03.16.2010 | 12:00 pm
The ride plan was simple, really. We wanted to find out what the Ironman bike course felt like in its entirety. So we’d park at the reservoir, do the 22-mile ride to the beginning of the two-lap part of the ride, do the two laps, and then — even though this was not part of the course — we’d ride back to the reservoir.
A 140-mile road ride, give or take. Ambitious, but not ridiculous.
There was just one snag: the weather forecast for St. George that day was odd: “Windy,” it said. Honestly, I don’t recall ever seeing a weather forecast saying that before. “Sunny,” sure. “Overcast,” “Rainy,” “Snowy,” absolutely. But never “Windy.”
The weather forecast, as it turns out, was inaccurate only to the extent that it should have read, “Windy as hell.“
I imagine hell as a very windy place. Don’t you?
As soon as the ride began, The Runner and I — as a survival technique — started taking turns drafting, in a decidedly un-TT-like fashion.
By the time we had ridden the first half of the first lap of the course, I noticed we were averaging 12.5 miles per hour. I did some math for what that meant, finishing-time-wise, and didn’t like the answer I came up with.
I checked my math. I was not wrong. If the wind held (or got stronger, which seemed likely) and we stuck to the original plan, it’d be close to dark before we finished the ride.
I said as much to The Runner, who replied, “I’m determined to finish this ride.” Which was good enough for me.
Until it wasn’t.
The Right Thing to Say
At Veyo, about 20 miles from finishing the first loop, we stopped at a convenience store. At that point we hadn’t gone far enough that either of us should be cooked, but I was cooked. And The Runner looked tired, too.
But I did not say anything. I had already asked for an “out,” and was declined. I, being a macho, macho man, would tough out the ride, no matter what.
And then we began the ride toward Saint George and the beginning of the second lap. This section is primarily downhill, and should be an excellent place to recover.
But the wind was coming at us, hard, from eleven-o’clock. Meaning it had all the power of a nice hard headwind plus the exciting challenge of a brutal crosswind.
I did more math. And the math looked bad. I arrived at a conclusion: I really really really did not want to do the second lap.
But how to tell The Runner this? I used the ample time I had — courtesy of a murderous headwind / crosswind — to think of a convincing argument.
Here is what I came up with:
I am so tired. I don’t think I can handle a second lap. What do you say we just cut it short and head back to the truck?
I didn’t like that, though. Saying “I am so tired” is an admission of weakness, and as a man, I am contractually obligated to never ever (ever) admit weakness.
So I formulated another speech, this time focusing on a logical approach:
You know, we’re going eleven miles per hour right now. It will be dark in four hours, and if we do a second lap, we have seventy more miles to ride. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to finish this ride in the wind and the dark and the rain.
No good. She’d already know all of that. She didn’t need me shepherding her.
I crafted a casual dismissal of the second lap:
Really, I think we’ve got a good idea of what this course has in store for us. I don’t think it’s going to be necessary for us to ride it again.
I liked this approach at first, but as I practiced saying it in my head, I realized she’d see right through it.
I considered the pathetic approach:
I’m in my small ring, going downhill. I don’t think I want to do this again in the dark and rain. And I’m cold, I’m tired, I hate the wind, my nose is running, and this just isn’t fun anymore and I want to go home. [Then start crying for effect]
In addition to this approach being pathetic, it was in fact also the most honest approach, and I was just about to go with it.
Then The Runner said, “There’s no way we’re doing a second lap today.”
And my speeches — my wonderfully crafted and extremely persuasive statements — suddenly became unnecessary.
And my relief was as exquisite as it was poignant.
Comments (68)
03.15.2010 | 1:13 pm
There are many, many things I love about road biking. I love how smooth and fast it is. I love how you can start right from your front door. I love how you are going slow enough that you can see what’s going on around you, but fast enough that you still get somewhere. I love how elegant a road bike looks. I love the way a road bike feels when you stand up and rock it in a climb. I love how a road bike feels as you lean into a sweeping downhill turn. I love how you can make decisions about your ride as the ride progresses — make it longer, shorter, climbier or flatter — whatever suits you, thanks to the fact that someone has kindly laid pavement all over the place.
