My Empire of Dirt

You could have it all, my empire of dirt... I will let you down, I will make you hurt.

The Short:  I prefer the Johnny Cash cover of "Hurt," mostly because he sounds about like I felt after a lap or two of JourneyCross, in Cordova, TN, for a 4th in CX 4.  Like he really did rule an empire of dirt, like he really was just tired of the pain.

The Long:  we knew it would be rain or shine...there was an extra reminding us that "shine" was only one of the two options.  But this was the last scheduled 'cross race (at least locally) and so Davis and I were off to race it, hell or high water.  Both of which we got.  We arrived early, and it was indeed a bit chilly and rainy.  A quick preride confirmed too that the course, while beautifully designed and thoroughly prepared by Memphis's finest local cross addicts, would be challenging--at best. 

The Course

Starting with a straight shot down the parking lot, the track took to the grass, winding up into the first barriers (non-bunnyhoppable, the race organizers helpfully pointed out); it bounced up and down before turning to a long straight service drive, dipped left into a boggy section of long grass.  It then went into the woods for a couple hundred yards of singletrack, came out, bounced up and over a hairpin, through a ditch, and then through another long-grass section.  It then passed through a final set of hairpins and one more barrier before turning up along the church and into the lot for the finish.  The whole lap on easy warmup took 6 or 7 minutes, which might have been my fastest time of the day, since it soon got pretty soft and torn up (just like my legs).

Stagin' in the Rain... (pics pilfered from teh interwebz)

Once the B race got started a couple fast juniors took off; as per my habit, I stayed up near the front, letting someone else set the pace and pick the lines, but holding my own.  Until the ditch on the backside, when I dropped my front wheel into the muck and boffed the dismount, ending up sitting on the ground watching places 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 move right on past me.  A little discouraged, I took my time getting up, slogged through another lap, and seriously considered stepping off the bike when I dropped my front wheel into the ditch on lap 2, executing a perfect faceplant endo.  Luckily, the wrist took it well, but that had about taken the steam out of my race. 

On the switchbacks, I could see some of the leaders--they weren't that far ahead--and I could see Davis floating along on 30+ pounds of aluminum and fat tires, sucking the race leaders' wheels.  I suffered, and not athletically, feeling the cold, the rain, the mud, the lack of handling skills.  I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real.  I ran more than some racers, but it cost me a lot to get off the bike--I might have been better off slipping, tipping, and dabbing through some of those sections.  On the next-to-last lap, I discovered the right side of the trail and a very wide left turn into the back switchbacks let me carry much more speed and stay on the bike a lot longer through that section.  Surprising myself, I began to pass a few riders (sometimes running while they pedaled) and close down some of the big gaps that had opened up.  Some of the other 4s, while usually very strong, didn't look like they were enjoying the mud any more than I was.  Some dude was having a little fun with us, holding out a handful of small bills one lap, but I was too deep in the pain cave to realize what it was until too late.  In the end, I stayed on the gas for the last lap and tried to pull it in strong.  40 minutes never felt so long...nevermind--it was only 37.  Crap.

"Racing"

Davis, however, had done much better, using the nasty conditions to his advantage and riding to a win in CX4 (3rd in the B race, right behind some excellent juniors).  He actually seemed to enjoy the whole thing, which kind of mystified me.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner.

Afterwards, we wandered around until we found an unsupervised hose and "cleaned" our bikes and selves off a little before collecting Davis's trophy, jumping in the car, and grabbing some evil corporate delicious strbx for the way home. 

The lessons learned?  All that fancy equipment don't matter if you can't stay on it.  I'm glad I have a 'cross bike, and about as glad that it's not my only bike.  I'm still not sure I've ever actually warmed up for a CX race.  A lot of doing well in those conditions is mental:  accepting or even believing that you enjoy mud-sleet.  I don't know how I would have to train in order to surge and recover properly in a race that short.  And finally, I don't care--my first spring training plan is about to start.  This was good for a little fitness, but...bring on road season!

CX Redux: Mid-South CX Championship

The short:  3rd place CX4, a little more 'cross practice, and some free schwag.

