Shut up juice

Was feeling sorry for myself the other day, as I sometimes do, and I took it upon myself to loathe in wanton self-pity.  Things weren't quite going my way.

So when thoughts of "Oh, woe is me" and "Life is so hard and unfair" creep into my mind, it only takes about five seconds for my so-called hard-knock life to remind me that there's a lot to be thankful for and there are plenty of others out there that have legitimate cause for complaint.

As bad as you think you've got it, as crappy as your day has been, and for all of your perceived problems, I promise you that somewhere, someone else out there is getting dealt a much crueler hand; like that elderly gentlemen who lacked all muscle tissue, who had crutches for extensions of arms and whose upper body was all contorted like a reject pretzel; or that child, the same age as your own kind, with leg braces and a cane; and what about that mom with the aluminum stick leg for a prosthetic?  You know, the one that someone honked at because she was too slow crossing the crosswalk (yeah, that really happened--there are some real quality people in this world)?

So just when I thought my day had turned to complete shit, and right on queue, life's karma pimp-slaps me with the aforementioned reminders that I've got it pretty good.  All of these reminders, mind you, in a fairly affluent community in one of the most advanced and richest societies ever known; say nothing of those poor bastards living in countries like Syria, Sudan, or North Korea.

So when thoughts of "Oh, woe is me" and "Life is so hard and unfair" creep into your mind, take another drink.  Down that boutique coffee store's coffee and feel thankful for what you've got, knowing full well, that somebody's got it worse and, for now, that somebody is not you.

My Glasses

Say something about my glasses.  I dare you.  Once, when I was 7, I broke an aluminum baseball bat over another kid's cast (yes, he already had a broken arm) because he called me "four eyes".  He had it coming.  Go ahead; make fun of someone because of a weakness, you can't help it.  It's innate.

Later, in second grade, my moniker reared its head again, this time with much different results.  I cried.  Standing in line for the school bell; I couldn't help it.  I couldn't help that I had stripes taped to the middle of my lenses to keep my eyes from pointing inward.  I'd worn glasses for longer than I could remember (since I was two) and now I couldn't hold it in any longer.

I tried to explain.  "I'm farsighted"  I said.  "Oh, so you can't see far away?" someone twitted.  "No (you dumb-ass), I can't see close-up," I replied, now getting emotional.  "Then why do you need glasses?" the grilling continued. Now completely balling and wanting desperately to end this discussion, "because I have a lazy eye."  (It turns out that I have a condition called Amblyopia, which I found out quite by chance sometime last week;  but you wouldn't care.  You can't see past my glasses.) Continuing to try to explain this to other 7-year-olds was proving fruitless.  Catching wind of the unraveling situation now developing at the back of Room 106, Mrs Hobson finally stepped in; I was a snotty, blubbering mess, but I had stemmed the bleeding for now.

Fifth grade was really the last time I ever heard about it.  Maybe everyone had gotten used to it.  Maybe everyone had outgrown it.  Maybe it was the fact that I punched a kid's face in on the school bus for telling me my eyes were all messed up.  "Now your face is all messed up", and nobody said shit after that.  No one could; I got contacts in seventh grade.

It turns out that contacts were not a good fit for someone with my hygienic habits.  I never took care of them.  I slept in them.  Contacts are terrible.  They suffocate your eyes.  The blood vessels in your eyes grow and expand while attempting to get more oxygen.  They grow across your pupil and blur your vision.  I didn't need them.  My self confidence had grown and I realized that glass could be cool.  Elvis Costello was cool.

I got some big, thick black framed glasses, just like Elvis wears.  Just like the BCGs that marines wear; and I rocked 'em.  They became my trademark. They became part of me and I was only reminded of the pain they had once caused me during drunken collegiate wrestling matches fueled by testosterone and alcohol.  Slapped from my face, they'd skid across the floor, and for a brief moment, time moved in slow motion.  My weakness was exposed.  My glasses, skirting a midst stomping feet and falling bodies, had to be saved.  I needed them.  I had become inextricably linked to something that, for so long, had caused me so much pain.  Now I wouldn't live without them.

Couldn't live without them (though they effectively do nothing to correct my Amblyopia; I rarely use my left eye at all--to it's detriment).  They have become a staple of my face.  I like my glasses and I think I'm going to keep them.

