Fix My Sport!

Something stinks.

And (for once) it's not my orthopedic boot.

But...but...but...he just won the 'effing Vuelta!

And this isn't about doping...

Geox-TMC riders shocked
The Italian shoemaker decides to pull its money out of team, leaving riders and staff scrambling for jobs.

This is in the wake of September's bombshell from Bob Stapleton that the winningest team of the last four years—HTC-Highroad (née Columbia-Highroad) had to shut down for lack of sponsorship. Let's put that into perspective: the team that won more than 440 races, providing exceptional exposure for its sponsors, folded.

A lot of pixels have been generated about HTC. Many not-so-labored comparisons to the NY Yankees and Manchester United have been made.

But no one is talking about Geox!

(And heaven forbid that I reference the Dr. Moreau-style vivisectionist horrorshow of the Leopard-Trek-RadioShack-Nissan-smallfurryanimalsfromAlphaCentuari merger. The announcements were hysterical!)

Bookends

HTC was the winningest. Geox was a an up-and-comer, certainly more than a wannabe, had a small cadre of quality riders (Sastre, Menchov...Cobo?), and they seemed to never get their wheels steadily underneath. Even so, they showed some mettle in the Giro, and famously won the Vuelta. From a exposure standpoint, they provided.

So what happened?

Geox (a shoe manufacturer) determined that cycling was no longer strategic.

Okay.

A business is a business and it needs to operate accordingly.

Hmmm...

When will cycling realize that it's business model is broken? Others have written more knowledgeably about this. I defer to commentaries like Joe Lindsey's Boulder Report.

Cycling needs a plan. I don't trust McQuaid or the UCI to get anything right. They make rules without consultation with those most affected by those changes (Get rid of race radios! They're killing the sport! ...really? Really?), they promote events that don't make any sense whatsoever (Tour of Bejing...really? Really?), and the entire doping mis-management fiasco cluster embarrassment (Contador and myriad others...really? Really?).

So, how does cycling get the grubby UCI paws out of...cycling?

The sport needs a sea change. I hate to admit it (because I consider him to be an insufferable prat), but Jonathan Vaughters makes a lot of sense.

TV revenue needs to be shared. The teams need to have an entirely different foundation upon which they can build a real structure.

Think about the history of cycling, and what do you remember? Riders and teams. But how many of those team's still exist?

Whither Eddy's Molteni?

Where's Coppi's Bianchi? Merckx's Moltini (or Faema)? Hinault's Renault (or La Vie Claire)? LeMond's Z (or ADR)? Armstrong's Motorola (or Postal, or Disco)?

How many of the current teams will be around in two years? Three years? Five years?

If Highroad couldn't cut it...what team will?

Beauty

My sport is beautiful. It's a compelling blend of elegance and suffering. Remember the old Wide, Wide, World of Sports intro? That's cycling. It's the thrill and the agony. Every event can become epic in a split second. Every event has the potential for...greatness.

Someone, please, fix my sport. Give it what it needs to thrive...not merely survive. Stop the squabbling, grow up, and realize your potential!

This sport is greater than we've seen. I dearly hope to see its becoming.

How Do You Deal With It?

Author's Note: So many of my posts are of the quasi-heroic nature. Life isn't like that, though. It's filled with bouts of doubt and insecurity. I'm right in the middle of one right now. It's where I've been since Pelotonia. I haven't written about Day 2 for a reason...

I'm just over half-way.

7 out of 12.

58%.

Then I start rehab.

--sigh--

I'm recovering from a major injury...again. My third in three years. You'd think I be wiser about it...about recovery.

I'm not.

I'm still learning.

And I'm doing a bad job of it.

What's Going On

I have a torn calf muscle.

Sounds pedestrian, doesn't it?

How's this: I tore part of the muscle from the bone. Think "chicken leg". More specifically, think: "gnaw on chicken leg."

Yep. I excel in the art of the injury.