And I could go on. See, I wasn’t kidding when I said “many” twice in the above paragraph.
Of all the truly wonderful things about road biking, however, one thing surpasses them all:
The convenience store.
Truly, the modern convenience store is a marvel of nature, ideally adapted for the road cyclist, and in particular for the road cyclist who’s been riding for several hours and has a $10.00 bill in his (or, to be sure, her) jersey pocket.
Convenience stores are, simply, the best thing about road cycling.
And if you don’t agree with me, try riding — as The Runner and I did about a week ago as we pre-rode the St. George Ironman road course — about seventy miles into a headwind, with another several hours of riding left to go, when you find yourself confronted by a convenience store.
At that moment, I guarantee you will find yourself in agreement with me, as you should have been all along.
The Remarkable Thing About Convenience Stores
Consider this for a moment: You have been on your bike for hours, and you are hungry. And thirsty. For some reason, you cannot get the image of a Fat Boy ice cream sandwich out of your mind. And the thought of a Mountain Dew is lodged in there pretty well, too. And so is a Churro. And Twizzlers (or Red Vines — let’s not argue).
You stop at a convenience store, and — really, this is just magical — you can convert a small piece of paper into all of these things. It boggles my mind, frankly, that someone would give me all this food, for which I would gladly trade my bike, my helmet, my shoes and my glasses, in exchange for a little piece of paper.
A piece of paper becomes a delicious ice cream sandwich. Seriously. It’s like I’m some kind of genius ice-cream-obsessed alchemist or something.
Or, if you’re all high-techy and stuff, you can swipe a card with magnetic strip in exchange for the same kind of thing. In which case you are literally getting something for nothing.
Cornucopia of Goodness
The simple fact that a negligibly light piece of paper can be converted into a vast amount of food is enough to treat convenience stores as a modern miracle. But there’s more.
Specifically, the variety is incredible. At one recent convenience store stop — in Veyo, Utah, during the aforementioned death march against a headwind — I purchased and ate a large cup full of serve-yourself soft-serve ice cream, during which I demonstrated my ability to stack ice cream very high indeed. And then I had a soft pretzel. And a hot dog.
And while I did not have a package of Fig Newtons, nor a plate of nachos, nor a monstrous Snickers bar, nor a Haagen-Dasz bar, I could have. And nearly did. And maybe would have, but people were starting to stare.
Really, the variety of ways I could satisfy my hunger — a hunger understood only by cyclists who have been running on empty for hours — was practically endless.
I am not ashamed to say that — so great was my gratitude for all these good things, neatly arranged in rows and along the self-serve counter at the wall — that I nearly climbed over the counter to hug the clerk.
But he did not look like the kind of person who wanted or needed a hug, so I stuck with profusely thanking him for letting me buy the double-armload of food. “Thank you, sir,” I said, my eyes misting over with joy, “for stocking your store so thoroughly and so well. Furthermore, thank you for being willing to part with this food. You can be confident that I will use it well and enjoy all of it.”
Since this convenience store is the first one in many miles along a very popular cycling route, I’m guessing this was not the first time this clerk has been thanked in this way.
Ubiquity
If there were just one convenience store in the world, cyclists would travel from every continent, just to plan a ride that had that convenience store on the route.
Although, come to think of it, you’d need a different name for this hypothetical sole convenience store, since for the vast majority of the universe, it would be very inconvenient.
“Inconvenient store,” maybe? Not very catchy, I’m afraid.
My point, though, is that convenience stores are convenient. They’re all over the place. Unless you’re starting and staying on a wilderness road, you will almost certainly pass a convenience store as you ride by.
Which, I believe, is the most compelling proof there is that progress is good.
Something for Nothing
And now I come to the part where I have to shamefacedly admit something. At this particular convenience store on this particular day, I actually had no cash at all, nor a card. I was bumming off The Runner, who had thoughtfully brought $20 — enough money to let me buy a second serving of soft-serve. Which I did.
