg Mom and Dad to run with me in the yard, not believe them when they told me I could do it, scream and bawl my eyes out until both parties had enough, repeat in a few days time. I think they eventually put my brother and sister up to this just to spare themselves some of the agony. And so it went until late one Saturday morning, when myself and the Earth were in perfect balance (planets aligned, Vernal Equinox, etc) and I actually rode my bike. My parents had worked with me most of the morning and suddenly my cries turned into nervous laughter. I still needed a push to get going (learning that would come later) and I ran into the Silver Maple a few times, but I did it. Free as a bird with wheels. Self-motorized transport.

Fast forward twenty-plus years. I now have kids of my own with bikes of their own. My youngest wants to ride anything with wheels, while his sister requires some prodding. Just getting her to ride with training wheels is a battle, forget about riding with the possibility of crashing. Instead of begging to learn how to ride my bike, my wife and I were now begging her to learn how to ride hers. Begging became pleading, pleading became bribing, but finally we were able to convince her. After several wobbly attempts and much whining and complaining her mantra became, "I don't wanna ride my bike!" "I can't do it!", she'd sob. Things had come full circle. I was getting a dose of my own medicine. As frustration set it on us both, we swallowed the bitter pill and put her bike away until next time.

The next few attempts brought much promise. Several unassisted trips down the sidewalk or across the parking lot. Fear turning into nervousness and then into confidence. Our frustration turning into smiles and exuberance. At less than half the age that I learned to ride, she can now do it all alone. Free from such terrestrial things as feet. Free to fly.