Relativity

Around 1905, Albert Einstein was busy laying the groundwork on a theory that would change physics forever.  A theory that changed humanity forever. Through the development of his theory of Special Relativity (and later, General Relativity), Einstein was able to explain some of the mysteries of our universe and has since been proven correct.  To put briefly, his revolutionary theory changed the way people (physicists) thought about space and time (and many other things for that matter).

I make the distinction for physicists for a reason; relativity is a difficult concept for most people to grasp because it is not concrete, intuitive, or conceivable. Relativity's effects are more confined to the realm of nearly massless particles moving near the speed of light whereas Classical (or Newtonian) physics deal with objects of any appreciable mass (a moving human being falls into the latter category).  It impacts our lives by dictating the laws of the universe and the vast majority of us, 99.99% of us, will never directly observe it.  However, an interesting consequence of relativity is time dilation.  Basically stated, time dilation requires that as speed is increased, time slows down relative to a stationary observer (that is, the slowing down if time is not evident to the traveler).

To be sure, Einstein's equations still hold true and reduce to classical equations when applied to humanly achievable speeds.  So, if relativity is more applicable to the macro scale of the Universe or on the subatomic quantum scale, why am I spending so much time thinking about it?  Because I've been riding my bike; that's why.

Riding my bike provides me with a mental and physical outlet; cycling has allowed me to draw parallels and antitheses to relativity.  Recall that a moving object's length and time both contract with respect to a stationary observer.  Here's the parallel:  to a cyclist pulling at the front of a paceline (or at least for me) these relativistic ideas cross my mind: "If I go a little bit faster, I can make it from here to there sooner...spend less time at the front...end this misery now..."  It is as if time and distance are being shortened.  Though these thoughts are easily proven by classical physics (as speed equals distance per time), in my mind they are relativistic in nature.  Therein lies the undoing of my cycling induced physics lesson; time dilation and length contraction are not apparent to the object in motion.

These perceptions are only in my mind because I have put them there and not because they are actually occurring or are even measurable at such terrestrial speeds.  Obviously that won't stop me from thinking about it. Sometimes the mind's perceptions become reality.

Blythewood sans Roubaix

Sans me too.  Anymore the latest craze in bike racing promotions is to add a dirt section to your race and slap the word Roubaix (pronounced roo-bay) at the end of the name.  Named after perhaps the most prestigious one day classic, Paris-Roubaix, it implies a race of shear agony and suffering; the result of a few hundred kilometers of racing over multiple cobbled sections. For Blythewood-Roubaix it implied the twist of a few dirt sections around a seven mile loop.

Implied is the operative word.  It seems that the Blythewood city engineers forgot to tell the race organizers that they'd be paving over their dirt section; and it seemed that no one told me that racing, despite not riding for nearly two months, wasn't the brightest idea.  Oh well, I was going; you've got to cut your teeth sometime and there's no better way to gauge your fitness than racing.  Two hours, some wrong directions, and four bottles of urine later, I was ready to race.

The hours leading up to a race are tenuous--sometimes antsy.  You want to make sure you stay well hydrated, but get it all out pre-race.  You become very adept at pissing in bottles.  Nerves also play a role, but strangely as I was warming up, I didn't feel that nervous.  Perhaps I was too busy feeling the gusting wind in my face or the nagging pain in my knee.  Whatever the case, the race was about to unceremoniously begin.

Without much trouble the pack reached 36 mph on the first lap. The course was surprisingly non-technical (which was a good thing considering the forty-man field), but did include some nasty little climbs.  Staying near the front is always key, but never more so than at the base of these climbs. You could easily find yourself in oxygen debt, legs seizing, and off the back in no time at all.  This was the first of s aeries of things to cross my mind.  The others being:  "Wow, my knee doesn't hurt so bad anymore," and "I guess not riding for those three months really wasn't too bad after all," to "I'm losing places like a rock."

In retrospect, it had happened so quickly.  I lost place after place until finally I found myself trying to grasp the last wheel of the field.  The Phil Liggett play-by-play would have sounded like "he's blown his engine" or "the field has had one look at him and said 'well are you coming or not' and the answer--not".  I had blown up spectacularly.  I rode another lap and a half alone until getting lapped by the CAT 1s and called it quits.  Normally I would have stubbornly rode the extra miles under the guise of the "at least I didn't quit" mantra, but not today and I didn't even feel bad about it.  Instead I left with a few takeaways; until I imploded, I had felt pretty good, my knee had stopped hurting, and I could still make it home in time for dinner with the family.  These are the important things.

Spring Classics

Finally the spring thaw is here.  Longer days, less clothes, and the Spring Classics.  When most non-crazed cyclists think of the sport, they usually associate it with the Tour de France.  While the Tour is the sport's most recognizable spectacle, the spring classics are where the hard men of the sport come to play.

