Tail Gunner

Yesterday represented the my 1st anniversary back racing. And I did it in style, herding the 1/pro field like a boarder collie nipping the heals of the young bucks (some old ones, as well) in Visalia. My tongue was hanging like a boarder collie, too.

You know, now that I'm old, it is kinda fun to do a couple of races in a day, but why do they have the be the kind of races that, well, I really don't get too excited about. Oh sure, going fast is fun; however trying to keep my fat head up as I beat across the pavement for a couple of hours kinda hurts. But okay, it is still kinda fun. Plus, I'll have to miss my favorite road race next weekend due to a commitment to present at a professional conference--even though I've given my walking papers to the profession (Adios Academy will be the next post), so I may as well get in the abuse while I can.

It was encouraging, though, to be able to hang in the 1/pro race. It was damn quick. And to be honest, I was not a player the last time I did the 1/pro race in Visalia, when I was too young to go for the double dose. However, we did have the road race in Exeter to zap the legs. And the last time I did that in 94, our average speed was the same for the road race as it was for the crit. 90 miles at 29 mph hanging on to the Silver Bullet train. Good times, but past times. Yesterday I called on some memory, and I leaned heavy on making sure that I did not waste any energy, unlike some around me racing for 80th place. That was probably me, though, many years ago. Ah youth.

Unfortunately, the race day ended on a low note. Trish Bell, pardon the pun, rang her bell in the spill on the last lap of the women's race. She had no recollection of what happened, and kept asking the same questions, "did I wreck? was it the last lap?" as though she had not asked them. I'd seen this before after a big pileup in Lawrence KS. I kept on telling my friend, Mike, to sit down as he had a huge lump the color and size of a tomato on his forehead. He kept on saying, "no, I did not wreck, I did not hit my head." He could not remember me telling him time and time again. Luckily, no long term damage, for either Trish or Mike, but scary stuff nonetheless.

So, two weeks off from the racing. There'll be a trip to San Diego to give the finger to the political science profession, while providing some professional training to a couple of students. There'll be a trip to Burlingame to get acclimated to my new job (more in Adios Academy). There might be some training too, cuz Orosi is coming up, and that was my first road race back last year. Road racing, not the crit circle dance, is what I am in it for. And, I just can't let some skinny, dark skinned sprinter win this year.

I T-Shirted

It's been a while since I've entered anything here (blame it on my continuing, and possibly soon to end struggle with the academy). But I T-Shirted yesterday at the Cantua Road Race. I would say I podiumed, but Velo Promo races don't have podiums. Plus, it is grammatically incorrect (okay, so is T-Shirted).

Back and forth, up and down, along side Highway 5 in the middle of nowhere, I found myself crossing the line in second. Some nice guy named Bob in a blank jersey beat me. So, how did I get to that point? Well, I snuck away when Dan Martin was not looking, with about 3 miles to go with Bob. Oh, there were moves before that, but only the one that works counts (unlike the almost move at Mothballs two weeks ago).

But really, what to say about the Cantua road race? Velo Promo really went out of its way to find the most boring stretch of road possible. Don't get me wrong, Velo Promo is a godsend to the Cali cycling scene, but come on Bob L., I almost had to violate anti-doping rules due to the desire to get jacked up on something to keep me awake. At least Danny boy was there to animate things in the first 50 meters. And I told him to calm down before the thing even started. But since I did not want to fall asleep, I too went off the front for a bit on the first leg out.

Much of the race was spent in rotating fashion, and much of that was our group of 9 trying to stay away from a group of 5 or 6. Snooze. Danny asked me on the last leg out, what do you think there Nick? My response, something on the way back. And something on the way back it was. Cracks started to form, and I did my niggling best to pry them open. Then, torque time, snap she goes. Danny said "we got a gap", but the gap was closed, and it was cat and rodent time. My mate asked me "what should we do?" "Tag team time" I said. He took a dig, and when it was still together, there was a pause. Next thing I know it was just me and Bob. Teamless, blue jersey Bob. Hmm, Dan must have fallen asleep. Again, the course is that boring.

200 meters to go and Bob says nice race and fades back. I guess I should have gotten out of the saddle and nailed it, but I just thought to myself, I can't go any faster, so I don't know why he thinks it was over for him. Maybe I just look that intimidating. I somewhat peddled away, but he must have seen the lactic acid oozing out of my legs, and he pushed on by. Congrats, Bob. T-shirt and $10 bucks for me. I just had to picture the podium girls giving me a bouquet and a peck.

