On vehicles.

There is a two-lane road.  It is well marked with a white line on the extreme edges of the pavement, and two yellow lines in the center.  There are three cars travelling south, and one car traveling north.  There is also a bicycle traveling north.  The bicyclist sees the oncoming traffic.  The bicyclist also knows of the car behind him.  There is fear.  He reaches down to grab a water bottle.  He gently slides about three inches towards the center of the road, to avoid a hole.  The oncoming cars are close.  A quick glance over the shoulder reveals a hood ornament no more than a meter from his shoulder.  Fear was justified.  The car slowed slightly as the driver realized he wasn’t able to pass between the cyclist and on-coming cars.

That was Tuesday.  This was a couple hours after some jerkoff in a 1998-ish Dodge Avenger sedan needed to pass me in a tight, blind corner.  Just for good measure, he wanted to make sure I knew he was there.  So while his front quarter-panel was trying to investigate the depths of my colon, he honked his horn.  Clearly, I am at fault here.  I’ll just abandon my dreams of athletic success, and take up beer drinking, NASCAR watching, and lobotomize myself so I can be just like you.

Ah yes, hateful rhetoric.  It complements my coffee so well.  I don’t have any actual solutions to the problem.  I just felt like bitching about near-death experiences.  I’ve also come to accept the reality that as my hours on the bike increase, getting clipped no longer becomes and “if” statement.  ”When,” is the new operative word, as in:  ”I’ll be super-PRO when I get hit by a car.  Levi Leipheimer and teammate Tony Martin have both been hit this year.  Neils Albert, the 2-time cyclocross world champion was hit last year.”

(Just so we’re clear, I’m writing on a plane beyond sarcastic in that last sentence.  Facetious isn’t emphatic enough to describe that tone.)

Fatalism, breakfast of champions!

This is why we can’t have nice things…

Maybe its because I’m in Kingsport (a place I hate), or maybe its because I’m finally starting to take my life seriously.  I don’t know what the cause is.  I am pissed off.  Ryan Braun, the National Leauge Most Valuable Player in the 2011 season was cleared of his 50-game suspension.  Why was he suspended for 1/3rd of the season?  He failed a drug test.  I don’t remember the specifics of what he was supposedly taking, and honestly they aren’t relevant to the case at hand.  I have very conflicted feelings about the much-vilified “P.E.D.s.”  Thus, I’ll avoid getting on a soapbox about that particular subject.  What set me off, however, was Mr. Braun’s defense.

He stood at a lectern, in front of his teammates, Brewers staff, and the world.  His speech was admirable.  He spoke with vehement denial, verily righteous indignation.  That is to his credit; I expect those things from an innocent man.  He wasn’t eloquent, well-rehearsed, or even smooth.  That is to his credit as well; I expect that from athletes (especially baseball players – who have a reputation as utter dunces.).  To be patronized in a way that could possibly remove you from 1/3rd of your season is serious.  To stand, alone, and defend yourself is no small task.  To Mr. Braun I salute you.  If you are, in fact, innocent, chapeau chap.  If you ARE guilty, I wish only the most profane suffering on you.

No, friends, today we aren’t going to moralize and vomit rhetoric on superior performance through chemistry.  Today we’re riffing on a much simpler topic.  We’re going to delve in to a subject far less complex than synthetic testosterone (and its close compatriots).  This blog is about DOING YOUR JOB.

If I were ANY member of the Brewers organization and I heard one of my athletes say, nay BOAST, that (paraphrased): my workouts haven’t changed in six years, I haven’t gotten any stronger, or any faster in my time here, I would be livid.  Someone’s head would be under the guillotine.  I wouldn’t be embarrassed.  I would be in a realm beyond embarrassed.  The shame that a claim like that carries (if your job is to improve athletic performance), is like the salesman that never moves product.

Part of the problem might lie in that the Brewer’s website doesn’t actually list a strength and conditioning coach.  Did you hear that?  It was the clue phone ringing.  If you improve your athletes inherent ability, and maximize their genetic potential, you’ll probably win some more games.  Interestingly enough, they do list a “Strength and Conditioning Coordinator,” a minor league position.  I wonder what HIS job is?  I’m imagining a large man wearing tight, polyester pants, with a large ball of chewing tobacco in his cheek, wrangling cats.

