March 9th: Atascadero 50, Peachy Canyon
Cold. I'm not sure if it got over 60 all day. We headed out at 9 am on Highway 1 north to Morro Bay and Highway 41. First was a long run up against a rock wall about 20 miles in that split the group, then a series of rollers that split it again, finally culminating in the final crack when Luke cracked the whip just before the last big hump.
Ed, JT, et al moved to the front, while I - who'd been sitting third wheel - moved back in a desperate attempt to get my heart rate back below 90 percent. Peter shouted at me to get back on, and I did, for probably another quarter mile before the wheels in front of me started gapping, then I started gapping. And then lost it all together.
Wiping the snot from my upper lip, I straighted out, regained my form , and crested the roller, recovered, in time to watch them descending quickly out of sight around the corner.
Before Seth and Mike Conroy passed me, a white van with curse words spilling out of it like litter in the wind took a swing at me. The dumb shits were driving a work van, some sort of medical supplies company, but didn't slow long enough for me to think to get the 1-800 number that was printed on the back. Maybe they were just trying to drum up business.
We regrouped twice before reaching Peachy Canyon. At the gas station, I switched my power to "avg" and displayed mileage rather than heart rate. This climb absolutely brutalized me last year, but I climbed it strong with my broken computer stuffed in my back pocket. This year was no different.
A year ago, I went down after rubbing wheels in a lapse of concentration just as everyone unloaded their gears and started breathing heavy. I was alone from the start. Only Peter stayed with me and we rode it together. Contrastingly, yesterday I stayed with the leaders up the first climb, and then, of course, got gapped on the quick descent before the real hump started. Three or four others had overcooked a turn and were off as well. I passed them but didn't stay in front for long. Seth and Luke - each at least 30 pounds lighter than me - came bounding past. Luke and Stocky dangled in front of, often just out of sight. In some ways, that is worse than being alone.
Far more motivating is having someone behind you. Grosspietch and Pankonin drove me on, and I crested and took most of the descent alone. We hammered the rest of the way, mostly together, to Highway 46, and then I decided to make a race of it on the epic rollers there on the climb up to the highest elevation point of 1700 feet of so. I attacked both of them and put space between us that stayed until we reached the top. From there it was 8 miles straight down to the coast, and 30 miles home, back south on Highway 1, with a fat tailwind at our backs.
I was spent, absolutely blown. Any over 250 watts and my legs would squeak in protest and I'd get a little sick feeling in my stomach. I ate one more Clif bar, but over the last 10 miles or so, I still flirted with Bonktown, population 1, but I could bring myself to eat one more conveniently packaged bite.
The view was incredible, just as beautiful as last year of course. Green grass, blue ocean and sky, mammoth exposed rocks in the water. It seemed straight from a Robert Lewis Stevenson scene.
The ride today wasn't nearly as brutal as last year. It always seems shorter the second time around, and my feet did much better off in the new shoes. No hot spots that kept me unable to apply any force to the pedals. No dry heaving as I got back to my room.
Getting stronger. I'm becoming resigned to the limitations of my body type when it comes to climbing, but I am beginning to find my niche. We'll see what I can put together on the next two mailbox sprints.
Today: team picture, skills clinic, recovery ride, rest.
10.3.09
9.3.09
San Luis Obispo: Day 2
March 8th: The Grade, Las Palitas, Creston Loop
We're lucky this year. We get to do The Grade out and back twice this week. No easing into Camp in '09.
Three miles up along the shoulder of Highway 101 at six percent. I sat at the front with Randy, idly chatting away as my wattage and heart rate steady climbed with my body. As long as I stayed below 310 watts I knew I was all right. Coming up to the top, however, the wind hit and pitch increased with about half a mile to go. I went over 350 and began to blow up. I pulled off to the right and let the line fill up while I tried to get my breathing under control. Luckily, JT was coming up before I slipped to far back and gave me a bit of a push. That little assistance dropped my heart rate nearly to endurance level in less than a minute. 100 yards to go.
Recovered. Down we go.
The first real climb of the day, with tempo, attacks, and generally pistol-whipping the group until it shatters hit us another 20 or so miles in. I am strong this year. But so is everybody else. Again I keep the lead group in sight, but the pain is killing my form and I can't quite catch on. We crest in pieces, trying to come together, and slip into a pace line of five or six, with the leaders still about 200 yards up.
