Cycling God Totem: De Vlaeminck Drops

In a previous post, Fabian Cancellara was moved down the The Best Bike Blog EVER's Cycling God Totem for post Flanders and Paris-Roubaix douchyness.  He is still not forgiven.  Like I said before, "...I don't care if my cycling gods win.  I prefer them to be heroic with a hint of humility."  Like Kramer said on Seinfeld once, "Poise Counts!"  Today, Roger De Vlaeminck moved a couple notches down the Cycling God Totem for comments he made about the rest of the peloton after Boonen's win at Paris Roubaix.  With that win, Boonen moved up.

Sure, Boonen was the man on Holy Sunday, deserving of the spot between Cancellera and Lance.  But to have De Vlaeminck label Boonen's competition at Paris-Roubaix as 3rd rate riders drips with douchyness.  Let's take note of the so called "3rd Rate" riders finishing behind Boonen: Thor Hushovd, George Hincapie, Flecha, Stuart O'Grady....while not competition for the win, even the 3rd rate Andre Greipel managed to get the bell on the velodrome with a group only 13 minutes down.  Of the 86 finishers, there's a lot of hard men on the list.

While Boonen has had his own personal problems (sniff) and as of yet has not posted wins at San Remo and the Giro Di Lombardia (which apparently is a measuring stick for De Vlaeminck,) we disagree with Roger and move Boonen ahead of De Vlaeminck on the Cycling God Totem.  Keep it up De Vlaeminck, the next totem notch is underground.  


Totem order: Eddy, Marco, Hinault, Lance, Boonen, Cancellara, De Vlaeminck.

Reasons I’m Not a Doc: Sponge Left in Body

If I were a doctor, I’d be world renowned as Dr. Oops.  Since I probably wouldn’t pass the exam, I’d be the guy injecting I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter into the lips of unsuspecting club-hopping duck-billers in a seedy office in a downtown Miami alley.  You can get away with anything in Florida.  Judging from what happened while installing a tire on Saturday, I’m convinced.  As a surgeon I’d break the tip of the scalpel off on the incision and mistakenly leave the piece in your brain right next to a sponge.  Oopsie.  Sorry ‘bout that.

I bought a new road tire on Saturday, a replacement Vittoria Open Corso EVO CX.  Three woots for this tire.  While pricey, costing five bucks more than the tried and true Continental GP 4000, I think the Vittoria’s have better cornering and descending grip and comparatively feel more supple on the road.  The trade off is they don’t last quite as long, but I still got well over a year of riding and racing out of it.  The red logo also matches my bike.  I probably could’ve got a few more weeks from them had I rotated the tires a 2^nd time.  The rear was the first to thin out and expose the threads under the tread in a small area.  After a slight LMFAO wiggle-wiggle-wiggle in the rain slicked early laps of the Harrison’s Tomb OSRS race last Saturday saved by what I described to another racer as steering with my nutsack, I headed up to the shop to replace Mr. Baldy.

The Vittoria Open Corso CX is one of those tight clinchers.  While its good to know the tire’s going to stay on the rim if you flat, its takes some serious man-mitts to coax it on and off the rim.  Not a very “quick change” friendly tire on a group ride.  Even slower since I don’t have man mitts.  After rotating the front tire to the rear, I got most of the bead of the new tire on my front rim with my thumbs, save 8 inches.  So I pried the remainder with a tire lever.  Tink!

The tire lever broke.  I swear I heard the piece fly and hit my spoke.  I was at BioWheels bike shop where they gratefully give team members who supposedly know what they are doing stand privileges.  After Saturday, I may be relegated to the stand outside of customer view.  Thinking the piece flew a few feet, I jokingly asked Bob working next to me, “Did I get you with that?”  “Nope,” he said with a chuckle as he handed me a second lever to finish the job.  With two torques of the new lever, I hit my tire with air and I was on my way.

