Watched Mel Brooks' "High Anxiety" last night before bed. Damn, is Cloris Leachman funny. And hideous too. But what hell is it with her and the witch costume at the end? That broom certainly didn't work...
The 70's were a strange time, when you think about it. So many modern conveniences and wondrous new things...747s and touchtone phones. But then the older generation at that time gave us plenty of institutional memory of The Great Depression, no phones, or planes...and ate Fruit Cup (yes, as a pronoun) before dinner. And don't be late.
I have been getting the best sleep ever in my life since returning from Camp last weekend. Last night after turning off the movie I was in bed by 9:30 and sound asleep by 10. All week I've been bounding out of bed by 5:30 at the latest, ready to start the day. It's the alcohol and caffeine, or lack there of. Wait, I'm not on some sort of wagon...I just learned from a friend that his doctor told him that caffeine stays in the system for nearly 12 hours, and disrupts sleep patterns.
News flash.
So during camp I banished all coffee to before the ride, and none when I returned, in any form. Whereas last year I would guzzle the stuff all day long. I slept so much better this year. I also didn't write anything before sleep - doing all of it before breakfast, which worked well because I was up and alert so much earlier from all of the great sleep.
I've been continuing here, at home, now that I'm back. One coffee when I get to work, on top of what I'm drinking now, and that's it. Alcohol I've banished to the weekends and only with friends. Everyone knows that it wreaks havoc on sleep as well. It's contributed so much to my recent start-of-season weight loss that to add it back in now would be moronic. That said, I will have a few, and did - at camp - to celebrate the great days' rides, but yeah, it interfered with sleep.
It's all quite surreal, considering that less than two years ago I could barely make it out of bed on time to be at work downtown by 9:30. Yet, here I sit with five paragraphs already in at five after six in the morning. Breakfast is already in me, constitutional behind me, and I'm halfway through my pot of French press.
I live for breakfast. It is my favorite meal and time of the day. To catch up the news, to write as I am now, and just have some free time and solitude before the chaos of the day begins. Usually I have oatmeal, with peanut butter and banana, and honey drizzled on top on days like today where I have time in the morning. Yesterday, I rode to work in Northbrook and leave at 6:15, so I have a couple of pieces of rye toast with nutella on them. Plus yogurt and at least one cup of coffee before I go, in either case.
But it's not truly a morning without the full pot of French press. My favorite post-ride meal is oatmeal as well, with everything I mentioned above, except I also drop in a fried egg, over easy, and stir it all up, with maple syrup. I know it sounds gross, but after a four hour ride and your body is screaming for food, it's the most fulfilling thing I could possibly imagine eating at a time like that. Then you just fall over on your couch and take a long nap.
I hope I can get enough packing in before I fall asleep tonight. Actually moving out tomorrow. I have about half the stuff I moved in with. Am going to try to get it all out this weekend and next. Seems strange, like I'm watching it all happen, but to someone else.
The change will be good. I am taking Jack with me, and I hope he adjusts well. We'll have a big park to play in plus a couple neighbors, both with dogs, to take morning walks with and who can hopefully look after him while I'm out. For me as well, I'm closer to work - by bike, as well as within walking distance now to the Metra, so I won't have to stress about the blue line making me late.
The neighborhood is super cool, chill, and I'll be very close to Smoque, the bar-b-que place I love and haven't been to in about a year. Not sure if that's a good thing. But, regardless, I am already looking forward some warm summer nights in Mark's backyard with other friends as Jack gets to run around and play with other dogs.
18.3.09
Hump: random camp stuff and more
The number one lesson learned at camp:
Always, always, always...make sure there is nothing illegal in your bag. I am not talking about forgetting your stash or smuggling lemurs or something. Nothing patently illegal, just an item or two that will keep you from getting through the security point, or worse.
Such as the collapsible billy club I keep in my chrome bag in the unlikely event I run into the unruly cager on my commute...on occasion.
