54 posts tagged “cycling”

I'd been looking forward to this weekend's ride for a while, and not just because of my sweet new shoes.  I'm currently in the middle of training for my ninth century ride, and while I am reluctant to say the drill has become routine, none - at this point - of our Saturday rides are new to me.  The last time I ventured out to a locale I'd never experienced before by bicycle was 2006.  And that's fine; I sure do enjoy most of the rides on the schedule.  But then, some say variety is the spice of life.  It was that adventurous spirit that had me so eagerly anticipating the new terrain.

Bryantown, Maryland is down near Waldorf (home of Dabysan's favorite band: Good Charlotte), and truth be told, I've been there once before.  I drove a support car for last year's Seagull Team when they did this ride.  But driving the course in a car is hardly the same as being on a bike.  I could tell you the topography of every inch of most of our rides - even those I've only done a couple of times.  But driving the course is different.  I remember this ride being mostly flat.  It wasn't.  And some of those hills were doozies.  I did, though, remember the small enclave of Amish farms that lend the ride its name. And so I have a small confession to make: Maryland rides are way, way better than Virginia rides.  Like vitually everywhere else, Virginia and Maryland are engaged in a small local rivalry.  I settled in Virginia long ago, and I'm not sure what it would now take to convince me to relocate to Maryland.  DC, sure - I could see that.  But there's no way in hell I would move to Maryland, and I don't really know why.  I mean, I work in Maryland, and I commute over an hour each way to get there.  And this isn't one of those rational rivalries, like Michigan and Ohio, where Michigan - or in this case, Virginia - is so vastly superior that taking the opposite side is madness.  They're pretty much the the same.  Except that Virginia rules and Maryland drools.  QED.  So it's a little alarming to me to realize that, given the choice, I'd opt for Bryantown over, say, Gainesville or Middleburg.  Bryantown doesn't even have pie.  Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I can get there in half an hour.  Or maybe it has something to do with the motorists in Gainesville and Middleburg being total assholes.
Anyway, it was a pretty great ride all in all.  The temperate weather was a welcome respite from the typical cauldron that is DC in August, and I pushed myself more than I have in some time - finishing my fifty miles in just under three and a half hours.  That puts my full century pace at just under seven hours (assuming I could maintain that pace for another fifty miles, which I can't), which means I am finally beginning to approach that goal I set for myself a year ago.  On the way home, I saw a sign for the Doctor Mudd House (the very same Doctor Mudd who set John Wilkes Booth's broken leg) so I took a short detour.  It cost five bucks to get in, and I figured my chances of meeting Sarah Vowell were slim, so I took a picture and drove on home.

Contrary to popular opinion, guys sometimes get excited about new shoes, too.  And Italian shoes, no less.  Eat your heart out, Carrie Bradshaw.

I just loaded my bike in the car and was pleased to note that it's significantly cooler this morning than it has been the past few days.  It's significantly cooler because it's going to start raining any minute now.  Wonderful.  I should have just said weeks ago that I wasn't going to be able to ride this week.  Then I could have gone to the Bon Iver show last night.  I've made a huge mistake.

And... just before I hit 'Save' on this post, my phone rings.  We're canceling the ride because of thunderstorms out in West Bumfuck where we were supposed to be.  I see it's going to be another one of those days.

I woke up this morning before my alarm and immediately wanted to shut it off and try to go back to sleep until about noon.  I recognized that wasn't going to be possible because this is one of my weeks to sweep the course - and I wasn't about to shirk my duty - but such thoughts were nevertheless comforting in the still of the pre-dawn.  I glanced at the alarm.  It was almost five.  I could snooze for another half-hour or so, but that would leave me short on time for breakfast.  I had to be out the door by six.  Our ride time is thirty minutes earlier now that it's August.

So I grudgingly forced myself out of bed and realized as my feet hit the floor that today is only Friday and I had to go to work instead.  It's going to be one of those days.

Dave Zabriskie is a time-trial specialist for the Garmin/Chipotle cycling team.  Yinz will no doubt remember them as the team for which I am rooting in this year's Tour de France, but Dave Zabriskie is not riding with them.  He's sitting out this tour after crashing and fracturing a vertebra on the second stage of the Giro d'Italia last May.  Ordinarily, missing the world's premier cycle race might be a bit of a disappointment for a professional cyclist, but in this case it's offered Dave Zabriskie the opportunity to pursue other interests.  Like developing his own chamois cream.  I gotta hand it to Dave Zabriskie: his marketing slogan - the title of this post - makes the name of his product seem downright subtle.