But even if The Runner had chosen not to spot me the money I needed to indulge my most remarkable superpower — the ability to eat vast quantities, all the time — the convenience store would still have been a boon.
Sure, I wouldn’t have been able to have ice cream or a churro. And that would have been very sad indeed. But convenience stores carry a number of free items that can help the cash-strapped cyclist in need of calories.
Take, for instance, water. And sugar, and a number of lemon wedges — all free, when combined into your water bottle. Shake vigorously. Congratulations, you’ve just made a nice little hobo sports drink.
Need more calories? I have two words for you: Mayonnaise packets. They’re as plentiful as they are delicious. The mayo is delicous, I mean. The packets themselves are pretty difficult to swallow. Did you know, in fact, that ounce for ounce, mayonnaise has more calories than any energy gel in existence? Plus, mayo is free. And it goes great with mustard and is delicous on just about any kind of sandwich.
And there’s more. Need sodium? Pickle relish is free. Thirsty? Water’s free.
Need to use the bathroom? Yep, free.
Which makes me want to ask: Convenience stores, why are you so generous and good?
Comments (76)
03.11.2010 | 1:31 pm
The honeymoon is over. Not in the “we’ve started making passive-aggressive comments veiled as harmlessly sarcastic observations” sense, but rather in the sense that The Runner and I are back from our honeymoon.
The truth is, what we called a “honeymoon,” many people would have called an intense five-day training camp. Hard hikes, long runs, mountain biking, and road biking. And a lot of Mexican food (we weren’t in Mexico; we both just like Mexican food).
It was perfect. And I have many stories to tell.
But today — because I’m still feeling all lovey-dovey — I’m going to talk about the oddities I’ve recently learned about when cyclists make a love connection.
Attire
If you ride a bike for enough years, it permanently warps your sense of fashion. This happens in stages.
- Revulsion. When you first start riding, you find cycling clothes off-putting. The jerseys are too tight, and the colors are ridiculous. The shorts are obscene, and the chamois, well, it makes you look foolish and awkward.
- Acceptance. After a time, you realize that bright jerseys help motorists see you, the polyester wicks sweat pretty well, the tight fit keeps the jersey from flapping in the wind or inflating like a kite, and those tight lycra shorts — chamois and all — do a good job of keeping your legs from chafing and don’t get in the way of your ride.
- Enjoyment. After riding long enough, you begin to associate the pleasure of cycling with the clothes you wear while cycling, and somehow your head makes you think that you actually like the clothes themselves.
To this commonly-accepted (even though I just made it up) progression, I would add a fourth step: Attraction. Specifically, I have — a number of times — told The Runner that my favorite look for her is when she’s suited up for a ride: hair in a ponytail poking through the back of her helmet, no makeup at all, shorts, jersey, biking socks and shoes on.
Oh, and I dig the fingerless gloves, too.
The Runner, as near as I can tell, does not believe that I am telling the truth, but I swear I am. My thinking is that people look their best when they are dressed to look like their true selves — in The Runner’s case, as an athlete (i.e., she looks just as good when suited up to run).
I can’t be the only one who thinks this way. Can I get an “amen” from guys who think their women (or women in general) look their hottest when on a bike?
And as for you women, well. The Runner, on a group ride a couple weeks ago, confided to me, “There are five guys in tight shorts with extremely nice butts, right in front of me. I love road rides.”
To which I responded, “You are not allowed to ride with men, ever again. Ever.”
Impressing the Opposite Sex
This part is not really unique to cycling, but as a 43.75-year old man, I would have thought I’d be immune to it. Turns out I’m not.
The part I’m referring to is, of course, the male impulse to do something stupid, in the hopes that a particular female will not think it’s stupid, but rather that it’s awesomely sexy and stuff.
I wonder if that has ever worked?
In any case, I bring this up because last Friday, The Runner and I arrived in St. George in the early afternoon, and found — to our surprise — that it was sunny and warm outside. We quickly made our way to the Bear Claw Poppy trail (which means, I think, that this trail was named after a couple of different kinds of pastries).
