My European adventure has ended. I write this sitting at my Mom's house in Moab, Utah. My trip back to America took four days, enough time to reflect and glean some knowledge from my travels and tribulations. Here's a list, with bullets, list form, straight from my brain to yours:
-Being a bike racer in Belgium lends you some instant credibility, so use it.
-Every post-pubescent under the age of thirty in Belgium speaks English.
-There are bike paths running along every canal and river in Belgium and they are usually the best way to ride to a destination.
-Unless you are in the top ten of American professional cyclists in America, don't expect to win in Belgium. Eric Tonkin's simple advice proved invaluable - stay positive and remember that you're lucky to be racing in Belgium.
-Preregister for UCI races. It will expedite things and you will get money to help with travel - that's right - money.
-Make a "supporter card" printed on card stock to give out at races. It will up your credibility and you will have fans (I'm not joking).
-If you have options, choose a rental room or apartment carefully. Things to consider - water pressure/hotness, space for bikes, adequate heating, proximity to quality food, a functional kitchen.
-Wieler Bond Vlaanderen is the Flemish cycling federation. You will need to buy a licence, 10 Euros, available at any race. To get a license you will need an UCI 'International' license and a letter of permission to race in Europe from your home federation. The Wieler Bond has a good website.
-Tubular wheels/tires are mandatory to be competitive in cyclocross. A mud tread is practically never necessary.
-more to come...
Monday, January 26, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Hell and Back
I rode to Roubaix yesterday to see the famed finish of the Paris-Roubaix bike race. Paris-Roubaix is a 160ish mile race that happens every April, it is considered by most to be the hardest one-day bike race. It was fitting, then, that my ride to it's finish and back was one one of the hardest I've ever one. From Gent, Roubaix is about 50 miles southwest. The Leie River runs directly there and, being Belgium, there i a bike path along the river bank. Also very Belgian is the constant head and cross winds that blow all the way there. Below is a picture of Donny in the wind, note the angle of his body to the ground.
Going there we averaged something like 12 miles per hour, normally I think we would average 18. It was very windy. Donny was feeling good all day and pushed the pace. I knew I was not feeling good and ate and drank as frequently as I could. Feeding was difficult though because I couldn't ride no-hands for fear of being blown over.
We reached France and the weather cleared up. Having no actual directions, we consulted a bus station map. Soon we were there, the Roubaix Velodrome. Because there was a cyclocross race there the previous day the gates were open for maintenance workers, and we slipped into the hallowed grounds. The velodrome and it's surrounding grounds are very neat and well kept. The manicured infield and array of flags lend it the feel of a classical stadium, a place for civilized sport. I guess it's irony that makes it such a suitable finish for Paris-Roubaix. The racers ride into the velodrome bleeding and plastered with mud and the fans applaud from the covered stands, snacking on fries and croissant.
Donny and I had no such greeting. We rode a few laps on the track and set off again.
This was a great time to get lost and we took the opportunity. With a nice detour, we eventually got back on the river bike path and made haste to get home before dark. Donny got a couple flat tires and both of us ran out of food. A tail wind helped us along. It was clear we would have an hour of riding in the dark. Crossing the bridge into Gent a switch flipped somewhere and my body and mind started shutting down. We had started at 11:00 and we reached Gent at 6:00. I was running on fumes. Donny remained upbeat, thrilled to be having a day of boundless energy. I was less thrilled to hear about it. The final challenge of the day was getting my cursed keys out of my cursed pocket and into the cursed lock. All of this cursing was merely mumbled of course, I has long since resorted to grunting to communicate.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Press Release: Team HP Chiro/Hammer Nutrition Releases 'Verbose' Press Release
Portland, OR- As only Team HP Chiro could, they released an unflinching press release designed to draw in unsuspecting readers. While some called the piece “fluff jounalism”, others looked deeper. In the pages of said press release readers found a recap of the team's achievements in 2008, a look forward to 2009, a tally of the team's riders, and a candid depiction of their sponsors.