As I came through the metal detector and waited for my bag to come through the X-ray machine, I got a sinking feeling as the technician asked, pointedly, "who's bag is this?"
With the loud rip of velcro his hands were rooting around inside, talking out my shoes - looking at the cleats, setting aside the bungee chord and multitool. I asked if I could help. He just waved me away with a hand motion, and then said, "I'm looking for something long and metal...like...THIS."
My jaw literally dropped open (and a moth came out) as he removed the weapon. Holy shit. I had completely forgotten...
"Oh, no...oh, no..." he kept repeating. He must've known I was a nice guy who'd made a mistake and was in store for some not very nice treatment. A throng of baby-blue clad TSA employees had very quickly gathered, and a severe looking woman with a crew cut walked up to them, took a cursory glance at the club, then at me, and said...
"Arrest him."
On the walk back to the CPD office, I was given the good-cop-bad-cop routine, alternately being told I would have no trouble making my flight, and that I was in deep trouble. But upon running my Social and seeing I had no record, the cop who seemed to be most in charge just asked if I had really forgotten it was in there. He was obviously stressing the fine line between crime and accident, and when I stressed right back I had certainly no idea it was in there, I was free to go.
There was some question and joking whether or not I would make it back to Chicago...
-----------
This just in...camp is hard:
And then it's even harder:
This is the 1:25 interval I ran from Cayucos Beach to the top of the wall. Average power of 292w, and a peak 10 minute power of almost 340w.
(It's so tempting to try and lose just another 10 pounds and get that power to weight ratio up, but...)
----------
A preview of the local racing season here in Chicago on the Chicago Cycling Examiner.
Always, always, always...make sure there is nothing illegal in your bag. I am not talking about forgetting your stash or smuggling lemurs or something. Nothing patently illegal, just an item or two that will keep you from getting through the security point, or worse.
Such as the collapsible billy club I keep in my chrome bag in the unlikely event I run into the unruly cager on my commute...on occasion.
As I came through the metal detector and waited for my bag to come through the X-ray machine, I got a sinking feeling as the technician asked, pointedly, "who's bag is this?"
With the loud rip of velcro his hands were rooting around inside, talking out my shoes - looking at the cleats, setting aside the bungee chord and multitool. I asked if I could help. He just waved me away with a hand motion, and then said, "I'm looking for something long and metal...like...THIS."
My jaw literally dropped open (and a moth came out) as he removed the weapon. Holy shit. I had completely forgotten...
"Oh, no...oh, no..." he kept repeating. He must've known I was a nice guy who'd made a mistake and was in store for some not very nice treatment. A throng of baby-blue clad TSA employees had very quickly gathered, and a severe looking woman with a crew cut walked up to them, took a cursory glance at the club, then at me, and said...
"Arrest him."
On the walk back to the CPD office, I was given the good-cop-bad-cop routine, alternately being told I would have no trouble making my flight, and that I was in deep trouble. But upon running my Social and seeing I had no record, the cop who seemed to be most in charge just asked if I had really forgotten it was in there. He was obviously stressing the fine line between crime and accident, and when I stressed right back I had certainly no idea it was in there, I was free to go.
There was some question and joking whether or not I would make it back to Chicago...
-----------
This just in...camp is hard:
And then it's even harder:
This is the 1:25 interval I ran from Cayucos Beach to the top of the wall. Average power of 292w, and a peak 10 minute power of almost 340w.
(It's so tempting to try and lose just another 10 pounds and get that power to weight ratio up, but...)
----------
A preview of the local racing season here in Chicago on the Chicago Cycling Examiner.
17.3.09
15.3.09
San Luis Obispo: Days 7 and 8, and Recap
Friday, March 13: The Wall
A warm day. The nicest weather so far at 2009 SLO Camp. We noticed it immediately this morning at sunrise as each of us walked from our rooms to the common area. It would be liberating to finally ditch the knee and arm warmers and even out the funky tan lines. Well, make them less funky, but as cyclists we are resigned to the birthday skinsuit lines.
