Going out on the town

We all know the joy that comes from mounting the indoor trainer for extended mind-numbing torture. You know this must be what they're doing to Al Qaeda in the prisons, because it evokes about the same reaction from me — screaming, crying, writhing, and ultimately submitting and just getting the job done. It's become such a regular occurrence for me that I find myself muttering, "yes, please...may I have another..." during the "recovery" periods between intervals.

And since I've added "taint training" to the spin regimen, it's become a tradition I can't wait to break. And just because I know you're curious about the progress of the taint training, I've posted a recent photo for you to see. I'm sure you'll agree I'm reaping the benefits of this new-found method for hardening my body and toughening up my mind. Don't mind the tail...I hear it falls off once the calluses harden.



But my favorite thing to do to make the trainer sessions more palatable involves role playing. I've found that imagining I'm someone different, wearing the right attire, and talking the part, makes 75 minutes just fly by. In fact, I've found myself really enjoying this alter ego to the point that I have a hard time breaking out of my character. Here are a few examples.

A night out on the town: For many years I've admired the high-flying celebrities who always looked suave with a woman on their arm and a finely tailored tuxedo about their loins. So I've purchased this training jersey to make me feel like a million dollars. You know what they say...you feel more confident when you dress the part. And frankly, I feel every bit the $129.95 that Primal Wear charged me for this smooth looking piece of spandex and polyester.


Walker Texas Ranger: I don't know any martial art moves, or really have any muscles to speak of, but I find this jersey makes me feel all tough and ripped...like Chuck Norris doing the cycling equivalent of a round house to the chops of some petty criminal who's crossed the bearded phenom one too many times. I also have a matching cowboy hat complete with moisture wicking technology built into the brim. Of course, I wear this jersey under a flannel button-down long sleeve shirt just to complete the ensemble. And for those of you following along, you'll be happy to know that when I take my chamois off and put my cowboy boots on, I've transformed into the taint training outfit. Smooth like butta'...



Storm Trooper: Who hasn't wanted to don the black spandex and hard white plastic of a Storm Trooper suit and protect the evil overlords trying to take over the galaxy? Well I for one never got the chance to be a storm trooper for Halloween and sporting this jersey for trainer sessions makes me feel like I'm fighting the force and flying at light speed through stars instead of only logging 35 miles and never leaving my living room.



Just relaxin': Who doesn't feel more relaxed when they're dressed to land a few trout? I find this kit brings out the Sunday driver in me. And as long as the mosquitoes don't come with it, I'm pleased to be wearing it. The waders, however, don't seem to want to integrate with my Speedplay pedals.

Mulletude: Last season I was trying to grow my pseudo mullet, and now that I think about it, this behavior may have been a result of wearing the Rolling Stones jersey during training too much. However you rock it, you should be doing it in a faux denim jersey...with a cigarette...and a can of Schlitz. What the heck, if you aren't fully blasted when you take this jersey off, your bender, errrr, training session, just wasn't productive.

Meet me in SF: I can't be certain this photo is from SF, but considering the bayside vantage point and the style of the jersey, I'm thinking that's where it originated from. And it's where I imagine myself when I'm wearing it. It takes a brave, brave man to wear this jersey, and an even braver man to admit it. It takes a man with more bravery than all the Mel Gibsons in the world to be seen in it out on your bike...bravery on the trainer is one thing, bravery in front of people is something I'm still working up to.

Because I can: And finally, when I just have that devil-may-care attitude and I want to feel like I'm just having fun as an 8-year-old on my Schwinn Stingray, I pull this beloved suit on and put my son's BMX bike on the Cyclops instead of my rig and just pedal and coast, then pedal and coast. Bunny hopping has been troublesome so far, but in my imagination I've cleared several trash cans.

Two wheels for life. And an infinite supply of Primal Wear Jerseys for training indoors. And only indoors. If you wear these outside, you're an idiot.

Mount up...we're going for a ride

Two months ago I began noticing a car in my neighborhood that always had a road bike on the trunk rack. Always. Kinda like those birds that ride around on the back of a rhinoceros just for the free ride. That's kind of what this car seemed to be doing to the bike...giving it a free ride around town and a comfy place to rest instead of the garage.

What strikes me as even more strange now is that in the throes of winter, the bike still can be found tightly tethered to the car. Does this guy ever ride the bike? Why is it every time I see this car around town or in the driveway the bike is attached? Is it more cool to be part of the biking scene by showing off your bike or is it more cool to actually ride the bike?

And to think, all these years I could have been shaving my legs, talking the talk, but never having to mount the bike and turn a pedal and I could have been a "biker." I never realized it was so simple. Almost like being a Born Again Christian.

