Handlebar to Handlebar at 30mph

“Let me get the door for you Premium Rush,” my witty coworker greeted me as I wheeled my Niner mountain bike off the elevator and into my office.  I work at a radio station full of clever creatives.  I get it all the time.  I have to say, it made me chuckle.  He was the morning show host of our sister station.  After a day at work making commercials, in anticipation of a 6 hour race this weekend, I had planned to hit the dirt of Versailles State Park for a fast pre-ride yesterday.  Maybe his comment was a premonition, because I never made it to Versailles.  The day turned out to be a rush, but I rolled with it.

In bike racing things rarely go as planned.  Anywhere else it’s ugly old adversity, we call it the beauty of the sport.  Fitness, finesse, courage are balanced with luck, mechanics and nature.  We add grams to our side of the scale by learning, through experience, to put ourselves in the best possible position to succeed.  If that doesn’t work, there’s always a plan b.  We look ahead.  Calm, we find clear-headed serenity handlebar to handlebar at 30mph.  We note which wheels to trust, which to avoid.  We learn to read breakaways, counting the riders and teams up the road, anticipating who will attempt to bridge or bring them back.  We put wheels in the pit and pack a tube.  We pre-ride mountain bike courses to know ahead of time where we’ll need to lay down the power and where we can afford to coast and reach back into the jersey pocket for a GU.  Those same adaptive skills transfer into everyday life.  I’m convinced, athletes make better employees.

So between projects, with my mountain bike blurred out of focus in the shadow of my computer monitor, I checked the Hoosier Mountain Bike Assn. website waiting for a “green light” on the trails at Versailles State Park.  After a brief, but heavy rain the evening before, the trail status was a cautionary “yellow,” but with a warm less humid day to dry, I hoped it would change over 24 hours.  Plan B, was to make the 7pm mountain bike time-trail at England-Idlewild Park only 20 minutes from work.  Back and forth I went, mixdown Adobe Audition session to stereo 128Kbps 44100Hz mp3, check trail status.  “It’s pretty light commercial-wise here today,” I let slip to a coworker. 

Knocking on wood is bullshit paranoia.  What’s real and true is that if you ever let your lips slip out loud about how you haven’t had a flat tire in months; you will get a flat tire within the day.  Can a bike brotha get a “truth” high-five?  Smack!  A similar law applies at work.  Never mention how easy it is, a challenge demon lurks under the mixing board waiting to pounce at your words.

At 4:30pm the demon, or our chief engineer, crashed the computer.  Not my computer, THE COMPUTER.  The computer that holds every song, every commercial, and every jingle on every single one of four radio stations, took a big electronic demonic dump.  With no music or commercials, the DJ’s scrambled for words live on the air.  They filled with traffic, weather, and entertainment news, anything while someone grabbed some CDs. 

From the frantic rumble of voices in the hallway outside the main studio, my boss cracked the door to my studio directly across the hall.  “We’re going to miss some commercials,” she said.  As calm as if I were handlebar to handlebar at 30mph, I told her I had already notified the department that does the scheduling and was in the process of seeing if my system was operational.  Over the next 2 ½ hours we reverted to back up and re-did all the commercials since the last back-up on Monday. 

Right around the time the computer was restored, my wife texted that she was leaving for her ride, alone.  Bummed, I checked the HMBA website again.  Still yellow.  I looked at the clock, nearly 7pm.  It’d be fruitless to drive an hour only to be turned around by muddy trails.  Completely outfitted for a mountain bike ride, but too late to make the time trial, I rushed home by 7:20pm.  I left the Niner in the car, switched into my road shoes, jumped on my road bike and pedaled up to the local crit at Cincinnati's Ault Park.  A friend pinned the number on my back at 7:52pm, and by 8:01pm I was at peace at my first road race of the season, handlebar to handlebar at 30mph.

A Cyclist’s Time is Fluid

Pictograph of Hands in Red Rock Canyon, NV

This blog has always been about the trailside tree with the tumor; Mike the grey haired commuter on the maroon Miata, lining up the 80 water bottles from my pantry end-to-end and performing dare devil stunts over them.  They’re slices of bike bread.  I’m sure you have a fave like the Sink Shower, Ault Park Mary, or the Competitive Couple.  Sadly my creative bottle has been a bit empty since February when I puked in my hat at Worlds.  Perhaps I peaked.

When Gumbo boy occasionally writes a guest blog I always remind him to look for the unusual, the details that raise an eyebrow, something that makes you smile.  A week or so ago Corey explained the relationship between a lazy eyed llama and motivating junior cyclists.  It was a good example and reminder of the reason you read, like us on Facebook, and follow on Twitter and Strava.  Cycling is just as much of who we are as our relationships, our professions, and our homes.