America's Most Beautiful Bike Ride is today.  It's happening right now.  If I were there, I'd likely have recently left the lunch stop at King's Beach and would be mentally bracing myself for the long, slow climb up Spooner Mountain.  I was supposed to be there.

I look forward to the ride around Lake Tahoe every year, and it disappoints me that I had to pull the plug on this ride about six weeks ago.  50/50 Club aside, even after the weather became temperate this spring I was far too busy to train adequately and to raise the money.  And most significantly, I doubted that I would even be able to take the time off work to make the trip, which turned out exactly to be the case.  So for the first time since 2003 I am at home in Virginia on the first weekend in June, wishing I was in the mountainous west.

The thing about the long bike rides is that even though they may not be enjoyable for every single moment I am on my bicycle, they are always enjoyable after the fact.  There is something deeply satisfying about completing a goal that sounds borderline insane.  Below is a recap (as long as I've gotten to rehashing older material) of my second tour around the pond and I think it's about the best job I have ever done of capturing exactly why these rides are so important to me.  I'm generally not so great with words, but I do get lucky sometimes.
 

Heartbreakers

All told, I spent eleven hours in four different airports last Friday, and arrived at my destination at 4AM EDT.  I once spent twelve hours in JFK and was awake for about 40 due to a cancelled flight, and I can say without the risk of hyperbole that this was a million times worse.  At least when I touched down after that marathon I was in Shanghai, rather than the self-proclaimed Biggest Little City in the World.  And American gave me 50,000 miles for my trouble.  America West didn't even buy us lunch.  A wise man once said "The waiting is the hardest part."  After Friday, I was inclined to agree with him.

Saturday, fortunately, passed almost entirely without incident.  I retrieved my bicycle from Ziva's room to find it had come off the truck with a flat, but I managed to change the tube in about five minutes - a far cry from the feature-length comedy of errors that was my first attempt not so very long ago.  We went for our short ride and then I met up with Bill, who drove up from San Francisco for the penny slots and a beer at the Hard Rock Cafe.  After the pasta dinner, I prepared my gear for the next day's ride and shut off the light at about nine-thirty to get some sleep.

Except I didn't.  I tossed and turned all night.  I didn't sleep well last year, either, but at least I slept some.  I may have drifted off for a few minutes here and there on Saturday night, but I got absolutely no meaningful sleep.  And as if to add insult to injury, Sunday morning the toilet in our room backed up, limiting us to the casino bathroom.

I couldn't for the life of me recall anything of last year's climb at Emerald Bay save for the small puddle of somebody else's breakfast at the top.  I figured this meant that I either flew up the hill in my post-Mt. Weather euphoria or I blocked it out almost entirely.  I must have blocked it out.  And perhaps this time next year, I won't remember the wind, but I doubt it.  This was easily the windiest ride I have ever done.  I heard the official estimate was forty mile-per-hour winds, but I can't vouch for it.  I do know that it was brisk, relentless, and came from every direction except directly behind us.  I can think of few things more disheartening than pedaling downhill at nine miles an hour.  Even Spooner Summit seemed to taunt me: after a long eight mile and 800' climb, my reward was a short break and a gusty descent that was even more nerve-wracking than a year ago.  And yeah, I had to pedal a couple of times there too.

I don't mind telling you that two days ago was not my best day on a bicycle.  Well, on second thought, yeah, I do mind a bit.  I am trying hard not to be disappointed that I got my ass kicked eight ways from Sunday.  I know I am a stronger cyclist than that, but I had a rough day.  It happens.  It's unfortunate when it happens on ride day, but those are the breaks.  I am already looking forward to a better ride next year.

I didn't have a personal connection to the cause when I first got involved with Team in Training.  I just thought riding my bike around Lake Tahoe would be a cool thing to do - and yeah, it's for charity, so that's kinda cool too.  But after sixteen months and three centuries, I have met so many wonderful people that I am personally involved by now.  I'll be honest, more than once on Sunday, when it seemed that there was no gas left in the tank, I thought about calling it quits.  But I knew I couldn't.  The people that we all ride for - they can't quit; it's simply not an option.  And as much as I was miserable - and I was, trust me - quitting was not an option for me either.  So I kept on until I crossed the finish line, as did so many others, even though it was the furthest thing from easy I could possibly imagine at 4:30PM PDT, Sunday June 5, 2005.  Two days later, I feel fine, and the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society - thanks to you and me and the friends and family of 1,900 other cyclists - is seven million dollars closer to finding a cure for cancer.  For me, that's enough to gladly endure any minor heartbreak life throws my way.