And then I remembered my brother-in-law's two accidents wherein he drove his car into his garage because he insisted on keeping the bike on the roof for longer than necessary. Sure, he got new parts, but at a price. Biking is an expensive enough hobby, but to have to keep replacing parts because you slam dunk your rid into the garage has to take its toll.

Like this bike...granted, I believe that while the experts may deem this bike unrideable, I think they've discovered a new geometry that would be a perfect cross between a road bike and a recumbent. 

Or this bike which is somehow has gone off the deep end and is being mounted without the trays. It's like some kama sutra position for bikes..inverted and going in backwards.

And there are dozens of other mounting configurations...all designed to carry your bike to a destination where it can be ridden. I'm fine with the kama sutra bike mount as long as the bike is eventually ridden each time it is mounted. Mounting the bike, then driving around, then unmounting the bike (or worse, never unmounting the bike) is the worst form of impersonation.

If you never pedal the bike, you're only a driver. And that doesn't require shaved legs.

Two wheels for life.

Year-round badge of courage

I've already alluded to my strict off-season training regimen, dubbed "Taint Training" for its likeness to medieval torture. I've also found TT is good for removing layers of saddles sores you didn't know you had. And while some of you have begged for my TT secrets, I'm not going to share with you any details, let alone photographs. Suffice it to say TT isn't for the faint of heart or the sound of mind. It's a downright painful, exhausting, and messy ordeal.

It takes a special breed to commit — and follow through — with winter training protocols. And I'm one of the breed. Or, one of a breed.

One breed I'm not a part of, though, is the "commute in all weather" family of cycling animals. And when I say all weather, what I really mean is, freezing cold, dark, icy winter weather. Like the kind we're experiencing every morning here in Utah.

For the past few winters I've noted a particularly deranged commuter who is bundled up with enough layers to warmly circumnavigate the North Pole; he sports goggles, a gas mask, mittens more suited for a dog sled musher, and surprisingly still has a helmet that fits his melon over several layers of fleece hats.

I realize this man may not own a car and that he's saving money, maintaining his fitness, and proving he's tougher than me; but that's no excuse for trying to kill yourself in the pitch black of the morning on icy roads filled with disoriented and inattentive drivers. 

 

If you're looking for the year round badge of courage, I hereby award it to you. I'll even have something crafted out of bronze, if a simple patch won't do the trick. 

And I'll be the first to admit it: You are the toughest guy I don't know. 

I'll further admit that I am not tough. When it's 22 degrees with a 15 mph breeze and I'm standing at the bus stop, I want to reach into my backpack, retrieve the emergency lighter I keep, gather some kindling and stoke up a blaze in the nearest 55-gallon drum I can find.

So when I see these deranged commuters barreling down North Temple, I begin to wonder about their mental state. And I know most of these guys...they're not just going across town; they have 10-14 mile commutes.

Now I realize to each his own, but really, riding your bike in 20 degree weather on skating rinks for roads with snow and ice lining your route? That's training?

And do I even need to mention the air quality? Or the expense of outfitting yourself with Himalayan quality gear? Unless you're planning to summit Everest on a bike, you don't need this crap.

And I'll let you in on a little secret....shhhh....it's called a trainer. You hook your bike up to it, ride it indoors while watching My Sweet 16 on MTV, and enjoy the luxuries of the 21st century.

I know, I know...but it won't make you tough. Fine. I'll take a debit in the tough guy category and be alive next season to haul your asthmatic, lung cancer-riddle shell of a winter commuting body up the climbs. All while sporting my cowboy boots and a leather taint.

Two wheels for life (weather permitting)

How ya doin'?........Fine....and you?

I'll admit it, I'm a bit of a snob. We all are, really. Some people are snobs about what kind of tires are on their monster truck; some people are snobby about fancy food; some people are snobby about who they date or what they'll wear.; and some people are snobby about snobby people.

Being snobby doesn't have anything to do with money, it just has to do with the way we act about our certain favorite things. I happen to be snobby about some bike things. Not everything. Just some things. I don't care what kind of bike you ride, just don't mix spandex shorts with a t-shirt. And I don't care what kind of shoes you wear, just don't wear tall tube socks with green stripes. And I don't care how fast or slow you are, just don't be a jerk about either.

But what really gets me more than anything is the guy or gal who are too into themselves to acknowledge other cyclists on the road, be it crossing paths with them or together at a stop light heading the same direction.

It seems that there's a sentiment around that road bikers are snobby. And I can see why. Some of them act high and mighty....Look at me...I'm a bi-pedal mammal and I'm not encumbered by an automobile. It's like saying, "Look at me, I have the best of the sexually transmitted diseases...I have syphilis."