If your racing, doing a charity ride or planning a bike vacation this summer chances are your car is painted in bird crap, the cats are licking the dirty dishes in your sink, and you have a family of baby bunnies in the tall grass that used to be your backyard.  I completely understand.

I’ve been doing the opposite.  For the past four months, since racing Masters Worlds I’ve put my focus on some things that took a back seat to training.  My buddy Frank calls them “domestics.”  I planted daisies and an Azalea bush, had great conversations on neighborhood walks with my wife,  and used a toothbrush to get the last bit of Louisville mud out of the shifter box in my 4-Runner.  I ran the beach in the Dominican Republic, hiked down the White Rock Trail to the Colorado River in Arizona and visited Booger Hollow in Georgia.  As a result, I haven’t really had an interest in writing for a while. 

It’s not that I don’t love writing or racing anymore.  I do.  I also like pulling weeds out of the garden.  I like reading good books like “The Art of Racing in the Rain.”  Producing radio commercials for a living, I also like freelance money.

The beauty of cycling is that our lives aren’t on schedule.  We don’t eat dinner at six o’clock every night, get the oil changed every 5000 miles or put the trash on the curb the night before pickup.  A cyclist’s time is fluid.  What a shame to arrange your life’s activities by minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years. 

We save laundry for rainy days; cut coupons on the couch at night, only make the bed when company is coming over and hide unopened mail in the pantry.  You discover how to live among a thriving population of dust bunnies, how to romanticize a drippy faucet, and smile at peeling paint. 

I was going to apologize for not writing a whole lot in the four months since cyclocross worlds.  However, I know you get it.  To do so would be apologizing for living the wonderful life we share with bicycles.  

Natural Entertainment in Las Vegas

Can you tell I was lost in Mirage Casino

With a BAC of .01%, a cyclist for all practical purposes is drunk.  When a cyclist is drunk, there is no amount of internal compass that will help find your way out of a casino at 2am.  Despite being 2:30am, and despite breaking the beer before booze rule, I turned to Strava.  While it didn’t help me get through the slot canyon maze of slot machines at the Mirage, it showed the direction of the strip in relation to the bathroom I was in and certainly produced the most amusing Strava map of our hiking/mountain biking trip to Las Vegas last week.  Note the knotted mess on the Strava photo at left.  If you’re looking for a similar adventure, get the drink in the tall plastic cup, go clubbing till 2-3 a.m. and enjoy your 5.5 mile Annie-eyed bedazzled hike up the strip.

Watch for Wild Burros in Red Rock Wilderness

Co-workers questioned my choice of vacation prior to my departure to Las Vegas.  I did too.  It would seem like a mountain climber setting his sights on the summit Magic Mountain.  Like you, I’m one of those weird people who like to swim in pools and see life in Death Valley.  In Vegas, I managed to put my inner Tourist-hater aside, played a Pink Diamonds slot machine, danced to Icona Pop at a club and with my white chest and biker tan arms kicked some beach ball ass at the Hardrock Hotel Rehab Pool Party. 

Lake Mead Overlook

Our plan was simple: adventure in the morning, go out at night.  That worked until Thursday, when night blended into morning and I ended up hiking The Strip.  “Why didn’t you take a cab?”  My co-workers asked.  Taxis are for wussies and besides, my rational was nothing prevents the bed spins like an hour and fifteen minute heart rate spiking walk under the buzz of neon and past Urban Campers and suspected pick pockets.

BOOTLEG CANYON

Overlook of Boogleg Canyon IMBA Trail

It wasn’t the highlight of the trip, but I did get in a decent mountain bike ride at the challenging Bootleg Canyon, in Boulder City, a half hour from The Strip near the Hoover Dam.  I rented a Specialized full-boinger 29er from All Mountain Cycles, a nice ride with Sram X-9.  It was $50 for the afternoon.  Bootleg Canyon is sort of a mix between pump track and flow.  On the east side of the trail system you’ll get an overlook of Lake Mead.  Through the canyon on the north side, squint for a view of The Strip. 

Calico Trails in Red Rock Canyon West of Vegas

Once you get the hang of the twisting quick steep ups and downs of the place, you’ll dig it.  Novice and intermediate riders should stick to the trails west of the main entrance like the IMBA trail.  Those trails throw much less curveballs, have longer sighting for obstacles and feature a more smooth flowy ride.   The Lake View and Caldera area trails had me off the bike in a few spots.  You can’t bench cut rock.  They don’t.  So you’ll periodically come around a blind corner and be greeted with a section of off camber jagged rock where the trail should be.  I was jazzed when I cleaned it.  When I bailed rather than risk losing skin, I looked around to make sure no one actually saw me on foot.

