Goodbye Town Line Sprint, Hello #Strava

I taste what you call “Strava Glory.”  It’s sort of a sweet & salty mix of GU Energy gels and sweat combined with the odor of burning 350 dollar bills.  The Best Bike Blog EVER is now on Strava, sits on top of a Leaderboard and has a crown to prove it.  Better check your segments to see if you got knocked down a rung.  Ba bam!  Judo chop!

The problem is, I’m sort of having trouble squeezing my big head into my tiny .jpeg crown.  Still, I make no apologies for spending the equivalent of a week’s worth of family groceries on a GPS enabled cycling computer.  My Polar passed away and I enjoy a team discount.  So while you were out racing for real on Sunday, we went segment hunting in Northern Kentucky with my new Garmin Edge 500.

After the ride, unlike most people I know on Strava.com, I was able to toss my kit in the wash, take a shower, make a recovery shake and eat lunch before downloading my first ride file.  I know better.  While standing naked with their I-phone between their legs, sadly those who are addicted will find out there is not an App to cure jock itch and saddle sores.

Prior to our Sunday morning adventure, I virtually scouted segments of our planned ride.  In a way Strava turns the sport of cycling into a video game.  That sort of bothers me.  It brings cycling one step closer to Farmville.  You scoff at the ridiculousness of people paying real money for virtual world real estate, but yesterday I wondered what it would’ve taken for my teammate to sit up 10 meters from the top and let me have the segment?  Damn.  I drilled it with all I had.

There are no rules on Strava.  Segments aren’t asterisked with “drafted behind bus” or motor-paced by Vespa.  Sunday we returned favors, a lead-out for a lead-out.  That’s fair game I think.  Lead-outs are part of cycling.  But the next time we crest Amsterdam Road, I wonder how I’ll play it.  And it irks me that I’m even thinking of this.  Will I defend it?  Or, will I offer up some Strava currency to save my crown, an inner tube or air cartridge, a Coca-Cola or Snickers at the convenience store, a buck slid in the right hand jersey pocket.

The great thing about winning good ol' wooden town line sprints is enjoying the moment of glory among your peers.  As I log in and check the leaderboard on this 80 degree March day, I’m worried Strava is stretching the moment too far.  

Out Pippin’ The Pipper

After 40 miles of sweet chilled out rolling goodness, we crested the last riser. On the other side, Bromley Kentucky and the wooden sign that proves it. Beyond that, the usual easy 10 mile city cruise over the Ohio River and along the other shore to home. The thought was in my mind. Rolling with my favorite wingman, Tony, my wife and a guy from another team, I knew at least 3 out of 4 were thinking sprint. The guy from the other team, not familiar with our little ride, probably didn’t know about the sign. Plus, it was January and it was a chilled out just glad to be on the bikes type of ride. I decided not to sprint, not fair if there’s someone in the bunch that doesn’t know about it. Tony, usually sharing the same cyclo-ethics as I do, I guessed would do the same and just roll on through the sign. My evil wife on the other hand…

The pace stayed civil toward the climb. I led nearly up to it. On purpose of course, it would give me a position on the back to sprint from. It may be January, but it doesn’t mean you shouldn't be at least thinking like a bike racer. Tony took it to the top and pulled off. The guy from the other team, unknowing that a sprint sign loomed, took it down toward the line. I didn’t even look back under my arm to confirm that Tony wouldn’t go for it. He wouldn’t. Besides, he can outsprint me 9 out of 10 times from the front spot. 250 meters-ish. Downhill. I stayed on the hoods. 200. 150. 100. I remembered I had a Clif Bar in my pocket. 50. My wife pulls out and gives it for the sucker-pip! Dang! I launched to her wheel and around! 25! 3 wide at the front. 15-10. I threw my bike and got her by a half wheel. “Aw man,” she shouted in fun as she half heartedly banged her bars with her cute girl fist. I looked back and smiled.

Let her win? No way! I’m not an asshole. She simply wouldn’t want me to let her win and besides, I’ve seen her beat the boys all on her own, present company included. She’s a smart and strong rider and can hold her own. That’s being a good hubby. Sometimes we’ll get in cahoots and I’ll lead her out. That’s a blast. Other times, she’ll go for the line and I’ll take the wheel of anyone who follows so we at least go 1-2 or 1-3. Regardless, a pip is hardly a sprint. The pip and smile is the friendly sucker punch of cycling. From my wife, the pip says, I love you honey bunny. It puts that little sprinkle of sugar on a sour cold winter ride. However, what’s even sweeter is out pippin' the pipper.

Cavendish Wins Stage 3 - Calls The Best Bike Blog Ever

Being Yaroslav Popovich

Ride my wheel like a Tandem.  Don’t take a pull.  Let me know when you’re hurtin’.  When I pull through, I’ll make room and just move over with me.  Those were the loose rules when I convinced my wife, Mrs. Biker, to skip our planned noodle and instead ride with the regular Tuesday Night Rampage racer type ride out of the Lunken Airport terminal parking lot.  She’ll be the first to confess, work has infringed a bit on her race training.  She doesn’t consider herself race fit yet, and I was asking her to come out on with a group of mostly Cat 3/4 men.  She was hesitant in the least.  I quietly feared that I totally blown the opportunity for a good sunny warm chatty evening ride with my wife and now faced an argument looming somewhere on the Ohio River horizon between Cincinnati and New Richmond.  In the backs of our heads, I think we both knew she needed a good beatdown.  Success would bring confidence, a rare commodity when you’re off the back or last up the climb.  When she saw some people she knew in the parking lot, I could see her self doubt subside.  She clipped in, rolled out, like a champ.  I was Popo.  She my team leader.  She did it, crushed it with the testosterone fueled double paceline all the way out to New Richmond, a good 25 minute section at 26mph.  Proud doesn’t quite say it.  It was sweet A+ riding on her part.  I’ll take that over a podium step any day. 

It was testimony to riding smart, riding as a team, how someone obviously outmatched can equal the playing field, how one rider can protect another.  Sure we didn’t participate in the paceline the whole way out and back, but, this is road racing training.  We skipped pulls and sat on.  That’s the name of the game.  If you’re at a disadvantage, gain some advantage.  Make the other guy work harder.  She felt bad that the person behind us in the paceline had to come past an extra rider and the guy before us had to sit out in the wind long enough for two riders in tandem to come over.  Ah, they’re big boys, they can deal with it, I thought.  It’s good for them.  We’re doing our share.  We held the pace steady.  All they had to do was ride steady for an extra couple of seconds and all would be smooth.  Judging that we probably dropped 6-8 people on the way out, most stronger than Mrs. Biker, I think more new or less fit riders should learn how to sit on and ride smart. 

There’s an art to sitting on the back of the double paceline without disrupting the pace at the back or making the last rider have to overcome a gap.  When we sat-on, I positioned us just to the left of the last rider in the left-hand fall back line.  That way, when the last fall-back lane rider looked right to see when it was his turn to come over, he didn’t see us and confuse us for the last in line.  When that rider moved over to the pull line, we’d smoothly move up to hang left and back of the next rider in the fall back lane.  When our heart rates came down after 8 riders or so, we’d jump back in the paceline for another round.  Steady.  Strong.  Beautiful.

When we hit New Richmond and the pace slowed for the turn-around through the Ohio River views of its downtown, we looked back.  Whad’ya know (NPR), there was a handful of riders that could no doubt out ride her head to head, dropped from the group.  Mission accomplished.  Race confidence up.  Trust in hubby restored.  I’m so proud to be her Popo.