Vichyssoise and Types of #Cyclocross Mud

It has been said the Inuit have 400 names for snow.  It’s only urban legend of course.  The truth is the Inuit, like me, are just a very colorful, overly dramatic and adjective laden people.  Thinking about cyclocross however, there has to be 400 types of mud.  I’ve personally ridden in Bronchitis snot, Chunky Gazpacho, Stripper Wrasslin’ Mud, Cincinnati Chili and so on. 

Saturday as the sun came out in Columbus, after 2 inches of rain, elite racers feared The Peanut Butter and not because of allergies.  Peanut Butter can quickly become Mesa Verde mud, named after the type of mud/grass mix the Anasazi used to build their cliff dwellings at the namesake National Park.  Consequently when that type freezes on contact, and can only be removed by a combination of welding torches and jack hammers, you get Dirty Igloo Mud, much like we had at Masters Worlds in Louisville this past winter.  See how that Inuit line came full-circle?

Back in Columbus Saturday, during the Masters race we had more of the chunky gazpacho type of mud.  It was a very wet mud, not as watery as the cold potato delicacy known as Vichyssoise mud or the romantic pottery mud from the movie Ghost.  Like an Italian wine with good nose, this mud featured delicate garnishes of grasses, hints of wild flowers and bites of thistles and briars.  On any Sunday afternoon in fall, you can find grandmothers selling the exact same mud concoction vacuum packed for $22/pickle jar with cute pastel labels as an anti-aging serum at the farmers market in Park City Utah. 

Sadly, as witnessed first-hand after the elite women’s race, after the gazpacho spoiled in the sun for a half hour, it became Emotional Mud, the exact type of mud that will cause a 14 year old girl racer to become so upset she will snap at her family near the start/finish between bouts of shuddering tears.  Kudos to the entire women’s podium for consoling her after the race.  For obvious reasons, one of them being how I could be perceived as a creepy old masters racer, I had to leave the estrogenfest, but it was heartwarming.

Columbus Women's Podium

Unlike the non-sticky Vichyssoise, Sunday’s mud stuck a bit to the bike but, due to the preponderance of puddles (I’m not sure if I’m using that word correctly, but the phrase sounds congressmanly awesome), washed itself off the bike every few hundred meters.  Shifters still shifted.  Brakes slowed.  The bike didn’t get that much heavier whether you rode 200 meters or 10 miles.  Not many switched bikes during the race.    

That said, there is a point when a cyclocross racer should switch bikes due to mud accumulation.  Rather than go through the entire scientific calculation on my Garmin 8045S, (which has something to do with the depth of mud cubed, divided by pi and multiplied by the square root of the area of the starting grid) I’ll spell it out simply.  You need to ditch your bike a half lap before it gets bad.  It’s like deciding whether to add another cup of kale to your morning smoothie.  You have to know when to stop before you’re stuck with a liter of bitter green barf.  Like bike stopping mud, there is nothing worse than too much kale.

Vichyssoise (Cold Potato Soup)

It should be elementary, especially for the well-educated cyclocross racer, but another confounding law of nature comes into play when racing cyclocross in the mud.  Bikes are slower in water.  Ka-pow!  Mushroom cloud above your head.  Blew your mind didn’t I?  Sure now, in your dry air-conditioned office with a heart rate 35% of max, it makes perfect sense that you would be hard pressed to ride 50 meters across an Olympic swimming pool.  However, every muddy race, I’m amazed how many people don’t realize bikes are fastest on smooth concrete.  Using these two known constants, you should be able to calculate the fastest way through any cyclocross course.  Ride the most solid ground possible, unless the reroute will cost you more time than riding over the slower surface.  However, sometimes in cyclocross common sense and elementary math are Hope Diamond-rare.  

That Happened: A Wknd w/Legend Paul Curley

Tsali, our cat (named after the 2^nd best mountain bike trail in the world) is on my chest.  I’m pinned down like he owns me.  He knows I’m not moving.  A human kitty bed, I drift in and out of sleep. I finally caved after a weekend of cycling goodness.  Periodically I hear the hostess at Eli’s BBQ a few blocks from our house announce over the PA that someone’s food is ready.  The blinds are drawn.  The ceiling fan spins.  The cool leather couch soothes my slightly sun parched skin.  I would spend the next ten hours like this.  I showered, made a giant vegan protein smoothie with frozen berries, the cat saw his opportunity and I succumbed.  At 8:30pm, I got up to buy a six pack of Bells Two Hearted at my wife’s request.  The dude abides.  The Bells was a cool reward for her MS150 and my impromptu weekend riding with cyclocross legend Paul Curley and friends. 