Alright, to the grading. Then a fun meeting with the chair tomorrow. Why did I send that email?

Next Time I Won't Wait 12 Years

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.

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!

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.

If the Young Want To Serve Themselves Up, Then Let's Chow

I tried to make light of the Chicken affair, but this ain't fun anymore (not that it ever has been). It looks like the Kazakh kid pulled a Hamilton, and now my excitement over tomorrow's battle in the Pyrenees is gone.

Oh, Alexander, please confess. Please, please, please. Please don't blame it on a sloppy lab. Although I'm sure that conspiracy theorists are already thinking that this is a response to Moreau's bashing by the Astana boys, and I certainly think that the lab's sloppy work should lead to having its credentials revoked, a confession would better serve the sport, which I'm sure that you love dearly. There's a nasty culture that still exists, and it needs to be cracked.

This is a fight that needs to be won. Let other cyclists know that cheaters will get caught. This will help bring in fresh kids who do not want to subject their bodies to suspect doping techniques, and instead simply subject their bodies to the beautiful abuse of pushing their bodies to the limit. Their bodies, not someone else's, or some other animal's. It can be done.

Confess, Alexander.

Fans, hold tight. This won't go down easy.

Would You Like Some Fresh, Cracked Pepper With Your Young, Sir?

The Danish Cycling Union (DCU) announced that it is suspending the Chicken due to accusations that while in Mexico, he had injected gerbils with EPO and then stuffed them up his gizzard hole. This process is known to mask synthetic EPO. This accusation first came to light after Richard Gere met the Chicken in the emergency room of a Mexican hospital.

Gere contacted the Danish federation about this several years ago, but pleaded to them not to let it out. Gere only wanted the cruel practice of injecting gerbils with EPO stopped, and hoped that the federation would have a chat with the Chicken. "I also thought his wife was kinda hot, so I did not want to be a dick and make a public statement or anything," added the aging star of American Gigolo and Pretty Woman.

But after seeing the Chicken tell the world that he could be trusted, Gere noticed a little bounce in his step that led Gere to believe that the Chicken was still subjecting gerbils to abuse. Gere called the press and the Danish federation to put a stop to it, claiming that he was afraid that other cyclists might be "enticed to use the procedure in order to get themselves one of those pretty yellow shirts."

The DCU was only too happy to drop the hatchet on the Chicken while he was in yellow, especially since they felt that the French, and their silly little Tour, were hogging the cycling limelight. "This will knock them down a notch," stated a source within the federation, who asked to remain anonymous. "I mean come one," he continued, "the Tour of Denmark, with its hors catégorie dykes, is just as prestigious."

The press, running out of stories about the hot wives of pro cyclists, were also eager to cover the story. "We're doing it for the animals," said one journalist. Some TV stations, though, have taken the higher ground. In response to all the doping scandals in the sport, German TV has stopped coverage of the Tour. Instead, they filled the normal 6 hours a day of live cycling coverage with Dancing With The Stars. "You know the stars are not on drugs," said German TV's president.

The Chicken was quick to point his pecker in response to the allegations. "It was Menchov who could not get his ass over the Galibier, not me. He probably forgot to take the poor little bugger out before starting the stage," bawked the Chicken. "Bakawwwk!" he added.

Many of the other riders in the Tour are now dropping their shorts to show that they are not hiding any gerbils. Of course, those who are keeping their chamois close to their sphincters are suspect. "My mom taught me to be modest," stated a cyclist from team Discovery Channel who wished to keep his private parts private. He added "plus, I love gerbils, and have many at home." That rider's room was raided later that night, and he has since been suspended by his team for being in possession paraphernalia used for doping practices.

Meanwhile, cycling fans are left scratching their heads. Most don't mind if Al Trautwig and Bob Roll lose their jobs as cycling commentators due to the implosion of the sport, but many are addicted to the spandex spectacle, spending hours and hours on blogs obsessing over the smooth-legged boys of the pro peleton. For many, it is the spectacle that gives them the inspiration to lube up their chamois (clearly not for gerbil purposes) and hit the road. "What happened to the good old days," lamented one fan, "when riders only injected speed into their asses?"

Respect

So, the Chicken does not mince his words. Said the Chicken of his team mate, and presumed team leader wearing the famed #51 (winingest # in tour history), "It was disappointing that Menchov couldn't get his ass over the Galibier."

