The Mines are Open

A few days off the bike, in the throes of a head cold that won't leave me alone (one of the ancillary risks of having children, right up there with being sent to a nursing home when you're 80 and you accidentally pee your pants), the Sudafeds did their job and the kids and I made the trek to the Mines of Spain in Dubuque for our first real ski of the season.

This is kind of late for me to get some ski miles in, the transitional time between rideable roads and skiable trails can be a long one here in northeastern Iowa; we are often sandwiched between glowing ski reports at St. Mary's in Winona and temps in the 50's in southern Iowa.  As we get closer to the American Birkebeiner, skiers get more and more agitated when they get quality snow time in.  Now, that doesn't seem to be a problem, with daily blizzard and winter storm warnings, the trails seem to be guaranteed snow and cold for the foreseeable future.

Janet left for her friends' doctoral ceremonies at the University of Northern Iowa last night, so it was me and the boys getting our skis waxed this morning.  Karl has a pair of combi skis that can go either way, classic or skate, and we had them waxed for classic skiing last week in our abortive attempt to ski the Colesburg Golf course in high winds and 10 degree temps.  Trying to skate with grip wax is a terrible, awful thing, so dad soaked the base with Fast Wax purple a couple of times and did warm scrapes to clear all of the grippy stuff out.  Ski waxing is even more of a process than gluing tubulars, especially if cleaning the base is in the cards, so an hour later I emerged from the basement workshop with two pairs of skis in hand, freshly waxed with Fast Wax blue, a good training wax for middle temps and cheap enough when bought in large bricks.

The first ski also means installing the old ski rack on Janet's new xD (she took the Element with the ski box to Cedar Falls).  Often the first ski of the year includes a scramble to find clothes, ski racks, wax, skis, matching poles that haven't been used since the previous February.  By noon we were ready, checked the Iowa Ski Blog for trail news, and out the door for the drive to the Mines.

Karl and Johann are dressed in stylish orange and red tops with matching hats so they don't get shot by hunters also using the park.  As I write that it seems ridiculous that being shot would creep into the realm of possibilities for a ski experience, but there you have it, the strange result of modern farming, elimination of predators, scarcity non-farmed pieces of land in Iowa, our infatuation with meat, the American mythos of the frontiersman providing for his family, and our love of guns and cars above all else.  Ah, America!

We didn't get shot, in fact didn't even hear a gunshot; the deep snow must have discouraged would-be hunters on the second last day of the season.  The worst of non-skiing related interlopers we encountered was a woman walking her dog on the trail, an activity almost as disconcerting as men dressed in orange hunting Bambi.

Johann plied his classic trade, tearing up the new classic trails running parallel to the skate trail on the north loop.  Wayne, the groomer, had outdone himself, the skate trail was wide and smooth, a bit soft but that's typical for this time of year.  Gone were the classic trails bisecting the uphill skate sections, gone were

some small pines on the northern section that had created a narrow, icy lane with limbs hanging at head level.  Karl skated and I moved between the two as we negotiated the trail.  After a bit, we were greeted by ski and bike buddy Bruce, who we've run into many times over the years in far-flung locales such as Mora and Minocqua.

We skied for almost two hours and, when Karl was struggling to stand, we decided it was time to call it a day, a great day out at the Mines of Spain.

It's not snowing yet

but the forecast is saying we'll have 10 inches of snow on the ground when we wake up tomorrow. That's fine, but for now I spin on my trusty Kreitler rollers, watching A Sunday in Hell, a great film about the 1976 Paris-Roubaix.

An easy spin and the legs are fresh from a few days completely off, a perfect storm of final grades and a bad cold conspired to give me a break. I glance down and my heart rate is twenty beats higher than it should be. Could be the Sudafed, could just be my body's reaction to the bug. I gear down and relax a bit as there's no sense in pushing myself and risk getting more sick.

The race starts in Chantilly, a town I'm now familiar with and Merckx rides down to the start line in the town center, past the chateau that marked the turn-around for the Selle en Selle ride I did with Jean-Manuel at the end of September. Chantilly hasn't really changed much in 30 years and I half expect to see the guys from the Houilles club cheering the riders as they leave the start.

An easy hour, my legs would like some more, but my heart tells me better. Sleep and tomorrow might be a day to play in the snow.

Early Morning Thoughts

Woke up this morning a tad earlier than usual, 4:50, and decided post-latte to get a spin on the rollers in before the rest of the family woke up.  Today being the last day of my ancient philosophy support class, thoughts of Epictetus blended with Phil, Paul and Bob's commentary on the last stage of the Tour of California (on the computer, but turned down very low).  While I was bummed that Zirbel couldn't make his break from the breakway group stick, watching him smoothly persist in the cold California winter rain was inspiring. 

"Thus when aiming at such great things remember that securing them requires more than a modest effort: some things you will have to give up altogether, and others you will have to put aside for the time being."

Ah, those stoics, they certainly have an understanding of bike racing.  Worrying about the things that we can control, and forget about those we cannot.  Of course, they include the body with things that we should not worry about (it's not ours after all; it's owned by the gods).  But things like our appetites, rational and irrational are definitely spot on.  My irrational appetites include those chocolate chip cookies Karl baked yesterday...

"With respect to any of those things you find attractive or useful or have a fondness for (toll house cookie, let's say), recall to mind what kind of thing it is, beginning with the most trifling.  So if you are fond of a [chocolate chip cookie], say, 'I am fond of a [chocolate chip cookie]'.  Then you will not be upset if [someone else eats it]."