The Beach and Pie Ride advanced today to a whole new level.

We got a bit of a late start this morning.  I pushed our nine o'clock meet time to nine-twenty, and then we got briefly sucked into the hedonistic world of Grand Theft Auto IV (it is the most beautiful game I have ever seen) when we swung by Daby's apartment to collect his bike.  So it was about quarter to eleven when we finally rolled into the parking lot of Lothian Elementary School.  As I got out of the car, I noticed the temperature was a little bit warmer than I had expected.

"Huh," I said.  "It's a little warmer than I expected."

"Yeah," replied Daby.  "You know, if you wanted to shave miles off of our forty mile ride to reduce it to, say.... thirty-five or thirty, I wouldn't object."

"It's funny you mention that.  I was just taking a look at the cue sheet."

The one.... problem isn't the right word, really.... challenge of the Beach and Pie Ride is the spatial relationships involved.  The beach is a certain (and sometimes significant) fixed distance from the pie, and both are some distance from those locations - schools, mainly - where one might be able to leave one's vehicle for several hours without arousing suspicion or getting it towed.  So in order to fit in both the beach and pie, one must commit to a bike ride of a certain minimum length.  And for many reasons, one may find oneself wishing that threshold was a few miles shorter.  That was the situation a mere six hours ago, when I had yet another of my many radical and groundbreaking ideas.

"Here's a somewhat radical and groundbreaking idea," I offered.  "We can ride down to the beach and beyond just as we planned.  But then, when we get to this point here at mile twenty-five, we turn left instead of right.  After about a mile, we'll come to this road here, which will bring us back to the school.  That will be about thirty miles.  Then we load everything up and drive to the pie shop."

That was when Dabysan called me a genius.  And under normal circumstances, that discovery alone would be enough of a paradigm shift to elevate the Beach and Pie Ride.  But there's more.  We set out soon after through the rolling and semi-rural landscape of Anne Arundel and Calvert Counties.  An hour or so later we pulled up to the hopping boardwalk of North Beach, Maryland.  Daby headed over to the nearby concession stand for a bottle of Gatorade and returned instead with a bottle of water and a sno-cone.

"It's Tiger's Blood.  I was reading through the available sno-cone flavors and I stopped when I got to this one.  How can you pass on a flavor called Tiger's Blo--  Sweet Mary, mother of Christ!  This is delicious!"

Well, that sold me right there.  I trotted over to the concession line, sweaty bills in hand, and experienced a bit of sticker shock when I saw that the list price for a hefty sno-cone was a mere two dollars.  Two dollars!  You can't buy anything for two dollars any more.  At that price, I can't afford not to buy.  I, too, purchased the Tiger's Blood sno-cone, and it was every bit as good as advertised.  It was an intoxicating mélange of flavors I couldn't exactly place, and though it was quite sweet - which I usually don't care for - it wasn't cloying.  Subsequent research shows that Tiger's Blood is either a mix of cherry and cinnamon or watermelon and strawberry with a hint of coconut.  Ours was the latter; I could taste the coconut.

So that discovery, too, drastically if not obviously, changes the stakes for future Beach and Pie Rides.  But there is more still.  On our detour back to the car, we passed another - heretofore unknown - elementary school approximately five miles south of where we parked.  The aforementioned constraints associated with distance have precluded - until now - some wonderful roads south of the beach on our casual rides.  I know them from the eighty mile version of Beach and Pie, and can even get to them on a sixty mile ride.  But they've been off limits for those lazy thirty to forty mile rides.  Plus, there was that issue of getting to the pie which we solved earlier in the day.  Taken individually, any of these three discoveries would be formidable.  In conjunction with one another, their ramifications are barely comprehensible.

I feel like the guy who discovered the earth is round.  All of a sudden, there is a vast world out there just waiting to be explored.  There are sno-cone flavors yet to be tasted.  Someday, historians might refer to 2008 as "Year Zero."

As Vanna points out, I am not pedaling in Pittsburgh this morning.  My burgeoning cold burgeoned into a full-fledged cold on Friday.  I slept for about fifteen hours last night as part of my plan to stay home and get some rest while Dan soldiered on without me.  Except Dan isn't riding either.  He never made it out of the DC area, after losing a crown and spending most of yesterday afternoon at the dentist.  And apparently the weather is bad.  Current conditions, according to Post-Gazette.com, are forty-nine degrees and rain.  For those keeping score at home, that's a strike for each criterion of the 50/50 Club, so I'd be riding under protest - if I rode at all - even if I had made the trip.  I wish I knew why Pedal Pittsburgh hates me so.

