Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Same Team Members. New Team Sponsor.
I'm pleased to say that myself and the rest of my team will be a part of the Giordana - Clif Bar racing team for the 2009 race season. I'm stoked to be racing for a Charlotte based team. More later...for now, Happy New Year!
Monday, November 24, 2008
My (Lance) Cup Runeth Over
I remember when I loved Lance. When he was someone I looked up to. When he was a superhero on a bike. I remember watching him go for #5 thinking my world would end if he didn’t win. I remember the deep connection I felt to his cancer survivorship having watched my Grandmother perish from the disease when I was 13. I remember the strength I used to feel watching the yellow Livestrong bracelet dance on my wrist before the fad started and after it died down.
As I sit here right now, though, only a few months after the big announcement, my Lance tolerance cup is well over filled and spilling out onto the table and all over the floor. He is no longer the hero with which I once identified.
Who really believes he is coming back solely to further the Livestrong mission into a global initiative? Don’t feel bad if you still do. I bought into it at first, also. But now? No way. In the dozens upon dozens of articles I’ve read over the last 2 and a half months, I have heard very little about cancer. I’ve relived all the old doping allegations. I’ve heard about how stupid the French are. But, nothing so far about cancer. I’ve been reminded about his 7 Tour de France victories (as if I could forget). I’ve heard about old and new disputes with Greg Lemond, another self serving narcissist. No cancer. More doping, more insistance of not doping. We heard a blurb about his charity working together with Simeoni’s charity, but that was after we had to witness the back and forth and back and forth over the 2004 Tour controversy. More doping, no proof of doping, more allegations of doping, the French are stupid. No cancer. Hey look! Lance is in a wind tunnel! More doping, more arrogance. More Astana controversy. No, I swear this is about cancer. Now he's afraid of French fans. AURGH! Enough already!
Enough.
Lance’s hero status for me has gone downhill since his retirement. Not because his incredible sporting accomplishments have diminished in my mind, but because the yellow bracelet is no longer dancing on my wrist. It went in the garbage the day I read that he reportedly allowed his 6 year old daughter to take Ashley Olsen to show and tell at her Texas school. The only thing Lance seems to care about more than his cancer charity is his own face. I have to agree with Mike Celizic of msnbc.com; Lance has become a “drama queen” and a “narcissist.” There’s simply no deep connection to have with either of those.
As I sit here right now, though, only a few months after the big announcement, my Lance tolerance cup is well over filled and spilling out onto the table and all over the floor. He is no longer the hero with which I once identified.
Who really believes he is coming back solely to further the Livestrong mission into a global initiative? Don’t feel bad if you still do. I bought into it at first, also. But now? No way. In the dozens upon dozens of articles I’ve read over the last 2 and a half months, I have heard very little about cancer. I’ve relived all the old doping allegations. I’ve heard about how stupid the French are. But, nothing so far about cancer. I’ve been reminded about his 7 Tour de France victories (as if I could forget). I’ve heard about old and new disputes with Greg Lemond, another self serving narcissist. No cancer. More doping, more insistance of not doping. We heard a blurb about his charity working together with Simeoni’s charity, but that was after we had to witness the back and forth and back and forth over the 2004 Tour controversy. More doping, no proof of doping, more allegations of doping, the French are stupid. No cancer. Hey look! Lance is in a wind tunnel! More doping, more arrogance. More Astana controversy. No, I swear this is about cancer. Now he's afraid of French fans. AURGH! Enough already!
Enough.
Lance’s hero status for me has gone downhill since his retirement. Not because his incredible sporting accomplishments have diminished in my mind, but because the yellow bracelet is no longer dancing on my wrist. It went in the garbage the day I read that he reportedly allowed his 6 year old daughter to take Ashley Olsen to show and tell at her Texas school. The only thing Lance seems to care about more than his cancer charity is his own face. I have to agree with Mike Celizic of msnbc.com; Lance has become a “drama queen” and a “narcissist.” There’s simply no deep connection to have with either of those.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Mental Block Party
Now that the stitches are out and the contusions have been reduced to bearable, it’s time to look ahead to my return to racing. Physically, I’ll be ok. In a few weeks I’ll be back to the fitness level I was at the time of the crash. No big deal. I wasn’t all that fit anyway. The bigger barrier to jump over is the mental game my brain will play with me.
That game is this: you go on 1000 rides without mishap. You crash once. That becomes the one and only ride your brain will remember. And it will make unending attempts at convincing your body that you will now crash each and every time you head out on the road (or trail).
Getting over that mental block is serious business. If you can’t move on, you’re likely to start riding and racing with intrepedation, which will, in turn, lead to more crashes. So, it’s time for me to saddle up and hit the gravel road… figuratively, though. Not literally this time.
That game is this: you go on 1000 rides without mishap. You crash once. That becomes the one and only ride your brain will remember. And it will make unending attempts at convincing your body that you will now crash each and every time you head out on the road (or trail).
Getting over that mental block is serious business. If you can’t move on, you’re likely to start riding and racing with intrepedation, which will, in turn, lead to more crashes. So, it’s time for me to saddle up and hit the gravel road… figuratively, though. Not literally this time.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Crash Into Me
I’ll get to the point. I crashed at the Hawksnest Cyclocross race. Last lap (although I didn’t know it at the time), final descent, 50 yards from the finish. Lost my wheels in a gravel section and went down on the rocks. 5 sutures in my knee and 7 in my hip and a lot of missing skin and deep bruises on the right side of my body. I was in second to last place at the time of the crash and about to be lapped by the woman who finished second. What a bunch of shit.
It just caps the frustration of the last 18 months. I can’t seem to regain the fitness I had back then – a promotion at work, a new work schedule and more responsibilities have really hampered my training hours and it really shows. But, that doesn’t keep me from expecting more of myself. It only serves as a constant disappointment when I don’t finish well. Some cyclists are perpetually in shape. Even when they are “out of shape” they keep a pretty high level of fitness. My body, I have learned, does not work like that. I lose fitness easily and quickly. I gain weight easily, as well. My BMI, although at a healthy level, is quite high for a cyclist. My frustration goes all the way down to my team kit that doesn’t fit right because I’m 15 pounds too heavy to race right now. Looking like an idiot doesn’t exactly feed into the confidence needed to step to the line of a race you know your going to lose handily. Seriously, I’m the cyclist’s version of Erkle when I come to the line.
The bottom line is this: I have no business racing right now.
The bottom/bottom line is this: I’m gonna do it anyway. And I’m gonna take each ass whoopin like a woman. I’ll slowly learn how to race cyclocross. And I’ll get better. And I’ll be a better racer in the springtime because of it…fingers crossed.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Jodi's Chick n' Cross Recipe for DISASTER
2 Cups of “Never raced CX”
1 - 8 oz. can of crushed “Didn’t ride my bike the week prior”
3 Tbsp. of “Never ridden this bike” and a dash of “it’s not even mine, I got it from Christina last night.”
Zest of 2 fresh “this bike does not fit me”
A pinch of “Pain in my right shoulder”
Add “What do you mean there are barriers I have to jump?” and “Maybe I should have started as a CX 4 instead of 3” to taste
Directions: Combine all ingredients and bake for 45 minutes. Yield: Your first ever last place finish.
1 - 8 oz. can of crushed “Didn’t ride my bike the week prior”
3 Tbsp. of “Never ridden this bike” and a dash of “it’s not even mine, I got it from Christina last night.”
Zest of 2 fresh “this bike does not fit me”
A pinch of “Pain in my right shoulder”
Add “What do you mean there are barriers I have to jump?” and “Maybe I should have started as a CX 4 instead of 3” to taste
Directions: Combine all ingredients and bake for 45 minutes. Yield: Your first ever last place finish.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
USOC Apology
The press was all over it at the Olympics, but chances are you will never hear them follow up with what happened afterwards…
Sarah Hammer, Booby Lea, Jennie Reed and Mike Friedman are four cyclists I’ve written about recently. They were humiliated by the United States Olympic Committee when they were publicly harassed by the Organization for wearing carbon filtration masks in Beijing provided and recommended by the USOC’s own physicians. In my last Blog about them, I suggested the USOC owed the riders a public apology.
Well, it wasn’t public – or at least did not garner even a blip of attention from the press compared to the incident itself - but Cyclingnews.com is reporting this morning that USOC Chief Executive, Jim Scherr sent an apology in the form of a letter to each of the four cyclists saying that there was “confusion or a misunderstanding.” A spokesman for the USOC went further to say the situation could have been handled better.
Quoting Sarah Hammer from the article, “They treated us like we were just stupid athletes and like we didn’t matter.” Sarah, I think you all proved in your handling of this debacle that you are far from just stupid athletes. Your approach was respectful, dignified, calculated, mature, and successful. It’s just too bad the USOC couldn’t have shown the same poise in the masked face of adversity.
Sarah Hammer, Booby Lea, Jennie Reed and Mike Friedman are four cyclists I’ve written about recently. They were humiliated by the United States Olympic Committee when they were publicly harassed by the Organization for wearing carbon filtration masks in Beijing provided and recommended by the USOC’s own physicians. In my last Blog about them, I suggested the USOC owed the riders a public apology.
Well, it wasn’t public – or at least did not garner even a blip of attention from the press compared to the incident itself - but Cyclingnews.com is reporting this morning that USOC Chief Executive, Jim Scherr sent an apology in the form of a letter to each of the four cyclists saying that there was “confusion or a misunderstanding.” A spokesman for the USOC went further to say the situation could have been handled better.
Quoting Sarah Hammer from the article, “They treated us like we were just stupid athletes and like we didn’t matter.” Sarah, I think you all proved in your handling of this debacle that you are far from just stupid athletes. Your approach was respectful, dignified, calculated, mature, and successful. It’s just too bad the USOC couldn’t have shown the same poise in the masked face of adversity.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
The Return of the King
Lance is coming! Lance is coming! All Hail the return of the King!
I wish I could get into the heads of some of the riders of the pro peleton. I want to know what they are REALLY thinking since Lance Armstrong announced his return to cycling for 2009. I know what they are telling the press but, in all seriousness, there has got to be a collective, “Oh, Shit,” coming from the riders and team director’s. Lance garners unequivocal attention no matter where he goes and what he does. He will instantly become a favorite for another Tour victory. And I’m not sure I believe Contador when he says he will “Welcome him back with open arms.” No one vying for a Tour victory can welcome him back with open arms. No way. So here’s a collection of quotes from people around the sport reacting to Lance’s comeback, and my translation of what they are actually saying in their own head.
Alberto Contador – “I’ve always admired him and would love to race with him. I welcome him back with open arms.”
Translation: Does Lance Armstrong know he can’t be the next Lance Armstrong cuz I am the next Lance Armstrong?
Tom Danielson – “The guy has nothing to prove. Especially in my eyes.”
Translation: I’m the king of nothing to prove. I was supposed to be the next Lance Armstrong and I have continually proved nothing. 3 years post Lance and I have yet to even attempt the Tour.
George Hincapie – “I think everyone should embrace the idea of him coming back.”
Translation: Glory days. Well, they’ll pass you by, Glory Days. In the wink of Lance’s eyes, Glory Days. Glory Days.
Mark Cavendish – “I know some of the other guys like George Hincapie are really excited about this.”
Translation: I get to meet Lance! I get to meet Lance! OMG! OMG! OMG! Ooooo…I hope he likes me.
Bob Stapleton – “Lance is going to pick and hire the team he wants…not the other way around.”
Translation: Hmmm…I can knock off Johann Bruyneel and make it look like an accident. Then Lance will HAVE to pick me…I mean, I have George Hincapie! Lance is nothing without George, right? Right?
Marc Madiot, Manager, Franciase De Jeux – “Lance Armstrong has to explain himself about what happened in 1999.”
Translation: French law requires that I question the legitimacy of Lance’s accomplishments and insinuate doping allegations every chance I get.
Jan Ullrich – “If he starts then I ought to start again, too…At the moment I can’t imagine that.”
Translation: Come back to cycling, they say. Come on, everybody’s doing it, they say…that’s exactly what Dr. Fuentes said…
Egoi Matinez – “I don’t know whether to take it seriously or if it is a joke.”
Translation: Am I on candid camera? God, I hope it’s a joke. It’s a joke, right?
Carlos Sastre – “He’s a rider who can put your hair on end just by watching him on TV.”
Translation: I’m gonna watch the Tour on TV next year…see you in 2010!
Andrew Messick, Owner, AEG Sports – “We welcome him to our race (Tour of California) along with his Astana teammates.”
Translation: CHA-CHING!
Bjarne Riis – “Something must be lacking in Lance’s life for him to do this.”
Translation: I’m not qualified to comment because although I doped my way to my Tour victory I never suffered the retribution for it. Wanna see my yellow jersey?
Levi Leipheimer – “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Translation: My career is over.
Tom Boonen – “Why is everybody so impressed?”