At least Menchov has an ass, Chicken Boy.

They Forgot Bad Teeth

Last on the medical reports list from yesterday's stage of the tour was the diagnosis of Pastey Britishitis.

Millar (Saunier Duval), allergy to sun

For Want of a Tool

My "work" consists of producing intangibles, or possibly tangibles 2 or 3 steps removed. Thus, I really do like producing things that I can taste, touch, see; basically just be able to stand back and say looky at what I did.

So today, it was a mix of intangibles and tangibles.

Intangible: I got what we call an R&R. Not a rest and relaxation, but revise and resubmit, which is supposed to be a good thing. In fact, one of the two reviewers said publish as is, but the other reviewer wanted to be all snotty and academic, suggesting so and so's theoretical framework. So, I had to find so and so, and figure out a way to incorporate it into my manuscript. That's what I produce, manuscripts and lectures. Oh, the intangibles. For the curious, it's about the interaction of race between citizens and police officers, and how that interaction affects perceptions of legitimacy.

Almost tangible: I worked with a student who is working for the Department of Drug and Alcohol Services (in a sore need of a name change so it does not sound like a place to go to get drugs and alcohol). This student is putting together a survey to assess the situation in which DUI offenders got busted. There is a possible value here, since it could lead to information to help program administrators improve DUI offender programs. The frustrating thing is that I'm the one the students come to for this kind of stuff, even though I am only a lecturer. That is, someone who is only expected to teach. I like teaching, and I certainly like working with students doing research, but in a rational word... ah, I ain't going there.

Moving on

Tangible: Pasta sauce. I spent thirteen years working in a kitchen (before I got all educated and stuff), but I still love wielding a knife and making a big pot of sauce. I might have gone a bit heavy with the serrano peppers, but the house smells yummy, and I just always feel good after all the ingredients have gone in the pot. Now, if I just had the kitchen help I used to have in the old days to clean up the mess I made.

Yet another tangible: I replaced fork on the dirt machine. Okay, I dig the technology they got going on the bikes these days. Up to a couple of years ago, I had a complete stiffy, front and rear, mountain bike. Yet, that stiffy made my old joints stiffy, so I got me a complete cushy, with brains front and rear. Damn cool stuff when it works. But, my brain died up front, and now the fork does not lock out all by itself. This is where I don't dig all the technology on the bikes these days. It's finicky and wallet busting. So, off with the high tech, and on with a loaner. It does have this do-hicky manual lever you hook onto the bars to lock out the fork, but come on, how lo-tech. Probably is a bit more reliable, though.

It should have been a fairly straight forward swap, but apparently not all headset races are created equal. I put on the loaner fork, and I could not get the headset adjusted properly. I pulled it out and looked at the race on the old fork and the race on the loaner, and low and behold, they were different. Now, on my headset someone used their brain to design the race, cuz all you had to do to remove it was to gently pry at the split in the race and slide it off. On the loaner, it had to be knocked off. Old school headset thinking. Come on people, the bearings don't run on the bottom headset race anymore. Screwdrivers, Swiss Army knife, butter knife, and then a socket extender were all used to get the damn thing off. Oh yeah, a hammer. It's all together now, so it's time to test the work on a treacherous, rocky descent.

The big question is: Do I attempt the rebuild on my fork? I found a manual that shows how to take it apart, and I can buy new seals online. I'd feel manly if I fixed it all myself. I'd feel like a tool if I screw it up. Hmm?

Generations

Okay, so bikini watching is off the table (at least in SLO county), but there are still sights to see on a bike ride.

So, the other day while riding, I see a car pulled over, with its passengers off to the side of the road. I'm going to make the assumption that it was grandpa and one of his grand kids (if not, I should have called the cops). Grandpa was looking proud, and sonny was showing his manhood; pants down to the ankles, t-shirt held up by his chin, and two hands on his little fire hose. Bless him, all of 4 years old, maybe, and he was already learning that the roadside is one big urinal.

I was soooo tempted to take out my phone and snap a pic (and I finally realized why they have cameras on the things), but I was afraid I'd be busted for kiddie porn.

The Thrill Is Gone

Okay, I admit it, bikinis are hot. And I admit it, I've been known to ride down to the beach just to check out the latest bikini styles. But that was in my 20's. Nearly a decade away.