The Wall day is always the most focused and intense day of the trip. After breakfast we rolled out again down Highway 1, this time about 20 miles out to Cayucos Beach, a small picturesque little town where, as I rolled down the hill past mom & pop grocery strores, B&Bs, and a surf shop, I could imagine living there with nothing more than a typewriter and about 12 cats to keep me company as I churned the Great American Novel, in between 100 mile rides along the coast.
Once in Cayucos, we split up into five teams, one more than last year, to stagger our approach to The Wall, a four mile climb straight up, after a 12 or so mile run up in a driving pace line. I was again grouped with three others from last year's run, Peter, Newt, and Stocky. Stocky would our protected man, as he was the best climber in our bunch. Behind us, five minutes back, would the so-named "Snakes" - Luke, Ed, JT, Joe, and Seth. But, we also had Randy with us, so I was definitely liking our chances of not getting caught, with Seegs and Moyer doing some heavy lifting as well.
Looking back on our blazing departure north onto Highway 1 to the turn off at Cambria, I should've been more careful about choosing my wheel in the paceline. The general rule is, you don't want to be in front of or behind the strongest rider - in this case, Newt. The man is a freaking stallion - an efficient, powerful, confident and aggressive rider. But, we fell into order like a single-minded unit and we were off.
So self-conscious am I of my own pace, I am reticent to call anyone else out for going too fast. I did once, but mostly I felt I had to man up and just work harder. But Newt is so full of bike rage, every time he pulled through the pace would increase by 2 or 3 miles an hour. When it came time to pull through, I would be halfway cooked already - running at 450 watts just to keep the pace up in the headwind. And so it went to the foothills of The Wall, me needing to pull off about 30 seconds earlier than I wanted to and slowing the train down.
I hung on longer than I did last year, but still was the first to be broken off. We caught the group in front of us at almost the same spot, and the two of us merged into a super-paceline of at least 12 riders. I was already getting gapped at that point and faded to the back for maybe another quarter mile before a serious hole opened up in front of my wheel. This cause a series of curses to come from Tom Briney, behind me who then bridged up and caught back on before the group disappeared around the next bend. Only to be seen occasionally in a break through the trees, they gained ground on those behind them, and increased the suffering for those still hanging on. With each glimpse I would catch another rider being shelled off the back.
I caught several riders on the way up, after regaining my composure and strength. I caught Jeff at almost the same spot last year, yelling at him to say it again, to tell me to "get my fat ass up there!" He and several others were zig-zagging their way up one of the greater-than-20% grade sections. I just slowly muscled the cranks straight up them, explosively blowing snot as I exhaled through my nose after each hoarse gasp.
I was maybe 6th to the top, after Moyer, Pankonin, Randy, Peter, and Stocky. While I fall back and seem to lack potential on the hammerfests and stinging, quick climbs, I excel, however, when brute force is required over flashy power and quick wits. I am most in my element when others are slowing, despairing, or even unclipping and walking up. I should definitely try to find an uphill time trial this year.
The group arrived at the top all within 20 minutes, and we sat in the sunshine and recovered, laughing and BSing, listening to "Eye of the Tiger" blast out of the sag wagon's speakers. Soon we were spread out all over the backside of the mountain and on the way down, confidence in descending weeding the slower ones out, myself included, and holding us back. But soon we were all regrouped back along the highway.
A quick stop in Moro Bay State Park, we came back in the route from last year where our disastrous crash struck, along the shoulder in the deep cracks of the pavement. I thought I caught a glimpse of "the crack" as we cruised along single file, full of caution. The day was warming, with a comfortable tailwind and bright sunshine blowing through the tall grass and poppies along the road.
A few of us opted for the long version of the day's ride, and after another hour, we found ourselves in Avila Beach, relaxing on the sidewalk, eating ice cream and slurping espresso. I dipped my swollen, aching feet into the same Pacific Ocean that laps on the shores of my hometown, Anchorage, standing next to a sign that warned swimmers with a reminder of a confirmed shark attack in 2003.
