#Juniors Tour De Lazy Eyed Llama Travel Day

Nothing warms the heart and cements the value of cycling in a teenager more than missing a day of school to race. Over the last few years I have certainly pushed my wonderful wife to the brink several times with the question, "Sure.  They can miss a few days of school.  Right?"

Teenager's have very few reservations about missing a day of school - but sitting in a car for 8 hours may push those limits. How do you make the car fun while driving through the flat, barren prairies of western Illinois and the rolling farmland that borders the Mississippi River in Iowa? You don't.

Old guys like myself remember traversing western Indiana into Illinois to visit relatives near Peoria, IL. If you have ever driven Interstate 74 you would swear there are no turns and that you can see the Rocky Mountains off in the distance. A couple of us have the experience of driving across Nebraska, so Iowa seems like driving the strip in Vegas by comparison, but the kids get the luxury of flying long distances while the dad's share a bed in the back of an SUV.

As you read this blog post on your iThing with your head down at the dinner table avoiding your vegetables, the realization should come to you that iThings are what make this all bearable - for both the teen and the parent. As long as 3G is strong enough the teen won't know what country they are in and couldn't care less if they are in Indiana, Illinois, or Iowa. They all start with "I" and look the same through the car window. Of course I am writing this blog entry on an iPad with cell service while sitting the passenger seat of a Toyota Sequoia midway through Illinois.

Signs that you travel with another family too often include not being able to remember which road trip you saw something peculiar. Several times someone would say "remember last year when we saw [insert silly memory]" which would quickly be rebutted with "no, that was on that other trip". We are going to have to start documeting these encounters better. Maybe in a blog or something.

Travel days do give you time to consider things you hadn't really thought about previously. We found ourselves wondering about our lazy eyed llama - did she have a name? We affectionately called her "llama", but that doesn't seem real personal. We decided that from now on we would call her Sue. Seems appropriate, though we aren't quite sure why.

Mission Control at #USACrits Hyde Park Blast

CAVEMAN AT CAPE CANAVERAL

I’m under a tent, under the Hyde Park Blast podium scaffolding in front of a bank of switches and red LCD clocks.  As an audio producer at a local radio station, I’m accustomed to banks of effects knobs and volume sliders.  Despite my alleged experience and University of Wisconsin degree in Buttonpushingology, I still feel like a caveman at Cape Canaveral mission control. 

The guy in charge of the lap timing at the Hyde Park Blast USA Crit Series Race stepped out for a soda, and asked me to man the controls.  His judgment has obviously been compromised by being inside this prison hot box all day.  Like every year at the Hyde Park Blast, It’s 90 degrees outside and 120 in the timing tent.  I remind myself, “Hit the red button when the leader comes through to reset the timer.  Hit the other red button as the pack rolls through.”  Race fans think the clock is run electronically with a bike sensor embedded in the start finish line.  Despite available technology, races are run by people at the root, in my case, a hot monkey in a tent with a 5 foot roof. 

The Timer Peers Between Podium Scaffolding Banners

Cowbells and cheers erupt.  I can see the rider from Patent It approach the start/finish line through the 3 inch slit in the tenting.  It’s like watching a pro bike race through a submarine periscope.  I hit the button, the lap clock starts.  Now 15 seconds later the pack storms down Erie Avenue into Hyde Park Square.  I hit the other button.  The split clock pauses at 00:15.04 while the lap clock continues.  “He’s got 15 seconds,” I hear someone shout.  Mission complete, and about one minute and 40 seconds till my next lap.

3 MATCHES SHORT OF A FULL BOX

Solo Breakaway Burning A Big Match

Just behind the timing tent is the pit.  I’m holding a rear wheel in my right hand.  The rules seem a bit loose, especially to the guy in the Hawaiian shirt nearby as he watches a rider stop in the pit and get a butt-push out.  It doesn’t seem fair.  He taps on my shoulder and asks, “Why do they get to stop?  Why do they get to skip a lap?”  I explain. 

At the official’s discretion, riders suffering a mechanical problem are allowed a chance to get back into the race.  At the Hyde Park Blast, with a lot of riders a U-turn choke point, again at an official’s discretion, riders who got tailed off the pace early in the race due to a poor starting position are sometimes granted a second chance.  I get a nod and an eyebrow.  Stopping in the pit isn’t an advantage.  Riders refer to every hard effort as burning a match.  When you move up in the bunch, sprint or try to get away from the peloton, you burn a match.  Once the box is empty, the fire goes out.  You’re done. 