So, I found myself heading to the rail at Avila today, looking to take a peek, but the rail was all of the sudden off limits, cuz as I looked out across the sand, I had a reality check, or two.

First, I'm old. However, that ain't that bad. Plus, I look better than half the 20 something males with beer guts rolling in the sand. But something about the thought of being that middle-aged man gawking at girls, well it has a cold shower effect. Reminds me of cruising down to the beach in Capitola with Hubes, doing the bikini check, and he points out a very stylish two piece on a little sun worshiper. But when she got up, it was clear that she was little. Twelve maybe. Chris tried to blame it on his old eyes (maybe 35), but he'll never live that one down. And now, my eyes are older, and, well, shudder to think I make the same poor gawking judgement call.

But I could just about live with the middle-aged thing. After all, one of the first rides I did last year when I moved back was an Avila rail ride. What as different this time was job-related, damn it. It hit me that there were students down there. Students who might see me in a classroom.

Hi, my name is Dr. ...

Wait, do you ride bikes?

Um yeah, but let's talk about the course this...

Yeah, don't you ride down to Avila a lot?

Um, err, I meet a group for a ride there.

I never saw you with a group, just with all the other gawkers.


I've learned how to handle running into students in a bar. After all, you can go to a bar and not gawk. Really, you can. But the sidewalk rail at Avila is a gawker rail. No two ways about it.

So now, rides to Avila have no stops. It's still a nice ride, though. Really.

Thank You Sir, May I Have Another?

Before this weekend, I had only done 3 criteriums this year (well in 12 years to be correct). I nearly doubled that total this weekend. Why? Well, to justify all the driving it took to get to them.

First, Stockton. There was money there, but let's be honest, it was doubtful I was going to get my hands on the prosy purse. Not enough circle dancing in my legs and head this year to do well. I was just using it to warm me up for the geezer race later (Stockton was backwards in the the 1/2/pro was before the old guys). Yeah, a 90 minute race to warm up for a 50 minute race. That's smart, but that was what I was gonna do.

Bang, and a 100 guys, and a couple of gals, start the spin cycle. Typical me, I drift to the back to feel things out. No problem, plenty of time to get comfortable and find my way upfront, which was about three corners ahead.

Several hours into the race, I look down at my number spitter, and it shows only 15 minutes, and I think to myself, holy sheeite, I'm going to be doing this for over two hours. Why I just did not listen to Trina's advice and stay home and go to her and Ed's place for their summer kick off BBQ. BTW, Trina, when I pestered you at the Solstice affair to have a shindig, I did not mean two days later. Oh well.

Round and round, I'm thinking that, okay, this ain't that hard, but I am merely pack fodder. Where's the old flame, Tracy, who used to sit on the sidelines yelling "Get up front!" Mind you, this was not an encouraging kinda cheer, but instead more like, "Get up there cuz your embarrassing me by being in the back of the pack!" I was only embarrassing myself, and my head was telling me to chill and make an effort to get up front at the end with about 15 minutes to go. Looking down at the number spitter, there are 40 more boring minutes, plus 50 more minutes with the old guys. Damn number spitter.

The whole day was a mind game.
Why am I doing this?
It's good training.
You need to work on pack positioning.
Oh hell, there is not rational reason for me to be subjecting myself to this abuse.

And abuse I received. My crotch and wrists were not happy. You'd think with the high tech ergo carbon bars, that I dropped way too much money for, that the damn things would massage my wrists. But no go. Ouch city. And I really did not expect my minimalist seat to offer much protection against the bumps, but I did not expect my crotch to get bruised. Okay, some of it was being bent over for soooo long. Grad school all over again.

I played around moving up front, or at least moving in the direction. But of course, it was too early to be putting in an effort. The master plan for was for a last 15 minute surge. And I was saved from that plan by a spill (though it was already 10 minutes to go, so my plan was falling apart anyway). I did not go down, but some poor fools in the pear-bottom part of the pack did. For me, it was the chase back on that sealed the deal. Making progress, I noticed that some seemed to be giving up. So hey, I've got another race, I should pack it in too. After all, there was sure to be more spills as these kids start slipping on their own drool thinking about getting some of that fat purse. I'm done.

Of course, as soon as I make the decision, I feel like a loser. Oh well. At least I get to watch the finish. Sprint finish. Spills in the last corner. Berry boy wins. I wonder what I am going to do for the next hour before I do this again.

Riding around, I can barely sit down on the saddle. Bruised and cramped crotch. Legs were fine, but where they met the torso was used and abused.