WHITE ROCK CANYON

A Whole Family Watches from Above

Despite a trail review mentioning rattlesnakes, the highlight of the trip came on a spur of the moment slot canyon-esque hike out and back in White Rock Canyon in Arizona.  We hiked from the Willow Beach trailhead off the main highway a few miles from Hoover Dam.  It’s surprising how many desert places have wet sounding names.  I found the trail on the AllTrails app which can locate trails in your vicinity no matter where you are should the need to hike strike you, like at grandma's out of town funeral.  

The White Rock Canyon trail is a 7 mile round-trip out-and-back to the Colorado River.  On the way down, the walls closed close enough to run my fingers along on either side in places.  When it opened up, we were surrounded by a cathedral of 2-3000 ft. rocky peaks dotted with wild flowers, scrub bushes and the occasional family of big horned desert sheep.  They payoff was the Colorado River, deep and powerful.  We bouldered up a big rock to a fantastic view of the river’s eddys, only 4 miles downstream from the Hoover Dam.  Hike/climb downstream a few hundred meters from the beach and you can enjoy a dip in a natural hot spring.  All of this natural wonder 40 minutes away from the best artificial entertainment in the world.

What Cyclists Need To Know About Squirrels

Pancaked on the road, stiff as a brick on the sidewalk, this fall’s squirrels are more crazy and quirky than Zooey Deschanel.  In the 12 years I’ve been riding in Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky, I’ve never seen such risk taking.  I’m guessing they’re drunk.  Since mating season isn’t until late winter, they’re definitely not horny.  Sadly, (according to what else but squirrels.org) most urban grey squirrels don’t make it to their first birthday, usually falling prey to their natural predator, the Toyota.  If they do survive to blow out the birthday candle on the walnut, they live 5-6 years, unless they fall victim to their other mortal enemy, electricity.  Case in point, the biology class specimen tent-pole-stiff and tipped over like a jackknifed semi on the sidewalk appeared as if he’d keeled over of a heart attack.  Looking up overhead at the fraying power lines, he likely did. 

On the bike path, through town squares, past low rent apartments and palatial estates, last night I lost count of the close encounters of the twitchy tail kind.  Like a lunatic two days off his meds and riding a bike through Cincinnati’s upper crust Indian Hill neighborhood, I began shouting out loud at the squirrels, almost as if they could understand my obscenities.  “What the #$%@ Dude!”  C’mon man!”  Maybe I should’ve shook my tail at them.

“Gotta get the nuts,” my wife joked as a sassy little guy heckled us with chirping that sounded like small dog up a tree.  There’s something about this year, this fall, that is different.  In full arm and knee warmers on a crispy evening I rode about 21 miles yesterday.  In not much more than an hour, no less than 10 squirrels chanced the Cuisinart-like bladed spokes of my front wheel.  They dissed me from trees with tiny barking noises.  They twisted circles up tree trees like pythons on EPO.  They were Indian Hill monkeys.

Squirrels gathering nuts in a flurry will cause snow to gather in a hurry, according to this post at FarmersAlmanac.com.  Like I said, it was a cool crisp evening.  The temperature would dive into the mid 30’s overnight.  Being an outside person, I believe the naturalisms of the Farmer’s Almanac’s “Snow Lore.”  I also believe in Sasquatch.  Temperatures near freezing mean leaves will fall sooner, covering up nuts, discarded pizza crust in alleys and other food squirrels need for the winter.  Contrary to popular belief, squirrels don’t hibernate in the winter, but they do hang out in their nests conserving body heat while eating nuts and watching Football on the I Phone that fell out of your jersey pocket earlier in the year.  Essentially, it’s exactly the same as Cincinnatians going to the Kroger grocery store at the first sign of a snowstorm.  Gotta get the nuts.

What Every Cyclist Should Know About Squirrels (According to what else….Squirrels.org)

SPEED: You can outride them.  The average speed of a squirrel at a full run (on four legs), is only between 8 and 10 mph.  The challenge is guessing which direction you should take those evasive maneuvers.  There is an old story of an Illinois state police officer that once clocked a gray squirrel with his radar gun at 20 mph as it ran across a highway.  (The post did not say if it was on two legs, how big the squirrel was or if the officer mistook the squirrel for a grey Prius.)

SAY WHAT?:  Squirrels communicate by making shrill sounds (tchrring).  The pitch and the duration of these sounds have meaning to other squirrels.  “Give me my @)%*(# nuts back!”  Tail gestures are also a form of communication.  Two twitches apparently means, “Betcha five bucks I can jump through your main triangle.”  The most common tail gesture is the "flicking" which means "get away!"

THEY’RE NOT MATING (YET): Squirrels mate in the late winter or very early spring.   This time may vary with location, the weather conditions (and whether or not the king size squirrel love nest is up to par.)   However, the best time to see a squirrel's acrobatic skill is during the "mating chase".