And I'm always reminded that you can't always wave to the guy who's saying hello — you might be following the Z Train down a canyon and it's all you can do to hang on to the draft, let alone raise a hand or finger in salutation. I get that. Sometimes all you can do it raise a few digits from the hoods to say "hey" to the guy who's waving from across two lanes of traffic on a commute. Or you can give a head nod to say as coolly as possible, "Wassup..." Minimal effort but maximum effect.

So last week I'm riding home from work on the new Legacy Parkway Trail...it's a great paved bike path with no stop signs, no traffic, and great views. You're close to other riders and runners, and it's easy to smile and say hello to everyone you see. And I like to say hey to people I pass.

So I see two cyclist coming my way...man and woman, just plodding along slowly and I say hello.

Nothing.

So I do what I usually do when I'm by myself and this happens: I respond to my own salutation...."I'm fine, thanks for asking."

When I'm with Z, he responds to me and makes me feel good.

I'm thinking, fine, that dude had a bad day, or it's really cold and he doesn't feel like chatting. I brush it off.

But then it happens several more times that day. And now I'm getting a little itchy about it. I know, I shouldn't let this stuff get under my spandex, but it gives every cyclist a bad name. These stone faced losers are no better than the snobby fixed gear riders who parade around SLC without helmets, running stop lights at will like they own the town, all the while smugly looking at anyone with gears and brakes like they're so last century.

Without fail, every time I ride my bike I come across some snobby road rider who's too good to wave, lift a finger, nod their head, or even wink at me. I should be used to it.

I guess it's like Larry Wall always says, "There's a reason those guys always ride alone." And he's right. Almost without fail, the ranks of the unfriendly are always alone. But it stands to reason that if a person was reaching out to you and you were a lonely loser, you'd welcome some socializing.

So lift a finger, any finger, just let me know you're there, that you're happy to be riding the roads in a free country, and that your seat isn't crammed so far up your chamois that you forgotten why we ride bikes.

Two wheels for life.

Dear Cell Phone Using Driver:

I wanted to take this opportunity to let you know how very proud I am of you and your ability to multi-task; to drive while talking on your phone, and putting on mascara, and reading the newspaper, and eating...all while keeping your lap dog from jumping out of the window of your vehicle.

It's a skill that cannot be learned. You are a gifted driver, indeed.

Thank you for talking on your phone from the moment you enter your car each morning to the time you lay your head to rest each night and go to sleep. It's your proven expertise as a phone user that has allowed me to be nearly killed several times. And without these brushes with death, I wouldn't appreciate the life I have been given.

Thank you for always rushing to wherever you're going and talking the whole way there.

Thank you for text messaging while you're in the middle of a left turn; I can't tell you how much I love the pure rush of adrenaline I get when I see you in action. It's quite simply, breathtaking.

And while some people don't understand the need to be on the phone every waking minute of the day, you have an uncanny proficiency for the concept. Without cell phones, what would we do in a car anyway?

Some people will mock or scorn you for this gift you've blessed society with. But not me. I'm all for the wonderful distraction if cell phones.

I realize there are other people on the road trying to drive safely, or ride their bikes, but you understand who really owns the road. You and your phone.

Please don't be deterred by the various laws being passed around the country requiring cell phone users to go 'hands-free'
— this doesn't apply to someone of your aptitude.

Besides, if you went hands free, what would you do with your hands?



The bottom line is I owe you big time. And you know who you are...the savvy, well-groomed oversized vehicle driving crowd who is driven for success and won't let anything, or anyone, stand in their way. You're taking the tiger by the tail and keeping in touch; you're networking and multi-tasking; you're in the know.

Don't ever change, cell phone using drivers. We need you. Without you the world would be a safer place. And what fun is that?

Face down in the rain

I went to lunch today with a friend. On the way back I saw a man lying on the sidewalk, next to his bike...he'd just been hit. The driver and several others were trying to help. Gave me a gut ache.

I don't want to ever end up face down on the losing end of a car vs. bike scenario. But I'm sure it's only a matter of time; people don't pay attention.

.

They should pay better attention.

Two wheels for life

Right place, right time, right color...nuff said

Big cookies and dope

I read with interest today the astonishing news that Leonardo Piepoli has demanded a counter test to his Tour de France positive for CER-EPO. He was one of seven riders in this new era of cleaner cycling to test positive in Le Tour. He joined fellow countryman and big mouth Ricardo Ricco, a.k.a. the Cobra, Austria's Bernhard Kohl, Germany's Stefan Schumacher, the Spanish duo Manuel Beltran, of Liquigas, and Barloworld rider Moises Duenas, and Dmitri Fofonov, a Kazakh who rides for Credit Agricole, who tested positive for a banned stimulant and has since been banned for three months.