A rider with a flat rolls in.  The official nods.  As the rider lifts the rear of his bike, my mechanic friend undoes the quick release and removes the flat wheel.  I whip the fresh one into the bikes drop-outs, finesse the cassette into the chain and close the quick release skewer.  With a hand on the rider’s lower back, my buddy escorts him to the pit exit lane.  The pack rounds the corner.  The official nods and the rider gets a turbo boost push back into the race.  I turn to Hawaiian Shirt Guy and pick up the conversation. 

Remember that match burning, I ask.  The stress of getting a flat at 28mph is burning a match.  Coming into the pit and hoping you get a good wheel change is burning a match.  Getting your bike back up to 28 miles an hour is burning a match.  That guy is 3 short of a full box now.   10 laps later the same rider makes the slice of the throat gesture to the official and exits the course, all burnt up.

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)

Podium Flowers on the Mantel

They Do Look Nice

Another man gave flowers to my wife.  Who?  Which guy?  Him?  Even with my little biker bean arms I can puff up my chest like a protective walrus when someone steals my chivalrous thunder.  It was our anniversary this weekend.  I should be the dude dolling out the pretty flowers.  I knew I should’ve picked some up, but we already had an orchid on the mantel.  However, like bikes, the optimal number of flower bouquets in a woman’s house is always +1.  I reasoned that I had already overspent on the gift…a sweet trendy white watch.  I’ll get it wrapped real nice and pick up a card.  Flowers aren’t necessary.  You’d think, after 13 years, I’d learn flowers are always necessary.

See the Flowers in the Winner's Left Hand?

I’ll admit, he was charming, speaking in his down under somewhere accent.  I overheard him say something like, “I’m up in the states for 6 months and then it’s back to Tasmania.”  Puh-lease mate.  Tasmania?  Who do you think you are?  Russell freaking Crowe?  Then again stepping off the top step of the pro-podium at the Madeira Centennial Criterium I’ll admit, in a bike racer kind-of-way, he was a bit dreamy.  There’s not a girl in the world that could resist the combination of 10 o’clock shadow, beefcake behind wrapped in clean spandex and that accent.  At the moment the dude was the cycling equivalent of The Dos Equis Most Interesting Man in the World. 

Clay @ Iron Hill 2010 from Cycling News

A friend mentioned, “I heard he won the USA Crit Championship Series race in Grafton Wisconsin last week.”  “Ooh Grafton, you mean the freeway exit ramp between Milwaukee and Green Bay?” I thought.  Really, I’m lying.  I wasn’t a bit jealous or over protective.  Clay Murfet, a pro riding for team Ride Clean/PatentIT.com is a true gentleman and an all around nice guy.  After the podium ceremonies in Cincinnati on Friday night, he hung out and chatted with the crowd, answered every question with a smile and asked my wife if she’d like the flowers.  Of course she would!

Thanks Mate!  Couldn't have planned that better.

Clay made my weekend, a weekend of bikes, gifts, food, drinks, cowbells, friends and fun with my sweetheart of 13 years.  Flowers from the local Kroger grocery store would’ve been nice, but a beautiful bouquet that was the center of attention at a pro bike race and handed to my wife by the Tasmanian winner with a handsome smile was da bomb.  He won last week in Wisconsin too, our home state.  I couldn’t have planned that better.  Thanks Clay!  Let me know what I owe ya.  ;)

Hyde Park Blast/USA Crit Series Cheering For Dummies

How do I cheer?

Clap like a spaz.  If you don’t own a cowbell, craft a recession version using a wooden spoon and camping skillet and clang it like dinner time at the monkey exhibit.  Yell only as a last resort.  You’ll find out why when you call your mother on Sunday morning.

How do I look like I know what I’m cheering for?

Cheer for a USA Crit Championship Series leader.  Impress the cutie next to you by asking them, “Did you know ‎8 of the top 20 men in the overall series are at the Hyde Park Blast today?  And, by the way you look hot in those shorts and my van is parked around the corner.”

