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.

The Hairiest Hairy Leg Contest Ever presented by Cremo Shave Cream

They are real.  And, they are spectacular.

While shoes scream for attention, (Italian ones gesture wildly) even the best shaving cream cowers in the corner of the shower with foamy muffled whimpers.  I was reluctant at first.  On the swag-o-meter, a new pair of shoes ranks much higher than shaving cream.  I must admit, I was a little “meh” when Cremo Cream (the astonishingly superior shave cream) asked if they could ship me some free product in exchange for a giveaway with readers.  After all, you’ve been dazzled with Injinji toe socks, GU, Road ID, Ryders Eyewear and Pearl Izumi clothing.  Then again, if there is one thing all cyclists have in common it’s the constant quest to cut costs where possible and spend freely on what matters the most.  Hence people on $10,000 bikes are often found stuffing their pockets full of free GU’s and Snickers on club century rides.  So see below for The Hairiest Hairy Leg Contest EVER.

We all shave, eventually.  Some of you believe shaving makes you faster.  It does not.  9 out of 10 cycling coaches agree.  Riding with slow people makes you faster.  Some believe shaving makes you look better.  It does not.  Riding with ugly people makes you more attractive.  Some believe shaving makes you fit in with the crowd.  It does not.  Shaving makes you the outcast in the one-seater kayak at the summer office canoe picnic.  Some believe shaving makes massage easier.  It does not.  Copious amounts of oil rubbed all over by a big woman with man mitts makes massage easier.  Some believe shaving is a rite of passage.  Hmm….now, you may have something there. 

There is a sweet pair of Zipp 343’s in my man cave.  Every fall they come off my wife’s bike.  Sometime during the spring, they go back on…when the bike fairy rings the magic cowbell and deems her Zippworthy.  The Zipps are a rite of passage, a reward for months of training in foul winter weather turning her into a raging she-beast on a bike.  The same applies to shaving, although Cremo Cream does not cost $2500 a pair.  The first shaving of the meat sticks of the season for many is viewed as a rite of passage, from neandercyclist to racer.  Me ride fast.

Smooth and silky, shaving is like wearing superman’s cape.  It makes you fly.  It’s like the Hulk’s muscles ripping through a plaid shirt to reveal mountains of green muscle.  Raaawwwrr!  It makes you feel like you can tear your riding buddies to shreds.  Shaving makes that delicious bit of quad meat above your knee look like an unclimbable cornice on Mt. Everest.  Shaving makes your massage therapist ask if you’d like the sports massage.  Shaving makes the three girls in the pickup truck whistle and woot as they pass on your ride through Northern Kentucky.  Shaving is also the reason their jealous boyfriends buzz you, call you a “Nancy” and exhaust blast you in a black diesel fog. 

Honey, what are you doing with your phone in the shower?

It’s the end of spring.  If you think you’ve earned the most spectacular leg shave you’ll ever receive outside of hiring your very own soigneur with a straight razor, read on for a chance to win.  I’ve tried Cremo Cream.  It’s great on toast.  It also leaves you a remarkably closer shave than the stuff you had the coupon for.  It’s slick.  Whatever lubricant is in there makes the razor glide easily and the moisturizing seems to linger after the razor passes.  I didn’t see the need to put on lotion afterward.  Since it’s really not a foamy thing, the razor clears hair more easily.  While I didn’t really count, it seemed like I got more trips up my leg before I had to wash the clippings out of the blade.  After I was done my wife ran her hand up my leg and said, “Yummy.” Then she nibbled on my calves.  As it says on the tube, “Try it once to believe it.  Enjoy it for life.  It’s really that good.”  You can pick it up at CVS, Walgreens, Walmart and a number of retailers.  Visit Cremo Cream online for details.

THE HAIRIEST HAIRY LEG CONTEST EVER P/B CREMO CREAM 

If you’re still not convinced to try Cremo Cream yet, let me indulge your frugality.  Share your hair to win a Cremo Cream Gift Set.

1) LikeCremo Cream on Facebook.

2)  Send a picture of your hairy meatsticks here using the subject “Hairy Leg Contest.”  

We’ll draw 3 winners, a virtual podium of sasquatches on bikes, to win a Cremo Cream gift set including: shaving cream, moisturizer and wash.  If you’re lucky, we may even post your photo to Facebook or use it on the blog.  Deadline is at Noon (Eastern Time) on Tuesday, June 4th.  Good luck!  Winners will be drawn randomly.