In between races, smiling Jack rolls up, so I go out and back and forth with him while he warms up, and I try to keep warm. We reminisce about days gone by and chat about young up-and-comers. But it soon came time to sweat again. Chat it up with you later, Jack. Keep smiling.

The old guys race was pretty much more of the same. However, I did get some PA recognition on the second lap as I led the field through, chasing down a first lap flyer fool. After I spoiled the glory of the eager elder, I slipped back and chilled. Throughout the race, there was always someone off the front, which I could even see from the back. Yes, I was in the back. But moving up in this field was not a problem.

In fact, without really thinking of it, I found myself upfront with 5 laps to go. Finally, the day's end was in sight. Sixty miles of spinning round and around was coming to a close. Two split the pack to chase down Jack's teammate, who had be slogging it by himself off the front for 5 or 6 laps. Four to go, I shot from the pack crossing the S/F line. "There goes Cal Giant Strawberry rider chasing the two chasers, and he flies right past them." Eat my dust. Blow my wad. A couple catch me. We catch the soloist. Pack catches us.

Coming across the line, 3 to go, I'm still up front, but so are 30 others, as the bloated pack crosses the line. Two corners later, I'm in the back. Mind shuts down. Plus, I realized the that noise I had been hearing the last few laps was my front brake shaking around. Not too comforting. So, pack it in until tomorrow. Tomorrow. I'm going to do this again tomorrow. At least it was only a 40 minute plus 60 minute circlefest.

Alright, this post is already too long, much like my time doing crits this weekend. I'll just state that Burlingame was somewhat more fun. Good course. There was even people lining the course. Ah, my adoring fans. But I have to apologize to my fans, as I spent the day as pack fodder again. There were a whole hell of a lot of old guys, so moving up front was a bit more difficult. Plus, Dirk got himself off the front with a group, so when I got up toward the front 2/3s of the way through, I sat back and tried to chill. But, I could not hold my position, so I slipped back. About four to go, it looked like the group might get caught, so I tried to get up front to be prepared to give a shot at a last minute flyer. But going into the finishing stretch, I was bouncing on my front tire, as old guys started bouncing off each other. Luckily, no one went down, but I did get bounced back to the back. Dirk's group stayed off, and he got silver, and I was warmed up for the prosey race.

Cool down lap right to the the start of the next. I survived, but my wrists screamed for most of the race. I played around, trying to work my way through the field, but maybe got in the top 3rd of the pack. Where was that Tracy motivation when I needed it? "Get up there! You're embarrassing me!"

So, about 110 miles of crit racing this weekend, at about a $1 a mile. My legs felt fine, but I had a serious mental block. I far too easily resign to the thought I'm not a crit rider. But, if I'm going to ride in crits, I better get a change of attitude. I don't have to pay to ride the roads of SLO county, and I don't want to pay to be pack fodder.

Mad Props to the Young Up-and-Coming Punk

So I was looking at the pics that Marco posted of his blog of Nevada City, feeling like a chump for not blowing off grading and making the long drive up, and I see this local college kid in shots, right on Moniger's wheel. Then another shot of him leading Moniger's group down the hill an hour into the race.





This kid has dished me out some pain on the Tuesday ride, but what the F$%k? The week before he was a 3. So, in his first race after his cat 2 upgrade, he is trading blows with Disco kid Cruz, and BMgeezer Moniger. Arrogant little punk. Later shots show him absent, but the results are finally up and what do ya know, he held on for 6th (although they got his team affiliation wrong). Sixth at Nevada City, the first time trading blows in a prosies field. Hot damn.

So, it looks like when the kid comes back from his summer vacation, he'll be dishing out a lot more hurt, as he'll fo show be get'n a lot faster if he keeps this brash stuff up.

Kick ass, Jared. Keep it up.

Looking at Pro Cycling Through Dope Colored Lenses

UCI looking for men in Black.
Levi rode Copperopolis in an all black kit.

Vino good day, bad day, good day.
Dr. must have not been able to get to the hotel room the night before bad day.

Valv having stomach problems, says that it might interfere with tour prep.
Ulcers caused by stress of losing the protection that Spain's legal system has given him up to this point. He'll be playing fetch with Piti in July.

Christ, been looking through the lenses for over 20 years. Alexi and poppy seed muffins and antihistamines. Delgado and masking agents on IOC banned list but not on UCI list. Lance loosing a ball to roids (okay, this is only peleton gossip).

