4 bikes, no racing

No bike racing this weekend. The fam did some some running. Ella did her first 5k, in 29:54!

That's slightly better than Supermom's best 5k time, and better than almost half the field. I paced her and in the final half mile, offered her $1 for every adult she passed before the finish line. She earned $25 :) I figured I'd make her first race payout well.

Lang did his first one mile run, in around 14 minutes. He was hurting, but a little mid-race wager between us also brought him home strong, and a little richer.

I was hoping to race Fox River, but it wasn't in the cards, so I did the "Sisters" xXx ride. Soooo much easier with gears. I also rode 4 different bikes this weekend, one 'cross ride away from a pentathlon.

Sherman Park Race Report (by Ella)

"I started in last place because I couldn't get on my bike. Then I passed a lot of people. A [xXx] guy behind me was yelling 'You're getting beat by a girl, and she's half you're age!' at one of the boys I passed. Then he yelled 'All out! All out!' at me at the end. I got third place. It was fun."

-Ella, 8, in the 10-12 year-olds' unsanctioned one mile race. (No, it wasn't an alleycat - but the "real" juniors race was 3o minutes. We're not there yet.)

Gold star for mom, who used her James Bond driving skills to get her to the line THREE SECONDS before the start. Warmups are so overrated.

The sketchy start:

Photos courtesy of Luke.

Spring Prairie 4/5

This race barely deserves to be written up. The only thing that really bothers me is that I thought I felt ok, and I can't hang my dismal performance on any one thing, but maybe a few. Overtraining this week? Running too much last weekend after taking the winter off? Too little sleep? Getting soaked in my warmup and standing around for 2 hours to wait out the lightning? Being sketched out by the wet start and playing it safe in the back? Not climbing a hill like that in years? Probably that most of all.

Whatever. Bradley and I broke off at the rollers after the start/finish on the last lap. I drafted him for a spell, then tried to pull him back to the group, but he waved me off. I caught the pack after turn 1, only to fall out again just before the big downhills. I counted a three second gap, and thought "No problem, I can close that on the downhill." Problem is, on the downhill, three seconds is three times further away. 45 mph, chin practically on the top tube, but I could not close it. If only I'd shaved my legs and carried a couple of water bottles!

34th place, two spots out of the main field, a little better than halfway in the standings. Al, however, was in top form, and cleaned it with some solid blocking from the Crew and Pegasus, who had someone trying to bridge.

UPDATED: Messenger Worlds #1 - Berlin 1993

The Worlds are coming up "just down the road" in Toronto. I considered going, but I figure they'll have enough retirees without me posing. It got me digging around in the basement though:

"The U.S. would have been shut out of medals if not for Avi Neurohr of Boston. Neurohr won the 'Most Outrageous Uniform' competition by bunny-hopping onto the course wearing only a sock."
-Bicycling Magazine, October 1993

It had to show up here eventually.

*Update: Just to clear up some confusion, it was a single speed, but back in the stone age, track frames were hard to come by and pretty expensive. To tune your chain slack, you either had to replace your chain as it got stretched out, file out the drops a little deeper, and maybe cobble together a homemade chain slack contraption. It wasn't bulletproof, and I didn't want to drop my chain in the race, so I ran a derailleur without gears or cables.

Ghetto, yes, but I still finished around 40th, despite the fact that I watched at least 25 people skip the last checkpoint (changing a flat) and finish ahead of me. I was also placed in the 16th (and last) row at the start, instead of the 8th, where I was supposed to be. I was supposedly 2nd North American, but everybody knew the results were a total joke. 6 German newspapers reported 6 different winners (from their own city, of course), and nobody reported the fact that a Women's team beat all the Men's teams (Go Running Gags! Thanks for the place to crash, Katherina!)

I was on the news, but the interview was so painfully bad that I resorted to hitting on the reporter. My prize was a Cannondale MTB frame tagged by the messengers who hosted the race. It's still in my basement, unbuilt.

What else? The beer was good and plentiful. The Euros had road bikes, but most everyone else had MTBs with slicks. Boston and SF were the only crews I remember rolling deep on road single speeds. I don't remember meeting anyone from Chicago. NY thought they invented the sport, and the SF guys were pretty high on themselves, too, except for Marcus. He was the last person I saw in Berlin, yelling "BOS-TON!" across the train station as I headed to Amsterdam. I was bummed out to hear that he ODed before the '96 Worlds in SF.

I only noticed a couple riders on "pure" fixed gears (Boston and SF - though see the comments below, there were a few more, no doubt). Two NY guys thought we should skip the formalities and hand the prize to them. They rolled in on tricked out race bikes, and it was obvious they weren't riding their "work bikes" as the rules specified, but nobody really gave a shit about things like that. They ripped on my fellow Bostonians for staying out 'til 6 am in East Berlin the night before the race. (Uh, it's a MESSENGER race, in BERLIN! What, are you gonna come home telling everyone you were tucked in bed the night before?) I remember being very happy to beat both of them.