Smedium: New Clothes Sizes for Cyclists

I Propose A New Size

“Where’s your ass?” my wife asked.  “I know you have a butt, a nice butt, but I don’t see it.”  Apparently my caboose got derailed in these 33W X 33L jeans I’m wearing.  I think I pulled them off the hanger from the pre-vegan section of my closet.  Maybe I’ve slightly neglected my personal sex appeal over 14 years of marriage, but my wife deserves to see my fine cyclocross sculpted rear bumper.  Two days later, the golden e-mail hit her smartphone, “Tonight only, 40% off at Banana Republic.”  It was mutually decided, skip the easy Monday night at the gym for an hour or two doing dressing room gymnastics.  Oh boy, it got gymnastical.

With four plaid collared button down dress shirts, a baby blue merino wool sweater and a long-john-esque “waffled” long sleeve tee, Joe or Nick or Kevin or one of the Jonas Brothers working at Banana Republic showed me to my stall.  As far as the button downs, I’m upset to report I’m a size Smedium.  From the last time I bought nice shirts and today, I’ve probably lost 12-15 pounds.  Staring in the mirror with the medium, I could gather 5-6 inches of fabric around my middle.  Dammit, it took me months of intervals and hummus to earn this waist.  I want to show it off.  So with the hesitation of a former large, I slipped on the small. 

Hmm...not too poochy in the small.

I could sort of see the last uncyclocrossed remnants of my pooch showing.  I’m not 6-pack sculpted, more of a two-pack.  Like the woman in the dressing room next to me, I went back and forth between the two sizes: small, medium, small, medium.  “Welcome to my world,” I could hear my wife saying.  I spent so much time in that dressing room with so many items I wondered if the Jonas Brother was getting suspicious of shoplifting.  I opted for the small, yet still puzzled.  Why do pants come in so many different sizes stores practically need a card catalog to organize the shelves by size and style, yet shirts at Banana Republic have only four sizes for men, small through XL?  So there’s my case for Smedium (SM) and Mediarge (ML).

As for the jeans, I walked into the store saggin’ no ass pre-vegan 33 squares, 33W x 33L.  Going sub-33 was new territory for me, so I sent Jonas ahead, armed with 32’s, 31’s and even a pair of 30’s.  The 32’s were clown pants.  I hooked the waist with my thumbs.  I could probably shove 3 summer sausages down the front of them.  The butt looked like denim drapery.  So I got extreme.  Wiggling and shimmying, I had to get gymnastical to get the 30’s on.  Beyond surprised, they buttoned right up and fell flat on the hips.  However, the thighs were so tight they could double as muscle recovery wear.  It’s the cyclists curse. 

Those Quads Need A Belt

You ride your butt off, try to eat healthy and lose weight, but your newly acquired Andre’ Greipel in training quads and hammies get so big you need to opt for the larger size.  I walked out of the dressing room without pants, new pants, and this thought.  I propose adding three dimensional sizing to men's pants.  The “T” could mean thigh or tree-trunk, or for skinny people, tent pole.  Instead of 31W x 33L, for those with 20 inch hams like me, we’d have 30W x 33L x 21T.  One way or another, my wife deserves to oogle my ass.

"One Ride of a Lifetime" by Marty Sanders

The alarm rang at five in the morning.  I sipped my coffee.  It sank in.  I have to ride to West Virginia today.  I said goodbye to my cat, locked up, and looked at my watch.  6:49am.  Already 49 minutes behind schedule, with the turn of the key in the front door, Marty Sanders left Cincinnati on a bike trip to Northern Virginia to help his sister move.  4 days.  527 miles.  This is his story.

Story By Marty Sanders (edited by Joe Bellante)

Through high school and early adulthood, I called Northern Virginia home for 12 years.  My sister and I stayed behind as the rest of our family moved back to Cincinnati.  At one point or another, my Father made me an offer to make the move and join him in the Queen City.  He helped me out and BAM.  Here I am in the land of 3-way cheese coneys. 

As for my sister, my Father extended a similar offer, but pursuing a career working for the government, she wasn’t ready.  I missed her and for many years tried to persuade her to return.  17 years later, I got the call. 

With a job offer from a good firm in Cincinnati, she was ready and asked me if I’d be willing to drive a U-Haul for her.  No problem.  She set a date for the move, September 21^st.   I immediately thought, “I’m going to ride my bicycle to Virginia.”