And now you know the rest of the story.

It’s NOT Dirty: Lapped While Lapping Another

The King of Justifying the Mediocre...Courtesy Karen WH

Like old latex sealant fermented and stewing in a year old tubular, getting lapped stinks.  There is, however, a shiny new bike bright side.  Ding!  For those sha-lacka-lacka-lacking their non-elite races and wondering about how’d they’d possibly be able to stomach struggling to stay on the lead lap in the next higher category, read on.  I am the king of justifying the mediocre!  Let me show you how to rationalize and make the most of the -1 next to your name.  

The Zero Principal:

For example, getting lapped by the leader but simultaneously lapping someone else cancels each other out.  -1 + 1 = zero.  Shazam!  You’re even, mathematically, on the lead lap (of your competition).  Think of it like being graded on a bell curve, drop the first and last rider and you passed!  Getting lapped while lapping someone else also sounds sort of dirty.

This year’s OVCX Elite field is way harder than it’s ever been.  As the PR guy for OVCX, I partly blame myself for this.  My freelance job for OVCX is to entice more people to dip their knobbies in the goodness of cross.  Consequently, my writing and riding talents counter each other.  The harder I race, the better I do.  The better I write, the worse I do. 

St. Mary’s Child Care Cross (OVCX #2) was a great example.  Looking at the results, friggin’ Chris Uberti raced cross yesterday.  Friggin’ Chris Uberti finished 19^th.  Pretty sure Friggin’ Chris Uberti is getting free pants because word on the street is he signed with Team Mountain Khakis last week.  Friggin’ Chris Uberti reads this blog.  Friggin’ coincidence?  I THINK NOT! 

What have I done and where are MY free pants? 

I finished 45th yesterday, sadly my “grey beard” racing age.  I also was lapped by the leader Josh Johnson.  Yet somehow I was able to text my wife after the race with the good news: 

“45^th out of like 70ish not too shabby, better than last week’s 53rd…only 1 guy (neo-pro) lapped me.  LOL.  Rode well.  Felt Good.  So good day in all.  Be home 8pish.  XOXO.”

The bright side of my race is that I finished 7 places higher than last week and I actually lapped someone else.  Sadly it was my own teammate, but whatever.  I’ll take it Brian.  You’re the ying to my yang. 

Aside from The Zero Principal there are other ways to rationalize getting lapped.

Mechanicals Count.  Courtesy Karen WH

The DNS Natty Natty Boo Boo Bonus:

Beating those that did not start (DNS) is a bonus.  According to USA Cycling I finished 45^th out of 60 starters.  In my book, counting the ten or so no shows it was more like 45^th out of 70.  I’m counting them because I had the nards to lie to my wife and say I'd be home at 8pm when it was more like 9pm, suck up my case of the cough & sniffles, ignore my laundry, postpone my obligations and got my butt to the startline.  If someone is a no-show, you automatically beat them.  Sadly, one of my teammates didn’t show.  There was some confusion as to our carpool plans and BioWheels Steven Gers ended up staying home.  While I missed his wry wit on the drive to Indy, in my head I was one rider ahead before I even left Cincinnati.  Ba bam!

The Joey’s Okay DNFinition:

Anyone who drops out of a race (DNF) due to a mechanical, illness or injury still counts as being behind you.  Cringe.  Offer a sympathetic “you okay dude,” then carve another notch in your carbon bars.  Joey’s okay…and you beat him.  You didn’t case the barriers, you didn’t take a stake to the knuckles, your bike was set up and working beautifully.  You’re soo awesome. 

A Touch of Grey Beards courtesy Karen WH

The Grey Beard Rule:

Sure you got lapped, but if the dudes that lapped you were in a different category, it doesn’t really count.  For example, if you’re racing Masters in a combined field with Elite racers, you’re not lapped until a Grey Beard passes you.  Technically I got lapped the first week of OVCX when Masters leader Fred Rose passed me.  Yesterday with only Neo-Pro Josh Johnson getting past me, I did not.  Same goes for categories.  If you’re a cat 3 and get lapped by Cat 1 and 2 riders, you’re still golden in my book. 

The Look Like A Leader Rule:

So you got lapped fair and square, say the top 7 guys in the field gave you the “leader back” shout.  Remember to the unsuspecting spectator, you look like you finished 8^th.  Look the part.  Zip up your jersey, put your hands in the drops and roar across the finish line and own it with confidence champ!  Next week you may only get lapped by one guy and look like you finished 2^nd!  

Thank You Park City For Saving Us From The Absolute Worst Flat Tires EVER!