The mailbox sprint came and went again, with me out of position. JT led it out into forever in the headwind with Peter on his wheel. Stocky bridged Ed, Luke and I up and soon it was a train six long until JT finally cracked and Ed and Peter jumped. It seemed Luke was successfully on Ed's wheel, but that reverie only lasted for a second as Ed fanned left, sending Luke and I across the yellow line, and we both sat up. I heard some thing clink loudly on the pavement but thought nothing of it.
Getting back to the room, the clink I heard came back as I realized in horror that it was my ziplock bag, carrying my cell phone, credit cards, and driver's license. I panicked and completely lost my temper, and the manager who was cleaning a room down the way had to come over and calm me down.
Emanuele and I took the sag back out, and, miraculously, right by the mailbox that starts the jump, we found my phone and credit cards. We looked futilely however, on the pavement and kicking in the grass for over twenty minutes, for my license. I was assured however, by the Southwest Airlines customer service rep that it would be possible for me to fly the next day.
We had our camp dinner that night and laughed and applauded and awarded and relived our experiences. Dave Moyer was voted Outstanding New Rider. Truly deserved. He certainly shined in winning something like four Cat 5 races last year, but in SLO he hung with the elites and the leaders every day, on every climb. A confident and aggressive rider, he is also humble and genial. I am really looking forward to riding with him - if I can keep up.
Later we headed back to the hotel to celebrate Jacques' birthday with some surprise cupcakes sent by his wife and few impromtu cupcake-eating contests. Won handily by Newt. His hand to mouth reflexes, not to mention speed-chewing, have been well-honed.
Off for drinks, I had a few snags with my missing ID, still managing to enjoy a couple of Wild Turkeys. Yet at the fouth bar, I decided I'd be better off back in bed, rather than arguing with the bouncer about it, instead getting ready for the next day's ride.
Saturday, March 14th
We over slept, ate a quick breakfast and rolled out sharply at 8am for the day's 2 hour 27 mile ride. A hell of a climb. It seemed to stretch into nowhere, which made it very hard to gauge my effort and catch the two or three riders immediately in front of me, including Randy and Jeff, who'd finally caught me on a climb. He'd said all last year not to miss this ride, that it was his favorite of the entire camp.
On the way back, alone after getting gapped on the descent and rolling through the mailbox sprint, what did I see, alone on the side of the road, glinting in the morning light like Frodo's ring? My ID.
----------
I am a much stronger rider this year, and I should have a stellar racing season. Many more on our team are, as well. They are also much more confident and aggressive than I am, however. And if I am to get my upgrade on schedule, and be competitive in the 3s, I need to find a way to leverage my natural tendency to show people respect instead of wanting only to stomp on them. Right now it's killing my tactical thinking.
I have difficulty getting better at tactics in training situations, because I could never think of teammates that way, but I guess I'd better. I am always the laughing stock of the sprint afterwards, rolling in twenty feet behind the action, with a confused smile on my face. When I realize too late that once again I am out of position, the prostrations that spew forth as I try to move back leave me with a bit of bad taste in my mouth, as if the prime positions are not meant for me.
Truth is I need to be thinking ahead far earlier in the game. It's that simple. No need to take it personally. It's all a part of being "pro". Which is why we go to SLO in the first place. More personally, and something I really do have a problem with, is staying clean - in both the kit and the bike. For whatever reason, no matter how much I clean the bike, no matter much dry I try to suck the gel packet, I am the one sporting the greasy calf and the chocolate smudge on his jersey pocket.
I take a LOT of heat for it. It's mostly good-natured, but some mornings I could hear the jokes drifting forward on the breeze, not meant for my ears while riding at the front, and it cut. Because I don't know why I can't not be dirty and not be looking like a newb. There are far, FAR dirtier bikes in our peleton. Yet, I have earned the nickname "Pigpen" for God's sake. A grease chain on your calf is now a "Morrissey." I don't want it, however. It's not funny anymore. At least until I am a 2, if that ever happens.