Persistence of Memory

Reincarnation is possible.  Not the karma-driven reincarnation that Buddha would have you believe, but chemically driven reincarnation.  The kind where your collection of chemicals reassemble themselves again to regain consciousness.  As Sagan put it, your "star stuff" can again become self aware.  It happened once, and though extremely improbable, it can happen again.

Why do I ponder such improbabilities, and if it's so improbable, why do I care? The answer is both simple and contradictory:  time.  I seemingly have had all the time in the world to allow my mind to wander far enough to arrive at this conclusion, yet I have very little time to do anything about it or to capitalize on my existing self-consciousness (life).  I run, and lately, I have been doing a lot of it.  The majority of my running happens several hours before dawn, in a pain tunnel devoid of humans, with clear views of the Universe, a few families of deer, and the occasional coyote.  The perfect venue to let my mind contemplate such obscurity.

Like it or not, all organisms are just ensembles of highly organized and complex chemicals, proteins, and electrical impulses working together for a specialized purpose: life.  Through millions of years, evolution has made us into the most advanced form of life ever known.  When we die, it will only take fractions of frames in the cosmic calendar to reduce us back into our chemical constituents.  In the process, our carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus, oxygen, and sulfur are returned to Earth.  We are dirt.  Worm food; to be reused or taken up by other organisms; to remain useless bits of nondescript material tucked away in a pocket of the Universe never to be touched again; to be recycled into a polyethylene plastic bottle, or in the unquantifiably slight circumstance, to have your chemicals reassemble into life.  And even less likely, to return to life as Homo Sapiens.  Except this time, it is no longer you.

Herein lies the most painful and disturbing part:  except for regaining consciousness, becoming self-aware, and being human, you have no notion of your previous existence.  Chemicals have no memory.  You owe your current existence to an infinitesimally small chance.  You are you because planets aligned.  Pure chance.  For you to come into being again (in any form) would require overcoming equal or greater odds.  Even so, assume your chemicals in all their complexity are able to reassemble into human form.  Now further assume that this reassembly happens in the very next generation.  You are reborn into a world which still contains your friends, loved ones, and your offspring.  You potentially walk the Earth side by side with the very same people that you brought to be; though you (and they) would never know it.

No recollection.  No memories of your previous life.  Nothing.

Having made it this far, you should consider yourself one of the lucky ones. Perhaps if you are really lucky, your star stuff will be reborn into that plastic water bottle; leaching yourself into its contents to be ingested by another human, made part of their DNA, and passed on to their offspring (and for your sake, I hope this person isn't a total douche bag).

...but chances are that this is the only shot that you'll get.  You will only live on through the memories of others, and even then, for only a generation or two. Your life is in their memories.  Make them count.

Frog Poaching

There's a parable out there that goes something like this:  If you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will jump out.  However, a frog in a pot that is gradually heated will be peacefully unaware of its surroundings and will be cooked alive.  This metaphor often finds use in describing a reaction to change.  Abrupt changes are met with an immediate response, while gradual changes, playing on our innate ability to forget and acclimatize, often go unnoticed.  Not being one to accept things at face value, I decided to put this to the test; not metaphorically, but literally.

My local pet store was more than willing to oblige; PetSmart was running a special on Northern Leopard frogs at $14.99, buy one get one free!  Perfect. Two frogs in the bag and I was on my way, but not before the clerk tried to sell me on a small terrarium for my two little buddies.  She seemed overly concerned that these two find a good home.  Not wanting to blow my cover, I reassured her that I had just the place for them.

I rushed home with Hippity and Hop, as I had named them, riding shotgun.  As I drove, I began to formulate the method for my experiment.  I would begin by testing the second part of the anecdote; Hippity was going in first.  He was quite at home in four inches of room temperature water and a pasta-pot, but homeboy knew something was up as soon as I cranked on the burner.  The gig was up and Hippity was having none of this.  No longer sitting on the bottom, he swam around the pot faster and faster as the temperature rose until finally climbing up the side and leaping out.  That wasn't supposed to happen!?  Like any good experimenter and wanting to ensure that this was no fluke, I repeated the test, this time with Hop.  No difference (though Hop proved to be a trooper--that little bugger lasted way longer than I thought he would before bailing)!