We're driving strong, with every ounce of my focus needed to grab Newt's wheel coming back on. For two rotations I simply sit at the back and recover. On the uphill rollers I need over 400 to stay with it. It finally gets the better of me. I gap on Newt by only a couple of feet, but soon it's slipping through my fingers, drifting away, like a life preserver from cruiseship.
More of the same after the first rest stop.
I need a few seconds of recovery at the top of a climb, and Ed comes by with saying, "Come on, Morrissey! Don't stop moving now..." Gapped. Wrangling in front is Randy, churning and wrenching out his steady tempo, trying to get on himself. I am flopping behind until Seguin and a couple others come by with wheels. We bridge up at the stop sign, finally.
Yet right away, the juice goes the next the climb, I am gapped, and then alone. I stay like that for another 10 minutes of so, watching them slowly move away until the group behind picks me up.
We rode hard, but not hard enough, needing to stop every so often to consult the map. We shed a few riders, and pulled into the park, our designated meeting place about 20 miles early. Wrong turn city. Shit. Out we go in search of the leaders coming the other way and the missing miles. We end up shorted by about eight on the day. Not bad considering.
Down the grade for the first of two times this week, as I mentioned. A screaming descent down the six lane highway - just take the lane baby. Top speed of 45. Seth hits 52, according to his computer. I'll try and push it a bit more on Wednesday after Black Mountain, but I want to take a bit safer, as that bike's seen exactly two days outside, and I have a life and a job to return to next week.
Today is Peachy Canyon and Atascadero 50. Arguably the hardest day of camp. I've been awake since 5am thinking about it. As I wrote yesterday's entry at this time, 6:30, there was one other person in the hotel's common area. Today, there are 12.
We're lucky this year. We get to do The Grade out and back twice this week. No easing into Camp in '09.
Three miles up along the shoulder of Highway 101 at six percent. I sat at the front with Randy, idly chatting away as my wattage and heart rate steady climbed with my body. As long as I stayed below 310 watts I knew I was all right. Coming up to the top, however, the wind hit and pitch increased with about half a mile to go. I went over 350 and began to blow up. I pulled off to the right and let the line fill up while I tried to get my breathing under control. Luckily, JT was coming up before I slipped to far back and gave me a bit of a push. That little assistance dropped my heart rate nearly to endurance level in less than a minute. 100 yards to go.
Recovered. Down we go.
The first real climb of the day, with tempo, attacks, and generally pistol-whipping the group until it shatters hit us another 20 or so miles in. I am strong this year. But so is everybody else. Again I keep the lead group in sight, but the pain is killing my form and I can't quite catch on. We crest in pieces, trying to come together, and slip into a pace line of five or six, with the leaders still about 200 yards up.
We're driving strong, with every ounce of my focus needed to grab Newt's wheel coming back on. For two rotations I simply sit at the back and recover. On the uphill rollers I need over 400 to stay with it. It finally gets the better of me. I gap on Newt by only a couple of feet, but soon it's slipping through my fingers, drifting away, like a life preserver from cruiseship.
More of the same after the first rest stop.
I need a few seconds of recovery at the top of a climb, and Ed comes by with saying, "Come on, Morrissey! Don't stop moving now..." Gapped. Wrangling in front is Randy, churning and wrenching out his steady tempo, trying to get on himself. I am flopping behind until Seguin and a couple others come by with wheels. We bridge up at the stop sign, finally.
Yet right away, the juice goes the next the climb, I am gapped, and then alone. I stay like that for another 10 minutes of so, watching them slowly move away until the group behind picks me up.
We rode hard, but not hard enough, needing to stop every so often to consult the map. We shed a few riders, and pulled into the park, our designated meeting place about 20 miles early. Wrong turn city. Shit. Out we go in search of the leaders coming the other way and the missing miles. We end up shorted by about eight on the day. Not bad considering.
Down the grade for the first of two times this week, as I mentioned. A screaming descent down the six lane highway - just take the lane baby. Top speed of 45. Seth hits 52, according to his computer. I'll try and push it a bit more on Wednesday after Black Mountain, but I want to take a bit safer, as that bike's seen exactly two days outside, and I have a life and a job to return to next week.
Today is Peachy Canyon and Atascadero 50. Arguably the hardest day of camp. I've been awake since 5am thinking about it. As I wrote yesterday's entry at this time, 6:30, there was one other person in the hotel's common area. Today, there are 12.