Ah, but there is a “conditioning specialist.”  And this guy is a Registered Strength and Conditioning Coach.  So in theory, he knows what he is supposed to do to make his athletes better.  I’ll make an enormous assumption here – bear with me – that since Braun was the MVP of his league last year, his lack of improvement is not an isolated case.  What, exactly, do these guys do?

I have to make an admission, my experience in the field is limited.  I’ve only worked with female college athletes for a semester and a half.  That said, I simply can not fathom how a man who is PAID TO PREFORM gets no better on his team’s specific drills and tests.  You can argue that he’s already at an elite level, and elite athletes require absurd levels of training to make minimal gains.  I would accept that, except that his entire existence revolves around baseball, and his supremacy thereof.  If you can devote 12 months to training and playing, you can find some new modality, block-organization system, set/rep scheme, or exercise order that will impart SOME increase in performance.

Pay me $30 a month and I’ll make you a better athlete.  You hear me Milwaukee?

US National Championship of Cyclocross

Last week was my first trip to Wisconsin, my first trip to any national championship event, and my first participation in a national championship.  Two of the three were pretty cool, and Meat Loaf told me that was alright.  So  I guess I’m alright.

When I heard “January,” and “Wisconsin,” I was 95% sure I’d lose fingers and toes to frostbite.  I knew I was going, national championships are a special thing.  When I was packing, I filled a bag with nearly everything I own that was bicycle, or cold weather related.  Lo and behold, this year was freaky-deeky-Dutch, and the Wisconsonites were having unseasonably warm weather.  They had a record-high temperature one day.  Weird.  The strange weather wrought havoc with the course conditions.  When I raced the tune-up race on Wednesday, the course was a sheet of ice, with two small tracks of dirt hugging the course-tape.  That was super sketch.  I skipped Thursday, since I wasn’t racing.  Friday was filthy, sloppy pig-shit mud.  Life sucking, sloppy mud. Saturday was slightly less filthy, but still muddy.  Sunday, during my race, the course was frozen ruts as far as the eye could see.  It didn’t matter if you set your handlebars outside the course tape, you couldn’t find a smooth line.

After a couple of laps, the ground thawed a bit, and the edges of the ruts weren’t so sharp.  A few millimeters of mud coated the ruts.  I don’t think I rode through a single corner the last three laps.  I have never crashed so much.  That was easily, far and away, my most embarrassing time ever spent on a bicycle.  I didn’t know if I should cry, quit or run out in traffic.  For better or worse though, I’m too stupid to quit.  I’ve got just enough pride not to cry, and I couldn’t get to traffic without quitting.  I can’t be emphatic enough when I say that it was just embarrassing.  ”Yeah, but everyone had trouble!” I hear you say.  To which I reply, “Fuck everyone! I’m not ‘everyone!’”  This little escapade only served to remind me what a terrible bike driver I am.  Fucking embarrassing.  I stopped having fun after two laps.  And just in case injury wasn’t enough, my RED shifter decided to add injury when it snapped.

Season total: Four shifters, four tires (I think; I forget), a chain, a set of pedals, a pair of shoes, countless dollars in travel and entry-fees, my sanity and, lastly, a large chunk of pride.  Oh, I forgot my mental well-being (which I’m not sure was ever there to begin with, so we won’t really count that.).

Ah well, off to 2012, and that slew of new goals I ranted about the other day.  After some more time off.  Beer me?

Looking Forward: 2012

Since 2012 is the end of the world, I guess I can quit writing right now.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  Hater.

Goals are a very difficult thing for me.  I like ambiguous, nebulous concepts.  To my chagrin, nebulous and ambiguous goals are terrible goals.  Goals must be well defined and precise.  So there’s one strike.  I’m also not very good at setting realistic goals.  I have far too much delusion-of-grandeur to set attainable goals.  That’s two strikes.  Time to protect the plate, and wait on the pitch I want.  If you don’t speak baseball, you completely missed that analogy.  I’m not going to explain it.  Context clues, do you use them?!

Without further ado, my 2012 goals: (no particular order)

• Win at least one race in each discipline (CX, MTB & Road)
• 70kg @8% body fat. by 1 May.
• Upgrade to CX2 (Preferably be FORCED to upgrade)
• Upgrade to Cat 1 on the MTB
• MSG CX3 Overall
• 5 Laps at The 6 Hours of Warrior’s Creek
• Race 4+ UCI events (Cincinnati, Louisville, Hendersonville, Granogue, Charm City and/or Madison)

I like being ambitious.  Why aim for low-hanging fruit?

