Sleepy San Ardo signals the end of the 1st season after my 12 year hiatus from saddling up and slogging it out for glory with the other spandex obsessed fools.
Twenty calls to the starting line. Twenty nervous moments of wondering whether I was going to get spanked. And oh yes, I was spanked many of those times. However, I found that I could still spank a few out there. Hopping in with the geezers, nervous as all get out, I quickly found myself at the pointy end of the pack. I even was able to hold my own in a few prosey races. Driven by memory, driven by nerves, I laid it on the line and suffered like a dog.
After a few races into the year, I started itching for podium spots, and started to think that I needed to lean on the grey lump between my ears to help me climb the steps. That, though, did not work for me. Too much time calculating, not enough time cycling. In the end, I want to race first, and placings are cake if they happen. And I figure, for me, the best way to place is to simply race hard. I'm more happy racing that way, anyway. There is just too much going on off the bike to worry the right strategy on the bike. The two wheeled journey is to get away from the rat race. It's my salvation, not my stress.
So, I finished the season like I started this season, dragging and driving myself into the ground. "Nick, there are a lot of people sitting on," said Craig N as our group 'o 10 raced into San Ardo. Oh well, Craig, I hope they enjoy the ride. I did.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Alternate Universe
I got me some airtime on the local news as the face, or at least one of them, of the SLO criterium saying how I remembered watching the crit in 86 as a young high school teen punk and how it got me excited about racing bikes. Well, truth be known, I was not a punk back then, but goth. And more truthfully, we called it death rock back in the day. Long live Bauhaus!
Anyway, it brings back memories, all nostalgic and stuff, but also thoughts about where I am now, home.
Spring of 1986, there I was, nearly a high school dropout. What did I care about education? College was for the rich smart kids. I was a kitchen hack, born and bred. I missed prom cuz there was a punk rock show that night, and I would rather slam dance than dance to Journey (there was a little punk in the goth). And I liked me some cheap beer, and cheap vodka (with plenty of OJ of course).
So, what was I doing watching a bike race and getting all excited and stuff? Well, there was a little bikie under that black hair dye and eyeliner. In fact, I probably would not have gone goth, or at least to the extent that I did, if it were not for a junkie needing a fix.
Grewal, Lemond, and the Badger had all got me excited to turn this pedaling thing I found by accident into something more. The accident: I was caught flipping through Bicycling magazine one day during my junior high pre-algebra class. Hey, I already had pre-algebra in the school I transferred from, so I was bored. Don't ask me why I had a Bicycling magazine, too much cheap vodka between then and now to remember. So, Mr. Beck came by and said, "like biking, sonny? There's a century going on in a couple of days, why don't you give it a spin?" I was 13 and stupid, so what the heck. I borrowed a bike that was way too big, and rode around SLO county in a pair tennis shoes, running shorts and a t-shirt 3 days later. Eight hours and one bee sting later (up the running shorts), I was hooked. I liked this two wheeled thing.
The racing thing did not immediately draw me in. For some strange reason I saw myself as a cycling tourist. It must have been the century influence. But after seeing Grewal spank that Canuck, Bauer, in 84, I knew I wanted to ride, and ride hard. My local shop hooked me up with the kind race ride, and let me make low easy payments. A beautiful, shit brown, quad butted, Suntour equipped Fuji speed machine was mine for the taking, and I planned to do some Grewal style ass whooping with it. Problem was, it got stolen before I took out a racing license, and after only a few payments. I guess I should have known better than to leave it unlocked in the Roach Hotel (it's been seriously gentrified since then, but a little too late for my purposes). Sorry, Alexi, Mr. Brownstone put that inspiration on hold.
Drinking, dark music, and dancing became my new life style. That's right, I said dancing. I tore that shit up on the dance floor, shaking my groove thing to the 80's music that we all know and love (no, not Journey). Okay, I had one foot in that lifestyle and the other on a pedal when the bike was stolen, but I would have probably given that alt lifestyle up to the devotion and money that the racing thing was surely gonna require. But you might understand why Bad Boy Grewal inspired me, given my distain for the norm lifestyle.