But it feels so bad now. Like a guilty pleasure I can't quite deal with. Am I to blame for tuning in to the sites and VS's crappy coverage? But if I don't, the sport dies. I want to see the speedsters in spandex duke it out, but what happens when the race is over? Argh.

And like an addict, I keep saying that it is getting better. But is it? The culture seems to be cracking, and that is a start. Teams actually seem to be taking measures to protect the riders, instead of wink wink, push shove, dope 'em up and let 'em race until they drop. Maybe I should actively seek out the products of those teams to show my support. What does Slipstream sell anyway?

Dizzy Time

Love 'em. Abso-f#$&ing-lutely love 'em. Crits. Round and round, corner after corner, usually free of gravity, and just long enough to get warmed up.

So, that's why I'm thinking that I should do 4 in one weekend, prosies geezers, geezers prosies. What the heck. Kinda like some submersion therapy. Maybe after the upteenth million lap, my brain might associate the silly event with something that I like. You know, kinda Pavlovian, or something like that. Of course, there would have to be some sort of pay off.

Podium glory.
That's a stretch.

Big cash pay off.
Stretching some more.

The roar of the adoring fans.
The elastic is breaking.

Ah well, why the heck would I want to stick around the slumhole of SLO county when I could bathe in the glory that is Stockton, with a Burlingame chaser?

Racing calls, and I drool.

Stop Staring at My Ass, Tri-boy

Okay, be forewarned, my ego is coming out.

In SLO country, the hills are mine. Okay, lil' L. Euser could spank me, but he has flown the coop. And sure, bean pole Ozzie Ozfest could spank me if he wants to, but beyond that, they're mine. The first day back in the promised land, after years of exile in the flat land purgatory of Texas and Kansas, I let 'em know them know that I still had it going up (going down, though, was another story), and I remind 'em every opportunity I can.

So today, it was up one of my favorites, Santa Rita Creek Road. Twisty, shady, dirty, sexy. First, there's the nice ride to and up the coast to Cayucos. A litter warmer upper up to Whale Rock Reservoir, drop and right on to SRCR. On the prelude, thick leg Pat took control. Hmm? Okay. Yet, just before the real up, he peeled, and order was established. Excitable tri-boy Chris took my wheel, so I thought (I already gave y'all the ego warning, so here it comes) this will be fun. The only question I had was when to duck when the shrapnel flew. He was going to dig a hole, and I was more than happy to be his shovel.

So, tap tap away, going through the bends and twists, he's there, and he's breathing hard. This will show him for hurting me on LOVR on the Tuesday ride a few weeks back. He's built for that flat to down tailwind stuff, but getting that tall, head-to-toe cut frame (yeah, tri-guys tend to have better builds that us pure cycling freaks) up this dirt climb was gonna take a lot of umph. Pant away big boy. The panting, though, was not fading. And to boot, it seemed as though he had the audacity to try to take it to me on the hill. Ego, wake up, someone wants to play.

Going to through the corners, he would take the inside lines, trying to get by. I don't know, maybe he thought I was trying to sweep him off by going from one side to another, always on the outside line. But it wasn't no Michael Schumacher starting line antics, I was just keeping it smooth and shallow. Apparently he was more concerned with straight lines. Kinda fun seeing him get beside me, then get bumped back by the washboards. But damn, it did not crack him.

Okay, let him go by half way up. This will blow him. But of course, I can't handle being behind, so I zip by around the next bend, as even in front he took the short, steep and bumpy, while I went smooth, shallow and wide. I could have said something, but it should have been clear that I was not bouncing about and he was. Too blinded by his determination. And me, too ego driven to offer him a clue.

Coming out to the top, straight and not that steep, I thought, damn, the kid is still there, and damn, he's probably gonna get in his tri-torque mode and get me over top. I let him by, looking for a place to tuck my ego, but what do you know, he was stuck at one speed. He could not torque on the flatter section to the top. It's not over, my ego. Sitting down (just to show off) I show him my torque, and the polka dots are mine.

At the top, we went to opposite sides of the road, like wounded fighters at the end of a tied bout. I was gonna let him in on the little secret about going around the outside of the corner, but he would not come to me. And damn it, I'm the king of the mountain, bow to me.

