Still kickin'

In the eternity since my last post, I have ridden in two organized rides (tours, certainly not races): The 2010 Copper Triangle (78 miles) and yesterday's Elephant Rock Ride (I took the 100-km option) starting in Castle Rock, CO. These are the only cycling "events" I've done other than limited racing, mainly time trials, since moving to Colorado in 2002. I've maintained that the weather and terrain in Colorado eliminates the need for me to race to get my cycling jollies. These two events have reminded me, though, that every so often it's good to commit to a challenging event, prepare for it, get some pre-event butterflies,and then dive in, suffer a bit, and (hopefully) prevail.

Okay, it wasn't very likely, short of a crash, that I'd hitch a ride back in the sag wagon (support vehicle). However, given that I hadn't ridden more than 35 miles at a stretch and hadn't climbed any substantial hills this year, 62 miles of rolling hills was a bit daunting.
There's 60 miles of data there... No, I didn't fail to finish; rather, the course was not quite the length advertised. I suppose I would've reached 62 if I kept the clock running while riding the gravel roads to the farthest reaches of each rest stop (not good for average speed). Did I mention these were "rolling" hills? Yes, it was basically a windy false flat from mile 11 to mile 24, but otherwise the route went up... and down... and up... and down again. The oscillations in my speed (blue graph) are testament to that.

Interestingly, the one point where I pondered my mortality was the last part of the very first climb, which I'm also sure was the steepest part of the route. As in the Copper Triangle last year (a post for another time), the first climb found me quickly retreating to my lowest gear and praying to hang on to the top. I did, but the lactic acid was there, and it felt less than good (I credit a total lack of sprint (interval) training for that).

Immediately after the first rest stop (see dip in speed at mile 16, I latched onto a small group of faster riders attempting to ride a paceline through the throng of wind-weary (and sometimes weaving) cyclists. Somehow we avoided disaster until we parted ways at mile 24 (since those intrepid folk were doing the 100-mile "Century" ride). Somewhere around mile 20, my right calf started to cramp, and at that point I knew it was going to get worse. Climbing out of the saddle (bike-speak for standing up when going uphill) made life easier on my calves, but put my quadriceps in danger of cramping.

Always in the back of my mind was the "bump" in the course profile at 46 miles. I didn't carry a copy of the profile with me, so the more I cramped up, the steeper I remembered that hill being. I conserved what energy I could on the long downhill stretch, and in the end that final hill was perfectly manageable without my 39x23 "bail out" gear. Phew. After a blazing descent, a group I had passed on the hill caught up to me, and I happily hopped on to their train (as evidenced by the prolonged stretch of 26-30 mph). I fell away from that group as my last remaining leg muscle cramped, leaving me to soft-pedal home and finish the ride in just over 3 hours. I would have been happy with 3:30, so I'll call the ride an unmitigated success.

Looking back, I'm happy to have challenged myself once more, and I was relieved to find I still have some basic paceline-riding (and road survival) skills left. So, looking forward to Copper Triangle in early August, my goals are to increase the length of my weekend rides and to get some time in the foothills. There's no substitute for long, steep climbs when you're preparing to ride in the High Country.

To Have Fought Well

The end of an Olympic Games always makes me philosophical, and this time I've decided to blog about it.

Watching a cross-country ski race from Vancouver, I saw some mid-field finishers raise their arms in glee at the finish. Clearly those were competitors whose personal goals were more humble than a gold medal; maybe simply qualifying for the Games was a dream come true.

Pierre de Coubertin, founder of the modern Olympic movement, said, "The important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle, the essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well." If not for the struggle, for the effort put into training and preparation, not to mention the physical endeavor of the race itself, would victory mean what it does?
From my years of bike racing, I know there were thousands of miles of training just to build a foundation of fitness before I was a credible racer. I had some moments in the sun, days when I was unstoppable like the 1999 Texas Cat. 3 Criterium Championships pictured above. I also had days where I was dropped from the peloton like a hot rock, or worse, ended up on the ground. Looking back, of course I remember the former more readily than the latter. Each time I lined up at the start of a race, though, I didn't know which would come to be that day. I had to find out.

In the end, hats off to all those who struggled, to each and every Olympic athlete who pinned on a number or put on a bib, to everyone who put it all on the line and told himself and his competitors, "Show me what you've got." Whether you went to Vancouver for a medal or just to say you competed, I hope you fought well.

Welcome to The Panic Channel!

We visited my 90-year-old Grandmother recently. Much of the time we were there, the TV was tuned to CNN. The ONLY story that was covered that entire time was the failed Delta (Northwest, whatever) airline bombing. It was mainly hand-wringing and finger-pointing over the "failures" that led to this poor boy deciding to light his crotch on fire. "Terror In The Skies!" "Security Failures!"

Never mind that to actually prevent this, we're getting into the sci-fi stuff of the movie Minority Report, where "precogs" (see below) foresee crimes that MIGHT be commited by an individual, enabling the "pre-crime division" of law enforcement to pre-emptively arrest the individual. Yowza.