Now add other high-profile positives like Tom Boonen's cocaine addiction that was recently documented through hair sample testing to the mix and it seems like many of the riders in this new, cleaner era of cycling haven't caught up with the program.



Frankly I think these cheats need to be stripped. Not stripped of anything particular, for now, just stripped. Make them undress for two years and leave it at that.

We've all seen the "Dopers Suck" t-shirts and stickers. And I agree, cheating while racing your bike isn't cool. But I think to get the point across that filling your body with harmful amounts of drugs is indeed dangerous, we should allow doping at an unprecedented level.

Here are my suggestions for what should be allowable in the professional ranks:

1. Bikes should be equipped with IV poles mounted to the chain stays, carrying bags of blood — your blood, Basso's blood, bull's blood, Ullrich's blood, whatever — so you can receive your transfusion en route. Riders could turn the flow of blood on and off with a regulator on the IV and we as viewers could see them race up climbs like a Japanese motorcycles at full throttle. Now that would be some exciting racing.
2. Instead of having race radios, team car cameras, or heart rate monitors shown on the TV, we should be able to hear the racer's sludge, err, I mean blood, surging through their veins like the sound of a Slurpee being dispensed. You'd also be able to switch to real-time heart rate sounds where every 12 seconds you'd hear a distinctive yet dull thud of the heart pumping gelatinous cells to the muscles.
3. As part of the pre-race team presentations we should be able to watch teams inject each other with various drugs and bet on the outcome of the race based solely on dosages.
4. Just once, instead of seeing a team director drive up next to his star and offer a bottle of water, I'd like to see the director offer a small mirror with a line of cocaine for the rider to snort. That would take real bike handling skills to accomplish that.
5. Forget the biological passport that the World Anti-Doping Association (WADA) is pushing, fans should be able to buy their favorite rider's favorite stimulant in branded packaging...Ricco fans could have their very own CERA-EPO viles in a collectible cardboard container with Ricco on the front smiling. If you're lucky, you could even get his autograph before he has to strip and can't find his pen.

While there are certainly other ways I'd love to see doping enhanced in the sport of cycling, these are but a few of the early adopter ideas I've envisioned. I welcome your suggestions also.

And while I would never dope, and I wish no one die from doping, perhaps a tragic mishap on the lower slopes on Mount Ventoux would shake some sense into these idiots.

I myself have tried various different types of fuel while cycling: gels, bars, gummy things, and an assortment of beverages are the usual and expectant fare.

I've also tried some non-traditional foods hoping they'd give me both the energy I needed and the satisfaction of taste from eating them.

• Frozen cookie dough balls: You must eat these early or you just have a warm mess of unmanageable dough in a bag melting in your jersey. Tasty, but no EPO effect.
• Tater-tots: If you've cooked them the night before and salted them thoroughly, they're delicious on a long ride...especially if they've had time to reheat in your jersey. Again, tasty, but no EPO effect.
• Turkey sandwich: Just make sure you go heavy on the wasabi mustard and you'll be fine. Filling, tasty, and good for ultra events like LOTOJA
• Lofthouse giant sugar cookie with pink frosting: Like a surge of crack cocaine (not that I know what it's like, but I'm guessing here) that leaves you wanting more. Worst part is you have no milk to wash it down with.

Many of the things I've eaten while riding have done nothing more than hasten the lower GI distress — not a particularly enjoyable experience while riding with a wedge of leather underneath you. And some have simply tasted good.

And so to commemorate the memory of Leo P. and his doping friends, I've opened betting on the next to be caught. This will be a simple "call your shot" type of contest. Correctly identify the next doper to be apprehended (and who will soon thereafter deny everything) and you'll win a bag of my frozen homemade cookie dough for your July century ride.

Do I look fat in spandex?

Last weekend was Halloween, obviously, because otherwise I only expose this much skin while showering or riding my bike. And sometimes not even when showering.


And while dressing up to resemble people who you might better recognize from the movie Deliverance seemed fun at the time, when I saw how disturbing these photos were I started wondering how funny I might look posed in the same position in spandex...but still wearing the boots, of course.



Not too shabby...I think this is what Jan Ullrich might look like right about now. I'm sure he still wears his T-Mobile kit around the house for kicks. He also has a pair of T-Mobile PJs that he likes to wear when he's entertaining women or going out for some Euro Techno Disco.

But, I like to envision myself like this instead of the above photo.


Yes, I'm growing a mullet. I need something like Sampson's hair to power me to the ranks of Cat. 3 and be able to hang with the Josh's and the venerable and indestructible 155 pound ball of fury Larry Hall.

