I have no explanation. It is simply there.
Pour les vaincre, messieurs, il nous faut de l'audace, encore de l'audace, et toujours de l'audace...!"
--Danton
(To defeat them, gentlemen, we need audacity, still more audacity, and audacity forever...!)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
L'audace
I have no explanation. It is simply there.
Finally, an Answer
So, how did the accident happen?
Last evening I stopped by to visit with my Tuesday night ride group, out of Race Pace in Columbia . (They had a great turnout, by the way. it looked like there were nearly 30 riders!)
I wanted to say "hi!", and use the friendliness to help lift my spirits. It's no secret and no surprise that I have been feeling depressed since my injury. The weather is spectacular, and last year at this time I was routinely riding 40+ miles two and three days a week.
One of the guys (he races for Kelly's) rode up and told me that he saw my accident.
I nearly fell over (again).
"Really?' I exclaimed, "tell me what the hell happened!"
He told me that we were approaching the line (he was on the sidelines watching the finish), three across (just as my memory tells me), and that the guy on my right (the one who went down with me) "crossed over into you for no clear reason. You touched wheels, then you went over the bars."
I was still in my line, and the other guy crossed over.
I slept very well last night (thank you very much) knowing that it was not something that I did to cause the accident.
I knew it was bothering me, but I didn't realize that I was troubled by it.
Now I know.
Next year, I'm winning that race...
...and it won't be in a sprint.
Last evening I stopped by to visit with my Tuesday night ride group, out of Race Pace in Columbia . (They had a great turnout, by the way. it looked like there were nearly 30 riders!)
I wanted to say "hi!", and use the friendliness to help lift my spirits. It's no secret and no surprise that I have been feeling depressed since my injury. The weather is spectacular, and last year at this time I was routinely riding 40+ miles two and three days a week.
One of the guys (he races for Kelly's) rode up and told me that he saw my accident.
I nearly fell over (again).
"Really?' I exclaimed, "tell me what the hell happened!"
He told me that we were approaching the line (he was on the sidelines watching the finish), three across (just as my memory tells me), and that the guy on my right (the one who went down with me) "crossed over into you for no clear reason. You touched wheels, then you went over the bars."
So. There it is...
I was still in my line, and the other guy crossed over.
I slept very well last night (thank you very much) knowing that it was not something that I did to cause the accident.
I knew it was bothering me, but I didn't realize that I was troubled by it.
Now I know.
Next year, I'm winning that race...
...and it won't be in a sprint.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Race Report: Carl Dolan
You've seen the movie a thousand times:
Right hand clutched left shoulder. "Where's my bike?", I mused.
"Ouch," I added.
One second I was surging for the line. The next second I was watching the race from a rather unique perspective.
How? What? Huh?
Morning dawned cold for the 17th Annual Carl Dolan Memorial/Howard County Library Spring Classic, hosted by DC Velo (there's a mouthful). Temperatures in the upper 30s greeted me when I racked my bike onto my car for the short journey to Columbia Gateway Center.
Like my first cyclocross race, my first road race (practically) would be in my backyard. Even though local, I was still up before dawn for a solid oatmeal and salmon breakfast (lots of honey and chilies, too!). If I was going to get into the 0800 race, I needed to fuel up early.
I was wait listed for the day's races. Circumstances not worth detailing prevented my registration. Though on standby, I was still having kittens Saturday night.
Amped and nervous, I approached registration as soon as they opened and declared myself ready, willing, and available for the first race. I was secretly pleased by the chill air, as I suspected it would keep some folks in bed. I also knew that a raft of riders had ridden the Baker's Dozen race the day previous. They were likely no-shows.
Carl Dolan is a 10-lap, clockwise circuit race around the Columbia Gateway office park oval. The road has two features of interest: a downhill, 90degree turn and a small hill leading to the finish. The turn is relatively easy. The concern is that every man needs to keep his line as the crowded peloton comes through it. The hill is a little over half a kilometer long. It is not steep, it's simply there. The finish line is at a false flat near the top of the hill.
Warm up?
I took a "warm-up" lap in the frigid air. I was ill-prepared. As I cut the wind, my fingers screamed in the cold. By the time I made the decisive downhill turn I could barely shift gears. My digits were useless. I was wearing a softshell gilet over my skinsuit (over a merino base layer), so my body was reasonably warm. It was my fingers that killed!
With 10 minutes to go they opened the race to the wait-listers. I paid my fees, got my bib number, and one of the hosts helped me to pin on my bib.
Minor problem. Once I took off my gilet, the wind viciously cut through my skinsuit. It was cold. So, when I went back to the car I quickly took off the gilet and wore it under the skinsuit. Fashionably obscene, but completely practical.