Please, harass me about these.  Please, remind me about this as the year drags along.  Be cruel;  be positive;  whatever it takes.  Just be prepared for the inevitable surly response!

The Recap Strikes Back!

There is no better time to indulge in some quality narcissism then when watching a handful of Europa’s finest tight-pants wearing competitive bicycle racers ride in circles through a field in Belgium.  Don’t let anyone argue that point with you.  Look them in the eye and assert your dominance.  You are in the right!  You have the moral high-ground!

But that’s beside the point.  We’re here to talk about me.  (You like those smooth transitions – I learned that from racing cyclocross!)  And to have a single-way – you’re really lacking the ability to have discourse in this forum – discussion on cyclocross as it relates to me.  I can get used to this narcissism-thing.  I’m so important.  You’re welcome to take a break and clean that sarcasm off your floor.

Are you back?  Are we good?  I don’t pay for carpet cleaning, no.  Well, too bad!  How am I supposed to know that facetious stains EVERYTHING?  Whatever.

I’m pretty sure the most important thing I learned this year is cornering without brakes.  A “Buck Frakes,” movement if you will.  Hey, that sounds like a pornstar, or a hillbilly farmer.  Anyways, it seems elementary, obvious, blatantly-clear, plain-enough-for-Stevie-Wonder-to-see, but brakes are bad.  Early in the season, when I sucked more, I used a lot of brakes.  I paid for these TRP wünderbrakes, and with God-as-my-witness, I’m gonna use ‘em!  I’ve made worse decisions.  When you’re ripping corners without slowing down, you’re A.) Conserving vital speed and B.) Conserving vital MO.  MO (Momentum) is, as the white kids say, “ya home boi!”  I read a study claiming 83% of total velocity produced in BMX racing is due to non-pedaling factors.  ”BUT BMX ISN’T CYCLOCROSS!!” I hear you frantically screaming.  (You’re frantically screaming.  Argue with me again and you’ll be huffing and puffing in self-righteous indignation!  And you’ll LIKE IT!)  I understand that, and under no circumstances would I ever insinuate that a 30-second race could compare to an hour effort.  Point being, technical factors can account for a lot of wasted energy.  I hope I’m being redundant here; you should have heard this before.  The trick is in the execution.  Theoretically, I know all sorts of things.  Theoretically, I could fly a helicopter.  It’s as simple: pull this lever, push that pedal, wear the rad looking helmet, smack some gum and act cocky.  That’s how all the movie pilots do it.  Thus: it’s simple, just ride through the corner without hitting the levers.  Right.  Knowing and doing are not equivalent.  I think I’m finally grasping that doing, now.

Tire pressure is an endless source of debate.  However, we can all agree on one thing: lower is better.  Pressure and standards are somewhat inversely related: tire pressure gets better as it gets lower, standards get better as they… well I guess that just depends on your tastes.  I struggled to get my pressure right all season, until we got to the muddy/soft/slick stuff.  At last, I got things dialed in.  Two years ago, when I was obese and slow, I could run ridiculously low pressures on clinchers.  I couldn’t even run moderate pressure on tubulars for most of this season.  My handling had to catch up to the modicum of extra speed.  Pressure and traction are inversely related: lower pressure creates greater traction (I’d estimate the correlation value somewhere around the 89-92% range).  Unfortunately, there is a sharp end to that relationship, and it ends with crashes, rolled and/or flat tubulars.  Especially when you add speed to the mix.  In my (limited) experience, the slower the lower.  On a slow, muddy course, you can (and should) run less pressure to maximize grip.  The faster things get, the higher your PSI goes.  Much like cornering, however, the trick is in the execution.  You must find the relationship between pressure and conditions as they relate to you.  Write down your numbers if you have to!

Eventually, it doesn’t matter how low your tire pressure is, there are situations you just can’t ride quickly.  Much like poker – “You gotta know when to hold ‘em, and when to fold ‘em!” – there are appropriate techniques for these situations.  It seems there is an assessment of “machismo” related to the ability to ride certain sections.  Maybe that’s just me.  Maybe I’m the lunatic you’re looking for.  Whatever.  Point being: don’t lose sight of the important things!  No, this isn’t a call to spend more time with your family; the bike comes first after all (Rule #1!).  Instead remember the point of racing is to go fast.  If you can ride a section in 45 seconds and it can be run in 40 seconds, get off the damn bike!  Better still, hit it as fast as you can, dismount at the last second and carry your MO on foot.  If you decide to run a section, stick with the decision.  Don’t try to ride it, when you’re off the front in a duel with one other cat.  Stick with what works.