And so I've contrived a winter workout plan that include both the boots and the spandex. It's designed to increase strength and flexibility, while improving coordination, balance, endurance, and flexibility.

Here it is: I'll be doing all my off-season strength training wearing only a jock strap and my cowboy boots. And when I'm done with the weights, I'll wear the same attire while I do my spinning workouts...five days a week, for 70 minutes a night on the bike.

I know, I know, you're thinking that's too much clothing and I'll be sweating to death while working out. True. But consider the benefits next spring when my taint it so callused that I could ride on a seat made of sand paper for hours on end without so much as the slightest discomfort, and with the boots jettisoned for cleat and shoes, I'll be like a locomotive on the pedals.

Look what training in sweat pants and a sweat shirt as a youth did for Floyd Landis? I'm just taking the old school approach back a little bit more.

And don't ask for a photo....my jock is being laundered right now so the ensemble isn't complete.

But here's something to wet your appetite.



No pain no gain.

-- Two wheels for life

Two wheels for life

Yes, this will be you in a few years...riding around aglow from radiation while wearing your gas mask. Cars 'r' coffins. Every time I wear this T-shirt from the best bike apparel designers around, Twin Six, I get the same question: Why are those people wearing gas masks?

The answer I routinely give: Because this is a peak into the future and you've polluted our environment so badly that I'm forced to ride with a gas mask to avoid your toxic fumes. 

The open mouth breathing, deer-in-the-headlights looks I get tell me either people feel guilty about driving too much, or they have no clue what I'm talking about.

Either way it doesn't matter. I'm not anti car but it's fun to use this T-shirt as a conversation starter for alternative methods of transportation — buses, trains, carpools, bike commuting, and the like. 

Lest I be labeled a extremist when it comes to cars vs. bikes, let me clarify. I love to ride my bike to work...it saves me money, uses less natural resources, and keeps me healthy. And I do drive a car for a lot of things in my life. I just think when we have access to buses, trains, and bikes we should use them more frequently.

However, I do see a die hard bike commuter every winter wearing a gas mask as he rides from Davis County to SLC every day. I suppose it's to alleviate the impact of the Utah inversion from thrashing his lungs, plus it probably keeps his face warm. He's tough; he rides in some serious cold weather and doesn't seem to mind taking his life into his own hands every day on Beck Street.

I could do this for a living if I had to. As long as all I hauled was Styrofoam. This guy's not that tough.

And how about more of these signs around town...

And as dumb as I think recumbent bikes are, this has to be more than double retarded. The only thing more disturbing than this would be if they were facing the same direction, spooning. (Shudder)

And now it appear that the fair weather riding season is slipping away. Everyone enjoy your spin bikes and trainers.

Two wheels for life.

Riding the Pooh Trail

I've long been perplexed at the practice of bagging pooh after your pet has laid some cable on a local mountain bike trail. We've all seen it...small brown bags, tied neatly at the top, just sitting there on the side of the trail, looking forlorn and scared. As I ride by I usually think ..."They'll be back for that bag and place it in the trash at the trail head."

But too often I see that same sad bag of pooh lingering for longer than it should.



Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the actual bagging of the pooh; it's far better than the all-to-frequent alternative of letting your horse-sized animal created a new obstacle in the trail for the rest of us to either ride around or through.

Come to think of it, there's one trail that in my corner of the universe has become famous for random animal droppings: Mueller Park.

While this trail is busy with hikers and bikers, it's also seemingly the place to bring your animal to take a hud. Within the first 200-300 yards of trail one can consistently count several piles of fresh mess. Part of me thinks this is the dog just getting it out of his system before the tag-along run with his owner.

But more and more I'm starting to believe this is a place people bring their dogs to pooh.

And I've been unfortunate enough to have ridden through one of these piles. It's been several years, but the memory (and the smell) is still fresh in my mind. And there's nothing worse than hitting a steaming pile of Alpo right at the outset of a ride to keep your anger brewing.

Seriously, can't you people take a stick or a makeshift broom made of pine bows and brush this stuff off the trail where it can decompose quickly and remain out of sight for riders? I smell bad enough after a hard ride with out freshening up with Fido's fertilizer.



I've also seen this phenomenon on paved trails, believe it or not...and on faux paved trails like Slickrock in Moab. Mmmmm....nothing like baked crap being flung about by some inexperienced rider who can't avoid it. And there's surely nothing sweeter than finding out too late that the smell that's following you is on you. And it's the same color as the trail, so it can be hard to miss. And it's going to stick on your tires and jersey for longer than you think.

And don't even think of trying to question my already questionable bike handling skills. I can steer around the pooh...if I could see it. It usually hides in the shadows, caked in a think coat of the same dusty dirt that covers the trail...maybe posing as a pine cone, but always finding its way onto you.

