Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Short For a Change

  • No, the term "epigram" does not refer to the amount of banned ephedrine needed to put a mediocre rider onto the podium.
  • If you are commuting on the Cap Crescent, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOULD YOU SLOW THE FUCK DOWN AND NOT PASS IN CROWDED SPOTS BY SWERVING INTO THE PATH OF ONCOMING CYCLISTS? I WILL BEAT YOUR ASS IF YOU CRASH ME OUT IN A HEAD ON!
  • Going up the Crescent I passed Joel Gwadz and we high fived at considerable speed (~20 + ~17). It occurred to me later that if we'd crashed, it probably would have set a MABRA record for Most Forceful Two Rider Impact. My carbon fiber frame would have been converted to diamonds.
  • The tourists are in town for the Cherry Blossom viewing. If you aren't familiar with D.C., this means our normally utopian traffic situation is ever so slightly altered for the worse. Or as I put it to a guy with Jersey plates who curbed me this afternoon, DIE TOURISTS! DIE! DIE! DIE!
  • Okay, I only said "DIE" twice.
  • Coincident with the cherry blossoms is a particulate level akin to the deepest areas of a coal mine just after a blast. My asthma is now totally on top of my life. If you passed me while I was coughing, don't be too self-impressed. You been warned.
  • Did the first more or less serious cycling workout of the year, the first intensity, with a bunch of big ring seated spinups. Sore shins, sore hip flexors, sore arms and back, good feeling in the heart.
  • I had a 3:30 PM latte because I was falling asleep at the desk. Coffee is a wonderdrug. If we didn't have it, we'd have to invent it, but probably couldn't duplicate nature's feat and would end up with crystal meth or something. Which would keep you awake at work but Human Resources would totally go apeshit after you bludgeoned somebody for looking at you funny during the weekly staff meeting.
  • I've been reading an anthology of Samuel Johnson lately. He was a bit of a pill but he said some remarkably witty, observant things. Johnson's friends were interesting, perhaps none moreso than Boswell, the dissolute, venereal disease-ridden jackass and failed lawyer, who nonetheless wrote a biography of Johnson that is unmatched, and which revolutionized the form of biographies generally. But Johnson... asked about whether a friend took exercise:
Exercise! I never heard that he used any: he might, for aught I know, walk to the alehouse, but I believe he was always carried home.
That's a good spot to end.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Mugshot Joy

Mugshot joy: Let's go back to the well that's never empty, thanks to the bottomless depths and pretty deep shallows of human depravity.

Here's the deal. You guess the crime. If you're feeling brave, note your answers in comments. The actual answers are at the bottom of the post.

And please remember, all these people are presumed innocent, at least in legal terms, except for the ones I note have been convicted.

1.
2.

3.
4.

5.
6.

1. Drunk driving. Convicted of hitting and killing a retired Catholic priest beloved in the community. Okay, that's cool. It's not like she was caught smoking in a restaurant, selling high fat food without disclosing its nutritional content, driving without a seatbelt on or any of the other serious crimes that local governments in that part of the world are preoccupied with.

2. Possession of steroids. 13 year veteran of local police force. (I hear he was taking them in order to be able to shoot faster than the competition.)

3. Grand theft auto (the E felony, not the awesomely violent video game). Bonus for the ladies: Troy - accused of stealing a car, and from the looks of it crashing it too - has an address in the pen (itentiary). Troy has a profile on "Friends Beyond the Wall," a site that helps prison inmates make pen pals. He's hunky too, just packed with prison muscle. (Aside: a rugby buddy of mine spent a year in jail. When he got out he was fit as all hell, just jacked. He said he'd probably join Gold's or Bally's next time though, if given the choice, due to a better selection of quality sex partners, nicer juice bar, and greater ease of declining membership renewal offers.) Troy tells us that he's looking to meet a special friend, and that he got sent up for 12 1/2 for bank robbery, because "some things are just learned the hard way." Well, congratulations Troy, you didn't rob another bank this time, so it looks like you learned at least one thing from your complimentary stay at the Taxpayer Hotel. Oh, by the way, that profile is a little outdated; Troy tells us that he's getting out in "late 2008." Don't worry about it though; even if the address doesn't work right at this moment, I am fairly certain that it will be functioning again real soon. Geez Troy, I wish you could have stayed on the straight and narrow. The taxpayers of New York probably feel the same way. Good luck finding that special girl pal - I know she's out there looking for you, possibly with a shotgun in hand.

4. Leaving the scene of a hit and run that left the victim seriously injured. Hey, c'mon. She had an appointment to get her nails done. Girl can't be expected to just wait around on the side of the road waiting for some juiced up cop to show up and write her a ticket...

5. Driving on a suspended license, with 76 suspensions on it. Given that New York's criminal justice system is very progressive and forward thinking, the next time you read about this individual it is likely that he will have been arrested for driving on a suspended license with 77 suspensions on it. I wonder if there's a special bonus if he gets to a hundred.

6. Reckless Huckstering of Sham-Wow, and using a Slap-Chop on a prostitute. Yes, it's Vince Shlomi, the Sham Wow guy. He allegedly got in a pay dispute with a prostitute in his hotel room. He says he paid her $1000 for sex, that she bit his tongue when he went to kiss her, and that she wouldn't let go until he kicked her ass. He probably didn't put it quite that way, and likely said something like, "mmmph mooph mmmmph mmmmph mph mmmmph." Police noted that the hookup occurred in a Miami club in the middle of the night, the fight occurred at 4:00 AM, and that "[b]oth parties had a strong odor of an alcoholic beverage emitting from their persons. . ." I believe that this incident validates Czaban's Iron Law of Saloons: Nothing good ever happens in a bar after midnight.

Brilliant or Stupid? I'm Not Sure. Er, Maybe I Am.

So my big lesson for the weekend, was that if you ride a few hours in wet conditions inspiring you not to drink, eat a salad for lunch and a couple diet cokes (Mmmm, fountain refills...), have a burger for dinner with fries and a beer, skip breakfast, then eat a bowl of serial for lunch with a few shots of espresso.... my lesson is if you do all that then have to lay down because you feel awful, it's not because you're getting the flu. It only feels that way. The reason it happens is because you are dehydrated, and the reason you are dehydrated is you didn't think to drink because you didn't feel thirsty, you stupid bastard.

I don't think you need to ask how I know all this.

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I guess they ran Jeff Cup yesterday. For the people for whom Jeff Cup was the defining purpose of their season (after strong Tradezone performances and hard training since October), congratulations! I hope you had a great season!

One of these years I'm going to start a "dead pool" with the names of the people who raced super strong through Tradezone and Jeff Cup, then faded out in a big way. Most people use the early season training races as building blocks toward April/May/June or late season success. Others focus like a lazer on Jeff Cup, it's their goal and what they use as a 'fear of failure' threat to keep the training fire burning in January and December. For that handful of people who focused on Jeff Cup... I guarantee one of them will be selling everything on the MABRA listserve by the end of May, citing a change in priorities, pursuing other recreational outlets and so forth. I don't wish it on anyone, but it is inevitable. Some people build through this time of year, others peak and hit burnout by the time the whistle blows at Carl Dolan. It's a long season if you start in October and hit peak form right about now, and the way training and racing drains the tank, it's not shocking some guys are throwing their bikes into the woods by May 30th, especially since there's two races per weekend in the region, for the most part, between now and mid-June. I hope people remember to keep it fresh and do stuff to keep the riding fun, and that nobody hits the burnout point. But people will no matter what I say.

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Jens Voigt won the Criterium International. Again. For the 5th time.


They should just name that race the Jens Voigt Memorial Omnium and be done with it. Then maybe he'd stop making it his prison wife and leave it alone for a while.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Friday Fun Time

First, something light.

Afroman - Because I Got High (Uncensored with a NSFW verse)



Mixed messages defined. Now something heavy.

Andrew W.K. Party Hard / Warriors Mashup Video



Awesome rock song, awesome movie, unusual mashup idea, but it seems to work. Update: BTW, if you're wondering why Warriors is such an awesome movie in spite of being cheesy in some respects, it's because the filme was based on the world's first and most utterly badass war story, Xenophon's Anabasis, which translates loosely into something like "The March Upcountry." "March" and "upcountry" would have a connotation of a military movement through hostile lands. Xenophon was a Greek mercenary - that was such a ubiquitous connection of ethnicity and profession for over a millennium in that region that culturally it would be akin to a Jewish diamond merchant or an Irish cop - stereotypes, but not unfair stereotypes. Greek mercenary units were common because the Greeks figured out how to wage war in an effective and devastating manner by employing their novel cultural values to build great fighting units. Soldiers worked together out of mutual self-interest, permitting much closer battlefield coordination than the disorganized baabaaroi (barbarians) could manage. This allowed revolutionary tactics to be employed, such as interlocking shields or lances that were the equivalent of mutually supporting fields of fire in a modern infantry position. The tactic was simple but relied on every man doing his duty, and if all did their duty the unit was nearly indestructible.