Paul Curley hand-slung me.  Wha?  Huh?  The multi-year Cyclocross 55+ Masters National Champion joined us on the BioWheels bike shop Saturday Morning Beatdown.  He was in the Cincinnati area visiting family and called the shop to find an area ride.  With gray hair peeking from his helmet, stars on his shorts and an old Verge CX series jersey, he pedaled stoutly on his small black Cannondale.  His skin looks a bit weathered.  His stocky legs have seen a million miles.  I flicked my elbow.  He pulled through.  He can still pull his weight on the local racer ride.  He rode smart, doing work when he could, sitting on when prudent.  Periodically, like with any guest on the ride, I’d pull even and give him heads up about a particularly nasty stretch of road, an upcoming hill, or wicked descent. 

A Track Hand Sling

On a rough winding farm road in Cincinnati’s Little Miami River Valley, a rider punctured in front of Paul and me.  I coasted back to make sure the rider had what he needed for the fix.  He waved me onward.  Looking back and seeing me trying to bridge my way back up, Paul, the seasoned vet, drifted slightly off the back of the speeding bunch and extended a hand.  “Is this really about to happen,” I thought.  With a thumb up and the back of his hand facing me, this wasn’t going to be a handshake.  This was a straight up Madison style hand sling.  I took a few hard pedal strokes.  With my left hand, I grabbed firm and he hand-slinged me within reach of an easy catch.  He jumped in my slipstream.  The group slowed slightly through a corner and we were both back on.  I get goosebumps thinking about it.  Yes.  That happened, a legendary experience with a legend.  I never expected to ride with him again. 

“Is that Paul Curley?  It is!”  JBV Coach Chris Mayhew was wrapped up in the garage right up until the moment the group rolled out of Loveland.  I was invited on this Sunday ride along with other clients and friends of the JBV coaches who held a clinic the day before.  Chris, maybe too busy with coffee, didn’t catch that Paul’s sprinter type van was parked down the street.  Paul had been planning on doing a nearby race.  It was cancelled at the last minute, so he decided to join us.  It wasn’t until we were rolling through the tunnel of trees of the Little Miami bike path that Chris pulled off the front, only to have Paul roll by on his right.  I was no-handed on the back tucking my arm warmers into my pocket and saw Chris’ double take first hand. 

The genuine excitement was priceless.  The phone came out.  There was a pat on the back, smiles, maybe a tongue in cheek muttering of “go back to the front I’m just a washed up old man,” and a moment was made.  Later, Paul asked me what I did for a living.  I mentioned we had met once before mud covered in the pits at the Masters Cyclocross World Championships in Louisville two years ago.  He was just one of the bunch yesterday.  We traded pulls up the long climb into Devou Park.  To my left sat my teammate Jason, to my right cross legend Paul Curley.  Surrounded by friends and clients of JBV coaching, the Cincinnati Skyline framed a scenic 4 hour 70 mile Sunday ride.  If I had a bucket list, this would’ve been on it.  However, sometimes it’s just as fun to make the most of opportunity and write the list as you go through life.  It seems to work for Paul.

The Most Elusive @Strava Segment Ever

In chest waders with a fly rod, I walked back from the creek after striking out fishing for Steelhead trout.  I wasn’t much of a bike rider then.  A camouflaged gentlemen rolled up the double track in a blue sun-faded early 80’s Chevy Imapla with black steel wheels sans hubcaps.  Using the crank on the inside of the door, adding to the backwoods drama, he physically rolled down his window.  Locking eyes, he quizzed me, “Nuttindoinaina?”  I stopped dead in my tracks.  A bit of water sloshed in my waders around my feet.  What the hell did he say?  Nuttindoinaina.  Miles from anything resembling civilization, I wasn’t scared, only caught off guard that I had to translate the native dialect in this land.  Nuttindoinaina was his way of asking, "Nothing going on huh?"  “Oh.  No.  Didn’t catch anything,” I answered.  He thanked me with a nod and a wave and drove off.  A few miles from the town of Gay (really...look it up), that was my first encounter with a real live native Yooper, a person from the upper peninsula of Michigan.  I’m thinking about going back, this time with a bike.

A Pastie is Like a Homemade Pot Pie

Traveling through Wisconsin, there is no physical border going into Upper Michigan.  It’s porous, sort of like Mexico.  The roads get skinnier, the signs for restaurants selling Pasties get more frequent and four wheelers seem to be the preferred mode of summer travel.  In winter they use “sleds.”  We call them snow machines or snow mobiles.  Coming through Lower Michigan however, you have the majestic Mackinac Bridge linking Mackinaw City with Saint Ignace in the UP.  It towers so high and stretches so long; you’d think a northern San Francisco is on the other side, not summer cabins.  As I discovered last night, the Mackinac Bridge is a Strava segment.  As I also learned, it must be the most elusive Strava segment ever.  I kinda want it.