Which brings me back to the little brown bags of pooh. Yes, it's very kind and sensitive of the person who bagged the crap to do so. But I implore you to take your smelly mess with you; whisk away the unbagged dung into the bushes if you run out of pooh bags; and until that dog learns how to pedal or wipe itself, leave the dog at home.


The one dog owner who packs out what his dog packed in (and then let out.)

PETA can bring their team of high poohwered attorneys after me — I will no longer stand for owners and their animals treating our trails as their own outhouse. I demand justice. I demand freedom from pooh. I demand a bright fluorescent dog food that's visible from 50 yards once it's evacuated from the animal.

To all dog owners out there who don't clean up after your animals: May you step in your own pet's pooh. And may it smell. Badly.

Race to win, or ride for style?

As per my daily diet of all things cycling, I was reading along with Cyclingnews.com's coverage of the mundane when I came upon this little snippet by Matthew Cole from BikeRadar.com:

UCI ban skin suits and open face helmets for some mountain bike competitions

The UCI, the governing body for competitive cycling, has made some interesting changes to the rules for the 2009 season and beyond including banning the wearing of "tight-fitting clothing" and insisting that full-face helmets must be worn when racing and practising for downhill and 4X.

The wearing of skin suits has been a point of contention over the last year, notably in the Australian round of the mountain bike world cup. A skinsuit-clad Tracy Moseley (Kona) won the women's race by four seconds ahead of Rachel Atherton (Animal-Commencal), who claimed that the skin suit gave Moseley an unfair advantage.

"Fair enough to Tracey if she wants to do that to win, but for the sport and the longevity of the sport, to wear cool race kit and to make an image for yourself is more important than the odd win here and there," said Atherton.

The image associated with the story, illustrating the skin suit in full flight, can be viewed here.

However, I'm a bit perplexed about the controversy. Isn't winning the race the point of racing? It would seem that using innovative methods to shave seconds off your downhill time would be applauded by others, followed shortly by mimicking said method.

But, no. Atherton is more concerned about the integrity of the fashion of the sport than winning her bike race. In her words, "to make an image for yourself is more important than the odd win here and there."

The odd win? The last time I checked winning was the point of racing; it's what the sponsors pay you for. Then again, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm so out of touch with this particular discipline of cycling to understand that winning isn't important, but how you look is important.

And to some extent, I agree, looking good is important. For instance, there's the unwritten code of cycling by Pezcyclingnews's Josh Horowitz.

It's not meant to be the final word on everything related to cycling attire, but it helps put things into perspective.

Having said this, I realize there are situations that call for a pair of baggy shorts and a loose fitting jersey. Fine. But don't tell me that you'd rather be the best looking loser on the downhill circuit than be on the podium on a regular basis.

My theory: Atherton's muffin top prohibits the use of the skinsuit. And that's okay, just don't whine when you lose. And a note to the UCI: Don't cave to fashion and outlaw the skinsuit. Why not take a stand and outlaw something that would actually freshen up the racing. Like eliminating race radios in all road bike events.

Now, I admit wearing the skinsuit on the downhill bike is a throwback to John Tomac, but when did winning become uncool? Maybe it's European and I just don't get it.

Something that is cool, and is coming to a backyard near me, is my latest Trojan Horse. I'm using the very clever, and effective, ploy of improving my son's BMX skills to get my parents to allow a replica of this track to be built on their property. Both his bike skills will improve, and hopefully so will mine. At least that's the plan.




(For more info on the epidemic, visit Lee's website.)

I imagine hours of summer fun with my son carving the corners, doubling the rollers, and just generally enjoying the fun of cycling. It'll be a place where the latest component or bike toy won't matter; where there is no finish line or points series standings; and where if I want to break out the road kit and skinny tires to spank the pants off of my 7-year-old, there will be no governing body to intervene and ban my attire.

That is, of course, as long as I'm wearing the right colored helmet and my glasses are outside the straps.

A bird in the head is better than two in the bush

Continuing the theme of great fall mountain biking and the stories that go with them, here's part II in the Remembering the Good Times series. 

Some people have all the luck. Some people just have all the good stories. Take my good friend, The Man with Two First Names, for instance. For 10 years I've been regaled by his tales of mishaps, bruh-ha-has, workplace debacles, and clever plots. But it's his biking stories that ring the truest. 

Example #1: Descending Mueller Park trail, perfect weather, trail conditions are good for speed and a large pine hen sits squarely in the trail. As the TMWTFN approaches, the bird flies up ahead of him, seemingly leading him down the trail; kind of like its sounding the warning to all oncoming traffic. 