8.3.09
San Luis Obispo: Days 0, 1
March 6th
Chicago, Blue Line to Orange Line to Midway
Always take the train when you can. Even if you are carry two completely full bags and a bike case that could contain a body, if the route is direct, you can't beat the $2.25 charge. Use the elevators.
Midway Airport
However, before you get to the security checkpoint, do make sure that you've removed any weapons you might be carrying in your bags. Such as, the collapsable billyclub that I carry in my Chrome bag for protection on commutes. If they fiind it via the X-ray machine, they kind of make a big deal out of it. There will be a separate entry on this fiasco and how I avoided a vacation to city jail instead of California on a later date.
Southwest Airlines Flt 1337
Your life time "screaming baby quotient" will even out. Trust me. Friday night I made up for probably 10 years of relatively quiet solitude, with the "screaming baby" equivilent of the 100 year earthquake.
March 7th
Coming down from Lopez Lake, first real turn, 35mph +
"I said, "get OFF the brakes!"
The Wausna Climb
They jump. Randy laughs as I'm stuck behind a slow wheel. I get out quick but I'm gapped. Oh well, I'm climing strong. Last year the leaders were already gone, now I still see them. Up ahead I see the turn out, the top. I'm gaining but won't make up the gap before then so I sit up. Shit. That's not the top. Momentum lost. Try to spin up again. Ouch. I look down. Big ring. You dumb fuck. I loosen up and shift smoothly. But the gap is bigger. Small consolation is that I can still see them and maintain eye contact all the way. Damn.
Much better on the way down. Still gapped largely by the leaders, but my descending is better and, unlike last year, I join a paceline of about four and make the bridge to the leaders. A fast, erratic paceline. I feel strong...too strong. My brain is still in "don't get dropped" mode and I accelerate way too fast when pulling through, especially on uphills.
The Mailbox Sprint
For an hour beforehand, I say to myself, "React, don't think. React, don't think. React, don't think." Right hand turn after the bridge, Jacques starts the leadout, I'm on Peter's wheel. Jacques' off, JT takes over on a long pull in the wind, speed never wavers. Stocky up now. Kirby's yelling for someone to go, doesn't want a swarm. Who does? But the wind is strong. Finally, the first mailbox appears. I think, "Now how far to The Mailbox?" Peter jumps. I'm still thinking.
Shit.
Beautiful weather, not a cloud in the sky. Everyone's loving life, riding strong, eating and laughing heartily.
It's going to be a good week.
Today: The Grade, Las Palitas, Creston Loop (as seen in the Tour of California).
Chicago, Blue Line to Orange Line to Midway
Always take the train when you can. Even if you are carry two completely full bags and a bike case that could contain a body, if the route is direct, you can't beat the $2.25 charge. Use the elevators.
Midway Airport
However, before you get to the security checkpoint, do make sure that you've removed any weapons you might be carrying in your bags. Such as, the collapsable billyclub that I carry in my Chrome bag for protection on commutes. If they fiind it via the X-ray machine, they kind of make a big deal out of it. There will be a separate entry on this fiasco and how I avoided a vacation to city jail instead of California on a later date.
Southwest Airlines Flt 1337
Your life time "screaming baby quotient" will even out. Trust me. Friday night I made up for probably 10 years of relatively quiet solitude, with the "screaming baby" equivilent of the 100 year earthquake.
March 7th
Coming down from Lopez Lake, first real turn, 35mph +
"I said, "get OFF the brakes!"
The Wausna Climb
They jump. Randy laughs as I'm stuck behind a slow wheel. I get out quick but I'm gapped. Oh well, I'm climing strong. Last year the leaders were already gone, now I still see them. Up ahead I see the turn out, the top. I'm gaining but won't make up the gap before then so I sit up. Shit. That's not the top. Momentum lost. Try to spin up again. Ouch. I look down. Big ring. You dumb fuck. I loosen up and shift smoothly. But the gap is bigger. Small consolation is that I can still see them and maintain eye contact all the way. Damn.
Much better on the way down. Still gapped largely by the leaders, but my descending is better and, unlike last year, I join a paceline of about four and make the bridge to the leaders. A fast, erratic paceline. I feel strong...too strong. My brain is still in "don't get dropped" mode and I accelerate way too fast when pulling through, especially on uphills.
The Mailbox Sprint
For an hour beforehand, I say to myself, "React, don't think. React, don't think. React, don't think." Right hand turn after the bridge, Jacques starts the leadout, I'm on Peter's wheel. Jacques' off, JT takes over on a long pull in the wind, speed never wavers. Stocky up now. Kirby's yelling for someone to go, doesn't want a swarm. Who does? But the wind is strong. Finally, the first mailbox appears. I think, "Now how far to The Mailbox?" Peter jumps. I'm still thinking.
