Car, Radio + Update!

I've finally cleaned out my car of last Sunday's race stuff. There's always something that I forget in there. Usually it's a pair of shoes or my kit with race numbers still pinned, rusting away and staining my jersey. And it's usually the smell more than anything else that compels me to clean out those final pieces. What's frustrating about this week's situation is that I actually made an effort to clear out all my race crap and failed because of a stray pair of sock. Damn you, Woolie Boolies! If you were a lesser sock, I would have thrown you away out of spite.

In other news, radios are on their way out according to reports from the latest UCI Management Committee. While I applaud the UCI's interest in creating a more exciting, natural form of bike racing, I believe their decision is lacking in the creativity department. I think it would have been more interesting to see a designated team captain with a single radio, like they do with the quarterbacks in the NFL. Captains get the directions from the DS and then it's up to him to relay the communications to the rest of his team. That way you get some level of "natural" racing, more teamwork, and still address the "safety concerns" of racers. I know the report doesn't give very specific details on this radio business, but I have a feeling that the UCI hasn't thought this one all the way through. Golfers have their caddies. Pitchers have their catchers. QB's have their coaches, as do basketball players. Even Rocky Balboa had Mickey in his corner, yelling at him with real-time strategies and advice. Cycling would be probably be the only professional sport where an athlete would have to step out to where ever his coach/advisor/DS was then ride back to the competition. Hell, I'd be happy with race directions coming from tin-can phones or via text or "tweets," but I think the total elimination of the radios isn't necessarily what the sport needs. Sure it might bring it back to its roots, but so would wool shorts and down-tube shifters. And have you seen what roots look like? They're all scraggly and covered in dirt. I don't want roots. I want a cycle-berry fruits (stupid metaphor, I know). I want cycling to make progress, to not necessarily limit the peleton, but challenge it in a way that will make the sport more exciting while not inciting another stupid protest where the peleton trucks along at 12mph the entire time. But if all else fails, I still haven't written off starting an official International Bike Jousting League.

Bonus Update:
My meanderings on the interwebs have led me to an article about some triathlete that is auctioning herself off on eBay. It's an auction for a 2.5-hour "date" with professional triathlete Jenna Shoemaker in an attempt for her to get a job? She was advised to get a job so that she could save money to train uninterrupted in January. The auction and her blog (ed - oh God, triathletes can read and write now?!) state that a portion of the proceeds will go to fight breast cancer. The article also says the auction was an effort to keep her from stripping. Now I'm thoroughly confused, but definitely not surprised. I'm confused about how a triathlete can combine stripping and breast cancer in the same intention and how she's going to get a job out of auctioning herself off on eBay. I'm not surprised that the combination of the internet, an overly tight swimcap, and years of sponsor-laden temp tats have resulted in this. What I'm not quite sure about is who in their right mind would want to sit down with a triathlete in Vegas? During INTERBIKE?! There are like a billion things to do there and if you're not doing one of them you're sleeping, passed out, or being carted off in an ambulance. What's there to talk about?

"So, uh... you like aerobars huh?"
"Yeah. They fast."
"...Ok..."
"Want me to draw a smiley face on you with my grease pencil?"
"No." [Leaves room]
"Swimcapwetsuitaerobarsrunningshoes!"

So with less than five hours left, she has raised a grand total of $275. Good luck, Jenna. And good luck to whomever wins that auction. You're going to have dinner with a really interesting person. Like really interesting.

Sick, Spiders

When I predicted that my 'cross season could possibly be afflicted by pneumonia, it was not an invitation for my body to do a test run. But now I am sick with what looks to be a cold. I hate being sick. My head's throbbing, throat hurts, and my nose is running like Sven Nys through a sand pit. I'm this close to putting chamois cream on my nose since its getting rubbed raw with my 100-grit tissues, which are still better than the 1-grit shop rags I used yesterday at work. I haven't ridden since Sunday. It's not that I would have definitely been on the bike had I been healthy. But it's similar to a spoiled kid's logic that I could have been on the bike if I wanted. Having written off riding today, I had few other things on my To Do list so I now present to you a picture I took today of Fred, the Spider:

Don't Call It A Comeback

The blog machine has been getting rusty. It's hard to get it started up again without some kind of major overhaul. I don't know how well I tuned this blog up, so please bear with the random squeaks, squawks, and typos. I'm only a cyclist after awl.

Like many cyclists in the mid-Atlantic, I opened up my cyclocross season with Charm City Cyclocross. The course was rockin'. It featured a staircase run-up, sand pits, off-camber sections and plenty of pain. Oh God was that painful. I looked retarded. We all did. After the race, I was afflicted by The Hunger. Miss Piggy, Pumpkin Boone, and I packed up and headed to Golden West Cafe for some Sunday brunch. They have a pretty good variety of southwestern food, including various plates of huevos, pancakes, and burritos. I watches as a table of Baltimore hipsters were served and a few had ordered the same thing: The All-American Burrito. I knew I had to get one. It was ground beef (essentially burger patties), sauteed onions, rice, and jack cheese wrapped in a giant tortilla about one and a half times the size of a Chipotle burrito, then smothered in mushroom gravy, then topped with an egg sunny-side up. It. Was. Phenomenal. I housed that burrito and a Bloody Mary and raced home to beat an impending food coma. As you can plainly see, I survived the trip despite the insane Maryland drivers and have just woken up from my nap. This season is going to be a good one.


My predictions for this year's 'cross season are:

- There will an 18% increase in pain
- My tolerance for post-race alcohol will decrease dramatically to the point where I will no longer be able to drive myself to and, more importantly, from races.
- I will gain 5 lbs in post-race frites. YUM.
- 'Cross Eyed as a race/blog meme will be make its seasonal return and possibly be tattooed with a 46-tooth chainring onto the body of some poor soul. Alcohol will be involved.
- I will not be cold this year. I will be putting the final touches on my winter riding arsenal with a few more key pieces and souped-up embrocation. Pneumonia on the other hand is a distinct possibility.