Anyway, no words were said afterwards. He disappeared after that. Flat on the dirt descent? Went back down to the coast? I don't know. I'll see you out there again, excitable tri-guy Chris. Maybe up something a bit steeper, where those cut, tan muscles will be more of a drag.

Back through Templetucky, Atascadero, Santa Margarita, and dropping into SLO, it was pretty chill. Kenny H was whining about his bruised legs from the Philly pummeling he just received. And oh yeah, how hot it was. Crikey, spend some time in Texas. That's hot. But we cruised into the coffee shop, and chilled like civilized cyclists. Ah, Wednesdays are mine again. And I'll be damned if the hills don't remain mine.

Squeaky Dog

Sasha (my lil' blonde bombshell) had a bout of indigestion last night. Musta been the sourdough rolls he got into yesterday. Quite the counter surfer. She has even figured out how to climb on the couch and reach over to the breakfast counter to grab stuff. Clearly her cleverness is a function of her time on the streets before I took her in. But baby, you get fed on a regular basis, no need to scavenge anymore. Yeah, like she'll listen.

Anyway, little miss squeaky stomach kept me up. And now, I need to stay awake for student presentations. Oh, it is a good lesson, though, to put yourself on the other side of the room and try to appreciate the challenge of staying awake. But of course, if I slumber off during presentations, well let's just say that that would cause a bit of a stink.

Oh well, here I go. Get through this, and get on the bike.

Slum'n It Socal Style

No bear this year. Did not expect it, but maybe that was the problem.

First thing, there is a lot more red in the Socal Kits compared to the Nocal kits. Did not really recognize any faces, even from the way back when. Of course, that makes for the "hmm, who's got it?" Okay, did know of Mark Noble, and he has got it, but his team blew it (more later). There was some fuschia haired dude that kinda reminded me of my old flame, Tracy (only the hair). And a few more tatoos. This was definitely Socal. But to the race.

The race really was not that hard, and I tried to play all strategic and all, supressing the aggressiveness that usually gets me blown.

Pretty much from the get go, there were two danglers. It seemed perfect for the sit and wait until the last time up the bump strategy. Let the little Amgen guy get all EPO up front, even chasing down his own teammates once in a while, but more or less keeping the two escapists in sight, but also keeping some what of a tempo. Then there was the silly short-lived chase by the Denis King boys (Noble's squad). Any organized chased could have easily tempoed in the break, but the CCM boys went bonkers for a couple of K, but did not quite close it down, blowing themselves 1.5 laps (10miles x 5 laps) to go.

On the penultimate bump before the finish, I pushed it with one of their guys, and thought that it would string out the pack to a select few, but it was too select, just me and that guy. Again, suppressing the aggressiveness, I slipped back to the pack, not wanting to blow myself. Ultimately, this was a mistake. I should have just rode, cuz on the last lap two slipped away and caught the two danglers with a half a lap to go. One was an Amgen guy, and his little teammate finally realized that he should not chase them down. Not having any teammates, I played chicken shit, hoping that the CCM guys or some others would do it. Hollow hope.

Going up the bump for the last time, it was clear that the bear was up the road. Played with the field for a bit up the last bump, but pretty much threw in the towel. No jersey, ah, who cares? I really need to get more competitive.

At the end, I was barely tired. Too much watching, not enough doing.

I also remembered another reason why I avoid Socal, the air. Okay, it was Bako, but there was plenty of yuk in the air. Hack hack.



Anyway, screw this sitting back and watching. I like racing. And now I get to ride to my beatity beat heart's content during the week. On the weekends, attack with somewhat reckless abandon, having some confidence (hopefully) that my legs will respond to my fat head. If not now, by Cal Cup would be fine.

Fat Leg Tuesday

Right leg banged up good, I become a lefty. I roll out okay, but when push came to push harder, I had one cylinder. The buldging one on the right was not buldging from extra muscle mass. Not like my calves were not big enough anyway.

Bummer, too, cuz there was one heck of a booty wind on LOVR. Even on one cyclinder, I was hitting 35+ (just like my racing category) all by myself.

Hoping the swelling goes down, though. Not that I'm as fit as I'd like to be, but I'd like a shot at getting a bear on my back this weekend. Probably not going to happen this year, but with a little luck...

But hey, last 8-8er tomorrow. Yeeeee ha. Don't even have to lecture. Guest lecturer at 8, test at noon, debates at 6, with maybe a mini lecture afterwards. Yeeeeeeeeeee ha.

But grading. Damn.