Really, the name of the game seems to be brings things to mind, consciously making decisions with our rational self.  Once we bring the cookie to mind, the rational self decides what is best.  'Hmm, eating this will cause me to fail in reaching my goal of losing weight.  If I lose weight, I won't look so silly in that lycra outfit I wear in front of strangers at races.  I think I'll let someone else eat that cookie.'  One tool the stoics didn't have is the new LabPixies Calorie Counter for iGoogle.  The simple act of writing down what you eat during the day, everything you eat, makes each act of eating a rational choice; something that Epictetus and his buddies would have loved.  Try it for a week and see if it doesn't change your eating habits.

Put Me Back on My Bike: Review

Winter's here.  And while that means more trainer miles and less road time, it also means more time to catch up on reading.  I just finished Fotheringham's exploration of the life of British cyclist Tom Simpson, Put Me Back on My Bike: In Search of Tom Simpson.  Simpson, infamous for his death on Mt Ventoux during the 1967 Tour de France, is somewhat of an enigma to this younger American cyclist, so I was happy to find out more.

The author never met Simpson, but pieces together the details of his life through interviews with former teammates, friends, his wife and business partners.  A rider that is now, in retrospect, seen as a warning against doping in professional cycling, Fotheringham paints a more complex portrait of a competitor driven to use amphetamines by not only his ambition to be the best, but also by the cold realities of professional cycling in the 60's for someone trying to break into the European peloton and maintain a foothold.  Despite having won the World Championship the previous year, Simpson was being pushed by his agent to podium at the Tour and was facing the loss of lucrative post-Tour contracts if he didn't achieve a podium finish. 

Highpoints include: a poignant interview with the Tour doctor who is seen in many photos of the moment attempting to revive Simpson as he lies prone on the roadside;  a chat with the Belgian bar owner who was a business partner with Simpson and now owner of an overgrown piece of land that was to be a housing development; and an interview with his widow, who married one of Simpson's teammates, Barry Hoban, soon after his death.

Though the book has some faults (information is repeated verbatim in subsequent chapters), it was an informative look into the life of one of cycling's icons and the first Anglo to break into the ranks of the highest level of the sport. 

Iced In

When you have two boys pestering you to check the school closings at 6am every morning in the winter, it's not hard to have some of that enthusiasm for an unscheduled free day rub off and indulge in the possibility that today might shape up as something completely unexpected. 

Yesterday was that kind of day.  A half an inch of ice on the Honda, winds blowing snow at 25mph and a whole day stretching out in front of me.  My first thought was to strap on the skis, maybe at the Colesburg golf course (yes, of course our small Iowa town of 412 inhabitants has a nine hole golf course).  The wind and ice canceled that idea.  So it was going to be a good workout on the rollers. 

First, though, finish the latte and check in with school and the other cyclists on my daily diet of cycling forums.  A current favorite is www.RoadcyclingUK.com where my cycling mate from Rousillion is a regular poster, blending Cockney, a bit of wit and a veteran competitor's deep urge to make other people hurt just a little bit.  Old Sog Smith's latest post, Bike Test Dummies, has gotten the dander up among the site's regulars.  After a good chuckle, I give him a call and we laugh about the forum and folk's reactions to his language. 

Giving Geoff a call brings back the memories of our four months in southern France two years ago.  Our family's time there was important.  Karl and Johann still talk about learning to ride a bike through the vineyards and groves of cork trees on our mountainside, hiking up to see the Romanian monks living at the top of our road in their building built on top of a Roman shrine to Dionysus and the Canigou peak looming over the Perpignan plains. 

Geoff and I laugh as we talk about folks we rode with, his new club in Le Boulou, the rain pouring down in the Languedoc and the ice coating northeastern Iowa, and he says, "That was a good time, wasn't it?"  

That ain't a Porkie Pie.

Books for Christmas

Visit this link to shop Amazon.com and support my blog at the same time.

 

Weekend Ride in Trevor

With temperatures rising to almost 40, sunny skies and a stiff breeze out of the north, it was too good of a day to miss a post-Thanksgiving ride. There was also the need to compensate somehow for the extra calories of stuffing, turkey, mashed potatoes, sauerkraut (we're a German family), pumpkin pie, wine, and assorted finger foods consumed at my Uncle Orv's farm in central Wisconsin. Even holding back and eating less, much to the consternation of my grandmother--'Is something wrong with you, Chris?'-- I needed some time on the bike.

Eck answered the call with an invite to his place in Trevor for a 2-3 hour jaunt on the rolling roads heading west towards Lake Geneva. Growing up in southern Wisconsin, I loved the oak trees lining small country roads, the rolling hills and lakes with Ojibwa names, Pewaukee, Oconomowoc, Lake Five, and the well-kept, freshly painted towns complete with general stores and a dozen bars.

We suited up, Eck, Addison and myself, and started out with the 15mph wind on our right cheeks out of the northwest. Addison and Eck had spent the morning doing a bike fit, Addison strapped to his bike on a Computrainer and Eck having him accelerate, stand, sit, spin, stand, sit until Addison and he were quite satisfied with the adjustments to the bike and the resulting wattage outputs. The fitting continued on the ride and I took advantage of their need to talk more by staying in the two-rider draft a while.

Other memories of my last ride outside in a week: getting dropped on a climb as the 146 pound Addison accelerated to the crest.  Getting a tad bit of payback showing the same Addison a clean wheel in the ride-ending sprint coming into Trevor.  The camaraderie of hanging with teammates the day after Thanksgiving.  Can't wait for the next season to begin!