Neither of us had ever ridden the trail before; both of us were on singlespeeds. I led out, and shortly came upon a group of guys with big-hit full suspension rigs, all looking down at the approach to a drop. Another from their group were at the edge of the drop, looking over. I could not see what was beyond that edge.
Nobody was going.
The Runner rolled up to the edge to have a look, at which point I had a really awesome idea: I would just go ride it.
So I did. Butt over the back seat, rear brake feathered, front brake untouched.
I got to the edge of the drop and saw — to my relief and pleasure — that it was not beyond my ability. Not even close, really. So I rode it, then stopped and scooped up and threw leaves into the air, while thumping my chest and shouting “Ook Ook OOOOK.”
And then for the rest of the trail, whenever there were markings saying that the trail was easier in one direction and harder in another, I’d take the harder direction. Hoping to impress my woman.
I did all this, by the way, after we had been married, meaning that — I think — I had done all the mate-attracting stunts necessary.
Which just goes to show — and I believe I may not be the first person to assert this — men are dumb.
I could point out, by the way, that none of this was anywhere near as dumb as — having finally recovered from hip flexor pain that lasted a month and prevented me from running even once in weeks — I went ahead and did a half-marathon-distance run with The Runner the next day, just to show that I’m every bit as smart as a bar of soap.
Comments (102)
03.10.2010 | 5:56 am
A few days ago, Bob and I rode the Crop Circles / Mr. DNA / Tapeworm trail system. It was raining lightly (yes, even though it was spring in Seattle), so the roots, rocks, and wooden stunts were slippery.
Early in the ride, we came to a seesaw. This one was taller and shorter than the seesaw I had ridden the last time we had been in the area, the board was narrower, and it was made of smooth wood. Also, the approach was downhill and around a bend.
I admit it: I was scared.
I approached the seesaw too slowly. By the time I was about halfway up, my front wheel was wobbling. I nearly stalled out, and my front wheel rolled off the right side of the seesaw.
This, as you may expect, was not a desirable situation.
From a height of probably five feet, I fell over the front of my bike. Ordinarily, I’d put my hands out to catch my fall, but this time I didn’t. I pulled my arms in toward my chest, and landed in a nice forward roll, finishing in a sitting position, astounded that I was not hurt even a tiny bit. I sat for a moment, stunned at my good fortune.
Bob shouted, as I sat there, dropped his bike, and ran over. “Are you OK?” he asked.
I admitted that to my amazement, I was just fine.
Bob then started laughing, recounting how the fall looked from his perspective, describing the contributing factors to my crash, and how surprised he was that I hadn’t snapped a wrist on that fall.
It was at this moment that I realized the reason I really like riding with Bob. He knows proper crash etiquette.
And Then There’s Brad
Bob’s behavior stands in marked contrast to how another friend of mine reacted after I crashed. Let’s just call him “Brad” (because his name is in fact actually Brad). He and I were riding a goat trail coming down from Jacob’s Ladder, which is part of the Hog’s Hollow network. I had never ridden this descent before, and so was surprised when it suddenly terminated with a three foot dropoff onto a dirt road. I flipped over my handlebars and landed on my back. It hurt. A lot.
Brad, naturally, took this opportunity to immediately begin laughing his head off. Without asking if I was OK. Without saying, “Sorry I didn’t warn you about how this trail ends.” Without any clue that several years later, I’d be tearing him a new one in the most public way I could imagine.
Proper Crash Etiquette
So, let this be a lesson to you. If you don’t follow the rules of Crash Etiquette, you may someday reap the consequences (Have I mentioned that this is the same Brad who bailed on his last lap when we were racing the 24 Hours of Moab as a 2-person team, and then didn’t even stick around to see me finish when I did his lap for him? Yep, he just packed up his gear and went home while I was on the course.).
Luckily, the rules of Crash Etiquette are quite simple. Most anyone can follow this simple five-step procedure:
- At the moment of impact, express astonishment and dismay. The best possible noise you can make when another person crashes is the noise you imagine yourself making if you were to have that selfsame crash. But an audible gasp or “Whoah!” will do fine.