Xenophon and roughly 10,000 other Greek mercenaries were fighting as a unit for the Persian prince Cyrus in Bablyon, northern Mesopotamia. (That's Iraq for the geographically illiterate among you). Cyrus was killed at the Battle of Cunaxa in the course of revolting against his brother, King Artaxerxes, and because the notions of corporation and nationhood didn't really exist in the same way back then, the contract for paying the Greek mercenaries was null and void. So here was this small private army of 10,000, abandoned deep in hostile territory, owed a great debt by Persian rebels (which made them dangerous), yet without money or friends, in fact surrounded by enemies, and several thousand miles (by land) away from home. So they fought their way home to Greece, crossing desert and mountain, fighting for various kings along the way through hostile territory, and lived the ultimate war story. The reason it still strikes a chord, I believe, is because it is a simple and perfect example of a narrative that is common through human history. War stories convey something about the culture's bedrock values, and although they were probably always conveyed around a campfire or over beer, this was the first complete written account, and a perfect, simple example of the breed. Xenophon relates how things were settled by common assent (a major value of the Greek Demos in many of their city states, and how they stoically endured suffering for the common good (another key societal value), fought with valor (ditto) and so forth. The end result is a badass story of such badass badassedness, that it strikes us at almost a genetic level. Anabasis has endured because it speaks to something inherent in western society and in our social, political (and to some extent physical) evolution.

CAN YOU DIG IT?!!!??!!

Now something else that is a classic.

Dick Dale and the Del Tones Misirlou



One of the greatest rock guitar riffs ever. Best comment on YouTube: "The first time I heard this song was on Guitar Hero." The date this video was recorded? 1963. That song hasn't aged a bit, and Dick Dale, getting older rocks way harder than ever. Don't believe me?


Dick Dale, Nitro, Mashup w/t Scenes From Riding Giants




I've had that song up before with the MTV video for it. Riding Giants is a superb film about the first of the big wave riding pioneers. Watch it on HDTV and the beauty of the waves, the bravery of the surfers and the story will overwhelm you. The music? Dale recorded Nitro when he was 56. But what was he like at 69, three or four years ago?



Yeah, that dude rocks. He's fighting rectal cancer, and still playing gigs. You should hope you're going that strong at 73. Now, a treat - Dick Dale playing "Amazing Grace" to honor the troops in 2004:



Have a good weekend friends. See ya on the road.

Race Tires

What race tires?

For most purposes, the same tire I train on, Conti Gatorskin folding. The folding are about 100 grams lighter than the wire Gatorskin, making them a very light tire indeed. I'd say they wear well, but they hardly wear at all; I get 2000 miles out of a set without trouble. They stick really well as long as it's not wet (caveat: they are treacherous as hell on damp roads). Plus they are tougher than nails, literally. I've only flatted twice on them in the last couple years. Awesome tire for a mid-range price.

For champagne racing on nice surfaces, Vittoria Corsa Evos. Sticky as fresh bubble gum, 290 threads per inch make 'em softer than silk to ride on, and they weigh next to nothing. Not real durable and I wouldn't ride these on the Northeast Branch trail over the hypodermics and broken glass - not unless my goal was to meet the interesting local people who keep the multi-use trail well stocked with used needles and busted 40 bottles.

I'd consider racing my cheapo Tufo T-22 tubulars which I'm training on right now, but not if the ground was anything other than bone dry. These are supposedly the toughest, nastiest, worstest, heaviest tubies around yet they provide a sublime ride and are lighter than my lightest clinchers. When they give out I'm going to upgrade and see how a really nice (e.g. mid-range, race rated) set of tubies rides. I'll let you know.

Other tires I've raced with good luck: Michelin Pro Race 2 - light, sticky, short life. Decent wet weather tire. Serfas Seca - good crit and rough industrial park tire; sticks okay, very flat resistant. A little heavy and rides a bit rough, but you can train and race 'em. Conti 4000s - good tire, nothing particularly amazing or bad; just proficient. Specialized Armadillo - like racing on the wheels of Fred Flintstone's car, except they last longer and are possibly harder.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Exactly What You Freakin' Need...

Can't get enough data to go with your training?

The bike you need, Pal, is the Beru F-1 Systems F001. This $30,000 chariot of the gods, or Chariot of the Dentists, anyhow, has more carbon fiber than a crate full of Kashi Good Friends caught in a house fire. But you expected that. The really good stuff it has, includes sensors that capture:

cadence
torque
wheel speed
rider temperature
respiratory rate
lean angle

Pretty good stuff man. Throw on an ANT compliant Garmin and an SRM, and you will have route tracking and straight power measurements, plus you'll be able to use it with the Training Peaks / WKO+ software you already own. Pretty friggin' sweet, eh?

I think the critical features are rider temperature, respiratory rate, and most of all lean angle. I find when I'm riding, I have no way of knowing whether I'm sweating or breathing hard, so these monitors will help me figure that out, so that I can strip off or add layers at optimal times. Most important, however, is the lean angle sensor. How many times have you been in a race, only to find yourself in the weeds because you weren't sure how far to lean over in a turn? And how many times have you found yourself in a roadrace, pedaling along in the air, upside down, wondering how the hell that happened?* A heads-up display (for an additional $3000 or so) showing your lean angle could prevent such embarassing events from occurring, and help you win more races, or at least cut down on the head and cervical spinal injuries you keep suffering.


* Full disclosure: this only happened to me once and it was not my fault. Besides, everybody knows that if you want to know your lean angle, all you need to do is look up to the sky and gauge the angle of the horizon relative to the kink in your neck, and then subtract that number from 180. Works every time.

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Now this, from our "If It Weren't For Bad Luck" Files... you think having a two-flat ride or a two-crash race is bad. What about if you got nuked twice in three days? Yeah, y'know, had an atom bomb dropped on your ass repeatedly in the space of 72 hours?

Tsutomu Yamaguchi had already been a certified hibakusha, or radiation survivor, of the bombing on Aug. 9, 1945, in Nagasaki, but he has now been confirmed as surviving the attack on Hiroshima three days earlier, in which he suffered serious burns to his upper body. . . .

Mr. Yamaguchi was in Hiroshima on a business trip on Aug. 6, 1945, when an American B-29 dropped an atomic bomb on the city. He returned to Nagasaki, his hometown, before the second attack, officials said.

I don't know about you, but if I was Mr. Yamaguchi, I'd have gone to the local Shinto shrine, invoked my ancestors, dropped a bag of burning dog poop, and then run out of there without ever looking back.

How absurd is that, to survive an A-bomb blast, only to return home and get blasted again? I'm not even commenting on the merits of using or being a victim of one of the more terrible weapons man has ever developed,** I'm just talking about the infernal luck. It's like surviving Ebola, walking out of the hospital, and contracting yellow fever. Then you somehow survive that. What do you do then?

If that was me, then first, I'd stand there screaming at the sky and at God, "Go ahead you bastard! What next?" I'd do that until I was hoarse, or until I stopped vomiting and hemmorhaging blood, whichever came first. Then, for the next 70 or 80 years, I'd walk around punching walls at random and screaming "What the f*** did I do to deserve that?" at the top of my lungs. I'm not exactly Job-like in my ability to endure preposterously awful suffering, and that would send me over the edge.

Not Mr. Yamaguchi though. He is apparently made of sterner stuff. Then again, they only just certified him as having been bombed at Hiroshima - perhaps he only just recently stopped punching walls and wandering around Japan screaming "What the f***?" Who knows. Either way, my hat is off to Mr. Yamaguchi, who is certainly the unluckiest man alive.



Serious Metaphysics & Stuff, Read at Your Own Risk. There's no laughter after this point, just some heavy stuff.

** On the merits, consider a projected million allied military casualties and several times that many Japanese projected casualties (mostly civilian) versus perhaps a hundred thousand Japanese civilians killed in the blink of an eye, and another hundred and fifty thousand who died within days. How do you factor that equation? There doesn't seem to be a rational solution to it. The only thing I ever get on the other side of the "equals" sign no matter how I try to work it out is that "man is the Alpha predator and predation is in his nature; forget this fact at your own risk." That we dare each other to war is akin to sticking a hand in the tiger cage at the zoo, though tigers probably don't kill each other as a hobby to quite the same extent as humans seem to.

Hence my laughter at Mr. Yamaguchi's situation... you have to laugh because a failure to laugh will leave you contemplating man's dismal imperfectibility. Click through to that at your own risk and look on the evil man is capable of.

Ironically enough, evil is one of the reasons, one of the most compelling reasons, that I have faith. I don't look at evil and say, "how could this happen?" Instead I view it - we're talking actual evil here, not cigarette vending machines or people we disagree with or higher marginal tax rates - as a challenge, a test to see if we can get to the cheese in life's rat maze.

