Going to Uranus? Hire a Coach

I'm Drunk and I'm Skinny!

He knows bourbon.  Like the Southern Comfort on a canoe trip in my youth where I never actually paddled the boat, I will never drink it again.  While Southern Comfort made me spend a beautiful blue sky Wisconsin summer day lying in a gravel parking lot along the Crystal River, Bourbon made me shout at Sven Nys, “I’m drunk and I’m skinny!”  Then it made me spend the night laying on the bathroom tile after the Cyclocross World Championships in Louisville.  Bourbon is out of my league.  I don’t get it.

While he’s a virtual genius at select Kentucky beverages and can make anyone faster on a bike, he is not a Marvel super hero.  The guy I’m talking about is a lot like you or me, a person who is passionately involved in the things he loves, maybe a chromosome or two from being a full on savant.  While I’m into writing and music, can expound on the beauty of a worn sunburst Strat and tell you exactly why the new Fitz and the Tantrum’s song “Out of My League” sounds like the Cure’s “A Forest” from 1980, he is one of a handful of people that doesn’t get an itchy heat rash and headache trying to decipher a pro’s power meter graph posted on Velonews.  He knows bourbon and bike racing.  He’s my coach. 

Do I need a coach?  Yes.  Yes I do.  Take these awesome blue suede pointy shoes I got from Banana Republic.  You want to touch them don’t you?  Don’t get your oily fingers on them.  Just know they feel like the silky top of a cat’s head.  Purrr.  For you, maybe they’re not your bag, hipster dufus material.  They’ll likely be at the outlet store in November.  I need them.  For me, working in an industry like pop radio, where the feeling of youth and cool is part of the product, these shoes help me, a middle aged creative, stay in touch with fashion and trends, the same qualities that our listeners hold dear.  Your frugal cycling side may see an unwarranted expense.  I admit.  I do feel a bit out of my skin as I wrestle them on with a shoe horn in the morning, but I see it sort of as an investment.  The second I lose sight of or fail to be directly involved in what our listeners hold dear, like (egads!) an appreciation for Miley Cyrus, I may be looking for a job at the oldies station.

It makes me want to get a fake ID to actually lower my age, but I’ve been racing and ridiculously involved in cycling for longer than most juniors have been alive.  For God’s sake, there’s a 1991 Breezer Thunder in our bike stable, and that’s not even the vintage one in my book.  Every one of those juniors should know who Joe Breeze is.  I own a truing stand.  In my junior aged days, I circumnavigated Waukesha County on a bike with down-tube shifters and a boombox strapped to my front rack blaring “The Who.”  I’ve come back from ACL reconstruction surgery where my wife had to help me as I grunted attempting a single leg lift.  You’d think I’d know it all by now: training, mechanics, skills, speed, and history.  Yet, I have a coach. 

I look at having a coach like a trip to Uranus.  You might troll the boneyard next to the airport for parts, camp out in the science section of the library and actually build a rockin’ 1978 VW shaped spaceship, but you’re not going to feel the soft pale Uranus dirt between your toes without a little input from say perhaps…an actual rocket scientist.  The main reason I have a coach is so someone, a certified cycling dork, is vested as a shareholder in team Joe.  It’s no different than having a personal mentor or work consultant.  I could go pretty far on my own, perhaps land that VW mothership in a swimming pool the next county over and be on TMZ.  But, like those swanky blue shoes, my coach will take me where I’ve never been before...to Uranus.  

His name is Chris Mayhew.  Learn more about him at the JBV Coaching Website.

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.

Sunday Mornings

The sun is doing it’s best to burn the frost off my windshield and the fog from the Ohio River Valley. Like a human coco bean radiator, I take another sip off coffee and unzip my jacket. There’s always an interesting story Sunday morning’s on NPR. Today, I think it’s an interview with a producer from a TV cop drama, but I missed the beginning where they mentioned the show. He’s actually been to real murder scenes and I laugh when he reiterates the fact that saying “c’mon, shoot me” is about the dumbest thing you can say if someone in real life points a gun at you. I’m halfway through an Odwalla Bar and about a half hour from today’s cyclocross race venue.

Just this past Saturday, my wife and I were spinning and watching the “Pure Sweet Hell” video. Some CX nut from Portland was saying how cross is sort of masochistic. My wife quipped with a smart-assed raised eyebrow, “is that why you like it?!” Caught off guard by her subtle humor, I spurted out something like, “no, I like it because it’s short and really hard.” I chucked inside and we kept spinning. As the yuk wore off, I started to think of why I like cyclocross.

I do like it because it’s short and hard. While I do like racing bikes in general, I’ve never been completely fond of the all-day long endurance mountain bike races. I don’t get excited for the Mohican 100 and Pisgah Death March like I do for cyclocross. Every form of racing is hard in its own right, but for some reason I prefer the red-line racing over the “oh god I hope I can endure this beating for another 4 hours” variety.

But, cyclocross is more than that. It’s the little intricacies, most of the time nothing to do with the actual bike riding, all rolled up into one package that keeps me coming back every weekend. It’s trying to quietly stuff a cowbell in the pocket of my backpack without waking up my wife. It’s loading up the bikes on a chilly November morning and seeing my neighbor tip-toe out to grab his newspaper in his underwear and suddenly realize that someone spotted him in his boxers. It’s feeling compelled to make a sign of the cross midway through evening hill repeats in Mount Adams as I rest and take in the vista overlooking the Ohio River Valley from the gate of the Holy Cross-Immaculata Church.