Back to the 86 SLO crit. Watching it got me all excited, but I already said that. But at the time, I had a friend who rode for the Cal Poly Wheelmen and was also a DJ for Burnt Dog Radio, Cal Poly's radio station, spinning the punk rock (again, there was, and still is, a little punk in me) and he egged me to hop back on the bike if I was all excited about the spandex spectacle. I stopped dying my hair and started shaving my legs, cobbled together a bike from parts and stuff I had, and started riding with DJ Slow Boy. I eventually paid off that Fuji, too.
The bike racing did not start immediately, and when it started, it was a bit of a rough ride. I worked full time plus, so there was little time to train. But I could ride, oh yeah, I could ride. I lost my cheap beer gut and started to find some speed. But after too many flats, not enough money, a full time job, and a gal that wanted my time, well I gave up the racing thing before it really got off the ground. I did not, however, give up the bike.
After a year off of racing, I gave it one more shot. Boom, a month into the 1990 racing season, I got my cat 2 upgrade. Boom again, a few months later I got my cat 1 upgrade. Somewhere in between, Tracy told me I loved my bike more than her, and boom, I had more time to ride my bike. A few months later, I was at the Olympic Training Center listening to Chris Carmichael tell me how to ride my bike, and building a healthy distain for some young, fat headed punks. A decade later, I would find myself in grad school, watching many of those fat headed punks tearing it up in the Tour. Punks!
Twenty years plus one from the 86 crit, and I am getting ready to saddle up and spin around the SLO block. What a long, strange trip it's been. Wait, I hate The Dead. Long live Bauhaus!
Anyway, it brings back memories, all nostalgic and stuff, but also thoughts about where I am now, home.
Spring of 1986, there I was, nearly a high school dropout. What did I care about education? College was for the rich smart kids. I was a kitchen hack, born and bred. I missed prom cuz there was a punk rock show that night, and I would rather slam dance than dance to Journey (there was a little punk in the goth). And I liked me some cheap beer, and cheap vodka (with plenty of OJ of course).
So, what was I doing watching a bike race and getting all excited and stuff? Well, there was a little bikie under that black hair dye and eyeliner. In fact, I probably would not have gone goth, or at least to the extent that I did, if it were not for a junkie needing a fix.
Grewal, Lemond, and the Badger had all got me excited to turn this pedaling thing I found by accident into something more. The accident: I was caught flipping through Bicycling magazine one day during my junior high pre-algebra class. Hey, I already had pre-algebra in the school I transferred from, so I was bored. Don't ask me why I had a Bicycling magazine, too much cheap vodka between then and now to remember. So, Mr. Beck came by and said, "like biking, sonny? There's a century going on in a couple of days, why don't you give it a spin?" I was 13 and stupid, so what the heck. I borrowed a bike that was way too big, and rode around SLO county in a pair tennis shoes, running shorts and a t-shirt 3 days later. Eight hours and one bee sting later (up the running shorts), I was hooked. I liked this two wheeled thing.
The racing thing did not immediately draw me in. For some strange reason I saw myself as a cycling tourist. It must have been the century influence. But after seeing Grewal spank that Canuck, Bauer, in 84, I knew I wanted to ride, and ride hard. My local shop hooked me up with the kind race ride, and let me make low easy payments. A beautiful, shit brown, quad butted, Suntour equipped Fuji speed machine was mine for the taking, and I planned to do some Grewal style ass whooping with it. Problem was, it got stolen before I took out a racing license, and after only a few payments. I guess I should have known better than to leave it unlocked in the Roach Hotel (it's been seriously gentrified since then, but a little too late for my purposes). Sorry, Alexi, Mr. Brownstone put that inspiration on hold.
Drinking, dark music, and dancing became my new life style. That's right, I said dancing. I tore that shit up on the dance floor, shaking my groove thing to the 80's music that we all know and love (no, not Journey). Okay, I had one foot in that lifestyle and the other on a pedal when the bike was stolen, but I would have probably given that alt lifestyle up to the devotion and money that the racing thing was surely gonna require. But you might understand why Bad Boy Grewal inspired me, given my distain for the norm lifestyle.