I have my rational reasons for belief in God that get me through to at least Deism - the classic Thomistic / Aristotelian reasons. It's pretty solid formal logic stuff about unmoved movers and ultimate causation and whatnot; even a lot of atheists and agnostics find that the notion of a force beyond our measure as the initial ordering force in the universe is a decent answer to the ontological question.

I find deism an empty stopping point, however; it's like finding a beautiful empty building, and not knowing who built it, or why, and in fact denying yourself the privilege of inquiring into it. Hi God, good to see ya. How's the kids? Great. Gotta run.

That doesn't do it for me so I've continued on in my journey. Intuitively I know there's got to be more than that; the Celestial Engineer can't be a mere chemist; nobody of genius would make toys this smart and then forget to wire them up with some special software.

That's where evil enters the picture as a compelling argument for the contrary position. I've looked on evil and seen unnatural destruction, some things wrought by man as well as the (usually) weaker, yet still horrible destruction wrought by nature. On the balance, and despite nature's occasional wrath and pipsqueak man's amazing talent for destruction, the universe seems very much bent on creation. Therefore, I reason, the creative force, the celestial engineer, must have the upper hand in this universe; there must be a creator whose goal is building rather than tearing down. That just seems to be the direction the universe moves in, periodic floods, asteroids and lightning strikes notwithstanding. The whole natural machine, if left alone, may destroy some stuff but always in the act of creating something new. Not so with man; the people and things we wreck tend to stay pretty much wrecked, and unlike the universe we don't do it as part of a cycle, we do it for fun and profit.

Acknowledging that the universe as a whole seems to be geared towards creating is the running start to my leap of faith. You could call it a simple sense of wonderment, though I've thought about it a bit more than the chimps standing there agape at the monolith in 2001: A Space Oddysey. The leap from there to my Catholicism, from agnostic acknowledgment of the high likelihood of a celestial engineer to a belief in an engaged creator to whom individual cogs in the natural machine actually matter, is an act of faith and also the logic of desperation.

You get the faith part I'm sure. The other part may not be as obvious. It is an act of desperation because if a good God does not exist, then all we have is man, and man's most monumental achievements generally involve great evil. We can't match the beauty and scope of the Milky Way galaxy, but in an instant we can melt a city. There's no indication that we can really figure out what makes a human body tick much less clone it really successfully or understand why the chemicals in our brain add up to emotions and the ability to play chess, yet in a second we can wreak the most concentrated and horrifying destruction our wing of the universe has ever seen and kill a hundred thousand or a hundred million men.

Is that all there is? Can it be so? Stalin's purges with perhaps 60 million dead due to his paranoia, WWII, Mao's 100 million dead for the sake of proving an economic theory to be vapid, Pol Pot, and many other lesser slaughters are on one side of the balance sheet. If that's all there is to life, if we came from nowhere and the end is simply ashes, then there's good reason for despair. But if there's more than that, a transcendant God or even something like it which we don't quite properly understand but which nevertheless gives us a divine spark, then life is worth living. If there is constant creation and indeed evolution, then there's got to be another side to life's balance sheet.

Now, I'm not a holy roller. In fact I'm more of a medieval Catholic in my approach than anything - sin heartily, repent well. Like Chaucer's Knight, my habergoun is definitely bismotered, and if I ever claim otherwise please slap me in the face. But that's just who I am, I can't help the hard wiring. Inside though, I've made a journey over the last several years, and while I'm not at my destination or far up the path, that I've traveled some is clear to me. So I'm just taking stock here, it's not a change in my viewpoint.

Perhaps my spiritual journey hasn't been about desperation per se, but a revolt against it. It's hard to explain, but I can't logically accept that the purpose of our existing is to bring about the ultimate triumph of evil, failure and destruction. If that is true, then we have no purpose to exist.

So I revolt against despair because I despair of despair; I reject it. My instinct to reject desperation and the evils I've seen basically drove me into church, weird as that sounds, where the message I heard was to have faith and hope and work actively against the triumph of despair and evil. The shoe fit perfectly on my foot. The message filled the gaps that my logic and educated guesses could not fill. I'm not worshipful or reverent, that isn't in my character, but I am starting to think that perhaps I do have some faith. Am I right on my theology and cosmology? I do not know about the finer points but think I'm on well trodden ground on the major points. Would you be happy walking on my path? I do not know that either. What I do know is that for me, I am on the right path, and it's a pretty clear and straight road from here, from where I stand and look up the road.

I need to offer Mr. Yamaguchi my thanks for reminding me not to despair. I guess if he got through two A-bomb smacks, I can deal with more routine issues positively too.

Monday, March 23, 2009

News You Can Abuse

Old guy Lance Armstrong broke his collarbone racing today. If he'd had a clapper, he could have gotten help faster, for sure. "Help me, I've fallen and I can't get up!" Word on the street is he did it to get some sympathy sex. Interested slender blond triplets should call 1800-555-1212 if they are interested.

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Speaking of old guys crashing, Matt Lauer hit a deer and went over the bars, dislocating his shoulder. Where in the world is. . . Matt Lauer? In the Emergency Room, apparently. Get well soon, Matt, we miss your embarassingly cloying mugging for the camera, like a male Julia Roberts. Oh, wait a minute...

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A riot occurs in a kosher eatery when the proprietor attempts to serve hot dogs that weren't quite kosher.

It's not what you would expect: a worker in a NYC eatery caught on tape fending off a group of Jewish patrons with an electric knife.

"I was petrified – stuff was going through my mind," a patron who didn't want his name used said. "I want to live. I don't want to get stabbed for a hot dog."

What is this khazerei? Didn't want to get stabbed for a hot dog, eh? I guess the boy has never had a chili dog with chili cheese fries from Ben's Chili Bowl. I'd take a shank, for their chili frank. But only if it had onions and cheese on it too.

But seriously... man doesn't bite dog... now that's news!

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Charles Murray has an interesting opinion piece on what he sees as the coming intersection of science, social science, family, faith, and other stuff. I'm not sure I buy all of his predictions but I probably buy a lot of his current observations regarding social trends. Most of us would acknowledge at some level that culture matters; Murray's position is that we're about to discover that it matters for evolutionary reasons. We shall see.

Water Bottles

Just a reminder: each week and each day is a chance to start fresh on your training plan, your diet, your relationships, your life. Don't let last year's, or last week's, or yesterday's screwups own you today. Let 'em go and ride today's ride.

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Death Row Velo: because nothing says "badassss" like a 140 pound cost accountant on a bicycle racing in the Cat 5s and doing charity centuries.

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I watched the Primavera live on RAI TV on the web. Nice finish by Cavanaugh, a guy I just can't warm up to. To celebrate the return of 'real' racing, I made Pasta Primavera last night for dinner. What a great dish that is. It's a lot easier to like than Cavanaugh, and when you put it on the table it goes just as fast. The real question about this year's Milan-San Remo isn't who won, it's "who didn't crash?" O'Grady may be done for the season, Tyler Farrar seems to have busted a collarbone, and there was a lot in the coverage about crashes back in the pack.

It's good to know that even pro riders are sucky bike handlers sometimes.

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The New Performance 10% Off Coupons Are In! In this coupon, Performance touts itself as, among other things, "The Top U.S. Seller of Scattante Brand Bikes!" Since Scattante is the Performance house brand, that's like Anheuser Busch arguing that you should pick its swill over Miller's, because "Anheuser Busch is the top brewer worldwide of Budweiser beer!" It's really only a good argument for people who are susceptible to grievous logical errors.

Which based on our economy, politics, and choice of celebrities, is most people. Good call, Performance!

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Ireland earned the Six Nations title and the Grand Slam and Triple Crown on Saturday, defeating the Welsh rugby team Saturday night in Cardiff. Grand Slams - going undefeated against the Northern Hemisphere's premier national teams - aren't that common. The Triple Crown is beating all of the U.K. (and Irish) teams - Scotland, Wales, England, Ireland. The Grand Slam is throwing France and Italy into that mix. Ireland hasn't pulled it off since 1948 despite coming agonizingly close a few times. This is pretty joyful since they've been the poor cousins of Six Nations rugby for many years, despite playing an exciting, scrappy, attacking brand of rugby, a combination of grinding plus offensive flair that is compelling to watch. "Luck of the Irish" in past years has meant watching an exciting, tough squad coming very close to an undefeated season, then finding a way to scuttle the season against one of the big boys, like a tough England squad, or losing a bad game to a lousy Scotland or Wales team that find their form for 80 minutes. Wales is progressing, England struggling, and Ireland on top this year, though. It may be their last gasp for a while; this is an aging squad that relies on veterans, many of whom have 10 or 12 years of international play under their belts. International test rugby years are like dog years - few players last more than four or five years at that level. Many leave the international level still able to play well at the pro club level in their respective domestic leagues, but they don't have the ability to turn it up to "11" as they once did. This Ireland team are comparable to the old Washington Redskins' Over The Hill Gang. To see a bunch of old guys reach the pinnacle of success gives the rest of us creaking athletes some hope, and a smile. That it is the longsuffering and often-thwarted Irish team makes it that much better.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Gam Jams Reviews: Cleaners and Degreasers

Do you want to actually get your bike clean, or not?