The long: 

In a previous lifetime, I knew Outdoors, Inc. in Memphis as a retail haven for people with my borderline antisocial-slash-petrophile tendencies, and a good place to buy replacement quickdraws, wool socks, and fuel cannisters for my stove.  But after giving up on rock climbing in the delta and trading in crash pads for...well, padless crashing, I guess...I have come to appreciate OI's role in the cycling community as well. 

OI has now sponsored 26 editions of one of the best-attended, funnest cross races in the mid-south.  In some ways, that's might be big-fish-small-pond, but 26 years of anything, much less jumping barriers and redlining into the Mississippi floodplain wind, is pretty impressive.  That means they were doing cyclocross before it was trendy, before you could get a fine Belgian ale in every Philadelphia pub, long before Louisville ever imagined they'd be hosting the world championships...back when mountain bikers had no choice but to become roadies in November, Memphis was there doing the 'cross thing.

I was pleased to have a cross race within an hour and a half drive, and with no hesitation I recruited Davis and Clay to help share the ride, and we booked it up to Mud Island on race day.  It was cool, overcast, and a little blustery, but just about right for racing.  A quick preride confirmed the course would be fast and fun, with no really technical sections to annoy roadies with no handling skills.  From the start/finish, it bounced up and down an embankment a few times, making an offcamber turn or two into a wattage-sapping grassy level, a short run-up some stairs, up and down the bank a few more times, over a fast triple barrier, and down the long start-finish straight into the wind.  And then do it all again. 

After seeing off some kids races, the B race got going.  Remembering my first race, when a number of fast riders just took off early and never came back, I planned to hammer a bit harder at the beginning, especially since I wasn't worried about taking singletrack on the 'cross bike.  I stayed up front, leading for a while--not working too hard, but setting an honest pace, and the usual suspects started to pass and pull away. 

I'm not sure I had any business leading these guys, but they rectified the situation soon enough.

That was fine, although it became evident that I might have been tired, or may have pushed too hard early, because there were a few more people than I really wanted in front of me as the race went on.  It was windy enough that we were frequently sighting trailing and leading riders, which helped me stay motivated and on the gas.  Late in the race, I thought I felt a slow leak, and since there weren't many riders around, I contemplated just trying to get to the finish on inflated rubber.  One or two more riders passed me, and I calculated that I was probably fourth in CX4.  It turned out I had just underinflated the rear tire and failed to really feel it until my late-race mentality set in, and it also turned out that at least one of the 4s, racing well in front of me, was actually racing masters.  So I pulled in best I could to find out later that I had actually made top 3 in the 4s.  I'll take it. 

Davis on the triple barrier

Davis and Clay had both turned in strong performances on mountain bikes, Clay on the singlespeed Chupacabra picking up places on the little uphills.  Frikkin' skinny climber.  But Clay did produce the big win of the day by using his insider knowledge to point us to Huey's in midtown, where we enjoyed the now sunny and warm afternoon.  A cool brew, a massive burger, and some gargantuan onion rings later, we were back on the road to OxVegas.

Data Mining

I'm not the most diligent miner of my own data, but since a supersecret conglomerate of Sprint-Blackwater-Nike-PepsiCo, consulting with Dick Cheney, is already doing so in the bowels of the information Mordor, I figured I'd see what my numbers could tell me.  

Mostly, not much:

That looks about like my cycling routines over the last month or so:  big peaks when I steal away a day or two of riding, and lulls where I'm doing more working than pedaling.  But every once in a while, something interesting shows up:

I flatter myself to think that this might be one of the few blogs that would turn up results on the google searches for:

1) "hill repeats for battenkill"
2) "Joe Martin Stage Race power profile," and
3) "wheel recommendation for rouge roubaix."

So, intrepid (and geographically confused) googler, the answers are:

1)  A lot (my favorites were 9-12 x 90 seconds seated, sprint at the end)
2)  Tougher than you think for the first stage, and easier than you think for the rest, until the final sprint of the crit; and
3)  I've really enjoyed my HED Ardennes--light, but alloy for increased durability in crappy-surface races, wide rims are nominally aero with 23mm tires, and they are quite comfortable accepting my favorite crap-surface racing tires, Vittoria Pave 25s.  Although I did see a lot of carbon deep-dish wheels there, which (if they can carry you through the rough stuff) must be nice on the long miles between dirt sections, especially in a break.

