Altitude effects attitude

Off to Asheville. I'll be thinking of you through the two hours tunnel vision while I climb this thing on Sunday.

So long, suckers! (wait...)

Early hate

This guy is too big an asshole to wait for Thursday.

Toronto columnist Terence Corcoran was almost Jonathan Swift with this obscene twist of logic:

When car drivers cruise....on Saturday night, their metabolisms are more or less flat-lined. They just sit there, burning up little energy personally but paying for the cost of their automobile's carbon footprint via taxes and fees. Bike riders grinding up the same route burn up a lot more carbohydrates, which their bodies convert into carbon dioxide and exhale, adding to their carbon footprint. The volumes are small, but it all adds up, and bicyclists don't pay.

But this is mixed in with some legitimate gripes about rude and thoughtless cyclists riding on the sidewalk and blowing stoplights and such, so even if it was satire, it's just not very good. I'd consider it a wasted opportunity, in fact, since that behavior is no worse than any driver with orders of magnitude less liability.

And does the world need another BikeSnob? A conservative, pudgy, non-cycling Canadian one with no sense of humor, at that?

So I will state this is probably real, and nothing if not trolling for a reaction. And he certainly got one from looking at the comments.

I'll say this: no matter how much C02 cyclists are emitting directly and indirectly - through increased calorie consumption - cars get taxed because they carry so much liability amid their surroundings and create so much wear on the surfaces intended to be driven on, not to mention real pollution. I'd bet this guy certainly wouldn't argue to have CO2 declared a pollutant in any other context besides heaping hostility on cyclists.

The amount of money saved on infrastructure maintenance by every "one-less-car" is certainly worth the cost of the so-called "free lunches" given to cyclists. Not too mention, we're the ones offsetting all the demand you sedentary fucks are putting on the healthcare system. You think your premiums are high? Thank us cyclists for keeping the risk down where it is!

Teammate and friend "Bryce" commented to me, "This is an odd and hostile twist on a common theme. There have been numerous op-eds in favor of taxing/licensing cyclists....that just because someone is on a bike that they must never use a car (or own property or pay sales tax) and are thus somehow freeloading."

And I don't own property or car. I guess that makes me some sort of communist. Bryce continues:

"Even if you pay rent in lieu of a mortgage (not a bad idea these days), you're subsidizing your landlord's property taxes and contributing to public infrastructure in a direct and measurable way. So no, you're definitely not a freeloader and yes, this guy can suck it. Anyway, it's never about who pays for what, with crap like this the subtext is always hostility towards cyclists."

There you have it. Terence Corcoran. What an asshole!

Asheville, Part 2 - Mt. Pisgah, Devil's Courthouse

Day 2 of Asheville was back to the Blue Ridge Parkway, this time finishing our climb at the junction with the highway - most of the work was on the way up.

We rode at chatting pace until about 10 miles out from the climb, then it was hammer-time and we broke up pretty quickly. I finally gapped, with Randy and Riekert when it started going uphill. This time Chris climbed well, staying just behind JT, Jacques, and Randy. Another beautiful day, and we stayed together on the descent back to the back down to the Ashville, nearly 30 miles all downhill. There were some very long tunnels, however, where once in them, there was no light. Even with the taillights blinking in front of me, it was tough the fight the vertigo and follow the curvature of the road.


Peter, Jacques, and I


That night's dinner @ Tupelo Honey, in downtown Asheville. Jalepeno marinated NY Strip, mashed sweets, and brussel sprouts.

(Unrelated, my Chicago Cycling Examiner page is back. Wicker Park is profiled in my ongoing bike-friendly neighborhoods series.)

Asheville, Part 1 - The Drive, Mt. Mitchell

Asheville, NC. Sparta Camp. Except Spartans didn't eat peaches on their french toast. Or french toast, period. Especially in a bed & breakfast camp.

But the riding this weekend would've broke them off far worse than the Persians did.

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Randy finally arrived late Wednesday afternoon at my Old Irving apartment, and after a stop at Active Trans (formerly the BikeFed) we were off in our 15 foot van, loaded down with bikes and wheels. We planned to stay the night in Nashville at my old friend Jessica's condo there, before making the final leg to Asheville on Thursday. Once there, we'd check into the Oakland Cottage Bed & Breakfast, unload, and head to Charlotte to pick up the rest of the guys, who were flying in from Chicago.

