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.