Now, back to killing some leftover turkey and dreaming about the race-season trifecta of Rouge Roubaix, Battenkill, and Joe Martin.  After working off some of these holiday pounds.

Baby's First 'Cross Race

The short:  Crossroads Clash:  2nd CX4, 4th in the "B" Race, dignified DNF in the "A" race

Race season is dead--long love race season!  Just like the French medieval royal succession, race season has a special way of perpetuating itself, resurrecting itself in the very act of dying.  Maybe it's a testament to cyclists' constant need to prove themselves, maybe it's something more fun. 

I heart staging.  It's always the best part of the race.  Awesome pics pilfered
from 901's facebook page.

This time around, it definitely feels like the fun version--it's cyclocross season in the mid-south, the cold-brewed antidote to roadie self-importance and FTP-induced ennui.  As far as I'm concerned, and I remain an unreconstructed roadie, this is cycling at its best.  Bikes on grass, cowbells, barriers, long socks, unnecessary skinsuits, most of us proudly reduced to miniscule cranksets, aluminum frames and SPD pedals. 

It's a resurrection of another sort, too--of our better younger selves, riding knobby tires back to our ten-year-old cycling origins, swerving in feral packs through the neighborhood, jumping curbs, power-braking, wiping out, cranking until our legs and lungs burn, and doing it all again.  Vive le sport.

I still heart staging. 

On another of the mid-south's long string of remarkable, cloudless fall days, I headed up to 901 Racing's Crossroads Clash for my first 'cross race.  At ten pm the night before, I had swapped the pedals off my mountain bike (still decorated with year-old Wolf River Trail mud, I shamefacedly admit), did a few running dismounts in the grassy corner lot (screw remounts!  No time!) and packed up my race back once again.

On the day of, I managed to caffeinate on the way up, squeeze into the B race (women and children first?!?).  The course, rigged up at Memphis's own Shelby Farms, started 600m short of the start/finish, following a brilliant, fun, winding uphill grass sequence to the final barrier, then into a short singletrack section, emerging onto a grass section with a triple barrier, and after a 1.5-minute TT on the grass, dove into some more singletrack.  After an uphill barrier, the course circled back through the windy uphill section to the final barrier.  

Start/finish barrier, non-instagrammed

Giddyup!

After a quick neutral lap, we were off. It was everything I thought it would be, and more.  The phrase "dirt crit" crossed my mind as the pack went into the trees for the second time.  The pace was high--I was hitting my redline repeatedly.  This is good for me, I thought.

I was near enough to the front, and coming out of the singletrack, I goofed going over the logs, slowing up the riders behind me.  I'll have to work on that.  On the grass again, I managed to surge past two or three riders, and a quick check confirmed I was near the front--there was one single-speed racer, one woman, and one other CX 4 in front of me.  I was consistently slow through the second singletrack section--or other people were consistently able to catch up, perhaps--but I managed to hold my own and open up gaps on the grass, most laps.

Start-finish barrier.

By the second or third time through, I was hitting the triple barrier on the back side of the course smoothly--in stride, kicking the back wheel of the bike up, and holding my speed.  It took a while, figuring out which foot wanted to come out of the pedal first, which side I had to come off, which foot to begin running on.  A few times, especially the uphill barriers, I got caught with my right foot down, unclipping my left, and still trying to get off the left side of the bike...try it.  It's a no-go.  Once, in the heat of otherwise racey efforts, I had to grab the brakes as I nosed the front wheel into the barrier.  That can't be right.  For a whole lap, my fancy mtb shoes with the cable lock came undone (luckily, not broken), but the right wrist has regained enough flexibility to handle such mid-race on-bike fine motor skills.  Luckily, I got it all mostly figured out, or at least well enough to not lose position as the race proceeded. 

About a third of the course was (mostly) easy singletrack

I found myself in second in my race with a few laps to go, and after some strategic recovery riding on the final lap, managed to hold off another rider for 2nd in the class, 4th rider in the B race.  Like a big boy.

I surged up the final twisting grass sequence, holding position, and thankfully didn't have to spring full-bore at the final barrier.  I don't know if I could have figured out my unclipping and running in a full-on sprint. 

I think I might need a slightly longer stem.