"precog" from Minority Report

Wait, there was one other story: Breathless LIVE coverage of the mysterious abandoned van in Times Square.

I will henceforth refer to CNN exclusively as The Panic Channel. My poor Grandmother is all tied in knots worrying about what's happening to the world. Shame on you, CNN. This all reminded me why I don't bother watching the news (other than local) anymore.

Now, back to our irregular programming.

Smartass???!?

I'm near the end of my ride, going northbound on Yosemite approaching Belleview. I maintained a good head of steam climbing out of the "valley" that starts at Caley, and am going 28-30 mph downhill with no wind. Looking ahead, the left-turn cycle has just ended, my green signal is fresh, and through traffic will have time to get going before I reach the intersection. Life is good.

Enter the silver Hyundai Sonata (or similar nondescript sedan) heading westbound on Belleview (coming in from my right). Through traffic is stopped, but he's rolling up to the light. Okay, I think, he's going to turn right. And turn right he does... Without stopping at the red light... Right in front of me.

Okay, I wasn't THAT close to the intersection, and I was definitely keeping an eagle eye on this guy, but he really blew the light, and I had to take evasive action. There was no oncoming traffic, so I moved left to go around him, shouting "Hey! Hey! HEY!!!" I pass the car on the left, give him an exaggerated "WTF?" shrug as I go by, then get over into the bike lane on the right. The adrenaline is flowing, but I don't plan to escalate this past the verbal stage. I mean, had I been in my car, I would've leaned on the horn for about 10 seconds, but I don't have that option on the bike.

The car catches up to me and tries to match my speed. At this point, I see his right-front window is down (his mortified SO is in the passenger's seat) so I yell in, "Say you're sorry!" His response is muffled. Say again? "F*ck you, Smartass!" At this point, I'm dumbfounded. He could've killed me, and he calls me a smartass? He's ahead of me now, so I do my best pantomime routine, covering my face and shaking my head, looking up and appealing to the heavens, "why is this guy allowed to drive?"

Now, traffic ahead is starting to build, and the car slows. As I motor by in the bike lane, I turn to the open window and ask, "Smartass???!?" No answer. I'm guessing his SO gave him what for after he told me off. Buh-bye.

Dead Man's Float

Waaay back in my high-school days, taking swimming in Phys. Ed. class meant hopping on the bus to go to our cross-town rival as our school didn't have a pool. The one thing I specifically remember from those classes was the "Dead Man's Float," which is basically a face-down survival float wherein you relax except for occasional strong kicks to let you breathe.

What made this maneuver interesting was that, with a bunch of bodies in the water, we inevitably clumped together as a group. Of course, this made things interesting when your next-door neighbor needed to take a breath. Looking back, it seems obvious to me that this was all a result of surface tension... In essence, our bodies each created a slight downward (concave) meniscus on the water's surface, and over time our menisci combined and we all basically "slid downhill" to the center of the pool. It may be that my interpretation is utter malarkey, but it was an interesting phenomenon in any case.

What triggered my memory of the Dead Man's Float was driving to the kart track this evening. I take I-25 for part of the route, and in that area the speed limit is 65. However, my El Cheapo trailer from Harbor Freight Tools is rated to 55 mph max. Not wanting to tear up my equipment any more than necessary, I adhere to that limit.

Does traveling 10 mph under the speed limit mean I'm going 15-20 mph slower than the flow of traffic? Hardly. Something about the sight of the kart on the trailer being pulled by something other than a truck (i.e., my Mazda6 wagon) causes other motorists to stick to me like glue. I've had people fall in diagonally behind me and match my speed, possibly slack-jawed, for miles before suddenly snapping out of the trance-like state and accelerating off into the sunset.


As you might guess, I wonder what these other drivers are missing while they're ogling my POS kart...

Bike roadkill

No, I don't mean cyclists becoming roadkill, although we're certainly at a disadvantage to an automobile being driven as a weapon.

Even cyclists have to dodge furry friends on occasion... Particularly squirrels, who seem to be programmed with a healthy "darting" reflex. When a squirrel is in my way, I just look way up the path and don't try to react to which way the squirrel jumps, because I don't think even he knows where he's going, as long as he changes directions five times. This explains the term "squirrel" for a rider who can't ride in a straight line.

Anyway, thanks to this photo, I now know what happens if you actually hit a squirrel just right. WARNING: Not for the faint of heart.

http://img.moonbuggy.org/bicycle-roadkill/

SNOOOOOOOWWWWWW!!!

Spring snowstorm hits Denver! Inch upon inch of heavy, wet, slushy stuff! Well, at least the grass and trees will be happy... And I'll probably have to mow as soon as the snow melts.

Any snow event in Denver makes for fun traffic shenanigans... Like the Jeep Wrangler that left a parking lot right behind me. I was a little deprived in the traction department, and I think the Jeep figured he'd scoot around me and then get back in my lane to make the right turn we both needed to make. He got past me, all right... He then mashed on the Stop Pedal and did a nice pirouette to the left in front of me. At least that took him out of my way. He got back facing the right direction... And had to fall in line right behind me, where he started off anyway.


Cheerio,
Garrick