In the movie, "Bull Durham," Kevin Costner advises Tim Robbins that when he's in The Show, fungus on his shower shoes make him eccentric, but in the minors, it just makes him a slob.
So, as of now, I will be more Pro. If it means balling up every empty gel pack tightly, scrubbing the kits for two hours after rides and races, or losing an entire day to cleaning the bike (as I did today upon getting it out of the travel case) I will do it.
I'm tired of jokes, the names, and not being respected. I never thought I'd have to give less respect to earn it, and I still don't. I don't count Lance Armstrong as one of my inspirations, instead keeping Andy Hampsten in that pantheon. Rather than being driven by thoughts of grinding my opponents, and anyone who gets in my way, to dust and grit, I'll just go as hard as I can, knowing that I don't have to win, I just have to give all I that have to give.
That I can change.
Welcome to 2009. Race well, win lots, and be safe.
A warm day. The nicest weather so far at 2009 SLO Camp. We noticed it immediately this morning at sunrise as each of us walked from our rooms to the common area. It would be liberating to finally ditch the knee and arm warmers and even out the funky tan lines. Well, make them less funky, but as cyclists we are resigned to the birthday skinsuit lines.
The Wall day is always the most focused and intense day of the trip. After breakfast we rolled out again down Highway 1, this time about 20 miles out to Cayucos Beach, a small picturesque little town where, as I rolled down the hill past mom & pop grocery strores, B&Bs, and a surf shop, I could imagine living there with nothing more than a typewriter and about 12 cats to keep me company as I churned the Great American Novel, in between 100 mile rides along the coast.
Once in Cayucos, we split up into five teams, one more than last year, to stagger our approach to The Wall, a four mile climb straight up, after a 12 or so mile run up in a driving pace line. I was again grouped with three others from last year's run, Peter, Newt, and Stocky. Stocky would our protected man, as he was the best climber in our bunch. Behind us, five minutes back, would the so-named "Snakes" - Luke, Ed, JT, Joe, and Seth. But, we also had Randy with us, so I was definitely liking our chances of not getting caught, with Seegs and Moyer doing some heavy lifting as well.
Looking back on our blazing departure north onto Highway 1 to the turn off at Cambria, I should've been more careful about choosing my wheel in the paceline. The general rule is, you don't want to be in front of or behind the strongest rider - in this case, Newt. The man is a freaking stallion - an efficient, powerful, confident and aggressive rider. But, we fell into order like a single-minded unit and we were off.
So self-conscious am I of my own pace, I am reticent to call anyone else out for going too fast. I did once, but mostly I felt I had to man up and just work harder. But Newt is so full of bike rage, every time he pulled through the pace would increase by 2 or 3 miles an hour. When it came time to pull through, I would be halfway cooked already - running at 450 watts just to keep the pace up in the headwind. And so it went to the foothills of The Wall, me needing to pull off about 30 seconds earlier than I wanted to and slowing the train down.
I hung on longer than I did last year, but still was the first to be broken off. We caught the group in front of us at almost the same spot, and the two of us merged into a super-paceline of at least 12 riders. I was already getting gapped at that point and faded to the back for maybe another quarter mile before a serious hole opened up in front of my wheel. This cause a series of curses to come from Tom Briney, behind me who then bridged up and caught back on before the group disappeared around the next bend. Only to be seen occasionally in a break through the trees, they gained ground on those behind them, and increased the suffering for those still hanging on. With each glimpse I would catch another rider being shelled off the back.
I caught several riders on the way up, after regaining my composure and strength. I caught Jeff at almost the same spot last year, yelling at him to say it again, to tell me to "get my fat ass up there!" He and several others were zig-zagging their way up one of the greater-than-20% grade sections. I just slowly muscled the cranks straight up them, explosively blowing snot as I exhaled through my nose after each hoarse gasp.