The Scandinavian teams were cool and wicked fast, and the Danish women were 6 feet tall and smokin' hot. The Germans were uptight roadies and they were about the only ones who took it seriously. Way too seriously.

The Americans were most likely to be tattooed and pierced. One guy worked as a messenger in Afghanistan, and he about cried when he took the stage to a standing ovation. I don't remember much about the intros, but racers generally took to the stage with a healthy amount of braggadocio: "Yeeeaahhh boyeeee! We're gonna kick some mufuckin' ASS tomorrow!" (NY) or elation: "this fucking rocks!" (everyone else). Of the three of us from Boston, nobody felt much like chest thumping or saying anything, so we just walked on stage in our underwear and mess' bags.

It was strangely legitimate. They shut down huge chunks of the city for us, and I don't mean a couple blocks across the tracks. On day 1, we ran through a ped underpass to deliver a package at the "Victory Column"(you might recognize it from Wings of Desire or a U2 video). On day 2, we raced right through Brandenburg Gate. Four years before, it was a checkpoint for East Berliners trying to drive $50 cars into a different world, and we were ripping laps through it. In the finals, we raced ten plus miles through the city, at one point, shunted right into traffic, in a plaza not unlike Times Square. I remember skitching a bus and looking over and seeing a family looking quizzically at my bare ass.

The only real complaint I had about the race was the "hassle" checkpoint. You got there, and you had to get a signature from one of the tables, where they would essentially refuse to take your package or say you were at the wrong table. You had to "convince" them in some way. They were trying to simulate the BS a messenger would have to do, so I don't think it was a terrible idea, but the execution killed the race for everyone but the first few racers to get in. Everyone else got stuck in line, waiting to get to an open table. The entire race was pretty much decided by a sprint from the start to that checkpoint. I had picked up 100 spots pretty easily in the bunch start, but that checkpoint allowed the 5 leaders to be off racing for the win while everyone else stood in line. To be honest, I was surprised the event was as organized as it was - seriously, a bunch of messengers staging a race? In Boston, we would've all ended up in jail.

There was definitely a thread of Euro racers that fancied themselves head and shoulders above everyone else. Another Bostonian and I came back from riding in the city, and there was a gaggle of Euro racer dudes sitting at a picnic table. Pat was kinda punk rock looking, pierced face and all, and he rolled up on his Pinarello (single speed, with a straight bar), right up next to their table. He did a nose wheelie in slow motion, gently placed his back wheel on the bench, then powered up into a wheelie with the front wheel crossed up. For one instant, he froze and looked like was going to do a trials move up onto the table, but he just set it down nice and gentle. The roadies didn't say a word, but all the messengers standing around went completely apeshit.

It wasn't a scene, it wasn't a posefest, it was a bunch of freaks throwin' down and gettin' stupid together. Maybe I will go to Toronto after all.

training weekend

Or, more accurately, coaching weekend. Highlights included watching my eight-year-old daughter thread the needle on her new road bike.

Highly anxious moments included watching my eight-year-old daughter thread the needle on her new road bike.

However, in no time, she was drilling nose wheelies, skitching tows, and telling cars to get their driving balls back. Kidding aside, she is totally capable of riding miles in traffic (taking the sidewalk when it's smarter to do so) without my input. It's a beautiful thing. I had to move the tag-along over to a ss road bike, so her brother and I could keep up. Another highlight was having him as a stoker, feeling him kick it up a hill so we could beat her.

In other news, my wife finally did the women's track clinic at the Velodrome, two years after offhandedly opting in. For those of you not in on the joke, my daughter asked mom why she didn't race on Friday nights. Mom replied "why not?" - not really caring one way or the other, but mostly wanting to show her that it's fun to try new things, to race, even if it's all a little intimidating. Of course, that's all I needed to start building up a track bike. A long-lost friend of hers, who had messengered in Chicago ten years back, heard this and gifted her a Campy Record pursuit tubular wheelset (coincidentally built by Marcus), with the only condition "that she race them." So that's how she ended up with the nicest track bike in the family.

And the only one to hang in the basement, unridden for two years. And by unridden, I mean "never borne the pressure of a human on the saddle."

I'm not giving her grief on the subject, since it's about twelve thousand times more difficult to be supermom than it is to be me (especially being supermom in a family that has me in it, who practically counts as one of the kids, but with a salary). She missed a couple women's clinics in the meantime, until this last weekend.

Six tattooed and pierced women in their 20s, two experienced roadies in their 30s, and my wife. I should point out that she's so busy being supermom that she takes about one bike ride per year, in a triathlon. She half-jokingly introduced herself as "I don't know anything about this, I'm just here because my husband built this bike and told me to come to the clinic. He told me to get a picture to make sure I wasn't running off to get a pedicure." She got the impression that some of the tattooed ladies were rather scornful of the subservient picture she painted. If they only knew that she's the Generalissimo around here, and she signed up solely to be a role model for her daughter. Tattoos don't make you tough, ladies, try being Supermom.

