"Sure, and we'll do a climb on the way into Paris."
Was he joking? Paris seemed to be flat, especially once the Seine was left behind. The prospect of meeting someone new and being introduced to a new area of the city by an experienced rider was more enticing than getting a bit more sleep in, riding a very familiar loop and heading off to La Roche sur Yon for work. I met Phillipe at 8:15 in front of his daughter's school on the Rue de Schnapper in St. Germain.
A cool morning, but promising sun, we were both bundled up a bit. We climbed towards the chateau, my familiar route to Sartrouville and the Foret de St. Germain, but then abruptly turned half way up and descended on some pave, passed a old chapel and then intersected the chateau road as it descended to the Seine.
It's always interesting to ride with someone familiar with an area. Phillipe is an experienced road and cyclocross rider and he put his skills to use as we navigated over the bridge and into the morning Paris traffic.
"It's a lot like altitude training, your lungs have to do with less oxygen." We rode through plumes of black diesel smoke as the line accelerated at each light. A few blocks, we were on a side road sandwiched between the RER railline and the main road, chatting about riding, introducing ourselves in that peculiar way that cyclists do, a mixture of friendship and excitement that comes with a shared passion and the testing of a hard acceleration and a glance behind to see if the other is still there.
"Mont Valerian." I had asked about the 'climb' we were going to do. "Are you familiar with the history?" I've learned to always say no to questions like this, because inevitably I never know much about the history of a place even when I think I do. So, as we turned onto a street that actually began to go upward and I spotted what looked like a small mountain with a fort on top, Philliped explained some of the history of the place.
It's 1870 and the Prussians have invaded France and pushed into Paris from the north. Napoleone the third moves the government west of the city to Versailles and agrees to let the Prussians have free reign of the city. The residents aren't too happy about this and blockade the roads. The Prussians then move their artillary to the top of Mont Valerian, with Napoleone's tacit approval and shell the crap out of the arrondisements, killing thousands of civilians. Remember, we are climbing right now, so my heart rate, the quantity of diesel fumes in my lungs and the burning in my quads might've distorted some of the details.
We reach the plateau in the climb, now just a short push over the top. The fort now looms on the left along with a brick wall running the length of the hill it rests on. Inset in the wall are stone carvings depicting heroic images. "That is where the Gestapo executed members of the French Resistance." A colleague in La Roche confirms this, "When the Germans said you were going to Mont Valerian, you knew you were not coming back."
This city continues to amaze me. We drop down, the mont, weaving between the traffic and a new revelation, the Ronde Champs. Phillipe had mentioned on the phone that there was a place we could do a few laps with local riders and I imagined some commuters getting together to dodge traffic, but here we were entering a large park in the Bois de Bologne complete with a three kilometer circuit used exclusively by cyclists.
We circled counterclockwise, against the stream, looking for an appropriate group to join. Several went by, collection of retired men excerising in the park, until we found a fellow in an Azzurra kit with two guys following. We joined up and I was happy to see thhat the Mont hadn't totally zapped my legs. Azzurra kept a 20mph pace for a whole loop and then Phillippe took a pull. He had told me of a hill in the course and I had visions of another Valerian, but it was just a small rise. I took my pull on it and raised the pace a bit. It felt good to stretch out and power along the loop. Yesterday's lactic acid flushed away. I looked down, 25 perhaps a bit too much and pulled off. It was just the three of us now.
We did four laps and it was time for Phillipe to head to work. I slapped him on the shoulder and we shook hands, a new cycling friend is made and the there is always joy in that.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Le Kiosque Imperial
Sipping un cafe au lait grande, Napoleon and his horse riding away on the cobbled plaza and the buzz of pre-lunch traffic all around, this is a nice place to jot a few notes about the past few days. I peek into the small restaurant to see if there is a coffee maker and, of course, there is. 'Bonjour, monsieur.' 'Bonjour.' 'Un cafe au lait, sil vous plait.' 'Biensur, petit ou grande?' 'Grande.' He gestures me back outside to the tables in the sun.
The ardoise in front of me (new word, literally means 'slate') announces Moules de Bouchot and Bate de L'Anguillon (Bate?) avec Frites for 7 Euros and 20 cents or you could have a Salade complet, sandwiches varies Americain for only 4 and a half Euros. Even at this shack of a restaurant, care is taken with the presentation of the coffee (a tiny dark chocolate warms next to the cup) and mussels are the special of the day. An American sandwich, though?