Did I mention I was freezing?
I got to the start and stood in the back row. We were seconds from the bell, so I didn't even have time to get nervous. And off we went!
And they're off!
I achieved my first goal—clipping in without landing on my arse. There were a lot of slow clippers and slow starters, so withing the first minute I was directly in the middle of the pack.
My plan was simple: sit in and survive. I had no idea what to expect from anything—the course, the riders, or myself. I was determined to observe and learn from the experience.
Nervously, the pack approached the downhill prior to the turn. In close quarters (and I do mean close) we accelerated, spreading out vertically, while the horizontal lines remained. Mercifully, everyone held their lines and we were through!
Furiously pumping out of their saddles, the pack surged downhill to the base of the "climb". Much ado about nothing. Everyone re-formed during the climb and we crossed the line to start lap number two in much the same condition as lap one.
Several more laps passed in this manner. I experimented with my pack position for the downhill turn, on one lap I even came through it first. I was poking and prodding, finding gaps and filling them, while watching the pack and teams interact.
I felt good. Really good. Surprisingly good. So much so that during laps six and seven I removed my knee warmers (one each lap). As we rode the long flat approaching the downhill I dropped to the back, unclipped a pedal, figure-foured my leg over the top bar, and took off the warmer, stuffing it into my jersey. Both times I was able to re-connect with the pack without stress. In fact, the quick sprint enlivened my legs and gave me confidence.
"Here we go" I decided, and I hammered it for the 300 yards to the line.
I easily crossed first (and to this day I have no idea if it truly was a bonus lap), sat up, and coasted. It seemed like a long time before the pack caught me. I let it pass and rejoined somewhere in the middle
"So," I thought, "I think I've got the hang of this."
I knew I could hang in, but could I compete? I committed myself to stay near the front. I'd see what would happen. I expected chaos, but I thought that if I was near the front, a top 10 finish would be cool.
I was, after all, just sitting in.
We finished lap 9 and got the bell for the final lap. Things got interesting. Two teams jockeyed for position near the front. Since I was alone, I was able to slide into the seams and hold a position. No elbows necessary. As we approached the turn I was electrically attuned to everything. I saw the two lines in front of me, felt my machine working smoothly beneath my beating engine, and sensed the approach of the pack behind me.
We came out of the turn and the teams hit the afterburners. I was in the slipstream and got pulled along at more than 38mph. I barely had to pedal as the huge draft sucked me forward. Riders took their pulls and dropped from the line, tossed out of the passing train like so much garbage.
I was watching a battle of attrition between the two teams, and I was right in the middle of it.
At about 500 yards it all dissolved into individual efforts. The trains were gone, and 5 of us remained. I was still riding someone's wheel when we came to 300 yards. Someone attacked. Two went with him.
It was the three of us for the line.
I had a lot left in the tank as I took up position between the two other sprinters. There was plenty of room as we approached the line, three across.
On to Tales of Titanium Caterpillars→
The orchestral score swelled. The crescendo was near. Months of training and sacrifice were about to peak. Our hero (good, noble, dedicated) was about to achieve victory. His comeback was nearly complete.We were on the cathartic threshold. Tears welled, but did not yet fall. Palms sweated and limbs trembled in anticipation. The apex of tension was upon us.
He powered toward the line. Tunnel-vision. Ears echoed the wind and the sounds of the crowd. Cowbells clanged as he sucked wind deep into his heaving chest. His legs pumped with adrenalized fury. They felt good, warm. No lactic acid burn (yet). No scream to stop. Acceleration.I was sitting upright watching dozens of riders hurtling toward and past me. The kaleidoscope of colors and the whirring buzz of the gears was...pretty.
Three across, they approached the line. Podium already in hand. Victory in reach. In his first race he would be first. He was about to win!
Right hand clutched left shoulder. "Where's my bike?", I mused.
"Ouch," I added.
One second I was surging for the line. The next second I was watching the race from a rather unique perspective.
How? What? Huh?
Morning dawned cold for the 17th Annual Carl Dolan Memorial/Howard County Library Spring Classic, hosted by DC Velo (there's a mouthful). Temperatures in the upper 30s greeted me when I racked my bike onto my car for the short journey to Columbia Gateway Center.
Like my first cyclocross race, my first road race (practically) would be in my backyard. Even though local, I was still up before dawn for a solid oatmeal and salmon breakfast (lots of honey and chilies, too!). If I was going to get into the 0800 race, I needed to fuel up early.
I was wait listed for the day's races. Circumstances not worth detailing prevented my registration. Though on standby, I was still having kittens Saturday night.