The Rail Trail Runs in Valley Behind The Famous "PC"

Joe, Jill and their son Ely reside in the Salt Lake City metro area.  They drive a surprisingly clean (for having a young son) Toyota Sienna with a hitch mount bike rack.  I know, because my wife and I rode in the backseat with our two bikes with four flat tires bouncing in the rear view mirror.  They saved us from would have been in the worst case, a 15 mile walk in spandex and bike shoes on a gravel path in a cold remote valley, half of it in the dark.

It was our first full day on our 4^th or 5^th trip to Park City.  I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve taken a mountain bike vacation to PC, but it was Sunday, September 2nd, 2012.  Traditionally on our first ride, we like to take an easy ride so the altitude doesn’t kick us in the lungs.  The past two years we’ve taken the Rail Trail out past Round Valley and along I-80 toward Echo Reservoir.  Round trip it’s a 50 mile ride at a 2% grade, 25 downhill and 25 uphill.  The past two years we’ve always turned around early, worried about lack of daylight on the return.  This time we got out early in the afternoon, plenty of time to enjoy the day.

Full Moon Over Mountainside

We’re experience mountain bikers.  I’ve been riding, racing and vacationing with bikes for close to 18 years now.  Still, we’ve had our shares of cuts and bruises and mechanicals on vacation, stitches in Breckenridge, a couple more in Whistler.  I always pack a first aid kit, tubes, tools, pump, patches, sunscreen, a map, phone, cash, credit card, insurance card, extra clothes depending on the day, more than enough water, more than enough snacks.  With the Hydrapak and seat bag full, we rolled down through the valley. 

Side by side with our tires making a bobsled-esque noise on the downhill gravel, we took in the sights: some long legged Heron looking birds in the tall grass, sheep, llamas or alpaca, the rock formations and the most unique cows we’ve ever seen.  We called them Oreo cows.  The front and back ends were black, with a delicious looking white middle.  “Hey pretty cow!”  My wife shouted.  It was beautiful late Sunday afternoon.

We zipped around the gate at the entrance to Echo Reservoir.  There were no boats, no jet skis, no picnickers, weird for a Sunday.  There was no water.  It had dried up, save a 40 yard stretch being circled by some guys in 4 Wheel Drive trucks.  A lone jogger passed by and we exchanged hellos.  Then silence again.  Bummed, we sat on our top tubes and chatted about the drought.  I leaned over and picked a rock out of my front tire treads.

Pssssst.  The rock was a thorn!  I quickly spun my tire with the hole toward the ground so the sealant would seal up the leak.  Later we would learn it was a Goat Head thorn.  My tire was covered in them.  Both of my tires were covered in them.  All of our tires were covered in them.  “Leave them in.  We’ve got sealant, but we better head back!” 

How Many Can You Count?  Each Tiny Dot Is A Thorn Too

We were 25 miles from “home” at 5:30pm with literally hundreds of thorns in our tubeless tires.  Never in our 4 or 5 trips to Park City have we ever encountered thorns.  We’ve ridden nearly every trail from Mid Mountain to Flying Dog, ‘cept for the new Armstrong trail and last five miles of the rail trail to at Echo Reservoir.  It would be officially dark at 8pm.  The shadow in this deep valley would cross sooner.  Out loud, we did the math.  At 14mph, we could be back by 7ish.  That left us about an hour to deal with the flats if we had to, but the sealant was working at the moment.

Amazingly, we rolled 8 miles before both my tires became uncontrollable on the gravel.  I pulled out a CO2 and aired them both up.  2 miles later, her front went flat.  I pulled out another CO2.  Ssshhhhuuuuup!  It was full.  As I removed the chuck from the valve stem, the chuck stuck.  Sometimes that happens with the cold cartridges.  I pulled again.  My heart sank.  With the chuck, the valve stem had pulled through the metal hole in the rim.

I pulled the whole tire off and tried to get the valve stem back through.  Being an old wheel, it was done.  The rim had corroded a bit (maybe the sealant got to it) and now the hole was too big for the stem to seal.  We had to use a tube with a tire that was covered in at least 200 thorns.

In the area of my wife’s thumb print, she counted six.  Extrapolate that to a whole mountain bike tire and multiply by four.  Goat Heads are evil buggers, as sharp and long as a thumbtack.  An elementary school’s worth was stuck in our tires.  Sitting on the trail on either side of the tire, we went to work.  Yep.  One by one, finger by pricked finger.  I used a knife, she her fingernails.  In twenty minutes, we probably made it a third of the way through the thorns on her front tire.  With a sigh, I looked up the valley, a group of cyclists approached.

“Are you guys okay?  Do you need help?”  They asked as they slowly coasted by.  We all ask the questions when we see a cyclist by the side of a trail.  Sometimes we don’t expect to actually…uh…help.  “Yeah.  Yeah.  I think we do” Rachel piped up.  The couple and their son stopped.  We explained.  “Oh.  Those are Goat Heads.  You’re not going to fix that.”