Rode this morning with no special destination in mind. I had two hours before a breakfast meeting with the director of the school I work with, so I rolled out in the 7am darkness, the cold air sifting through my layers and followed the signs for Cholet. That was north, so of course I ended up riding south.
The Garmin computer is set to display the map of the area and I'm astounded when, after turning onto what I thought was a bicycle path, I met a truck and a line of commuters heading to work. Just enough room for me on the moss-covered edge. The drivers polite, but in a hurry nonetheless. The sky is lighter and I'm not so worried about being run over. I try to search for nearby towns on the computer, but there are too many within 2km to make much difference, so I keep taking whatever path seems the most interesting.
Soon I'm on the Rue de St. Andre. The road is on the map, but not St. Andre. Brancare appears, a small clot of houses and then I'm alone on the road and it turns to two tracks next to a field filled with curious Charolais cows out for a morning graze. It's been thirty minutes, so I try the 'Return to Start' function.
I call this the breadcrumb utility, thinking of Hansel on a bike and I'm amazed at how well this works. I can bike anywhere in any direction and always find the best cycling route home. Amazing. Soon, I'm riding with the morning rush back towards La Roche, turning off onto a tiny road that's no more than a path which leads me back to the south side of town. A nice spin to start the day and then on to meet the director, then prepare for an interview about American politics with the head of the political science board.
Now time for that chocolate.
The ardoise in front of me (new word, literally means 'slate') announces Moules de Bouchot and Bate de L'Anguillon (Bate?) avec Frites for 7 Euros and 20 cents or you could have a Salade complet, sandwiches varies Americain for only 4 and a half Euros. Even at this shack of a restaurant, care is taken with the presentation of the coffee (a tiny dark chocolate warms next to the cup) and mussels are the special of the day. An American sandwich, though?
Rode this morning with no special destination in mind. I had two hours before a breakfast meeting with the director of the school I work with, so I rolled out in the 7am darkness, the cold air sifting through my layers and followed the signs for Cholet. That was north, so of course I ended up riding south.
The Garmin computer is set to display the map of the area and I'm astounded when, after turning onto what I thought was a bicycle path, I met a truck and a line of commuters heading to work. Just enough room for me on the moss-covered edge. The drivers polite, but in a hurry nonetheless. The sky is lighter and I'm not so worried about being run over. I try to search for nearby towns on the computer, but there are too many within 2km to make much difference, so I keep taking whatever path seems the most interesting.
Soon I'm on the Rue de St. Andre. The road is on the map, but not St. Andre. Brancare appears, a small clot of houses and then I'm alone on the road and it turns to two tracks next to a field filled with curious Charolais cows out for a morning graze. It's been thirty minutes, so I try the 'Return to Start' function.
I call this the breadcrumb utility, thinking of Hansel on a bike and I'm amazed at how well this works. I can bike anywhere in any direction and always find the best cycling route home. Amazing. Soon, I'm riding with the morning rush back towards La Roche, turning off onto a tiny road that's no more than a path which leads me back to the south side of town. A nice spin to start the day and then on to meet the director, then prepare for an interview about American politics with the head of the political science board.
Now time for that chocolate.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Arrivè!
Day 1
Blurred. That's what traveling forward in time feels like. Life seven hours ahead of the body's clock, the loss of those seven hours is the problem.
I flew on British Airways this time because, it seems that not only is France imitating the Americans politically (see Sarkozy) and gastronomically (see the McDo at Charles de Gaulle), but Air France, like every American carrier, now charges poor cyclists 150 bucks to bring their bike along. Each way. Of course, I found this out the hard way last year and only saved half of the round trip cost (and lost my eternal soul) by lying to a new AF check-in person. As a heads up for other folks flying to cyling's Promised Land, you still can fly Lufthanza, British Airways and Air Canada and have your bicycle treated as a piece of luggage. BA has always done well with my bike.