As most of my friends know, I’ve been nursing a shoulder injury, not racing, training for fun, and trying to get back to riding long distances pain free.  Despite the shoulder, when Prudence asked me to drive the truck, I was all in.  I started training a bit more: climbing stairs, running, and feeling pretty good.  The day after she called, I started making plans and put together a list.

1-Build racks.

2-Assemble gear.

3-Figure out route. 

A Welcome Stop

My Salsa El Mariachi was the bike of choice, super comfortable and very trustworthy.  It took me a few weeks to dial in the racks.  I increased my spinning, riding distances and acclimated to the extra heft of a big load.  

I’d cross the Appalachian Mountains.  To simulate the effort, I did hill repeats on Cincinnati’s Sycamore Street and one of my other local favorites, I refer to as “storm peats”.  I figured I’d be good.  I love to climb.

I’ve never toured or bike packed before so I attempted to pack for every unseen scenario: rain, low temperatures, camping, etc.  This was an entirely new experience.  

In the end my plan was simple.  Follow Route 50 East from Cincinnati to Fairfax Virginia, hang a right on Ox Road and finish by raising a pint glass of beer in Occoquan.  Specifically, I’d ride from Cincinnati to Parkersburg West Virginia (227+ miles) the first day and from Parkersburg to Augusta via the Northbend Rail Trail (200 miles) the second day.  On the third and toughest day, I’d pedal from Augusta to Occoquan/Lakeridge (100miles).  3 days.  527 miles.

I figured 15 hours a day with a comfortable average of 13mph would be sufficient.  In case of weather or mechanicals, I cooked up a contingency plan allowing 2 extra days if need be.  As a fail safe, my brother and sister’s boyfriend were going to make the drive from Cincinnati a few days later, which would allow me to be picked up in case of disaster or worse, giving up. 

Two weeks prior to the ride, my sister called telling me a local paper (Old Bridge Observer) was interested in doing a piece.  I agreed to an interview and had a 20 minute conversation about my thoughts before the trip.  They also chatted with my sister and used it for the article, a front page story.  Now, before even clipping in, it’s public.  People are watching.  There was no turning back. 

I was nervous.  As I honed my training, ate like a horse and mentally prepared, the days leading up to the departure flew by.  Still, I felt like a child standing in line to ride a rollercoaster for the first time, only this child was the front page story of the Old Bridge Observer. 

I gained six pounds preparing for the trip, although I really couldn’t see it.  I assumed it was in my legs as I’ve been riding up Sycamore and Mt. Storm for a month with a 75lb bicycle.  The last few days, I took it easy.  On the eve of the trip, I had a big Indian dinner with a few friends and family.  Maybe I had a beer too many, as I got to bed late. 

The alarm rang at five in the morning.  I sipped my coffee.  It sank in.  I have to ride to West Virginia today.  I wrestled with anxiety and nervously quadruple checked everything.  I said goodbye to my cat, locked up, and looked at my watch, 6:49am, already 49 minutes behind schedule. 

Another Beautiful Vista

Cincinnati to Athens

As I meandered my way through Mariemont and out the suburbs of Cincinnati using my old commuting route, every turn of the pedals quelled my anxiety.  I picked up the Little Miami Scenic Trail at Bass Island in Newtown.  It was quiet, relaxing.  I thought to myself, it’s another bike ride.  No pressure.  Keep pedaling.  All will be good.   

I left the trail at Milford for the road.  The town was setting up for an event, everyone was full of smiles.   I was greeted by some “good mornings”.   To keep the good vibe going as I turned toward rural Ohio, I popped in one ear bud and hit shuffle.  I pedaled, jammed and enjoyed my moving picture soundtrack all the way to Hillsboro.

Along the way, I stopped at rest areas scattered along Route 50 in Ohio. They aren’t much, a shelter and porta-poddy, but perfectly spaced every 30 miles.  I found great appreciation for them. 

A group of motorcycles rumbled past.  When I hit the next small town, I’d catch them.  We leap-frogged each other.  They revved their engines.  Brrrrappabababapp.  Those bad boys were LOUD!   Assuming it was a sign of respect, they gave me plenty of room as the passed. 

Following the signs for Route 50, all went well until Chillicothe at the intersection of Route 50 and Highway 23.  Beyond that, cars came less frequently.  Hills started coming quicker.  Worried, I turned on the Garmin.

“Acquiring Satellites.”