These are beasts of men like Tom Boonen, Fabian Cancellara, and Sitjn Devolder.  A few years ago, Devolder, a man whose name rings of how tough he actually is, rode away from his team leader (Boonen) and the entire field at the Ronde van Vlannderen (Tour of Flanders).  Climbing the slippery and grimy cobbles of the Koppenburg while wearing the Belgian national champion jersey, Stijn put down the hammer and left the rest of the peloton in his wake; it was all they could do to dismount their bicycles and walk (no joke)!  I had never seen anything like it before, but a year later, I would see it again. Soloing across a gap, the Belgian bridged to his attackers and promptly countered, leaving them to watch him and his massive quads and chiseled calves ride away in the distance.  I was instantly hooked on the classics and an instant fan of Devolder.

Not to be outdone by a teammate, Tornado Tom, affectionately known as Tomekke by the Belgian masses, has mustered no less than three wins in the Queen of the Classics Paris-Roubaix.  One of the oldest races, Paris-Roubaix treats riders and fans to multiple cobbled sections and concludes in a velodrome.  If that doesn't sound contradictory?  Last year, perhaps fueled by cocaine (Tom is a pretty big partier), Boonen surged and left the field in a fifteen-kilometer cloud of dust.  On another occasion, Boonen and two other escapees had such a lead that not even waiting for a passing train allowed their chasers to catch them.  The train passed and then Tom summarily dropped his companions.  Of course Tom's other win came at the expense of George Hincapie, one of my other favorite riders.

And finally there's Cancellara.  Though known more as a time-trialist than as a classics specialist, this Swiss rider ascended from anonymity when he upset some guy named Lance to win the opening prologue of le Tour.  Since then he's won two Tours of Switzerland, two World Time Trial Championships (he would have won three, but opted instead to win gold in the 2008 Olympics), countless other races, and Paris-Roubaix.  Earning the nickname Spartacus, he is indeed a colossus of roads and one tough dude.

This year be sure to look for these guys in the Ronde along with Paris-Roubaix, and Milan-San Remo, a nearly 300 kilometer march of futility to the Italian coast.  They are sure to all be classics.

The would be McCaves

"...And often she wishes that, when they were born,

She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn.

And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm. 

And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim. 

And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey. 

And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey. 

Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.

Another one Marvin O'Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt.
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt.
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate...
But she didn't do it. And now it's too late."

--Theodor Geisel aka Dr. Seuss

from Too Many Daves

which would be McCave is your favorite?

Fruit Suit Armor

Something occurred to me as I peeled my morning grapefruit.  Grapefruit and some varieties of oranges have a thick hides.  Clearly nature had given these fruits adequate protection, but has man ever taken advantage of this?  I bet not.

It's too bad really, as I bet grapefruit rinds would make good Fruit Suit Armor.  What am I talking about?  As paleolithic man was busy hunting and gathering, always worrying about threats from animals or other nomads, he was also squandering great opportunities to protect himself.  All those fruit rinds he cast aside as waste could've been put to some good use.

No one was out smelting new metals.  This was before the iron age or the bronze age, and while animal skins did offer early man some form of protection, there was risk.  They had to hunt and kill the animal to get it's skins.  Not fruit.  Just pluck some from the tree, eat the insides, stitch 'em together with some fish-bone needles and vines and viola, you've got a protective suit made from fruit!

Worn like kneepads, grapefruit rinds could easily prevent skinned knees. Plus, when some prehistoric Pterodactyl tried to eat him, Paleolithic man would taste all funny and bitter.  Monarch butterflies employ this same strategy (not the fruit, but the funny taste).  Oh what the mind is capable of when allowed to wander.

Goodbye Friend

I finally sold the old the house a few weeks ago and I never want to do that again.  Between the showings, paperwork, and hassles, I was beginning to feel as though it wasn't worth it.  The new house has erased all of those doubts, and while there are a few things that I won't miss, I am going to miss some of those intangible memories from the old place.

I won't miss the drafty downstairs in the winter, the constantly running air conditioner in the summer, nor the randomly beeping microwave or hints of shoddy construction that are prevalent in South Carolina.  While there is no love lost there, I did find myself getting somewhat sentimental as I cleaned the place up; trying to make it tidy for it's new owners.  I could see myself in the young couple that was about to move in; DINKs (double-income, no kids) with a dog, full of promise.  We officially started our family there and the house had treated us well.  Despite the abuse we doled out on it, I feel like we left it in better condition than we found it (not that it was bad to begin with).  We made some home improvements and upgrades and family upgrades too, which proved to be the end for that little house.  We simply outgrew it.

It took the movers all of four and a half hours to move our possessions a mere four and a half miles and now I look forward to making our new home the best for us.  We have already done plenty, but there is always more. There will always be more.