During our transfer at London Heathrow, I had a chance to experience Teriminal 5. BA had been sending, me email for weeks reminding me that I would indeed be experiencing Terminal 5, it's brand-new, state-of-the-art terminal. The plane landed and we exited into a pod-like structure and began walking. I'd been told that the old system of the Maze had been replaced. It had. Instead of walking back and forth through a windowless hallway for a mile, we got to walk down a cold unheated hallway for a quarter of a mile. There were indeed windows on one side and an endless series of posters advertising a single bank, HBSC I think (see, the posters didn't work!) with identical pictures with contradictory statements or words: A closeup of an elderly man with "Old" on one poster, and "Wise" on the second poster. Each group of four would have two pictures alternating followed by the very clever slogan that someone on drugs at HBSC (or was it HSBC... HCBS?) "Life would be boring if everyone thought same way."
A quarter mile of these posters had me wishing that some other company would run adverts in that hallway, even a pic of a greasy Big McDoo would be better than "Classic" "Boring" or "Liberator" "Mass murderer". Ok, I made that last one up.
After the ad maze, we are herded into a security check area manned by British TSA types who have obviously been hired for a special combination of skills: boorishness, a beginning level of English proficiency, boorishness, and being a relative of the older Sikh gentleman accousting the overweight couple from Cinncinnati. We are being rushed to remove all of our clothes that have metal in them. The young non-practicing Sikh with the awful haircut that made him look like a local Iowa meth user, yells "put shoes in box, put shoes in box, move up, take belt, put shoes, here, here, go, go, next put shoes, don't pick box, put shoes, now, now." A cluster of Brit TSA workers who actually speak English are using their skills to shout "no more than three ounces of liquids are allowed" waving plastic sandwich bags over their heads. They don't yell in unison, but with the Sikh fellows it made a surreal chorus.
Through the security, stumbling to put my clothes back on with the other passengers from my flight who used to be strangers, the herd is prodded into a maze of those movable lines strung from post to post. I'm not making this up. They were changing the lines as we walked through, back and forth, Mr. Singh's son-in-law suddenly moving the strap so that you have to walk all the way to the far wall and then back to the other wall, and back, and back, and back, past your friends from the plane, again and again and again, until we reach... the escalator.
Take the escalator up, but watch out the beams overhead have the same clearance as the doors in my grandmother's basement. Upstairs I look for the departures boards, a sign assures me they're 150 meters ahead. People are running now, not sure that we'll make our connections. The sign lists a hundred flights for the day, only the first two have gates assigned. My flight leaves in an hour, and the sign informs me that there is a policy to not post the gate assignment until 45 minutes before departure. Fine for gates in the A section, but if your gate is in the B section ("20 minutes with transportation") or the C section ("30 minutes with transportation"); it occurs to me that this is obviously a security ploy to prevent terrorists with less than " ounces of explosives to make their flights. I carefully look at the terminal map and choose a bathroom that is centrally located, resolving to finish my business exactly 45 minutes before departure to maximize my chances of making the plane.
Day 1.5
Actually that should be Day 1.75 as I've effectively travelled into the future, skipping the trivial parts of the day when people sleep. I get my passport stamped by a friendly French customs officer, get my bag and bike and roll towards the section of the airport in Terminal 2 where voitures location are handed out. The man at the Budget desk is great, even as he realizes I mistakenly arranged for my rental car to be picked up the day before. Penalty? No way, it's 42 Euros cheaper (that's 150 US dollars with current exchange rates)! Decline insurance, agree to the deposit, and voilà, my card is declined. I'm defeated, but the Budget guy offers me the phone to call the States, one disconnection, and twenty robot commands later, I'm talking to Larry and he's assuring me that Capitol One just wanted to be sure it was me using the card.
I won't tell you about making a wrong turn off the Peripheric into the bad section of Paris, but I have arrived and I celebrate with an easy spin through the Forest of St. Germain and a wonderful dinner with my in-laws in L'Etang la Ville. Tomorrow is the big ride from Versailles to Chambord. 216k with Jean-Manuel and 650 other folks who share my passion for the le velo route.
Blurred. That's what traveling forward in time feels like. Life seven hours ahead of the body's clock, the loss of those seven hours is the problem.
I flew on British Airways this time because, it seems that not only is France imitating the Americans politically (see Sarkozy) and gastronomically (see the McDo at Charles de Gaulle), but Air France, like every American carrier, now charges poor cyclists 150 bucks to bring their bike along. Each way. Of course, I found this out the hard way last year and only saved half of the round trip cost (and lost my eternal soul) by lying to a new AF check-in person. As a heads up for other folks flying to cyling's Promised Land, you still can fly Lufthanza, British Airways and Air Canada and have your bicycle treated as a piece of luggage. BA has always done well with my bike.