I half expected her to come home terrified from her first fixed gear experience. In short: loved clocking laps, not so crazy about the racing. Partly because she doesn't feel particularly conditioned at the moment, but also because she didn't come to prove anything, unlike many of her classmates. She enjoyed the team pursuit a lot more than the miss and out. However, she informed me that she's still planning on following through with her promise; she is going to race some Friday. Two more weeks until opening night!

debut

After so many years of making fun of lycra-clad shaven roadies...I've become one: Wapello-Mediapolis. Memorial Day weekend, 2008.

With all of 100 miles of training time on a geared bike, I was looking forward to a proper road race. I suspect I'm more of an all-rounder and climber, though I barely leave the confines of Cook county, hardly a training ground for mountain champs. In other words, I can't say that I'm crazy about my chances in a race that involves doing laps and beating everyone in a sprint. To be honest, I've never even contested a proper sprint, unless you count cars.

With that said, I didn't expect it to be so challenging. 24 miles? Cat 5? No problem!

The race turns out to be a three-legged u-turn. First we head into the wind, relaxed at 18-20* mph. Even this turns out to be enough to drop four of the starting 15. I count heads and think "If I beat just one of these guys, I'll medal." I tell myself that's how losers think. Winners think about winning.

(*Note: I accidentally reset my speedometer at the start line, so I'm not sure the wheel diameter was calibrated correctly. The speed figures are approximate.)

We turn into a tail-y crosswind, and it picks up to 24ish. I'm at the back of a long line, focusing on staying tight amidst the accordion efforts. Still waiting for something to happen. Somebody leads us through a patch of gravel and some panic braking almost leads to trouble. Adrenaline going, I find myself in sudden trauma trying to hang on at 28 mph...29...30...I find myself looking at a gap ten feet out, for the first a couple real points of panic: MY RACE ENDS HERE IF I DON'T GET THAT WHEEL BACK. I get it back. I look out from behind my pacer to see we're all separated: four ahead, seven of us a hundred yards back. Shit. This is why you don't hang out back here.

Everyone fades but three of us. We're all looking at each other, but I know I was just coming back from redlining, and not about to charge after them. I suspect we all felt the same. Suddenly, a fourth joins us, "Well, are we gonna get 'em, or what?" He sounds more than a little annoyed with our lack of effort. Green hits it, red hits it, white hits it for an anemic pull, and it's my turn.

The fear of getting dropped by the wayside seems to keep me from giving it 100%. What if they use me up and I'm off the back as they bridge? But then something else kicks in: who fucking cares anyway? What, am I going to sit in like a wuss to protect seventh? I may not be as strong as green or red, but I'm not gonna punk out like white jersey. I throw it all out there, and then some, and damn near bridge us all the way back. I'm about two seconds from dropping when green takes over and I slip in to hug his wheel tight. I recover, heaving. We're back in. Eight of us in the lead pack now.

We make the turn into the final third, and hit the first "real" climb. Actually five of the last seven miles are a steady climb, but the tailwind negates much of it. I'd told myself I would cover any attacks here, maybe launch a few soft ones to see what happens, and maybe a full attack. In typical fashion, I think too little and attack too hard.

I peel off left and look back, trying to see who's coming up, trying to not block anyone in...I lose focus for a minute, touch the yellow line, and the course marshal beeps. He comes up, gives me a warning, and by the time I slip back in, the line is strung out far (good!) and I get in at fourth. Only one small problem: there's a gap ahead of third. Strong white (who I believe was pulling up front since the gun) and green are off. Third is not closing it. Sixth and seventh are not coming up to help, and punk white is off the back. I realize I have to get it back. I go, and no one tails me. I'm out in no man's land...closer, closer, closer...then further, further, further...

Four of us group up and try to get them. We take pulls at 27ish, still climbing a bit, but we're clunky or maybe just not fast enough. I'm dying. I drop back a slot in the rotation after every pull for a couple extra seconds of rest. I get a couple looks like "you're up" but wave them through. I'm not pulling my weight, and we're losing the two leaders anyway.

I take 30 seconds in back to breathe, and hit it hard. Was it an attack? A last ditch attempt to get the group going? Whatever it was, we're about at the next uptick in the hill, and I go, holding 29+. I'm long and strong up the hill, and in the process, sixth is off the back. Three of us now, racing for third. I'm feeling good, so I stay there. I suspect they are leaving me out to save it for the sprint for bronze but I don't care.

True enough, I see a "1000 meters" sign. Hooray! No, shit! I'm in the front! Bad!

Three things I know about sprinting:
1. I have no idea where and when to start.
2. I have almost no experience at it whatsoever.
3. I know I shouldn't be in front.
Long story short, I pull over and damn near stop. I would have track-stood to get into the final spot, but stragglers were creeping up the hill, so I settled for drafting red while he wound up. I came around him just right, but I realized orange was doing the same to me...I'm not surprised to be in at fourth. All I can think about is how I should have dropped back into a tight spot after my attack, instead of being so damn careful not to box anyone in. Live and learn.

Turns out Strong White Jersey won it, leading wire to wire, and that he's been a, um, "successful" Cat 5 for a number of years now. WTF?

race report haiku

first road bike; first race
climb five miles for fourth. then
seventh at the snake!