Back to the 86 SLO crit. Watching it got me all excited, but I already said that. But at the time, I had a friend who rode for the Cal Poly Wheelmen and was also a DJ for Burnt Dog Radio, Cal Poly's radio station, spinning the punk rock (again, there was, and still is, a little punk in me) and he egged me to hop back on the bike if I was all excited about the spandex spectacle. I stopped dying my hair and started shaving my legs, cobbled together a bike from parts and stuff I had, and started riding with DJ Slow Boy. I eventually paid off that Fuji, too.
The bike racing did not start immediately, and when it started, it was a bit of a rough ride. I worked full time plus, so there was little time to train. But I could ride, oh yeah, I could ride. I lost my cheap beer gut and started to find some speed. But after too many flats, not enough money, a full time job, and a gal that wanted my time, well I gave up the racing thing before it really got off the ground. I did not, however, give up the bike.
After a year off of racing, I gave it one more shot. Boom, a month into the 1990 racing season, I got my cat 2 upgrade. Boom again, a few months later I got my cat 1 upgrade. Somewhere in between, Tracy told me I loved my bike more than her, and boom, I had more time to ride my bike. A few months later, I was at the Olympic Training Center listening to Chris Carmichael tell me how to ride my bike, and building a healthy distain for some young, fat headed punks. A decade later, I would find myself in grad school, watching many of those fat headed punks tearing it up in the Tour. Punks!
Twenty years plus one from the 86 crit, and I am getting ready to saddle up and spin around the SLO block. What a long, strange trip it's been. Wait, I hate The Dead. Long live Bauhaus!
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Sucking Air, or Maybe Just Plain Sucking
That damn Zaca Fire made for LA like conditions in the Santa Maria valley. Toss in the incessant attacking of that dino Thurlow, and it was wheezy time.
I got me a top 10. Nothing to brag about, though, given that there were only about 25 baby geezers lining up, plus that full blown geezer, Thurlow. He coulda gone for a bear jersey in the 40/50 race, but given that he already won a road one a few weeks ago for 45 + (for some strange reason, we have two masters championships in these parts), I guess that he decided that wearing two jerseys would be a bit warm. Damn unselfish bastard.
Lap 1, the dino whips it up, looking at us young pups with the look that says "take off your diapers, boys, and race your bikes." Ah man, old man, can't we just warm up? Nah, whip it, and whip it good. By the end of the lap, we are all pretty much together, not for lack of TR trying to bust things up, though.
Lap 2, the dino keeps wagging his tail at us. Mid way through the lap, things get busted up. Four go, then I chase, and look at about 4 on my tail. We connect, then two more maybe, and it looks like this is going to be be the race. Unfortunately, though, half the guys were Amgen guys, two La Grange, then the rest were solo. Of course, this means that the hemoglobin boys can attack freely, and no one really wants to work. And oh yeah, that damn dino Thurlow. I try to cover when I can, and try to catch my breath from what feels like one working lung. Coming to the end of the lap, I'm looking for Ale-Jet's phone number. "Ale-Jet, this is Nitro. Got the number of your doc so I can get me some of that special mist you use? And oh yeah, how much is too much?"
Lap 3, I get popped. The bottom fell out of my lungs, and my head did not want to push them further. I drop off, thinking that 3 laps is good enough for the day, but I end up getting caught by a group of about 7, including my mate in blue, Peter B. What the heck, let's go for a ride boys. Going up the bump, I get up front and just get in diesel mode, which is not too taxing on the carburetors. Going over the top, Peter says, "We've got a gap." A gap over the laughing pack? Wait, I want to laugh. Oh well. And looking up the road, it looks as though the lead group have eased up on their war, and that we might actually catch them. So heck, time to put some berryboy representation back in the front group.
Lap 4, we catch. Missing from the front group, though, was a certain old man. I ask one of the hemoglobin boys about the status of things up the road, and he says it's just Thurlow and one of their boys off the front. Cool and the gang, maybe I can breathe. The fourth lap was pretty civilized. I pull through with the non-hemo's in the group, knowing full well that we ain't catching the boys up front, but I may as well make an effort of it and get my money's worth.
