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.

Filling Bottles with Holy Water

I could be going to hell.  If so, my wife and a bunch of racer type cyclists from Milwaukee are coming with me.  Woo hell!  The most extreme epic ride ever!  I’ll wear my helmet with the horns.  We’ll have a Papal Peloton!  I grew up Catholic, went to Sunday school, received a coupla sacraments, know the Lords Prayer and Hail Mary by heart and in all my worldly Theological studies I’m certain that drinking Holy Water at least gets you a few whacks from a Nun’s yardstick.  I’m almost positive that somewhere in the bible it says “Drinketh the wine and thou be seateth at the right hand of the Lord.  Guzzleth the Holy Water, and thou gets few jabiths in the keester with a hot rusty pitchith fork.”

This is a re-run from a year or so ago, but it feels fitting to repost on Easter weekend.  While on vacation in Wisconsin last year, we tagged on to the Holy Hill Ride, Milwaukee’s regular Sunday morning pilgrimage to a spectacular spired church perched on a scenic hill 35 miles or so out in the sticks from downtown.  Superweek, aka The International Cycling Classic, also features a stage through Holy Hill country.  This is the second time I’ve done the ride.  I grew up in Milwaukee, but my passion for road cycling didn’t arise till I moved to Cincinnati.  Therefore the only times I visited Holy Hill were on Christmas and at 1am with a six pack of Mickey’s big mouth beers during prom.  The Holy Hill ride ranks right up with Cincinnati’s covered bridge ride, skinny farm roads leading to a place that’s always better reached by bicycle.  Like most cities and their Sunday ride traditions, this ride has been going on for a long time.  From what the peloton of 30 or so said, the Holy Hill ride has been going on probably before the Green Bay Packers won their first Superbowl, but after Harley met Davidson.

Milwaukeeans will try to fool you to thinking that the topography is hilly, mainly by calling people from Illinois “flatlanders.”  Since I’ve moved away to a place that actually is quite hilly, Milwaukee for all practical purposes is as flat as a pancake with a few thick ripples of syrup on top and running down the side into Lake Michigan.  But.  But.  But, for some reason that only a geological genius can explain, there are a few areas that were not smooshed by glaciers.  Holy Hill sits on top of one of them.  The wooded hill probably rises 300ish feet above the farmland below.  Not quite Cincinnati high, but definitely tall enough for a 3-4 minute climb with a couple of soft switchbacks capped off by two steep stabs to the cornerstone of the church.  Of course, King of the Mountain points are in full effect every Sunday.  While, I did not win the surge to the top, I think I certainly made a few locals fear that the out of town guy may spank them on their own hill.

At the top, we stopped for a natural and to fill up the bottles.  The temp was tickling its way toward 85 degrees.  The group split up.  Some stopped at a small out-building with a restroom and bubbler (Wisconsin speak for “drinking fountain”).  The rest of us, stopped in front of this little grotto with what appeared to be a natural spring watched over by a statue of the Virgin Mary.  In plain English, the sign next to the spigot said, “Holy Water.”  Now, I’m no Theological expert, but I’m pretty sure this would lead most god fearing people to believe that this water was meant for blessing and quenching the thirst unfortunate souls and not for guzzling in 28 ounce quantities.  Despite Mary’s furrowed brow of disapproval, everyone filled their bottles from the tap and made holy water jokes in the shadow of the colossal cathedral.  H.  E.  Double toothpicks.

Regardless of our apparent sin, none of us were struck by a bolt of lightning from the cloudless sky.  However, someone did get a flat tire right there at the grotto.  Coincidence?  I dunno.  Regardless, no one wrecked on the way home.  Maybe it was blessed.  We went on to have a wonderful vacation in Wisconsin.  Who knows?  They say the body is 70% water.  For a few days, maybe ours was Holy Water.  Is that doping?

A Test of the Emergency #Vegan System

Free for the Taking, an Izzy's Sandwich on Servatii's Roll

This is the vegan equivalent of finding a Brinks truck crashed on the side of the road with $100 bills scattered across the shoulder.  Do you take it and buy a Dura Ace equipped carbon wonder bike from Italy?  Or do you do the right thing, call 9-1-1 and be the hero?  This is a made-in-Cincinnati Izzy’s Reuben Sandwich.  In the world of salted cured meats, nothing trumps the corned beef and sauerkraut piled high, slathered in Million Island dressing and served on Cincinnati’s famous Servatii’s pretzel bread bun.  Simply pulling the meat off would be like "fixing" the smile on the Mona Lisa. 

Did You Say Catnip Tuna?