- Immediately check to see if the crasher is OK. Saying “Are you OK?” is the correct way to do this. If a pool of blood or a compound fracture is evident, you should still ask the question.
- Recount the incident. While the crasher is collecting his or her wits, describe the accident, in as dramatic fashion as you possibly can. This will help the crasher feel like the pain is worth it. Anything for a good story.
- Once the crasher stands up, you are allowed to laugh. But not before then. And if the crasher is crying, you are not allowed to laugh. However, you are allowed to pretend the crasher is not crying, awkwardly avoiding looking at the crasher’s face.
- Speculate. Spend a few minutes describing the root causes for the crash. Slippery rock, mossy root, off-camber trail, and scree are all excellent reasons.
Most of you will learn this procedure quickly and will have no trouble with this important process.
Brad, you may want to print it and tape it to your bike.
Comments (28)
03.9.2010 | 6:46 am
I know some people who will not ride unless they have company. I am not one of those people. I like riding with another person or with a small group (or even, occasionally, a large group), but I’m also happy to go riding by myself.
And yet, I never ride alone. There’s always that stupid voice in my head, right there with me, providing a narrative, giving advice, and making remarks about my riding ability.
Frankly, I don’t care for him much.
Meet the Voice in My Head
Oh, he (yeah, he’s male) doesn’t talk all the time. In fact, sometimes he’ll go for long stretches without saying a word. And the times he chooses to talk actually says a lot about him. It’s always when I’m right at my limit. I could use some encouragement. And so that’s when he says things like,
- “So. This is all you’ve got, is it?”
- “Any time you’d like to step it up, feel free.”
- “Come on. Go. Seriously, it’s time for you to stop holding back.”
And, sometimes, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just laughs. Man, I hate it when he does that.
No Comfort, No Help
As near as I can tell, the voice in my head lives to motivate me exclusively through the medium of sarcasm and derision. Why is this the case? I mean, this is just a voice in my head. It’s me, talking to me. Why can’t I say nice things to myself?
For example, I’d love to hear me say to myself:
- “Hey, you’re headed for a personal best. Keep up the good work!”
- “Don’t worry about fading. You’ve done your best.”
- “You can do it! I have complete confidence in you!”
Come to think of it, never mind. That guy sounds like a motivational speaker. I think I prefer the sarcastic, snide guy.
Maybe It’s Just One Guy?
I did extensive research for today’s post, consisting of instant messaging with my friend Dug for a few minutes. First off, I should point out that it’s not easy to broach this topic. Asking a guy if he hears voices in his head is similar to accusing that guy of being insane.
Dug said that of course he heard a voice when he’s riding hard. As near as I could tell, it’s the same guy I hear. Condescending, disappointed, and curious as to why you’re even bothering if this is all you’ve got.
I developed the theory that perhaps everyone has the same voice. That there’s just one snarky, ethereal guy, wandering the earth and whispering mean-spirited remarks into our ears. A disappointed, snide, and sarcastically amused spirit guide for cyclists, if you will.
Or Maybe It’s Not
Then, because I am an extremely intrepid journalistic type who always wants to get my facts straight, I conducted even more research, this time in the form of an instant message conversation with my brother-in-law/friend Rocky.
It turns out that Rocky has got a voice, too. But it’s a way different voice. His voice tells him, in a matter-of-fact way, to cut it out. “This is stupid. You are not getting paid for this. And this in not fun,” it says to him.
And when Rocky really dials it up, a completely new voice barges in. This one doesn’t even talk. It just belts out a primal yell.
I’m pretty sure my inner voice has never yellled. Maybe that’s why Rocky makes all the technical moves, and I clip out at the first sign of danger.
Final Report
Based on my exhaustive research, I make the following assertions about cyclists and inner voices:
- All cyclists hear voices when they ride hard.
- The type of voice you hear corresponds to the type of rider you are.
- None of the voices are friendly.
- We are therefore all either equally sane, or equally insane.
I am of course, interested to know what kind of voice you hear, what it says, and under what conditions.
Also, I’d like to know if mine is the only one that speaks with an outrageous French accent.
Comments (72)
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