Lap 5, the remaining hemoboys get their blood pumping. Peter makes a show of it too, and things start to whittle down. Up the steep, short bump, hemoboy Els lets one rip. I get on and we split from the group. It seemed good for a short while, a real short while. After one pull by me, I find myself wheezing to get back on his wheel, and that was all she wrote; third place went up the road. I catch back on what is left and try to find my missing lung. Going up the final long bump, an attack goes, and I wheeze my ass off to go with him. No go. Ah heck, I already dragged my ass, with the help of PB, back into a race that I was all prepared to drop out of 3/5ths of the way though; sitting up with 4 miles to go to cruise in for a top 10 was fine for me, and that is what I did.
No glory at Sisquoc, but of course glory is not want I'm in it for, unlike some brown skinned Norcal riders out there. I'm in it for the lung abuse. Mission accomplished.
I got me a top 10. Nothing to brag about, though, given that there were only about 25 baby geezers lining up, plus that full blown geezer, Thurlow. He coulda gone for a bear jersey in the 40/50 race, but given that he already won a road one a few weeks ago for 45 + (for some strange reason, we have two masters championships in these parts), I guess that he decided that wearing two jerseys would be a bit warm. Damn unselfish bastard.
Lap 1, the dino whips it up, looking at us young pups with the look that says "take off your diapers, boys, and race your bikes." Ah man, old man, can't we just warm up? Nah, whip it, and whip it good. By the end of the lap, we are all pretty much together, not for lack of TR trying to bust things up, though.
Lap 2, the dino keeps wagging his tail at us. Mid way through the lap, things get busted up. Four go, then I chase, and look at about 4 on my tail. We connect, then two more maybe, and it looks like this is going to be be the race. Unfortunately, though, half the guys were Amgen guys, two La Grange, then the rest were solo. Of course, this means that the hemoglobin boys can attack freely, and no one really wants to work. And oh yeah, that damn dino Thurlow. I try to cover when I can, and try to catch my breath from what feels like one working lung. Coming to the end of the lap, I'm looking for Ale-Jet's phone number. "Ale-Jet, this is Nitro. Got the number of your doc so I can get me some of that special mist you use? And oh yeah, how much is too much?"
Lap 3, I get popped. The bottom fell out of my lungs, and my head did not want to push them further. I drop off, thinking that 3 laps is good enough for the day, but I end up getting caught by a group of about 7, including my mate in blue, Peter B. What the heck, let's go for a ride boys. Going up the bump, I get up front and just get in diesel mode, which is not too taxing on the carburetors. Going over the top, Peter says, "We've got a gap." A gap over the laughing pack? Wait, I want to laugh. Oh well. And looking up the road, it looks as though the lead group have eased up on their war, and that we might actually catch them. So heck, time to put some berryboy representation back in the front group.
Lap 4, we catch. Missing from the front group, though, was a certain old man. I ask one of the hemoglobin boys about the status of things up the road, and he says it's just Thurlow and one of their boys off the front. Cool and the gang, maybe I can breathe. The fourth lap was pretty civilized. I pull through with the non-hemo's in the group, knowing full well that we ain't catching the boys up front, but I may as well make an effort of it and get my money's worth.
Lap 5, the remaining hemoboys get their blood pumping. Peter makes a show of it too, and things start to whittle down. Up the steep, short bump, hemoboy Els lets one rip. I get on and we split from the group. It seemed good for a short while, a real short while. After one pull by me, I find myself wheezing to get back on his wheel, and that was all she wrote; third place went up the road. I catch back on what is left and try to find my missing lung. Going up the final long bump, an attack goes, and I wheeze my ass off to go with him. No go. Ah heck, I already dragged my ass, with the help of PB, back into a race that I was all prepared to drop out of 3/5ths of the way though; sitting up with 4 miles to go to cruise in for a top 10 was fine for me, and that is what I did.
No glory at Sisquoc, but of course glory is not want I'm in it for, unlike some brown skinned Norcal riders out there. I'm in it for the lung abuse. Mission accomplished.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