Maybe I haven’t been clear in my description.  This is two great tastes in one entity.  It’s like Cincinnati Skyline Chili topped with Montgomery Inn Ribs.  Mmmm.  An Izzy’s Reuben on a Servatii’s roll is to Cincinnati as Jerked Chicken on the side of the road served with a Red Stripe beer is to Jamaica.  It’s Saz’s Barbecue with a side of George Webb’s breakfast to a Milwaukeean.  Its Gino’s East pizza covered in Southside Polish sausage to Chicago.  It’s a Thurminator burger topped with a pair of Blue Jacket’s tickets to those in Columbus.  It’s Christmas’ candy cane covered gingerbread house.  Its catnip covered in tuna juice to Juneau… my cat, not the city.

The choice between that bag of money or this sandwich is a life changing decision.  Consultants and advisors from GE and P&G may need to be called in.  Since they’re no longer working on the Space Shuttle program, I may dial-up NASA's best mathematicians to pour over excel spreadsheets and sandwich trajectories to help me decide which would have a better impact on my life. 

Jackpot!

Sure you could take the bag of money and go out and buy an Izzy’s Reuben and have enough left over to quit your job and eat it while riding off the threat of clogged arteries on your new Trek Madone, but you’d be missing the point.  I did hill repeats last night.  I’m 4 pounds below my target race weight.  It’s 9:30am.  I just ate half an apple.  I have an appointment in 30 minutes and I am surrounded by hungry native Cincinnatians.  This is about instant gratification.  This is about taking the kill before the Hyenas get it.  This is a case of how much would it really hurt.  This sandwich is now or never.  Dammit they’re taking it into the work kitchen.  Noooooooo!

My Lunchbox

Right down the hall is a free Izzy’s Reuben Sandwich served on special edition Servatii’s pretzel bread.  In my 2010 Vancouver Olympic lunchbox is a bag of carrots, a tub of hommus, a box of raisins, a banana, a fruit strip, half a Honeycrisp apple, and leftover vegan Tikka Masala in a plastic Glad container.  This is a test of eating a plant based non-processed food diet.  This is a test of the Emergency Vegan System.  This is only a test.

Thankfully, I passed.

Child’s Play: Nephew’s Huck at Ray's Caught on Video

The dump truck, the fire truck, all of them, on a triple top-tube spray painted black Schwinn with BMX tires I sailed over 27 Tonka trucks.  Hmmm.  That sounds like a lot.  Maybe it was 19, or 11.  Regardless, 30 some years later, I can see the wood jump at the edge of my childhood driveway.  We’d approach downhill from the street, cut-in to the driveway, hit the lip of the 8-12 inch scrap 2x4 and plywood jump along the curb, fly over every kid in the neighborhood’s Tonkas, and land in the front lawn beneath the sugar maple.  I remember a friend’s endo sending him sliding barebacked onto the freshly paved road.  His mom must’ve had to pick stones and tar out of his wounds, total Jackass.  With yesterday’s video text shot by my sister in law at Ray's Indoor Mountain Bike Park in Milwaukee, my nephew entered the age of bike stunts.

In my days before cars, our days before Jackass, we jumped fire pits and creeks and circumnavigated our hometowns with a boombox strapped to the rack.  None of it captured on video.  I don’t think any of our parents could afford a video camera and we wouldn’t even dare to take the expensive family still camera on a jaunt through the neighborhood trails.  That was for vacations.  Taking it out of the house tempted a serious grounding.  Without cell phones, at dinner time my Dad would hollar down the street repeating himself to the East and West loud enough to be heard three blocks away, “Joe and Mike!!!  Time for Dinner!”  So, my childhood bike memories are that, memories.  My 8 year old nephew’s are now online.

My Childhood Trails Went Through Lime Kiln Park 

Yesterday, my sister in law texted a 10 second video of my nephew “Shady Brady” doing a BMX jump into the foam pit at Ray’s MTN bike park in Milwaukee.  Coincidently, they live in the same neighborhood I grew up in, in the same house that my wife grew up in, only now they have a video camera on their cell phone and a foam pit to save the road rash.  Some things have changed.  The twisted network of trails along the Menomonee River of my youth are home to Target and Home Depot.  Judging from this video, I’m sure that won’t stop Brady.  There’s still has to be a killer stuff down by the Lime Kiln Park or a 3 foot loading dock drop somewhere.  If not, they have a family membership to Ray’s.

8 years old, Brady, or as I like to call his BMX persona “Shady Brady,” doesn’t really know what road rash is yet or what it’s like to get up from a fall in the trails to find a stick sticking out of your leg.  He’s 8, still under adult supervision in the childhood protection plan.  His Dad, like most Wisconsin Dads has a corral of ATV’s and snowmobiles.  As a consequence, and conversely to my experience, under Dad’s eye, Shady Brady learned how to ride before he could pedal.  Compared to the speed and snarl of the motors on Wisconsin fire roads, hucking a four-footer inside of an old Menards hardware store is nothing to him. 

