A Loaf of Toast on Bowling Night

It’s bowling night, a typical Wednesday for my Dad, 1980 in Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin.  He’s 38, bowling age 38.  The name etched into his brown swirl designed custom ball reads “NICK.”  The Arial font inscription used to be white.  It’s nicotine stained a sweaty-grey/yellow.  With a soft right handed curve, the ball leaves his hand and his custom fit tan Velcro wrist guard.  Chunk.  Roll.  Crash.  He left 1 pin.  His score on the overhead projector at Petroff’s Lanes reads 168 in the 9^th frame.  The “one eyed whop” as his buddies affectionately call my half Italian dad, picks up the spare and pours Miller High Life from the pitcher into his glass before he sits back down with his Custom Products teammates.  If you don't know, the derogatory term "whop" is an acronym for "without papers."

It’s surreal sometimes, especially filling out the racing age on the waiver at Cincinnati’s Wednesday night Ault Park Crit race series.  I’m now older than my dad on bowling night.  With a zipper instead of buttons and spandex for cotton, I’ve got my sponsor’s jersey on.  Custom Products, a metal fabrication company was owned by a buddy of my dad.  BioWheels bike shop is owned by my buddy Mitch.  The rest is the same.  Pro bike.  Pro shoes.  Name sticker on my bike.  Some having raced earlier, wives of friends racing are sitting in the grass with their kids or chatting with friends.  No doubt there’s a hidden bottle of Sierra Nevada in someone’s cooler.  We’ve got nicknames too, only a little more politically correct.  There’s OB and Pistol Pete.  My friend I-Pro James has a shaggy snarled greying beard.  It’s bowling night, a typical Wednesday for me, 2012 in Cincinnati, Ohio.  I reluctantly scribble “45” on the form.

Sometimes I get suckered into thinking I’m just like Dad, which is worrisome.  He died in his early 60’s of all the things related to not eating healthy or exercising.  I'm sure the blatant racism among his friends didn't help either.  I breathe a sigh of relief as I roll up to the start behind a 23 year old.  The similarities end with the sponsor jersey, my age and that I’m competing in a sport on a Wednesday night.  While most guys around me have a 20oz bottle of GU Brew electrolyte drink, pretty sure every guy on my dad’s team had their own pitcher of Miller High Life or PBR, likely 2 or 3.  I’m sure a few guys after the bike race headed for a vegetarian burrito at Chipotle, but still got to bed at a reasonable hour.  My dad and his buddies in 1980 could turn 3 games of bowling into an all night affair capped off with an after midnight breakfast at Milwaukee’s famous diner George Webbs.  Think Frisch’s Big Boy’s little brother.  There they’d pull out the smokes and “shoot the shit.”  My dad’s treat to his drunken teammates, a full 20-odd slice butter-slathered loaf of toast.

A Dozen Reasons Winning a Case-O-SunChips Prime Is So Killer

12 It totally justifies the purchase of a $5k+ Kuota KOM pro tour bike from BioWheels.

11 The PR guy for blog sponsor Ryders Eyewear can email this photo to his boss and leave work early without anyone noticing today.

10 SunChips rhymes with fun-sh@*!

9 I beat a guy riding a pink bike to do it at Ault Park.  Outside of the Giro, a pink bike should never win.

bad kitty.

8 When it’s empty, I can turn it into a kitty condo for our two cats.

7 With the $15 entry, it brought the price of SunChips down to a reasonable 62.5 cents per bag.

6 It was the first night racing in my new team kit, making the extra manscaping under the white leg panel soo worth it.

5 It’s the only gaudy trophy my wife will let me display on a shelf in the house, even if it’s in the pantry.

4 I'm WINNING like Charlie Sheen.

3 It made me feel like the grand marshal of a one man parade riding home one-handed through Mount Lookout Square.

Cha-ching!