Because I have some unexpected time on, this, the eve of the eve of a trek to Western Pennsylvania for the region's premier cycling event (and in the interest of padding those meager stats to the left), here's some recycled material about my first and only other trip three years ago.  It's not all old, though.  I've added footnotes, Klosterman style.  Okay, not exactly Klosterman style; they're in the body of the text because scrolling down would be a pain.  And they'll probably be far less clever.

Y1NZER or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Pedal Picksburgh

I had been taunting Mehaffey all week. We were traveling to western Pennsylvania for Pedal Pittsburgh. I had signed on for the sixty mile tour, which included a climb of the dreaded Mt. Oliver. Dan and Sarah were doing the fifty mile loop. Ten fewer miles and no climb: clearly, Dan was a wuss. (To be fair, the wuss in question is currently training for his second triathlon, but I digress...)  And a wuss, as you well know, is deserving of scorn.  [1] Three years later, I don't believe Dan has completed a third triathlon.  I've got six more century rides under my belt,  Who's the wuss now?  I mean, sure - he got married and bought a house, but.... uh, I don't know how to finish that. Moving on.

Pedal Pittsburgh is an annual bicycle tour of varying lengths of the landmarks and neighborhoods that make Pittsburgh unique. It is hosted by and benefits the Community Design Center. I had planned to ride last year, but bailed at the last minute to ride with the Tahoe team; I was starting to get nervous about my training. This year, I know better where I am in my training, and more importantly, I know what to expect in Nevada, so I gladly substituted sixty miles in the 'Burgh for eighty miles in Davidsonville, Maryland.  [2] This is further proof that I am a moron.  This is the longest - and best - version of the infamous "beach and pie" ride.  I can't believe I willingly passed up pie for Pedal Pittsburgh.

I was sick as a dog last week. [3]  Hmmm....  I am getting sick now.  My sinuses are really raw and I'd be congested if my nostrils weren't leaking all day.  I missed multiple days of work and still had a hacking and wheezing cough on Saturday. I mention this only because I mentioned it to Sarah and Dan about two hours into our journey west and was promptly accused of attempting to lay the groundwork for skipping my last ten miles. [4] I laid the groundwork for bailing MUCH earlier this year.  By which I mean, I signed on for the thirty-five mile ride and was completely up front about that fact.  Of course, after all I ran my mouth, there was no way I could in good conscience - no matter how much I wanted (and I'll be honest - it wouldn't be long before I really wanted) - back out of climbing that damned hill.  [5] Who am I kidding?  Seriously.  I back out of shit like this all.  the.  time. Through my boast, I had signed a contract, much like a medieval knight who vows to rescue the damsel or slay the dragon, back when such was the business of the day. This brave brave Sir Robin was not about to bravely run away. [6] See [5].

After lunch at Taco Loco, as Will and Laura [7] See also: Barracuda. were heading to the bike shop [8] The bike shop in question was owned by the father of a kid with whom I went to elementary school.  This has nothing to do with anything, but I kept in touch with absolutely nobody I knew from when I lived in Pennsylvania so I find it significant somehow. to outfit nine month old Cash with the required helmet, the rest of us did a bit of reconnaissance on the South Side Slopes. Now, I was vaguely familiar with my impending climb because Vrabel [9] See also: The Vrabel. used to live atop the dreaded Mt. Oliver. But it had been several years, at best, since I had been in that part of town. First of all, I don't recall Josephine Street being so steep. Second of all, I don't recall Josephine Street being so long. It looked really bad. Dan, at one point, volunteered to join me for the ten miles provided we race. I hesitated, because the last time I was challenged to a race in Pittsburgh... well, "cheated" isn't strong enough a word [10] Long story short: Garrett cheated.  Big time., but ultimately agreed. We clocked the climb at only a mile and a half, but that particular mile and a half was relentless. It went up. And up. And up. Then it went up some more. And just when it looked as if we were about at the top, it went up a little bit for good measure. And if that weren't enough, the descent was one of the most notoriously steep and serpentine streets in the city, which so happened to be in rather rough condition, potholewise, after the winter. It is this particular street - Sycamore Street - that my father used to drive down after taking out-of-town friends and relatives up Mt. Washington, just to show off a bit. It is this particular street that Vrabel points to when he mentions his concept of urban skiing. On the way back to Lawrenceville, Dan and Sarah and [Vanna] all remarked that I was considerably more quiet and seemed to be scratching my head more than usual.