I don't have time for a full report, but I did the Wapello-Mediapolis road race on Friday, the Snake Alley crit on Saturday, and I came home with a pair of medals. More details later, but I will say this, a tiny mental slip-up (I was expecting more) cost me top three in the road race, and I nipped two spots to get into 5th at the last topout of snake alley, only to freewheel my way around, thinking I had another lap. I did, however, get the last medaled spot, so I came home with a couple bits of hardware clanging around my neck. What's that kids? I can't hear you! Yeah, yeah, I know they medaled pretty deep, (and it's only cat 5), but hey, it's nice to come home from my first two (geared and sanctioned) bike races with something.

Y.A.F.G.B.A.

Yet Another Fixed Gear Bandwagon Article.

This isn't particularly fascinating, considering that "this single speed/fixed gear thing is really catching on" and "my-day-on-a-fixed-gear" columns are so frickin' commonplace these days, that I don't even bother to link them anymore...

But, once upon a time, after my first couple months messing, I stripped down an old Torpado and flipped and chopped the bars back in Boston...so for days gone by, I'll link another one from the Boston Globe.

Summary: Newbie gets a "Boston" Langster, gets the local messengers to weigh in on it, finds himself irresistible to the ladies (one lady, at least), gets the nerve to flip it to fixed, gets passed by pregnant joggers and old people walking, impresses a local hipster. Yawn.

Not very remarkable, but a lot of references to the "messenger tribe" - man is that getting old (ok, I've used it myself, plenty, but I think I'll stop now). But the messenger reviews are always interesting. They don't like the drop bars, as "risers have been popular in Boston since the 90's"...they don't think the carbon fork/seat post will be strong enough...they think aluminum is too fragile and steel is more appropriate for the rough stuff.

I always take it with a grain of salt when someone gets "the messengers' opinions" on something, because 10 guys will have 10 opinions. Like I've said before, the options are endless...when I was there, and I'm sure it's still true: there's messing in Boston with drops, flats, risers, fixed, free, brakes, brakeless, steel, aluminum, carbon...if I learned one thing there, it was that everybody had their own favorite, and lots of people switched it up just for kicks. Half the fun is just mixing it up.

Back to your day jobs, not much to see here. I think I may officially swear off these articles. Besides, my geared bike should be here in three days, perhaps in time to ride the Monsters of the Midway :)

It's on, baby. It's ON.

Breaking Away references notwithstanding, it's no secret that most bike fanatics love Italy. The land that gave us Campy, a framebuilder in every village, and Giorgio Moroder.

Michelangelo, of course, gave us perfection in oil and stone, at least the closest thing to perfection that anyone had achieved to date. Giorgio Moroder, on the other hand...if you're still scratching your head: he's the guy that did the background music for Flashdance and Scarface. As a matter of fact, if you picked a movie made between 1980 and 1984, when a character was looking wistfully off in the distance, and one shot was dissolving into another, cheesy dramatic synthesizer music in the background...that cheesy music...THAT's Giorgio Moroder.

Where am I going with this? I've wanted an Italian racing bike since around the time Giorgio was doing lines off his Moog. Somewhere between Pasadena and Chicago, there's a Pinarello with my name on it: aluminum & carbon fiber frame, 1350 gram clinchers, 17 pounds, race-ready with a where-it-counts mix of 105 brakes to Campy carbon fiber rear derailleur.

...and it's got the ugliest paint job ever. It screams 1983. It's the anti-Colnago. Oh well, all the better to fly under the radar. Say hello to my little friend.


I'm gonna have to change the name of this blog.

things you can learn from an 8-year-old

If you raced, and you didn't win, you'd better have learned something. Yesterday I learned what my daughter does at every swim meet: when you're doing multiple heats, write your start time and race number on your arm with a sharpie. It'll save you from getting to the line three minutes late.

With that said, it was a time trial, and an ABR one at that, so they were pretty relaxed about bumping me down a few spots and sorting it all out at the finish line.

A race report on a time trial is about as exciting as a paint-drying report. So I'll try not to put you to sleep. I've never been to one of these before, but it's a different crowd. The mean age is about 50 (even the guys my age looked like dentists, or roadies who have the money to line up in a crit, but not the cajones). Damn near everyone has a five thousand dollar bike and many have a $200 helmet. All the more reason to show up on a single speed, in a skull-covered tri suit. Seriously, other than my bling CF saddle, I felt a little ghetto. My bullhorns are little bent (from the accident that bought that saddle :), and my unorthodox brake lever mounts (one in the drops, one on the flats) meant the officials had to give my bike an extra look-over.

Imperceptible wind, 60 degrees...it doesn't get much better, especially when the wind can ruin a singlespeeder's day. I was killing it, holding it at 24+ mph for most of the first half, hitting 29ish on the downhills and keeping pretty steady on the mild climbs. I caught my "minute man," pretty fast, then before the turnaround, I caught my 7 and 10 minute men too. Halfway into the 30k, I hammered up the hill, pulled a nose wheelie stop at the cone, a u-turn, and hammered back down. I had 4-5 minute men laid out in front of me. I caught 3 of them immediately. There must have been a mild tailwind, because I was having no trouble holding it at 25-26 mph, and I had so many rabbits to chase. My 50 minute target time was totally in the bag, and my "daydream" time of 45 minutes looked possible after all.