I ditched technology for good old local knowledge.  I spun down a long gravel driveway and asked a couple drinking Busch Light if this was Route 50.  Nope.  I had inadvertently misread the signs and traveled 10 miles out of my way on Highway 23.  Thankfully, they offered a short cut back over to 50.  As good as the beer looked, I held back the urge to ask for one, turned and waved a thank you. 

As the sunlight started to fade, I picked up the pace. Approaching Athens, the traffic increased exponentially.  For safety, I moved to the shoulder.  Despite the trash, tires, debris and very deep rumble strips, it was the lesser of two dangers. 

A blood red sunset greeted me in Athens for a dinner stop.  Buffalo or BW3, I’m not sure what it was.  I had a seat in the window and ate a burger with an eye on my bike.  Energetic Ashley took my order.  She inquired about my ride and told me a wonderful horror story of hitting a deer and tires on Route 50.  Thanks for the positive vibe! 

Now dark, I pushed through the last 40 miles to Parkersburg.  Trucks flew by.  I cringed as I heard tires gargle on the rumble strips behind me.  Despite 3 tail lights and 2 visible reflectors, I nervously rode back to the edge of Athens and booked a room at the Super 8. 

A first floor disabled equipped room allowed space to spread out with all my gear.  I showered, downed a protein shake, pop- tarts, two ibuprofen, and I was out. 

170 miles.

Athens to Bridgeport

Waffles, I love waffles!  I woke up on Sunday morning feeling remarkably good at breakfast.  Still, checking out of the hotel, a drape of anxiety fell over me.  It disappeared quickly as the first song hit my ear from my mp3 player.  Very much like the road leading into Athens, the tightness in my shoulder opened up a bit too.  At ease with a wide shoulder on the road, I made such good time into Parkersburg, WV I missed a planned stop in Belpre. 

I crossed into West Virginia over a big bridge and was abruptly greeted with a huge climb.  I huffed over looking forward toward the relative ease Northbend Rail Trail, a 70 mile smooth and flat railroad path featuring eleven tunnels and numerous bridges.  I only had to find the trail head.

In the area where I thought it was, I asked a few locals at a gas station if they’d heard of it.  No one knew.  So I popped in the police station.  A young lady working pointed out, like all things in West Virginia, it was right around the corner. 

Huge homes, ponds, stables, and pretty gardens lined the road leading to the trailhead.  Amazingly beautiful, but oddly out of place for the rural area I was in.  Then, there it was, in the middle of all rich scenery, the Northbend Rail Trail. 

My Salsa ate up the wide double track goodness.  12 miles clicked off in no time.  Off the road and out of traffic, I was rolling pretty quickly.  I guess I was a bit excited because I didn’t see the long black snake stretched across the trail till I was right on top of him.  Sorry Mr. Snake.  I thought about stopping, but not knowing if it was poisonous or not made the decision easy.  Then came the tunnels.

Dark Tunnel on the Northbend Trail

I’m glad I had lights or I’d have been in trouble.   A few tunnels were so long the darkness hid the exit.  Others were short enough to be lit end to end.  At times in the tunnels, I had to ride close to the wall to get the reflection to cast on the floor.  I experienced a bit of vertigo in one, as if the floor was coming out from under me.  I hit something.  My arms shook. My bike rattled.  I kept it upright.  I couldn’t see, but I’m guessing I ran over a large stone which had fallen from the ceiling.  I suspect that’s where I lost my rain jacket and a shoe cover. 

Northbend’s bridges took me high above creeks and the path wound past remnants of towns, sometimes directly through backyards.  At one point, I rode around a parked car on the trail.  40 miles in, it got a bit rougher. 

Double track turned to single, then thick grass.  Obviously, this deep in West Virginia, the trail sees few riders.  30 miles later, I suspected I had hit the terminus in Clarksburg.  A guy walking near the trail asked where I was headed.  “Clarksburg,” I replied.  “You’ve got about 15-20 miles to go,” he answered.  I swear the maps showed the rail trail ending here, but obviously it appeared to continue on.  What a mess it turned out to be. 

Soon enough, the path deteriorated into a four wheeler trail.  While the first 70 miles were dusty and dry, this was pocked with mud holes.  After 2 miles splashing through mud holes on a 75 pound bike, I bailed for the lesser of two evils, a steep road with 3 nasty switchbacks.  Eventually, it intersected Route 50. 