The piece started with a gritty look at the team's new riders, including Oregon riders Patrick Marzullo, Jason Riffle, and Matt Willhite. Next, readers were reminded of the teams returning members – Aaron Coker, Seth Hosmer, Quinn Keogh, Kyle Valenta, and Donald Reeb. Also detailed in the report were the rigorous processes by which new members were selected. It was revealed that team riders endured grueling weekend group rides in Oregon's biting cold and rain, so called team building exercises, not unlike those practiced by Navy SEALS.
Upon reading the 2008 season recap, one reader stated, “I was so pumped to see the team take the Oregon TT and Pursuit titles, it was really a high point. I was blown away by all the road race wins... Amazing.” Another reader took a more authoritative stance, “Look, if you win that many races, that consistently, you have to win Best All-around Rider in the State, it's simple math. That's why HP Chiro won the Overall and Road titles, simple doggone math.” Looking forward, the report explicitly stated HP Chiro's intent to continue winning races across the Northwest in 2009.
The most chilling element of the press release was Hammer HEED. Details of the team riders' unabashed and consistent use the performance boosting beverage has raised eyebrows. One rider, speaking anonymously, stated, “I like the the lemon-lime flavor best. The unflavored is also great mixed with, you know, fruit juice.” Critics have called such wanton endorsement a conflict of interest. Refuting such claims, the team's high-cadence spin doctor, Quinn Keogh, stated, “Hammer Nutrition stands behind us, and we proudly stand behind Hammer Nutrition.”
It was not clear at the time of the press release whether the team's other sponsors – Health & Performance Chiropractic, Segal Bicycles, Alpine Mortgage, and Ironclad Performance Wear – would become embroiled in the dispute. It seems unlikely, however, as victories in the near future are expected to silence all critics.
-###-
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Saturday, January 10, 2009
Show and Tell
Home sweet home. Among local cycling folks it is know as "the farm."
You can see the chicken pen. House was built in 1857, I believe. Originally a farm house, the city has grown around it. It still has more land than any other property around
My companion here on the farm. I named her Turtle. She was very sweet, at least to me. She has a new home now though, because she was eating chickens (not the crazed look in her eye).
The Ugly Duckling, all grown up
Friday, January 9, 2009
Why?
Jour·ney·man Etymology: Middle English, from journey journey, a day's labor + man Date: 15th century
1 : a worker who has learned a trade and works for another person usually by the day
2 : an experienced reliable worker, athlete, or performer especially as distinguished from one who is brilliant or colorful.
I am sick and tired, literally. I have a head cold and I am fatigued from training in the cold. To reverse this condition I have been doing nothing. I'm on the koala training plan - sleep, eat, move slowly, sleep. I just wish my lentil stew got me as high as the eucalyptus gets the koala, cause I've been eating lots of it. Maybe it is working, because now I see that the koala also looks like a Chinese sage and, like a Chinese sage, I've been reflecting on my life. Unlike a sage, I've been reflecting on my bike racing life.
This year I will be living the nomadic life of the journeyman racer for the first time. I hope to be marginally employed, homeless, living in the clothes on my back, maybe in a van if I'm lucky. The squares in the audience won't believe it, but this is a step I've been working toward for a few years. I'm lucky to have the luxury of a simple life.
What has brought me to this point, this promontory, this abyss (don't worry, it's a good abyss)? Many things, some simple, some not. Michael Jordan is a prime factor, his awesomeness touched me at the impressionable age of seven and inspired me to be a hard working mini athlete and, later, a "problem gambler." Later, when I had realized that my ancestors weren't tall enough for me to play basketball, I saw a new path in the pages of Mountain Biker magazine. I've always had a soft spot for the shiny and high-end, so when my friend brought the 1996 Interbike issue to class, I was as wall-eyed as any barrel fish. I became a Wraith, seeking the one [purple anodized chain] ring to rule them all... my precious.
