25 posts tagged “team in training”
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.
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
I heard rumblings of a missing part on the captain's chair. Our flight was delayed until 10:30. 11:00. 11:30. Cancelled. Julie O. heroically worked with the presumably inept America West crew to find alternate transportation for fifty cyclists. The coaches and a couple of captains were sent on the first available flight to retrieve our bikes from the truck. The rest of us were rerouted through anywhere that could get us to Reno: Dallas, Phoenix, Salt Lake City, Minneapolis. I was a member of the only group that had to change airports. At one o'clock, after six hours at National, seven of us hopped in taxis to Baltimore-Washington International. I should mention that after too many rotten experiences, I normally refuse to travel from BWI. I hadn't been there in four years and I regret to say that things have not changed one iota. In fact, I was nearly grateful for our three hour wait for our flight, because we would almost certainly make the boarding despite the best efforts of the BWI staff.
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.
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.
In which, Hotrod briefly summarizes his final four weeks of training before delving - at a later date - into the events of this past weekend.
Chapter Six: The Bridges of Frederick County I'd been looking forward to this ride because I'd only done it once before. I inexplicably had a rough day - I guess because it was cold but I'm not really sure. Catoctin Colorfest is stupid and annoying beyond words.
Chapter Seven: Naked Mountain This ride is my very favorite of all the rides we do because it has almost always kicked my ass. Reports vary on how much climbing there is, but it's a lot. The only time I have ever bonked was on this ride, and this was the ride I did the day after I learned a good friend from high school died of cancer. This year wasn't exactly fun but was fairly uneventful, and I didn't have to and I didn't want to go over the mountain but I did anyway. For Brenda.
Chapter Eight: Spin Cycle A combination of potential flash-flooding and the Marine Corps Marathon forced the Team off the road this weekend and into the gym for four hours of spinning, Which I didn't do. I've already done my four hour spinning sessions in preparation for a century. I don't need to do it again.
Chapter Eight: White's Ferry If there's a ride I should feel guilty about skipping, it's this one. And I do, to a degree. But I didn't volunteer for extra duty on this training season for a reason, and that reason was not having to ride anyway when I woke up and felt like total crap. I've done plenty of rides when I would have preferred to spend the day otherwise - some this season, even - and I don't really like this particular ride. If skipping one out of twelve just because at 6AM on a Saturday I didn't feel like spending 93 miles on a bicycle makes me a bad person, then I'm comfortable being that asshole.
And so.... That's the last month of training in a nutshell. I returned home from another outstanding event just over an hour ago. Look for more details soon. This time I mean it. Seriously. Oh, and I'm still collecting donations.
In which, Hotrod continues to procrastinate, but shares in the meantime some good news and an announcement of sorts, and also sets a new deadline which is just as binding and unbreakable as all those other deadlines he sets for himself.
I received an email from my friend Beth about a week ago. I met Beth while training for my second century out in Solvang. She was riding in memory of her husband David, who had passed away from a blood cancer (I don't know which type) about a year or so prior. Anyway, Beth throws a yearly Halloween party, which also serves as a fundraiser for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. This year, she wrote, she wanted to send me the checks to help fulfill the fundraising aspect of my ride that I mentioned a few weeks (a month? really? sheesh, i am lazy!) ago. The checks showed up in the mail yesterday and they totaled over $2,000. Holy friggin' crap!
I've still got a little under a thousand dollars to go to meet my goal, though. If you thought it might be too late to donate, it isn't. The cut-off date for this ride is December 31, so there's still plenty of time. DC area type people can expect shortly an invitation to a happy hour I am planning for early December. Anyone else who wants to join us is welcome, but it's almost certainly gonna be a weeknight.
I'm dropping my bike off after work this evening to be loaded onto a truck heading out to Arizona tomorrow morning. I leave in a week. I've got four weeks worth of training ride recaps to write and seven days in which to write them. I better get busy. Hmmmm, I wonder what's on TV....