I ask this because people do all this namby-pamby bike washing with really mild soap and what not. It's earth-friendly this and green that according to the marketing... But most of that stuff doesn't really get a bike clean if you've really, really mucked it up.

Matter of fact, I don't try to keep my bikes really clean. I do keep the moving parts as clean as I can keep them - I clean the drive train, try to keep the cables clean, especially where they go into a housing, try to keep dirt out of the bottom bracket bearings... but other than that I could give a crap. The moving parts that wear out, the metal-on-metal bits especially, you need to keep clean. The rest of it doesn't matter.

Cleaning those moving parts is tough though. They're always mucked up with lube, and lube attracts dirt, and dirt attracts water, which then makes cement. It should be a song how that happens, actually.

I've tried a range of stuff. Orange Zep, the citrus cleaner you can get from Home Depot, is pretty good for removing greasy gunk. (Lube, dirt, sweat + lube + dirt). Simple Green works pretty good too but I wouldn't leave metal soaking in it longer than 10 minutes; it has been known to eat the metal plating off chains.

Yeah, I guess these are better than old school kerosene. But don't kid yourselves about these being earth friendly. A few weeks back I washed a bike after a ride. I had some heavily diluted Simple Green or Zep in some warm water in a bucket. I left the bucket outside because I was going to need it the next day after that ride, since there was rain in the forecast. That night, I go to walk the dog and spot a dead bird in the bucket. I made a mental note to myself: empty the bucket as soon as you've washed the bike post-ride tomorrow AM. So when I get home from the ride, there's a *second* dead bird in the bucket of heavily diluted Simple Green.

Okay, what this shows, other than the fact I'm a callous bastard, is that supposedly earth-friendly stuff is frickin' deadly. Don't kid yourself that it's not. You should use as little of it as possible. You really think that bird-killing stuff ought to be released into nature? If it kills birds, it isn't good. Well, unless it's a shotgun and you're hunting birds, but that's totally different.

The second thing is that if you really need to de-gunk something, you might want to consider going with some heavy-hitting solvent, and make sure you dispose of it as properly as possible.

For light cleanings, I do stick with the Simple Green or Zep. A little in a bucket of warm water to help degrease the bike, and some sprayed generously on the drivetrain to get the gunk out. I know it's not entirely sound to do this because it removes the lub embedded in the chain bushings, but my chains last 2000-3000 miles at the best of times before I snap them or stretch them into something resembling liquorice taffy, and I lube a couple times a week, so I don't worry about it. Let the drivetrain soak for 5-10 minutes, and then scrub the rest of the bike with the warm water. Hose off (yeah, killing more birds there) and hose off the drivetrain carefully. Do not spray high pressure water into your hubs or bottom bracket! That would be stupid! (This means, naturally, that I've done it). I throw the bucket's contents down the laundry tub, from whence they journey to the sewage treatment plant which (we hope) filters out common household cleaners or at least breaks them down. I know, I know - I'm killing crabs, and not just by eating them by the dozen. It's almost enough to make a man give up riding and take up driving an Escalade, just to be nicer to mother earth.

A key tool to help with scrubbing down the bike is a set of Pedro's Bike Brushes. They are awesome, and a kit of 5, which includes brushes to get into all the relevant little nooks and crannies, runs around $20. A *great* investment. I am pretty sure that all their tools, like this, are made from recycled stuff, so it almost makes up for being the Jack the Ripper of the Avifaunal kingdom.


Okay, now here's the deep, dark, dirty secret for those of you not already repulsed by my sickening fixation on dead birds. (That gets worse too: I've been known to eat turkey, duck, chicken, grouse, quail, and whatever it is they make McNuggets out of).

The secret is that if you really need to get grit out of your drivetrain and you don't have a week to soak the stuff, any good degreaser in a spray can, or carbereutor cleaner (like Gumout or STP) will do a bangup job. Take off the chain (easy peasy if you're rocking SRAM with the PowerLink), take off the casette, put them in a coffee can, and spray generously.

Why a coffee can? Because you're using wicked hazardous solvents. You don't want to use a lot of them, or just spray them out in the road under your bike. Birds could pay the ultimate price for your shiny Campy 11 gruppo, right? So if you do the washing in the coffee can, you can hang on to the solvent (you cap the can) from month to month, and then dispose of it properly. Your local gas station / service center may take it, and if they don't the county landfill should have a hazardous waste station for you to use.

Anyhow, once you spray off the drivetrain components, let them soak for a few minutes, then use an old toothbrush to clean the muck off. The only stuff that will be left after the initial spray is seriously hardened goop; the spray alone will get the chain and rings cleaner than Simple Green plus scrubbing. Dry with a shop rag, and they will be shiny and new looking. Not so, your fingers, but this post is about cleaning your bike, not your hands. To clean the chainrings, just take that solvent-soaked shop rag, and go to town. It will only take a minute or two to get the grit out of that. Then make sure you lube up properly; you've just stripped out all the reachable lube from that chain.

So there you go. That's how I show my bike some love. If you show the bike love, it will love you back. As for the birds... I dunno. Lately a couple hundred of them have taken to nesting in a tree out behind my house. I'm thinking they're pissed about something. I believe that I'm going to go hit up KFC for some chicken, watch some basketball, and think about it.

Another New Magazine

Based on the stunning response I've had to my first entry into the world of magazine publication, Guy-On-A-Bike, the Journal of Competitive Commuting, I've decided to launch a magazine directed toward the roadracing market. Whether you're a lowly Cat 5, a pro suspended for life for yet another doping violation and deep in denial while racing under an assumed name, or a clean-but-goofy-mustachioed weirdo riding for Team Garmin-Chipotle, this magazine is for you.

And don't worry, Mountain Bikers - the editorial staff and I are considering coming up with a dirty rag targeting your lifestyle too. We're in meetings with NORML and the makers of Doritos to discuss it this afternoon, as a matter of fact. Anyhow...

Enjoy!


Tuesday, March 17, 2009

These Damn Blue Collar Tweakers...

I had a discomfiting experience this afternoon.

Post-ride, I stopped the truck on the way home to get a 4 pack of Beamish Stout at the local liquor store. Gotta have it to wash down the corned beef and colcannon, right?

I'm in the liquor store and four very blue collar tweakers are in there. You know the type - the two dudes looked to be tradesmen, the two women were probably around 40, with 55 year-old skin, sagging and leathery. The two women had pretty nasty looking teeth. You know exactly what I'm talking about I'm sure - the slightly drawn face coupled with a flabby belly, the vacant look even when they're engaged with the world around them. Tweakers. The two guys were semi focused. The women... stoned to the bejeezus. Everything was funny to them. Hilarious.

So I get my beer and head to the cashier. I'm cashing out and the one woman starts ragging on me. I'm still in my bike shorts, albeit with a sweatshirt and some Tevas on. "Ooooh, baby got back! Nice legs honey!" And then she starts going on a rant about something else, coming back to near lucidity in time to give me some shit about something, maybe because I was ignoring her and she was trying to get her crazy on. It was hard to tell because she and her girlfriend kept howling with laughter, and then she'd give me some more shit in a slurred, slightly hysterical voice. Then they wandered around and were babbling hysterically about all sorts of other crap, really making a huge racket considering they were just two women and it's a large liquor store. You couldn't hear yourself think.

This went on as a couple guys in front of me checked out. Finally, as I waited for the old guy to ring me up, I turned and looked at these two chicks, took in the full tableau that being 40 and a junkie really means, and then looked at their guys and just shook my head. The guys looked really, really pained. They weren't that messed up, and they *knew*. Didn't mean they weren't going to keep hanging out with these two pathetic pieces of work, but I think they were embarassed for themselves.

For some reason the old guy on the cash register took a long time cashing me out and bagging up my beer, so by the time I got out to the parking lot, the two tweaker chicks were already out there. They were staring at my bike in the roof rack and talking in a sort of amazed tone, and when I walked out it produced another howl of laughter from the really skinny one. Her friend tried to get her to stop - I think she thought maybe the bike explained the lycra Castellis - but she was pretty far gone and not really susceptible to reason at that stage.

As I left the two guys were piling out of the store with a few cases of beer and a bunch of bottles of liquor. Oh yeah, that's exactly what those two women needed...

I guess I should have felt really embarassed or something; I was the weird-dressed freak in lycra and sandals in a liquor store, a guy hitting middle age and pretending to be a bike racing kid. But the only real discomfort and embarassment I felt was on behalf of those two women.

Holy crap, to be an honest-to-God grownup and have so little dignity or self respect. . . I felt really embarassed for them. It was almost physically painful. Some of my friends have been coke addicts or alcoholics, some of them have died from it, and I never saw them in that bad of a state. Comatose, yes, but never running around making a scene like that.