I don’t recall when we introduced one another.  I do remember their bikes.  Funny how that works.  They had early 90’s “vintage” mountain bikes, one Fisher and one Ritchey, still with rigid forks, platform pedals and those big fat cantilever brake shoes.  Those bikes were the shit back in the day.  Jill asked my wife Rachel if she could snap a photo of her phone number on her phone.  It was decided that they would return to their van seven miles up the trail, pack up, and drive to meet us at the nearest freeway exit two miles away.  Jill would call when they got back to the van.  We parted ways with complete trust in strangers.

After a 20 minute walk, we sat on some concrete in a construction site in front of a Sinclair convenience store at the bottom of the exit ramp and waited.  I played around with some rebar as we chatted.  “How long do you think it will take for them to get here,” Rachel asked.  “I’m thinking 45 minutes to ride the 7 miles up hill, a few minutes to pack up and maybe 15-20 to get here.  It’s gonna be an hour at least.”

Surprisingly, only 15 minutes later, Jill and Ely rolled up to the Sinclair as well.  “Heeey!”  They said it was a little too far and too uphill for young Ely.  Joe was on his way with the van.  Here we were, in the middle of nowhere (to us) outside of Coalville, Utah making the best of a bad situation with two complete strangers.

What sticks out in my mind is that it was never awkward.  They were very personable, interesting people.  It was more than small talk.  We got to know each other a bit.  I never felt a cold shoulder, not even from Ely, an unbelievably patient young man.  Soon enough Joe arrived.  I helped him load the bikes.  We shared the backseat with Ely.  “Where are you staying,” Joe asked.  “If you don’t mind driving us to the Marriot Mountainside in Park City, that’d be great.”  It was no problem at all.  We talked about our careers and backgrounds and travels and soon enough we pulled into the driveway in about 25 minutes.

Every Little White Dot You See Is A Thorn

Joe and I pulled the bikes down.  We shook hands.  My wife offered $25 dollars for the ride, the gas, their generosity, the nice clean van, Ely’s patience.  They declined.  Jill said something like, “Joe rides all the time.  I can only hope that if he’s in a sticky situation, someone will help him out.” 

The next day after buying four new mountain bike tires (thank goodness for the 40% off End of Season Sale at Cole Sport) we went out for another ride.  On the way back, we stopped in White Pine Outfitters, probably our favorite shop.  As we paid for some socks or something, we looked down to see a sign scotch taped to the counter. 

“Do not ride the Rail Trail past Coalville.  It’s covered in Goat Head thorns.  You WILL need to buy TWO new tires.”

Joe, Jill and Ely rest assured, if you ever get into a spot of bother on a ride and ask for help our answer will always be yes.  What goes around comes around.  So, thank you for coming around with your kindness, patience and generosity.

Best Regards,

Joe in Cincinnati

Choosing Cycling Socks: Win with Pearl Izumi

Win Pearl Izumi Socks Below

Admit it.  When you ride past a store window you look at your reflection, your flat-backed position, your dandy color coordinatedness.  In your best Dave Chappelle voice you shake your head and say, “Mmm.  Damn.  I’m one fine looking two-wheeled specimen.”  Like fly-fishing, cycling is half fashion show.  Rolling past Cincinnati’s Verdin bell and clock factory on Riverside Drive, I checked myself out in the reflection of the blacked out windows.  Holy hell!  My socks were as hideous as rubber waders.  Tall white socks with light blue stripes stuck out of the top of my red accented jet black Pearl Izumi shoes like aero bars on a group ride.  It was a triple-snap-clash sista. 

My Team Jersey

Getting ready for a work meeting, my wife stands in front of the full length mirror.  She kicks off one pair of shoes for another, keeps the bag, but ditches the belt.  She asks if the shirt looks better tucked in a little or a lot.  “A little tucked in,” I answer.  There’d be a lot less dorky looking male cyclists if they took a tip from a primping business woman and wheeled their entire ensemble (bike, shorts, jersey, helmet, shoes, sunglasses and all) in front of a full length mirror. 

Drunk Artist Rendering of Perfect Sock

Instead of learning from my wife, my fashion feeble man brain thought I needed tall blue cycling socks…you know, to match my blue and white BioWheels team kit.  I typed the exact phrase into the image search of Yahoo.  Magically 300 pictures of tall blue socks appeared in every shade, length and color combination imaginable.  Row by row, page by page, I dismissed every last one of them as too aqua, too tall for UCI, not enough style.  I went so far as to drink 3 beers and design the perfect sock with Microsoft Crayon 2.0.