I was maybe 6th to the top, after Moyer, Pankonin, Randy, Peter, and Stocky. While I fall back and seem to lack potential on the hammerfests and stinging, quick climbs, I excel, however, when brute force is required over flashy power and quick wits. I am most in my element when others are slowing, despairing, or even unclipping and walking up. I should definitely try to find an uphill time trial this year.
The group arrived at the top all within 20 minutes, and we sat in the sunshine and recovered, laughing and BSing, listening to "Eye of the Tiger" blast out of the sag wagon's speakers. Soon we were spread out all over the backside of the mountain and on the way down, confidence in descending weeding the slower ones out, myself included, and holding us back. But soon we were all regrouped back along the highway.
A quick stop in Moro Bay State Park, we came back in the route from last year where our disastrous crash struck, along the shoulder in the deep cracks of the pavement. I thought I caught a glimpse of "the crack" as we cruised along single file, full of caution. The day was warming, with a comfortable tailwind and bright sunshine blowing through the tall grass and poppies along the road.
A few of us opted for the long version of the day's ride, and after another hour, we found ourselves in Avila Beach, relaxing on the sidewalk, eating ice cream and slurping espresso. I dipped my swollen, aching feet into the same Pacific Ocean that laps on the shores of my hometown, Anchorage, standing next to a sign that warned swimmers with a reminder of a confirmed shark attack in 2003.
The mailbox sprint came and went again, with me out of position. JT led it out into forever in the headwind with Peter on his wheel. Stocky bridged Ed, Luke and I up and soon it was a train six long until JT finally cracked and Ed and Peter jumped. It seemed Luke was successfully on Ed's wheel, but that reverie only lasted for a second as Ed fanned left, sending Luke and I across the yellow line, and we both sat up. I heard some thing clink loudly on the pavement but thought nothing of it.
Getting back to the room, the clink I heard came back as I realized in horror that it was my ziplock bag, carrying my cell phone, credit cards, and driver's license. I panicked and completely lost my temper, and the manager who was cleaning a room down the way had to come over and calm me down.
Emanuele and I took the sag back out, and, miraculously, right by the mailbox that starts the jump, we found my phone and credit cards. We looked futilely however, on the pavement and kicking in the grass for over twenty minutes, for my license. I was assured however, by the Southwest Airlines customer service rep that it would be possible for me to fly the next day.
We had our camp dinner that night and laughed and applauded and awarded and relived our experiences. Dave Moyer was voted Outstanding New Rider. Truly deserved. He certainly shined in winning something like four Cat 5 races last year, but in SLO he hung with the elites and the leaders every day, on every climb. A confident and aggressive rider, he is also humble and genial. I am really looking forward to riding with him - if I can keep up.
Later we headed back to the hotel to celebrate Jacques' birthday with some surprise cupcakes sent by his wife and few impromtu cupcake-eating contests. Won handily by Newt. His hand to mouth reflexes, not to mention speed-chewing, have been well-honed.
Off for drinks, I had a few snags with my missing ID, still managing to enjoy a couple of Wild Turkeys. Yet at the fouth bar, I decided I'd be better off back in bed, rather than arguing with the bouncer about it, instead getting ready for the next day's ride.
Saturday, March 14th
We over slept, ate a quick breakfast and rolled out sharply at 8am for the day's 2 hour 27 mile ride. A hell of a climb. It seemed to stretch into nowhere, which made it very hard to gauge my effort and catch the two or three riders immediately in front of me, including Randy and Jeff, who'd finally caught me on a climb. He'd said all last year not to miss this ride, that it was his favorite of the entire camp.
On the way back, alone after getting gapped on the descent and rolling through the mailbox sprint, what did I see, alone on the side of the road, glinting in the morning light like Frodo's ring? My ID.
----------
I am a much stronger rider this year, and I should have a stellar racing season. Many more on our team are, as well. They are also much more confident and aggressive than I am, however. And if I am to get my upgrade on schedule, and be competitive in the 3s, I need to find a way to leverage my natural tendency to show people respect instead of wanting only to stomp on them. Right now it's killing my tactical thinking.