I hope the meth was really, really good, because they've paid a pretty high price for it. Their dignity.

Monday, March 16, 2009

A Somewhat Celtic Miscellany

I did a nice recovery ride at Hains today, providing your definition of nice includes 46 degrees, wind, and hacking up bits of lung all over the fringe of the golf course. Still it was good. When the ride started, I could barely stand up due to residual sore legs. When I finished, I could fall over and lay on the floor of my office crying like a girl due to the sore legs, no problem. Big improvement.

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Shhhhhh... be vewy, vewy qwiet. I am hunting the Ferraris, in their natural environment. This flock is an excellent example. Just look at their bright plumage. The two black ones, with less spectacular plumage, are the females.



This picture was brought to you by Google Earth, and Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.

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You may think you are tough. In the grand scheme of things, you probably aren't.

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If you choose to ignore something, can you make it not true? How 'bout if the truth is something other than what people on both sides of an argument are saying?

Epistomological modesty, friends. It won't win you any headlines but it can be helpful to an inquiring mind.

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WADA has gotten very serious about catching dopers. At this year's Tirenno-Adriatico, WADA Officials disguised themselves as bushes in an attempt to catch dopers. It did not work, though former WADA chief Dick "Better than Ezra" Pound noted that the results were "somewhat piquant."



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Andrew Utz, in a plea to the cycling world, has asked that we stop using the term "epic." According to Andrew,
When did it become so fashionable to allow the descriptor "epic" to roll off the tongue when speaking or writing of almost anything related to our sport? The word "epic" should be left to lore and our heads should be brought back down from the clouds, lest we forget that just last year "epic" stages were won and marred by cheaters, not heroes.
Okay, Andrew. You got it. Next time I am reading Homer's Oddysey, I'll refer to it as "A Pretty Good Poem," rather than an Epic Poem. If I see some TdF rider win a stage by 30 minutes, I'll note, "that was a pretty bleh stage win." And if I go on an all day long mountain bike ride in Moab, I'll make sure to describe it as, "alright. Y'know. Pretty good."

I wouldn't want to wear out the word. Plus I use an asthma inhaler, so by definition I'm a cheater and can't have epic rides. BTW, Andrew, you clearly aren't actually into people being enthusiastic about the sport, so could you please turn in your 'cycling enthusiast card' at the door? I have a 'guy who sometimes rides a bike card' for you that will work just fine for your purposes.

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Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, so I have a big hunk of corned beef simmering on the stove, and some potatoes cooking up to form the basis of some colcannon. I'll be getting a bit of Murphy's Stout on the way home tomorrow night, to drink a toast to the land (and its English overlords) that was ever so happy to see my ancestors hop on a boat, go away and stop bothering it with plows, cows, and sheep.

So happy St. Pat's to my friends of Irish descent and to my genuinely Irish friends. Why we celebrate it, when a more accurate name for the day, at least for us in the Irish diaspora, would be Good Riddance Day, is not entirely clear to me. I suppose that there is a reason: those familiar with the Irish mind know that doing something (like having a party or writing the greatest book ever written) for no apparent reason is more or less the normal modus operandi. Oh sure, you can dress it up with terms like "counterintuitive," "contrarian" and "independent." But we all know it has more to do with a national character that does not fit expectations well, a square hold and a duodecahedronal peg. We're a lighthearted version of the Scots (with whom I also share ancestry), basically. So, because it makes no sense at all, I celebrate the day and find it good.

To the rest of you? Well, enjoy a good excuse for a party. And please know, you look ridiculous in that Kelly green plastic bowler.

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Speaking of which... my favorite cycling degenerate whom I've never really met, Burt Hoovis, has his bracket posted on line. It's only his Sweet 16.

That's right, Hoovis only does 16. And they're all cycling hot chicks. Here's the bracket:


Hopefully he doesn't get pissed that I stole the image. Now get thee over to Hoovis' (NSFW) place and make some comments about your picks.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Death? Camp...

Camp was fun this year, but in a different way than prior years. Which makes it exactly the same as the other years since each year is different.

I got to Nellysford to the excellent Acorn Inn around 4:00 on Thursday. I thought I'd sneak in a quick ride, so I shuffled off toward Wintergreen in spring gear - knee warmers, base layer, bibs, and summer jersey, lightweight gloves. It was the last time I'd go out with less than three layers on all weekend. I got about as far up Wintergreen as I did last year, just past the entrance to the resort, before calling it quits and soft pedaling back to the Inn. For those of you who haven't ridden Wintergreen, the only way I can describe it, is to say that it is a bit of a longish hill. Dinner was nice at a brewpub right near Wintergreen, and we all retired to the Inn for some wine and thence to sleep.

Friday morning rolled around and there was a lot of snow on the ground and in the trees. The roads were pretty clear (albeit wet).

Cold, Misty at Ride Start

We rolled out for a ~50 mile ride. Things were peachy (albeit wet) for 25 miles or so, at which point I lost the group somewhere up in the hills between... I don't know where. Out there a lot of the places don't really have names. Anyhow I missed a zig onto some little state route, and proceded to get really lost. I kept pedaling along the road hoping to land on a familiar route, a hope that proved to be false for the most part. At some point I noticed that my left foot was pronating really badly. I decided that the cold must be getting to me; I was extremely cold at that point (and wet). Moments later the left crank arm fell off. I stopped, enjoyed the cold water shower that the sky was providing me, and managed to unzip the tail bag and find the mini tool. I screwed down the crank arm as well as I could (thank goodness for external bearing bottom brackets, and cranks that tighten on with two hex nuts) and then commenced pedaling.In my hopeless effort to head due west, I found myself pedaling up a dirt road, toward the top of some minor mountain. If it had a name it should have been Sucking Red Clay Mountain. I wound up pushing for a bit - there was no traction. At this point I had been lost for two hours, I was very wet, borderline hypothermic, and suffering greatly. The thought occurred to me that serious negative consequences were a real, albeit remote possibility if I kept screwing up my navigation and didn't get my shit together pretty quick. Then it hit me: I hadn't thought of work problems, or stuff on the house that needed fixing, or bills, or anything other than turning the pedals and navigating for two hours. It was clear that I should be simply grateful for having the opportunity to ride, should buckle down, and keep pedaling. Sooner or later I would have to hit a familiar road.This thought bucked me up, I felt warmer - though I was still freezing and shaking - but it helped. Soon I did find a familiar road, and I found myself descending onto Route 29 a ways south of Nelson. 45 minutes later, with some tailwind-assisted high speed big ringing it up Route 29, I found myself on familiar ground heading back into camp. I rinsed the bike, rinsed myself in a lukewarm shower, drank some Accellerade and went to bed. I laid there for two hours trying to sleep but couldn't; my muscles were too jacked up.

Teh Rouleur Gets a Big Salad...


Okay, fine, I'm not eating that salad, I'm helping to make it. If you know me you'll notice I look tired and strangely silent. Long day on the bike.

After a dinner of Joe's excellent Metro-politan Lasagna I hung out and watched some ACC and Big East basketball games and hit the sack after joking around with the boys to the point that my stomach hurt from all the laughter. Net mileage was 67 or 68 miles, depending on how long my Powertap computer had been off after I fixed the crank.

On Saturday morning it was raining. I decided I really didn't want to do the 55 mile loop the team was planning, since I'd just been through the same basic territory - probably repeatedly - and it was looking like hard rain again. With 18 or more extra miles under my belt the day before, plus the added stress of being lost (and fat as hell) it was really clear to me that Friday's ride was more than the sum of its parts. That ride took it out of me pretty bad. So I asked around a bit to find out if anybody was doing anything different and latched on to Adriane, who was headed to Wintergreen again. Since the weather was horrid - raining a bit and cold - we agreed to ride buddies. It looked like we could do Wintergreen and maybe Reed's Gap if the weather held. Adriane is about 100 pounds and a legit elite triathlete, so I knew damn well she'd outclimb me. She agreed to come back down to meet me on the way up - it's a solid 45 minute / 1 hour climb - and we'd figure out what to do then. So I got going and started climbing. I managed to pedal up past the resort entrance, about half way to the guard house on the ~20% pitch before I had to get off and stretch. I was seeing spots and both butt cheeks had cramped. Just then, Kyle and a couple cars full of ABRT elite racers came flying down the hill past me, bikes on top, with Kyle hooting out the window. I suspect he will give me crap about being on foot at that point, but if he does I'm going to point out that at least I didn't need a car to descend the hill. Anyhow, I remounted, and knocking out a steady cadence of maybe 60 RPM, caught up to Adriane a little ways past the guard house. The fog was so thick that she was within about 15 feet before I really saw her, and even then she was sort of a dark shape in the fog. "Don't bother, it's not worth it," she said. So I turned around with her, just short of the 1km marker, and we headed down the hill. I descend pretty well and decided that I was going to get my money's worth after that painful descent, so I bombed down, spinning out whenever the bike slowed a little. It was so cold that I was gasping badly by the time I got to the bottom. When I slowed to about 30 or so, I braked, turned around and headed back up. Eventually Adriane came down and we cruised back to camp, getting pelted with increasingly heavy rain the whole way back. When we got there she pointed out we'd made the right choice, getting in a just-under-two-hours and very intense ride, that finished just as it was turning into serious discomfort. About 15 minutes later most of the 55 mile crew came back in, whipped, after doing a bit over 30 in the cold and rain. About 10 souls did the whole ride; they looked really, really bad when they got in, but all of them are fitter, better riders, and quite possibly tougher than I am, so I won't throw stones.