It’s a 4.4 mile segment with 180 feet of elevation gain.  It’s a bridge, up one side and down the other for a zero net pitch.  The KOM is 16.1mph.  Don Kring of Grand Rapids bagged it in a time of 16:24.  I have no idea who Mr. Kring is since his Strava profile photo is a picture of a sock that says “I Heart Beer” but I thought I could easily take this one while on vacation.  There’s nothing better than bagging out of town segments, leaving the locals to scratch their heads wondering who “that guy” is.  It’s an odd segment; only 16 cyclists are on the leaderboard, not the triple digits we see in major cities or tourist destinations.  Still Mr. Kring’s KOM has stood since September 4^th, 2011.  Now I realize why he rests easy.  No one will have a chance to beat him for another few weeks. 

“If we go here, we are so doing this bridge,” I said to my wife.  I could average 16.1mph over four miles in cutoffs on a beach cruiser with a puppy in a flower basket.  Then I looked at Don Kring’s ride where he set the KOM on the Mackinac Bridge.  He rolled a very respectable 76.1 miles in 4 hours.  He ain’t no slouch.  He wasn’t riding platform pedals or stopping at the pastie-selling tavern I imagine on the other side.  There’s got to be more to this bridge than data allows.  

DALMAC2009

It's no bike path noodle.  There are deep dish wheel-yanking jacket-puffing 40mph winds howling across the deck.  I heard rumors of a steel mesh deck, sasquatches and trolls too, but haven’t seen proof.  Reader Holly told me she was once on the bridge in a car over Thanksgiving.  On windy days, the police will caravan the cars to limit the speed.  Halfway across, they closed the bridge.  Ice chunks were breaking loose from the cables and pelting Holly’s car.  I understand Mr. Kring didn’t set the KOM in November’s Edmund Fitzgerald sinking gale force winds.  It was early September, where temperatures are in the lower 70’s, the leaves start thinking about changing colors and Da Yoopers start thinking about their sleds.  Digging into it, nearly all the people on the leaderboard rode the bridge in September.  2^nd Place rode on Sept 2^nd, 2012.  5^th Place rode on September 6^th 2009.  

According to our readers on Facebook Jeni and Seldomseen, native Yoopers from what I gather, the bridge is only open once or twice a year for pedestrian traffic, otherwise it’s a freeway.  One event authorities open the bridge for is the DALMAC bicycle tour, which takes place annually from Lansing to Mackinaw around Labor Day.  However, the 2013 application deadline has passed.  It’s a multi-day bike/camping tour.  So now you can guess that Mr. Kring might have set that KOM with some heavy gear as he rode up and over the Mackinac Bridge with strong crosswinds.  Either that or he took part in the Mackinaw City Bike Tour.  This year’s event is on September 15^th.  Click here for details.  There’s still time for that, but only 400 some spots are available according to the website.  Like the Eminem song “Lose Yourself,” also a Michigan original, if you want this KOM, don’t let the opportunity slip.  The Mackinac Bridge is the most elusive Strava segment ever.

Being Eastwardly Challenged

Your internal compass functions equally in all directions.  Mine?  Not so much.  Maybe you lived your whole life in Indianapolis, the Circle City.  Columbus and Cincinnati are like Indianapolis, you can travel in all directions for miles and miles.  Count your blessings native buckeyes.  Same goes for those growing up with a baby bottle of Bourbon in Louisville.  Others, like me, grew up in a world devoid of easterly travel by land.  

A Milwaukeean by birth, while I have a wine aficionado type appreciation for the variety of cheese curds, I am forever directionally disabled.  So is the guy from Miami I met via email this week.

Aside from the Browns, I can relate with people in Cleveland, northwardly challenged.  Being from Milwaukee, like those who grew up in Chicago, I have no concept of east.  I’d assume riders in LA have a hard time with west.  West is ocean.  I was born with east meaning Great Lakes.  Joe go no east.

East is brow furrowing confounding to me.  When I give directions to someplace east of Cincinnati, I lack the typically manly confidence.  I slur out the word east with a slow point to the right.  “It’s about 8 miles eeeeaaaast of here.  Yep.  East.  That way.  That’s east, right?” 

Being eastwardly challenged has its rewards.  Anytime I’m east of town, I feel like I’m only a few minutes away, even if it’s 20 miles.  Being east of home has always meant close to home.  I could never stray too far without getting my feet wet.  My brain is lopsided.  If I were to create a graph, it’s nearly a 2 to one ratio.  2 miles west = 1 mile east in terms of feeling far from home.  This can be dangerous.  What feels like 14 miles, can easily be 30 miles.  Due to my condition, I’m more likely to bonk on a ride east of home.

I got an email from a guy living in Miami last week who asked for advice on the best area to live in Cincinnati and be close to good riding and far away from busy roads.  It was obvious he suffered my disability as well.  Logically, appearing a short drive to the city and an easy escape into rural riding on a map, he was considering Mason.  Mason!  I had to save him from the six-lane freeway as a main street hell-hole.