After a quick recovery, I was slated to get into the A race.  My legs were still pretty blasted, and I was lobbying to skip the neutral lap, but--unbeknownst to me--that meant the whole thing was go from the gun.  Crap!  I found myself all the way at the back of the back.  Had we started this fast in the B race?!?  Probably.  Are my legs that cracked?  Indeed.  Some dude went down, disappearing in a cloud of dust, at the bottom of the first hill, and I slid out on my left side.  That was disheartening, although no bad effects beside some grass in my lever.  I just didn't have any legs, though, couldn't catch up, and just felt unsteady the whole time, so at the next-to-last barrier on the first lap, I just nosed off the course and went to collect my half cup of beer and $50 before adding in a few minutes of riding in the park. 

Great job, Matt West and crew!  It was a good day.  If I'd listened to the right people, I might have known--every day at the cross races is a good day.  Vive le 'cross!

The log barriers coming out of the woods.

Stick a Fork in It...

...2012 Racing season is over.

The Short:  3rd place, LA/MS district cat 3 road race championship.

The Long:  Don't call it a comeback, because I did get back on the bike in a "racelike effort" in a "timed event" in July...

Ryan's Lesson in Aerodynamics

...but I did come back to bucolic Natchez, Mississippi, for my (now) annual pilgrimage to the Louisiana/Mississississississippi Racing Association Championships.  I was looking to wrap up the wrist in an ace bandage, get on the bike one last time, test the legs after a little layoff, and stick a fork in 2012 road racing season.

Davis and the Race Wagon

The cat 3 LAMBRA race is 72 miles on a 5-mile circuit in a state park, 14 laps starting at the low point, going up along a dam on the edge of a pleasant swallow- and redneck-infested lake, turning net uphill for the next 2 miles through a series of 30-second kickers with short downhills.  The back half of the course, with a few rollers, twists through a bunch of fast and sometimes sketchy park-road curves for a net downhill into the start-finish.  The uphills are not long enough to drop people, and the downhill half encourages chasers to catch back on.  There have been breaks before, but not many in the cat 3 race.  Add to that a small field--16 (3 more than last year!)--and it looked like it would be, as usual, a race of attrition.  Add in Blair Krogh, who has done nothing but win this year (from breaks, in sprints, on a cross bike, on trails, in crits, in TTs), and I assumed that the race would be all about staying with the strong guy as long as possible. 

The race was mellow for the first hour--that was very similar to the 2011 edition.  There were a few little giddyups, but the course and the small field don't encourage attacks early.  Everyone covers everything, because there are no teams to chase--if the strong rider got a long leash, that might be it.  The field would break up trying to chase him down.

At the one-hour mark, though (and my power files confirmed it) the energy level went way up, and two or three of the strong guys kicked and punched each other until just six of us remained.  This was good news for me, since in 2011, we had the whole field together until the very last lap--this time around, the field had shredded by the halfway mark.  Power data confirmed it was a bit more surgey and strenuous than 2011.  The pace then moderated a bit, but I found myself cramping.  I was drinking copiously, electrolytes and gatorade, and it wasn't even that hot.  (It might have something to do with the big hole in my June and July training.  I don't know.)  But I diligently shirked my pulls, despite the New Orleans kid yelling at me, and let the strong guys do what they do as I sucked wheel.  Soon after, a stronger rider flatted and had to wait for the wheel truck--he never came back.  Lead group down to 5, I was almost guaranteed a better placing than my 2011 6th place.  The next lap, we dropped the 2010 winner, who looked like he had been training for the track exclusively...huge haunches but he got put in difficulty on the hills.  I was 4th or better, and doing all I could to moderate my effort for the oncoming slaughter. 

The turn onto the dam; I was scrupulously obeying the speed limit, of course.

With 5 laps to go, Krogh rolled forward above the feed zone--not attacked--and I let him, stupidly.  The New Orleans kid jumped across, and was left with the gap and the other rider.  I weighed my options.  I could jump across (they had a 100m gap) and fight my increasingly serious cramps and the two strongest riders for podium spots.  I didn't feel good.  I was mindful that my longest ride since early May was just over 3 hours long.  Just as the two strong guys pulled away, the 4th place rider, John, who was leading in the LAMBRA season points competition but quickly dying, made me an offer I couldn't refuse:  work with him to keep him in 4th place points, and I could have 3rd.  I took the deal.