Smooth pavement was a relief.  I rolled straight through Clarksburg past Grafton, then the town of Bridgeport.  With an hour of daylight left, I coasted down a big hill through and out of town.  Right back up I went.  Thirsty, I reached the top of the climb and pulled over.  I grabbed my bottles from my rear rack to switch them for the spent bottles on the bike frame.  All empty.  I forgot water.

Back to Bridgeport I pedaled, back up that hill, back to the start of town.  Rather than filling up, with a warm cozy Travel Lodge in sight, I pulled the plug for the day, an easy decision after more than 130 miles.  I settled in with an entire large pizza, some crazy good feta spinach bread, and drank 2 beers.  The next day would be the toughest. 

300 Miles.

Double Track of Northbend Trail

Bridgeport to Romney

The 300 mile weekend aside, I felt pretty good for a Monday.  I slathered thick cream cheese on my bagel.  Bruegger’s doesn’t lay on the cream cheese like I did.  I drank all the coffee in the pot packing up. It was going to be tough.  A few minutes past 8 a.m., I was ready to roll! 

Sunny with lingering clouds, it was great weather for climbing.  I switched on the music.  Up and down small hills, the soundtrack lasted three hours before the batteries went dry.  Then the grade kicked up, 3 miles at nine percent. 

Have you ever climbed for 3 miles?  Most of my friends would answer “Yup, piece of cake.”  On a 75 pound bike?  For those that have toured on a bike, I give mad respect and props to you. 

On a rig like this, you can’t simply power up climbs.  With panniers, stuffed bags, a mini-bike shop of tools, four full bottles, it’s about spinning easy gears.  Otherwise your knees and Achilles tendon suffer, 300 miles from home.   The long steep climbs continued all day.  The weight and the distance took their toll. 

I remember at one point seeing the sign for the turn to Elkins.  I thought I could call Uncle Andy and roll on down to visit.  I resisted the urge.  75 miles in, I was getting tired.  My knees and Achilles ached.  I gave in.

I found a section of gravel trail which led back off the road.  I rolled back, sat in the dirt and stretched.  I stoked the engine with a big apple I had stashed in my bag from the hotel buffet.  It was just what I needed and I got back to it. 

Now at the base of a seemingly endless climb that offered little shoulder, I rode the white line, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 miles at nine percent.  45 minutes later I crested and was rewarded with the sight of the downhill warning sign for trucks.  “Steep Grade Next 5 Miles.” 

While my legs got a break, my hands and upper body went to work.  Riding down a mountain with gear is tiring as well.  Braking becomes hard work.   Becoming all over body fatigued, the wind was leaving my sail. 

Thankfully, I was welcomed with flatter roads in the valley.  However, with ten miles to Romney, now on the other side of the mountain, the weather changed.  It began to rain, not a down pour, but steady enough to get me good and soaked.  Despite being a warm rain, when I hit Romney I pulled the plug.

After 10 hours, 107 miles, 9,355 feet of elevation gain with 75lbs of gear, I can’t muster the brain strength to break out my Martmatic skills and impress you with algebraic equations of caloric expenditures and watts generated.  Basically, Marty=CRUSHED! 

At the base of the mountain, I checked into a hotel, ordered another large pizza, and lethargy turned to deep sleep. 

407 Miles.                                                                                                                                                               

Coming To A Bike Shop Near You

Romney WV to Winchester VA

I awoke before sunrise to the sound of wet tires rolling on asphalt.  I lay in bed simply listening to the light taps of rain on the window and the occasional wet whoosh of a truck.  I turned on The Weather Channel to see what was up.  Wow.  Crap weather. That’s what was up.  While only light rain fell outside my hotel window, the area was expecting off and on down pours all day.  In the home stretch and determined to finish the ride today, I decided to suit up and try and beat the nasty stuff.  It was 4 a.m.

Two days ago, with the bump in the tunnel I had lost my rain jacket and a shoe cover.  I had to get creative and improvise.  In my pack I had zip lock bags, 2 small garbage bags, and a limited length of duct tape.  I sealed my helmet with the zip lock.  Garbage bags became socks/shoe covers.  With the remaining zip lock parts, I tried fashioning under-jersey shoulder covers, but it was useless.  Head and feet covered, I pulled out of Romney on a mission. 

In the dark, in the rain, the last day started with a three mile climb.  The sun rose.  Not that I actually saw it, but it was up none the less.  I remember looking down to discover my pannier was open.  I pulled over to zip it closed and realized my kick stand had been down since I left town.  Silly me.  I got a good laugh and continued. 