Hop had the extreme misfortune of being first up in the boiling pot part of the experiment.  I set the burner on high and got a solid rolling boil going.  After I was sure that the water was heated uniformly, it was time for Hop to perform his best Greg Louganis impersonation.  Plop--in he went!  I stood back, half expecting a scalding frog to come jumping back at me.  Not so much.  Hop gave a few kicks but the temperature proved too much for him.  He nearly instantly went stiff as the life fizzled from him.  By the time I got him off of the burner and out of the water, he was all puffed up like an amphibian pierogi or something.  Weird!

Even weirder was the outcome; the results of my experiment were completely contrary to that of the parable. Who knew?  So, the next time that jerk in your office uses this stupid analogy, you can tell him how I dispelled that myth.  As for Hippity, I opted to return him to the store.  What was I going to do with a frog anyway?  They give me the creeps.  Someone else can get some enjoyment out of a slightly used $7.50 Northern Leopard frog.

Mind Blow

How about a not so little thought experiment?  One that will leave you not only questioning your being, but the existence of everything that there ever was.

Take the smallest things in the known universe; the molecules, atoms, protons, quarks, bosons, muons, and those that are still not known. Now grow them into peptides, proteins, RNA, and DNA capable of replicating themselves in cells which divide and multiply to form life-forms of all kinds, some with seemingly infinite complexity.  This is you (though you probably don't think of yourself this way).  You (we) are nothing but an assemblage of chemicals that have gained consciousness of themselves and their surroundings; having gained consciousness, we are able to think, ration, and reason.  Formed from the Universe's common elements, we have come to dominate the tiny dust spec that we inhabit.  Because of our self-consciousness and our pretend dominance of Earth, we deem ourselves kings of our dominion.  The one and only intelligent being.  Masters of the Universe. Humble yourself.  Look skyward.

Those dots you see are other stars.  Starting to feel small?  If you live in the right area, you may see what appears to be a strip of clouds.  That is an arm of the ten billion year old Milky Way, our Galaxy, and there are many like it in our Universe.  It is even suggested that there are many universes!  Fifteen billion years ago events, as we know them, were set into motion that lead to life as we know it.  Though it likely exists, the laws of physics may prevent us from ever knowing if life exists elsewhere (it likely does--although it may not be as we know it).

Why did it happen?  Where did the original matter for the Universe come from?  What was going on before that?  When does it end?  Where does it end?  What about the other universes?  Can we find another suitable place to continue our menial and ultimately doomed existence?

It has taken us about five billion years to get here, and if our species lasts that long, we will have about five billion more to figure it out.  It will take our descendants 30,000 years to travel to what is thought to be the next nearest habitable corner of the Universe.  The odds that we would come to exist were staggering, but the odds of something like us not existing somewhere else are even more staggering, but can we make it there?
Suddenly our understanding and mastery of our surroundings seems horribly lacking.  Pathetic.

Ohio: A picture montage

Fate

I killed a black snake today; I know, terrible isn't it?  I like snakes, but this one happened to be six feet long and was meandering slowly along my winding route home.  As a general rule, I do not swerve to miss animals and don't get in my way when I'm driving home from work. I'm pretty sure that I got it with both tires, though I don't think it died quickly.

As I drove away, I could see it writhing in pain in my rear view mirror. Flopping and twitching on the hot tarmac, this snake was destined to suffer a fate of: slowing being cooked on the South Carolinian asphalt, being eaten by buzzards, possums, or wild boars, or getting the mercy-kill from another passerby.  I contemplated turning around and doing the latter myself, but that would've delayed me from getting away from work as quickly as possible.  So as I raced for home, my contemplation soon shifted to that snake's fate.  That snake was snuffed out early.

While I don't think wild animals' life expectancy is anything like that of domestic animals, I doubt that Mr. Black Snake awoke on this morning thinking "today is a good day to die."  In fact, I'm sure it was quite the opposite.  One wrong move and nature's course of history was changed forever, but are we that different from the snake?  Sure, we're our own sort of wild-domesticated animal; engrained with preserving ourselves, but no longer hell-bent on survival.  We're all going to die sometime and hopefully we can make our peace beforehand, but what if we happen to be as unlucky as the black snake?