Shit.
Beautiful weather, not a cloud in the sky. Everyone's loving life, riding strong, eating and laughing heartily.
It's going to be a good week.
Today: The Grade, Las Palitas, Creston Loop (as seen in the Tour of California).
6.3.09
And so I go
Alighting from my snow-covered branches
To lush poppy fields, planted in my dreams
Horses tails and sunlit seeds, floating there
In the scent of fresh blood and citrus'd air
And I dance for hungry lions on haunches
To hold off the nights of growls and screams
And so I go
Under their watchful, wise, and haunting gaze
I flee to stained glass sunsets, over wine
To muse on the footprints of those braver
Dusty by time, their story's not wavered
They knew that truth lay deep inside the maze
I only lament what should have been mine
And so I go
The lions will move on to easier prey
To leave me with the lemon-scented breeze
To drown in fatigue and a heavy sleep
To feast - on pain, on knowledge, both deep
And refresh in the salty cleanse of the spray
To return to face what I left with ease
And so I've come
To reclaim what I'd lost, that stolen gold
And retake of what little ground is mine
That naive patch of skin is not a lie
A gift from gods of wings on which to fly
To soar above the sad and smoggy cold
Drinking with joy warm sunshine and wine.
And so I've gone.
To lush poppy fields, planted in my dreams
Horses tails and sunlit seeds, floating there
In the scent of fresh blood and citrus'd air
And I dance for hungry lions on haunches
To hold off the nights of growls and screams
And so I go
Under their watchful, wise, and haunting gaze
I flee to stained glass sunsets, over wine
To muse on the footprints of those braver
Dusty by time, their story's not wavered
They knew that truth lay deep inside the maze
I only lament what should have been mine
And so I go
The lions will move on to easier prey
To leave me with the lemon-scented breeze
To drown in fatigue and a heavy sleep
To feast - on pain, on knowledge, both deep
And refresh in the salty cleanse of the spray
To return to face what I left with ease
And so I've come
To reclaim what I'd lost, that stolen gold
And retake of what little ground is mine
That naive patch of skin is not a lie
A gift from gods of wings on which to fly
To soar above the sad and smoggy cold
Drinking with joy warm sunshine and wine.
And so I've gone.
2.3.09
Oh, Monday
It's March in Chicago. You (s)know what that means.
Please keep it real for me kids.
4 days. The countdown has begun.
"We've had like, thirty dropped chains already!"
(It does take a while to get back in the groove after so much time on the trainer. Cut us some slack, if we forget to take it up in our drive trains.)
-----------
A Lakefront finger-wag on the Chicago Cycling Examiner. Hate is exclusively the domain of The Car Whisperer.
Please keep it real for me kids.
4 days. The countdown has begun.
"We've had like, thirty dropped chains already!"
(It does take a while to get back in the groove after so much time on the trainer. Cut us some slack, if we forget to take it up in our drive trains.)
-----------
A Lakefront finger-wag on the Chicago Cycling Examiner. Hate is exclusively the domain of The Car Whisperer.
1.3.09
The new, NEW whip!
The new frame - fresh in after the Fedex disaster the night before - was delivered to Kyle's garage/shop on Friday.
A few hitches here, three Zipcar reservation extensions there, I had the bike home and ready to ride in(side) time for Saturday morning.
Decapitated bike:
Kyle at work:
Let us pray:
I haz leedout NOW?
A few hitches here, three Zipcar reservation extensions there, I had the bike home and ready to ride in(side) time for Saturday morning.
Decapitated bike:
Kyle at work:
Let us pray:
I haz leedout NOW?
The Totals
In the interest of full disclosure, I want put the extent of my stupidity on record:
Saturday, February 28th, 2009
Saturday, February 28th, 2009
- 5 hours, 0 minutes, 25 seconds
- 90.25 miles
- 3275 kJ
- 135 avg HR
- 182 avg watts
- 6 bottles of water
- 2 Clif Bars (cool mint chocolate, carrot cake)
- 3 gels (mocha, apple cinnamon, orange)
- 1 granola bar (peanut butter)
- 1 banana
- 1 Girl Scouts Samoa cookie
- 5 twizzlers
- Full Metal Jacket, 40 Year Old Virgin, 1/2 of Enter the Dragon
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