I have difficulty getting better at tactics in training situations, because I could never think of teammates that way, but I guess I'd better. I am always the laughing stock of the sprint afterwards, rolling in twenty feet behind the action, with a confused smile on my face. When I realize too late that once again I am out of position, the prostrations that spew forth as I try to move back leave me with a bit of bad taste in my mouth, as if the prime positions are not meant for me.
Truth is I need to be thinking ahead far earlier in the game. It's that simple. No need to take it personally. It's all a part of being "pro". Which is why we go to SLO in the first place. More personally, and something I really do have a problem with, is staying clean - in both the kit and the bike. For whatever reason, no matter how much I clean the bike, no matter much dry I try to suck the gel packet, I am the one sporting the greasy calf and the chocolate smudge on his jersey pocket.
I take a LOT of heat for it. It's mostly good-natured, but some mornings I could hear the jokes drifting forward on the breeze, not meant for my ears while riding at the front, and it cut. Because I don't know why I can't not be dirty and not be looking like a newb. There are far, FAR dirtier bikes in our peleton. Yet, I have earned the nickname "Pigpen" for God's sake. A grease chain on your calf is now a "Morrissey." I don't want it, however. It's not funny anymore. At least until I am a 2, if that ever happens.
In the movie, "Bull Durham," Kevin Costner advises Tim Robbins that when he's in The Show, fungus on his shower shoes make him eccentric, but in the minors, it just makes him a slob.
So, as of now, I will be more Pro. If it means balling up every empty gel pack tightly, scrubbing the kits for two hours after rides and races, or losing an entire day to cleaning the bike (as I did today upon getting it out of the travel case) I will do it.
I'm tired of jokes, the names, and not being respected. I never thought I'd have to give less respect to earn it, and I still don't. I don't count Lance Armstrong as one of my inspirations, instead keeping Andy Hampsten in that pantheon. Rather than being driven by thoughts of grinding my opponents, and anyone who gets in my way, to dust and grit, I'll just go as hard as I can, knowing that I don't have to win, I just have to give all I that have to give.
That I can change.
Welcome to 2009. Race well, win lots, and be safe.
13.3.09
San Luis Obispo: Day 6
An "easy" 75 miles yesterday. That is the perspective from the other side of this kind of volume.
The evening was quite relaxing: a stroll to a late lunch, coffee, chatting on the phone, frozen yogurt and dinner at the world-famous SLO Thursday night farmer's market.
I have a lot of pictures, which I'll upload soon.
We are tired. Almost slap-happy.
Today is The Wall. 4 miles straight up, after a driving pace line from 12 miles out.
Let's go.
The evening was quite relaxing: a stroll to a late lunch, coffee, chatting on the phone, frozen yogurt and dinner at the world-famous SLO Thursday night farmer's market.
I have a lot of pictures, which I'll upload soon.
We are tired. Almost slap-happy.
Today is The Wall. 4 miles straight up, after a driving pace line from 12 miles out.
Let's go.
12.3.09
San Luis Obispo: Day 5
March 11th, Black Mountain:
I am really too tired to give much of a blow-by-blow on yesterday, but I'll allow this much...
Up The Grade again, I struggled less. Focusing more on my form through the pain, keeping my breathing under control, I never lost an inch on the wheel in front.
Last year, when the rollers began on the run up to Black Mountain, I was already off and riding alone. Yesterday I stuck with them up at least two hard climbs before losing my wheel I crossed threshold. Yet even then we managed to bridge up briefly, Randy, Billy and I, before I was gapped again on a descent. And after getting dropped again, I bridged up and caught them again as they soft pedaled towards the entrance to Black Mountain Road.