We made great time, stopping for a quick dinner at Wendy's at some Godforsaken rest stop, and again for gas only once. A huge tank on the van ensured steady driving, which ensured I got to know Randy quite a bit more than I already have. As the hours ticked off, I picked his brain on motivation, tactics, his career, and listened to him help a pro acquaintance of mine - a client of his - negotiate a spot on the Pan Am Games women's team over the phone. I also learned he is quite a good classical guitar player and actually minored in music in college. We were never at a loss for words.

Jessica was waiting for us outside when we pulled up just before midnight. After 7 and a half hours of driving, we just wanted to hit the sack, but the trip was all so surreal, all three of us stayed up a bit talking. Jessica was my senior prom date in high school - yes, in Alaska - and had actually just been to Chicago two weekends before, for a Morrissey show at the Aragon. Before facebook we'd not talked in over 15 years, and now a year later, we'd seen each other three times over the course of various random travels.

After a quick recovery ride in the morning through a beautiful neighborhood on the outskirts of some university campus, Randy and I were on the final leg to Asheville. One truth I've learned about road trips: McDonald's only tastes good on the interstate.

That night, after a long drive back from the airport, complaining and starving the whole way, then a lagging (separate checks) and huge, heavy dinner at Texas Roadhouse, just outside of Biltmore Village in Asheville, we joked and unpacked in our rooms, and were then briefed about the weekend's riding. Like last year, we decided to move Mt. Mitchell to Friday from Sunday, due to some thunderstorms in the forecast that day.

Mt. Mitchell is the highest peak east of the Mississippi, and at 6,500 feet is tall enough to cause it's own weather, and make whatever is rolling over it a lot worse. So on Friday morning, a beautiful and sunny, yet brisk day, we rolled out after breakfast at 9am to take on one of the most epic climbs a cyclist can ride anywhere in the world.

Our planned route was 125 miles, from Asheville to the town of Marion, and then up Highway 80 to the junction with the Blue Ridge Parkway, which would lead to the entrance to Mt. Mitchell State Park. We fooled around for most of the first 50 miles, wagging our tongues at any toughguy pulls, warning about the hardship ahead. As the base of the real climbing started, however, so did the hammering, and at mile 60, we started to break up amongst the trees and the sound of the creek below the quickening switchbacks.

I hung on as long as I could, pushing steadily over 350 watts to try and stay on with JT, Jacques, Randy, Peter, and Chris. But no sooner would I close the nascent gap when I'd be falling off again. Chris was gapping in front of me as well and soon fell behind me. I was going anaerobic and realizing I'd need water and a piss soon anyways, and let off the pace to gather my wits and give myself a chance to climb strongly over the remaining 25 miles and over 10,000 feet.

Chris, Grant, Ken, and Jeremy all passed me as I pulled over. I took my time. It was a long climb. I shook off, took a sip, and got humpin' again.

Soon, those four were back behind me and Peter was now my mark. His style on these huge training climbs to hang on as long as possible, no matter the cost...but that cost is the big CRACK. It seems to work however - the man gets results. I prefer - as I stated earlier - to dial it back, and let myself get the most out of the entire climb.



I passed Peter just a few switchbacks below the Blue Ridge Junction, and then once on the Parkway, settled in for the long, lonely battle. The views were beautiful, and the weather stayed clear and sunny. It was warm and calm, and I softly sang and talked to myself over my breathing rhythm, running steady just below or at my tempo heart rate of 165 beat a minute.

The turn off to the state park entrance came much sooner than I expected. I find that odd about repeat rides - that the second time around seems much shorter. Regardless of the fact that I did in fact do this climb 10 minutes quicker, the opposite would seem to the be the case...that it would seem longer, and more drudging, now that the newness was gone. Added was the fact that my right foot had gone from an irritating ache, through a steady throbbing, to excruciating agony from the almost 2 hours of constant pressure on the ball of it. Round and round..pound, pound, pound.