Trying to be the good Uncle, or as good of an Uncle that I can be working at a radio station from 400 miles away, I put my computer media skills to work and made him his first “pro” video.  With a screaming announcer, X-games music and a cheering crowd, he’ll have a memory as blown out of proportion as my Tonka jump.  My sister in law said he watched it 30 times within the hour I sent it.  I hate to say it, but his airtime makes my exaggerated Tonka truck jump look like child’s play.

Holy Water Bottles

I could be going to hell.  If so, my wife and a bunch of racer type cyclists from Milwaukee are coming with me.  Woo hell!  The most extreme epic ride ever!  I’ll wear my helmet with the horns.  We’ll have a Papal Peloton!  I grew up Catholic, went to Sunday school, received a coupla sacraments, know the Lords Prayer and Hail Mary by heart and in all my worldly Theological studies I’m certain that drinking Holy Water at least gets you a few whacks from a Nun’s yardstick.  I’m almost positive that somewhere in the bible it says “Drinketh the wine and thou be seateth at the right hand of the Lord.  Guzzleth the Holy Water, and thou gets few jabiths in the keester with a hot rusty pitchith fork.”

If you’ve been angry because there hasn’t been a new blog post in weeks, I’ve been on vacation.  Rule #1 with this blog is that riding comes before writing.  So while on vacation in Wisconsin we tagged on to the Holy Hill Ride, Milwaukee’s regular Sunday morning pilgrimage to a spectacular spired church perched on a scenic hill 35 miles or so out in the sticks from downtown.  Superweek, aka The International Cycling Classic, also features a stage through Holy Hill country.  This is the second time I’ve done the ride.  I grew up in Milwaukee, but my passion for road cycling didn’t arise till I moved to Cincinnati.  Therefore the only times I visited Holy Hill were on Christmas and at 1am with a six pack of Mickey’s big mouth beers during prom.  The Holy Hill ride ranks right up with Cincinnati’s covered bridge ride, skinny farm roads leading to a place that’s always better reached by bicycle.  Like most cities and their Sunday ride traditions, this ride has been going on for a long time.  From what the peloton of 30 or so said, the Holy Hill ride has been going on probably before the Green Bay Packers won their first Superbowl, but after Harley met Davidson.

Milwaukeeans will try to fool you to thinking that the topography is hilly, mainly by calling people from Illinois “flatlanders.”  Since I’ve moved away to a place that actually is quite hilly, Milwaukee for all practical purposes is as flat as a pancake with a few thick ripples of syrup on top and running down the side into Lake Michigan.  But.  But.  But, for some reason that only a geological genius can explain, there are a few areas that were not smooshed by glaciers.  Holy Hill sits on top of one of them.  The wooded hill probably rises 300ish feet above the farmland below.  Not quite Cincinnati high, but definitely tall enough for a 3-4 minute climb with a couple of soft switchbacks capped off by two steep stabs to the cornerstone of the church.  Of course, King of the Mountain points are in full effect every Sunday.  While, I did not win the surge to the top, I think I certainly made a few locals fear that the out of town guy may spank them on their own hill.

At the top, we stopped for a natural and to fill up the bottles.  The temp was tickling its way toward 85 degrees.  The group split up.  Some stopped at a small out-building with a restroom and bubbler (Wisconsin speak for “drinking fountain”).  The rest of us, stopped in front of this little grotto with what appeared to be a natural spring watched over by a statue of the Virgin Mary.  In plain English, the sign next to the spigot said, “Holy Water.”  Now, I’m no Theological expert, but I’m pretty sure this would lead most god fearing people to believe that this water was meant for blessing and quenching the thirst unfortunate souls and not for guzzling in 28 ounce quantities.  Despite Mary’s furrowed brow of disapproval, everyone filled their bottles from the tap and made holy water jokes in the shadow of the colossal cathedral.  H.  E.  Double toothpicks.

Regardless of our apparent sin, none of us were struck by a bolt of lightning from the cloudless sky.  However, someone did get a flat tire right there at the grotto.  Coincidence?  I dunno.  Regardless, no one wrecked on the way home.  Maybe it was blessed.  We went on to have a wonderful vacation in Wisconsin.  Who knows?  They say the body is 70% water.  For a few days, maybe ours was Holy Water.  Is that doping?