During our transfer at London Heathrow, I had a chance to experience Teriminal 5. BA had been sending, me email for weeks reminding me that I would indeed be experiencing Terminal 5, it's brand-new, state-of-the-art terminal. The plane landed and we exited into a pod-like structure and began walking. I'd been told that the old system of the Maze had been replaced. It had. Instead of walking back and forth through a windowless hallway for a mile, we got to walk down a cold unheated hallway for a quarter of a mile. There were indeed windows on one side and an endless series of posters advertising a single bank, HBSC I think (see, the posters didn't work!) with identical pictures with contradictory statements or words: A closeup of an elderly man with "Old" on one poster, and "Wise" on the second poster. Each group of four would have two pictures alternating followed by the very clever slogan that someone on drugs at HBSC (or was it HSBC... HCBS?) "Life would be boring if everyone thought same way."
A quarter mile of these posters had me wishing that some other company would run adverts in that hallway, even a pic of a greasy Big McDoo would be better than "Classic" "Boring" or "Liberator" "Mass murderer". Ok, I made that last one up.
After the ad maze, we are herded into a security check area manned by British TSA types who have obviously been hired for a special combination of skills: boorishness, a beginning level of English proficiency, boorishness, and being a relative of the older Sikh gentleman accousting the overweight couple from Cinncinnati. We are being rushed to remove all of our clothes that have metal in them. The young non-practicing Sikh with the awful haircut that made him look like a local Iowa meth user, yells "put shoes in box, put shoes in box, move up, take belt, put shoes, here, here, go, go, next put shoes, don't pick box, put shoes, now, now." A cluster of Brit TSA workers who actually speak English are using their skills to shout "no more than three ounces of liquids are allowed" waving plastic sandwich bags over their heads. They don't yell in unison, but with the Sikh fellows it made a surreal chorus.
Through the security, stumbling to put my clothes back on with the other passengers from my flight who used to be strangers, the herd is prodded into a maze of those movable lines strung from post to post. I'm not making this up. They were changing the lines as we walked through, back and forth, Mr. Singh's son-in-law suddenly moving the strap so that you have to walk all the way to the far wall and then back to the other wall, and back, and back, and back, past your friends from the plane, again and again and again, until we reach... the escalator.
Take the escalator up, but watch out the beams overhead have the same clearance as the doors in my grandmother's basement. Upstairs I look for the departures boards, a sign assures me they're 150 meters ahead. People are running now, not sure that we'll make our connections. The sign lists a hundred flights for the day, only the first two have gates assigned. My flight leaves in an hour, and the sign informs me that there is a policy to not post the gate assignment until 45 minutes before departure. Fine for gates in the A section, but if your gate is in the B section ("20 minutes with transportation") or the C section ("30 minutes with transportation"); it occurs to me that this is obviously a security ploy to prevent terrorists with less than " ounces of explosives to make their flights. I carefully look at the terminal map and choose a bathroom that is centrally located, resolving to finish my business exactly 45 minutes before departure to maximize my chances of making the plane.
Day 1.5
Actually that should be Day 1.75 as I've effectively travelled into the future, skipping the trivial parts of the day when people sleep. I get my passport stamped by a friendly French customs officer, get my bag and bike and roll towards the section of the airport in Terminal 2 where voitures location are handed out. The man at the Budget desk is great, even as he realizes I mistakenly arranged for my rental car to be picked up the day before. Penalty? No way, it's 42 Euros cheaper (that's 150 US dollars with current exchange rates)! Decline insurance, agree to the deposit, and voilà, my card is declined. I'm defeated, but the Budget guy offers me the phone to call the States, one disconnection, and twenty robot commands later, I'm talking to Larry and he's assuring me that Capitol One just wanted to be sure it was me using the card.
I won't tell you about making a wrong turn off the Peripheric into the bad section of Paris, but I have arrived and I celebrate with an easy spin through the Forest of St. Germain and a wonderful dinner with my in-laws in L'Etang la Ville. Tomorrow is the big ride from Versailles to Chambord. 216k with Jean-Manuel and 650 other folks who share my passion for the le velo route.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
The Week in Review
"Right to Life" the large red letters said. The sign stretched all of the way across the rear window of the Lumina and I got a very close look at it as the car narrowly missed me on Highway 3 north of Dubuque. The horn blast broke the early Sunday quiet.