As I passed the "3.9 miles to summit" sign I began to worry whether I'd be able to pedal all the way up, and thanked God I wasn't racing. Every five minutes I'd unclip it and single-leg it, which immediately alleviated the pain, but that wasn't sustainable on the steady 5-8% grade. While the first 22 miles flew by, the last four were interminable. I wanted off my bike. Now.

The three at the top were surprised to see me arrive only 9 minutes behind. But, I know that for a guy my size - high 170s - I am a decent climber. Long training climbs like this are obviously not realistic for me to "win" but they give perspective and they clarify, as well as imbue power and form for climbs I can do well on - short intense efforts, ala Snake Alley, or Fox River Grove.

It was glorious up there, looking out on top of the world. The sun shone down on us with warmth in our time to relax, waiting for the others; a reward for our effort. We ate. Clif, fruit, candy, sandwiches. Anything we brought we put it in our mouths. We watched what few people were up there with us prattle around, before asking one of them to take our picture.

We'd descend directly down to Asheville this time, instead of back to Marion and the shuttle bus as we did last year. The Parkway was closed that side of the ridge, but cyclists generally weren't hassled about it and Randy was upbeat about the route. Within 5 seconds of working my past the barrier, however, I dropped my chain and sucked it into my bottom bracket, where it stayed, wedged it tight. I could see chunks of clearcoat gouged out, and it was obvious I wasn't going that way back to Asheville.

Still able to coast, I floated back to the park entrance and flagged down a service vehicle. I was joined by Chris, who'd just flatted minutes before, and we hitched a ride back to Marion. My cell service was just enough to get a hold of Andy in the SAG wagon and tell him where we would be. On the way into town, just out of the last decent we passed Greg, who I last saw flying off the front of the group. He must have loaded the wrong Garmin file and turned left instead of right.

No matter, it all came together in the end. Except of course for the ice cream shop being closed. They'd provided the us the "Greatest Milkshake Ever" after last year's ride. I saw someone working inside, who told me, with a straight face after my knocking on the window, that their first day was tomorrow.

Greg rolled up just as Andy did, and when we got in, there were three ice cold cokes and three creamy Lil Debbie oatmeal cream pies waiting for each of us.

Tomorrow - Part 2: Back to the Blue Ridge, Mt. Pisgah and Devil's Courthouse

Asheville Camp 2008: "Little Do You Know"

"Little do you know."

That was the theme for Friday's opening ride of Coach Randy Warren's 2008 Asheville Cycling Camp. It's always better that way. The uncertainly is what gets you out the door and up the mountain. And what a mountain. Mountains. Everywhere.

We all arrived safe and sound on Thursday. On the flight in from Chicago were myself, Peter, JT, Josh, Chris, Jeremy, Trish, and Matt. Ed arrived on an earlier flight and Randy was waiting for us at the airport. Everyone ate their footlong at Subway and we found Joe and Ken waiting for us at the Oakland Cottage Bed & Breakfast around 10:30. It was a beautiful house, 2 floors (not including the basement which had no guest rooms) that accomodated us fairly plushly, save the cold showers if you were not the top three in after the day's ride - and you certainly weren't safely removed from anyone else's bodily functions. It was high Arts and Crafts style, from 1910, with lots of hard wood molding and intricate window panes.



A full - and I mean full - breakfast awaited us every morning. Friday the smell of coffee and berry cobbler roused me before 6:30 and I was even the first one to the newspaper. The tranquilness of the scene belied the personal trial and test of fortitude that awaited us all later that morning.

We rolled out a bit after nine, all of us taking a little extra time to get it together. We were fully aware today's ride was to be 120 miles, but the gravity of that number wasn't fully realized as we'd (or maybe just me) never trained in such hilly country. We had a full day with nothing scheduled other than a catered dinner back at the cottage at 6. It was a warm and gorgeous day. We rode through some familiar areas I knew from spending time in Asheville with my family, at one point we were within a mile of my parents' house, just off of a pretty busy thoroughfare we'd taken from close to downtown. From there we headed off into the valleys and hollers beyond Asheville on our way to Mt. Mitchell.