Simple Is Never Enough

Two years ago it was a torn labrum (shoulder) with a detached bicep tendon. Not enough for me...nope! I had to take it to another level! Two weeks into recovery I developed bronchial pneumonia. You try coughing up buckets of phlegm with an immobilized, excruciatingly painful arm. Five weeks out of work, a frozen shoulder, and scary rehab followed. I rock!

Last year? Same shoulder...still with limited range of motion...and I shatter the collarbone--not broke, shattered five to seven pieces. Surgery. Titanium plate. Later x-rays revealed...the bone not fusing, so all I have holding the shoulder together are six screws, a thin, green (!) titanium plate, and my atrophied muscles. I am awesomeness personified!

So here I am, recovering once again.

You'd think I be wiser about recovery.

I'm not.

Honesty-time

Every Snickers I sneak. Every morning I stay in bed. Every "bad for you" food I devour. Every blog post I consider, and abandon, betrays me.

I'm weak stuff.

Sure, I still work out. Fits and starts. No regularity. No plan. No cardio (I can't!) Strictly weights.

I keep trying to convince myself I'm enjoying it. I keep looking at myself in the mirror seeking...something.

Validation?

Strength?

Focus, desire, intensity?

Nada. All I see is a flabby forty-something with little self-control and no drive. Where's the fire?

Who is this guy?

I don't recognize him, and I certainly don't like him.

So, back to the beginning.

How do I deal with it?

Badly.

Something's got to change...

A Vision of Loveliness, and Fond Memories

I was in Los Angeles for a conference. Walking down Hollywood Boulevard. Ray Davies's brilliance echoed in my head.

I stepped over Lou Costello. I tripped on Mel Tormé. I slipped on Ingrid Bergman.

I watched tourists take photos (of what, I have no idea). I listened to shills hustle. I dodged meth-hazed, vacant-eyed locals. I witnessed arrests and pat-downs.

I spotted her.

I stopped breathing.

I stopped moving.

Waves of joy crashed over me!

I blinked.

When my eyes opened, she was still there.

Wow.

I smiled a smile of pure delight!

There she was! Right in front of me! A vision from my childhood. A memory as fond as any I'll ever have. Here! In LA!

But...

She's wasn't pretty.

Let me re-phrase that: she was pretty battered.

The years had not been kind to her.

But she endured.

She's tough, that way.

She's no longer bright, shiny, or new.

But she's beautiful to me.

Here she is:

Curvacious AND bombproof!

She's a Ross Compact. She's a sister of my first multi-gear bike.

Mine was yellow.

I rode her...everywhere.

Bounding. Exploring. Romping. On road. Off road. BMX tracks. Woods. Trails. Over jumps. Through creeks. Rain. Snow. Who cared?

I remembered racing her. I pedaled furiously through my neighborhood, winning! The competition? Whomever I imagined!

Somehow, the lack of bar tape suits her.
I love those crazy brake extenders on the top bar!

She was my companion on wild adventures. My wanderlust and imagination took us far beyond suburbia. Her rat-trap and my backpack carried the necessities: lunches, soccer ball, baseball mitt (and bat!), basketball, tennis racket, towel, sleeping bag, books, water...everything.

She was bombproof. The wheels may have wobbled some (riding down stairs will do that), but she had friction shifters and heavy-duty brakes. In all the years I had her, I don't think I ever chaged her brake pads. And a cable adjustment? I never heard of such a thing! I don't know that I ever had more than one or two flats. Bombproof. She was bombproof.

We'd crashed—spectacularly. A lot. I skinned my knees and chin and whacked my shins with the spiky pedals. Games and races with neighborhood kids would regularly see me dismounting at speed and thrusting her aside as I ran...somewhere.

Underneath that pedal is where I wore through
the chainstay on my yellow bomber!
What memories!

With all the battering, I don't think anything remained in-line. I know the handlebars were bent and permanently off-center. The seat was tattered. The shifters were constantly out of position. One crank was bent so badly that it clicked against the chainstay until it had worn a deep cut into the metal.

But she rode. She was mine.

She was special.

And here was her sister, in LA, chained to a stand with a flat rear tire. No bar tape, but with end plugs inserted.

She's someone's baby.

I hope her owner knows what a treasure she is.