The first 10 miles of the ride was all climbs, long, slow, granny gear, 75 pound bike, feet covered in garbage bags slow climbs.  My plan of leaving early and beating the heavy stuff failed.  Now it came down hard, real hard!  There was nowhere to hide. 

I figured the smart thing was to keep my head and core warm.  I rode hunched over breathing through my nose to limit moisture intake.  Knowing that digestion of food will elevate body temperature (thanks to Survivorman Les Shroud), I ate a granola bar.  After an hour in the pounding rain, my shoulder started aching, a deep ache in the area I injured. 

Not really having a place to stop and not wanting to get sick from standing around getting cold, I pressed on…for two more hours.  It was like the storm was above me the entire ride teasing me with brief periods of light rain which goaded me to continue forward.  Standing water collected on the road blurring my view. 

I saw the “Welcome to Winchester, Virginia” sign and felt relieved I was rolling into a town that could offer shelter from this madness.  I passed on the photo op. 

Whoa!  A few miles from town I hit a set of railroad tracks that almost took me out.  I’ve ridden tracks 100’s of times and never had this happen.  The weight in the front wheel was the difference.  I wrestled to keep the bike up without wrecking!  I was a lucky man.    

Pounded by rain for three solid hours, the last few miles into Winchester dragged on.  I was soaked, pruning, and my shoulder…ugh.  When I saw the IHOP sign, it wasn’t a hard decision.  All-You-Can-Eat pancakes and whip cream, “That should make me feel better!” 

Outside under the awning, I shook off the rain and checked the radar on my phone.  There would be no respite.  “Grrrr.  I’m 1.5 hours drive from my goal.”  I sat down on the bench and thought about what I had just done.  

This decision wasn’t easy for me to make.  I always try to finish what I start.  I’m very goal oriented.  Not making this one bothered me.  This entire ride was full of decisions.  Now I made another.  This is no race.  I’ve ridden 500 miles.  I’m in Virginia.  I’m tired, aching, and frankly my ass hurts!  I called my sister and asked, or more like told her to come get me.  “I’m at the Winchester IHOP on Route 50.  You can’t miss me.”

Who would have guessed there were 2 IHOPS in Winchester on Route 50!  Sorry Sis. 

In comfort, I warmed up and stuffed my face.  They didn’t have the All-You-Can-Eat option, but I won’t hold it against them.  I took a few Ibuprofens and drank coffee.  My shoulder began to feel better.  All in all, life was good today. 

I’m very thankful for my life in general.  Experience is what life’s about and I added a major one.  Even without riding the last 60 miles, I retained my sense of accomplishment.  I had a great trip, by no means easy.  Looking back, the lack of shoulder and speeding traffic jostled my nerves.  Slow down people!  What are you in such a hurry for? 

Ultimately, we live and then we die.  It’s the cycle of life.  Our job is to experience as much of life as we can before we reach the end.  That is the goal I’ve set.  I believe it’s in my genes.  It’s what drives me to do what I do. 

So…what’s next? 

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.”

The Face of Jesus in Matt’s Saddle Bag

Look!  I think I see the face of Jesus.  Like the shroud of Turin, inside his saddle bag, the spare tube and Allen wrenches were wrapped in a tie-dye-esque aged rust stained cloth.  I unraveled the wrenches and held out the cloth.  Behold!  That might fetch a few bucks on eBay.  They’ve been in the seat bag a long time, not quite B.C. old, but maybe before Bieber.  25 miles from home, I was helping Matt from Smitty’s Cyclery in Cincinnati replace a broken shift cable.  Yes.  He carries a spare.

Wrapping your tube and tools are just one of the lessons I learned from Big Matt’s saddle bag.  A former racer on the track and on the road, I’m sure Matt’s no stranger to weight weenie tendencies.  Matt proved you can pack a lot and still pack light.  The bag was packed with the expertise of an Everest climber, the necessities of survival in a few cubic inches.  I’ve had a day to think about it, and there’s not a mechanical incident that would’ve had Matt calling for a ride home.  Inside Matt’s saddle bag: tube, mini-tool with chain breaker, select 4-5-6 Allen wrenches, patch kit, brake and shifter cable, a five spot, a zip tie, and a chain pin.  I wouldn’t doubt there were a spare cleat and/or bottle cage bolt in there somewhere.  He kept the mini pump in his jersey pocket.

The black thing is the free hub body.