Translation: I’m a Classics sprinter. What does this have to do with me?
I wish I could get into the heads of some of the riders of the pro peleton. I want to know what they are REALLY thinking since Lance Armstrong announced his return to cycling for 2009. I know what they are telling the press but, in all seriousness, there has got to be a collective, “Oh, Shit,” coming from the riders and team director’s. Lance garners unequivocal attention no matter where he goes and what he does. He will instantly become a favorite for another Tour victory. And I’m not sure I believe Contador when he says he will “Welcome him back with open arms.” No one vying for a Tour victory can welcome him back with open arms. No way. So here’s a collection of quotes from people around the sport reacting to Lance’s comeback, and my translation of what they are actually saying in their own head.
Alberto Contador – “I’ve always admired him and would love to race with him. I welcome him back with open arms.”
Translation: Does Lance Armstrong know he can’t be the next Lance Armstrong cuz I am the next Lance Armstrong?
Tom Danielson – “The guy has nothing to prove. Especially in my eyes.”
Translation: I’m the king of nothing to prove. I was supposed to be the next Lance Armstrong and I have continually proved nothing. 3 years post Lance and I have yet to even attempt the Tour.
George Hincapie – “I think everyone should embrace the idea of him coming back.”
Translation: Glory days. Well, they’ll pass you by, Glory Days. In the wink of Lance’s eyes, Glory Days. Glory Days.
Mark Cavendish – “I know some of the other guys like George Hincapie are really excited about this.”
Translation: I get to meet Lance! I get to meet Lance! OMG! OMG! OMG! Ooooo…I hope he likes me.
Bob Stapleton – “Lance is going to pick and hire the team he wants…not the other way around.”
Translation: Hmmm…I can knock off Johann Bruyneel and make it look like an accident. Then Lance will HAVE to pick me…I mean, I have George Hincapie! Lance is nothing without George, right? Right?
Marc Madiot, Manager, Franciase De Jeux – “Lance Armstrong has to explain himself about what happened in 1999.”
Translation: French law requires that I question the legitimacy of Lance’s accomplishments and insinuate doping allegations every chance I get.
Jan Ullrich – “If he starts then I ought to start again, too…At the moment I can’t imagine that.”
Translation: Come back to cycling, they say. Come on, everybody’s doing it, they say…that’s exactly what Dr. Fuentes said…
Egoi Matinez – “I don’t know whether to take it seriously or if it is a joke.”
Translation: Am I on candid camera? God, I hope it’s a joke. It’s a joke, right?
Carlos Sastre – “He’s a rider who can put your hair on end just by watching him on TV.”
Translation: I’m gonna watch the Tour on TV next year…see you in 2010!
Andrew Messick, Owner, AEG Sports – “We welcome him to our race (Tour of California) along with his Astana teammates.”
Translation: CHA-CHING!
Bjarne Riis – “Something must be lacking in Lance’s life for him to do this.”
Translation: I’m not qualified to comment because although I doped my way to my Tour victory I never suffered the retribution for it. Wanna see my yellow jersey?
Levi Leipheimer – “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Translation: My career is over.
Tom Boonen – “Why is everybody so impressed?”
Translation: I’m a Classics sprinter. What does this have to do with me?
The Olympics: Masking the Controversy
Here, wear this mask. OK, now apologize for wearing this mask.
I’ve met one of the 4 Olympic cyclists who are now infamous for wearing black masks as they arrived at the Beijing airport. I was introduced to Mike Friedman by a mutual friend on a camping trip with my then team, Team Fuji, outside of Brevard, NC. I feel sure he would not recognize my face today, but he may remember that trip. He had just signed his first pro contract with TIAA-CREF. I remember being so impressed that I was camping with a pro cyclist (a short aside: I would soon learn that I was camping that weekend with several pro cyclists, men and women and would realize quickly that cycling is different from other sports in that respect – the pros are very accessible and the community is very tight knit. It’s a lovely thing.).
I was brand new to road racing and had just joined Team Fuji. I didn’t know anyone I was camping with save for Christina DeKraay and our friend Stephen. I remember Mike as a humble guy, clearly uncomfortable with my questions about his newly acquired contract. I have followed Mike’s career since that trip and enjoyed watching his rise to an Olympic Athlete. So, why do I bring this up?
Because Mike and his compatriots (Sarah Hammer, Jennie Reed and Bobby Lea) got a raw deal about the masks they wore in Beijing. Let’s forget the fact that these athletes were doing what many of China’s own citizens do daily. Instead, let's look closer at The United States Olympic Committee. After the incident, the USOC's Steven Rousch called the athletes a disgrace and then forced them to draft an apology or risk being removed from the Games (how very Totalitarian of him). The really, really shitty and ironic thing is it was the USOC who provided the masks. And it was the USOC’s Chief Physiologist, Dr. Randy Wilbur, who recommended the athletes wear those masks in a polluted environment when not training. So, Mike and his buddies were doing as they were told and then got slapped in the face by the very people who told them to do it. Instead of coming to thier defense, the USOC left the 4 out in the cold to bear the burden of public harassment on a global scale by themselves - each of them in their first ever Olympic Games.
The USOC really botched the handling of the matter. Mike, Sarah, Jennie and Bobby deserve a public apology.
I’ve met one of the 4 Olympic cyclists who are now infamous for wearing black masks as they arrived at the Beijing airport. I was introduced to Mike Friedman by a mutual friend on a camping trip with my then team, Team Fuji, outside of Brevard, NC. I feel sure he would not recognize my face today, but he may remember that trip. He had just signed his first pro contract with TIAA-CREF. I remember being so impressed that I was camping with a pro cyclist (a short aside: I would soon learn that I was camping that weekend with several pro cyclists, men and women and would realize quickly that cycling is different from other sports in that respect – the pros are very accessible and the community is very tight knit. It’s a lovely thing.).
I was brand new to road racing and had just joined Team Fuji. I didn’t know anyone I was camping with save for Christina DeKraay and our friend Stephen. I remember Mike as a humble guy, clearly uncomfortable with my questions about his newly acquired contract. I have followed Mike’s career since that trip and enjoyed watching his rise to an Olympic Athlete. So, why do I bring this up?
Because Mike and his compatriots (Sarah Hammer, Jennie Reed and Bobby Lea) got a raw deal about the masks they wore in Beijing. Let’s forget the fact that these athletes were doing what many of China’s own citizens do daily. Instead, let's look closer at The United States Olympic Committee. After the incident, the USOC's Steven Rousch called the athletes a disgrace and then forced them to draft an apology or risk being removed from the Games (how very Totalitarian of him). The really, really shitty and ironic thing is it was the USOC who provided the masks. And it was the USOC’s Chief Physiologist, Dr. Randy Wilbur, who recommended the athletes wear those masks in a polluted environment when not training. So, Mike and his buddies were doing as they were told and then got slapped in the face by the very people who told them to do it. Instead of coming to thier defense, the USOC left the 4 out in the cold to bear the burden of public harassment on a global scale by themselves - each of them in their first ever Olympic Games.
The USOC really botched the handling of the matter. Mike, Sarah, Jennie and Bobby deserve a public apology.
Friday, August 22, 2008
2008 Tour de France Love/Hate
What I love: The excitement of the biggest most tradition-drenched race in the world.
What I hate: The defending Champ, Alberto Contador, and his team were not competing.
What I love: Phil Ligget’s one of a kind commentary: “the fox is in the hen house now!”
What I hate: Phil got a lot of calls wrong this time around, “and here goes another break!
These riders are off the front now!” Paul Sherwin, “actually, Phil, we’re looking at the back of the peleton just now.”
What I love: Christian Vande Velde’s genuine love of the sport shining through as he talks to reporters about the day’s stage.
What I hate: George Hincapie’s lack of any sort of personality whatsoever, “mumble, mumble, thank the sponsors, mumble, mumble, good team, mumble, mumble, I couldn’t be interesting if a martian landed on my head right now.”
What I hate: Ricardo “the Cobra” Ricco and 3 of his teammates beating my favorites up the climbs of the Pyrenees without even breaking a sweat.
What I love: The headlines 3 days later: “Ricco Fails Doping Control as Saunier Duval Withdraws from the Tour.” C'est la vie.
What I love: “Nobody’s” like Will Frishkorn and Danny Pate came to their first Tour and had the guts to get in the breakaway’s, making the stages super fun to watch and getting the results that make us Americans tear up as they cross the line.
What I hate: “Somebody’s” like Cadel Evans throwing temper tantrums with the Press after the stages. Telling a reporter you’ll kill him if he steps on your little 8 pound dog lacks class. Seriously, what the fuck is your dog doing walking with you after a race when you KNOW you’re going to be swamped by people. You’re wearing the yellow jersey for cryin’ out loud! Leave your dog at home.
What I love: Lucky with unlucky. Barloworld’s John-Lee Augustyn is the first to the top of the Tour’s hardest stage and as he’s being celebrated by the commentator’s about his abilities, misjudges a right hand turn on the descent, goes over the barrier and slides 50 meters (unhurt) as his bike continues down the steep grade into the valley below.
What I hate: Unlucky with no luck. Roughly 50 km into the first stage at the very first feed zone of this year’s Tour, Cofidis rider Herve Duclos-LaSalle fell, broke his wrist and became the first rider to drop out. All that preparation gone in 50 km. My heart breaks for him.
What I love: The helicopter shots of the beautiful landscapes of France.
What I hate: When French TV is showing beauty shots from the helicopter while the riders are within 5 km of the finish. I don’t care about the 500 year old Chateau right now! I’ve been watching for 4 hours, I’ve seen enough Chateaus! Show me the riders dammit!
What I love: I’m a Broadcast Engineer so I love the TV technology used to bring incredible shots to the viewing public.
What I hate: Phil’s constant need to point out the picture glitches. “Sorry ‘bout the little bit of picture break up there. These pictures are being beamed up to the helicopter…blah, blah.” Yes, Phil, Microwave technology is exactly like Star Trek.
What I love: Silence Lotto actually thought they were going to put Cadel Evans in yellow despite having one of the weakest support teams in the Tour.
What I hate: People blasting Cadel because he didn’t end the Tour in yellow despite having one of the weakest support teams in the Tour.
What I love: Mark Cavendish schooling all the sprinters…4 times over. His uncanny ability to be blocked in at 200m and then cross the line first is just stunning to me.
What I hate: Hey, Mark, just because George Hincapie is on your team, doesn’t mean you need to give boring interviews like him. You just became the only Briton in history to win 4 stages in one Tour de France. It’s ok to show some emotion. I mean, you have to be at least a little excited, right?
What I hate: Robbie McEwen’s team left him out in the cold, opting to build itself around Cadel Evans for the overall. In the process, the team wasn’t strong enough to support Cadel and Robbie had no domestiques or lead out men to aid in his normally spectacular stage wins.
What I Love: Robbie McEwen’s poise in dealing with the situation and still being gracious to his clueless sponsors in the face of adversity. I won’t be surprised if he switches teams for next year.
What I hate: Schumacher falling on his way to the finish at Super Besse causing him to lose his yellow jersey and blaming Kim Kirchen (who ended taking the yellow that day) for it.
What I love: Kharma. In 2006, Schumacher took the overall victory at the Benelux Tour when he bumped into George Hincapie (who was leading the race at that point) causing him to crash. In this year’s Tour de France, Schumacher lost the yellow to George’s teammate, Kirchen.
What I love: All of the strong emotions surrounding the Tour.
What I hate: Writers who express their opinion and presume to know EVERYTHING about the Tour. Myself included.
What I hate: The defending Champ, Alberto Contador, and his team were not competing.
What I love: Phil Ligget’s one of a kind commentary: “the fox is in the hen house now!”
What I hate: Phil got a lot of calls wrong this time around, “and here goes another break!
These riders are off the front now!” Paul Sherwin, “actually, Phil, we’re looking at the back of the peleton just now.”
What I love: Christian Vande Velde’s genuine love of the sport shining through as he talks to reporters about the day’s stage.
What I hate: George Hincapie’s lack of any sort of personality whatsoever, “mumble, mumble, thank the sponsors, mumble, mumble, good team, mumble, mumble, I couldn’t be interesting if a martian landed on my head right now.”
What I hate: Ricardo “the Cobra” Ricco and 3 of his teammates beating my favorites up the climbs of the Pyrenees without even breaking a sweat.
What I love: The headlines 3 days later: “Ricco Fails Doping Control as Saunier Duval Withdraws from the Tour.” C'est la vie.
What I love: “Nobody’s” like Will Frishkorn and Danny Pate came to their first Tour and had the guts to get in the breakaway’s, making the stages super fun to watch and getting the results that make us Americans tear up as they cross the line.
What I hate: “Somebody’s” like Cadel Evans throwing temper tantrums with the Press after the stages. Telling a reporter you’ll kill him if he steps on your little 8 pound dog lacks class. Seriously, what the fuck is your dog doing walking with you after a race when you KNOW you’re going to be swamped by people. You’re wearing the yellow jersey for cryin’ out loud! Leave your dog at home.