After a nice hot shower, a lunch of fish and chips, and a sampling tri to Veritas winery, we had a catered dinner, watch some hockey and movies, and I settled into a reasonably good night's sleep. Today's ride was rained out, which was really, really good. I'm shattered right now and another 40 miles would have really hurt. I didn't need that but would have felt compelled to ride if everybody else went.

So that's the summary. It was three solid days of Bummer Life avoidance. No matter how rough things got on the bike - and they did get rough indeed on Friday at least for me - rough days out there beat the best days at work at home.

I have to give many thanks to my teammates who made it a great weekend with their great riding, a few of them with the great food they made, and to many of them for their great jokes. Also thanks to Martin and Kathy who run the Acorn Inn, and to my teammates Andrew and the Uff Da, who are great road trip companions and welcome to come along wherever I may roam.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Gam Jams Reviews: The Wheels I Want, Kulak Edition

The Kulaks were landowners and business operators in early Stalinist Russia. They operated profitable farms and fed a lot of people. They were small holders - not the elite, nor were they the serfs, not exactly. They had been serfs, who decided they could do a better job at running a farm than others could. Thanks to the 1906 land reforms, they bought their land, usually on credit, from some larger land holder. It was a nascent middle class by 1920, and the Kulaks didn't fit into the scheme of downtrodden proletarian worker, the moon faced agricultural lumpenproletariat agricultural serfs, or the wealthy bourgeoisie.

So trouble was brewing for the Kulaks. They were a tiny class of people, stuck somewhere in the middle of the economic spectrum. At some point, they got deemed an enemy of the people - I think it had to do with an economic downturn and mass starvation in the old Soviet Union. More realistically, they were a handy scapegoat; you could point to them as supposedly being of the lower classes, yet at the same time you could point at them as possessed of undue wealth considering their serf-y pretensions. So the elite could piss on them, and the serfs could shake their fists at them. Ultimately, the Kulaks were given an opportunity: conform or die. Drop back into serfdom, shut your mouth, work on the collective farm, give over your personal wealth, or be labeled an enemy of the people and essentially outlawed.

The Kulaks were abused horribly by the government and their peers starting in the early 1930's, which is about when Stalin began his purges. Most of them didn't have that much in the way of assets, but they had working farms, an amazing thing to the lower class serfs who were basically sharecroppers. But they were a handy scapegoat - it was easy for kommisars to talk about Kulaks, enemies of the people, destroyers of agriculture and the economy. It was all bullshit, but class warfare as a weapon worked very effectively as a diversion to keep the yokels distracted from what the government was actually up to.

If a lower class racer like me showed up on a set of dream wheels at a Cat IV race, I'd be labeled a Kulak, ostracized, and probably shot, or at least have nasty looks shot at me. Worse than being shot, people would look at me like, "hey, what's that fat bastard doing on those (fill in the blank)s? Doesn't he know he's over the weight limit?" Nothing would work for me. If I tried a break, the lumpenproles of the Cat IV pack would kick my ass. If I tried to set up for a sprint, wheelsucking for dear life, the elite would point out that I am an enemy of the people, a parasite, and I'd get blocked in by their running dog helpers. Sure, *they* can rock the 1200 gram Nimble Flys... but I can't. I'm not on my way into Cat III any time soon, and I wouldn't be fitting in well with the pack, which, though blingy to the casual cyclist, is outfitted with good but modest Ksyriums and Easton EA 50s and the like. It's all good stuff, but bare entry level luxury bling. Ultimately, I'd be dead, at least in that race. You can't show up the neighbors and epect they will keep their dog from crapping in your garden.

So I can't realistically buy my dream wheels. Ain't going to happen. I'd only draw negative attention to myself, be labeled an enemy of the people, and meet an untimely demise in the gulag of Cat IV crit racing, the back of that long string that accordions through each turn, eventually snapping the rearmost riders off the back with a whiplash.

But if I did...

There's really only one choice. In the best racing shape I've gotten to, I roll at 250. 225 would look thin on me in a way that is comparable to how most of y'all look at 145. It's just how I'm built; it's a contact sports body. But after being laid up over most of the winter... I'm closer to 28o right now.

I also like an aero wheel. I can handle a little extra weight as long as it rolls real well. I'm not a climber, never will be, so light weight doesn't matter much. I do like rolling along in a fast little pack at 30 or 32 MPH. It's not that tough because power: frontal section area is a lot more favorable to me than power:weight. So aerodynamics matter a lot. Then there's the raw power bit, and my weight. The legs aren't the only problem; I wrench on the bars when I sprint, and I've bent them. Busted chains, chainrings, derailers, and Cycling Peaks charts litter my training and racing history. So my dream wheels have to be strong like booool because I throw stuff at them that is so nasty, that all the little cherubic cone wrenches and chain whips and tire irons in Wheel Heaven weep bitter tears over it.

But what could I buy? There are so many good wheels on the market.

After thinking about this for a couple years, it has occurred to me that, like the Highlander, There Can Only Be One.


They are the Zipp 404 Clydesdales. No weight limit, the aero features make them downright Zippity Doo-Dah, and they are sheer carbon goodness. The clincher version is 1782g, while the tubular (which I might almost be talked into) is a mere 1354g. They retail for $2100 but I suspect I could finesse a team deal on a pair.

Yes, it's true: I have boogers that weigh more than the clincher version of this wheelset.

What keeps me from buying them? Well first, they cost more than my whole roadbike did, at least when I bought it new, somewhat discounted.

Second, were I to go with these wheels, they'd really be more like $3000. That's because I'm not buying wheels this sweet, only to break them out for races. Nope, I'd be putting a wireless Powertap on the back, and using them every day. Come to think of it, I'd probably have to upgrade to SRM, because who wants to weigh down such a lovely, light set of wheels? So really the wheelset would be more like $4000 by the time I was done with them. Still, they'd be awfully nice.

Yeah, I could probably afford them if I really wanted them. It would be do-able. But there I'd be, a fat, money-flaunting, slow-on-hills Cat IV / Masters racer, on this wheelset that costs more than a lot of cars you see on the road. You all would know I'm a good guy, and my kid would know I'm a good guy, but to the pack?

Yep, I'd be just another Kulak.

So I think I'll keep my head down for now, stick to my modest, working class wheels, and dream about how nice it would be to rock these bad boys. And if I start doing well in races, well, then maybe I'll consider them.

Y'know. Just to piss off the proles.



Note: I'm off to Coppi Camp on Thursday AM, and probably won't blog for a few days. See y'all on Monday.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Involuntary Head Shake

Ever read a story that is so fouled up, that you catch yourself shaking your head? Here's one.

The first rule of sick, twisted, illegal, inhuman fight club, is you don't stage a sick, twisted, illegal, inhuman fight club. Bullying is a popular tactic in politics, the media, and society at large these days. The more helpless somebody is, the more likely they will be bullied. I know a guy who was jailed for assaulting a patient at a mental hospital, when my ex-friend was there to look after some of the patients. I have no tolerance for this kind of stuff. I think there's a special place in hell for bullies where people bigger than they are kick their asses for all eternity. And take their lunch money.

Monday, March 09, 2009

Several Points of Order

Rule #256 for How to Succeed in Life: Never get into a serious dating relationship with somebody who has facial tatoos, unless you are a South Pacific Islander.

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It must be spring. I saw a bunch of extremely pale, hairy legged commuters racing each other in traffic.

I'd rather be a has-been than a wannabe.

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The racingest commuter was a guy who was doing a standing sprint effort to hammer up the ramp onto the 14th Street Bridge (395 South). He still wasn't able to catch up to the girl riding the beach cruiser just in front of him.

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I did my Functional Threshold Power test this morning. It really frickin' hurt. I tested out at about 99% of where I was last year at this time which is amazing in light of having been laid up for so much of the winter. I am so thankful just to be able to ride right now; this good news is straight up pork and onion gravy on top of that.

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The roads at Hains were a little slippery this morning. The accumulated oils of winter are on the tarmac, the recent heat has maybe cause some of them to boil up a bit, and of course we had a little rain overnight. My tires, folding Conti Gatorskins pointed this out to me by throwing me into lurid skids at the two T junctions you ride through on each lap. Sure, I could have slowed down, but that would have compromised my power profile. And we can't have that now, can we?