Matt explained the zip tie was in case your free hub body dies.  The free hub body is the thing your cassette rides on.  Its ratcheting pawls allow you to coast and engage the gears.  When it dies, and they do occasionally, you’re left…coasting home.  To fix on the fly, you can zip-tie the cassette to the spokes and get yourself home in a fixed-gear sort of way.  A zip tie can also fix a broken bottle cage, keep a busted derailleur out of your spokes or can be traded to the locals for corn and beads.

Wrapping your spare tube and tools in cloth accomplishes two, three, maybe four things.  For one, it prevents you from being the annoying Mr. Jangly Bag on group rides.  Two, it keeps sharp edge tools from serrating your spare tube.  Three, I would hedge a bet that it keeps spare tubes from drying out and/or prevents the valve-tube junction from becoming oxidized.  Lastly, it never hurts to have a rag for sweaty hands or keeping gooey chain greased hands from messing up white bar tape.

The black thing is a zip tie.

While Matt worked to get the broken cable end out of his shifter, I reached over his bike and undid the fixing bolt on his Dura Ace rear derailleur.  Matt’s got many miles in his legs, no stranger to being 2 hours from home with a mechanical.  He’s a mechanic at Smitty’s Cyclery in Cincinnati.  Yet even he packs a spare derailleur cable and a spare brake cable in his seat bag.  I scratched my head.  His Land Shark bike was impeccably clean and well maintained.  Having worked at a shop myself, I take pride wrenching on my own bikes and used to have a relative comfort in thinking that my cables are new and all bolts are properly fixed.  I don’t need to bring a multi-tool or anything beyond a tube, cartridge, mini-pump and five-dollar bill.  There on a flat road, 2 hours from home, Matt snapped a cable, fixed it with a spare in the span of 5 minutes and left me questioning my minimalist logic.

Like Plinko On Wheels #OVCX #KingsCX

Choose Handups Wisely (by Chris Jones)

You ever wonder what it’s like when a gust of wind blows up while teetering on tight rope between skyscrapers, to drive 100mph down a black iced winter Wisconsin freeway, to cut your regulator hose 35 feet under while scuba diving?  The acrobat grips the wire between his toes gently holding the balancing pole.  The rally car driver nearly spins off the road still gripping the steering wheel and finessing the parking brake.  The diver always knows which way is up.  At the bottom of a mud covered off camber hill at the Kings CX OVCX finale I slipped to a stop with both feet engaged to the pedals and my hands on the bars.  Until my shifter and pedal anchored me to a stop, “I got this,” I thought. 

Me on Heckle Hill (Photo: Karen Wells Hamilton)

What makes cyclocross so different from road, track, bmx or mountain biking is that in a muddy race, you’re not certain of the exit.  It’s like Plinko, the game on TV’s The Price Is Right where you drop a disc down a peg board and it randomly pops out at the bottom making you a winner or a loser.  In the one hour race yesterday, I can’t count the times I went into a muddy section, only to exit 3 feet to the left or 4 feet to the right.  Sometimes the same trusted rut would shrug me a different direction each time through.  Still I blindly drive my bike into the muck at full-tilt fully expecting to be head up and rubber down on the doormat sized piece of solid ground on the other side.  Suddenly my opening analogy doesn’t seem so ridiculous.

HeckleOnline.com Monster

Turning right, the front wheel slid away as fast as Herman Cain’s hopes for the presidency, down the hill to the left.  Naturally through my experience in Wisconsin winter driving, I steered left into the slide.  It hooked up.  For .32 seconds I had it, then lost it as fast.  It was like a hydroplaning track stand.  I got this, until PAFFF!  I pancaked into the hill.  I still wasn’t done moving.  Like falling off that skyscraper, with my hand clawing the ledge, feverishly swimming to the surface, seeing the road that was in front of me in the rear-view, I distinctly remember riders going by above me, at least four if not five.  

Peter Hills (Photo: Karen Wells Hamilton)

I could’ve whipped out my phone and had a pizza delivered to the pit in the time it took my butt to grind to a halt.  I could’ve made an OVCX series winner’s mug out of the mud.  I could’ve married and divorced Kim Kardashian in the time it took to fall, slide and stop.  From the pit, I’m sure it looked like another one of a hundred slips du jour.  It was.  Everyone who fell, thought, “I got this!”  Until…they didn’t.


Early Kings CX Day 2 Video featuring Heckle Hill

Kings CX Weekend - Day 2 Highlights from Corey Green on Vimeo.