What I love: Lucky with unlucky. Barloworld’s John-Lee Augustyn is the first to the top of the Tour’s hardest stage and as he’s being celebrated by the commentator’s about his abilities, misjudges a right hand turn on the descent, goes over the barrier and slides 50 meters (unhurt) as his bike continues down the steep grade into the valley below.
What I hate: Unlucky with no luck. Roughly 50 km into the first stage at the very first feed zone of this year’s Tour, Cofidis rider Herve Duclos-LaSalle fell, broke his wrist and became the first rider to drop out. All that preparation gone in 50 km. My heart breaks for him.
What I love: The helicopter shots of the beautiful landscapes of France.
What I hate: When French TV is showing beauty shots from the helicopter while the riders are within 5 km of the finish. I don’t care about the 500 year old Chateau right now! I’ve been watching for 4 hours, I’ve seen enough Chateaus! Show me the riders dammit!
What I love: I’m a Broadcast Engineer so I love the TV technology used to bring incredible shots to the viewing public.
What I hate: Phil’s constant need to point out the picture glitches. “Sorry ‘bout the little bit of picture break up there. These pictures are being beamed up to the helicopter…blah, blah.” Yes, Phil, Microwave technology is exactly like Star Trek.
What I love: Silence Lotto actually thought they were going to put Cadel Evans in yellow despite having one of the weakest support teams in the Tour.
What I hate: People blasting Cadel because he didn’t end the Tour in yellow despite having one of the weakest support teams in the Tour.
What I love: Mark Cavendish schooling all the sprinters…4 times over. His uncanny ability to be blocked in at 200m and then cross the line first is just stunning to me.
What I hate: Hey, Mark, just because George Hincapie is on your team, doesn’t mean you need to give boring interviews like him. You just became the only Briton in history to win 4 stages in one Tour de France. It’s ok to show some emotion. I mean, you have to be at least a little excited, right?
What I hate: Robbie McEwen’s team left him out in the cold, opting to build itself around Cadel Evans for the overall. In the process, the team wasn’t strong enough to support Cadel and Robbie had no domestiques or lead out men to aid in his normally spectacular stage wins.
What I Love: Robbie McEwen’s poise in dealing with the situation and still being gracious to his clueless sponsors in the face of adversity. I won’t be surprised if he switches teams for next year.
What I hate: Schumacher falling on his way to the finish at Super Besse causing him to lose his yellow jersey and blaming Kim Kirchen (who ended taking the yellow that day) for it.
What I love: Kharma. In 2006, Schumacher took the overall victory at the Benelux Tour when he bumped into George Hincapie (who was leading the race at that point) causing him to crash. In this year’s Tour de France, Schumacher lost the yellow to George’s teammate, Kirchen.
What I love: All of the strong emotions surrounding the Tour.
What I hate: Writers who express their opinion and presume to know EVERYTHING about the Tour. Myself included.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
*UPDATE* Hit 'n Run
*UPDATE*
Before Steve and I parted ways, he asked for my contact info. He was going home and intending on filing a Police Report. I didn’t have a business card on me so I told him, “I work at the local NBC affiliate. My name is Jodi. If you can’t remember my name, ask for the chick that rides bikes – they’ll know who you’re talking about.”
Well, I’m happy to report that the very next morning after the incident I got a call from CMPD Officer Taylor. He recorded my side of the story and was sincere in his questioning of what can be done to offer better safety for cyclists. His tone was almost apologetic – I was a little thrown by it, although extremely grateful. A lot of times there is so much anger in the debate of a cyclists rights to the road that sometimes you feel like an Officer is just putting up with you; rolling their eyes at you on the inside. Officer Taylor was not like that at all. I ended my part of the conversation with, “It’s just a shame this taxi driver is going to get away with hurting someone like that.”
“Actually he’s not,” said the Officer. My ears perked up and a drop of happy hit my heart. Turned out there was a passenger in the taxi. The happy flooded my heart. She heard the bang on the side of the car and when she turned around, had seen Steve crashing. She questioned the driver about it, but he did not speak English. She willed him to turn around and when he didn’t, she called 911. That woman deserves a huge collective hug from the cycling community. I hope she realizes the importance of what she did and I hope Karma returns the favor for her.
As for Steve, in all the chaos the other day, I didn’t even catch his last name. I would love to check on him and see how he’s healing. So, if anyone sees a guy out there in a Hammer Gel jersey riding a Colnago Dream, please tell him Jodi’s looking for him.
Be safe, friends.
Before Steve and I parted ways, he asked for my contact info. He was going home and intending on filing a Police Report. I didn’t have a business card on me so I told him, “I work at the local NBC affiliate. My name is Jodi. If you can’t remember my name, ask for the chick that rides bikes – they’ll know who you’re talking about.”
Well, I’m happy to report that the very next morning after the incident I got a call from CMPD Officer Taylor. He recorded my side of the story and was sincere in his questioning of what can be done to offer better safety for cyclists. His tone was almost apologetic – I was a little thrown by it, although extremely grateful. A lot of times there is so much anger in the debate of a cyclists rights to the road that sometimes you feel like an Officer is just putting up with you; rolling their eyes at you on the inside. Officer Taylor was not like that at all. I ended my part of the conversation with, “It’s just a shame this taxi driver is going to get away with hurting someone like that.”
“Actually he’s not,” said the Officer. My ears perked up and a drop of happy hit my heart. Turned out there was a passenger in the taxi. The happy flooded my heart. She heard the bang on the side of the car and when she turned around, had seen Steve crashing. She questioned the driver about it, but he did not speak English. She willed him to turn around and when he didn’t, she called 911. That woman deserves a huge collective hug from the cycling community. I hope she realizes the importance of what she did and I hope Karma returns the favor for her.
As for Steve, in all the chaos the other day, I didn’t even catch his last name. I would love to check on him and see how he’s healing. So, if anyone sees a guy out there in a Hammer Gel jersey riding a Colnago Dream, please tell him Jodi’s looking for him.
Be safe, friends.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Happy Birthday, Steve…Here’s a Hit ‘n Run!
Oftentimes, I like to head over to the Booty Loop after work for a light workout. I get to be with other cyclists and the camaraderie is a nice departure from the typical 3 hour ride I spend by myself. Most of the time, I find a rider better than myself that will push me into some good intervals. So yesterday, after punching the time clock at 3PM, I left work and made my way over to the Booty. Sure enough within the first lap, I had a riding buddy. We didn’t talk much – just entered into the silent “you pull for a lap, I’ll pull for a lap” agreement that most cyclists understand.
We had a good pace going - not too slow, not too fast. My buddy (I hadn’t yet asked his name) was leading me up Heartbreak Hill (Hopedale Ave) and at the top it would be my turn to pull. As we came around the corner and merged onto Queens Road, a green taxi switched lanes in the intersection and came into our lane. The rear end side of the car clipped my buddy sending him flying across 2 lanes of traffic. I slammed on my brakes skidding my rear tire whilst screaming at the taxi driver. I squinted hard to get some part of the license plate, but the driver took off so fast, I couldn’t see anything but the color of the vehicle. I yelled to a passing vehicle to get after him, but she looked at me like I was crazy. And I’m sure I was a little crazy. I had just witnessed a hit and run, my buddy’s on the ground bleeding and people are rubbernecking instead of catching the asshole whose gonna get away with this. From the ground I hear, “Go after him!” I assumed my buddy was ok so I took off on a full sprint riding as fast as I could, hoping the stop lights would, for once, work in my favor. I was pedaling at 30 mph but as fast as that is for a bicycle, it’s simply no match for a car and the taxi got away.
Completely out of breath, I returned to the scene of the hit and run. It was like nothing had happened. Nobody had stopped. Nobody had offered assistance. My buddy had scraped himself off the road and put himself on the sidewalk. He was standing up checking out his bike. He was red from his left knee up to his left hip and the blood was seeping through his bike shorts on his thigh. There seemed to be no skin left on his left palm. I asked if he was sure he was ok. “Yeah, you know how it is – doesn’t hurt much now, but this time tomorrow will be unbearable.”
I helped him adjust his handlebar back into place as we discussed what had happened and what went wrong. It’s a tough intersection as the 1 lane road goes to 2 lanes on the Booty side. But, the intersection is set up so that traffic coming through it is delivered into the left lane of Queens Road so merging traffic can take up the right lane. Oftentimes, people change lanes in the intersection which is confusing for the merging traffic. Still, even if you’re conducting an illegal lane change in the intersection, there is plenty of sight and reaction time, that if traffic does merge into the right lane, you should be able to correct yourself without incident. However, for some reason, this taxi driver continued changing lanes until his tires had almost hit the curb. Of course by then, he had already hit a cyclist. Maybe the driver was distracted by a phone call…or looking for a cd. Maybe he hates cyclists and decided to “teach us a lesson”. Whatever the reason, we’ll never know because that asshole took off. Hit and Run. Felony.
After our brief conversation, I finally asked my buddy his name. “Steve,” he answers with a shake of his head. “And today is my birthday.”
Well, Happy Birthday Steve, I hope you don’t mind; I didn’t wrap your present. I couldn’t find wrapping paper big enough for a hit and run.
I wish you a speedy recovery and safe riding when you get back on your bike.
We had a good pace going - not too slow, not too fast. My buddy (I hadn’t yet asked his name) was leading me up Heartbreak Hill (Hopedale Ave) and at the top it would be my turn to pull. As we came around the corner and merged onto Queens Road, a green taxi switched lanes in the intersection and came into our lane. The rear end side of the car clipped my buddy sending him flying across 2 lanes of traffic. I slammed on my brakes skidding my rear tire whilst screaming at the taxi driver. I squinted hard to get some part of the license plate, but the driver took off so fast, I couldn’t see anything but the color of the vehicle. I yelled to a passing vehicle to get after him, but she looked at me like I was crazy. And I’m sure I was a little crazy. I had just witnessed a hit and run, my buddy’s on the ground bleeding and people are rubbernecking instead of catching the asshole whose gonna get away with this. From the ground I hear, “Go after him!” I assumed my buddy was ok so I took off on a full sprint riding as fast as I could, hoping the stop lights would, for once, work in my favor. I was pedaling at 30 mph but as fast as that is for a bicycle, it’s simply no match for a car and the taxi got away.
Completely out of breath, I returned to the scene of the hit and run. It was like nothing had happened. Nobody had stopped. Nobody had offered assistance. My buddy had scraped himself off the road and put himself on the sidewalk. He was standing up checking out his bike. He was red from his left knee up to his left hip and the blood was seeping through his bike shorts on his thigh. There seemed to be no skin left on his left palm. I asked if he was sure he was ok. “Yeah, you know how it is – doesn’t hurt much now, but this time tomorrow will be unbearable.”
I helped him adjust his handlebar back into place as we discussed what had happened and what went wrong. It’s a tough intersection as the 1 lane road goes to 2 lanes on the Booty side. But, the intersection is set up so that traffic coming through it is delivered into the left lane of Queens Road so merging traffic can take up the right lane. Oftentimes, people change lanes in the intersection which is confusing for the merging traffic. Still, even if you’re conducting an illegal lane change in the intersection, there is plenty of sight and reaction time, that if traffic does merge into the right lane, you should be able to correct yourself without incident. However, for some reason, this taxi driver continued changing lanes until his tires had almost hit the curb. Of course by then, he had already hit a cyclist. Maybe the driver was distracted by a phone call…or looking for a cd. Maybe he hates cyclists and decided to “teach us a lesson”. Whatever the reason, we’ll never know because that asshole took off. Hit and Run. Felony.
After our brief conversation, I finally asked my buddy his name. “Steve,” he answers with a shake of his head. “And today is my birthday.”
Well, Happy Birthday Steve, I hope you don’t mind; I didn’t wrap your present. I couldn’t find wrapping paper big enough for a hit and run.
I wish you a speedy recovery and safe riding when you get back on your bike.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Someone finally got it right!
I can't believe it was South Carolina! Finally, legislation that protects cyclists! I'm floored. Will this keep cyclists from getting harassed and hit by people driving cars? No, but it will make it easier to prosecute those who do. A pedal stroke in the right direction.
http://www.thestate.com/politics/story/430331.html
http://www.thestate.com/politics/story/430331.html
Thursday, June 5, 2008
I Paid For These Roads: Now Get the Hell Off 'Em!
One of the arguments that many motorists use as an excuse to hate cyclists is “My vehicle taxes pay for these roads so they are mine, now get the hell off!” There are so many ways this line of thinking is wrong that it’s somewhat hard to decide where to begin.
I guess my first question is who the hell started the rumor that only vehicle taxes pay for our roads? Where did you hear that and where is your proof? If that was true, we’d all be walking on dirt roads to and from work. There simply wouldn't be enough money generated to keep up with demand. Go to your county government’s website for God’s sake and look at where the revenue comes from and where it goes. Any idiot can do that. Take up too much of your time? OK, let me break it down for you.