Tire Lever Shrapnel 

It was in the 70's and sunny, so I took the long way home, probably 10 miles.  Approaching the stoplight 2 blocks from my house, the new front tire went squishy.  “Eh…new tire, old tube.  That always happens,” I thought.  It went down slow as I coasted to the light.  I walked the last block and put the bike in the Man Cave stand at home. 

My suspicions were confirmed removing the tire.  Behold!  The broken tire lever nugget stayed in the tire.  File that under “do it right the first time.”

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?

Missing The Story: Jones Outsprints #Lance...Daughter Annoyed

This video has been circulating of Lance Armstrong seemingly snubbing his daughter at the finish of the Memorial Hermann Ironman 70.3 in Texas.  As he crosses the finish line, some say Lance completely ignores his daughter's ear piercing “Dad” shouts while holding a finisher’s medal.  I say phooey.  You’re completely missing the story here.  Like golf headlines featuring Tiger when someone else won the tournament, you're the one ignoring the guy with bib #34 living every cyclist’s dream and sprinting past Lance Armstrong.  I looked him up.  That guy pippin’ Lance for an extra payout spot is Jordan Jones of Golden, CO.

If you want a real venue to criticize parenting, visit the crazy town known as the local Easter Egg Hunt this weekend.  The way Jones flies into the frame, it's obvious to me the finish line is no place to stop for a daddy moment.  Aside from being 150 pounds traveling at high speed, athletes heart rates are pegged higher than a temper tantrum, their tummies really ache, their bodies feel like one giant boo-boo and their minds are so clouded with lactic acid and mileage math that, yes, unless there's a complete family emergency at the finish, off the course is probably a better place for a kiss to make it all better.  In a post race interview on the IronMan website, Lance describes the race as a sufferfest, stomach problems slowing him to a walk on part of the run, “I had significant GI issues on the run and even on the bike. I have to figure that part out otherwise you always run into issues where you can’t get food and liquid into the body.”  If you want more proof of what it's like to be in that moment, read Jordan Jones’ recolection of the finish below.  He didn’t even know he passed Lance Armstrong, one of the most famous and recognizable athletes in the world, till after he passed him.  However, there’ll be no apologies at the dinner table.

From TriJones.com: Going into the last lap with 4 miles to go I was in 9th and it was really game time.  It was hot and I was suffering but so was everyone else.  I got into 8th, the last prize money spot, and kept pressing.  At mile 12 I managed to catch Marino.

I surmised that I had 6 minutes to go and mentally chunked that into three two minute segments.  By the final two minutes, it hurt so bad that I had to start breaking it down into 100 meter sections in order to will myself to holding onto my pace all the way to the line.  With all of the work that I’ve put in and support I’ve gotten from others, I was going to fight for every possible second. Since it was a loop course, there were age group athletes completing their first loop around me but I didn’t perceive 6th place to be in sight.  Then, suddenly, where the course split between the finish line and more loops I saw an athlete just ahead take a left to the finish.  I instinctively started sprinting and expected the finish chute to be 100m long, giving me a shot at 6th.  I turned the corner and saw two things: where 6th place was and where the finish line was.  I realized that the finish was only 30 meters away, much closer than I had expected, but that I still had a shot at gaining one more spot.  I turned it up one more notch and absolutely went for it.  Right at the line I made the pass and realized it was Lance Armstrong.  (click here for the full story on TriJones.com)

#NoOpportunityWasted: Peloton Drowning

Me in 1/2/3's courtesy Jeffrey B. Jakucyk

It reminded me of an Outside Magazine article about Free Diving, “Open Your Mouth and You’re Dead.”  On the cusp of death via drowning, free divers report a soft transition from swimming into an almost blissful dreamlike state (see inset).  I’m not going to romanticize death and it would be preposterous to think one could drift off into dreamland while riding a bicycle and stay upright, but with my heart rate pegged at 184bpm the third time up the Cliff Road climb in the OSRS Race #3 at Harrison's Tomb in Cleves, OH I didn’t feel panic but instead a letting go of sorts.  Someone at the front surged and I sunk through and below the surface of the peloton. 