I first became aware of my fate at a young age.  I pulled the string on my sister's explanation of the dinosaurs' extinction and the ball quickly unraveled.  I wasn't going to be six years old forever and, as it turns out, I wasn't even going to be around forever.  I've recently become more conscious of my own mortality and, quite frankly, it sucks.  I'm never going to get to do all of the things that I want to do.  At some point, my being will abandon those that I love and leave them with only memories. 

Live life to its fullest, leave nothing to chance, and have no regrets.

The Piedmont Triad: An omnium in four acts

I'm a little late in reporting on this, so rather than boring the three people that read this blog with details (details which I have largely forgotten at this point), I will briefly summarize my weekend in four acts.  Not so coincidentally, The Piedmont Triad Omnium is a great weekend of four races in and around the small, barbecued town of Lexington, NC.  The Omnium, which benefits local charities, has grown since my first participation two years ago, and continues to be one of my favorite races and venues.  Here goes.

Criterium
Your basic rectangular course, wide streets, and a nice little uphill through the start/finish; very straight forward.  Leave it to the race organizers to throw some twists:  a nighttime crit with just enough rain to make the roads really greasy.  Racing in the dark was actually pretty cool--the greasy streets were not.  The bike's rear end was getting a little squirrelly in the bumpy turns, but I was able to hold it together.  I sat in the front of the field most of the race and managed to avoid some early carnage, but wasn't so fortunate on the final lap.  The peloton was bombing hard into the final turn and two guys in front of me went down hard.  I lost only a few spots, but I was stood up behind them in way too big of a gear and I was totally gassed; so gassed I didn't (couldn't) even sprint.  Though I was still able to finish sixth, in retrospect, the crash and lack of sprinting probably cost me a top five in the overall.

Time Trial
The time trial (or TT) is often referred to as the "Race of Truth"; sometimes the truth hurts--this was one of those occasions.  Having never done a TT before, I wasn't sure what to expect.  All that I kept hearing was, "it's going to hurt" and "just go out and make yourself hurt."  Okay, I guess I can do that. Fortunately, a friend let me borrow his TT bike, otherwise it may have been even uglier.  At the four miles point, I was making some gains on the guy in front of me and feeling pretty good; feeling pretty good until being passed by my 30-second man, then my minute-man, and finally one more.  I knew I was now conceding at least a minute-thirty to these guys, but no matter.  I finally caught my lead-out, and knowing he was right behind me, motivated me to go even faster.  Where I had been deflated earlier, now I was inspired--not even dropping my only water bottle would dissuade me now.  I finished with a strong uphill and a sprint to the line for thirteenth.  Not too horrible and not too good.

Street Sprints
This was another interesting first for me.  Start from a dead stop, sprint 300 meters up a slight incline, and if you finish high enough, you get to do it again!  Did I mention that the "World Famous" Hooters' Girls hold you and your bike at the start?  Okay, well my Hooterette had a little difficulty holding me and I damn near fell over.  The concept was great, but having a chick two-thirds of your weight, wearing white Reeboks, leg-warmers, '80's-style pantyhose and who doesn't know their left from right trying to hold you is a bad idea. The track-stand start was by far the most nerve racking portion of the whole event.  Though I didn't make it to the finals, I did advance to the second round for a ninth place finish and more points toward the overall.  Timing for this event is everything and something that I won't forget for next time.

Road Race
I felt pretty good heading into the final event and with a good result, had a decent shot at finishing in the top five for the omnium.  Having friends in a race can do a lot to ease your nerves, boost confidence, and motivate you. The plan, as we discussed in the hotel the night before, was to play it cool for two laps, attack on the final climb of the third lap, and work together for the next fourteen miles.  Plans as crazy as this often work, particularly in the realm of CAT 4 racing, but you have to be both mentally and physically tough. After two laps, everything was going as planned (albeit for a bit of sketchiness on the first lap).  The three of us (Joachim, Taylor, and myself) held strong positions near the front and then it happened; an attack launched the base of the climb and Joachim had no choice but to go with it.  In a second I had lost twenty places, my mental and physical spirit had been broken and I was being unhitched at the back.  I spent the next five miles trying to close a 200-yard gap to the peloton and teetering on the brink of quitting.  I finally regrouped and started pulling myself back together.  Disappointed as I was to not be able to stick with the break, I knew that within the remaining group, I would have a good shot at the field sprint; but it was going to mean that I wouldn't do any work until I had fully recovered.  So that's what I did.  Sixth place.  Good enough for twenty bucks and good enough for seventh in the omnium.