I said all that to say this: once all of those things became practical knowledge, instead of theoretical, my results greatly improved.  There’s almost a turning point in the results sheet when everything started to click.  I almost made it sound like I had some success there, didn’t I?  Words are amazing.  In reality, I went from finishing in the bottom half of the field, to finishing in the top half.  Hardly an accomplishment.  Proof that despite doing everything else right, you must have fitness.  Ah well, the important thing is to take these lessons and apply them to next year.  Hey, I might write about next year!

That awkward moment when…

… you’re not completely sure where your season is.

… you’re not completely sure what the deal with your body is.

… you’re not really sure of anything. (Mild existential hyperbole. (Maybe.))

… you’re reading a crappy blog post with far too many ellipses and half-sentences.

In respect to my efforts of doing-every-thing-that-I-don’t-need-to-be-doing, I’ve decided to write a blog post for you.  I figure now is as appropriate a time as any to write a season recap, even though I’ve still got Nationals left.  That should be a separate post.   Consequently, it will be.  Huzzah!  That’s what I like to call “enforcing an opinion.”  If I had a therapist, I’d reference them encouraging me to “enforce my opinion,” more often.  Then I’d praise myself for following-through.  Aren’t you glad those are all “If” statements?  I am.  You are too.  (BOOM! AGAIN! HAHAHAH!)

Holy crap, do I really have to think back to September?  I’m not even sure I know what a  ”september” is anymore.  Is that a cocktail?  Bourbon, right?  And a cherry?  No?  I wish I were kidding, or exaggerating, when I type that I am struggling to remember September.  The memories are there, but they’re faint.  A lot of mediocre finishes, high temperatures and serious beer consumption seem to dot the landscape of September.  Actually, that seems like most of October, too.  The start of the season was only made possible by heavily medicating myself with alcohol.  I like to pretend that I’m far too motivated to accept mediocre results.  When conscience hits, you knock it back with beers (paraphrasing the great, great, great Robert Plant – if you don’t know the name, you’re off the cool-list).

November is starting to get a little clearer.  The races are coming in with more contrast.  November was just like September and October.  Only instead of racing six people, I toed the line with 600 of my closest compatriots.  There was a lot of travelling, and not a damn thing to show for it.  Hendersonville was fun, but any race an hour away is bound to be fun.  I won’t forget crashing myself out of the lead group (look how important I make myself sound!) and ending up DFL before I got started again.

December wasn’t bad.  I had some strong rides.  I’m still, and will continue to be, livid about crashing myself on the last lap, and losing two spots at the Kingsport Cup.  Thinking about that moment makes me furious.  I’m going to go punch a wall right now, actually.  Oddly enough, Wilkesboro – NCCX #9 was probably my best race of the year.  Physically, I was peaking that weekend.  And for the first time all season, I didn’t crash.  I was honestly surprised when I saw my result.  12th place on a roller coaster course, with a long run-up was a testament to the power of the peak.  If there’s climbing involved, count me out.  Likewise for running.  The best part of this race, however, was drinking a beer with Adam Myerson.  Some cat in a Cycle-Smart kit was very obviously suffering on the run up.  He hears “Come on Cycle-Smart!”  He looks up, sees Myerson, and SPRINTS with everything he could muster.  Someone said “I hate getting caught by the boss!”  My drunk ass was in tears.  I also met Neil Bezdek, The Rambling Man scribe.  The downside to being drunk and trying to pal-around with people you don’t know… I don’t need to finish that sentence.

The next weekend was Winston-Salem.  I don’t have much of an opinion on the Piedmont Triad area as a conglomerate of cities.  Luckily, my best friend lives in downtown Winston.  His apartment, 1/3rd of an OLD, pink house, was five minutes from the venue.  It was outstanding.  The course was fun.  There was enough climbing to keep you honest – one puke’r, and a few punchers – and plenty of greasy corners for your skidding, sliding and general getting-rad-ment.  Unfortunately, what little ego I have get me over a barrel.  I didn’t crash myself out of the lead group, per say, but I picked the slowest line known to man around the first tricky corner sitting in the top 5.  I don’t know a lot, but I know the wheel I was sitting on was strong.  I also knew I could ride that corner everyone else was running.  I didn’t realize it would take fully 45 minutes to ride said turn.  Embarrassing.  The field rode away; I crashed again.  I stuck around, enjoying the blue-bird day and heckling a bit.  That was a mistake.  Dylan McNicholas, whom I had been drinking with the weekend before, took such offense to me that he came out of the race and lit me up.  I won’t pretend I’m innocent, but I was clearly made a scapegoat.  It’s funny in hindsight.