On their way to church? Fetuses have a right to life, but not full grown cyclists? If not a right to life, how about just the right to the road?
Sunday morning I rode in to meet some buddies for a shorter ride from Dubuque. All told, maybe 70 miles for me and 30ish for them (I'm greedy). About five miles into our group ride, a driver in a spotless pickup passes our group and swerves in front of our lead rider, missing him by a few inches. Roger and Spahny yell and the driver initially touches his brakes, and then reconciders. Spahny takes off in hot pursuit, adrenal glands pumping and meets the driver at the stop sign on Hwy 61. He's waiting because of the traffic, not because he wants to talk to the irate guy in lycra. Spahny positions himself in front of the truck and motions the driver to roll down the window. The truck moves ahead and 'hits' Spahny, who promptly pulls out his cell phone to dial 911. Truck drives away; sheriff talks to Spahny at his house and says there's really nothing he can do.
What is it with people's need to scold, threaten and intimidate others?
The rest of the ride is great.
I'm tired as we roll up to Mike's house. The deep muscle fatigue that comes with longer hours in the saddle and 10,000 feet of climbing last week. This is good. I'm rebuilding my base fitness and it's amazing how much of it evaporated during the race season. So the plan is to 'ride lots'. I give up the shortened by the lack of sun group ride on Wednesday to ride to work. This gives me a cool 60 miles at a shot. And saves gas. Two commutes to work a week, a long ride on the weekend and some recovery spins in between adds up to about 250 miles this week. Next week off to France on Thursday with about 300 miles in three organized rides on the menu. Add in a few recovery spins and an impromptu training run... Stay tuned for some pics and ride reports.
On their way to church? Fetuses have a right to life, but not full grown cyclists? If not a right to life, how about just the right to the road?
Sunday morning I rode in to meet some buddies for a shorter ride from Dubuque. All told, maybe 70 miles for me and 30ish for them (I'm greedy). About five miles into our group ride, a driver in a spotless pickup passes our group and swerves in front of our lead rider, missing him by a few inches. Roger and Spahny yell and the driver initially touches his brakes, and then reconciders. Spahny takes off in hot pursuit, adrenal glands pumping and meets the driver at the stop sign on Hwy 61. He's waiting because of the traffic, not because he wants to talk to the irate guy in lycra. Spahny positions himself in front of the truck and motions the driver to roll down the window. The truck moves ahead and 'hits' Spahny, who promptly pulls out his cell phone to dial 911. Truck drives away; sheriff talks to Spahny at his house and says there's really nothing he can do.
What is it with people's need to scold, threaten and intimidate others?
The rest of the ride is great.
I'm tired as we roll up to Mike's house. The deep muscle fatigue that comes with longer hours in the saddle and 10,000 feet of climbing last week. This is good. I'm rebuilding my base fitness and it's amazing how much of it evaporated during the race season. So the plan is to 'ride lots'. I give up the shortened by the lack of sun group ride on Wednesday to ride to work. This gives me a cool 60 miles at a shot. And saves gas. Two commutes to work a week, a long ride on the weekend and some recovery spins in between adds up to about 250 miles this week. Next week off to France on Thursday with about 300 miles in three organized rides on the menu. Add in a few recovery spins and an impromptu training run... Stay tuned for some pics and ride reports.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Out to Lunch
How to lose weight? Why not hit the road instead of the lunch buffet?
I mean really, why not? This is a question I ask myself each day I don't commute to work. Sometimes it's hard to come up with the right answer. Here are a few pics from today's 25 miler through the hills north of our campus in Epworth, Iowa.
I mean really, why not? This is a question I ask myself each day I don't commute to work. Sometimes it's hard to come up with the right answer. Here are a few pics from today's 25 miler through the hills north of our campus in Epworth, Iowa.
Climbing up Asbury Road.
Looking south towards Graf
Iowa architecture... Who needs cathedrals?
A tree or two would be nice though
Quintessential Iowa, soybeans and a beautiful church spire
Riding on Labor Day, Part 2
How did I spend my Labor Day? I went on a beautiful ride with my family and nephew.
Karl and Johann are in their Team Discovery kits and cousin Tanner is piloting his dirtbike.
