The Break-Up

Break ups are never easy. You should have seen my face as I sold my beloved "Death Machine" fixie. I will never look at another loose headset the same way. I sometimes still have dreams where Death Machine and I see each other from across a field of wildflowers and we run to each other as butterflies and tiny birds flutter through the sky like winged confetti. Then she chews up my right pant legs with each of her 46-tooth chainring and bowls me over like a steamroller because she doesn't have any damn brakes.

Another break-up that I've been expecting is that of Contador and Armstrong. Their relationships been on rocky ground ever since Lance's return, but AC has put the final nail in the coffin with his comments today. He says his relationship with LA is "zero" and that he doesn't admire him and never will. This comes on the heels of LA's notable absence from Astana's team celebratory dinner Saturday night. He was on a date with his new girlfriend errr "sponsor", RadioShack, and had a bit too much wine. And as is pretty common in these kinds of situations, there is now the obligatory trash talking through texts, emails, and in this case, via tweets. Next up will the exchanging of each other's possessions. Lance will give back 'Berto's sombrero he won at Vuelta al Pais Vasco. Also among LA's returned possessions will be Contador's other pistol. He was keeping it safely tucked away in a secret holster in his bib shorts. Sadly, Contador will not be returning any of Lance's things because he was never given anything from the seven-time Tour champ. His racing motto "No Gifts" obviously found its way between the two lovers and could possibly be one of the reasons these two decided to break up. Despite the rift between the two riders, this year's Tour was one of the most exciting editions I've watched in years. I can't wait to buy it on DVD and relive all the attacks, TTT crashes, and general beastliness. My only concern is that they'll come up with cheesy title like "TDF 2009: Lance and Bert Plus 178" with 178 of course referring to the 178 other racers that didn't get any media attention whatsoever this year. I think I'd still buy the DVD set, but I'd have to hide it in my sock drawer with all my other embarassing things, like my 7-speed Tourney rear derailleur and my autographed copy of Patrick Dempsey on the cover of Bicycling magazine. (ed.- but he's sooo McDreaaaammmmy!)

I Lost My Breakfast at Lost River

I didn't even have a chance. Things blew apart for me after I lost contact on the descent after the finish line. It wasn't a particularly difficult one, but that fact that I was surrounded by 30+ Cat 4 racers shuffling about was somewhat unnerving and I decided that it wasn't worth it to ride so aggressively downhill (read: I chickened out big time). I figured I could've made up the difference at the bottom, but I didn't know how long the descent actually was and was soon off the back. I chased with a few other guys for the better part of the next full lap but to no avail. Cramps soon came and I found myself doing the mashed potato up the climbs in my 39x23. That's right. I didn't change out my cassette. It was fun times. A gruppetto formed of a handful of riders right before the last climb. Still feeling like crap, I gauged my chances to beat these guys to the finish line at exactly zero and figured I'd do something stupid instead. Attack! RAWR! I put in an acceleration and got about a half dozen pedal strokes in before my head started spinning and I started feeling nauseous. I gasped for air and before I could exhale I threw up. I was fortunate enough to make it over to the side of the road before I let loose the bagel, banana, and cola-flavored Nuun water that I'd had for breakfast. On the bright side, I didn't puke on my white GamJams socks and I did some sweet hiking out there in the mountains the next day. It was my first road race this season, and probably my last. Page Valley is coming soon, but the only climbing I wan't to do is into a bottle of scotch. Sober me up when it's 'cross season.

Mashed Potatoes

I'm going to race at the Lost River Classic on Saturday. It's a road race in West Virginia. The race is only 30 miles, but everyone's been telling me that it's a nasty climber's course. Each of the three laps we'll be doing features roughly 1000 feet of climbing. This might be shocking to you, but I climb like a tranquilized sloth or a molasses-covered sack of potatoes. I'm too stubborn and lazy to head out to where there's any real climbing and am perfectly content with mashing up tiny local hills in my 53 x 19. I don't think I'm even going to bother swapping out my 12-23 cassette with the 12-27 I stole from one of the shop's master mechanics, The Dragon. I have the tools and everything to do it, but I just think a 27-tooth cog looks too ridiculous to put on my very "Pro" looking aluminum, Rival-equipped bike. Plus, I've heard some crazy things about this whole "spinning" concept. I don't like it. It sounds like black magic to me and I'll avoid it at all costs. It's too bad I sold my fixie because I'd rather slap brakes on that piece than install a nerdy, climb aid like a 12-27 cassette. Bring on the mashed potatoes!