And that is 2011 cyclocross in a nutshell.  Stay tuned for more reflections later!  There might even be something worth reading!  What a novel concept!

Hendersonville a soliloquy of sorts.

Ninety-minutes of face-time with the windshield is a tiny price to pay to race in a UCI event in the U.S..  It doesn’t hurt that Hendersonville’s Jackson Park is a rad venue for a race.  Actually, that might be a bit strong, but the race always ends up being fun.  I’ve done this race for the past three years.  Watching the North Carolina Grand-Prix of Cyclocross (NCGP) grow and evolve has been really neat.  My first year the course was fun, but there were no changes between Saturday and Sunday, and there wasn’t anything particularly difficult about le parcours.  In 2010, the NCCX crew revamped a few sections after the first day of races, and gave us a reasonably different course for Sunday.  These aren’t major changes, but the changes would ruin your race, if you weren’t ready for them.  This year, probably the best tracks to date, Tim Hopkin’s crew has done some really good work, mixing in new ideas, while retaining some of the most fun parts of the race course.  Kudos to the entire organization for a great weekend.

Saturday: I’ve never gotten out of bed for a race at 9 am.  That was awesome.  I’ve also never packed for a race the morning of.  That was less awesome, but knowing I had the time to do it, as pretty cool.  The race went well.  I managed to avoid stupid crashes, and had no mechanical failures (first time I’ve had such a race in November!).  I didn’t feel great during my warm-up, but I could feel some snap in the old legs.  During the race I felt fantastic.  What I need to focus more on, however, is being aggressive when I have people trying to ride in my skinsuit.  I didn’t get an awful start, but I should have moved up a few more spots.  After the race I was completely shelled.  I haven’t put in an effort like that in a long, long time.  I didn’t finish well, but that will come.  32/60(ish)

Sunday: The call-ups were bizarre today.  An individual, who shall remain nameless – to protect his dignity – was called to the second row.  A collective baffled exhortation escaped the massed peloton.  It was amusing.  My start was actually quite good.  I moved up reasonably well on the pavement.  I had an inside spot, and I ducked in to the first left hand tun (a wide 180) with the full expectation of running over someone’s helmet.  Luckily dude about three people to the right crashed, and brought half the field to a complete stop.  I sneaked past, pushing a maximal effort to attach myself to the now lead-group of 30-or so riders.  As near as I knew, I was sitting in the Top-20, and feeling comfortable.  That was unexpected, and totally awesome.  We hit the barriers, wriggled through a couple of tight, swoopy turns and started the approach to the run-up.  Well, the rest of the field did.  There was a sharp, bumpy corner around an electrical box before the run-up.  I must have hit the rut just right, because my front tire popped off and dumped me.  I righted myself, grabbed my sunglasses, punched the shifter back in place, re-attached the lever, mostly (That’s number 7 for those keeping score), and started to push the bike.  The contraption wouldn’t roll. At that point, I noticed the chunk of tubular molesting the brake arms.  I rolled it back on, after everyone, their brother, their dog, their brother’s dog, and some dude’s decrepit aunt, Sally (in her Hoveround wheelchair no less!) passed me.  Luckily the pits were fairly close, so I gingerly rode back (no hair-color puns intended), and grabbed my pit bike.  I started riding tempo.  I figured now was as good an opportunity as any to work on railing turns, and minimizing brake use.  After what felt like a small eternity (half a lap, roughly) I found some rabbits and began to chase.  Each rider, and some groups, I passed, I started riding harder.  Today was one of those rare days in the corners where everything was firing on all cylinders.  I was railing turns, and felt amazing.  I had another crash, when the too-little-pressure ass-end fishtailed on an off-camber, and on the final trip up the infamous “Wall” before the start finish.

All in all, the weekend was pretty awesome.  I stayed in a quaint little cabin  with some new friends.  I had another trip to one of my favorite pizza places.  The Faux-Irish bar served me a Chimay Trappist.  I raced my bike, twice.  Yeah, that’s a pretty good weekend.