Riding it out.

As anticompetitive or wussy as it was, it was the right thing for me--at least twice a lap over the next 4 laps, my legs would lock up, sometimes near-catastrophically (like, can't even keep the pedals turning, everything was so locked up).  The New Orleans kid had worked too hard, and Krogh dropped him like a bad habit within a lap and soloed in for the win.  I would have been dropped even more quickly, with the cramping.  Having John share water and pace me whenever the cramps attacked was nice, and on the long net downhill I was able to spin up to a high tempo pace, better than he could manage.  So we finished together, John waved me ahead for third, and we put a bit more time into the chasers, keeping his series points safe. It was by far the most cramping I've ever experienced.  I'm not sure if it was the heat (moderate), some pre-race hydration mistake (possibly), not drinking enough early (unlikely), or maybe just inadequate endurance (most likely?) but I'm deeply uninterested in ever cramping like that again. 

(Blog alert:  electrolyte post coming up!)

The "podium":  at least it was in the shade.

I was lucky to take 3rd, and lucky that the hard mid-race efforts were early, and split the small field so completely that I could maintain my position.  At any rate, it was a good weekend:  I made a comeback of sorts, got on the podium of two states at once, added 4 points to my upgrade total (to sit 2 points shy of my upgrade all winter), confirmed the wrist's racing fitness, and left myself a little to improve upon in 2013.

Davis in Ole Miss colors

Davis, in his first cat 4 race, drank less, worked harder, and still managed to hang on for the field sprint, which soon-to-be cat 3 Adam Morris took in a strong sprint.  It was a more climactic finish than the 3 race, for sure.

Little Mountain Ride (Kosciusko, MS): Charity Ride Season Begins

Even if you've torn off your yellow bracelet in disgust along with Gary Osgood, the last person who still believed in Lance, you can still support something meaningful, bigger than yourself, even life-affirming, while riding your bike.

And no, I'm not (really) talking about your own dreams of cat-6, just-shaved-my-legs, bought-a-power-meter, blew-my-retirement-nest-egg cycling glory...I'm talking about charity rides, and post-racing season in the mid-South is really charity ride season, with a whole host of events coming off as the summer heat radiates into space gets caught beneath an ever-thickening layer of greenhouse gasses.  Consider Bikes, Blues, & Bayous and the MS150, for example--both popular with area riders.

But let me plug my new personal favorite, the Tour d'Attala Cycling Club's Little Mountain Ride--along with the top ten reasons why I'd do it again:

1. Local Hospitality:  A few days before the ride, we saw notices posted up on our local cycling group discussion board inviting us to come on down and check out the ride.  So, knowing that hey, 70 miles was about right for what I wanted to do that time of year, I registered, forced Davis to split gas once again, checked the air in my tires, and got ready to head down to Kosciusko, MS, a small town at the geographical center of the state of Mississippi named after (but not really pronounced like) the eighteenth-century Polish hero who brought his expertise in anti-Russian insurgency to North America, serving as a conduit for foreign aid to the rambunctious anti-royalist colonists we sometimes refer to as the Founding Fathers.
2. Pre-Ride Pasta:  Once Davis and I made the quick trek down I-55 and over to "Kosy," as the locals call it, we found local rider, club energizer, and all-around great guy Claude, who was pre-gaming with a few visitors from Chattanooga (who says you can't rehab a torn quad by riding 70 miles?!?).  From there, we followed his lead over to Miss Donna's house, where we found a terrific spread of home-cooked pasta, bread, wine, and more insanely good brownies (note to self:  take extreme care with the espresso brownies!) and cookies than I care to acknowledge.
3. Pre-Ride Camaraderie:  It turns out we weren't the only ones with the right idea, and we soon found ourselves enjoying the company of riders from across the mid-south.  There's nothing like a charity ride to bring together people who have ridiculously big racks on their cars, who like spandex, and who just generally love bikes.  We shut down the joint and took Donna up on her generous offer of a place to stay for the night.  It's not often that you see that kind of giving spirit, but I'd wager that it's not all that unusual amongst this group of people.
4. The Trace:  Silky smooth pavement, good sightlines, gentle but challenging hills, low traffic on a weekend morning, and all that with pleasant, peaceful scenery.  And the occasional deer bolting in front of the lead vehicle, but hey...that could happen anywhere.  All's well that ends well.
5. Rain--what Rain?!?:  It drizzled just a little on us as the ride was starting, and turned into a full-blown pour by the time we hit the end of the first hour, but that didn't seem to deter too many people.  A rider near me remarked that he would have loved his glasses, but honestly, it wasn't much better with than without.  I had to lower my glasses and look over the top in an effort to block the roostertail of the rider in front while avoiding the fog- and splash-induced visibility problems. 
6. Oops--I thought this was a Ride!:  And at first, indeed, it looked like it would be.  The front end of the group set a leisurely pace, and the shorter-distance riders would fall back on the hills and come charging back to the front on the downhills.  But somewhere at the end of the first hour, it became apparent that someone had some fitness to maintain.  A few riders tried to push the pace in what sort of looked like attacks, but this was a charity ride, so--no, they couldn't be.  And most of the surgers would just sort of drift back to the pack.  Eventually, however, the pace became serious enough that the guys on tri bikes (more than a few, and were definitely making me feel a little alarmed, especially with my wrist still delicate) had some trouble covering the surges.  Tired of the occasional sketchiness, I tried to cheerlead for a higher pace and even once tried to just make a move, but found myself with just one rider in tow.  Finally, people seemed to remember that there were in fact polka-dotted "KOM" jerseys for the first ten riders to the halfway point (the ride's eponymous Little Mountain) and three riders associated with Jackson's Bike Crossing started laying down a decisive tempo.  A small bunch got away from the main group, and Davis bridged up, and for the next ten miles or so, we got some nice practice working in a fast-paced "break" of sorts.  Once the split had been established, a quick count revealed seven of us, and no chasers close, so knowing that we all had jerseys, we moderated the pace and pulled together for a while.
7. Little Mountain:  Before the actual little mountain, there is a rise I'm pretty sure the local riders refer to as the "Holy Ghost."  I don't know why, precisely, but I can tell you that when Dave and his fellow Bike Crossing riders decided to lay down a strong tempo on the rise, it meant immediately, no questions asked, just like that, we went from seven to four.  The Ghost had claimed a few more victims.  Coming into the final climb, Little Mountain, we eased into the park, and I let the two big guys take a courtesy pull.  As the pavement turned upward, I pulled around, and another rider from Natchez followed.  Awesome, I thought, no more rain roostertails in my field of view.  The road wound upward, twisting sensuously upward.  I kept the tempo up, and a glance confirmed that the two big guys were gone; and the last rider, Scott (who may or may not have been tuning up for his recent good day at the LAMBRA road race championships) hung on my shoulder.
8. The Jersey:  I let Scott around, thinking that the pace was still high enough that I might benefit from a draft.  As we neared the top of the climb--there was no "finish line" per se, just some timers and cheerleaders as the road leveled out--I tried halfheartedly to move up on Scott's right, but he edged me over toward the edge of the pavement.  I must not have been too hard to hear coming, gasping like a beached whale.  And when I dropped around to his left and tried again, it was a tad too late, and no sense doing anything dangerous in the rain, anyway.  I had my jersey.  Soon after, we saw our other breakmates hauling up the hill, with Davis fifth, and Austin, another Oxford rider, snagging a jersey as well.
9. Post-Ride Festivities:  The rest of the ride was just as nice--the front group kept the pace high, giving us a nice solid 3-hour workout (and keeping the core body temperature out of the hypothermia danger zone).  Upon our return, we cleaned up at the house and rolled back down to the start/finish to gobble cold-cut sandwiches,chocolate milk, and other assorted goodies.
10. I don't know who won, but I'm pretty sure Cancer Lost.  Add to that the fact that this was a first-year event, and I'm even more impressed with the snag-free, fun, and generally polished execution.  So, even if your once-larger-than-life heroes were secretly on the juice all along, you can still be someone's life-affirming fundraising hero as you indulge your way-too-expensive, self-centered, hypercompetitive cycling self...