Skinny, Lycra-Clad Violence

Like all good cyclists, I'm following Le Tour pretty closely, including the Lance-Contador quarrel and other stupid things. But the past two stages have taken a relative benign international cycling event from a G-rating to a bullet-dodging, fist-fighting, idiot-shoving, violence-fest. I have no choice but to change the rating of this year's Tour to a mildly impassioned PG-rating.

It was like someone had misinterpreted my recurrent dreams of the many fun things to do at triathlons when I read that someone had brought an air rifle to Le Tour. In my dreams I drunkenly ride head on towards my aero-clad imbred cousins drunkenly playing cowboys and indians. This was a little less interesting, but was close enough. Actually, I don't think it's very funny to have riders shot while riding their bikes. It's a lot funnier to have riders take shots while riding their bikes. Pass the Ciroc, si'l vous plait.

Voigt has been considered one of the strongest men in the peleton and as such I'm sure he's been tested numerous times by the doping brigade. But after Saturday's misfortunes and the crazy shit Voigt said afterwards, I'd like to have him tested for gamma radiation because that mofo is going to Hulk out and crush someone's head in. Or at the very least poke a hole in their tires.

Saturday also saw The Badger take out yet another unruly intruder. The stunt was the result of an apparent bet and, like in times past, Hinault had no reservations when it came to giving l'imposteur francais the business. Sheesh! Europeans are so pushy! It's a good thing I train and race in full riot gear. If you think an Italian frame pump does a lot of damage, wait till you see what my extendable baton and mace spray can do.

ZacK Vestal, Shut Up.

I won't go as far as to say that I hate Zach Vestal. I'm sure he's a nice guy (despite his boring Trek-only stable of bikes). He's living the dream. Or at least one my dreams where I'm not getting chased by hobo zombies. [Ed. - Aren't all zombies technically hobos?] Vestal's sweet gig as Tech Editor for VeloNews.com has him traveling the world, going to huge races, and testing the latest in bicycle gadgetry. All he has to do is write interesting things that people want to read. Yet time and again, every time I read one of his articles I cringe because he is wasting this unique opportunity and because I can do better. The first thing I would be able to do better than Zach Vestal is know when an article is not worth writing.

In a recently published article, he writes about how one team mechanic for AG2R had to do a bit of unusual race day preparations in anticipation of heavy rainfall last Thursday. I figured it'd have something to do with the special grease they usually use instead of rain on those stages. Or it could have been about a special bar tape or saddle modification to increase a rider's grip. But as I read the article, my heart sank. It was about how one rider, Vladimir Efimkin, got his carbon Mavic tubulars replaced with clinchers with an aluminum rim and different brake pads. That was it. Oh, and Vestal goes on to add that the work was done by one mechanic in fifteen minutes:

Given that the whole episode transpired about 15 minutes before the start, you can imagine the mechanics were working quickly, but they got Efimkin set and ready to go in the nick of time. One more example of how these guys are prepared for every eventuality, both on course and off.

Holy shit, man. If it takes more than 10 minutes to install wheels and brake pads, I'd be shocked. Did he have to whittle the brake pads from a dual-compound brake tree? It'd probably only take 15 minutes to do that as Efimkin rolled alongside the team car; rolling wheel change, brakepads, and the lot. And "in the nick of time"? It's a friggin Grand Tour! If he was late to the start, he'd still have the better part of 181.5 km to "catch up" to the peleton. The title of that article shouldn't be "Readying for the rain." It should be "Apparently Pro Bike Mechanics Work Very Slowly And I Have An Awesome Job That I Take For Granted."