Mason is a suburban heaven, surrounded by a purgatory moat of traffic jams.  The only saving grace is the right hooks and middle finger throwing come from pretty women driving Lexus SUV’s.  I had to open his eyes to the circle city concept, where living more central to the city affords more pleasant riding in all directions, and consequently, living on the fringes, limits your options.  I live 5 miles from downtown Cincinnati.  I do most of my riding out my front door in all directions, even east.  In 13 years, I’ve never ridden my bike through Mason.  In fact, it’s avoided.  Conversely, the amount of riders passing the end of my urban street on any given week is probably in the hundreds.

When a city offers travel by road in all directions, people and traffic are more spread out.  Imagine how the dynamic of understanding a city would change if you took all the people on the Eastside of Cincinnati or Indianapolis or Louisville, and moved them all west from a centerline through downtown.  Welcome to Chicago, Miami and Milwaukee.  The size of the suburbs is double.

You can’t blame Miami guy.  In Miami, there’s a whole lot of life crammed in that little corner of Florida, let alone King James’ and Pitbull’s entourages.  It was obvious he has no concept of east as well, and occasionally wrestles with south.  There is definitely no east and only a little fart of outlet store highway leading south of Miami to the keys.  Every day, he has to navigate a dense suburban choking hell to lay wheels to peaceful asphalt somewhere north and/or west of the city.  I must have blown his mind when I told him the best places to live and ride in Cincinnati are actually closer to the city. 

The beauty of the circle city is on any given day, I can ride south in to the hills of Northern Kentucky, past the riverboats west along the Ohio River, north on the bike path to Loveland, Xenia and Dayton and yes, east.  Glorious east past the riches of Indian Hill, I can pedal through a covered bridge, down miles of one lane farm roads which eventually turn into switchbacks up the Appalachian Mountains and back down for hundreds of miles before east ever comes to an end with soaking wet feet.

Your #Strava Ride Titles Need Serious Attention

Just A Bit Disappointed

Some of you need a Strava kick in the pants.  I follow 96 of you on Strava, and I have to say in a high pitched and tiny John Stewart voice, “I’m a little disappointed.”  No.  No.  No.  Don’t get me wrong.  You’re riding long and strong.  I occasionally show my mom your PR’s and KOM because I’m so proud of you.  I use your ride maps as wallpaper on my PC.  However, if your Strava was a report card, you’d be getting an NA.  I’m talking to you Mr. April 7^th 2013 and 11 other friends with the same lame-o sad trombone date as your activity title.  Your ride titles lack artistic value. 

April 7th Is Jackie's Birthday

If this were figure skating I’d give you a 2.3 out of a possible 10.  A dozen rides (out of 47) in my feed yesterday were titled with the intriguing prose of, “04/07/2013.”  Maybe April 7^th was a date of monumental importance.  It was Jackie Chan’s Birthday!  Regardless of how much you like Kung Fu, we need to do something about this bout of lameness you’re passing off as a social media experience.  No kudos for you.  Either that or I need to understand why so many people titled their workout activity from Sunday as, “04/07/2013.”  Certainly you all didn’t do the same ride.  Certainly something of note had to happen.  Certainly you saw, heard, felt or smelled something interesting.

So as a creative person this leaves me no option to make assumptions about Lou’s 1.7 mile run titled “April 7^th, 2013.”  Since the map is cut off near Hyde Park Square and the minutes per mile are on the slow side, I wonder if he really ran his Strava app on a walk to get Graeter’s Ice Cream and tried to pass it off as a run.  Who runs 1.7 miles?  Someone hungry for Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip, that’s who!  As a journalist it makes me inquire a bit further to get the real dirt. 

Who Does That?

So I clicked on the map of Mike’s 33.7 mile ride also titled “April 7^th, 2013” and saw that he went up two dead end roads.  Wha huh?!  The gig is up Mikey!  Maybe I’ll have to check out Bluecut and Deeprun Lanes off of Pipewell Lane which is a turn off of Given Road in Cincinnati’s hoidy toidy Indian Hill neighborhood.  What are you trying to hide?  Do you have a secret segment you’re saving for yourself?  Do you deliver produce to the wealthy on your bike?  Are you a Russian spy?

My buddy Scott rode 21.4 miles on his ride, also titled “April 7^th, 2013.”  He’s in Jacksonville, Florida.  Upon further inspection he rode on Race Track Road which is just east of what appears to be a pretty little water inlet.  I wonder if he saw a crocodile, got scared and rode home accounting for the short ride, and a third best time on the Flora Branch segment.

You’re not getting any Kudos from me until you step up your name game.  You wouldn’t post the date as your Facebook status.  I know cyclists are non-chest-thumping anti-social introverts by nature, but you need to do better.  Chris got Kudos from me for piquing my interest.  He named his ride “Clockwork Orange (x4)."  Was he comparing the ride to a disturbing tale of England in the totalitarian future?  Turns out it’s a clever way to say he rode the Orange loop at Harbin Park four times clockwise.  Bravo!

