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 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.

Relegated

What's the frequency Geoffeth?  After spending the better of the last two months off of my bike, I am back.  My knee is about sixty percent at best, but thanks to my physical therapy and some new pedals, I am able to ride.  For now that will have to be good enough because, for awhile, I wasn't sure it was going to get better.

I had an idea of what not riding would mean for this year.  At first I was resigned to deal with it and overcome, but the longer I went, the worse I felt about it.  I could barely make it up a flight of stairs without huffing and puffing and my leg hurting like hell; how was I going to race my bike and not totally embarrass myself? Until now, I have had plenty of things to occupy my mind and my time, but now I just stress.  What am I stressing about?  I'm a CAT 4 for chrissake and a professional one at that. My career cycling aspirations involve maybe making it to be a CAT 3.  Why am I letting my outlet become my biggest stress?

I worry.  That is what I do.  I felt so good about my riding last year and was so focussed on being better this year, that I let it dominate my thoughts.  No more.  I'm just going to ride and see what happens.  If that is defeatist, then so be it, at least I will be on my bike.  This year I am riding for fun.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.