Amped and nervous, I approached registration as soon as they opened and declared myself ready, willing, and available for the first race. I was secretly pleased by the chill air, as I suspected it would keep some folks in bed. I also knew that a raft of riders had ridden the Baker's Dozen race the day previous. They were likely no-shows.
Carl Dolan is a 10-lap, clockwise circuit race around the Columbia Gateway office park oval. The road has two features of interest: a downhill, 90degree turn and a small hill leading to the finish. The turn is relatively easy. The concern is that every man needs to keep his line as the crowded peloton comes through it. The hill is a little over half a kilometer long. It is not steep, it's simply there. The finish line is at a false flat near the top of the hill.
Warm up?
I took a "warm-up" lap in the frigid air. I was ill-prepared. As I cut the wind, my fingers screamed in the cold. By the time I made the decisive downhill turn I could barely shift gears. My digits were useless. I was wearing a softshell gilet over my skinsuit (over a merino base layer), so my body was reasonably warm. It was my fingers that killed!
With 10 minutes to go they opened the race to the wait-listers. I paid my fees, got my bib number, and one of the hosts helped me to pin on my bib.
Minor problem. Once I took off my gilet, the wind viciously cut through my skinsuit. It was cold. So, when I went back to the car I quickly took off the gilet and wore it under the skinsuit. Fashionably obscene, but completely practical.
Did I mention I was freezing?
I got to the start and stood in the back row. We were seconds from the bell, so I didn't even have time to get nervous. And off we went!
And they're off!
I achieved my first goal—clipping in without landing on my arse. There were a lot of slow clippers and slow starters, so withing the first minute I was directly in the middle of the pack.
My plan was simple: sit in and survive. I had no idea what to expect from anything—the course, the riders, or myself. I was determined to observe and learn from the experience.
Nervously, the pack approached the downhill prior to the turn. In close quarters (and I do mean close) we accelerated, spreading out vertically, while the horizontal lines remained. Mercifully, everyone held their lines and we were through!
Furiously pumping out of their saddles, the pack surged downhill to the base of the "climb". Much ado about nothing. Everyone re-formed during the climb and we crossed the line to start lap number two in much the same condition as lap one.
Several more laps passed in this manner. I experimented with my pack position for the downhill turn, on one lap I even came through it first. I was poking and prodding, finding gaps and filling them, while watching the pack and teams interact.
I felt good. Really good. Surprisingly good. So much so that during laps six and seven I removed my knee warmers (one each lap). As we rode the long flat approaching the downhill I dropped to the back, unclipped a pedal, figure-foured my leg over the top bar, and took off the warmer, stuffing it into my jersey. Both times I was able to re-connect with the pack without stress. In fact, the quick sprint enlivened my legs and gave me confidence.
"Here we go" I decided, and I hammered it for the 300 yards to the line.
I easily crossed first (and to this day I have no idea if it truly was a bonus lap), sat up, and coasted. It seemed like a long time before the pack caught me. I let it pass and rejoined somewhere in the middle
"So," I thought, "I think I've got the hang of this."
I knew I could hang in, but could I compete? I committed myself to stay near the front. I'd see what would happen. I expected chaos, but I thought that if I was near the front, a top 10 finish would be cool.
I was, after all, just sitting in.
We finished lap 9 and got the bell for the final lap. Things got interesting. Two teams jockeyed for position near the front. Since I was alone, I was able to slide into the seams and hold a position. No elbows necessary. As we approached the turn I was electrically attuned to everything. I saw the two lines in front of me, felt my machine working smoothly beneath my beating engine, and sensed the approach of the pack behind me.
We came out of the turn and the teams hit the afterburners. I was in the slipstream and got pulled along at more than 38mph. I barely had to pedal as the huge draft sucked me forward. Riders took their pulls and dropped from the line, tossed out of the passing train like so much garbage.
I was watching a battle of attrition between the two teams, and I was right in the middle of it.
At about 500 yards it all dissolved into individual efforts. The trains were gone, and 5 of us remained. I was still riding someone's wheel when we came to 300 yards. Someone attacked. Two went with him.
It was the three of us for the line.
I had a lot left in the tank as I took up position between the two other sprinters. There was plenty of room as we approached the line, three across.
I powered toward the line. Tunnel-vision. Ears echoed the wind and the sounds of the crowd. Cowbells clanged as I sucked wind deep into my heaving chest. My legs pumped with adrenalized fury. They felt good, warm. No lactic acid burn (yet). No scream to stop. Acceleration.And what did I win?
Three across, we approached the line. Podium already in hand. Victory in reach. In my first race I would be first. I was about to win!
A broken collarbone.