Courtesy of Chris on Ride to Bagdad, PA

“Sunday’s Are For Bailing,” was a favorite title from April 7^th, 2013.  Looks like Jamie got to the top of the Marshall climb and called it a day.  I can relate.  It’s a long lonely hour ride back home from there if you’re spent.  “Zanesfield RR-Rode Like Schleck,” said all I needed to know from Jason.  “Bagdad!”  That title came from my cross coach Chris.  After seeing a photo of one of the washed out roads he encountered somewhere around Pittsburg I thought I knew what he was talking about.  It looked like a war zone.  Turns out he discovered the town of Bagdad, PA.  “Walking For A Cupcake,” made me smile.  That came from my wife.  Someone gave me vegan cupcakes at work and she knew I’d be bringing them home.

I’m not looking for a ride description as a follower of yours on Strava.  I can see you rode 50 miles.  I know it was windy.  I’m looking for you to share a slice of your life.  Take your eyes off your Garmin.  Check if that Kentucky farm dog has all four legs.  Was that really a pair of panties on the side of the road?  Open up those ears to the songs of the birds.  Take a big whiff of that Kentucky tobacco farm.  Tell me about it.  Take a few tips from me.  Here are my last few ride titles: “70. Solo. Shaboberle. Spent.  Stinky.,” My Stuffed Pockets Were Swinging Like Double D’s in a Tank Top So I Stopped At BioWheels To Buy A Saddlebag,” and, “Ludlow KY Smells Like Fried Chicken.”  If you need help, click here and follow The Best Bike Blog Ever on Strava.

We’re riding bikes people.   It’s fun and exciting.  There’s always something worth noting beyond the obvious.  Show it.  Share it.  I’ll give you Kudos.  Promise.

Evasive Maneuvering: Bucket Truck of Death

Confident, the index and middle finger on my right hand began to squeeze the brake lever trigger.  It would send my rear wheel skidding out to the right at 25mph.  My left knee augered away from my bike to take the initial impact of my left hip, hand and handlebars hitting the rain soaked oily pavement.  Coming down the Gilbert Avenue hill into downtown Cincinnati I judged I had about a two foot ceiling and a 10-12 foot gap to shoot between the wheels and under an energy company bucket truck.  I think I would’ve made it.  Then it stopped.

Not The Exact Bucket Truck, But You Get The Idea

I tacked right and skirted around the front bumper, the truck jutting two-thirds of the way into my lane.  I looked back at the driver.  His window was down, bare arm on the frame.  We locked eyes.  It’s at these moments you wish you had something clever to say, something like, “What the F*** Bucket Head!”  Like Peter Sagan contesting a sprint infraction, the back of my Italian left hand leaped into the air toward the driver and the only quip my mouth could muster was “Dooooood!”  So I’m only a quarter Italian.

As I was coming down the hill in the left lane to make the left turn at the light only 150 meters away, the bucket truck was coming up on the other side of the median then made a sudden U-turn midway into my path to the light.  Had my bike rolled 20-25 feet closer I know I would’ve squeezed that lever.  At 25mph, a bike travels 36.6 feet per second.  Looking back, I estimate I had a little more than a half second to waffle on the option of grabbing a fist full of brake and taking myself human bowling. 

The light was red.  I slowed to a stop in the left hand turn lane.  The truck pulled up in the far right.  With no one else at the intersection, he could’ve quickly turned and drove away, but he stopped for me.  His eyes were wide, visibly shaken.  He shouted sincerely out the window, “Sorry.  My bad.”  I half smiled.  Considering my stupidity for riding too fast for conditions, I waved him off saying, “It’s all good,” and turned back up the hill for my 5^th hill repeat.

Odometer: The Nuances of the Number Nine

It’s like missing the spare, leaving one pin standing.  Hot looking girls are a perfect dime not a California 9.  It’s a gymnast getting docked a tenth for a slight wobble on an otherwise 10.0 vault.  Lately, as you'll see interspersed between paragraphs, every ride I’ve done recently has come up 9’s: 49 miles, 59 miles, 29 miles.  Sure, I could roll the extra distance, take a circle around the block or noodle an out and back down the street, but that’s questionable ethics isn’t it?  Every mile must have a purpose. 

July 5^th The Full Nelson Ride: 49.7

For a cyclist, a ride distance ending in 9 is the marathon equivalent of running a 26.1.  Track athletes don’t do the 99 meter dash.  No one takes a picture of their car’s odometer with 99,999 miles.  They wait for the big 100k before locking the steering wheel with their knee and snapping the Facebook photo.