That was the high point of the day.

I got a flat. I rode on it for over three miles. Sitting way back on the saddle, fingertips on the flats of my bar, I was still able to do 18-20 mph. A couple of race marshals blasting Nirvana at one of the corners helped me out (I'm pretty sure it was Sammy Hagar and his roadie wife, who, I found out later, flashed one of the competitors as he was sailing through the corner!) I was signed up for two heats, so I was hoping to get back and swap the tube. I tried to pump it up but I'd trashed it and it wouldn't hold, so Hagar let me borrow his wheel.

I tried to relax a bit on the ride in, since I'd put my all into the first heat...now I was having to save some for the second try. However, I started to watch the numbers of the riders starting out, and I realized it was coming up on my start time...so I put myself into the red zone just to get back for heat two!

I made it with three minutes to spare. Rip off one number, juice up, drain a gu, and line up...only to discover I should've gone three minutes ago! The judges were pretty cool about it, and let me start anyway.

So I did heat two on a heavy, not-so-aero wheel, and no speedometer. I fought as hard as I could, but I was clearly off from my first heat. I grabbed a few minute men, but unlike my first heat, got caught by a couple who started behind me.

There was one in particular who was in the distance for about half the race. I'd gain a couple hundred yards on him, then lose them back. Virtually everyone had "proper" trial bars and gears, many had those "Alien vs. Predator" helmets. Usually I can trail a bike for a few seconds and guess about whether I can catch, pass, or hang on to their speed, but it's hard to tell when everyone's in their submarine position with a smooth cadence.

So I finally start to soak up the gap on this one guy, and I think, "This sucks, I've spent $30 on gas, $45 on racing, I was on fire, and now I'm toast. This is my race. I.am.going.to.beat.that.guy." (I knew that he started minutes ahead of me, and technically, I had already made up my ground, but I wanted to cross the line ahead of him.)

So I kept at it, and this Winston Churchill quote popped into my head: "Never, never, never give up." I used to see that quote on a billboard, going to see my mother in Detroit, when she was in her final months of treatment. I remembered that one year ago this weekend, I surprised her by showing up on her birthday, a birthday that we all knew would likely be her last. That REALLY got me going. And, like I thought so many times in my marathon training last summer, "this ain't SHIT compared to cancer treatment."

So I damn-near-redlined and recovered, over and over, and reeled him in. When I passed him, I saw that he had no idea I was there, and I could also see that he was probably cooked. I thought he might be able to shift and bear down and get me, so I just laid it all out hard. I knew the finish was nearby, and I thought I saw it in the distance.

I was busy trying to figure out if I could hammer all the way to those orange cones a half mile away, when to my surprise, I passed the finish line! I pulled over to discover he was 3-5 seconds behind me and as he rolled by, he yelled "DAMN!" ...and not in a nice way, in a "if I had a wall to punch through, I would" kind of way. He continued his outburst coasting back to the lot...I cut back to the finish table to make sure they had my proper start time and the clock man said "I think you made that guy a little mad. He has a $5,000 bike and he couldn't catch you."

"Then my work here is done." (Grin)

After all was said and done, I finished in 53:24 on heat one, and 53:09 on heat two. Had I stayed on form, I coulda woulda shoulda medaled in my division in 4/5th place, with a time in the 46s. What did I learn? That with a $5-10,000 bike, I could rack up wins and medals well into my golden years. That riding 700x20s is a bit of a gamble, when even a little stone can give you a pinch flat. Though, I may have to take that risk again and do another TT soon. Maybe I can piss off someone else at the line.

UPDATE: I'm not sure why I thought someone did it in 27 minutes, maybe there was a sheet posted with overall records or something. The fastest time of the day was 42:24, so I wasn't too far off, given what happened. I ended up 18th in Cat 4...out of 21; lame. But I cracked the top ten in Masters' 30+ (ok there were only 11 in the field). Also lame.

Obama's Breaking Away

Everyone's favorite contender (mine at least) stopped by the Little 500 yesterday.

He could've undone his embarrassment on the bowling lanes by doing a Madison sling out on the cinders, but hey, I'll still vote for him.

If anyone out there has a fat plasma and HDNet, invite me over to watch it live in HD.

Criterium in downtown Chicago!

Word.

I don't know where to begin:
1. The city is hosting a criterium in downtown Chicago.
2. Four corners, a wacky chicane, and a couple of "Chicago hills."
3. Cat 5 to Pro!
4. Jumbotron, baby, JUMB-O-TRON!

Say what you want about our Mayor, but he's a big fan of cycling (and hey, let's not forget he's a big fan of scoring the Olympics). What better way to impress the committee than to host a big fat sporting event in the shadow of Buckingham fountain?