Bicycles in Benelux

Time for some recap action from early July.  As I mentioned, this was not a "cycling trip," but rather a trip with cycling.  Neither such semantic fine points nor my plastered right arm, of course, were going to stop us from renting a couple of moderately serviceable carbon-frame Giants equipped with triple cranksets and setting off in search of whatever adventures the low countries had in store for us...

Map-check in the Ardennes.  Holy cow:  I have wheels named after this place.  Soon after verifying that I could, in fact, brake and shift safely, I realized:  I don't wanna ever stop riding my bike.

R&R in Florenville.

The loaner helmet (Mango brand) and the clever "race" bottle with flat repair supplies.

Between rides we watched a slightly faster set of riders--here the Massacre in Metz is about to happen on the jumbotron, the sprint (another Sagan v Greipel affair) about to happen to our left.

Ready to ride the last stretch of La Planche de la Belles Filles.

Can't go on, can't go back.  We watched the race from this sunny spot.

Stage-watching, or not, in Leuven.

The wine region outside Colmar.  A brisk south wind made our northbound rides fast and fun; the hills, farmfields and vineyards made it exceptionally beautiful.

Lunchtime in Alsace.

At the top of the Haute-Koenigsburg climb, 5 miles of 6% climbing.  That's Germany in the background.

On...or near...the Amstel Gold course.  When the rain hit, we were no more than 100m from a pub with hot coffee and friendly locals.

If you're ever wondering whether or not you should go cycling in the low countries...I highly recommend it.  That is all.

Breakfast in Brussels

A week or so after returning to the trainer, marshaling all available resources and putting in three whole workouts (for a grant total of 3 hours, 45 minutes and a whopping 174.7 TSS points) I was struck by a revelation of sorts:  this--whatever it is--would be more fun if I were in Belgium, Holland, and France.

Now, this might be too obvious to bear stating so bluntly, but there it was.  I was faced with the incontrovertible fact that anything would be better than Philly's predicted string of sweaty 90+ degree days with a Fisher-Price AC window unit barely capable of cooling me while standing directly in front of it.

So, buying my plane ticket, tossing my apartment looking for my passport, and packing my bags within a frenetic 24 hour period (and pretty much in that order), I made it through security in PHL international departures (only a perfunctory pat-down in return for the ten pieces of metal in my arm) looking forward to a little relief from the mid-Atlantic heat and stupidity humidity.

My flight was pleasant enough--I was sandwiched between a large but friendly Polish physics graduate student (self-declared "with the fat and so forth") and an American high-school student headed to France to study the language.  A mere six-and-a-half hours later, we landed in Brussels, whisked through customs, and found Frank, Lucas, and Stijn, our new friends, guides, drivers, and movie-quoters-par-excellence for the trip.

Our first meal of the trip.

It started off promising, with a pleasant mix of walking, driving, cafe stops, and sightseeing:  Brussels, then Bruge, savoring the main attractions of larger-than-life sculptures of frites and moules in the park, local cafe life, and the local brewing traditions of the low countries.

Monday in the Park in Brussels.

A little pre-dinnertime refreshment.

This was, as Kevin declared, not a cycling trip, but a trip with some cycling (more about which anon).  Nevertheless, it is mandatory to respect the Lion of Flanders when in--or heck, even just near Flanders.

Fast socks.

We enjoyed the local fare until it was time to head off to Valkenburg to pick up some rental bikes...more about our cycling adventures soon.

A taste of things to come.

The Games We Play

Now that I'm through with two surgeries, three days of forced and five or six of voluntary laziness, two prescriptions of Percocet (actually I'm holding most of a bottle in reserves), twenty-some Tegaderm dressings (large, medium, and with an absorbent pad for my heavy-flow days), two rolls of medical tape, three band-aids, one bled-upon pillowcase, two slings (the second effectively comped by a healthcare-services wage-slave who was okay with "eating the expense"), four calls to Active Health Management and one night of pre-surgical abstinence from food and drink, I guess...

Dammit...sigh...it's time to get back on the trainer.

My new luxury in-home training center.  Lemme Instagram this so it looks just as appealing as it really is.

Motivation is going to be tough...there are so many excuses:  I probably won't race again this season, it's so hot in here, my hair is so long, my arm hurts, wah wah, it's noon and I need to get my day started already...that coffee isn't going to drink itself while I "research."