June 30^th BioWheels Sat Morn Beatdown: 59.3

There’s people I know, dirty dishonest cheating people that I stick my tongue out at, that’ll go the extra mile or tenth to get over the hump.  Not me.  I prefer to stew in disappointment and despair, cuz that’s the way uh huh uh huh I like it (KC & The Sunshine Band.)  I don’t think that counts.  The ride was over when you arrived back at the parking lot, the house, the bridge or wherever it was over. 

June 28^th Mariemont Dirt: 29.5

However I once, strong armed by riding companions, dipped my toes in the foul water and rode the out and back of shame to turn a 98 mile ride into a century.  I’m still not sure putting off the shower and sandwich an extra 10 minutes was worth it.  It certainly felt like cheating, not quite something I’d bring up in a confessional, but  more like using white-out on a term paper. 

June 27^th NKY Amsterdam Loop: 29.5

Noodling out the extra mile doesn’t count for me.  You either ride 100 miles or 50 miles or 25 miles or you don’t.  Circling in the parking lot or a zip around the block at 10mph is not riding.  The only way to legitimately tack on mileage to a ride that may fall short is to add purpose.  Otherwise, it’s a sad pathetic empty mile.   

June 26^th Dayton Silver Grove: 29.8

So here’s how to ethically add the distance to your ugly ride that ends in nine.  Do something special with that extra mile.  Ride to the store and buy your companions a coke or an ice cream.  Take that mile and see how far you can go no-handed.  Go after the nearest Strava segment.  Go back to the intersection where you saw the penny on the road and pick it up.  Hammer that extra mile as hard as you can.  Bikefucious says, “100 miles is not a century if not all are ridden with purpose.”

Sunday, We Raced The Train

A handful of riders were polled.  What makes a good group road ride?  They answered: a steady pace, the “best” riders in town, a challenging route.  Obviously those 5 riders skewed the results by having Bath Salts in their water bottles.  I’d answer with road rarity, pleasant conversation, good friends, animal sightings, blue skies, temperature in the mid 70’s, low humidity, great views, and a small general store.  If you said average speed, few stops or anything having to do with physically riding the bike, you need to stop treating your bathroom as a pantry. 

Rolling To Visalia on Decoursey Pike in Kenton Co. KY

“Looks like I missed a good one yesterday,” Mitch, the owner of BioWheels bike shop, said to me Monday night.  “Yeah.  Great route.  Nice pace.” I tossed back too quickly.  Before my Bath Salt brain could dig for specifics, the phone rang.  Mitch answered.  I finished the conversation in my head as I concentrated on wrapping my wife’s handlebars with new tape and getting the spacing just right, no visible logos.  I’m thinking maybe it was the chat at the Visalia convenience store’s picnic table that made the ride so special.  I’m not sure what it was about, but it was light hearted, definitely not politics or even a hint of negativity.  Then I remembered the turn off the beaten path up a road called Moffett in rural Kenton County Kentucky.  To date, there are only 4 people on the Moffett Strava Segment KOM list, all of them on Sunday’s ride.  The climb crested at a farm with two horses at the fence, one umbrella tree an infinite amount of green rolling hills.

In Cincinnati, people rave about the Hyde Park Kroger grocery store with an in-house Starbucks, Sushi chef and wine tasting bar.  While the price tag of the designer jeans and shades of Eastside shoppers may rival the carbon fashion show I see on the Wednesday night ride, the best cycling food stops have no aisles.  There’s nothing better than leaning your bike under a hand painted sign that reads “General Store” and hearing your cleats clop across boot-worn splintering hardwood floors.  You better bring cash.  They make change from a lock box.  If they do take credit cards, the scanner is the analog beep-booop-beee type.  Better yet, they don’t sell gas.  In our area I’m partial to the Claysville and Rabbit Hash General Stores.  It’s a well earned 2 hour ride to either.  Third on my list is the store we stopped at Sunday in Visalia where 536 crosses the Licking River.  While it’s not as historic, far away or nostalgic, it has a picnic table out front.  If you approach from the South, it comes as a nice highlight at the end of a two mile one lane road that parallels the railroad tracks called “Vises Trail.”  Sunday, we took the turn off under the bridge and raced the train as its whistle screamed loud enough to raise goose bumps on my legs.

Technically, it is a barn.

Even after living here for 12 years, a former cheesehead, Kentucky horse farms still hold a mystique for me.  The horse farm on Sunday’s ride was small compared to those outside of Lexington.  There you’ll see horses along the white roadside fence with gorgeous shiny brass bridals, some even with their name on them.  In the distance, the freshly painted wooden fencing leads to an exquisite barn that makes your suburban home look like a refrigerator box under an overpass.  Periodically, you’ll see horses with hoods over their heads, ghost horses.  At first glance it seems a little cruel their eyes are covered up.  Yesterday the horses didn’t have hoods and their whole heads were swarming with flies.  I learn something every time.  The two, one brown one black, were grazing under a tree near the top of the Moffett Road climb.  It was the only patch of shade in their corral.  I felt bad our presence made them shy away and saunter into the sun.  Still it was gorgeous.  We were on top of a ridgeline, horses in the foreground and a sea of soft green hills and valleys in every direction.