With a smaller, relatively stronger, and more cohesive group than at San Luis Obispo, we pretty much all stayed together on the flats and smaller rollers. It would also be fair to say the big boys (Ed, JT, Joe, and Chris) were tempering a bit in anticipation of the climbs, but from my perspective at least, Peter, Jeremy, and I definitely had improved our fitness and form over the last month. While the occasional attack would split the group, but we came back together eventually.



This all changed at the base of Mt. Mitchell. The peak, the tallest east of the Mississippi, shattered and broke everything about that day. The ride, the timing, our confidence, the weather. Our temper.

Randy told us the climb was basically 3 parts. 8 miles up to the Blue Ridge Parkway (the WPO project of the New Deal and National Park in it's own right), then 16 or so to Mountain...another turn right off the highway on a spur to the summit was in there, too.

As the tempo ramped up, my modus operandi to drop back and find my rhythm early seemed the best option. On much shorter climbs later in camp I was able to match the tempo of Ed, JT, Joe, and Chris, and then only by almost physically grabbing a seat post, but I'd never be able to sustain their wattage on this mother. But soon I was in my zone. I seperated from the riders behind me and caught Ken, then Jeremy, and saw a glimpse of Randy as well, up on the switchback just below the Blue Ridge junction.

I almost missed it. There was a sign just before that said the Parkway was imminent, but then just an unmarked left turn appeared before Hiway 80 bombed down the other side of the ridge after passing beneath a quaint little bridge. It was lucky I was alone. I turned and cranked up the steep pitch and was rewarded with a sign pointing left: "Mt. Mitchell - 16."



The day remained warm at first. The clouds drifted in increasing number however, and the blue sky greyed with my mood.



I wondered where Randy was. When I'd seen him last he wasn't that far ahead, but coming through the tunnel, a short descent answered my question. I eventually found him, a few miles later, on the side of the road, massaging his cramping feet. I asked if he was OK or needed anything, but nothing was getting me off that bike as I entertained fleeting notions of maybe, just maybe, catching onto at least one of the Fab Four.

The tenths of a mile ticked off agonizingly slow as my speed ranged from about 7 to 9mph on the 6% or so grade. I kicked up a bit when I looked back to see Randy back on the bike and gaining. My seperation held him off.

It was now fully overcast and colder. My heart rate was keeping me warm however and I continued to churn the pedals, making big circles and focusing on my breathing. I tried not to look at my odometer for longish periods to make the gains in my milage seem more fruitful. Le Femme d'Argent by Air played in my head constantly since I passed Jeremy and had been on my own.

I'd completely lost track of the mileage basis by time the spur for Mt. Mitchell State Park arrived. I was entertaining visions of the summit parking lot just ahead out of sight, when the van drove by. I asked the quiestion, and Ben said, "dude, only two and a half miles to the top." It was aggrivating as hell, but then, just 500 yards later, a taunting, vicious, monstrous sign laid it out for me: 3.9 miles to the summit. The pitch of the climb increased, and as I realized I had another 30 minutes on the bike at the pace I was doing at that moment, my scream of anguish reverberated throughout the Appalachians. It did level off a bit, and though seemingly hours more, I soon passed the ranger station, the closed restaurant, the entrance to the campground, and then arrived in the summit parking lot.

I saw Ed rolling my way, looking for other riders. I assumed he'd been there a while with the other three and was getting impatient. When we met, I said, "I wanna die. Get me off this thing. He simply replied, "No fucking way!"

"What?" I asked. "Where's everyone else?"

"You're it!"

Well, that didn't make sense at all. I hadn't passed JT, Joe, or Chris, and had been alone since catching Randy 10 miles earlier. Unless...

Wrong Turn City.

We laughed for a bit, knowing they surely missed the Blue Ridge junction, at the very worst, Ben would round anybody up who needed it. Actually worse would be any extra climbing they'd have to do to just get back to the ridgetop. And then I noticed the apple Ed was eating. I'd been out of food for several miles. When the van passed me a couple of times ago and asked me if I needed anything, I was so deep in the pain cave and determined not to stop lest I not start again, I just shook my head and moved on.

Now seeing the apple, real food, my eyes must have seemed to pop out of my sunked, sallow face, and Ed wordlessly handed it over. It was like biting into Christmas Morning, your first nudie mag, and a unicorn fart all at once.