The Joker & Cycling Heaven: A Milwaukee Area Group Ride With Team Extreme

There’s a joker on every group ride.  I love him, in a bromance kind of way.  With impeccable timing, the joker’s the one who “accidently” drops a 4 letter bomb at the top of the climb to Holy Hill.  He’s the guy who wonders out loud why a road would be named Amy Belle and how promiscuous she might have been in a rural Wisconsin tool shed.  He’s the one who stands on the pedals before a ripping downhill, bursts into an Irish accent and liltingly shouts “time to bomb down frickin’ Donegal.”  Inappropriate but innocent, the joker keeps the ride alive.  The joker makes late winter’s cropless windswept farm roads and the first four hour ride of the season bearable.  It is just one of the reasons I try to hook up with a local ride when I travel.

When you travel with your bike, there’s no need to pour over maps, ride by yourself, and stop every few miles to make sure you’re on track.  Next time you travel, email a few local clubs or teams wherever you’re going and inquire about riding with them.  Cycling is a social beast.  Name a cyclist who doesn’t enjoy riding with new people.  Just be honest about your ability and remember that you’re a guest on someone elses ride.  This past weekend I hooked up with Team Extreme Cycling in Thiensville, WI for their regular Saturday ride from Extreme Bike & Ski to Holy Hill and back.  It all started with a simple email from one cyclist to another.

To: patrick@teamextremecycling

Got your email from the wicycling.org website.  I’m a cat 3 rider in Cincinnati.  I race for BioWheels bike shop here.  My family’s in Mequon and I’ll be in the Milwaukee area Saturday for a reunion.  Was wondering, since you look like you’re located in Thiensville, if there’s a group ride on Saturday that I could latch onto.  

From: teamextrememtnbike

Hi Joe - Thanks for the email. (Here’s the info on our group ride Saturday.)  Hope you can make it.

Saturday March 14 Afternoon Edition Group/Team Ride

Departure Time: 1:30pm

Departure Location: Extreme Ski & Bike (the Shop)

Route: Holy Hill and Back including the Rustic Road Sections (40-45 miles); no drop!

I did make it.  The ride with Patrick & Team Extreme to Holy Hill was the highlight of the weekend, no offense to my family party which was the focal point of my trip. 

The ride met at Extreme Bike & Ski in Thiensville, WI, a great shop, well stocked and for lack of a better term extremely friendly.  I would never have discovered it had I not ventured out of my cycling travel cocoon.  As the riders gathered, chatted, filled bottles and tires, I realized I was a few cents short of enough cash to pay for a CO2 cartridge.  Kindly, the woman behind the counter re-rang it up with one of the team guy’s discounts and all was good.  When’s the last time something like that happened on your road trip?  I was just one of the regular guys on the regular group ride.  Its little things like that that’ll make me pop in there next time I need something or recommend the shop to someone I know in the Milwaukee area.

The bike path behind the shop led to the farm roads just north of Milwaukee’s suburbs of Mequon, Germantown and Richfield.  They were flat by Cincinnati standards, but had enough curves to keep it interesting.  I barely remember seeing any cars till our double paceline crossed over the freeway.  The pace was perfect, just hard enough where the guys at the front were working hard, the guys behind could talk and the joker could poke fun at joggers and innocent landmarks.  The gradual incline of the farm roads gave way to the rolling hills of the lake country surrounding Milwaukee that make up a stage or two of the International Cycling Classic a.k.a. Superweek.  Hogsback was a favorite that bombed, rolled and twisted its way between the farms and Holy Hill.  The highlight was the climb to Holy Hill, 900 vertical feet of switchbacks topped with a cathedral in the boondocks.  Holy Hill is cycling heaven.

Gaisma: Light Out Longer

Cincinnatians are lucky. Along with Columbus, Lexington, Knoxville and other cities in a nice little row near southbound I-75, we live on the more western side of the Eastern Time Zone. Its light out longer here, at least longer than Chicago or Milwaukee who are on the eastern side of the Central Time Zone. I’ll pause now so you stop the aneurysm from exploding in your brain. (Jeopardy Music Interlude)

Being a creative minded person, from the homo sapien dufus mathematicalus branch of the evolutionary tree, I nearly exhausted the treadmill running hamster in my skull thinking thoughts like “if it’s 5:30 and the sun is setting here means it’s 4:30 and soon to be dark there.” Where’s my bottle of Advil.

According to GAISMA website, which posts sunset/sunrise times for anywhere in the world, you can see that in just two weeks it’ll be light out in Cincinnati till 5:53pm. Nanny nanny boo boo Windy City. Clear your desk at P&G by 5:30pm and you might be able to commute home from work while it’s light out. In a month, it’ll be light out till 6:13pm and we just might be able to eek in an hour ride after work. In two weeks, it’ll still be dark at 5:30 in Milwaukee and Chicago. See for yourself. Cincinnati has the gaisma.

For those who don’t speak Latvian, "Gaisma" is a Latvian word, meaning "light". And, now you know the rest of the story.