2 The box with my bib number taped to it looks awesome mounted on the wall in my office.

1 I’ll make a killing charging 75 cents/bag for them in the office vending machine! 

(note: today at midnight is the deadline for the Road ID Flat Joe Biker photo contest, click here for details)

Rest Is Ridiculous: The Week B4 Mohican 100

I don’t bother lubing my chain or pumping tires, even though I’m headed to a race.  I might pour a beer in my water bottle and bungee the cooler bag to the rear rack.  I’ll probably wear cargo shorts and stuff a bag of chips in the pocket.  I won’t even bother pinning a number.  I’ll find a nice spot in the grass, preferably next to a friend with a dog, sit my butt down and try to remember its name.   For some reason I’m bad at remembering the names of my friends pets.  Tonight I’ll have a conversation with cycling friends that consists of more than shouting “hole” and “gravel” between deep breaths and beeping heart rate monitors.  Tonight’s one of my favorite bike race nights of the year.  It’s the Ault Park Criterium before I race Mohican on Saturday.  Tonight I get to ring the cowbell and shout “C’mon” to my teammates.  I should be excited, but resting before a big race weaves my worrisome thoughts into a stress basket.

It’s the opposite of ADD.  I get this way when something big is on the horizon.  It’s an intense focus.  It’s the reason I cried at my own wedding and get the nervous gags before big races.  I don’t like it, but it’s the way I am, man on a mission.  I don’t think I’ve blogged in two weeks, since our vacation to Sedona, which I haven’t written a word about.  I’m nervous about the Mohican 100, so much so that I’ve put the blinders on.  The grass is cut, the bike clean.  The seat bag is even packed.  All that’s left is to clean the house and pack the duffel.  It’s so ridiculous that I wonder if I should put my helmet and shoes in the bag tonight so I don’t forget.  Oh yeah, sunscreen.  I’m starting to have a hard time falling asleep, which is precisely the reason I need to chill out.  Recovery weeks shouldn’t have a stress level.

To many times, as athletic types, we get too wrapped up in competition, watt-o-meters, and why this stupid scale won’t register a number below 159.  For me, nothing sucks the fun out of bike riding than turning it into a spreadsheet and graphs.  Runners talk about pace.  Cyclists gush over watts.  I see the value in it, however there’s also value in the view at the Ault Park Overlook.  There’s a reason I cherish the photos of riding with friends more than the plastic trophies and medals in the man-cave.  Sure I like to win races, but my favorite moments at bike races revolve around beef jerky, whiskey in a flask and lots of cowbell.  I look forward to those moments just as much as the big “A” race circled on my training calendar.  Coincidentally, they happen together. 

My Best Mohican Ever 18th Place

There comes a time in every training program when there’s nothing you can do to get any faster than to sit your butt down and enjoy the sport from the other side of the caution tape.  With the Mohican 100 on Saturday, tonight’s my night.  It’s good to be a spectator.  It’s better to be a spectator with a cowbell, beer and bag of chips.  It reminds me of why I got into bikes in the first place.  It’s fun.  It’s beautiful.  It’s a spectacle.  It’s good times with friends.  It’s better than watching Snookie get in a car wreck with an Italian police car…or at least pretty close. 

It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the numbers and schedules.  Try this once.  On your next Zone 1 easy ride or recovery day neighborhood walk, head to the bleachers of the baseball diamond at your neighborhood park and watch the game.  Yeah.  Instead of taking a “rest” day, go watch total strangers play ball.  Whether its kid’s soccer or the local bar softball league, you’ll find a reason to cheer.  Grab the fishing rod out of the rafters, walk to the Little Miami River and cast till the sun sets.  When was the last time you sat on a park bench?  Believe me, it is an activity.

A few weeks ago I filled a travel mug with coffee, grabbed the cowbell and walked from my house to cheer on the runners in Cincinnati’s Flying Pig Marathon.  Training for the Mohican 100, I did a long ride the day before.  My day was wide open, what might appear as a “rest” day in your training program.  I was out there on Riverside Drive for two hours.  Instead of a drive-by wave, I actually had a conversation with my neighbor Reggie.  I met some nice people that are turning an old boat repair shop into a Pilates studio.  It got me to thinking how ridiculous it is to write the word “rest” on a calendar.