Mountain biking also brought me into the world of OBRA or the Oregon Bicycle Racing Association. As a 12 year old, I didn't know what was going on around me. Now I can see what a fertile bed OBRA makes for the state's cycling youth. I didn't win any races as a junior beginner but I had so much fun being cheered on and oogling bikes that I kept going back for more. Those were heady times for a young cyclofiend; more suspension configuration than I could handle sometimes and the v-brakes, oh the v-brakes. Wait, wait, did you say four inches of travel? With what color elastomer? Somehow, I never even saw a road bike until I was 19 or 20. I'm sure they were there for all my years of bike shop loitering, but I can't remember any. It was like they were in a different wing of the museum, I was in American Contemporary and they were in Rococo, not much crossover, at least not to my simple mind.
I drifted away from bikes as I moved around in high school. At college in Hawai'i I bought my first road bike. I got a steel Masi with downtube shifters and started doing long rides. I soon had more interest in riding than studying and decided that, rather than divide my attention, I should just ride bikes. I knew OBRA would be a good way to get back into racing, so I returned to Eugene. I also knew I wasn't interested in losing beginner class races. Any endurance sport has a development period of at least five to 10 years, so I signed up for the 10 year plan, figuring I would get a few years of good racing in my late twenties.
My first step was to get a job as a bike messenger. The stop and start nature of the riding was not ideal training, but I got used to riding all day, eating well and dealing with bad weather. That year I had success in the intermediate mountain bike class but found that the longer expert races were too hard for me. I also bought a steel Basso road bike and started doing the local criteriums. Road racing was a new challenge and I found it's higher intensity to suite my natural abilities.
My first real road race, something longer than 50 miles, was the first day of the Eugene Celebration stage race. For the week before the race I had consulted everyone I knew who had done a stage race, going to different shops, picking the elders' brains. Most found it amusing that I wanted to know how to win a stage race. My naiveté was genuine, however, and once they stopped laughing I got good advice, that is, do as little as possible and take excellent care of yourself between races. I took it to heart, massaging my legs every night, eating well and preparing carefully. I borrowed a bike from the venerable Joe Peck, an aluminum/carbon Trek with STI shifters, and got down to business.
That weekend of racing was exceedingly gratifying. Let me put it in perspective. They (crack journeymen) say that the first hit of the crack pipe is the best and that the subsequent craving to reach that same euphoria is the root of their desperate state. Another passionate group, sexing humans, generally say the opposite, that things don't get euphoric until they've practiced a bit and developed some chops. Believe it or not, this is where bike racing comes back into the picture, between crack and sex. See, training is like masturbating and racing is the real deal. Unlike "doing-it" (as the kids say), winning a race doesn't get sweeter with repetition, in fact, the first time is the hook, a'la crack. But, like coitus, the next victory isn't lesser than the first, it just enhances the bond. This is getting complicated. Basically, if you want to know how it feels to win a bike race, pick a highly addictive hard drug that you haven't done yet (if applicable) and imbibe therein while "on the good foot, doing the bad thing," with the one you love.
Now, if you're still with me, imagine three "victories" in less than 24 hours and you'll have an idea of how fun my final day of racing was that weekend. I won the crit, I won the final road race and I won the stage race overall. Whether it's crack or sex or winning, three times in one day is a plenty. I was in a hazy stupor for a while afterwards.
In fact, I'm still in the stupor. I'm still chasing that high. Hopefully soon I'll be chasing it in a van, down by a river.
1 : a worker who has learned a trade and works for another person usually by the day
2 : an experienced reliable worker, athlete, or performer especially as distinguished from one who is brilliant or colorful.
I am sick and tired, literally. I have a head cold and I am fatigued from training in the cold. To reverse this condition I have been doing nothing. I'm on the koala training plan - sleep, eat, move slowly, sleep. I just wish my lentil stew got me as high as the eucalyptus gets the koala, cause I've been eating lots of it. Maybe it is working, because now I see that the koala also looks like a Chinese sage and, like a Chinese sage, I've been reflecting on my life. Unlike a sage, I've been reflecting on my bike racing life.
This year I will be living the nomadic life of the journeyman racer for the first time. I hope to be marginally employed, homeless, living in the clothes on my back, maybe in a van if I'm lucky. The squares in the audience won't believe it, but this is a step I've been working toward for a few years. I'm lucky to have the luxury of a simple life.