Endorphins gushed out of the back of my brain and down my body. I took two more bites and grudgingly handed it back. But I must've looked I was on the edge of an orgasm because he handed it right back. I finished it.

Ed had been there for 13 minutes. Randy arrived 7 minutes after me.

It was cold. My arm warmers and vest were in the van. And the van was busy. We were standing outside the shuttered snack shop, shivering. I found that the employee door was unlocked, and in we went. It was warmer, but I was still getting chilled. It helped to wrap my arms around my body, but I was still ravenous. We all had salt lines on our faces. Ed began poking around in some boxes and came up with some beef jerky. I understood Randy's disapproval, but this was life or death here. Protein and salt. Enough said.



Gradually, riders began to arrive, and we got the full scope of the drama that had unfolded below me as I labored intensely over my bike. Joe first, then Jeremy. Joe and JT (and use the comments section to clarify, people!) had been dropped by Ed and Chris, and then Ed dropped Chris. All three of them missed the turn onto the Parkway, thinking they would catch back on the descent, before realizing they'd gone to far. Those three had an additional 5 miles of climbing added on to their day. As JT said, it took them deep into the "hurt locker."

Jeremy's tale was even more harrowing. Shortly after I caught him he began feeling light headed and started to get off his bike and that was all he remembered until he came to lying on the ground with Peter slapping his face and giving him water. Peter later said he'd encountered him leaning against the guard rail, with only the whites of his eyes showing and near collapse. Peter may have saved this trip from a major medical emergency.

But Jeremy made it. Peter made it. JT and Chris made it. Trish, Josh, and Matt made it. We all made it to the top of that goddamn mountain. And not without prodding from our van driver Ben. If he'd just let those who wanted into the van...

A few did understandably get a ride back down. Shaky and tired, a 24 mile switchbacking descent might not be the best idea of the underfocused. Ed already long gone, I'd gotten my rest, and three new layers later, Jeremy, Randy, and I rolled out of there. We soon met Joe, and the four of us were hitting the last tricky turns before bottoming out on the flats back into Marion.

I was close to bonking then, and couldn't keep up with the tempo, and watched them roll away with 4 miles to go. Minutes later as they disappeared, I shifted to my big ring, heard a loud metallic pinging, and felt everything go slack. I looked down to see my chain on my foot. The outside edge of my front derailleur had snapped off.

As 120 miles clicked over on my odometer, the rendevous intersection appeared and I steered onto the grass and unclipped both feet while still rolling to a stop. Ed was finishing off a milkshake from the ice cream shack just next to us, and looked at me with a look that said, "get on this train, Jesse James."

"What's in it?" I asked.

"Everything."

It was somewhere around $6 when I paid for it - chocolate, bananas, strawberries, peanut butter, peaches, walnuts, at least - maybe there was some Fois Gras and Gold dust in there as well - but worth every penny. It was chased by a large root beer and a hot dog with everything. In Western Carolina that apparently means ketchup, mustand and cole slaw. It couldn't have tasted any more heavenly.




From there it was a half-hour drive back to Asheville while Randy waited with the bikes and a copy of Velonews. He wouldn't get back for over 2 hours.

As tired as we were, we were up for a while, reliving the day. I posted several pictures, and spoke with a couple teammates on the phone. Since thunderstorms were forecast early the next morning, and I needed a new derailleur, we wouldn't roll until at least 10am on Saturday. We ate plateloads of food, lounged, and laughed. And then slept.



There's not much else to write about that would touch on emotions or experiences not covered or that were beyond what we experienced here. Each night we were absolutely destroyed by the day's ride. Everyone was whining about the pain and soreness. Saturday was an 85 mile ride to Mt. Pisga, back on the Blue Ridge, and Sunday was another century to Mt. Doggett and back where I experienced the joys of riding 30 miles off the back on my own, without a cue sheet. I threw a little tantrum once at a point I thought I was totally lost, but then sheepishly realized I was right on track, and later not that far off the back at all as I rolled into Marshall. Earlier that day, on a short, but tough climb, I'd managed to stay with the Fab Four all the way up, but come Doggett, was already way behind them, and with them was my motivation to get back to the Pain Cave. Meanwhile, Jeremy and Peter had found themselves off of a front of a group that wasn't working hard, and worked hard indeed to increase their lead to as much as six minutes before finally being caught on the descent leading to Mt. Doggett, the third big climb of the day.