Wherever you live, you pay county taxes. Some of us pay City/Municipality taxes as well, but let’s focus on County Taxes since that’s where the money for our roads comes from sans Interstates (Federal Taxes) and State owned roads (duh, State taxes). I’ll use Mecklenburg County, NC for my argument since that is where I live and ride. Property tax needs a definition before we can go any further. According to Charmeck.org, “Property taxes are leveled on real property (land and buildings), business personal property, motor vehicles, boats, trailers and income producing personal property.” Of those, I technically own 4 pieces of real property (because a home and the land on which it sits are assessed separately and I own 2 homes), and 1 motor vehicle. The current tax rate in Mecklenburg right now is .8387 per $100 of property value. Using that formula my vehicle tax will bring the County a whopping $89 of revenue. However, between my 2 homes, the County will reap about $3003 from my pocket. Still want to tell me I’m not contributing to the building and maintaining of the roads I ride my bike on?
It’s really all a moot point anyway because our property taxes are all lumped into one sum and in Mecklenburg County that sum accounts for 76.1% of the total revenue. There’s no way to track where a specific dollar paid by a taxpayer has gone. So when you say your vehicle taxes paid for these roads, you’re making a grossly uneducated assumption to justify the harassment, hurting and sometimes killing of another law abiding taxpayer. In fact, let’s apply that way of thinking to motorists instead of cyclists. Suppose you want to spend the weekend in the mountains. Well, you better get a good pair of sneakers because you certainly won’t be driving around Asheville to see the sites. Why? Oh, poor you. You didn’t pay Buncombe County Property taxes, so you’re not entitled to drive those roads. Want to go to the Outer Banks? I hope you’ve paid your Dare County Property Tax. No? Too bad. No Jockey Ridge hang gliding for you.
Equally as ridiculous is this: the entitlement that is suggested with the “my taxes, my roads, get off” myth. Entitlement meaning, I pay taxes on the car and you don’t pay taxes on that bike, so I have more rights to this road. More generally put, if I pay more in taxes than you, I am contributing more the community, so I get more rights than you. How fucked up would that be? Here’s how: if you rent, you’re not paying real estate taxes and, therefore, are paying considerably less to the County than me. Approximately $3000 less. So that would mean all renters need to get the hell out of my way when I’m driving to the market place. Rush Hour? Not a problem for us homeowners – your renting ass needs to get the hell off the road and make way for the people who contribute more!
Apart from that nonsense, is the fact that our Property Taxes pay for many, many things. Roads are just one small fraction in an otherwise extremely complicated equation. Again, according to Charmeck.org, “When you call the police or fire department, play in a park, send your children to public school, check out a book at the library, or eat at an inspected restaurant you are using services paid for by your property taxes. Your taxes also pay for services to help people move from welfare to work, protect children and senior citizens from abuse and neglect, protect our water and air from pollution, repair and build roads and much, much more.” So, as long as I’m paying my taxes, which I do every year in full and on time, I have every right to be riding my bike without harassment on a road that all Mecklenburg County residents helped pay for.
“My taxes, my road, get off” myth: Debunked.
I guess my first question is who the hell started the rumor that only vehicle taxes pay for our roads? Where did you hear that and where is your proof? If that was true, we’d all be walking on dirt roads to and from work. There simply wouldn't be enough money generated to keep up with demand. Go to your county government’s website for God’s sake and look at where the revenue comes from and where it goes. Any idiot can do that. Take up too much of your time? OK, let me break it down for you.
Wherever you live, you pay county taxes. Some of us pay City/Municipality taxes as well, but let’s focus on County Taxes since that’s where the money for our roads comes from sans Interstates (Federal Taxes) and State owned roads (duh, State taxes). I’ll use Mecklenburg County, NC for my argument since that is where I live and ride. Property tax needs a definition before we can go any further. According to Charmeck.org, “Property taxes are leveled on real property (land and buildings), business personal property, motor vehicles, boats, trailers and income producing personal property.” Of those, I technically own 4 pieces of real property (because a home and the land on which it sits are assessed separately and I own 2 homes), and 1 motor vehicle. The current tax rate in Mecklenburg right now is .8387 per $100 of property value. Using that formula my vehicle tax will bring the County a whopping $89 of revenue. However, between my 2 homes, the County will reap about $3003 from my pocket. Still want to tell me I’m not contributing to the building and maintaining of the roads I ride my bike on?
It’s really all a moot point anyway because our property taxes are all lumped into one sum and in Mecklenburg County that sum accounts for 76.1% of the total revenue. There’s no way to track where a specific dollar paid by a taxpayer has gone. So when you say your vehicle taxes paid for these roads, you’re making a grossly uneducated assumption to justify the harassment, hurting and sometimes killing of another law abiding taxpayer. In fact, let’s apply that way of thinking to motorists instead of cyclists. Suppose you want to spend the weekend in the mountains. Well, you better get a good pair of sneakers because you certainly won’t be driving around Asheville to see the sites. Why? Oh, poor you. You didn’t pay Buncombe County Property taxes, so you’re not entitled to drive those roads. Want to go to the Outer Banks? I hope you’ve paid your Dare County Property Tax. No? Too bad. No Jockey Ridge hang gliding for you.
Equally as ridiculous is this: the entitlement that is suggested with the “my taxes, my roads, get off” myth. Entitlement meaning, I pay taxes on the car and you don’t pay taxes on that bike, so I have more rights to this road. More generally put, if I pay more in taxes than you, I am contributing more the community, so I get more rights than you. How fucked up would that be? Here’s how: if you rent, you’re not paying real estate taxes and, therefore, are paying considerably less to the County than me. Approximately $3000 less. So that would mean all renters need to get the hell out of my way when I’m driving to the market place. Rush Hour? Not a problem for us homeowners – your renting ass needs to get the hell off the road and make way for the people who contribute more!
Apart from that nonsense, is the fact that our Property Taxes pay for many, many things. Roads are just one small fraction in an otherwise extremely complicated equation. Again, according to Charmeck.org, “When you call the police or fire department, play in a park, send your children to public school, check out a book at the library, or eat at an inspected restaurant you are using services paid for by your property taxes. Your taxes also pay for services to help people move from welfare to work, protect children and senior citizens from abuse and neglect, protect our water and air from pollution, repair and build roads and much, much more.” So, as long as I’m paying my taxes, which I do every year in full and on time, I have every right to be riding my bike without harassment on a road that all Mecklenburg County residents helped pay for.
“My taxes, my road, get off” myth: Debunked.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Cyclist vs. Cold Front
As every cyclist knows, every ride is an adventure. However some stand out among others. Yesterday was one of those days.
2PM. Leave my house for a 3 hour training ride under beautiful skies. I plan for an easy effort as my training hours have been greatly hampered this spring by family obligations and a lot of traveling. Coming up a hill on Mt. Olive Church road, I see a middle aged man walking toward me with his Golden Retriever. He puts his thumb out like a hitchhiker, “Can I get a ride?” I laugh with him and say, “I got plenty of room on my handlebar. Hop on!” Nice, it’s gonna be a good day on the bike. Sigh.
1 Km later, I hear a big vehicle pull up behind me. “Get your ass out of the way!” I hear someone scream. I round a bend as the vehicle, a school bus, comes around me. There is a scrawny junior high school kid hanging half his torso out the window yelling obscenities at me. This kid doesn’t even have a license yet and, presumably, doesn’t know the traffic laws, yet he’s pissed that I’m on the road. Must’ve learned it from his parents. Lovely.
Continuing on, after about an hour of riding I come to a stop light. I can’t help but notice the sky has darkened rather quickly in the direction I’m headed. I contemplate turning around and heading home but decide against it. The storm looks to be coming from the west so if I can get to the top of Spencer Mountain before the rain starts, it’ll just be a foot race between me and the clouds to get home. So, at this point, I’m looking at a 2 hour time trial, essentially. Great, let’s get started.
The light turns green and I turn the pedals once before my left calf cramps up. I bring the bike to a stop and massage the Charlie Horse. That’s weird, I think to myself. I don’t normally get muscle cramps. In fact I can count on one hand exactly how many I’ve had in my 28 year athletic involvement. I continue on, regardless. The sky grows increasingly darker and the winds have started to gust like crazy.
Heading up through Mount Holly I start to see lightening and hear thunder in the distance. “What the FUCK?” I hear myself screaming as my hand involuntarily reaches for my chest. Something had flown in my jersey and stung me on my sternum. As I fidget around trying to get whatever is in my jersey out, I hear an old lady yell at me as she passes me on a hill. “Get the hell off the road!” What is with people today? 500m down the road, it happens again. “What the FUCK?” This time my hand was reaching for my neck. Apparently, I’m not just pissing off humans today.
OK, now I’m about 5 miles from the bottom of Spencer Mountain and although there is thunder and lightening, there is no rain…yet. Flying along at 25 miles an hour, several huge raindrops hit the ground around me. Here we go, I think. But it stopped. Then several more. Oh, crap. But then it stopped. I just…might…get…lucky. Then it poured. But only for about 15 seconds. I picked up the pace trying to outrun what was coming up behind me. I came around a corner only to find a long line of traffic stuck behind a school bus. I rode into the grass – brakes don’t work as well once they’re wet. I stayed in the grass until I passed most of the traffic and then continued.
As I made the left turn onto Spencer Mountain, the sun came out and the temp rose quickly. I had a hard time with the hill, having been pushing myself for the past hour trying to outrun the rain, which I had assumingly accomplished. As I made another left turn at the top of the Mountain to head back home, I looked over my left shoulder and saw the black clouds of a thunderstorm off in the distance that I had very narrowly escaped. Looks like Mountain Island Lake is getting pounded. I was now paralleling the storm. The threat of imminent death was greatly reduced. Now I could relax.
Well, relax as best as I could. The winds had been battering me for over an hour now and they hadn’t stopped. It’s Murphy’s Law for cyclists – I call it Merckx’s Law. The wind will always come from the front and very rarely from the back. You have to push much harder and you go slower than ever. And when you’re tired – expect the winds to pick up even more. It’s a little joke Mother Nature likes to play on her children. Every direction was a headwind. I’d lean into a gust with my left shoulder and then it instantly turned and comes from my right. It’s a good lesson in bike handling, but my legs are killing me and the wind just means I have to pedal harder to get nowhere faster.
20 minutes from home and the sky starts to darken again. This time Lake Wylie is about to get hit, which means I’m back in the path of the storm. I push as hard as I can to get home. I make it home with about 3 minutes to spare before the down pour – calf still cramping, eyes bloodshot from the road grit blown into them and 2 swollen sting marks on body. Echos of angry drivers circle my mind and the hitchhiker that made me smile. A quick look at weather radar reveals thunderstorm warnings in effect for the areas in which I had been riding. Close call.
One huge deep breath and it’s into a bubble bath with a glass of wine for me. Finally time to relax…for real.
2PM. Leave my house for a 3 hour training ride under beautiful skies. I plan for an easy effort as my training hours have been greatly hampered this spring by family obligations and a lot of traveling. Coming up a hill on Mt. Olive Church road, I see a middle aged man walking toward me with his Golden Retriever. He puts his thumb out like a hitchhiker, “Can I get a ride?” I laugh with him and say, “I got plenty of room on my handlebar. Hop on!” Nice, it’s gonna be a good day on the bike. Sigh.
1 Km later, I hear a big vehicle pull up behind me. “Get your ass out of the way!” I hear someone scream. I round a bend as the vehicle, a school bus, comes around me. There is a scrawny junior high school kid hanging half his torso out the window yelling obscenities at me. This kid doesn’t even have a license yet and, presumably, doesn’t know the traffic laws, yet he’s pissed that I’m on the road. Must’ve learned it from his parents. Lovely.
Continuing on, after about an hour of riding I come to a stop light. I can’t help but notice the sky has darkened rather quickly in the direction I’m headed. I contemplate turning around and heading home but decide against it. The storm looks to be coming from the west so if I can get to the top of Spencer Mountain before the rain starts, it’ll just be a foot race between me and the clouds to get home. So, at this point, I’m looking at a 2 hour time trial, essentially. Great, let’s get started.
The light turns green and I turn the pedals once before my left calf cramps up. I bring the bike to a stop and massage the Charlie Horse. That’s weird, I think to myself. I don’t normally get muscle cramps. In fact I can count on one hand exactly how many I’ve had in my 28 year athletic involvement. I continue on, regardless. The sky grows increasingly darker and the winds have started to gust like crazy.
Heading up through Mount Holly I start to see lightening and hear thunder in the distance. “What the FUCK?” I hear myself screaming as my hand involuntarily reaches for my chest. Something had flown in my jersey and stung me on my sternum. As I fidget around trying to get whatever is in my jersey out, I hear an old lady yell at me as she passes me on a hill. “Get the hell off the road!” What is with people today? 500m down the road, it happens again. “What the FUCK?” This time my hand was reaching for my neck. Apparently, I’m not just pissing off humans today.