A few months ago, while on vacation in St. Maarten, the diving instructor at the reef pulled me aside and said, “You look like a good swimmer, confident and comfortable with the snorkel and fins.”  I nodded.  “If you want to see some of the better reef,” she added, “go to the other side of the peninsula and swim through the chop about 75 meters to where the buoys start the curve.”  She pointed.  “Just stay to the right of the buoys to avoid the red stinger coral.”  I hesitated at first.  Stinger coral?  My wife and I walked the dirt path and stood on the rocky beach as the waved thunderously crashed on the shallow reef.  Ka-whoosh!  It was intimidating as hell.  She wasn’t going.  I stood there for 10 minutes wondering where the stinger coral exactly was.  This is how tourists drown. 

Back on the climb with riders cresting the top, I got this, I thought.  I’ve been dropped before.  I’ve been dropped and clawed my way back to the surface before.  You gather your wits, tell yourself the group will let up, take a drink, hit a GU, put your head down and drive it smooth and steady until you make contact with the main group or a few others in a row boat.  You think of getting dropped as a violent abrupt end, but it’s really not.  It’s sort of like drowning.  The lights sort of dim in your mind with lack of oxygen and you never feel the water rush in.  Seeing the riders flood around me at the last little punch the third time up the climb, I was at ease.  I wasn’t dead.

Maybe the calm comes with knowing that you’re giving it your all.  Isn’t that what death is sort of like anyway?  As I look back, like we all do on races, and look for some blame, I realize I did do everything I could have to save myself.  I’ve done long and hilly training rides with the fastest guys in town.  I ate a good breakfast.  I arrived with fresh legs.  I was eating and drinking.  I never hit the wind and always had a wheel.  Judging from the size of the group cresting the climb in front of me, I wasn’t the first to let go.  At least a third of the original peloton was already below me.  I simply wasn’t strong enough to keep treading water and that’s okay with me.  I gave it my all as a 44 year old Cat 3 in his first 1/2/3 road race.  Like my decision on the beach in St. Maarten, I didn’t waste my opportunity.

I was in tropical paradise, a good swimmer, incredibly fit from racing the Cyclocross Masters World Championships, with good gear and the one and only chance I may every have in my life to see the coral reef in St. Maarten.  My thoughts turned positive to “No Opportunity Wasted,” the mantra of Phil Keoghan of the Amazing Race, his ride across America, the book and resulting NOW website.  I kicked off my shoes, geared up and waded in.  With waves crashing over head, I went under.  I held my breath and ducked my snorkel underwater and swam through a 4 foot gap between some red coral.  I surfaced, blew out my snorkel, ducked under the choppy 3-4 foot waves and kept swimming along the right of the buoys and out to an incredible little reef.  It was nearly euphoric.

Me At Masters Worlds CX Jan 2012

You see, I didn’t enter this hilly 1/2/3 race to do well.  I did it because I had the chance, an opportunity to better myself, to test myself.  I didn’t enter it blindly.  Like in St. Maarten, I considered my abilities and the risk.  My first 1/2/3 road race as a 44 year old Cat 3 rider, what am I stupid?  But, it’s that sort of thinking that holds people back.  Why pass up an opportunity to do well in a Cat 3 race for a chance only to hang in a 1/2/3 race?  For me, every cyclocross season I struggle staying in contact with the Cat 1 level masters aged racers.  Every year I feel like I’m just a pinch too slow.  So this year, I’m making a concerted effort to put on my big boy pants and ride with the fastest guys in town in hopes of being on par in the fall.  I didn’t want to waste the opportunity to learn that I can average 23.5 mph in a 1/2/3 road race and the guys who finished with what was left of "the pack" averaged 24 even.  It was worth the risk.  Getting dropped is nothing but riding alone.  It sure the hell isn’t drowning.