In which, Hotrod submits a bullshit cycling post technically under the deadline but also re-negotiates the nature of his non-existent agreement so as to avoid this stupid mess in the future.
You know what? Fine. From now on I am posting whenever I damn well please.
In which, a sleep-deprived Hotrod seriously considers bailing on his ride but sucks it up and rides anyway because it's the right thing to do and, in the process, learns the true meaning of Christmas.
The alarm clock began beeping all too soon. I'm not sure exactly what time I drifted off into fitful slumber, but it was definitely after three-thirty. I immediately reset my alarm for an hour later, knowing full well that would leave me only half an hour to get out the door. It's possible I was already sub-consciously thinking about skipping the ride. I tossed and turned for another seventy minutes before reluctantly dragging myself out of the sack at twenty minutes 'til six.
It's not possible for me to convey fully in mere words how little I wanted at that point to drive out to Berryville for a sixty-five mile bike ride. I had twenty minutes to get out the door at my intended time, and I still needed to get my gear together and have some breakfast. It didn't look like I could make it and I began to wonder why I should even bother to try. "I don't have to do this," I told myself (and given my exhausted state, possibly aloud), "I could just crawl back in bed and sleep the morning away." I wasn't sure though how I could explain away my laziness in my weekly recap, which caused some consternation. Sure, I could always ride on my own later, or hell - I could just make it up. I've done enough of these that I could fabricate a convincing narrative, and I could make it good. Three flats. Gale force winds. Maybe a nasty fall or even better - a close brush with a passing automobile. Oh, the dreadful things that happened to poor Hotrod on that mean old ride. This inner dialogue went on for a good fifteen minutes. And then I remembered Vanna's comment on what I had written just the day before. There was no course of action which didn't involve driving out to Berryville and riding that I could undertake without feeling like a total fraud. I realize this will be difficult for some people to fathom, but I'm not really the petty and spiteful egomaniac I play on the internet. And just because I occasionally overstep a societal boundary or two, that doesn't mean I don't know where they lie.
So I quickly choked down some cold chicken noodle soup, grabbed my jersey from last years Seagull Century (in part to remind myself of those that were riding out in Salisbury that very day and in part to remind myself that things could be much worse), and headed out the door. It always takes three times as long as I expect to put the bike rack on the back of the car, so it was after six-thirty by the time I set out on the Beltway for my long journey westward. I knew it was unlikely that anybody would start riding on time at eight, but I called ahead anyway to say that they shouldn't wait for me and to leave a cue sheet on somebody's windshield - all the while hoping they would be as behind schedule as I was counting on them to be. The thing is - and I promise I'm not mentioning this to be boastful - I am one of the faster cyclists in the group, and since I have been pushing myself on these training rides I have spent a lot of time by myself. I decided early yesterday that just making it out to the training was victory enough for one day, and if riding with others meant holding back a bit, so be it.
But here's the thing: the ride went great. I had plenty of time to caffeinate myself on the drive out, consuming a big iced coffee and a Coke, and by the time I arrived at Clarke County High School, my headache and fogginess had vanished. And fortunately the school was open for what was probably PSAT day, so I could, um, take care of business before hitting the road. We rolled out at about eight-thirty and within five miles I was warmed up enough to know it was going to be a good day after all. My friend Rob mentioned after about fifty miles that he was glad I was pushing the pace, which is ironic because - as I told him - I felt like I was chasing him down all day. We finished the day in just under the pace of last week's ride where I felt great from the moment I awoke. The only complaint I have about yesterday - in hindsight - is that I spent too long at the stops. I need to quit lollygagging.
The truth is as much as I like to complain about them - and I do like to complain - it's the days like yesterday which best help to keep me motivated. This will be my eighth century ride, and while I wouldn't go so far as to call riding a hundred miles on a bicycle "routine," I know by now what to expect and it's been a couple of years since just finishing seemed an accomplishment. That's a big part of why I set a goal for myself this time. But days like yesterday help me remember that even my own personal goal aren't as important as the bigger picture. See, nobody gets to skip cancer just because they didn't get a whole lot of sleep the night before. Though I may have been miserable for a few hours early yesterday, that misery passed fairly quickly, with no lasting effects. And though I may not get more than two hours of sleep again tonight, short term sleep-deprivation won't potentially kill me. Even if it seems at the time like it might.