But just as this appears like a gesture of good will, the bird turns and attacks, latches cleanly onto his head and neck and hangs on for several seconds. TMWTFN actually had to brake to a complete stop and reach back and punch the bird several times to make it release its death grip on his head/neck.  And of course no one was willing to help; everyone was immobilized with laughter.

I can't explain what he looked like, so I'll use a series of photos to illustrate it; you pick the one(s) you like best and begin to visualize.

Ordinarily we all have a good story from a favorite trail or destination, but TMWTFN has many stories from many trails.

Example #2: Same trail, Mueller Park, dead of summer, middle of the day. Hotter than the desert in Africa. As he's climbing up the trail, he meets a runner escorting an elderly man down  the trail who is dehydrated and desperately needs water. Really, this man may have been closer to death than I can reasonably emphasize.

Being the kind-hearted giver that he is, TMWTFN immediately dismissed the old man's needs and told him he'd lived a good life and that dying the wilderness was many a man's wish. Soon, the runner and the fellow cycling companions (who were even more kind-hearted) coerced him into sharing the water from his Camelbak. 

So he graciously holds the hose over the dying man's mouth and drips a few drops of water from the bladder into his parched mouth. "No, not like that!" insists the runner..."you've got to let him get a good long suck on that mouthpiece for him to get enough water."

Here's what was sucking that mouthpiece.

Now I have to be more honest, the man didn't look exactly like this...he was older and had fewer teeth.

The loud slurping and sucking and drooling that was occurring at the expense of the Camelbak's mouthpiece made nails on the chalkboard sound like a lullaby.

And while this gesture may truly have saved an old man from dying, it scarred several other men for life.

Needless to say, the mouthpiece was instantly incinerated and someone else spent the day dehydrated instead of the old man.

These stories aren't meant only for your entertainment, however; there's a life lesson to be learned here.

No matter how many birds get stuck in your hair and neck, or how many disoriented bums have to suckle from the teat of your proverbial Camelbak, it's always better than being shat upon by a impatient pigeon with lower GI distress.

Rubber side down.

Remembering the good times

There's something about this time of year. Like many cyclists, I slow down a bit before ramping up my "winter training program" — which is short for watching TV while straddling my road bike mounted on the trainer. This is different than summer training which consists of watching TV while straddling my sofa while my bike is mounted to the top of my car.

Aside from beautiful weather which is ideal for mid-day weekend rides, this time of year is great for reminiscing on the glory days of the past....the past years' races, the great group rides of the past, and the epic 4-day benders in Moab or Fruita. 

So while spinning the local singletrack on my mountain bike this week, I was reminded of the last big mountain bike race I entered. When I say big, I don't mean important, I mean long and hard. Let me add as a disclaimer that I didn't really know how to train for racing when I entered this race. But I don't think this would have changed the outcome anyway. The bike race was the now defunct Brian Head Epic 50/100.

To begin with, let's look at the finish line photo, compliments of my good friend and riding buddy The Motivator.

You may not be able to see the look on my face, and if you click on the photo you may still not realize what the look I have on my face really means. What you can see here is me using sign language to communicate exactly how I felt when I crossed the finish line. Let's backtrack for perspective...like that Seinfeld episode in reverse.

Thirty minutes before this photo was taken I was a scant 5 miles from the finish line, lying under a pine tree in the fetal position trying not to vomit. As I shook, shivered, and dry heaved, the gleeful onlookers posing as race fans could be heard debating the merits of approaching me and offering help. They eventually decided to let barfing cyclists lie and have a good laugh at my expense instead. A wise choice. Eventually I got up and rode on.

Thirty minutes before that, I was puking string cheese on my new carbon handlebars. A new way of looking at the term "cheesed off."  String cheese was the only thing that sounded edible at the last feed zone, so I pounded a few and went on my merry way. I was looking forward to a cold, flat Coke, but unfortunately my race support had gotten thirsty and drank it. Bet Lance never had to deal with Bruyneel rifling through his mussett bag of pastries and beverages.

Thirty minutes before that I was walking my bike up the steepest part of the trail talking to myself in the second, third and fourth persons.  And waiting for that elusive second wind. 

At this point I should have given up, thrown in the towel and accepted the DNF like a man. But I couldn't. I couldn't let the race best me. I couldn't let string cheese best me. I couldn't let those single-speeders with aluminum cans on their hubs best me. I couldn't let the crappy pre-race meal best me. And I refused to let the barking dogs that kept me awake ALL NIGHT before the race best me. So I kept pedaling...errrr....walking.