So, You've Never Been Here Before?

It's on.

Welcome!

I'm Wheelsucker.

I'm a guy, a dad, a cyclist, and a cancer survivor.

This is my blog.

Well, it's one of my blogs.

I have another blog. It's more along professional lines. It has a (mildly) clever title, but it needs more content. It hasn't matured yet. It's still seeking its voice.

But I digress.

Sorry, I do that a lot.

I'm delighted that you're here!

I suspect that some of you have come here from Pelotonia's "The Rider" blog.

Welcome. Welcome! WELCOME!

Take a look around! It's not dangerous. It may entertain. It may...affect you. It's a labor of love, and I am overjoyed when I get feedback!

Wheelsucker Diaries is an outlet for me. It's my place to write about thriving, not just surviving.

I also write a little cycling—amateur and pro. It gets a bit silly, sometimes.

If you're looking for Pelotonia stuff, you can select "Pelotonia" under "Labels". (It's down there on the right, beneath the Blog Archive.)

Leading up to Pelotonia 11, I wrote ten posts in ten days.

They started with my celebrating my 5th year cancer-free.

They concluded with a re-posting of a Pelotonia 10 post (that I couldn't improve).

They cover sexiness, coolness, geekiness, money, expectations, commitment, and they culminate in a four-part (yeah, it's epic) ride report about Pelotonia 11 (Day 1).

So, again, I welcome you! Poke around. Stay awhile!

Share and enjoy!

Two Words: Mark Cavendish

Long-time club teammates battled
for the rainbow Jersey.

Frantic. Maniac. Terrifying. Blinding. Breathless.

That describes the final 500 meters of the 2011 World Cycling Championships.

If you haven't seen it, you're missing a finish for the ages.

Uphill, after a final right-hand turn into the final strait, the final bunch sprint was always going to go to the man with the most power.

"Of course," you say, "isn't that always the case?"

Nope.

Sometimes luck has her say. Sometimes guile plays its part. Sometimes it's pure speed. Sometime it's power. And rarely, it's because of a team. The rainbow jersey doesn't always go to the fastest...but it always goes where it is most deserved.

In 2009 Cadel Evans won, with a clever attack at precisely the right moment. He soloed to victory as the other contenders squabbled among themselves.

In 2010 Thor Hushovd won from a small group, using his massive power to carry his massive carriage over the final climbs in Geelong. Power and guile won the day Down Under.

This year was predicted to be a day for the sprinters. The course was largely flat, and it was certainly not difficult enough to cause a selection. The final ramp to the finish, however, was reminiscent of several stages in the past two Tours. It had enough slope to slow the final sprint, making the effort longer than a classic flat sprint. As a result, while many believed that Cavendish could win, others pointed to the possibility of Hushovd repeating last year's triumph.

Predictions are like opinions, everyone has one. And they're usually worth less than the paper they were written upon.

Cavendish won because he is an amazing talent, and because he was the undisputed leader of an eight-man team from Great Britain. That team worked. They controlled the race all day, and they protected Cav until that final turn. Much like the HTC-Columbia train that dominated sprints over the past few years, Great Britain lined up and drove the pack.

Cavendish said after the race: "There couldn't be another
result, after the way the guys rode today. We had
eight of the best guys in the world...They took the
race on from start to finish and we won."
Truer, more graceful words have seldom been
uttered by a newly-crowned World Champion.

It was lovely to watch.

It was inspiring.

And it is a new chapter in the ongoing saga: "Cycling Is a Team Sport."

So, back to Cavendish.

In the final 500 meters, he found himself alone and boxed-in by the remaining contenders. His experience pointed the way, and his 1600+ watt legs powered him. He had to start his kick earlier than is his preference, and if the race were just a few meters longer, he would have been passed by his club teammate Matt Goss.

But if wishes were fishes we'd never do dishes.

And the win went to the most deserving: the fastest rider from the best team. party in Piccadilly!

So, look out world! Cycling's enfant terrible is in the rainbow jersey!

Chapeau!

(And doesn't this make the 2012 Olympics even MORE interesting?)