OK, now I’m about 5 miles from the bottom of Spencer Mountain and although there is thunder and lightening, there is no rain…yet. Flying along at 25 miles an hour, several huge raindrops hit the ground around me. Here we go, I think. But it stopped. Then several more. Oh, crap. But then it stopped. I just…might…get…lucky. Then it poured. But only for about 15 seconds. I picked up the pace trying to outrun what was coming up behind me. I came around a corner only to find a long line of traffic stuck behind a school bus. I rode into the grass – brakes don’t work as well once they’re wet. I stayed in the grass until I passed most of the traffic and then continued.
As I made the left turn onto Spencer Mountain, the sun came out and the temp rose quickly. I had a hard time with the hill, having been pushing myself for the past hour trying to outrun the rain, which I had assumingly accomplished. As I made another left turn at the top of the Mountain to head back home, I looked over my left shoulder and saw the black clouds of a thunderstorm off in the distance that I had very narrowly escaped. Looks like Mountain Island Lake is getting pounded. I was now paralleling the storm. The threat of imminent death was greatly reduced. Now I could relax.
Well, relax as best as I could. The winds had been battering me for over an hour now and they hadn’t stopped. It’s Murphy’s Law for cyclists – I call it Merckx’s Law. The wind will always come from the front and very rarely from the back. You have to push much harder and you go slower than ever. And when you’re tired – expect the winds to pick up even more. It’s a little joke Mother Nature likes to play on her children. Every direction was a headwind. I’d lean into a gust with my left shoulder and then it instantly turned and comes from my right. It’s a good lesson in bike handling, but my legs are killing me and the wind just means I have to pedal harder to get nowhere faster.
20 minutes from home and the sky starts to darken again. This time Lake Wylie is about to get hit, which means I’m back in the path of the storm. I push as hard as I can to get home. I make it home with about 3 minutes to spare before the down pour – calf still cramping, eyes bloodshot from the road grit blown into them and 2 swollen sting marks on body. Echos of angry drivers circle my mind and the hitchhiker that made me smile. A quick look at weather radar reveals thunderstorm warnings in effect for the areas in which I had been riding. Close call.
One huge deep breath and it’s into a bubble bath with a glass of wine for me. Finally time to relax…for real.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Close Calls and One Pissed Off Cyclist
A member of my team was hit by a car recently. The driver of a truck turned left in front of her and she t-boned it. Her collar bone is broken and she has a lot painful bruising. She’ll be off the bike for 5 weeks.
This same scenario plays out often. I remember one instance a couple years ago in Charlotte. The difference: the cyclist was going down a hill and the vehicle turning left was a city bus. The cyclist died on impact, and the media (including the TV Station I work for) instantly assumed it was the cyclists fault.
And it never seems like charges are filed and if they are, then it’s little more than a slap on the wrist. You just killed someone! And no one is going to hold you accountable. That is appalling to me. I will mention, however that all Charlotte city buses now have a 6 inch by 6 inch sticker on the back that says, “Share the Road.” Gee, thanks. A 6 inch sticker on a mass transit bus really stands out. I feel much safer now.
This kind of shit happens way too often to cyclists. I have close calls all the time and I imagine it’s just a matter of “when” it happens and not “if.”
Take yesterday for instance. I was coming down a hill into the town of McAddenville. My light was green and I was turning right when an old lady decided to run her red light and very nearly take me out. I was able to cut my turn sharper than I had intended without laying the bike down. I ended up very close to her passenger side screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK?” The driver turned her head toward me like she was surprised to see me then quickly turned her head away and drove off with out so much as any gesture of remorse for almost killing me.
It was a good thing I had been slowing down for the turn. Had I been going straight through the intersection, it would have been a very bad day for me. It disgusts me that some humans are so desensitized that the thought of killing someone don’t seem to bother them. Like the bus driver. He’s still driving a bus. How does he not have flashbacks to robbing another person of his life because of a mistake all his own? How does he live with himself?
Why is it ok to run a cyclist off the road? Because maybe you’ll just hurt ‘em enough to prove your point? And that point being what? And why is that a rational decision to so many?
I will never be sympathetic to people who can rationalize the hurting or killing of cyclists.
This same scenario plays out often. I remember one instance a couple years ago in Charlotte. The difference: the cyclist was going down a hill and the vehicle turning left was a city bus. The cyclist died on impact, and the media (including the TV Station I work for) instantly assumed it was the cyclists fault.
And it never seems like charges are filed and if they are, then it’s little more than a slap on the wrist. You just killed someone! And no one is going to hold you accountable. That is appalling to me. I will mention, however that all Charlotte city buses now have a 6 inch by 6 inch sticker on the back that says, “Share the Road.” Gee, thanks. A 6 inch sticker on a mass transit bus really stands out. I feel much safer now.
This kind of shit happens way too often to cyclists. I have close calls all the time and I imagine it’s just a matter of “when” it happens and not “if.”
Take yesterday for instance. I was coming down a hill into the town of McAddenville. My light was green and I was turning right when an old lady decided to run her red light and very nearly take me out. I was able to cut my turn sharper than I had intended without laying the bike down. I ended up very close to her passenger side screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK?” The driver turned her head toward me like she was surprised to see me then quickly turned her head away and drove off with out so much as any gesture of remorse for almost killing me.
It was a good thing I had been slowing down for the turn. Had I been going straight through the intersection, it would have been a very bad day for me. It disgusts me that some humans are so desensitized that the thought of killing someone don’t seem to bother them. Like the bus driver. He’s still driving a bus. How does he not have flashbacks to robbing another person of his life because of a mistake all his own? How does he live with himself?
Why is it ok to run a cyclist off the road? Because maybe you’ll just hurt ‘em enough to prove your point? And that point being what? And why is that a rational decision to so many?
I will never be sympathetic to people who can rationalize the hurting or killing of cyclists.
Friday, May 2, 2008
The Magic Number
A contractor came to my house the other day to deliver my new cast iron Kohler sink (beautiful sink, by the way). As he stood at my doorway and peered past me into my “family room” (I use that term loosely), he caught a glimpse of my bike sitting on my trainer. My bike is the only thing in the room aside from a cat tree and a couple of plants.
“You ride bikes?”
The smart ass in me wanted to say, “No, why do you ask?” But, since this guy didn’t know me and might be offended by my witty sarcasm, I answered with, “Yeah, I love it.”
“Yeah, I have a friend that rides…he actually races.”
“Yeah? Me, too.”
“He has the whole get up – the clothes, the shoes, everything.”
“Really? Me, too.”
“Yeah, he has one of those like $5000 bikes. It’s REALLY nice. It’s REALLY light. I could pick it up with one finger.”
Again, the sarcastic ass in me wants to go to town on this guy. I love that he wants to try and have a conversation about biking. I really do. But, why is it that as soon as someone finds out I ride bikes, all of a sudden they all have friends with “one of those $5000 bikes.” Not $3000 or $6000. $5000 seems to be the magic price at which I should be impressed.
What’s funnier to me is that the contractor was saying this as he was staring at my bike, which he obviously had no clue fell right into that magic $5000 category. Nice bikes are not a rarity and five grand is not a surprising amount for a bike. I’m more impressed by what people do ON the bike rather than how much debt they went into to purchase it.
“You ride bikes?”
The smart ass in me wanted to say, “No, why do you ask?” But, since this guy didn’t know me and might be offended by my witty sarcasm, I answered with, “Yeah, I love it.”
“Yeah, I have a friend that rides…he actually races.”
“Yeah? Me, too.”
“He has the whole get up – the clothes, the shoes, everything.”
“Really? Me, too.”
“Yeah, he has one of those like $5000 bikes. It’s REALLY nice. It’s REALLY light. I could pick it up with one finger.”
Again, the sarcastic ass in me wants to go to town on this guy. I love that he wants to try and have a conversation about biking. I really do. But, why is it that as soon as someone finds out I ride bikes, all of a sudden they all have friends with “one of those $5000 bikes.” Not $3000 or $6000. $5000 seems to be the magic price at which I should be impressed.
What’s funnier to me is that the contractor was saying this as he was staring at my bike, which he obviously had no clue fell right into that magic $5000 category. Nice bikes are not a rarity and five grand is not a surprising amount for a bike. I’m more impressed by what people do ON the bike rather than how much debt they went into to purchase it.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Not Bad...For a Girl
I’d like to talk about three little words (well, technically 4 words if you drop the apostrophe): “Wow! You’re strong!” I get this quite often from my male counterparts in my sport and it’s always the less fit, hairy legged ones that look like they spend maybe 3 days a year on a bike. And it always seems to come when I’m out just spinning for fun. I know it seems benign and I know I should take it as a compliment. However, I can't. I used to answer it with, “Really? Why do you say that?” And the answer I got - “Well, you kept up with us really good” – made me want to pull my hair out.
To the gents who have said this to me, let's have a heart to heart. Now apart from cringing at your poor grammar of using “good” instead of “well,” hearing that response makes me now want to answer those three words with, “Why? Cuz I kept up with your fat ass?” I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the surprise in your voice and not the actual words you say. Basically your tone is telling me that you think of yourself as a strong cyclist and find it surprising that I, being a woman, could possibly match or (God forbid) surpass your fitness level. You’re telling me, “Hey, you’re pretty good…for a girl.” I mean, did you look at all the guys around you on the ride today and say, “Wow! You’re strong!” No? Hmmm.
Let me give you the bitter truth. Try not to cry. And try not to feel like less of a man. Not unlike most competitive cyclists, I spend between 12 and 18 hours a week in the saddle. I train constantly with riders (many of them women) far better than me. I train with pros. I race against pros. 100 miles in the mountains? No problem. Suffice to say, keeping up with you on your little 45 mile ride at 17 mph; not exactly hard. And it shouldn’t surprise you.
I'm glad we had this talk. You up for Green Cove road in the morning? 26 switchbacks? 17% grade? No? Hmm...
To the gents who have said this to me, let's have a heart to heart. Now apart from cringing at your poor grammar of using “good” instead of “well,” hearing that response makes me now want to answer those three words with, “Why? Cuz I kept up with your fat ass?” I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the surprise in your voice and not the actual words you say. Basically your tone is telling me that you think of yourself as a strong cyclist and find it surprising that I, being a woman, could possibly match or (God forbid) surpass your fitness level. You’re telling me, “Hey, you’re pretty good…for a girl.” I mean, did you look at all the guys around you on the ride today and say, “Wow! You’re strong!” No? Hmmm.
Let me give you the bitter truth. Try not to cry. And try not to feel like less of a man. Not unlike most competitive cyclists, I spend between 12 and 18 hours a week in the saddle. I train constantly with riders (many of them women) far better than me. I train with pros. I race against pros. 100 miles in the mountains? No problem. Suffice to say, keeping up with you on your little 45 mile ride at 17 mph; not exactly hard. And it shouldn’t surprise you.
I'm glad we had this talk. You up for Green Cove road in the morning? 26 switchbacks? 17% grade? No? Hmm...
Monday, April 21, 2008
Charleston Races: The Alpaca Supremacy?
“I really want it. I have to have it.” Hadley had been talking about it since last year. The team was standing around an island in Len and Linda Hanson’s kitchen at their home in I’on Village. Before us was a spread of food that included fresh fruits and veggies as well as sandwich fixin’s and a curry chicken salad to die for. Hadley’s face was a color similar to the celery – a little pale, a little green. I had never seen her so nervous before a race. “What’s wrong with her?” our host family asked.
We had seen it earlier that morning. It was hanging behind the registration table taunting us; begging to be touched and well within our reach but so far from our grasp. It was not a unicorn this year, nor was it a rug, but it was just as glorious: an Alpaca Killer Whale Pillow Sham!
All talk steered toward a plan to capture the big prize of the day. And with each plan Hadley looked more worried. We still had 4 hours before our race started. Thank goodness for the Hanson’s and thank goodness for their beautiful home and especially the pool which served as a great place to relax. The race approached. 3:55 PM and finally it was race time!
Annie and I were lined up at the front. The officials presented the Alpaca Killer Whale Pillow Sham to the racers. The gun went off. “Alpaca Prime on the first lap! First lap Alpaca Prime!” called the announcer, Chad Andrews. I took off knowing full well I would destroy my legs for the rest of the race. The group was strung out as we rounded a corner into a headwind. Christina came around me with Hadley and Annie on her wheel. We rounded the last 2 corners of the first lap and the sprint started on the slight incline to the start/finish line. The familiar sound of gears changing and wind passing loudly around spokes filled the air as the pace quickened. The sprint was on.
“And the Alpaca Prime goes to…Hadley Trotter, Team 19!” Whew! The pressure was off. Now it was time to win the race. Would it be possible?