What were we talking about again?

The Myth, The Legend, Mister Sudsy Butt

Seen on ride: a wicked case of sudsy chamois.  Ala comedian Daniel Tosh, let’s see how many jokes we can get in 30 seconds.  (Tick Tick Tick)  Where do you put the bleach?  It looks like your load is off balance.  Wash and wear?  No.  Wear and wash.  That’s obviously not the delicate cycle.  Thank God I’m only seeing the rear.  I'd hate to see what extra starch looks like?  If the suds turn brown I am so leaving a gap.  That’s one way to keep your white saddle white.  Stop by after the ride and sit on my car.  Wonder what’ll happen if he farts.  Looks like someone ran out of quarters.  I hope that’s Tide and not Pantene.  (BUZZ)  And, that’s time!

Sudsy Butt Can Be A Good Thing

Laughing, I almost got dropped, twice.  LOL indeed.  We misjudged the weather Saturday morning, already a half hour from home, we were committed for 3 ½ hours in the rain.  Luckily the temperature setting was switched to warm.  It started with one bubble, but as my teammate's legs churned through the downpour and road spray his but started to froth.  Somebody either has a bad rinse cycle on an aging washing machine or can’t read the measuring lines in the detergent cap.  Detergent left in his shorts was reactivated with the rain.  An hour and a half into the ride he had a rabid dog foaming at the mouth in his shorts.  I lost two wheel lengths laughing when the suds balls caught the wind floating them in the air like a seeding Cottonwood.

Photo proof: Courtesy F2BBlog.com

I’m upset I didn’t get video, or at least a photo.  This (left) is the only photo I could find online.  Riding a paceline on the Saturday Morning Beatdown in a downpour was hard enough, let alone trying to pull my phone out of my pocket to snap a photo while trying to hold a wheel at 21mph with spray in my face.  This is precisely the reason photos of sudsy chamois are so hard to come by.  Catching a photo of Mister Sudsy Butt is like Bigfoot.  You’re so terrified at the moment, concrete proof remains elusive.  

Never Let Em See You Crumble: The Art of Checking Out of a Group Ride

Twice it’s happened this year.   “We going right?” I asked over the hum of coasting hubs.  “No.  Straight.  Straight.  We’ll take Tanner,” was the response.  I knew fully well, straight wasn’t the fastest way to Tanner.   All the bridges back across the Ohio River were east of us, and we were headed back west.  It would surely tack on 8 extra miles to what should’ve been a 70ish mile ride from Cincinnati to Rabbit Hash with some of the fastest dudes in town.  To complicate things, Tanner wasn’t the fastest way home.  Tack on another 6 miles.  At that moment, you’ve mentally checked out.  It’s like being on a club century when your computer hits 100 miles and you’re still a few untold miles from the finish. 

It happened again yesterday on Cincinnati’s Hyde Park Ride, a ride that’s been going on every Sunday since Neanderthals rode wooden bikes with Flintstone brakes.  Normally the ride has a predictable flow over its 60 miles out and back from Cincinnati to Morrow.  A soft rollout from Hyde Park to the top of the first hill in Madeira transitions into a hard tempo into Loveland.  Between Loveland and the sprint in Morrow, it’s race pace.  On the return, it’s relatively tame until the last few miles before the sprint back into Loveland.  After that, guys peel off to respective suburban areas, you pick the train with the most neighbors and ride the steady easier tempo home.  My train is usually the one that takes the bike path.  Only, they didn’t take the bike path back and the switch flipped back to the “game on” position. 

Say Goodbye To Noodling

It wasn’t extra miles, but extra hurt.  I mentally checked out at Loveland.  The bunch that should’ve continued chatting about how the sprint unfolded, their cool new spring kits or how much yard work they had to do at home, strung out and shut up.  On the five mile climb back into Madeira, the pedal was slowly squished to the floor.  I suspect Strava glory is messing with tradition.  Like drowning as the ship pulls away, I slowly slid to the back.  The tank, filled with only a waffle and an Odwalla bar, emptied.  Pop!  Bye bye time.  At least the last time anyone saw me I was setting tempo with my bud Tracy on the front.  (We're on the border of the north and south.  Guys have names like Tracy, Kerry and Kelby.)  I went out on a high note.

F*** you wind!  I shouted it out loud, but was too far off the back for anyone to hear.  It reminded me of a girl we used to mountain bike with that cursed out loud to encourage herself to get up tough climbs.  "S***.  Crap!"  She'd stomp her way to the top.  I stopped at a convenience store for a Coke infusion and was on my way home solo, struggling on the Camargo downhill with this b**** of a headwind.  17mph.  I swear we went up this hill faster than I’m going down.  There were three ways home: up the hill on Erie Avenue, cutting the corner but driving into the full on headwind on the wide-open Columbia Parkway, or dropping into the industrial area along Wooster Pike.  Offering the most protection from the wind, the smallest hills, and the most stop signs, I took option 3.  I even took a neighborhood trail on my road bike across the railroad tracks in Linwood by Terry’s Turf Club to shave a few blocks.  Emergency mode.