Luke Keough of Team Mountain Khakis is ranked 2^nd overall.  They’re the team wearing tan trousers with the zip in the front. 

Aerocat’s Juan Pablo Dotti is in 3rd.  His teammate Emile Abraham is in the top 10 and their kitty litter mate Serghei Tvetcov is in the top 20.

Clayton Barrows of Stans No Tubes is in the top 10.  Plus, Clayton Barrows sounds like a millionaire’s name like Thurston Howell the Third.

Clay Murfet of RideClean won in Grafton, Wisconsin last Saturday and will be here.  Grafton is the 9^th planet in our solar system.

Lisban Quintero of the Foundation Team is in the top 20 and...what?  STFU!  According to this article posted Thursday 6/23 at NYVelocity.com he tested positive and has been removed from the Foundation Cycling New York team roster.  I guess someone will move up into the top 20 and we can cross him off the Hyde Park Blast confirmed riders list.  Okay.  Well.

Cheer for Your Favorite Sponsor.  If you have a name for your beer belly and lost track of your personal tattoo count, cheer for the XO/Harley Davidson team.  Like drinking wine (you lush), cheer for Jamis/Sutter Home. If you like getting high at work, cheer for Kenda/5-Hour Energy.

Cheer for a Local Team.  Our local Ohio Valley guys are fast, a few could go pro, a couple were, but lets face it the bulk of these guys with real jobs on Monday will be crying for mama between bouts of the pukes 45 minutes into the race.  Local teams include: Panther, The Cleveland Clinic, Huntington Bank-Revolution Fitness, Alderfer Bergen, Indiebike, Ghisalo, Team Hungry and any guy getting his $5000 bike off the roof of his sweet TDI VW Jetta with low profile tires.  So when cheering for the local/regional guys it’s a big deal for:

1: A local guy in a breakaway. If there’s a group of riders ahead of the main pack and there’s a local guy in it, that’s a pretty big deal for a yokel local to hang with the big pros.  Give him lots of cowbell…this is the moment of stardom he’ll be telling his grand kids about.

2: A Prime lap.  Throughout the race, officials will ring a bell and the first rider to cross the finish line on the next lap will win a prize, like a giant barrel of Cheetos or a couple hundred bucks.  While the big teams are in it to win the race, the local guys will do anything for Cheetos.

3: The Dangler.  When the race is near the 1 hour mark, no doubt some of the local guys will be dangling in danger of getting dropped from the pack and be out of the race.  Like working one out on the toilet, give the dangler all the cowbell you got to keep him hanging on another lap.  He’s giving it all he’s got Scotty!

Where’s a good spot to watch?

Where the beer is dummy.  It’s best to change positions as the race progresses.  On the hairpin near the pit is a great early spot.  You’re close to the beer tent and can see the early riders come into the pit, fake having a mechanical issue and get a free lap (see below).  After the first 10 laps or so, make your way up to the hill.  That’s where the attacks are made, breakaways started and the less strong riders lose their lunch.  You might even be able to bribe a neighborhood party to let you watch in their yard if you put a six pack in their cooler.  Toward the end of the race, make your way down toward the start/finish to be closer to the beer wagon again and see the blistering sprint. 

Why Are People Waving $20 Bills at the Riders on the Hill?

That’s because they owe the Aerocat riders for the good time in the van an hour ago.  No really, that’s a spectator prime.  Unofficial prizes, some neighbors pool their money and have their own race in their own backyard.  The first guy to their driveway at the top of the climb wins $20!  It’s for real.

Those guys were dropped.  Why do they get a free lap?

According to the rules, a free lap may be granted for a mishap like a flat tire.  The rider pulls into the pit and squishes his tire to make believe he has a flat in front of the official.  The official “inspects the bike” and either grants the free lap or tells the rider to pack their bags.  The free lap rule may only be in effect for a limited time as determined by officials.  Historically, there are so many riders and the course of the Hyde Park Blast so technical that officials may grant a free lap to riders dropped early in the race who may have had a poor starting position to begin with.  Watch the start of the race and you’ll notice while the guys in the front are powering up the straightaway close to 30mph, those at the back might be on the brakes going into the first corner.  Those riders can be granted a free lap and re-enter the field for a second chance.  

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.