It reminds me of Berlin's similar efforts in hosting the first Cycle Messenger Championship, with the hopes of scoring the summer Olympics, but that's a story for another day.

Daley may be crooked and power-mad, but it's always fashionable to hate on messengers, and yet he sometime seems to shine their shoes: "The bike messengers are a breed unto themselves. I got to meet a lot of them so I know a lot of them. They've got a job to do, and like anything else, they are respecting the laws on the road and all that, and the rules."

Word to the Mayor. What's next? Do you think he'll close down the streets for the Tour da Chicago?

The press release just popped today, so settle down, registration's not open yet. Find out more at www.chicagocriterium.us

bringing sexy back

I kicked off my sanctioned road racing career. I did NOT shave my legs, slather on the embrocation, wear padded shorts or a lycra jersey. I came home with a crisp roadie tan line on each arm, and I'm not happy about it, but wife beaters aren't legal. Apparently my old company jersey just doesn't fit like it used to (guess which one is me). At least I wasn't hanging out the front of it...

I did race single speed, with a straight bar. You run what you brung, and that's all I got.

Yeah, yeah, what was I thinking...here's a snapshot of what was running through my mind:
-I haven't been dropped yet.
-wtf am I doing here?
-wow, I haven't been dropped yet.

I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, not even in your Breaking Away dreams does someone win such a thing, but it was fun. Highlights:
-Not getting dropped
-Not crashing

Open Cat 5 was fast and tight and occasionally frightening. I was in the mix most of the race, but was damn near off the back with 800 meters to go. At 300 meters, about half the pack either bonked or gave up, and I clawed my way back to finish 22/50. The Crew took 4 of the top 5 spots, executing a brilliant leadout train. Despite what I've heard about "Crash 5" races, it was surprisingly clean.

I wasn't sure what to expect in Masters 30+ Cat 4/5, but let's just say it was neither fast nor tight. It did however, make me feel 10 years younger. Woulda, coulda, shoulda, but let's just say if I had but one more gear and a collaborator, it would have been a different story, but every surge was countered with a good long rest. The course was a brilliant motorcycle racing track with about 8-9 turns (none too tight to pedal through) but the crosswinds were murder. Since "breakaway" was clearly not in anyone's vocabulary, I was free to hang at the back of the pack, and hide from the wind on whichever side I needed. There was lots of yelling and some panic braking. One guy alongside me told me to watch my line (which was totally straight btw), though he was literally so far away from me, that someone else could almost have ridden between us. One guy was even using hand signals and calling out "slowing!" My primary goal was to stay off the pavement in the company of such knuckleheads.

I "almost" got a prime - meaning I came from the back to take 3rd, though I was 30 yards off the winner. I probably could have taken the wind-sheltered gutter a little more aggressively before the final turn, but I was convinced there was a crash in the making. While the Cat 5s had started whipping it up at this point, these guys were snaking out wide, back and forth, looking backwards, like they've seen on so many Tours de France. I'd hoped to be at "the front of the middle third" by then, but I played it too safe. I might be spinning a different yarn had I gotten mashed up. It ended like a abbreviated version of my first race: the sprint started late, finished early, and I soaked up as many spots as I could while half the pack was in oxygen debt, finishing 21/50. I gotta get me a proper road bike.

I came around fast on the rest lap and got permission to do the Cat 4/5 race, but it was full at 75 racers, and after they counted everyone up, they came in and pulled me out. It's probably for the best, because it was longer, faster, had a bunch of crashes, and from what I heard, was even more chock full of angry roadies yelling about somesuch thing. The Crew had a nice pull at the end, but they needed one more man to take it all the way to the line, and they got nipped.

Good times. At least it didn't end like this.

Epic with a capital E

There aren't a lot of multi-stage off-road races. It's a brilliant idea, but the European tradition of six day classics just hasn't mated itself often to the off-road scene. It's unfortunate, as it looks like fun, but the logistics have got to be a nightmare (Could you just hike over that mountain and hand me my feedbag at around noon? Bring a wheelset just in case.)

However, organizers of the Cape Epic haven't let that bother them. Sadly, it's in South Africa, so unless there's a sponsor out there looking to send a blogger, it just ain't gonna happen for me anytime soon.

There's so much to scope out and plan for in the most basic race...mud, singletrack, rocks, roots, climbs, DHs...it would seem ludicrous to try to do one on a single speed. But then, single speeders are kind of ludicrous anyway.

So when these two cats found each other and formed a 'team' to run the Cape Epic on single speeds, well, let's just say, they were guaranteed a podium finish (415th overall). Sounds like fun, but then again, if I had a custom IF Ti ss off-road machine, I'd be happy to ride it for 61 hours myself.

Which got me thinking...hmmm, the 24 hours of 9 Mile is coming up, and while I don't have a race-worthy ss mountain bike, I do have a ss 'cross bike...ludicrous is as ludicrous does...

it's getting sloppy out there

This is what happens when you start to see alley cats crop up in places like St. Augustine, Florida: accidents, cops, tickets, and collisions.

Part of me wants to say "rock on."