The art of checking out of a group ride is to go out on a high note, never letting anyone see you crumble.  It’s like zipping up your jersey before your big finish.  “Good ride you guys.  I’m taking the bike path.”  “I’m going right.  I said I had to be home by 2.”  “I’ll see ya next week.  I’m gonna grab a few things at the store before I go home.”  Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Donutology: The Cycling Weather Forecast

There’s a 50 percent chance of chocolate donuts in the conference room today.  Before you start thinking of whether or not they’ll be glazed or iced, I’m quite certain you’re not getting a donut.  Don’t despair.  You never had a chance.  This percentage is as flawed as the 50% chance of showers predicted for today on the Channel 9 News at 11.

It’s Wednesday ride night.  I put my bike in the back of my truck last night and stuffed a backpack with my kit this morning.  Seeing the forecast, my wife packed her cute yoga pants for the gym.  You may think I’m an optimist and she’s a pessimist.  While that may hold some truth, it had nothing to do with our decisions.  She equates getting rained on with torture.  50% rings the “you may end up with runny make-up and snarled hair” alarm in her head.  Besides the fact that my hair looks the same wet or dry and I can live with a wet butt crack for 2 hours, there are too many variables in that 50% chance of rain to mean a whole lot.  Remember the forecast didn’t say a 50% chance of showers between 6pm and 7:45pm for the cities of Madeira and Batavia and all points in between.  The Channel 9 viewing area covers 15-20 counties in the Cincinnati area.

Mmmm Donuts.

Like chocolate donuts in the conference room, a 50% chance of showers pertains to millions of people and an entire 24 hour day, not you and Wednesday Night Worlds.  How many donuts will be in the conference room?  Is it a dozen, or a Homer Simpson fantasy overturned truckload?  Will they be delivered all at once in an atomic donut drop or in smaller bite-sized shipments?  Are they actual donuts or lame-o donut holes from the land of misfit donuts?  If the yummy goodness arrives at 9a, noon or 3pm when hungry coworkers always seem to check the kitchen for free food, your chances of getting a donut decreases.  Since my office is one of the farthest from the kitchen, I have to travel a longer distance when the subject line “Fresh Donuts in the Kitchen” appears in my email. I'm screwed.

See.  Suddenly, I appear to be the pessimist when in reality I’m a realist.  I’m really not planning on getting a donut.  However, if a donut appears in the company kitchen between now and midnight, the Channel 9 Donutologist can say, "I told you there was a chance of donuts."  With a 50% chance of showers, chances are it’s really not going to rain during the shop ride tonight.  However, I did pack Pearl Izumi shoe covers.  While it may not come from the sky, I think the chance of getting my feet splashed on the ride tonight is 50/50.  I hate wet feet.  It's like torture to me.

Douchey By Association

You’re only as cool as the biggest douche on your team.  I ride for a shop team, BioWheels-Reece/Campbell Racing.  If one of my teammates were to run a stoplight, I run a stoplight.  If one the riders on the team litters a GU wrapper, it may as well have been me.  However, perception is reality.  Truth is you’re not only a douche to the rest of us who are in the know about bike racing teams and group rides.  Outside our little two-wheeled Kumbayah singing Cincinnati circle you’re not on a team or the weekly group ride, you’re a part of a larger group known as those bike riders.

This past week a local team got thrown under the virtual Facebook bus.  I’d name them, but at this point it’d be rubbing salt in the already oozing road rash.  A veteran rider pointed out he saw the team run a red light in busy traffic.  A day or two earlier, a team member was seen littering a wrapper.  Ba bam!  They were called out on Facebook by their team name, the equivalent of an atomic public chamois wedgie.  Right now they are wishing they had eaten Spanish steaks via a syringe. 

Needless to say, they won’t be making “the list” anytime soon.  It’s too bad.  There are a lot of great people on that team, friends of mine, well educated people, true advocates of the sport and the city.  However, it wasn’t so-and-so who littered or ran the red light.  To those that witnessed the events, it was the team.

Then again, as the veteran rider pointed out, it wasn’t only the team.  Motorists and city residents don’t associate certain color combinations of spandex as team uniforms.  That’s inside information.  Yesterday I was talking to a neighbor of a friend while in my kit that says BioWheels in 19 different places.  We were chatting about local bike shops.  They didn’t even realize that I was wearing a BioWheels team uniform and my friend was wearing Smitty’s kit, two area shops only miles away.  Regular people only see people on bikes.  When they see someone litter or run a red light, they see you, a bike rider.