We finished out the weekend riding through the Triad in the blistering heat (I'll spare you the details of such lackluster towns as High Point and Thomasville) and then hanging out with the team.  Overall one great time.

The Run Hug

Anyone with kids knows the Run Hug. It goes like this: walk in the door, heads turn, followed by a pause and a moment of recognition, then a mad-dash ensues to see who can be the first to wrap their arms around your neck and wring out the love. Prepare for it and you'll likely squat down, recieve it with open arms, and be bowled over by it. Let it catch you off guard, and you'll likely be taken out at the knees, climbed like a tree, and then bowled over. Either way, it is the singular act the can wash away an entire bad day of work, road rage filled commute, or just about anything else.

My dog even had her own form of the run hug.  When I'd get home from the night shift and enter into a pitch black house, I'd hear the thump of Sam jumping off of our bed.  This was followed by a sprint down the steps, a slip-sliding scurry across the kitchen floor, and a lunge for my necktie.  Panting frantically and firmly latched on, she would wag and look at you with her sleepy eyes until satiated, and even then, had to be pried off.

A Pavlovian reflex of pure love.  It has been two weeks since I've seen my family.  I'm waiting for my run hug.

Norf@*k

Long after the dust settles and intelligent life re-evolves on post-apocalyptic Earth, the future archaeologists will uncover a lost city of concrete and metal; a vast industrial wasteland.  Among their finds will be empty Mickey's Cream Ale bigmouth "hand-grenades", fast food wrappers, those plastic Black and Mild cigar tips, and signs reading Norfolk, Virginia; my destination of the month.

Yes, Norfolk is a city long founded on the singular purpose of shipbuilding. Steel beaches surround as do the smells of diesel fuel, cigarette smoke, and dead fish.  The city's limited green space abruptly and inevitably end in unkempt parking lots and its historic districts quickly transition into shanty towns.  In my eyes, it seems as though the city's saving grace, its silver lining, is the food.  Being a foodie, I can appreciate good eats, not pub slop, but really good food.  Here's a sampling:

The Coffee Shop (High Street, Portsmouth, VA)
A simple name, a simple place, and quite possibly my favorite new breakfast sandwich.  Raw peanut butter, granola, sliced apples, and organic honey on thick slices of whole grain bread; as simple and good as the shop itself (and their coffee is not bad either).

The Bier Garden (High Street, Portsmouth VA)
Okay, so by now you have figured out that High Street and surrounding areas are about all Portsmouth has to offer.  Street names like High, Washington, and Court quickly and nostalgically bring me back to a special place, but let your mind and feet wander and you'll soon find yourself in a not so special place known as "The Parking District"--apparently a neighborhood (emphasis on hood) set aside for parking your car; hopefully it'll still be there when you return.  Back to The Bier Garden.  This Bavarian gem offers authentic and homemade German dishes like Spatzle, goulash, and bratwurst, not to mention a beer list of over 350 (predominantly German and Belgian) beers. This makes choosing just a few difficult, but certainly guarantees a return visit to try more.  I will be back.

Empire Little Bar Bistro (Granby Street, Norfolk)
A buck-fiddy gets you a water taxi across the Elizabeth River from Portsmouth to Norfolk and to the end of Granby Street.  Granby will lead you to the artsy college town of Ghent and en route, you will find Empire; a tapas restaurant and yet another locale befitting of its name.  I pass on the bistro's eight tables and opt for a seat at the bar.  While enjoying the setting and my pint of BBC Bourbon Barrel Stout, I am ill prepared for the meal that awaits:  quite possibly the best I have ever eaten.  For starters a cool and refreshing jicama and cucumber salad, follow that with Fillet atop a seared lemon and goat cheese risotto cake, then cap it with lamb wantons and a blueberry-jalapeño dipping sauce and you have a smile in every bite--which is exactly what I was doing.

Good food aside, Norfolk still rates as a dead end in my book--sorry Norfolkers (pronounced Norf...well, you know how it's pronounced).