Socks and Heat Stroke

Fuck my socks! Against my better judgment, I wore matching sock again. What can I say? I love to gamble. This time, instead of white, I sported bright red SRAM socks. Apparently red is the color of such things like fire, chili peppers, and my sunburned skin after racing at Dawg Days Circuit race in Bowie. I know it's summer, but I can't help but think that my sock choices determine the weather. Mismatched socks usually call for mild or mildly confusing weather. It's not uncommon to experience passing partly cloudy skies, comfortable temperatures, and a slight drizzle, flurry, or tornado in mismatched socks. White socks call for rain. They don't like staying white and as such will have you experiencing drenching showers and wet roads only to have the weather clear up just enough to ride your bike and get everything, socks included, covered in a layer of filth. Red is apparently the color of heat stroke. In anticipation of this sock-induced inferno, I packed a cooler with drinks and lots of ice. I filled up a clean sock with ice and used it to cool down and sponge off the sweat and salt from the day's efforts. I probably looked retarded rubbing a tube sock all over myself, but at the time I could have cared less. I contested the race's first prime (y'know, the one that no one really wants) and went to collect my prize. I was offered a gift certificate to a farmer's market I've never heard of but chose to substitute it for a nice pair of highly coveted white GamJams socks. I'd say that a real man doesn't measure the cuff length of his cycling socks, but that's before I measured mine in at a very cool, Extra Pro five inches! Thanks GamJams!

Hagerstown and Other Stupid Things I Did Today

Fuck my socks. Everytime I wear white socks in a race it fucking rains. It happened at Reston. It happened today. I very rarely wear matching socks, but every time I do I regret it. The socks are pretty much stained gray by now from a mixture of sweat, road grit, and brake dust sludge. Screw it. I'm not even going to bother doing laundry. Let 'em stain. That'll show them what I think about their stupid pristine whiteness. I've also not bothered with cleaning my bike or unpacking more than my cell phone and wallet from my race day vehicle. I have another race tomorrow and I'll sort through that jumbled mess before I head out once again. There was very little I actually did after my race and of that small list most were just poor decisions on my part. Eating a candy bar, a bag of gummy candy, and chasing it with half a liter of Dr. Pepper might sound delicious, but on an empty stomach after a race is a recipe for epic Halloween-type tummy aches. Check. Since I didn't know how to get out of town and my brain was fried after the race I also drove aimlessly through Hagerstown's bustling meth district, with it's tweeked out and mostly shirtless inhabitants. If anyone needs some meth, I now know close to a dozen people that would be more than happy to supply you and probably bite off one of your kidneys. Probably the smartest thing I did today after my race was sit down with some good friends and have a nice dinner at a local sushi joint. Albeit, I first showed up there sporting my road grit, brake dust sludge moustache and reeking like wet bike racer, but it was a good dinner nonetheless. Despite the great dinner, I unfortunately realized I let my stomach get the better of me when I ordered my meal and was reminded of this when the bill came. I'm going to go crash now, which is something I fortunately did not do during my race. G'night.

The Race:
-Rain delay
-Soaking wet course
-Lots of crashes
-Rain eventually let up
-Car drove onto course during last lap

WTF Chronicles: Aerobars All Day Long

Watching the team time trial today, I realized something

Watching people crash on time trial bikes is just about as much fun as you can have without hauling a keg and a fifth of scotch to your local sprint triathlon. I enjoyed the aero carnage so much that I humored myself by going to a ride hosted by a local shop with a reputation for being Triathlon central. In my defense, I was going to meet up with a racing buddy there but was running on Cyclist Time (CT) and as such was about 7 minutes late. I rode out to the hill loop hoping to find at least someone familiar, but what I saw nearly made my eyes bleed. Dozens upon dozens of triathletes had piled onto these roads. Riders with plastic Gatorade and Evian bottles jammed into their malformed bottle cages. Others made the sensible decision to ride without any water bottles or alternate source of hydration. Clip-on aerobars and full TT setups were riding side by side in the bike lane, climbing the hills in their aero-est of positions. Worse of all was the wheel choices. And by "choices", I actually mean "choice" because triathletes' decision-making processes are driven via hive mind. I saw so many pairs of Zipp 404's that I nearly passed out. I understand they're good wheels. I even understand that they're made to withstand plenty of abuse from rider's with nearly twice the wattage output and from roads far more vicious than those of suburban hell. But why do they train on them? They're too flashy, don't necessarily help you train any better, and make you look a little silly when you're beaten on your $2000 training wheels by a bewildered cyclist who's just looking for some escape from Triathlon Bizarro World. Needless to say, I did a few laps there in search of my friend but came up empty-handed, left, and will now proceed to drink myself into oblivion so that I will never remember what happened on this horrible day.