Um, yes. A flurry of attacks and chases kept the pace very fast. But in the end, it wasn’t enough to slow down Christina who took the field sprint and the win at the I’on Village Smackdown for Team 19 WSD.
Back at the Hanson’s, our new friends Len and Linda, who had been at the race cheering for us, set out glasses and 2 bottles of Champagne. We celebrated our victories with a toast to each other and a big thanks to our hosts, who were the honorary team members of the day for keeping us well fed and hydrated all day long.
Now the big question – will it be possible to have an Alpaca Prime next year? Four years running? Fingers crossed.
We had seen it earlier that morning. It was hanging behind the registration table taunting us; begging to be touched and well within our reach but so far from our grasp. It was not a unicorn this year, nor was it a rug, but it was just as glorious: an Alpaca Killer Whale Pillow Sham!
All talk steered toward a plan to capture the big prize of the day. And with each plan Hadley looked more worried. We still had 4 hours before our race started. Thank goodness for the Hanson’s and thank goodness for their beautiful home and especially the pool which served as a great place to relax. The race approached. 3:55 PM and finally it was race time!
Annie and I were lined up at the front. The officials presented the Alpaca Killer Whale Pillow Sham to the racers. The gun went off. “Alpaca Prime on the first lap! First lap Alpaca Prime!” called the announcer, Chad Andrews. I took off knowing full well I would destroy my legs for the rest of the race. The group was strung out as we rounded a corner into a headwind. Christina came around me with Hadley and Annie on her wheel. We rounded the last 2 corners of the first lap and the sprint started on the slight incline to the start/finish line. The familiar sound of gears changing and wind passing loudly around spokes filled the air as the pace quickened. The sprint was on.
“And the Alpaca Prime goes to…Hadley Trotter, Team 19!” Whew! The pressure was off. Now it was time to win the race. Would it be possible?
Um, yes. A flurry of attacks and chases kept the pace very fast. But in the end, it wasn’t enough to slow down Christina who took the field sprint and the win at the I’on Village Smackdown for Team 19 WSD.
Back at the Hanson’s, our new friends Len and Linda, who had been at the race cheering for us, set out glasses and 2 bottles of Champagne. We celebrated our victories with a toast to each other and a big thanks to our hosts, who were the honorary team members of the day for keeping us well fed and hydrated all day long.
Now the big question – will it be possible to have an Alpaca Prime next year? Four years running? Fingers crossed.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Alpaca Pack
Looking forward to the Charleston Races next weekend, I figured I’d take a moment to take a look back. Our team has had great success at these races. We will return this year as defending winners of both the I’on Village Smackdown and the SC State Crit Championship.
Flashback to the start line last year and an offer for what is perhaps the strangest Prime prize ever: a 4ft x 4ft Genuine Alpaca fur rug with a unicorn design on it worth $250. Is this serious? Did I just hear that correctly? Yessiree, Bob! First across the line on the first lap gets to take this baby home! As all the racers at the line start chuckling a bit, Hadley turns to Annie and I and proclaims, “I want it!”
The race starts and off goes Hadley at warp speed. “I thought she was kidding,” I yelled to Annie as the pack started chasing after Hadley. Nope! She was serious. She out sprinted one other racer for the rug. Later that racer came over to us, pulled up her jersey to reveal a unicorn tattoo on her shoulder. She had really wanted the rug. Unfortunately, it had a force all its own that would not let Hadley give it up.
Annie ended up taking a Prime as well (a gift certificate which she gave to me for helping out in the race, thanks Annie, those beers were deelish!) that ended up putting her on a solo breakaway that won her the race.
Next weekend the Alpaca Pack, with a few new members, will take to the streets of Charleston for, hopefully, some continued success. One things for sure, though. No matter what, we’re gonna have a good time!
Flashback to the start line last year and an offer for what is perhaps the strangest Prime prize ever: a 4ft x 4ft Genuine Alpaca fur rug with a unicorn design on it worth $250. Is this serious? Did I just hear that correctly? Yessiree, Bob! First across the line on the first lap gets to take this baby home! As all the racers at the line start chuckling a bit, Hadley turns to Annie and I and proclaims, “I want it!”
The race starts and off goes Hadley at warp speed. “I thought she was kidding,” I yelled to Annie as the pack started chasing after Hadley. Nope! She was serious. She out sprinted one other racer for the rug. Later that racer came over to us, pulled up her jersey to reveal a unicorn tattoo on her shoulder. She had really wanted the rug. Unfortunately, it had a force all its own that would not let Hadley give it up.
Annie ended up taking a Prime as well (a gift certificate which she gave to me for helping out in the race, thanks Annie, those beers were deelish!) that ended up putting her on a solo breakaway that won her the race.
Next weekend the Alpaca Pack, with a few new members, will take to the streets of Charleston for, hopefully, some continued success. One things for sure, though. No matter what, we’re gonna have a good time!
Camp Pisgah
Team 19 WSD, along with friends and Significant Others, spent a long weekend in the mountains of North Carolina for team training camp. Pisgah Girl Scouts Camp provided the shelter and the areas surrounding Brevard provided the climbing needed for a great weekend.
I love the mountains. On my bike, it’s a love/hate relationship, but otherwise, I really, really love the mountains. I used to live in this area and I never pass up an opportunity to return. Upon the team’s arrival at Camp Pisgah, there was a flurry of unpacking and claiming of sleeping territory – mostly cots with plastic covered mattresses that made diaper sounds when you moved on them. I discovered a box spring and mattress hiding in a closet, so sorry ladies, I had the best arrangement. With sleeping quarters taken care of, we were off on the bikes for “a little jaunt”. Within 10 minutes, we hit a leg breaking climb that had all of us wondering what we had gotten into. But, after that, we got to climb and, more importantly, descend Cesar’s Head Mountain. For me, Cesar’s Head is the biggest bang for the buck. The climb is gradual over several miles – no too bad – but, the descent is about 6 miles of 40mph downhill, my personal favorite. The ride ended up lasting longer than we had intended and even longer for a small bunch who decided to ride ahead…and then got lost. The sun was going down fast and it had started raining, so we sent the cavalry out for them only to find out they had knocked on the door of a random house, disturbing a man having a shower, yelling at the top of his lungs, who eventually gave them directions back to camp. A friend of ours, Sonja, cooked a heck of a pasta dinner for us all and we sat down and shared stories of the day.
Saturday morning we fueled up on breakfast prepared by Sarah. It is worth noting here, that the littlest woman on our team, Flavia, it turns out, puts away twice as much food as anyone else at camp. Seriously, it’s absolutely remarkable. Anyway, after marveling at Flavia for an hour, we headed out for a long day that included a 20 mile climb on Rt. 215 up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. As we climbed to the higher elevation, ice and snow started appearing on the rock faces and ground. In fact, ice chunks were falling from the rocks at a velocity that could cause a serious injury. At times, I was hoping one would hit me. It turned out the Parkway was closed due to snow and ice, so we had to come back down what we had just climbed.
I love going downhill. It’s really the only thing I excel at in cycling so when faced with a 20 mile downhill, I get excited. Unfortunately for me, and the entire group, it was insanely cold – hands so numb you can’t even tell if you’re braking; legs shaking uncontrollably; eyes tearing then freezing on your cheeks. So, rounding the bend heading back up to camp was a welcome sight. Also, a welcome sight was the baby goat on the farm, Cupid (born on Valentine’s Day), that greeted us each time we arrived back at the cabin. I’m convinced that, because of Cupid, Hadley and Monica will own a goat before the end of March…and they shall call her “Frances.”
That night we headed into town for a little Mexican feast. By dinner’s end, there was only one plate scraped clean without a morsel left of which to speak. I offered Flavia one of my fajitas, but she swore she was full. I still wonder.
Sunday’s ride was the same loop as Friday for some of us. Another group decided on a slightly shorter route, which ended up being longer than they thought when they took a wrong turn (ha,ha). I think they knew they were in trouble when they saw our group climbing toward them. It worked out in the end though. It was nice to have them join us and finish the last ride of the weekend with the whole group in tact. And despite a small misreading of speed on a curve that left me in a ditch going down Cesar’s Head, the day went well. Back at the cabin, we had some lunch and then prepared to say our goodbyes to each other…and Cupid. I was really quite sad as I watched everyone leave to their respective home cities – Richmond, Blacksburg, Chapel Hill, Charlotte. But, as sad as I was then, I am equally as proud to continue to be associated with such a great group of people.
I love the mountains. On my bike, it’s a love/hate relationship, but otherwise, I really, really love the mountains. I used to live in this area and I never pass up an opportunity to return. Upon the team’s arrival at Camp Pisgah, there was a flurry of unpacking and claiming of sleeping territory – mostly cots with plastic covered mattresses that made diaper sounds when you moved on them. I discovered a box spring and mattress hiding in a closet, so sorry ladies, I had the best arrangement. With sleeping quarters taken care of, we were off on the bikes for “a little jaunt”. Within 10 minutes, we hit a leg breaking climb that had all of us wondering what we had gotten into. But, after that, we got to climb and, more importantly, descend Cesar’s Head Mountain. For me, Cesar’s Head is the biggest bang for the buck. The climb is gradual over several miles – no too bad – but, the descent is about 6 miles of 40mph downhill, my personal favorite. The ride ended up lasting longer than we had intended and even longer for a small bunch who decided to ride ahead…and then got lost. The sun was going down fast and it had started raining, so we sent the cavalry out for them only to find out they had knocked on the door of a random house, disturbing a man having a shower, yelling at the top of his lungs, who eventually gave them directions back to camp. A friend of ours, Sonja, cooked a heck of a pasta dinner for us all and we sat down and shared stories of the day.
Saturday morning we fueled up on breakfast prepared by Sarah. It is worth noting here, that the littlest woman on our team, Flavia, it turns out, puts away twice as much food as anyone else at camp. Seriously, it’s absolutely remarkable. Anyway, after marveling at Flavia for an hour, we headed out for a long day that included a 20 mile climb on Rt. 215 up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. As we climbed to the higher elevation, ice and snow started appearing on the rock faces and ground. In fact, ice chunks were falling from the rocks at a velocity that could cause a serious injury. At times, I was hoping one would hit me. It turned out the Parkway was closed due to snow and ice, so we had to come back down what we had just climbed.
I love going downhill. It’s really the only thing I excel at in cycling so when faced with a 20 mile downhill, I get excited. Unfortunately for me, and the entire group, it was insanely cold – hands so numb you can’t even tell if you’re braking; legs shaking uncontrollably; eyes tearing then freezing on your cheeks. So, rounding the bend heading back up to camp was a welcome sight. Also, a welcome sight was the baby goat on the farm, Cupid (born on Valentine’s Day), that greeted us each time we arrived back at the cabin. I’m convinced that, because of Cupid, Hadley and Monica will own a goat before the end of March…and they shall call her “Frances.”
That night we headed into town for a little Mexican feast. By dinner’s end, there was only one plate scraped clean without a morsel left of which to speak. I offered Flavia one of my fajitas, but she swore she was full. I still wonder.
Sunday’s ride was the same loop as Friday for some of us. Another group decided on a slightly shorter route, which ended up being longer than they thought when they took a wrong turn (ha,ha). I think they knew they were in trouble when they saw our group climbing toward them. It worked out in the end though. It was nice to have them join us and finish the last ride of the weekend with the whole group in tact. And despite a small misreading of speed on a curve that left me in a ditch going down Cesar’s Head, the day went well. Back at the cabin, we had some lunch and then prepared to say our goodbyes to each other…and Cupid. I was really quite sad as I watched everyone leave to their respective home cities – Richmond, Blacksburg, Chapel Hill, Charlotte. But, as sad as I was then, I am equally as proud to continue to be associated with such a great group of people.
Little Woman
When I’m on my bike, it doesn’t take much to make me smile. Most of the time I’m so focused on what’s going on around me that I don’t have time. Because in order to survive on a road bike around town, you have expect people to do stupid things. And, believe me, they will.
Unfortunately, car vs. bike isn’t much of a competition and I am constantly surprised at the lengths people will go to let me know they HATE that I’m out there on THEIR road that THEY pay taxes on. I get cursed at, yelled at, honked at, run off the road, turned in front of, spat at…(sigh) and a host of other things daily. So when someone is nice to me out there, it has a very profound affect on me.
Today I was on my way to Copperhead Island just for the hell of it. I came across a little woman in a large brimmed hat who stopped in her tracks when she saw me coming up the road. She stood there and watched me pedal toward her. As I got closer she threw up her arms with her hands signing “O.K.” She yelled, “Good for you! Good for you! Good for you!” with a huge smile beneath her hat. I yelled back at her, “Thank you.” She continued to watch me until I crested the hill. I should have stopped and hugged her. She has no idea how her little cheer made my whole day.