In which, Hotrod extols the virtues of the beach and pie and the beach and pie ride, before offering a brief training update and, for the first time in a while, holding out his hand and asking for money.
Beach and pie. Consider for a moment those two words - what they mean, what they symbolize. Beach and pie. They represent the ideal. Where does everybody want to go on vacation? The beach, of course. What does everybody want for dessert? Pie, obviously. Even considered separately they are formidable. Beach. And Pie. But paired, they are almost too much. Beach and pie? No, really, I shouldn't. I couldn't. It's too decadent. Well, I'm telling you you can. Indulge yourself. You've earned it. You can have your beach and your pie too. You'll be glad you did.
I’ve written before about the beach and pie ride – or at least mentioned it – so I thought it might be a good idea this time to carry my camera with me and get some pictures so yinz can see for yourselves what all the fuss is about. Except I’m a go-tard and forgot to double check that the batteries were charged. I didn’t have a chance to stop before the beach to get batteries, so I obviously couldn’t get any pictures there, but I did manage to get some just before the pie stop in Galesville.
Though Galesville, MD is on the bay, there’s no beach to speak of, and the real attraction there is the pie anyway. This is an enormously popular ride with DC area cyclists and a big reason is the delicious homemade pies. There was a minor scare late last week when we learned that the small market that sold them had closed, but fortunately we learned soon after that the pie-maker had simply taken her wares to the next shop down the street, which is even closer to the bay. Last Saturday was beautiful and warm – one of those days where the sky is that shade of blue that makes all the other colors sing – and the waterfront was teeming with more bicycles than I had ever seen there. It’s impossible to imagine so many people going so far out of their way for, say… just to choose another dessert at random… a brownie. And it is out of the way – well out of the way. Galesville isn’t really near any major thoroughfares. Last time Daby and I were out there, we were amazed that a young family from Minnesota had stumbled into our path at the market, hopelessly lost and trying to find the beach. We sent them on their way with directions and half of the blueberry pie we bought, still mystified at how the hell they ended up where they did. People from Minnesota sure are stupid.
I spent the morning finally re-taping my handlebars (the cow tape is officially no more), so was a little behind the rest of the group starting out. That proved to be something of an advantage because I was forced to chase them down, and my pace isn’t yet where it needs to be to meet my goal. I finished last Saturday’s sixty-one mile ride in a little over four hours, which extrapolates to a seven hour and ten minute ride over a hundred and nine miles. I’ve done better about reducing my time at the stops, but I obviously need to start getting more time in the saddle between my Saturday rides.
More than a few people have asked me over the past few months why I haven't openly solicited donations when they knew I was raising money for those rides, and to me the answer seems obvious: I don't want to wear out my welcome. I believe the least time I asked directly for contributions was for my Lake Tahoe ride in 2006. By my count, it's been about eighteen months. So... Please consider giving a donation on my behalf to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. In addition to my time goal, I have committed to raising $4,500 for charity to do this bike ride. Your generous donation goes to lots of neat stuff like patient services and - most importantly - research. Blood cancer survival rates have skyrocketed of the past few years, with something like 6,000 fewer people dying each year just since 2004 when I started doing this. The millions of dollars raised for research by the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and Team in Training have been a major factor in that statistic. But the survival rate is still less than one hundred percent. There's more work to do. Your generous donation will help get that work done.
In which, Hotrod is a total loser.
Yes, I rode last Sunday. Yes, it was the first day of Autumn. No, I didn't write the recap before my next ride. Desperate times call for desperate measures, which were enacted yesterday. It is hoped that further reports will be henceforth issued in a more timely fashion.