Speaking of looking funny on bikes:

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Lance and Alberto Sitting in a Tree...

I'm still recovering from this weekend. I didn't get particularly drunk (or rather drunker than usual), but I did eat my body weight in grilled goodies, cookies, and s'mores. So today I basically sat around watching the last bits of Le Tour and refreshing CyclingNews and VeloNews until my F5 button caught fire. At first it seemed like pretty standard affair. Cavendish won. Surprise, surprise. One of the more interesting points of the race was earlier when Columbia-HTC turned nine sets of pedals in anger and blasted away from the peleton taking with them only 20-something other riders. I'm all for violent circular leg movements (you should see my vicious roundhouse kick), but after the stage was over the press yet again went into ludicrous speculation about a budding lover's quarrel between Armstrong and Contador (here, here, and here).

By now everyone should be familiar with the story:
Man wins bike race.
Man wins bike race.
Man wins bike race.
Man wins bike race.
Man wins bike race.
Man wins bike race.
Man wins bike race.
Man retires and becomes old.
Younger man wins bike race.
Younger man wins a bike race that isn't Le Tour.
Younger man wins another bike race that isn't Le Tour.
Younger man and older man meet, shake hands, tell everyone they're friends, and ride bikes.
Press gets bored and makes up ridiculous bullshit about intra-team rivalry.

It's been like this all year. No one seems to get that these cyclists are professionals. They do what they're told because that's what they get paid to do. Furthermore, as professionals, especially the Tour's GC hopefuls, they should know to stay at the front of race. Even Cat 5 racers understand this tactic. In fact they sometimes understand it so well that they'll crash into whatever gets in their way as they make moves to get more "fronter" than the other guys. I don't think it's of any significance that Lance moved ahead of Contador in the GC. If AC made a mistake, it will probably be short-lived. It's still early in the race and the course will sort everything out in time. So stop writing about this shit, Cycling Media.

The Start

Is it just me or did the Tour de France organizers, ASO, try to pit American cyclists against their beloved Independence Day? Starting the prologue on the fourth of July, and in the fancy-pants city of Monaco nonetheless, is about as huge a departure from beer bellies and lighting shit on fire as you can get. I thought the French were supposed to be our allies, but instead they're hosting the prologue of the most famous Grand Tour on our celebratory day of independence and in a city synonymous with helipad-laden yachts. I don't care much for boats. You can't bike very far on a boat and I get a horrible case of self-inflicted seasickness caused by getting belligerently drunk from mint schnapps.

When did cycling become the sport of playboys? When did it join the ranks of Formula Un and James Bond supervillans? I never thought that cycling was very glamorous and can guarantee that anyone that takes up the sport under these pretenses will be shocked to their core the first time a road-raged soccer mom flips them the bird. I miss the Spring Classics, those manly one-day races when bikes look more like bikes and if you win a race you get a trophy made out of rock or abstractly welded metal. To be honest, I'd probably be happier having a good noon ride at Hains Point and having an Italian Store sub as my trophy than looking retarded riding a $9,000 TT bike next to a multimillion dollar floating mansion. Maybe I'm crazy or set fire to too many things last night, but I like to keep things simple, dirty, and fun. So I'm going to bunker down for the next couple of days with some beer and deeply discounted fireworks and wait patiently for some of the more interesting stages in France.