The Cycling Travel Formula™: Is The Ride Worth The Drive?

Plug your numbers into The Best Bike Blog EVER’s Cycling Travel Formula™ and find out if the ride worth the drive.

HSR = or > HSD – F x DQ

(HSR) Hours Spent Riding should be equal to or more than the (HSD) Hours Spent Driving minus the (F) number of Friends traveling with you multiplied by the (DQ) Disappointment Quotient.  I just blew your mind didn’t I?  You might want to read that again.

Sweeky sweeky.  The hamster is running on the wheel between your ears.  You put index finger and thumb to your chin and ponder.  You’re saying, “Hmm…he could be on to something.”  You know, I am.  I’ve practiced this theory for years, only now have I put it to paper.  Like Einstein on a bike, I’m a genius.  Of course The Cycling Travel Formula™ all hinges on the DQ, the Disappointment Quotient and slightly on the number of friends you travel with.  It was precisely the reason I chose not to travel from Cincinnati to the cyclocross races in Columbus, OH and Bloomington, IN this weekend.

  

Only Crazy Glue Would've Saved His Teeth

DISAPPOINTMENT QUOTIENT

The disappointment quotient is a measure of buzz kill, the chances of something bad happening in the following six departments: a flat, mechanical, disappointing result, domestic dispute, bonk or injury.  The highest possible DQ is 6.  Flats are separate from mechanicals, because for some rides or races you may not bring a multi tool or a truing stand.  Of course the DQ is completely subjective to your personal situation.  For example at the Mohican 100, you could easily achieve a 6 by making your spouse mad by spending your rent money on the entry fee, doing the race with no tools or food, crashing in the rock garden and bonking at aid station 3.  Since the round trip drive to Mohican from Cincinnati is 6 hours, such a debacle would ruin the entire trip no matter how many clowns you crammed in your car.

The DQ can be brought down by negating the possibilities of those buzz kills.  Depending on the situation, a pump, spare tube, patch kit and/or pit wheels can negate the chances of a flat.  A multi tool, spare chain pin or pit bike can nullify a mechanical.  A gift from Nordstrom could quell a domestic dispute.  Then again, inappropriately spent money can cause a domestic dispute.  Be wise.

FRIENDS

In the case of a ride or a race with a potentially high DQ, it mathematically makes sense to travel with more friends.  Hence the hours of driving are directly and proportionately affected by the number of friends in your car.  The more the merrier.  The more friends the less the chances of a total suckfest.  Remember Aron Ralston, the guy who had to cut his hand off to escape death in a Utah slot canyon?  He drove all night to get there for a solo day hike.  Imagine if he took even one friend along.  A ha!  He may still have his hand and not have had to drink pee.  That’s what friends are for, a helping hand if you will.

HSR = or > HSD – F x DQ

Do The Math B4 You Mount The Bike

HOW THE CYCLING TRAVEL FORMULA™ WORKS

Take Haw Ridge, TN for example.  It’s four hours away from Cincinnati, 8 hours of total driving.  If you bring your spouse, tools, plenty of food and water and a first aid kit with more than Band-Aids and Bactine, the disappointment quotient barely registers, maybe a 1, only a broken bone or a deep laceration could kill your buzz.  To make the 8 hour round trip worth while you need to have 4 friends in the car and ride for at least 4 hours, totally doable. 

MTB Haw Ridge TN:  HSR 4 is = or > HSD 8 - 4 Friends x DQ (1)

Sadly it’s what makes a cyclocross race in Bloomington, IN a complete conundrum.  Even if you race the 60 minute Elite race, at the most you might ride is 2.5 hours with a warm-up and cool down.  Its six hours of driving. With spare wheels, a pit bike or two, giant duffle bags and coolers the most you can travel with is 3.  You need a negative DQ to make it work.

CX Bloomington IN: HSR 2.5 is not = or > HSD 6 – 3 Friends x DQ

While I had a chance to travel with friends, the DQ for me was still too high.  When I opened the front door to grab the paper on Saturday morning a blizzard of cat hair wafted up the stairwell with the breeze.  To cut my DQ I would have to clean the house or risk domestic dispute.  Of course spending the whole day on my feet hunched over brushing toilets, scrubbing floors and vacuuming stairs increased the chance of a disappointing finish especially against those fast Indiana guys.  I don’t have a pit bike and have rolled tires in the last two races.  My DQ was nowhere near negative.  I bailed on the race.  It just didn’t add up.