On to Tales of Titanium Caterpillars→
Friday, April 9, 2010
FLANDERS! (2010 Ronde van Vlaanderen)
Ever. Never-ever.
A race to make a hard man weak. David Millar is shattered →
OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG!
It made this 40-something fanboy (me!) into a pre-pubescent, squealing mass of hysteria.
Greatest. Race. Ever.*
If you didn't see it, you missed a race for the ages. It was spectacular.
Absurd! The favorites break free...can it get better? →
The favorites delivered: Boonen and Cancellera. Mano a mano. Cobbles. Koppenberg. Muur. Those fans. 163 miles.
163 miles on those roads.
Wow
Americans are familiar with the tour and the legends thereof. Lemond and Armstrong made that happen.
But the classics are a world apart. They are a different geography, culture, and climate. They are as hard as it gets. They are ruthless. They reward the strong, the cunning, and the lucky. They're one shot in one day, not many stages over weeks. They're fickle and scary.
How steep is the Koppenberg? 22% near the top.
Look at the pavé! It's not well-groomed tarmac. Look at the hills! They are short and brutal, not long, sinewy and elegant like the mountains of the grand tours.
Pros walk up; and there is no shame!
He's a tourist. Famously, many of the pros will be walking the Koppenberg as well.
In fact, one of the pros from the lead pack hesitated, and had to walk it this past Sunday.
In fact, one of the pros from the lead pack hesitated, and had to walk it this past Sunday.
It Got Better
Boonen and Cancellara broke away. Tom Boonen has the better sprint. Fabian Cancellara is the world time trial champion. To win, Fabulous could not roll to the finish with Boonen. There was only one logical place to attack, on the Muur.
It's a climb so famous, it has several names: Muur van Geraardsbergen (English: Wall of Geraardsbergen/Grammont), Kapelmuur, or Muur-Kapelmuur. Most people know it simply as The Muur.
It sounds so easy: 1 kilometer with an average grade of 7.7%.
However, the official race data tells a different tale: length 475 meters, average 9.3%, max 19.8% (all cobbles).
20%. Cobbles.
Everyone knew it was coming. And it happened. Cancellera rode away.
As Heinrich Haussler wrote in his blog:
...when Cancellara went on the climb and dropped Boonen....I've never seen anything like that before. You look at Boonen - he's the strongest I've seen him in years and he's winning races again but Cancellara didn't even need to stand up or sprint - he wasn't even breathing.
"He wasn't even breathing..."
When the best step up, it's a thrill. When they go head-to-head, it's a spectacle.
And when one can completely dominate the other, such that everyone can say "the best man won on the day," it's the stuff of legend.
Hup! Hup! Ronde van Vlaanderen!
Now, bring on Roubaix!
*Hyperbole recognized, noted, and duly acknowledged...
Black
My high-school girlfriend was fond of saying: "I wear black on the outside, because black is how I feel on the inside."
This is not black. She was not my girlfriend, either →
She loved The Cure, and she was goth long before Shirley Manson perfected the vamp and the 'tude.
Johnny Cash wore black.
AC/DC were Back in Black.
The Damned's Black Album is a gem.
The Stones wanted to Paint It, Black.
Er, Why Black?
I came to cycling during the 80s, when color knew no bounds. Look at that lovely, exuberant lady. Admire the neon! Such grace! Such style!
Doesn't she make you cringe?
Cycling in the 80s meant Greg Lemond, neon green, Cannondale, and Wide World of Sports (replete with John Tesh-penned soundtracks).
If you wore this jersey and listened to John Tesh, you, too, would find solace
wearing black and diving deep within the Johnny Cash discography.
wearing black and diving deep within the Johnny Cash discography.
But today I am older and wiser. So much so that when I picked up a copy of Bicycling magazine and saw an ad insert for Rapha, I was immediately hooked.
Glory, Glory, Halle-Rapha!
Black and white. The photos and the clothes.
No peloton-passing-through-fields-of-Van-Gogh-inspired-sunflowers photos here.
Gritty, essential; that's the Rapha way.
Hyper-idealized reality? Yep.
Pretentious? Sure.
Stylish? Absolutely.
Grey cobbles, not pink pullovers →
Pricey? Check. But their clothes are exceptionally well-constructed using amazingly high-quality materials. And the customer service is old-school (a very welcome surprise).
Rapha is to cycling style as Paris-Roubaix is to the Giro. It's grey, not pink. Frites, not fettuccine. (No disrespect to the Giro, I'm talking about style. )
I love Rapha.
So, Why Do You Wear Black?
Style, baby.
I'm anti-80s (thus defining myself as absolutely 80s).
I'm classic—my little black jersey will never go out of style.
I'm me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)