However, more of me wants to say "this is grown folks business and you best handle your ride first."

For obvious reasons, my heart's just not into 'cat racing at the moment, but it's true, there's nothing like it, and I surely can't hold it against anyone for wanting to give it a go. But that's the kind of pack you stay out of.

Photos from the event. Whiskey and wheels, indeed.

Why post it? Well, there are lots of 'cats sprouting up everywhere, but I thought this one was worth mentioning if only because it's in a dinky little town with nary a courier in site (iirc, the site of the oldest jail in North America) and because two, yes TWO, of the competitors launched on or over the hoods of cars. A coincidence?

one guy you don't want checking you into the boards

Dhani Jones: Cincinnati Bengal, occasional rugby player, linebacker, special teams captain.

And, according to the Bengals' profile, Dhani will "continue to eschew a car in favor of the Fixie, his fixed-gear bicycle."

Word.

Matthew Manger-Lynch, 1978-2008

The Tour da Chicago is no more.

For the "official" rundown, read the Chicago Tribune version of events; please skip the hundreds of snarky comments. The local news, for lack of anything substantial to report, cobbled together a story from youtube clips. It was less than flattering.

There's so much more to the story, but this much needs to be said: Matt was out front. He was riding boldly and aggressively. He made a bad decision. He couldn't undo it in time. From what I hear, that sounds like him.

Matt's family are sportsmen (and women), adventurers, outdoorsmen, risk-takers, achievers...and they welcomed the other racers with open arms. We should all be so lucky to have a family like that, a family capable of celebrating a life so vigorously in the wake of such an event. Their response was uplifting and inspiring; some even urged the racers to continue the Tour. The idea was not well received.

Had things happened differently, Matt would probably be taking a long pull, without any complaints, at the front of the Stage Four right about now.

now that's racing

Six kegs, scantily clad cheerleaders on the podium, a late nip at the line when the leader paused for a beer grab, a "tequila shortcut" on the course, and a heckling contest. Sounds like fun. Sounds like the inaugural Single Speed Cyclocross Championships.

OK, it's old news (a month old). But after wrapping up the last weekend of the 'cross season, I came across this and realized...*that* was the race I wish I were at. Once upon a time, mountain bike racing was the antithesis of the road racing scene, for better or worse, with a number of racers indulging in "a rolled one and a cold one" right at the finish line (and some before the start line). Even a couple years ago, 'cross was sort of the bastard child offspring of the two, and the racers reflected it, in a bit of laissez faire racing, if there could be such a thing. Now it seems 'cross is the fastest growing segment in competitive cycling (the NY Times is weighing in on it no less) and with it, the fields are twice as crowded, and there seems to be more of an icy roadie vibe.

I saw a couple of Cat 4s nearly come to blows over some mid-race skirmish. Another guy was taunting a fellow racer after beating him, and not in a friendly "nice race man" kind of way. I thought, wtf? Cat 4? You just came in 2oth in Cat 4 and you're taunting someone? Why don't you go find some middle school and challenge some kids to 3-on-3? For the record, I finished 17th (on less than three hours of sleep, but that's another story), and while I rode a pretty clean race, it quickly became a 3-way battle for me, only half a lap into it. Maybe it's just me, but if you're in the FIRST LAP of a race, and you're watching a gap open up in front of you, I think you need to let somebody by, somebody that will close that gap. Sadly, the 3-4 inches of snow off the course prevented normal passing outside of a couple areas.

So instead of staying in the "ant march" at the front of the pack for as long as I could, I got caught up in a grudge match. I eventually dropped the other two guys, but not before we were well out of sight of the leaders. All because a single speeder couldn't mind his gap. I'm not blaming it on his single-speedness (mind you, I was riding a solo and I had no problem putting him away, and a couple of geared guys to boot), but a decent racer should know when he's holding up the field (IN THE FIRST LAP), and be decent about it. Of course, I could have been a little more vocal, like "Close that gap, man, or let me!" Oh well, racing's all about learning what to do better next time, right?

Still, reading about the SS 'Cross Championships in Portland, it made me realize that I was at the wrong race. Yeah, we had our share of castaways, like the guy who still cross-dressed, even though it didn't get double series points this year, and a couple of messenger types who were dressed for work and still made top ten, but there was just a lot of that bitter roadie energy this time around. Whatever dudes. It made me hungry for a winter alley cat.

stop the madness already

The mainstream media seems to be piling on in the wake of the death of a fixed gear rider. This article, from Seattle's Stranger, is a surprisingly in-depth analysis of the situation. A newbie FG rider, who may or may not have been hotdogging, was run over by a dump truck. Even if he were hotdogging, he still didn't deserve to die, but because the community perpetrates this meme that having a brake on a FG dilutes the purity of the experience, he was riding a bike that significantly contributed to his death.

Unfortunately, the article misses some key opportunities to set a few things straight. The author, an experienced cyclist, tries out a brakeless fixed gear and finds it to be more or less the most dangerous and terrifying experience he's known on two wheels. OK, that's fine...but there's no real attempt to clarify the skillset involved. It's either "you have quads of steel and you can track skid" or "you'll get thrown into traffic." It just ought to be pointed out that it's possible to ride fixed gear bikes in traffic, and do so extremely safely, but two things are critical: a front brake and some experience.