And on Monday's ride, we found ourselves back in Marshall, 23 miles and exactly one hour from check out. That was as intense and focused a paceline as I'd ever taken part of, and we hit the driveway of the B&B at exactly 10:30.

My legs are still sore, but better from the massage I received last night. My shoulder is in a lot of pain actually. I wonder if it is from overuse on the climbs, trying to keep them lower to free up my breathing. It's got chronic problems from 4 crashes on it in the last year - including the car hit and the SLO pileup.



I'm back, and while not ready, that was a hell of an off-season. Racing awaits, and I can only do my best. I hope my best is enough.

Dateline Asheville: April 11th

A new posting has the update...enjoy.

So Long, Suckers

Asheville is known for it's thriving hippies, but this cyclist won't be eating any granola.



See you on top of the world.

Hump Day

Rode a nice, new route to work today. 20 miles from Logan Square to Northbrook in eighty minutes door-to-door, counting the stop-lights. Not bad on a 30 pound fender bike with a lap top on my back in near-constant head wind. Much better than dealing with the displaced Edens Contruction road-raging ophans on the much more direct route, Milwaukee Ave.

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Just heard about a stage race I think I'll be doing. The Tour de West Lafayette. May 17-18. Means I'll have to miss Monsters of the Midway, but that's ABR, this is USA Cycling. So 3 chances to get points. It's all Cat 4/5 and 3events: Saturday Criterium of 35 minutes on 1.3 mile, 8-corner course. The road-race looks pretty lame, though. a 5 laps on a 4 mile course? With maybe a couple thousand feet of climbing over the whole race. Meh. 5 mile TT right after. It looks overall like a quick and intense effort, but a very good chance to get a lot of points towards my upgrade. But there is also a team category, and I think there will be at least the required three of us (myself, Jeff Holland, and Jon Dugas) to be eligible. This could be quite fun.

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Dropped off Uhuru (my Trek...get it?) at Coach's house last night. He's driving the bikes in the van to Asheville tonight. I leave with the rest of us tomorrow on a 3:45 flight to Charlotte. We'll arrive in Asheville at the B&B around 9:30. The first ride is Friday morning, up Doggett Mountain. My Dad got a kick out this when I gave him our itinerary. He lives in Asheville now, of course, but back in '79 through '83, he lived just around Doggett, between Asheville and Great Smoky Mountain National Park, in Spring Creek. My Dad's house he built is still there, although he doesn't know the people living there, except that they were assoles who wouldn't even let him on their property..."Lady, I BUILT this house!" Oh well. 9,100 feet of climbing that day, and then Saturday is Devil's Courthouse. Sunday is the real fucker, Mt. Mitchell. The tallest mountain east of the Mississippi. This ride, along with Friday's, is a century. Talking with Randy last night about the weather, he is toying with the idea of switching these days due to the fact that Sunday could be much colder and rainier, so we might try to the really high climb done in Friday's warmer climes. So Mitchell could be right off the bat. Awesome.



It's going to be a great camp with all very strong riders and a great chance to push myself even harder than San Luis Obispo and catapult my fitness into some really uncharted territory.

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Speaking of which, after this weekend's team ride and racing, I've really realized how much stronger I've gotten over the last year and in all seriousness, it's just time to harden the fuck up and change my approach to my racing. If I'm well rested and have proper recovery and warm-up, the threat of getting dropped while just being in the pack is not the threat it used to be. Seeing the pictures of the finish in Beloit this weekend, I was a lot closer to the winning sprint than I thought I was...and I had quite a bit of gas left. Now I'm not so much down on myself as I am pissed-off. I was afraid to stick myself out in the wind for even a second to better my positioning, or to hug the shoulder and rub wheels. And what fun is being afraid? As Peter says, it's time to get mean.

Now I just have to wait almost 2 weeks until my next race, and I think I might just go insane. Good thing though, cause I was going leave my sanity on top of Mt. Mitchell anyways.

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Quite a thunderstorm last night, eh? Spring is here.