The Prizefighter

I have no business riding a mountain bike, much less racing one.  Just to prove it, I entered the 6-hour Grind on the Greenway endurance race in Fort Mill, SC.  Situated just south of Charlotte on the Anne Springs Close Greenway, the Grind featured a ten-mile loop of twisting, rooty and rocky singletrack, 800-feet of elevation gain per lap, two tunnels and a swing bridge.  Ah yes, I would become intimately acquainted and nearly decapitated by said swing bridge (on a practice lap no less).  Thankfully it would be my only run in with that bridge, but not my only crash; I had too many of those to count.

The first came not a quarter mile from the start when they guy in front of me went down on a patch of flagstones.  I ran right over his bike and then landed on him for good measure.  I could see that this would be the overwhelming theme of the day.  Thankfully Taylor was waiting for me at the next turn.  Though he wanted to ride together and be a good teammate, I told him to go on and not wait.  We rode about half of the first lap together before getting separated by crashes and slower riders.  At the end of the first lap, despite the many bumps and bruises, I felt pretty good. I was four minutes behind Taylor and was sure I wouldn't see him again.

It was then to my surprise that midway through the second lap I found Taylor hunched over a flat rear tire aside the trail.  "Taylor!"  I said excitedly.  "Dude, I just about emasculated myself," he said.  "You okay?" I inquired.  "Yeah, I just gotta fix this flat."  He didn't want me to wait.  I passed him a tube and some CO2 and rode away.  I was feeling pretty invigorated by this.  I knew that he'd likely catch me and we could ride together again. Having company on the road or trail can do a lot to boost morale, but ironically I wouldn't see him again until I was on my death march.  We passed like two ghosts in the night.  I pitted to top off my water and grab some food and Taylor did the same; somehow we missed each other.

I was averaging just under an hour per lap, and at this rate, I'd log six very respectable laps.  Very respectable and not very realistic.  My hands we numbing and I hurt--in fact, I looked like Freddy Kreuger. (And since we're on the topic of bad 80's horror films, let me tell you what it's like getting chased down by some pro mountain bikers.  All you hear is the rustling of branches behind you, shadows zipping through the woods, and then they're on you.  Some Texas Chainsaw Massacre shit.)  I had crashed more times than I could count, each one taking with it some flesh and some confidence until I started to doubt what I was doing.  But know this:  I got up every time; each time slower than the previous, mindlessly yet instinctively throwing my leg over the bar, clipping in, and pedaling like some punch-drunk old boxer.  My pace had dropped off significantly and I needed a break.

After a quick break and half a PB&J, I set off on my fourth, and unbeknown yet to me, my final lap.  The short rest helped immensely, but things were going terribly wrong.  My body had rejected the food I just attempted to eat and, despite drinking nine liters of water, I hadn't peed yet.  In fact, I had no urge to piss, my kit was all salted-up and I couldn't drink any more.  I was toast after a quarter-lap.  Slogging away as if in quicksand, head throbbing, and hallucinating; the classic bonk.  I sought out a nice log to lay on, propped up the bike and tried to gather myself.  After reassuring about ten passers-by that I'd be okay, I got back on my rig and continued on in earnest. Futility, stupidity, and survival.

I managed to pass Taylor heading in the other direction.  "I'm done bro," I said, drooling on myself.  I finished my fourth lap in four hours thirty minutes--plenty of time for a fifth and possibly the start of a sixth, but it wasn't meant to be.  I've never felt so horrible on a bike before.  I turned in my timing chip and spent the better part of the next half-hour shivering and dry-heaving in the fetal position next to Taylor's car.  All of that for twenty-sixth place and some good times.

Fever is Contagious

After many months of trying, I was finally able to make it out on the road bike with my wife.  It seems like every time we tried, something else was always stopping us; illness, the move, lack of babysitters.  Whatever the reason, there were no excuses this time.

I was really stoked to finally get out and ride with her.  Big deal if she didn't know what a dérailleur was, she was getting more excited about riding and was really pumped about her new Gary Fisher Piranha.  She had also been getting out to ride around the neighborhood and get more comfortable with a road bike and its handling.  K-P was understandably nervous about riding on the road, but I kept telling her that she was built for the bike and she would kill it.