So I'm working on little games to keep myself pedaling.  Some people use food-related motivation, but I find that a bit silly...you can't starve your body into submission, and hey, I'm going to eat whatever I want, anyway.  Likewise, behavioral rewards, like allowing myself to watch my favorite TV show, don't work all that well for me (but oh, man, Zach Braff just gets me!).  Most importantly, it's not the actual trainer time I mind, it's the riding hard once on the trainer.  So I do what I can to make riding fun, and to push myself above endurance pace indoors.  Here's a sampling of my little mind games; and please, feel free to let me know if you have found success with any others that I can steal....doc says I got six more weeks with this gimp arm.

Video Piracy:  when else could I possibly watch the Fleche Wallone Feminine, the 1974 Giro d'Italia, the 2012 US Road Champs, and the most recent GiroBio?  I have yet to watch my legitimately purchased Sufferfest ten-pack, since rogue behavior is so much more satisfying.  (This game also doubles as the ever popular "Pedal for Second-Language Acquisition.")  It also enables a number of related motivational games...

Get in the Break!:  Every time the camera shows Tom Boonen ripping apart the field in Paris-Roubaix, I pretend to be Juan Antonio Flecha hopelessly trying to match his pace over the rough stuff.  It's more effective to imagine I'm the hopelessly suffering chaser destined for fourth place--more realistic and, dare I admit, more fun?  Whatever that says about me...but what's the fun in being a Yankees fan?!?

Flecha, before his pain face got stuck on.

An alternate game of this type is Invisible Primes:  this one worked well, for example, with the Harlem Skyscraper Crit broadcast, with every lap ticked off onscreen; surge every other lap, up the effort every time the camera focuses in on the be160over90'd posterior of Brett Kielick (dollar for dollar maybe elite cycling's best ad space deal, as long as he's not in an aero position).

And one last A/V ploy, Dombrowski Sprints:  every time you hear "Dombrowski" emerge recognizably from the white noise babble of Rai 2 Sport GiroBio announcing, you sprint; 30 seconds if he's not on camera, for the duration of his tv time if he is; TT from the time you hear "Joe" until "Joseph"--they like to switch it up.  Apparently an American of Polish descent is nigh incomprehensible to most Italians.

If I run out of video motivational games, I can always break out the 'pod and try a few of these playlist ploys:

Shuffle Cadence:  let the random selection determine your speed and cadence.  Beware the sudden jump from, say, The National to, say, Nickel Creek.  Jumping from that much gritty, electrified and tragically bereft Ohio angst to such post-teenage innocently emoting Americana can be like hitting a pothole.  Or like watching Gummo while a little too high.

Oops; did I mess up your workout?

Mojave 3 TT:  not recommended to build fitness, but it will train your patience and definitely your mellow-twitch fibers.  That's a real thing, right?  You weren't just trying to make me feel good about being slow, were you?

Beastie Boys Marathon:  'cause you can't, you won't, and you don't stop.  Celebrate Adam Yauch's contributions to life, art, and whiffle ball by working your way through the entire Beastie repertoire.*

*Mandatory 2012 commemorative blog-mention/playlist inclusion, check.

Non-technologically-enhanced games work too, like Turn of the Screw:  Doc says no twisting the right forearm; so every watt below 300 is a painful degree of pronation or supination.  Go!

Non-A/C-FTP:  How long can you go before you need to turn on the AC unit?  At 8AM?  How 'bout at noon?  With water?  Without...?

And when all else fails, Intervals for Beers:  self explanatory.  You see the homebrewed sixer on my kitchen table, in sight but out of reach.  That's what we in the biz refer to as a "carrot."  And finally, a risky variation:  Intervals for Percocet.  You gotta be careful with this one, but a boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do to stay motivated!

People Love To Watch You Die

...As John Wesley Harding (the singer, not the outlaw) once said.  I just noticed that the two posts with the highest page-view count are June 9 and April 21.  By far.  Go figure. (Of course, I'm not sayin' there's not a little bit of exhibitionism going on here, too...)




Coming soon:  more crash p0rn, including, if you're lucky, x-rays of my hand almost completely separated from my arm.  Now back to work!