I was Mister Pitt, Elaine’s incessantly picky boss in a sock buying episode of TV’s Seinfeld.  He screams, “I want a decent sock that’s comfortable THAT WILL STAY ON MY FOOT!”  Mister Pitt proves what has eluded scientists for centuries.  The fashion part of the male brain can only decipher two variables, in his case, comfort and tightness.  Shorts match jersey.  Bar tape matches bike.  Socks match team kit.  Throw in patterns, design, helmets, shoes, gloves and glasses and the male fashion brain drops to its knees like Elaine, covers its head and screams away the impending frustration induced aneurism.  Hence, most men end up with two pair of work shoes, black and brown. 

Socks Bridge Jersey & Shorts to Shoes & Bike

Two pair of shoes!  That was the key right there.  I have two pairs of cycling shoes.  My road shoes are black with red accents (at left).  My MTB shoes are white with green accents.  My shoes match my bikes.  I needed socks that bridge the gap between team kit and my bike and shoes.  Like my wife’s belts, shoes and bags, cycling socks tie the ensemble together.  I virtually rolled each look in front of the full length mirror.  I ended up choosing three pair of socks, one for each look …road, cyclocross and mountain. 

WIN THREE PAIR OF SOCKS FROM PEARL IZUMI:

1-Consider your three favorite cycling looks: road, mountain, cyclocross.

2-Click here and choose 3 pair of Pearl Izumi socks to complete your outfits.

3-Post a comment with your 3 choices (style/color/size) by 11:59p 7/25/12.

RULES OF THE ROAD: Winner will be chosen randomly from all entries.  “Anonymous” comment entries will not be considered.  Please be aware that we’ll need to get in touch with you, so include an email in your profile and/or “like” us on Facebook so we can get in touch with you if need be.  Winner will be announced on 7/26/12.  Good luck and thanks for reading!

Cyclo Christmas Hand-Me-Down Style

He’s ridden over 4000 miles and doesn’t own a pair of bike shorts.  Up until Friday he’s been riding in long black thermal tights (see photo).  It was near 90 when I unloaded the cycling care package on my brother Friday afternoon on our visit to see family in Milwaukee.  He said it wasn’t too bad riding a Wisconsin summer in tights, “You get a nice sweat going, like a wrestler in training.”  I choked back my scoff at his naivety and Midwestern practicality.  He’s got kids.  Even with a solid corporate banking job, I suspect there’s some sort of crazy rationalization between spending $40 on bike shorts and his children eating dinner.

That's my brother.  That looks like a booger.

Riding in tights is probably one of the reasons my brother dropped the beer belly and is down to 150 pounds since he started riding last year, that and the fact that he’s oblivious to the weight of bike accessories.  Attached to his bike is a headlight and battery, a steel attachment for a kiddie trailer, a heavy duty rear rack and saddle bag that feels so heavy I unzip it to make sure it’s not hiding an Easter ham.  It’s not, but there’s enough tools in there rebuild Milwaukee’s Northern Suburbs should a tornado strike while riding.  I tell him we won’t need the lights for our ride.

4000+ Miles on Marin and Conti Race Kings

The wired bike computer on his Marin 29er crested over 4000 miles in the past 14 months.  He looks great, but being only my 2^nd time seeing him since he took up cycling, I’m still not used to him looking as thin as me.  I can feel the brotherly competition between our mileage and weight brewing.  His Conti Race King tires are balding.  His jawline is as sharp as a granite cornerstone.  From his tightly cinched belt, he still hasn’t comes to grips that he can wear 32 inch jeans and Banana Republic size small fitted tee shirts.  Either that, or he thinks his kids will have to skip dinner if he buys a good looking $14 T-shirt that fits.  I figured 4000 miles of riding a 30 pound 29er in tights for more than a year proved a commitment to the sport worthy of some hand me downs from me, the older brother.

Ohio's Serpent Mound

I pulled out a plastic Kroger grocery bag and whumped it on my mother’s kitchen counter.  His eyes lit up.  “Bibs!  Bro!  No way!”  He had no idea the Cyclo-Christmas I was about to drop on him.  It wasn’t only bibs.  It was two complete matching dark blue BioWheels team kits: bibs, jersey and a new-old pair of gloves.  I explained the design wasn’t a sperm, but a depiction on Ohio’s famous Serpent Mound.  He read the sponsor logos on the jersey pockets.  I hadn’t worn the shorts in nearly 2 years.  The stitching was frayed on one pair and the padded chamois on the other had lost a bit of loft, but to him they were his new bike shorts. 