I thought a nice 26-mile out-and-back would be a good starter.  Twenty-six miles is a particularly long ride for the first time on a road bike, but KD-Rock never complained (she usually runs farther than this).  From the get go she was a natural; always looking comfortable on the bike and with all the killer instinct of cyclist.  I planned on keeping the pace easy for the first ride, but we averaged 21 mph on the way out and I was even baited into a little sprint at the end.  Headwinds abounded on the way back, and our pace waned, but neither of us let that ruin an enjoyable time .

What meant the most to me was why she did it; for me.  I'm pretty sure that my wife would give about two craps about cycling if it weren't for me.  This is what makes her selfless and great.  Wanting to have an interest in something I love, she sacrificed her time to spend time with me on the road.  Good conversations, an appreciation for each other, and some revelations and insight about the people we love the most.  The ride came to an end too soon and I couldn't wait to go out again.  "When are we going again?"  she said.  Music to my ears.

Walterboro

Last Wednesday marked the third race in the USA Crits Speed Week series and race number three of the year for me. Conveniently located an hour away in Walterboro, SC, attendance is a must for an otherwise bleak schedule in this area. This race happens to be one of my favorites, though not for my own race, but for the pro races that follow.  Race organizers, piggy-backing on these pro races, have consistently improved turnouts to make a fun and festive event. There aren't many places where average Joes like myself can rub elbows with the likes of "B-list" pros like Hilton Clarke, Karl Menzies, Rahsaan Bahati, and six-time national champ Tina Pic.

This was my first criterium of the season.  I hate crits.  Add to an already nervous time, a bunch of idiots going way too fast, taking stupid risks, and at efforts way too hard and you have a crit. Thankfully Walterboro was only hard and fast--lacking the nerves and idiots.  The nerves were taken care of by my water company.  Following a few laps around the course, I had every intention of hitting the trainer for a hard warm-up, but apparently, Mt. Pleasant Waterworks had every intention of trying to burn my house down.  That day they managed to leave me without any utilities and were now setting fire to a few of my major home appliances.  No time to worry about a race when you've got that going on.  Thanks Mt. Pleasant Waterworks!

Nervousness and lack of warm-up aside, Charleston Bicycle Company was about to take care of the rest.  It's a little intimidating when twenty riders, in a field of fifty-five, are of the same team.  To give credit where credit is due, CBC put on a good race and exercised great team tactics.  About two laps in I spotted a move by CBC that would establish a pecking order within the race.  I knew I had to go with that move. What I didn't know was what it was doing to the rest of the field.  A gap was opening up behind me and it was all I could do to stay tacked onto the back of the lead group of ten.  Every time I pushed it, I felt like I was going to throw up and shart at the same time.  Yes, shart. Maybe quesedillas weren't the best pre-race meal choice.

Things would settle down, but CBC had already finished the script.  They communicated as a team without even speaking to each other and rode really well.  I was happy to have finished tenth though I always look back on what I would've done if I could've done it.

Afterwards I stuck around to watch the spectacle that is the pro race. Herded at the start line like cattle, $10,000 machines beneath them, the pros zipped around the streets of Walterboro and into the darkness at 30 mph.  Fearless and phenomenal--definitely an event worth checking out.

Race to the River

For the first time in three years, I decided to forgo the Lowcountry Race Weekend in favor of some off road racing at Harbison State Park.  The Maxxis Race to the River was just the excuse that I needed to sever ties with my old team and start anew.  This year, and hopefully for many to come, I will be racing with the Trek Bikes of Mt. Pleasant--Subaru of Charleston Race Team (more about the team later, just know that we have fun).  New team, new bike, new discipline.

Drove up early Sunday with a couple of friends (Taylor and Ken--also on the team) for the race at 10:00.  It helps going into a race with people you like to ride with;  eases the nerves and provides a little motivation.  It was a chilly morning in Columbia and having arrived a few hours early we decided to check out the trail for warm-up and reconnaissance.  Truth be told, I was feeling really pumped.  Maybe it was the new team, new bike, new discipline going through my head, or maybe I was getting a bit cocky from honing my skills on the local trail.  Whatever it was disappeared as soon as I went bombing into a turn and then into a tree.  Not two minutes in to our leisurely warm-up and I'm in the dirt with Ken and his 29er piled on top of me (all of us laughing hysterically).  Ken said he "thought my throttle was stuck."  I thought I had better take it easy and just follow.  This was mistake number two.