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FatMarc, pal. I got your terlet right here.



I find when I'm crapping nothing but chess pieces and plastic letters, that nothing else will do.

I highly recommend it, if you have the means.

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Saturday, March 07, 2009

The Hardest Thing in the World

The third hardest thing in the world is confessing a serious failing of morality or character to others and to take responsibility for it, especially where admitting failure must occur before those whose approval we seek. The first step down that road is to swallow pride - which most of us have in enormous doses - and to admit to ourselves a genuine failing. Not the failing of mere moral vanity ("oh, I'm ashamed of myself for having seconds of meatloaf when I'm supposed to be dieting... me me me me") but confessing responsibility for a genuine screwup that casts us in genuinely bad light. For example - "I really crapped on my good friend there. Or on my own dignity. Or God." Y'know, if those things mean something to you.

Admitting failure and taking responsibility for it is really tough to do but I'm convinced that the road to all improvement starts with genuine admission of failure, or weakness. This is so hard for most of us to do that in the Catholic faith, in an old fashioned confessional, you confess sins in the dark, the priest is under a vow of silence that outlives death, and the penance is ultimately far lighter than we ourselves would admit the failure merits. The first two conditions are in place to help us deal with obvious human weaknesses, the third is in place to help us deal with the fact that we, in our moral vanity, are harder on ourselves and less forgiving than God is in His genuine-ness. I told you that admitting failure genuinely, with sincerity and full knowledge, is really hard. When Father O'Malley (and God) is easier on you than you are, you know it's a tough thing to do. You have to do it genuinely; no public official-type "oh yeah, I'm taking responsibility for that" garbage, where you just say you're responsible for your problems then walk away. Taking responsibility means you accept the consequences. That's why admitting your fault and taking responsibility is hard. It comes with retribution, with penance. If it wasn't hard, it wouldn't be worth a damn.

The second hardest thing is getting over yourself, trying to kill off the moral vanity and self-pity that keeps you in whatever dark little spiritual and psychological hole you are standing in as a result of your screw-ups. Obsession with trivial failings - the vain ones - is what keeps you from making the leap and fixing the big ones. You have to get rid of the part of yourself that lets you make excuses.

There was a good Army recruiting ad a little while back in the "Army Strong" recruiting campaign that summed up the Western soldier's ethos better than anything I have ever heard before or since. The ad's argument, paraphrased, was, "There's strong, and then there's Army Strong; strong is being strong enough to get over, but Army Strong is being strong enough to get over yourself." One of the Army leadership virtues that officers (noncommissioned and commissioned alike) are asked to internalize is "selfless service." That means, in its ultimate expression, taking a bullet for somebody else, like a guy in your squad, to execute the general's orders, or to protect people who think you're a dupe for having joined up and risked your butt in the first place. Thing is, what those people think doesn't really matter; what matters is hitting a higher plane of being yourself, putting the parts of you other than those parts intent on sacrificing for others aside. Identifying the unnecessary parts of your ego, the stuff other than the parts which inspire a quiet and informed confidence in your abilities, taking them out behind the shed, putting a bullet in them and burying them in a deep unmarked grave. Killing off that part of yourself that is your own worst enemy, and the enemy of those around you.

Nobody achieves that perfection, but it is a goal. This moderate act of self-abnegation is killing that blindly egotistical, blustering buffoon inside yourself, the part of you that goes from drunk braggart to weeping old alcoholic in a flash. I'm pretty sure that Buddhists make this one of the main points of their religion. It's a pretty big deal. It's also really hard to do.

Maybe you've met that part of your ego on a bike ride. I know I've met him a bunch of times recently. I'm in shit shape right now. No self-pity about that statement, it's an honest observation. (The self pity comes later). I didn't ride enough over the winter, put on the winter 10 while maintaining decent shape, and thinking I'd be just fine going into spring because the December legs were quite good. I got too big for my britches, miscalculated, and my over indulgence coupled with underwork caught up to me when my tendinitis laid me low for nearly a month. So a good solid 20 pounds later, and a month with no activity more vigorous than hoofing to the bathroom on crutches, I'm trying to get back some of what I lost and it blows.

But that isn't where the ego gets me. Where it gets me is on a ride where I'm cruising along and the ride gets a little hard. This happened on a group ride this morning. It wasn't that bad. But damn, I was hurting, and other people were just chatting. The ego - that drunken braggart - was now the tired old drunk in the corner of my mind, weeping and telling me how sorry for me he was. Begging me to quit the ride, just take it a lot easier and spin in. Drop off the back, tell the guys you're going to take it real easy, see ya later. You know all the excuses; so do I.

This voice was the strongest internal voice I've heard in months. The positive internal monologue has been damn near silent and quite intermittent. But the negative monologue? It was friggin' relentless. After a while I worked through it and hung on, resolved to stick, slip climb up hills, pound downhills and flats to close gaps, and not worry about the fact I felt horrible while everybody else was doing, basically, a zone 2/3 spin. So that's what I did.

As I worked through this mental swamp, I came to understand the stuff I just told you about in the preceding seven or eight paragraphs. While I was riding, and probably while I was sitting there laid up eating too much and doing nothing, I was kicking my own ass for totally self-defeating reasons that are utterly unhelpful.

Now at times, you need to have your ass kicked. When you are not putting forth full effort, you need that. When you have a big hill to get over, literally or metaphorically, you may need a kick in the ass. When you've really screwed up and unaware of how screwed up you are, you need a kick in the ass.

The problem with the internal drunk guy is that he doesn't kick you when you need it. He's too busy telling you to have another Dorito, let the good times roll! Instead of kicking you in the ass then, when you really truly need it, the SOB kicks you when you are down. His gig is when the times get tough, to fall down weeping, to sit there indulging in self-pity, in moral vanity, and turn little tiny molehills into the psychological version of hill repeats on Mt. Ventoux.

What makes the little SOB really live, his tequila shots, Red Bull and chicken wings, is our own moral vanity, our depression, our willingness to let events get on top of us and kick our ass. Our ability to find fault with ourselves when sure, maybe we're wrong, but when the faultfinding saps our energy and drives us backwards.

I realized this is just effing pathetic. It's lame. What a waste of time and energy to let that happen. Things are tough enough without playing the silly childish game of feeling sorry for ourselves. I realized I do this all the time, and knowing damn well that I'm not unique, I bet a lot of other people suffer from it too.

The way to beat this problem is to do the Hardest Thing in the World.

The Hardest Thing in the World is to quit indulging in self-pity, in feeling sorry for yourself and making excuses. It's to kill the maudlin drunk, to accept your circumstances, and to go as hard as you can. If you get blown off the back, no pity. If you screw up your diet, forget the screwup and redouble your efforts. Mess up a valued relationship, go crawling back and make it right without letting yourself sit still to enjoy some of the more pathetic sort of navel gazing - ignore honest self-evaluation in favor of throwing a pity party for one. And on the other hand if you do okay, the Hardest Thing in the World is to do no crowing. Just sit down, have a steaming tall mug of STFU, and continue to work hard. Enjoy it but don't get full of yourself. Your situation is nowhere near as bad as you think it is, and when things are going great, they aren't anywhere near as fine as your (wishful) thinking about how perfect everything is. Because it's life we should be satisfied with it whether or not it's our turn in the barrel.

Being able to handle the highs and lows without becoming alternately smug or self-loathing and depressed, getting over our ego's domination of our outlook, is The Hardest Thing in the World. I think it's do-able though; I achieved it for 45 minutes or an hour during the ride today. I quit chewing on my woes as if they were a handful of Flintstone vitamins, just let 'em go for a while. So it's in reach.

To reach it, however, you have to take the first two hard steps which are (1) admitting at least to yourself that your self-absorption is posing a serious problem; and, (2) resolving to kill that part of yourself that isn't helpful, that part which can only either puff you up with false praise or use your own moral vanity and self-centered nature to down you. Just let all that other crap go; give it the boot. Once you've done those, it seems a lot easier to turn the pedals (and do everything else), even though you're suffering.

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Readers Write

Occasionally, my readers send me questions. Periodically, I answer questions. Once in a while, the answers match the questions. Sometimes, I blog about it.


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Dear Unhopeful Rouleur,


What with the weather, my pneumonia, and a lot of stress at work and at home, I've put on a little weight. Okay, I'll be honest. I weigh nearly as much as you do now, except instead of being a fat 6'0", I'm a gargantuan 5'3". Do you think there's any hope for me? Please hurry up and send advice. I can barely get close enough to the desk to log on to my email and if I gain 5 more pounds, you'll have to reply by Western Union.

Thanks.