Me and my Teammate/Brother Mike

Then I pulled out the second bag, a third…and, a fourth.  As big as 52 tooth sprockets his eyes widened nearly eeking out a tear.  “Arm warmers!?”  He questioned.  I had to explain how they worked.  The chuckle was worth the price of all the free bike goodies right there.  Bag #2 featured 2 complete yellow and blue kits with arm warmers, matching socks and gloves.  Bag #3 featured an even earlier vintage in pretty good condition.  I started to feel guilty for having all this still useable cycling gear sit in my closet so long.  Bag #4 featured odds and ends like a yellow and green 8 year old Verge thermal vest, a lighter wind vest, a set of Pearl Izumi shoe covers with a slightly broken zipper and a pair of Smith sunglasses with 3 different interchangeable lenses.  He grabbed the blue kit and slipped into the bathroom.

“Yeah!!!”  The kitchen erupted in cheers from my wife, my mother and me.  He looked sharp, like one of the guys on the team albeit a bit hairier.  Now I found a tear tickling the corner of my eye.  I’ve been racing bikes since the mid 90’s, and for the first time I was about to paceline with my brother.  We threw our legs over our bikes and put in a solid 40 miles, my wife and I and our new teammate…Mike.

Zombie Boogers: My Cycling Comfort Foods

They’re the foods that fuel your ride or welcome you home after suffering in the saddle.  They’re your weird, bizarre, locked up in a closet personal favorites.  After getting soaked for the last hour of that Sunday hammerfest, you don’t want a sandwich to get the feeling back in your fingers.  You need Usinger's Braunschweiger on soft Italian bread with brown mustard, real butter and onions.  You don’t want a cookie in your bag after the cyclocross race; you want a molasses cookie from the box on the counter at your grandmother’s house.  It’s not the Campbell’s tomato soup, it’s the 15 saltine crackers crumbled over the top and so thick a little person could run across it.  Or, is it the crusted three square inch burn the roof of your mouth hot cherry pie in the corner of the Hungry Man TV dinner.  These are some foods that reward my ride.

I’m sure it’s what they use for zombie boogers at Haunted Houses, but I love to eat it.  It’s green, long, slimy, gushy and wet.  If you threw one against the wall it would smack, stick and slide down like a night crawler.  Still, since I was a kid when every vegetable was disgusting, it’s one of my all time favorite foods.  I’ll only eat the long spears, only from a can and it absolutely must be Green Giant asparagus spears.  I do like fresh asparagus, especially grilled with olive oil and salt and pepper.  Without preservatives, I’m sure it’s healthier, but that’s hoidy toidy to me.  They serve that with $30 steaks at Jeff Ruby.  Not to mention you have to cook it. I don’t need a bowl or a fork, only a can opener or my Leatherman multi-tool.  I thoroughly enjoy pulling them out of the can with my fingers, tilting my head back and dangling them into my mouth.  It’ll probably be my last meal when I’m 120 years old and a need to be fed by a nurse.  “Head back Mister Biker.  Eat your spears.”  Nom nom nom.

My wife calls them “Joe foods” and second on my list and in my lunchbox right now is Windmill cookies.  It confounds me how inexpensive yet so intricate they are.  I think the box of 12 I bought was under $3.  Maybe it’s because I’m a quarter Dutch, but my affinity for the Windmill cookie runs deep.  With each one, I marvel at the detail.  The almond slivers almost give the illusion of textured stone made from tulip field mud.  If you look closely at the photo there are 3 separate designs on the mill: a cross at the top, two (E) shapes left and right and a diamond in the center.  You can stick your tongue in the doorway, or let it be the axis of the windmill blades.  I’m not entirely sure there’s a specific brand I like or what brand these are, maybe there’s only one.  It’s not like chocolate chips with a million varieties.  At the grocery you’ll be lucky to spot them.  Almost glad they weren’t hanging out with the other lesser cookies; I found these in the health food section at Kroger.  As it turns out, these are completely vegan.

The all time greatest culinary creation is Candy Raisins.  How can you not love a candy with a smiling sun on the package?  They are not candied raisins, contain raisins or even taste like raisins.  The only thing they have in common with actual raisins is that they are wrinkly on the top.  They’re comparable in texture to the candy Dots.  They feel the same way in your mouth, but the flavor is unlike any candy you’ve ever tasted.  The website Save The Candy Raisins describes them as “a translucent, honey colored candy…with a light ginger taste.”  I grew up in Wisconsin, and from what I can gather they were only made by Stark, a division of the NECCO candy company.  As you can gather from the website, sadly, after shutting down a plant in Pewaukee Wisconsin, they are not being made anymore.  I have not had a candy raisin in at least three years.  If I saw them, even on Ebay, I swear to God I would spend at least $10 a bag to attain them.  I love them so much; I’d accept a box as my only Christmas present.    

Maybe it's crunchy peanut butter and dill pickle sandwiches you crave like our reader Lloyd, tell us your favorite weird foods.  Leave a comment below or "Like" us on Facebook here.