Unlike yesterday's adrenaline-charged run through Kettle Moraine, we rolled out of my brother's house in Port Washington, coasted down the hill and jumped on the InterUrban trail. Curt 
was still in bed, nursing a hangover from his late night of celebrating his birthday.
was still in bed, nursing a hangover from his late night of celebrating his birthday. Johann is off the front!
There are few things more satisfying than seeing a child develop as a bike rider.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Book Link
Why not help support this site and use the link below to order books from Amazon? I'll get a few percent of the order and you'll get a great deal on books and other stuff.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Labor Day Weekend by bike
Mile 42
"So, is there a sprint for glory?" I ask innocently.
The rider next to me looks surprised. She's just complained about the testosterone levels on the ride, and now she realizes she's riding ten wheels back next to a newbie to the ride.
"What?"
"Is there a big sprint for glory at the end of the ride" I repeat. My legs are spinning out my 53x11 gear and I know that the end of the ride is somewhere ahead in the next 10-15 minutes.
"Oh, yeah. Is this your first time on the Doc?" I nod yes. "The road's going to take a sharp left and then a hard right and that's the sprint."
"Thanks."
Mile 8
Several orange cones are spaced out in the road. Our peloton ponders them as we cruise around them at 25mph. We're a large, disorganized organism moving around on the road in no certain way. We ooze from shoulder to just past the center line. We're an amoeba absorbing individuals making their way off the front and then falling back. Two individuals roll past the cones first and, as they round the turn out of sight from the main body, stumble upon a very angry sounding county sheriff. His car has lights flashing.
As we round the turn, the organism perceives the ticket book in the sheriff's hand and immediately reverses direction. We're suddenly very organized.
"Oh my god, what are we going to do now?" A woman is mocking the group. She's a very good rider and will manage to stay near the pointy end of the group for the entire 45 mile ride. Clearly this enables her sarcasm.
"Do you folks always do the same route?"
"You're new to the ride?" I nod.
"Every week it's Ground Hog Day." She's referring to the movie. Bill Murray wakes up every morning to repeat the same day, Ground Hog Day, over and over until he gets his life right. I laugh; I'm a newbie to this ride.
Mile -.5
There's a sign at St Bruno's church on the corner of Main St. in Dousman. I see it as I pass. "What kind of bike would Jesus ride?" This might sound like a strange question at first. If it wasn't the big 105th birthday of Harley Davidson motorcyles and 160,000 have descended on Milwaukee. Of course, I know the answer and it's not Harley Davidson.
I see another rider in a Beans and Barley outfit rolling towards me. "Morning!" We chat and he tells me about his first season racing as a category 5. He's excited and it's contagious. A fellow in a System U jacket rolls up behind us. "Bonjour, Monsieur Fignon!"
"Chris! How are you! Whatcha doing here?"
I raced against Tyson my first two seasons back in the peloton back in 2002 and then didn't see him again until this year during Super Week. Like many, Tyson dropped out of racing as he started his family, got fat and then, unlike many, decided to come back. It's good to have him back.
Mile 0
This is similar to the Bullion ride in the Chevreuse. Ten or fifteen different jerseys and more than fifty riders are outside the Bicycle Doctor's bike shop in tiny Dousman, Wisconsin. We're in the heart of the Kettle Moraine and I'm looking forward to a nice, hard ride. I know this is guaranteed when, in addition to some of the top masters riders from the area, I see none other than Matt Brandt in his USA Cycling team kit. This will be fun.
Mile 15
I scrap my strategy of hanging in the group; it's dangerous back here. No one is following a wheel and I nearly bite the dirt when the fellow in front of me slams his brakes on for... I don't know what. I move to the front where several of my wiser teammates are rotating.
Mile 44
We hit the penultimate turn and I casually move into the first group of wheels, the fellows that are looking to polish off the ride with a nice sprint. My legs are good today, I'm breathing easy and I notice I have no more gears left.
Mile 27
There's a hard acceleration and I move with it off the front. I don't know these riders very well, but the guy in the USA cycling kit is a nice wheel to follow. Amazing how fast he decelerates when he comes off the front, like he's being dropped, and then suddenly is moving up again in the rotation. There's five of us and we're working hard, but not too hard. We hit a hill and there's a bit of an effort. We're caught and then there's a counter.