Luke T. Fisk, Burgenbjorgensfjord, Norway


Dear Luke,

In a word, no. You are screwed. You are probably too fat to get on a bike. I know this because I damn sure am, and I'm nearly three shortstacks of flapjacks with a big blob of whipped cream on top taller than you. Still, you probably shouldn't give up and may want to consider doing some long, slow distance rides over the next month or so, along with some dieting. By "dieting" I mean eating nothing except for vitamins and an occasional cucumber slice, and paying a Serbian expat accused of warcrimes to stand near your refrigerator and insult, kick or stab you if you try to extract some food from it.

On the other hand, if that seems too tough for you, I can think of some things that should be easier to do. You could wallow in self pity all day long, piss and moan about how fat and slow you are, or go out and get some Taco Bell. I hear they're open until after midnight. If it matters, your predicament is no different than about 20% of all East Coast roadracers right now, most of whom are looking into bariatric surgery or a stint with the Peace Corps as a developing world food source, as a solution to their problems.

I hope this helps.

/s
~ the Rotund Rouleur

Ps. You're under pressure at work because you suck at your job, you should consider long term unemployment as an alternative. You are perceptive about the chill at home, that's because your wife is cheating on you with an Italian pro who is riding out a domestic doping ban by riding under an assumed name as a Cat 4 on a local team - and yes, he's both better on the bike, and better in bed than you are. And you only have pneumonia because the general deterioration in your health from your undiagnosed tertiary syphilis is causing you all sorts of problems. You shouldn't have taken that "business trip" to Thailand a couple years ago, pal. Consider eating a salad for lunch today. And no, I don't mean a taco salad, which is God's answer to the question, "how many calories can we fit into a salad?"


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Dear Unglaublich Rouleur,

It's time for me to purchase a new bike. I'm considering getting one of three bikes, a Colnago C-50 Extreme Power, a Cervelo Soloist, or a Pinarello Prince. I like the stiffness and style of the Colnago, the functionality of the Cervelo and the high tech looks, and the quirky style and smooth ride of the Pinarello. Which one should I buy?

S. Meagma, Springfield VA


Dear S.,

I recommend you get a BikeFriday folding commuter bike, preferably the one with the three speed, internally geared Rohloff hub. Basically, if your new bike hasn't been the object of sick sexual fantasies for you over the last two years, you haven't earned the right to call yourself a roadie. Those aren't bikes you are looking at, they are lust objects. Your inability to recognize this and act accordingly demonstrates your manifest unworthiness to ride any one of them.

Problem solved? I think so.

/s
Unholy Rouleur


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Dear Unspeakable Roleur,

I race for a prominent local club, on its women's team. I'm kind of hot for one of the boys on the club's elite team. He's so dreamy looking, and unattached (he doesn't even have a girlfriend!) but he totally doesn't seem to be into me at all. This is distressing to me because he made some overtures last fall (resulting in me killing myself to catch up to him on hard club rides to chat), but now nothing has happened. What should I do?

Virginia Dentata, Fairfax


Dear Virginia,

First of all, you didn't mention what kind of racing your would-be Casanova does. Is he a roadracer? If so, then in society's eyes, he's presumptively gay. We both know he probably isn't gay, but this is a lie you can tell yourself and your non-riding girlfriends to explain why he doesn't dig you. It's easier than admitting the fact that you just aren't that attractive, despite your ability to walk upright, turn the pedals, and communicate in something that closely resembles speech.

In the alternative, is he a mountain biker? If so, then in roadies' eyes, he's presumptively a stoner-slacker, and not half as interested in chicks as he is in getting stoned, and the latest issue of Dirt Rag. We both know that stereotype isn't (always) true, but this is a lie you can tell yourself and the people on your team to explain why he doesn't dig you.

Third, I think I know who you are. Allocate 15% of your personal hygiene time to plucking your monobrow, shaving your moustache, and using some Listerine. It probably won't help you land this guy, because we both know he's a gay stoner who just isn't that into you, but it may significantly improve your chances to reproduce with *somebody* of the opposite sex.

I'm positive this will help.

/s
Unfriendly Rouleur

Ps. You can always resort to hanging out in bars and getting desperate looking dudes all liquored up. What's good for the goose...


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Dear Unwise Rouleur,

I ride on the elite team of a local velo club, and I sometimes race mountain bikes too. Lately, I've been sort of creeped out by this chick on my club who is stalking me. If you look at her from a distance, she's got nice legs and a cute little butt, and in the right light (little to none) she's pretty. I kind of thought I was hot for her last fall but every time I slowed down long enough for her to catch up to me on the club's weekly recovery ride, I noticed she has more facial and body hair than Chewbacca, and breath like she subsists from eating the lower intestines out of rotting skunk corpses. Admittedly, she rides a bike competitively, which would make her the ultimate mate compared to my ex-wife, who resented being left alone for 18-22 hours/week with our six kids while I trained obsessively. So I'm kind of considering it. But Bruce, my roommate and particularly close friend, not that there's anything wrong with that, thinks this is a silly idea and it would cut into my recovery time, which is now generally taken up with watching gay porn and getting stoned to the bejeezus while Bruce rubs my sore legs. Plus maybe I'm just not that into her.

Any advice you can offer would be helpful.

Serge Goesdown, Adams Morgan


Dear Serge,

I say go out with her. Who could it hurt? Plus, isn't there something you're not admitting to yourself, Serge?

Yes, that's right. I think you deserve a new bike. I highly recommend anything in the Cervelo line. You've earned it.

/s
Immoral Rouleur


Ps. Seriously, just go out and have some drinks with her sometime. I'm sure that will give you a chance to figure out whether you're truly attracted to her. It wouldn't be the dumbest way a relationship has ever started. I'm positive this will clear up any confusion on your part. No need for thanks; I love helping out bi-cyclists where I can.


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Wheels

You go to war with the wheels you have, not the wheels you wish you had.

I have two sets of race wheels. Both of them are more or less Velocity Deep Vee based.

Velocity is a humble company that makes rims. You can buy Velocity rims straight up, or you can get them under other brand names, in wheels that other manufacturers build up.

The Deep Vee is the ubiquitous Velocity rim. It is about 30mm deep, so it's aero. It's also heavy as shit, running approximately 2.2 metric tonnes before the average fixed gear hipster powder coats it pink or frog vomit green. The rims are very popular on track bikes - both hipster ones, and ones that are actually used on tracks. They've also made cameo appearances on 29'ers. These rims are stout and versatile.

The Deep Vee is also rock solid. Other than my Thomson seatposts and stems, this may be the single most durable piece of cycling equipment I own.

A good set of Deep Vees built up should run in the neighborhood of the mid-200s (for 105 hubs, straight gauge DT spokes) up to mid-300s nicely built on Ultegra hubs (my choice) up to the sky if you choose to build 'em on Phil Woods'.

My initial race wheel was anything on the front, 36 spoke Deep Vee on the rear on a 105. I still have this wheel, it's going strong 4 years on, and usually rides as a pit wheel in 'cross, or on my B bike. I got the 36 because I had a set of Mavic Open Pros, a reasonably light, strong wheelset, that I couldn't keep true. My fat ass and power conspired to bend them constantly. So I got this beast. I haven't had to true it in 4 years.

I have another set of wheels that is my training and racing mainstay. It's a Deep Vee rear on a PowerTap (which is Ultegra-based) hub, 32 spoke, matched to a Velocity Fusion rim. The Fusion is considerably lighter than a Deep Vee, and is almost as aero. I have to true this wheelset about twice a season, just a minor tweak here and there. I've raced cross on it with no problems.

My A wheelset is a Velocity Pro Elite, 36 spoke, with straight gauge spokes. It's basically a Deep Vee rim with a 30mm section. But it's tubular. The wheels are built with Ultegra hubs. They are reasonably light, and utterly bulletproof. I race cross on them, use them for roadracing and do road training on them during the times I just don't feel like using my Powertap. They aren't the lightest wheels in the world, but they aren't that heavy thanks to the lightness of tubulars and the absence of the heavy ring used as a braking surface / lock ring for the clinchers. They climb like a dream and cost a bit over $300; they never need real truing, just a one or two spoke tightening every season or so.

The only complaints I could think of are that the rims are not super duper precise when they come from the factory. They've all seem to come with a very slight egg shape to them, and the joint seam is usually a bit rough. But what do you want for a set of relatively inexpensive rims? The egg shape comes out with proper truing, and the seam... well, brake pads for metal rims are cheap.

Yeah, I could lust really hard after super light and blingy wheels. But I'd probably break most of them. If you're a racer, you should never buy what you can't afford to break because, no matter how good the gear is, you are going to break all of it eventually. I totally endorse the Deep Vee or Pro Elite combo on Ultegra hubs. They're good enough to git 'er done, and extremely durable. Most of the time in races, you're worried about hanging on to the pack or the break, getting up the hill, or getting through the part of the cross race that is inexplicably both rocky and muddy. These wheels are competent but unspectacular, and you don't have to worry about them ever, good enough that I don't seriously consider upgrading to my Lust Object Wheels. That is really high praise.