Trying to follow wheels of those way more skilled than you just doesn't work.  What works for them, may not work for you.  I would hit the deck again before our warm-up was over, this time much harder.  (not to be outdone, Taylor did a nice wheelie straight onto his back).  I hit a patch of pine-straw, landed hard on my shoulder, and somehow my leg got stuck in my frame.  Ken was quick to lend a helping hand and some encouragement.  "Let some air out of your tires," he said as he proceeded to do so.  "Just ride your own race.  Ride your bike."  By this time air had left my tires and my sails.  I limply rode back to the car where all illusions of victory escaped me.  While I sulked and waited in earnest for my race to get underway, Ken was busy texting our (my) adventures.  "Hey Geoff," Ken blurted, "Mike says 'Shut up and pedal'."  If that's how it's going to be...

The race started with a lot of doubt and not much fanfare.  The key to this race (I was told) is to be the first onto the singletrack (which apparently means "trail in the woods").  Knowing this, I half expected there to be an all-out crazed dash from the road to get there.  Not so.  I think three-quarters of the field was content with just surviving.  "Well if you guys don't want those places, I'll be more than happy to take them," I thought. So I did.  I charged into the woods in fifth place and quickly overtook fourth. Third place was just ahead of me on the trail, but he was much better than me on technical sections and would slip away.  No matter, I had two chasers to worry about.  They would yo-yo behind me for another mile and a half, until suddenly, they were gone.  Having shed my two pursuers, I could finally focus on riding my own race.

I felt good.  I could see third place in the distance and, although unknown to me, the technical sections were gone.  As I slowly gained on him, I kept checking for chasers and reciting friends' words of encouragement in my head;  "Shut up and pedal."  "Just ride your bike."  Soon I was on him.  I soft-pedaled behind him up a climb and thought,  "I could just ride this guy to the finish and smoke him in the sprint."  No, this is a race.  Someone might catch me.  I need to ride my own race.

I waited for us to crest the climb.  The whole time this guy had been using a huge gear and now that we were in a flat clearing, he was spinning like mad (that's the thing I noticed about some MTBers, they use really high cadences even when not necessary).  I shifted into a bigger gear and laid it down.  As a road cyclist, this was my terrain and I was quickly out of sight. Now I was the hunted and my chaser would catch me on the trail on several occasions (he was much better technically than me).  I knew as long as I stayed upright that I could distance myself from him in a clearing or in the finish; and outside of a few dicey moments, that is largely what happened. First out of the woods, I sprinted for the finish; I had worked too hard to lose my place now.  The result:  third place by one second--much to the chagrin of Taylor (second in his race) and Ken (who finished eighth) who were cheering me to the line.  I think I could get used to this kind of fun.

There will be Mud

Like King Arthur pulling his sword from the stone, I too have pulled this from my local bike shop; This is X-caliber (Jealous?--You should be.  Don't hate it because it's beautiful).  Due to my obsession with all things self-propelled and two-wheeled (except recumbents) and wanting to try something new, I decided to finally pull the trigger.  Nothing could be more foreign.

Aptly dubbed a 29er, this thing has massive twenty-nine inch wheels (the standard bike is a twenty-sixer), freakish hydraulic breaks, and feels and sounds like a tank.  It is everything a road bike isn't:  huge, heavy, and dirty. What a road bike packs in simple elegance, the Gary Fisher X-Cal makes up for as a monstrosity.  Rolling over and crushing everything in its path, 29ers leave everything in their wake--like standard MTBs (mountain bikes for short), me (X-cal proved a bit too much to handle and dumped me on several occasions during our first outing), and hopefully the competition (we shall see next week).

What else?  This bike allows me to feel free in ways a road bike cannot.  I actually feel limited when I'm on the road with it, but not off of it.  With it, I can go almost anywhere yet despite this, and despite the lack of cars to contend with, it has its cruelties.  Being so close to nature, you would think that you would have time to enjoy it.  Not so.  The trail requires almost constant attention and delivers almost constant battering.  Where road cycling offers much time for introspection, mountain biking requires quick reaction times to avoid trees, holes, roots, and gnarly snakes. Differences aside, they are both fun.  I think I could get used to this.

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.