Fast-forward again to the finish line photo: shortly after I crossed the finish line, saluted the camera, and fell off my bike, I resumed the fetal position and prayed to Santa Claus to ask the Easter Bunny to help me from blowing my lunch all over my many fellow two-wheeled soldiers. 

But my faith in Santa Claus wasn't strong enough, and this is what ensued.

To add insult to injury, someone from the resort who I couldn't focus on clearly because of the tears in my eyes had the nerve to ask me to "please not throw up on the grass." And while I couldn't respond coherently, I do remember The Motivator having my back, telling the woman to let me have a few minutes to puke my guts out in peace. 

It took four hours in a dark basement for me to feel good enough to get in the car and drive the four hours home. All told, the four hours it took to ride the course, the four hours in the dark basement, and the four hours in the car home were the longest 12 hours of my life.

So as I carved tacky ribbons of trail and took extra long hits on nature's crisp morning air this week, I said a little prayer to Santa Claus asking him to thank the Easter Bunny for allowing me to first, live through the awful experience, and second, finally get that race cancelled from the race calendar once and for all.

Good times...good times.

Hot dogs and a healthy lifestyle

Most people ride their bikes for two reasons:

1. To be more healthy/enjoy their exercise
2. To get from "A" to "B"

So when I sidled through the gym area of the fitness center where I shower each day and saw a woman on an exercise bike eating raw hot dogs as she pedaled, I was in awe.

For a few minutes after this sight I had to tell myself that I actually did see someone mowing through a whole package of cast-off, chopped-up, pig parts squeezed into edible casings whilst they exercised (at a very meager pace, I might add).

I'm not an exercise snob...I don't believe you have to achieve optimal heart rates and pulmonary function to be successful, but this was just down right confusing.

Like trying swear off the hooch while renting a studio apartment above your favorite tavern.

So after I showered and dressed, I walked past this person yet again, just to be certain I had seen said wieners being consumed by aforementioned woman.

Let's just say it's a good thing I didn't rinse and repeat or I would have missed her cramming the last dog down her throat.

And that started me thinking about what I eat when I ride. So I did a little research and here's what I found. (No offense intended to the good people at Oscar Mayer who make July 4th and baseball games beautiful and who make my kids happy when they see the bus.)



Calories in Oscar Mayer beef frank:


That's 147 calories in one dog...with 1/4 of your saturated fats. Based on a 2,000 calorie diet, a whole package of 10 dogs would just about leave room for only two Chocodiles for dessert.

And to be impartial, I also looked up one of my ride-time snacks of choice, the Strawberry-Banana Powergel.



I wouldn't exactly put hot dogs in the same category as Powergel, but there's clearly a difference in the outcome here. I might go through 200 calories an hour with bars, gels, etc while I'm training. But to consider a package of hot dogs in my jersey pocket while training or commuting made me want to scream at the carpet. Kinda like this video did.

I've eaten my share of unique snacks on rides, and in the end, it's just preference. If it gives you the energy you need to compete, or succeed, chow down. But for the love of college football, mix in a bun or something.

A foreword & the fine white line

Just to set the stage, and to complete the formal introductions necessary when one starts to confess addictions: I like to ride my bike.

Vital stats:

1. Working stiff who likes to pedal...wherever, whenever, whatever is available
   
2. 33 years old
3. 6 feet, 160 lbs.
4. Obligatory wife, 3.2 kids, and a station wagon with a canoe strapped to the top
5. All the usual idiosyncrasies of a guy who rides 48 miles round trip for a commute everyday (i.e. hates cell phone using teenage girls driving with lap-dogs and sunglasses better suited for shielding bugs on a Harley than shading eyes from the sun's rays; wishes street sweepers worked harder; thinks former Salt Lake mayor Rocky Anderson should have to ride Beck Street every day to get to his office as punishment for taking so long to put in a bike lane, etc.)
6. Like to race, even though I never win
7. My small stable of bikes includes a road bike, a f/s mountain bike, a single speed mtn. bike, and a comfy cruiser (has a bell but no flag). I need more bikes.

In the coming days, weeks, and months I will talk about:

• bikes
• bike racing
• bike riding
• random musings
• other things

This will not be an attempt to compete with or mimic more serious and meaningful bike blogs like the pre-eminent Bike Snob NYC. And I don't have any really good causes to take up and share, like the always inspiring and entertaining Fat Cyclist. I just want to write something that isn't part of what I do for a living.

And partly because of this: Over that past three years my wife has started riding, my son started racing, and I've decided all the world's problems would be greatly reduced if we all road bikes. (It's sure brought harmony to our little piece of the universe.) Less anger, better health, fewer cars on the road (and better roads to ride on), and a better perspective from everyone on the issues of bikes vs. cars.

That fine white line that separates the two seems to be getting thinner....