Unfortunately, car vs. bike isn’t much of a competition and I am constantly surprised at the lengths people will go to let me know they HATE that I’m out there on THEIR road that THEY pay taxes on. I get cursed at, yelled at, honked at, run off the road, turned in front of, spat at…(sigh) and a host of other things daily. So when someone is nice to me out there, it has a very profound affect on me.
Today I was on my way to Copperhead Island just for the hell of it. I came across a little woman in a large brimmed hat who stopped in her tracks when she saw me coming up the road. She stood there and watched me pedal toward her. As I got closer she threw up her arms with her hands signing “O.K.” She yelled, “Good for you! Good for you! Good for you!” with a huge smile beneath her hat. I yelled back at her, “Thank you.” She continued to watch me until I crested the hill. I should have stopped and hugged her. She has no idea how her little cheer made my whole day.
24 Hours of Booty
Grandma died of Cancer 20 years ago. I was 13. It’s strange you know…the things you remember. I try to remember her as my Jelly Stone Park camping buddy; as my Disney World Escort; as the popcorn sharer while we watched Fivel search for his family.
But there are other memories that come to mind – the grapefruit I cut up so perfectly that she couldn’t eat; driving the brick road that made her grimace as her stitches pulled; the red nightgown and the wig; the dreaded phone call.
20 years after the fact and these memories are still able to break me. And I don’t even fight it.
First year: 12 hours, 179 miles. It was eerie in the middle of the night; after the traffic was gone and after a lot of riders had gone to bed. The bugs were loud, but the night was otherwise silent. The street lights were on, but the red lights on the backs of bikes stole the scene. A lot of us rode with memorials of loved ones pinned to our jerseys and in the calmness of the night it was like you could hear those loved ones cheering you on from a far away place that was as close as your handlebar. And every now and then, someone would ride up next to me and ask about the picture of Grandma on my back. We’d share stories back and forth for a lap and then they’d be off. I would not recognize them again in the light of day.
This is 24 Hours of Booty. Second Year: 17 hours, 260 miles. Third year: marred by intense thunderstorms. This year: who's counting?
But there are other memories that come to mind – the grapefruit I cut up so perfectly that she couldn’t eat; driving the brick road that made her grimace as her stitches pulled; the red nightgown and the wig; the dreaded phone call.
20 years after the fact and these memories are still able to break me. And I don’t even fight it.
First year: 12 hours, 179 miles. It was eerie in the middle of the night; after the traffic was gone and after a lot of riders had gone to bed. The bugs were loud, but the night was otherwise silent. The street lights were on, but the red lights on the backs of bikes stole the scene. A lot of us rode with memorials of loved ones pinned to our jerseys and in the calmness of the night it was like you could hear those loved ones cheering you on from a far away place that was as close as your handlebar. And every now and then, someone would ride up next to me and ask about the picture of Grandma on my back. We’d share stories back and forth for a lap and then they’d be off. I would not recognize them again in the light of day.
This is 24 Hours of Booty. Second Year: 17 hours, 260 miles. Third year: marred by intense thunderstorms. This year: who's counting?
Notes From a First Year: A First Time For Everything
Have you ever heard of delusions of grandeur? If you took Psych 101 in college, then you know what I’m talking about. It’s when you believe you’re much more important than you really are. For instance, if your neighbor actually believes he is the President of the United States. In cycling it translates to this: You believe you’re the next Lance Armstrong. You like to think at the beginning of the season of your first year that you are going to come out striking and surprise the whole field and have everyone saying, “WOW! Who on earth is that? That is the best cyclist EVER!” So the thought of something going wrong during a race doesn’t really enter your head until you see it happening to you.
Sunday, July 23rd, 2006. French Broad Cycling Classic, Asheville, NC. A city I love. A city I used to call home. A city with old friends watching. I lined up with the Cat 1,2,3, riders. It was my first weekend racing as a CAT-3 (an honor I had recently acquired thanks to a good showing in the Lenoir race). Halfway through the Criterium I found myself being dropped. Panic set in and an argument starts between my brain, my legs and my heart.
Brain, “Why the hell aren’t you pedaling faster?”
Legs, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s the beer you decided to recover with after yesterday’s race. And you call yourself the smart one!”
Heart, “Please don’t fight! Please don’t fight! I don’t like it when you fight…oh my God you hate each other!”
Brain, “Heart, you’re annoying go away!”
Legs, “hey don’t talk to her that way, this is your fault!”
Heart, “Give me a J…Give me an O…Give me a D…give me a…”
Legs and Brain, “SHUT UP!”
Okay, let’s give it one more try.
I pushed and clawed my way back up to the group with the help of a lot of cheering from fans. I grabbed onto a back wheel just in time for someone up front to attack…alone again. Pulling out of the race was not an option. No way. And so I rode with my heart, even after hearing the announcer say, “This rider is off the back of the group. Number 321, Jodi Winterton.” Thanks, dude. You could have refrained from using my name.
Now, after you’ve been by yourself a while you figure the pack is going to come up on you at some point and so when you go around the corners you take a quick look back…okay nobody there, good for now. But nothing you tell yourself prepares you for the first time you look back and you see the headlight of the motorbike creeping up behind you. You feel it happen – your body just gives in. Like you went from being a juicy ripe grape to a raisin in the matter of a glance. You don’t even try to look at your teammates as they blow by you.
Brain, “Just finish the race. Go straight to the car. Go home. Maybe no one will notice.”
Legs, “I have failed you and I am so sorry.”
Heart, “You will finish your last lap and you will punch the air with your fists as if you won this thing!”
Then a strange thing happened. I started hearing strangers on the sidewalk calling my name as I rode by. People I didn’t know had heard my name announced and were willing me to finish strong. As I was coming up to the line on my last lap, after the sprint finish was decided, I sat up and put my hands in the air and much to my surprise, the spectators responded with thunderous cheers. Heart, “See, I told you so!” It was a silver lining to my otherwise gray and cloudy day.
I still took the advice of my Brain, though. I got out quickly and went home. I beat my head against the wall with absolute disappointment in myself. I questioned ever making the decision to race in the first place. My heart dropped with every thought of my teammates. The next Lance Armstrong, I will not be. I sank low, lower and lowest as the night went on and I went to bed that night with the image of the motorbikes headlight glaring into my eyes.
Oh well, there’s always tomorrow, right?
Sunday, July 23rd, 2006. French Broad Cycling Classic, Asheville, NC. A city I love. A city I used to call home. A city with old friends watching. I lined up with the Cat 1,2,3, riders. It was my first weekend racing as a CAT-3 (an honor I had recently acquired thanks to a good showing in the Lenoir race). Halfway through the Criterium I found myself being dropped. Panic set in and an argument starts between my brain, my legs and my heart.
Brain, “Why the hell aren’t you pedaling faster?”
Legs, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s the beer you decided to recover with after yesterday’s race. And you call yourself the smart one!”
Heart, “Please don’t fight! Please don’t fight! I don’t like it when you fight…oh my God you hate each other!”
Brain, “Heart, you’re annoying go away!”
Legs, “hey don’t talk to her that way, this is your fault!”
Heart, “Give me a J…Give me an O…Give me a D…give me a…”
Legs and Brain, “SHUT UP!”
Okay, let’s give it one more try.
I pushed and clawed my way back up to the group with the help of a lot of cheering from fans. I grabbed onto a back wheel just in time for someone up front to attack…alone again. Pulling out of the race was not an option. No way. And so I rode with my heart, even after hearing the announcer say, “This rider is off the back of the group. Number 321, Jodi Winterton.” Thanks, dude. You could have refrained from using my name.
Now, after you’ve been by yourself a while you figure the pack is going to come up on you at some point and so when you go around the corners you take a quick look back…okay nobody there, good for now. But nothing you tell yourself prepares you for the first time you look back and you see the headlight of the motorbike creeping up behind you. You feel it happen – your body just gives in. Like you went from being a juicy ripe grape to a raisin in the matter of a glance. You don’t even try to look at your teammates as they blow by you.
Brain, “Just finish the race. Go straight to the car. Go home. Maybe no one will notice.”
Legs, “I have failed you and I am so sorry.”
Heart, “You will finish your last lap and you will punch the air with your fists as if you won this thing!”
Then a strange thing happened. I started hearing strangers on the sidewalk calling my name as I rode by. People I didn’t know had heard my name announced and were willing me to finish strong. As I was coming up to the line on my last lap, after the sprint finish was decided, I sat up and put my hands in the air and much to my surprise, the spectators responded with thunderous cheers. Heart, “See, I told you so!” It was a silver lining to my otherwise gray and cloudy day.
I still took the advice of my Brain, though. I got out quickly and went home. I beat my head against the wall with absolute disappointment in myself. I questioned ever making the decision to race in the first place. My heart dropped with every thought of my teammates. The next Lance Armstrong, I will not be. I sank low, lower and lowest as the night went on and I went to bed that night with the image of the motorbikes headlight glaring into my eyes.
Oh well, there’s always tomorrow, right?
Notes From a First Year: Hush, Hush
I read an article recently on a cycling website about “Labial Swelling.” Guys, before you quit reading, bear with me for a minute; your cyclist girlfriend will much appreciate it. Besides, I have enough guy friends to know you suffer from something similar.
The problem is no one will talk about it. It’s like when you first start dating someone and you don’t want them to think you do something as human as farting. So, you hold it in and the gas just builds up until the pressure has you cross-eyed. Then, after you’ve been together a while, you get a little more comfy with each other and you finally admit it. After a year of controlling your sphincter not to release some air that’s backed up in your intestines, you finally have had enough. Ah, relief at last!
No one took me aside when I started cycling and said, “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: Your butt is going to hurt. You will get rashes. You will get sores. Certain areas may get very red and swell painfully.”
I’m sorry; to what “areas” would you be referring?
I figure it is my duty to speak frankly – your genital area as well as your butt will get very sore. There, I said it. Please take a minute to blush and be embarrassed…Good, now get over it and let’s discuss this. I am lobbying to “Out” this hush, hush. Anyone that spends any amount of time on a bike is going to experience soreness in lots of areas – including all the spots that come in contact with the saddle.
At this year’s “24 Hours of Booty,” I spent a total of 17 hours in the saddle; a long, long time. By the time it was over and I got home, I was tomato red and swollen from my pubic bone to the top of my butt crack and halfway down my thighs. I had 2 skin ulcerations in the shape of my saddle on my lower cheeks; one on each side. There were several sores situated around my groin muscle. I had all of this despite the application and re-application of chamois lube and changing of shorts throughout the ride. My post ride shower was absolute torture. Cold water cascading over the open sores stung me to tears. Echoes of Phil Ligget calling out riders on the Col du Galibier bellowed in my head, “And here is Jodi Winterton. She has absolutely cracked. Bob, she is in her own personal per-ga-tree!” “Purgatory” sounds about right. I screamed as I applied the soap.
Upon exiting the shower, my significant other was ready with all kinds of remedies; aloe, Solarcain spray, and even Preparation H. And I will tell you, of those three, only the Prep-H didn’t sting like hell. I know what you’re thinking – hemorrhoids? But, actually, Prep-H is for sensitive irritated skin…which was what I had. I lubed up, threw on some loose fitting boxers and lay down on my bed.
Now, it is important for me to include a disclaimer here for a few reasons. Firstly, you are most likely not going to go out and ride 17 hours very often. My case was a bit extreme. You are more likely to experience a little chafing and maybe a small rash, both of which are bearable and very treatable. Secondly, I am not endorsing Preparation-H as a remedy. It happened to be in the house and it felt good, so I used it. Anything to stop the pain.
The point is this: You need to take care of yourself. There are lots of chamois crèmes on the market. Try a few and find a favorite. I like the Assos crème…and not just cuz of its name. It has a menthol tingling feeling when you apply it which keeps you cool on warm days. Remember: cycling is great fun, but at some point you may want to use these areas for more fun than just supporting your weight on a bike. Your significant other will be grateful.
Get the crème! And consider yourself warned.
The problem is no one will talk about it. It’s like when you first start dating someone and you don’t want them to think you do something as human as farting. So, you hold it in and the gas just builds up until the pressure has you cross-eyed. Then, after you’ve been together a while, you get a little more comfy with each other and you finally admit it. After a year of controlling your sphincter not to release some air that’s backed up in your intestines, you finally have had enough. Ah, relief at last!
No one took me aside when I started cycling and said, “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: Your butt is going to hurt. You will get rashes. You will get sores. Certain areas may get very red and swell painfully.”
I’m sorry; to what “areas” would you be referring?
I figure it is my duty to speak frankly – your genital area as well as your butt will get very sore. There, I said it. Please take a minute to blush and be embarrassed…Good, now get over it and let’s discuss this. I am lobbying to “Out” this hush, hush. Anyone that spends any amount of time on a bike is going to experience soreness in lots of areas – including all the spots that come in contact with the saddle.