Last 200 meters
Just like France, I don't know where the finish is. I'm sprinting, and about fifth wheel, but there doesn't seem to be any point and suddenly people are sitting up; the ride is done. Our average is right on 25mph and I feel pretty good. All four Wheaton riders are up in the front and I've completed my first Drop the Doc ride.
"So, is there a sprint for glory?" I ask innocently.
The rider next to me looks surprised. She's just complained about the testosterone levels on the ride, and now she realizes she's riding ten wheels back next to a newbie to the ride.
"What?"
"Is there a big sprint for glory at the end of the ride" I repeat. My legs are spinning out my 53x11 gear and I know that the end of the ride is somewhere ahead in the next 10-15 minutes.
"Oh, yeah. Is this your first time on the Doc?" I nod yes. "The road's going to take a sharp left and then a hard right and that's the sprint."
"Thanks."
Mile 8
Several orange cones are spaced out in the road. Our peloton ponders them as we cruise around them at 25mph. We're a large, disorganized organism moving around on the road in no certain way. We ooze from shoulder to just past the center line. We're an amoeba absorbing individuals making their way off the front and then falling back. Two individuals roll past the cones first and, as they round the turn out of sight from the main body, stumble upon a very angry sounding county sheriff. His car has lights flashing.
As we round the turn, the organism perceives the ticket book in the sheriff's hand and immediately reverses direction. We're suddenly very organized.
"Oh my god, what are we going to do now?" A woman is mocking the group. She's a very good rider and will manage to stay near the pointy end of the group for the entire 45 mile ride. Clearly this enables her sarcasm.
"Do you folks always do the same route?"
"You're new to the ride?" I nod.
"Every week it's Ground Hog Day." She's referring to the movie. Bill Murray wakes up every morning to repeat the same day, Ground Hog Day, over and over until he gets his life right. I laugh; I'm a newbie to this ride.
Mile -.5
There's a sign at St Bruno's church on the corner of Main St. in Dousman. I see it as I pass. "What kind of bike would Jesus ride?" This might sound like a strange question at first. If it wasn't the big 105th birthday of Harley Davidson motorcyles and 160,000 have descended on Milwaukee. Of course, I know the answer and it's not Harley Davidson.
I see another rider in a Beans and Barley outfit rolling towards me. "Morning!" We chat and he tells me about his first season racing as a category 5. He's excited and it's contagious. A fellow in a System U jacket rolls up behind us. "Bonjour, Monsieur Fignon!"
"Chris! How are you! Whatcha doing here?"
I raced against Tyson my first two seasons back in the peloton back in 2002 and then didn't see him again until this year during Super Week. Like many, Tyson dropped out of racing as he started his family, got fat and then, unlike many, decided to come back. It's good to have him back.
Mile 0
This is similar to the Bullion ride in the Chevreuse. Ten or fifteen different jerseys and more than fifty riders are outside the Bicycle Doctor's bike shop in tiny Dousman, Wisconsin. We're in the heart of the Kettle Moraine and I'm looking forward to a nice, hard ride. I know this is guaranteed when, in addition to some of the top masters riders from the area, I see none other than Matt Brandt in his USA Cycling team kit. This will be fun.
Mile 15
I scrap my strategy of hanging in the group; it's dangerous back here. No one is following a wheel and I nearly bite the dirt when the fellow in front of me slams his brakes on for... I don't know what. I move to the front where several of my wiser teammates are rotating.
Mile 44
We hit the penultimate turn and I casually move into the first group of wheels, the fellows that are looking to polish off the ride with a nice sprint. My legs are good today, I'm breathing easy and I notice I have no more gears left.
Mile 27
There's a hard acceleration and I move with it off the front. I don't know these riders very well, but the guy in the USA cycling kit is a nice wheel to follow. Amazing how fast he decelerates when he comes off the front, like he's being dropped, and then suddenly is moving up again in the rotation. There's five of us and we're working hard, but not too hard. We hit a hill and there's a bit of an effort. We're caught and then there's a counter.
Last 200 meters
Just like France, I don't know where the finish is. I'm sprinting, and about fifth wheel, but there doesn't seem to be any point and suddenly people are sitting up; the ride is done. Our average is right on 25mph and I feel pretty good. All four Wheaton riders are up in the front and I've completed my first Drop the Doc ride.
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