Despite the minor anxiety, I slept alright once I managed to get Nobody [11] AKA: the Buddy Cat. out of my appointed room. (Nobody is a cat.) [12] Duh. I rose at a quarter to six with a minimum of snoozing and began preparing for my ride. I ate a light breakfast, prepared my water and snacks, and herded the cats a bit before getting to the day's attire. Now, there was some fuzziness to the weather forecast so I went to great pains to pack for every conceivable condition. I ultimately decided on the short sleeve jersey with a windbreaker and no leg warmers, when.... oh, (insert expletive [13] FUCK! here).

I dressed in street clothes and went outside to sit on the stoop to wait for Sarah and Dan. As they pulled up, Sarah rolled down the window:

"What's wrong?" [14] This exact dialogue is almost certainly inaccurate.

"I forgot my bike shorts."

"What about your other shorts?"

"I don't wear other shorts." [15] It's true.  Short pants are for little boys.

(Coincidentally, it was to Dan and Sarah's wedding last month [16] Huh.  I guess Dan actually got married before the ride.  So I revoke my rescindment of my reversal on him being a wuss.  Or something.  I can't keep it straight.  The point is: what has he done lately? that I set out without a coat and tie. I realized I forgot the core outfit of the weekend when we were well south of Fredericksburg and going back for it was completely out of the question. We stopped at Hecht's just outside Richmond, but the clerk forgot to remove the security device from my new jacket, so I spent the entire wedding with my hand robotically glued to my waist so that no other guest would suspect me of acquiring a really nice jacket [17] I mentioned to Cheeseman [17.5] Quote of the weekend, from Vanna: "I'm drinking Cheeseman's wine."  that Vrabel would quote Fast Times when he heard the story and I was right. by less than ethical means. And now, once again, when packing for the weekend, I forgot the core outfit. This is all [Vanna's] fault - I know it; I simply have not yet concocted how, exactly.)

In the end, it worked out okay. Gatto Cycles [18] See [8]. had no merchandise for sale other than helmets and tubes, but I was able to reach Will and Laura before they left home, and they brought a pair of gym shorts for me to wear. I wasn't about to do sixty miles, for reasons I'd just as soon not discuss [19] Chafing., but I did ride the first eight miles with Cash before setting off on my own on a modified version of the thirty-five mile course. So yeah, ultimately, I did wuss out of climbing the dreaded Mt. Oliver, but I did ride up to Troy Hill, Highland Park, and Squirrel Hill. (Let me repeat that last part: Troy Hill, Highland Park, and Squirrel Hill.) The most important part, though, is that I had a blast. And that Whole Foods provided burritos (of a sort) [20] If you could consider 'without a tortilla' to mean 'of a sort' then I guess this statement would be accurate. at the end. If you're within a few hours, I urge [21] Urge seems like kind of a strong word.  Especially from one who is planning to spend the evening before the ride at the Thunderbird. you to pedal Pittsburgh next year. It's a heck of a lot of fun and with five different routes, there is one for every skill level. And it is for a good cause. [22] This is where I went into my spiel about the warm feelings everyone would get from writing a check on my behalf to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.  But I'll spare yinz that speech right now.  Don't worry - I'll get to it.

Unlike years past, I have no extracurricular volunteer duties during this training season for my annual bike ride around Lake Tahoe.  All I have to do each week is show up and ride.  So I've skipped most of 'em.  I didn't realize there were others following my, um, training regimen.  I learned this week, though, that not only are there more like me, but the rest of the team has a name for us.  It seems I am a charter member of the 50/50 Club.  To wit: if it's less than fifty degrees or there is a greater than fifty percent chance of precipitation, your chances of finding me at a remote location early on Saturday morning are slim.

My weatherman lied to me this morning.  I can't remember the last time I have felt so betrayed.  At no time did the temperature even approach the neighborhood of fifty degrees.  The mercury has only barely hit the half-century mark even now, at the height of the afternoon.  On the other hand (as long as I am trying to get my head around different ways to perceive that broken, poison-filled glass), today's route was one of my very favorites.  I think I might have mentioned it once or twice before: the renowned 'pie ride.'  Like every other human - without exception - I love me some pie.  And it's possible I enjoyed that warm blueberry goodness even more on a chilly morning than I might have had the air been fifteen degrees warmer.  It's not likely, but I suppose it's possible.  I think I need to do this ride again in about a month just to make sure.