This year's edition of the Black Mountain Pain Cave was harder, longer, and more fulfilling. I started at the same time as the leaders, yet still they didn't put much of a gap in front of me, and I managed to catch a few who had left before me. The last I passed too early, too hard, and I let my excitement get the better of me. I popped about 200 meters to the top and he counter-attacked me. The gap was too much to recatch...I came in behind him about 50 feet, out of the saddle and rocking my bike before collapsing on the top tube and handlebar, breathing shakily, and holding off a wave of nausea while streams of sweat drained onto my hands.
Another fast run out back to Santa Margarita, and I got dropped after flirting with bonking. I just had to pull off to eat something before I really did bonk and not have a way to get home outside of the van. I was soon on my own for about 10 minutes before Randy and Grosspietch came up behind and got me moving faster again. We caught the second group and had a hard, fast rotation going. We nearly caught the leaders in fact.
I heard they had some conflicts up the road that had slowed them a bit, breaking up the flow of their rotation where before they'd been absolutely flying. This is why I would ride until I fell off my bike for my coach, Randy Warren. His direction is so focused and positive, it doesn't allow for any misguided anger, or loss of direction of energy. He doesn't berate or yell, but gives encouragement every time, with a correction, if needed.
I also had the joy of being on Kirby's wheel, smooth and efficient, it's inspiring to see the amount of speed and power he can produce when among riders with seemingly twice his strength.
Hard day. TSS Score of 422 if that means anything to you. Normalized power of 269. If it doesn't, don't worry about it. I shouldn't be either.
Today: Montana D'Oro, Thursday Night Farmer's Market.
I am really too tired to give much of a blow-by-blow on yesterday, but I'll allow this much...
Up The Grade again, I struggled less. Focusing more on my form through the pain, keeping my breathing under control, I never lost an inch on the wheel in front.
Last year, when the rollers began on the run up to Black Mountain, I was already off and riding alone. Yesterday I stuck with them up at least two hard climbs before losing my wheel I crossed threshold. Yet even then we managed to bridge up briefly, Randy, Billy and I, before I was gapped again on a descent. And after getting dropped again, I bridged up and caught them again as they soft pedaled towards the entrance to Black Mountain Road.
This year's edition of the Black Mountain Pain Cave was harder, longer, and more fulfilling. I started at the same time as the leaders, yet still they didn't put much of a gap in front of me, and I managed to catch a few who had left before me. The last I passed too early, too hard, and I let my excitement get the better of me. I popped about 200 meters to the top and he counter-attacked me. The gap was too much to recatch...I came in behind him about 50 feet, out of the saddle and rocking my bike before collapsing on the top tube and handlebar, breathing shakily, and holding off a wave of nausea while streams of sweat drained onto my hands.
Another fast run out back to Santa Margarita, and I got dropped after flirting with bonking. I just had to pull off to eat something before I really did bonk and not have a way to get home outside of the van. I was soon on my own for about 10 minutes before Randy and Grosspietch came up behind and got me moving faster again. We caught the second group and had a hard, fast rotation going. We nearly caught the leaders in fact.
I heard they had some conflicts up the road that had slowed them a bit, breaking up the flow of their rotation where before they'd been absolutely flying. This is why I would ride until I fell off my bike for my coach, Randy Warren. His direction is so focused and positive, it doesn't allow for any misguided anger, or loss of direction of energy. He doesn't berate or yell, but gives encouragement every time, with a correction, if needed.
I also had the joy of being on Kirby's wheel, smooth and efficient, it's inspiring to see the amount of speed and power he can produce when among riders with seemingly twice his strength.
Hard day. TSS Score of 422 if that means anything to you. Normalized power of 269. If it doesn't, don't worry about it. I shouldn't be either.
Today: Montana D'Oro, Thursday Night Farmer's Market.
11.3.09
San Luis Obispo: Day 4
March 10th, Rest Day:
Fish tacos, naps, coffee, bike cleaning. Dinner.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Today is Black Mountain Day.
Out.
Fish tacos, naps, coffee, bike cleaning. Dinner.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Today is Black Mountain Day.
Out.
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