At this year’s “24 Hours of Booty,” I spent a total of 17 hours in the saddle; a long, long time. By the time it was over and I got home, I was tomato red and swollen from my pubic bone to the top of my butt crack and halfway down my thighs. I had 2 skin ulcerations in the shape of my saddle on my lower cheeks; one on each side. There were several sores situated around my groin muscle. I had all of this despite the application and re-application of chamois lube and changing of shorts throughout the ride. My post ride shower was absolute torture. Cold water cascading over the open sores stung me to tears. Echoes of Phil Ligget calling out riders on the Col du Galibier bellowed in my head, “And here is Jodi Winterton. She has absolutely cracked. Bob, she is in her own personal per-ga-tree!” “Purgatory” sounds about right. I screamed as I applied the soap.
Upon exiting the shower, my significant other was ready with all kinds of remedies; aloe, Solarcain spray, and even Preparation H. And I will tell you, of those three, only the Prep-H didn’t sting like hell. I know what you’re thinking – hemorrhoids? But, actually, Prep-H is for sensitive irritated skin…which was what I had. I lubed up, threw on some loose fitting boxers and lay down on my bed.
Now, it is important for me to include a disclaimer here for a few reasons. Firstly, you are most likely not going to go out and ride 17 hours very often. My case was a bit extreme. You are more likely to experience a little chafing and maybe a small rash, both of which are bearable and very treatable. Secondly, I am not endorsing Preparation-H as a remedy. It happened to be in the house and it felt good, so I used it. Anything to stop the pain.
The point is this: You need to take care of yourself. There are lots of chamois crèmes on the market. Try a few and find a favorite. I like the Assos crème…and not just cuz of its name. It has a menthol tingling feeling when you apply it which keeps you cool on warm days. Remember: cycling is great fun, but at some point you may want to use these areas for more fun than just supporting your weight on a bike. Your significant other will be grateful.
Get the crème! And consider yourself warned.
Notes From a First Year: Hitting the Wall
After taking 2 weeks off the bike to deal with my Grandmother falling sick and passing away, I knew it would be hard work to get my fitness back. Generally, according to my coach, for each week off the bike, it will take 2 weeks to get back. So, I was looking at a month to get back to form. I had been doing so well with my program for 6 months, rarely missing a workout if a t all, and the thought of being a month behind wore on my mind. I had to get to it and I wanted it to happen fast.
The Saturday after my Grandma’s Funeral I decided to do the 8 AM Bolt Brother’s ride, a ride I had done plenty of in the past, a 50 mile ride around Waxhaw, NC. A quick call from my teammate, Christina, and the plan was to meet at her house at 7, ride to the bike shop, do the 50 mile ride and return to her place. By the end, we would see 80 miles pass us by. Perfect! Just what I need - a good long ride to remind my legs of what we love most!
The Bolt Brother’s ride turned out to be a little faster than normal. The Boltie teammates were attacking each other left and right and my teammates and I played along with them. It was a good day in the saddle and by the time I got back to Christina’s house, I had been convinced to go on a hilly ride the next day – 70 miles around Wilkesboro, NC. It sounded like a great idea. Besides, the Blood, Sweat and Gears ride (13,000 ft of combined climbing) was the following weekend and I had yet to ride some good hills. I was excited.
The pinnacle climb of the trip was a 6 mile climb up Brushy Mountain. The climb started about 30 miles into the ride. We started the day nice and slow, trying to spin out the aches from the previous days ride. I just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. I couldn’t find a comfortable gear; not even on the flats. At the bottom of Brushy Mountain, there is a sad face painted on the road that reads “6 miles.” I was confident I would conquer the climb.
Unfortunately, that confidence quickly waned only a half a mile into the climb when I started falling quickly off the back of the group. Within a minute, everyone was out of sight and I found myself struggling to turn the pedals over. I fought at my own pace up the never ending 6 mile hill. After turning what I thought was the last bend, I saw someone coming toward me. It was one of the riders in our group, no doubt coming back to see what was taking me so long. “I’m just looking for a place to go to the bathroom,” she said. She was being nice. I rounded another bend and saw the rest of my group in a church parking lot. A parking lot surrounded by trees. Trees perfect for going to the bathroom. We descended the hill and stopped for refreshments at a gas station. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I had eaten plenty, drank plenty. I even took some salt pills. I simply did not have it in my legs.
After our rest stop, we continued. I looked at my odometer - 40 miles left. How the heck was I going to survive this? I was told the worst climbs were behind us, but I had been lied to. My legs were so worn out that even the smallest bump in the road had me falling back huffin’ and puffin’. I had never felt like this on the bike before. I was so helpless, so weak…so pathetic. Then we hit another steep one. I saw everyone disappear around a switchback ahead of me. When I arrived at that spot I got out of the saddle and gave it all I had…and came to almost a complete stop. My legs were absolutely killing me fighting back at my will with searing pain. A tear dropped from my eye – what is wrong with me? Was I crying? Seriously? Crying? Sadly, yes. Arriving at the top of the hill, everyone in the group was off their bikes and having a little siesta beneath a huge oak tree. For a minute, I thought I even saw sombreros and cervezas. The hallucinations had begun.
The ride continued. Every turn of the pedal started a stinging bolt of pain through my thighs. Even coasting downhill, the burn in my legs did not cease. There was not an energy drink in the world that could save me now. I just needed to get back to the car.
There comes a point when you’re hitting the wall when those around you start willing you on by telling you you’re “almost done.” If this happens to you, do not believe a word those sadistic bastards tell you. They will start saying that crap 10 miles out from the finish and when you feel this awful, “almost done” means something more like 100 yards. 10 miles feeling this bad could easily take over an hour! That’s not what I need to hear…I need someone to go get the car while I sit here on the side of the road and teeter between unconsciousness and death. So go on…go finish your stupid ride…leave me to my maker…let me go in peace.
Snapping back to reality, I finished the ride. We refueled with large burgers for lunch. We laughed at me. I promised not to suck so bad next time. It was a hard lesson to learn…but at least it was a learned lesson!
The Saturday after my Grandma’s Funeral I decided to do the 8 AM Bolt Brother’s ride, a ride I had done plenty of in the past, a 50 mile ride around Waxhaw, NC. A quick call from my teammate, Christina, and the plan was to meet at her house at 7, ride to the bike shop, do the 50 mile ride and return to her place. By the end, we would see 80 miles pass us by. Perfect! Just what I need - a good long ride to remind my legs of what we love most!
The Bolt Brother’s ride turned out to be a little faster than normal. The Boltie teammates were attacking each other left and right and my teammates and I played along with them. It was a good day in the saddle and by the time I got back to Christina’s house, I had been convinced to go on a hilly ride the next day – 70 miles around Wilkesboro, NC. It sounded like a great idea. Besides, the Blood, Sweat and Gears ride (13,000 ft of combined climbing) was the following weekend and I had yet to ride some good hills. I was excited.
The pinnacle climb of the trip was a 6 mile climb up Brushy Mountain. The climb started about 30 miles into the ride. We started the day nice and slow, trying to spin out the aches from the previous days ride. I just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. I couldn’t find a comfortable gear; not even on the flats. At the bottom of Brushy Mountain, there is a sad face painted on the road that reads “6 miles.” I was confident I would conquer the climb.
Unfortunately, that confidence quickly waned only a half a mile into the climb when I started falling quickly off the back of the group. Within a minute, everyone was out of sight and I found myself struggling to turn the pedals over. I fought at my own pace up the never ending 6 mile hill. After turning what I thought was the last bend, I saw someone coming toward me. It was one of the riders in our group, no doubt coming back to see what was taking me so long. “I’m just looking for a place to go to the bathroom,” she said. She was being nice. I rounded another bend and saw the rest of my group in a church parking lot. A parking lot surrounded by trees. Trees perfect for going to the bathroom. We descended the hill and stopped for refreshments at a gas station. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I had eaten plenty, drank plenty. I even took some salt pills. I simply did not have it in my legs.
After our rest stop, we continued. I looked at my odometer - 40 miles left. How the heck was I going to survive this? I was told the worst climbs were behind us, but I had been lied to. My legs were so worn out that even the smallest bump in the road had me falling back huffin’ and puffin’. I had never felt like this on the bike before. I was so helpless, so weak…so pathetic. Then we hit another steep one. I saw everyone disappear around a switchback ahead of me. When I arrived at that spot I got out of the saddle and gave it all I had…and came to almost a complete stop. My legs were absolutely killing me fighting back at my will with searing pain. A tear dropped from my eye – what is wrong with me? Was I crying? Seriously? Crying? Sadly, yes. Arriving at the top of the hill, everyone in the group was off their bikes and having a little siesta beneath a huge oak tree. For a minute, I thought I even saw sombreros and cervezas. The hallucinations had begun.
The ride continued. Every turn of the pedal started a stinging bolt of pain through my thighs. Even coasting downhill, the burn in my legs did not cease. There was not an energy drink in the world that could save me now. I just needed to get back to the car.
There comes a point when you’re hitting the wall when those around you start willing you on by telling you you’re “almost done.” If this happens to you, do not believe a word those sadistic bastards tell you. They will start saying that crap 10 miles out from the finish and when you feel this awful, “almost done” means something more like 100 yards. 10 miles feeling this bad could easily take over an hour! That’s not what I need to hear…I need someone to go get the car while I sit here on the side of the road and teeter between unconsciousness and death. So go on…go finish your stupid ride…leave me to my maker…let me go in peace.
Snapping back to reality, I finished the ride. We refueled with large burgers for lunch. We laughed at me. I promised not to suck so bad next time. It was a hard lesson to learn…but at least it was a learned lesson!
Notes From a First Year: Neopolitan Ice Cream
I don’t have a farmer’s tan. I’m not a farmer. I don’t have a redneck tan. I’m not a redneck. I don’t care if you make fun of it, but call it what it is: a CYCLING tan.
It is inevitable…after a long cold winter of riding with frozen feet and fingers, the mercury starts moving in the other direction and you start shedding layers leaving particular areas of skin exposed. Men may not care so much, but the ladies generally like an all over even tan; something you simply cannot have has a cyclist. You can have great legs. You can have low body fat. You can have a VO2Max that’s off the charts. You can have a bike that costs more than the car you carry it on. But you CANNOT have an all over even tan.
I use sweat-proof, waterproof, SPF 50 sunscreen every time I ride. Well, not every time. Once, I showed up late to a race barely having enough time to put my helmet on, let alone lather up with sunscreen. But, if my sunscreen actually is all of those things, then why do I think of Neopolitan ice cream when I look at myself naked in the mirror? I am vanilla in some spots (use your imagination) chocolate in others (tops of my knees) and strawberry in small patches I missed with the sunscreen (on my forehead through the holes in my helmet).
In most races, the USCF will require you to wear a jersey with sleeves so most team kits do not come with a sleeveless jersey. You are pretty much guaranteed a nice tan line halfway down your bicep. And, although I have not officially checked the rule book, I assume you are required to wear some kind of bottoms (lycra, presumably); mid-thigh tan line. Factor in the gloves, socks and sunglasses and you might as well cancel your summer beach vacation.
Or so I used to think, until I started looking around a little. Think about it. How many hours on the bike in the sun must you ride to get that dark of a tan through sweat-proof, waterproof, SPF 50 sunscreen? How many professional cyclists do you see without bad tan lines? The answers: a shit load and zero. So, go ahead and make fun of my tan. I don’t care. I work hard for this tan.
It is inevitable…after a long cold winter of riding with frozen feet and fingers, the mercury starts moving in the other direction and you start shedding layers leaving particular areas of skin exposed. Men may not care so much, but the ladies generally like an all over even tan; something you simply cannot have has a cyclist. You can have great legs. You can have low body fat. You can have a VO2Max that’s off the charts. You can have a bike that costs more than the car you carry it on. But you CANNOT have an all over even tan.
I use sweat-proof, waterproof, SPF 50 sunscreen every time I ride. Well, not every time. Once, I showed up late to a race barely having enough time to put my helmet on, let alone lather up with sunscreen. But, if my sunscreen actually is all of those things, then why do I think of Neopolitan ice cream when I look at myself naked in the mirror? I am vanilla in some spots (use your imagination) chocolate in others (tops of my knees) and strawberry in small patches I missed with the sunscreen (on my forehead through the holes in my helmet).
In most races, the USCF will require you to wear a jersey with sleeves so most team kits do not come with a sleeveless jersey. You are pretty much guaranteed a nice tan line halfway down your bicep. And, although I have not officially checked the rule book, I assume you are required to wear some kind of bottoms (lycra, presumably); mid-thigh tan line. Factor in the gloves, socks and sunglasses and you might as well cancel your summer beach vacation.
Or so I used to think, until I started looking around a little. Think about it. How many hours on the bike in the sun must you ride to get that dark of a tan through sweat-proof, waterproof, SPF 50 sunscreen? How many professional cyclists do you see without bad tan lines? The answers: a shit load and zero. So, go ahead and make fun of my tan. I don’t care. I work hard for this tan.
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