The lessons to be learned, before another sheep is slaughtered at the altar of hipster transportation: Put a front brake on it. Learn the principles of a nose wheelie. Even if you never pull a nose wheelie day to day, if you panic brake, you will instinctively learn to soak up the bike's inertial efforts to rotate around the front wheel. If you stiffen up your legs in that panic, the entire bike will rotate around the front wheel and all of those lovely foot*pounds (that could be used to hold your front wheel down, multiply the friction coefficient and therefore shorten stopping distance) will instead be translated into an "endo" or a "faceplant."

However, the real asshat proves to be Lloyd Tamura of Velo Bicycles, who sells a lot of fixed gear bikes but doesn't "advise one way or another" about a front brake, adding "you can't tell people 'You're not experienced enough to ride this.'"

You can't, huh? You just take their money and what they do with the product is their problem? Great idea, why don't you sell motorcycles and loaded weapons while you're at it, Lloyd? If you were clever, you'd have a FG clinic every week where skilled riders could demonstrate how stopping quickly can save your life. You could hire a hipster and I to ride down the street at the same speed, and when someone opens a door/steps into traffic/cuts us off, the flavor of the month will be looking for fragments of his teeth, and I will be 20 feet back, well out of harm's way, maybe doing a one-hander.

I keep trying to let this go, but when I read about some kid on an FG who got run over because it's not "cool" to use a front brake, I have a hard time shutting up about it.

fight the gearmonkey urge

I thought it was a bit absurd when gear manufacturers made a big deal of going from 7 to 8 speed rear cogs, then 8 to 9. Yes, you increase your range, but the fact is, you have to be a pretty accomplished rider to use the full range, and you have to really be in some odd spots to need most of them. One of the reasons I originally went to single speed is because as I got stronger, I started using three gears tops...then two. I got tired of dropping my chain and it seemed silly to drag around a bunch of parts to shift every once in a while, so I dropped to one. I can understand a granny gear on the front is critical on say, a loaded touring bike, but if you can't close your ride on 14 gears, and you think you need 21, 24, 27...well, guess what, you're probably just a gearmonkey and the bike industry loves you.

As a matter of fact, this is one of the ways the bike industry has moved backwards. In the 1970's, even amateur European cyclists could show up at a race and assemble their rear cog out of the trunk, based on the scouting information about the day's route. Next year, Campy expects to release wireless shifters. I'm not saying we have to go back to cobbled parts and sketchy builds, but can't they just make it strong, light, and aero (or some combination of that at a couple price points)?

Instead we have the gearmonkey machine. The gearmonkey comes home sore, possibly beaten, and rather than think "I got beat today - I need to train" they think..."I got beat by a guy with a thumb-activated carbon fiber seat post height adjuster...I need to find one of those." OK, maybe I'm being a little snarky, but the fact is, it's hard to be an accomplished athlete, and it's usually easier to buy better equipment.

The gearmonkey machine certainly isn't limited to the bike industry, just check out the last ten pages of any sport magazine. A runner buys a pair of shoes. A gearmonkey buys a pair of shoes, performance socks, a couple of coolmax jerseys (short and longsleeve), running tights with built-in circulation-promoting knee supports, and a bandolier full of tiny bottles and pockets for gu. I'm not saying there aren't advantages to be had from advanced gear, but you need to be an advanced athlete to maximize those advantages.

But wait, you say, your bike costs $200 a pound, and is loaded with carbon fiber bling...how can you take the high road? Well, I don't have a bulletproof response for that, except to say that I wanted to build my dream bike, and once I did, I haven't changed much on it. I am in the process of beating the tar out of it. When it breaks, I'll replace something. In the meantime, I have about 20+ patches on those tubes. It may look like a million bucks, but it's built to last a million miles, not to show it off until the next flavor of the month part comes out.

I'm not saying you can't buy the best gear for your bike, but if you find that you spend more time searching for parts than you do riding them, you might be a gearmonkey. If you love trying new sports, but immediately identify a slew of "must haves" before you've accomplished much, you might be a gearmonkey. (As an aside, I realize I'm a bit of a guitar gearmonkey...but I'm buying cheap, often crap gear, to learn on, which is something else altogether.)

So this brings me to today's link: the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel (and a host of other blogs, I'm sure) report that the Chequamegon Mountain Bike Festival 40 Mile race was won by a guy on a single speed. This is pretty significant, in that it's no Sunday afternoon race. It's one of the grand-daddies of the mountain bike movement, especially if you're stuck living 600 miles from a proper mountain range.

This guy shows up and races a bunch of gearmonkeys, but more importantly, a bunch of athletes to boot, and kicks the field on one speed. Even his sponsor, ole grand dad Gary Fisher himself, reacted somewhere along the lines of "groovy man, but how are we supposed to sell geared bikes?"

Amen brother. Stop the gearmonkey machine.