What has brought me to this point, this promontory, this abyss (don't worry, it's a good abyss)? Many things, some simple, some not. Michael Jordan is a prime factor, his awesomeness touched me at the impressionable age of seven and inspired me to be a hard working mini athlete and, later, a "problem gambler." Later, when I had realized that my ancestors weren't tall enough for me to play basketball, I saw a new path in the pages of Mountain Biker magazine. I've always had a soft spot for the shiny and high-end, so when my friend brought the 1996 Interbike issue to class, I was as wall-eyed as any barrel fish. I became a Wraith, seeking the one [purple anodized chain] ring to rule them all... my precious.
Mountain biking also brought me into the world of OBRA or the Oregon Bicycle Racing Association. As a 12 year old, I didn't know what was going on around me. Now I can see what a fertile bed OBRA makes for the state's cycling youth. I didn't win any races as a junior beginner but I had so much fun being cheered on and oogling bikes that I kept going back for more. Those were heady times for a young cyclofiend; more suspension configuration than I could handle sometimes and the v-brakes, oh the v-brakes. Wait, wait, did you say four inches of travel? With what color elastomer? Somehow, I never even saw a road bike until I was 19 or 20. I'm sure they were there for all my years of bike shop loitering, but I can't remember any. It was like they were in a different wing of the museum, I was in American Contemporary and they were in Rococo, not much crossover, at least not to my simple mind.
I drifted away from bikes as I moved around in high school. At college in Hawai'i I bought my first road bike. I got a steel Masi with downtube shifters and started doing long rides. I soon had more interest in riding than studying and decided that, rather than divide my attention, I should just ride bikes. I knew OBRA would be a good way to get back into racing, so I returned to Eugene. I also knew I wasn't interested in losing beginner class races. Any endurance sport has a development period of at least five to 10 years, so I signed up for the 10 year plan, figuring I would get a few years of good racing in my late twenties.
My first step was to get a job as a bike messenger. The stop and start nature of the riding was not ideal training, but I got used to riding all day, eating well and dealing with bad weather. That year I had success in the intermediate mountain bike class but found that the longer expert races were too hard for me. I also bought a steel Basso road bike and started doing the local criteriums. Road racing was a new challenge and I found it's higher intensity to suite my natural abilities.
My first real road race, something longer than 50 miles, was the first day of the Eugene Celebration stage race. For the week before the race I had consulted everyone I knew who had done a stage race, going to different shops, picking the elders' brains. Most found it amusing that I wanted to know how to win a stage race. My naiveté was genuine, however, and once they stopped laughing I got good advice, that is, do as little as possible and take excellent care of yourself between races. I took it to heart, massaging my legs every night, eating well and preparing carefully. I borrowed a bike from the venerable Joe Peck, an aluminum/carbon Trek with STI shifters, and got down to business.
That weekend of racing was exceedingly gratifying. Let me put it in perspective. They (crack journeymen) say that the first hit of the crack pipe is the best and that the subsequent craving to reach that same euphoria is the root of their desperate state. Another passionate group, sexing humans, generally say the opposite, that things don't get euphoric until they've practiced a bit and developed some chops. Believe it or not, this is where bike racing comes back into the picture, between crack and sex. See, training is like masturbating and racing is the real deal. Unlike "doing-it" (as the kids say), winning a race doesn't get sweeter with repetition, in fact, the first time is the hook, a'la crack. But, like coitus, the next victory isn't lesser than the first, it just enhances the bond. This is getting complicated. Basically, if you want to know how it feels to win a bike race, pick a highly addictive hard drug that you haven't done yet (if applicable) and imbibe therein while "on the good foot, doing the bad thing," with the one you love.
Now, if you're still with me, imagine three "victories" in less than 24 hours and you'll have an idea of how fun my final day of racing was that weekend. I won the crit, I won the final road race and I won the stage race overall. Whether it's crack or sex or winning, three times in one day is a plenty. I was in a hazy stupor for a while afterwards.
In fact, I'm still in the stupor. I'm still chasing that high. Hopefully soon I'll be chasing it in a van, down by a river.
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