"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.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Chris' Big Trip
One of the great perks of my job as the Special Projects Cooridinator at our college is traveling to France each fall to interview new students entering our spring Poli Sci program. Back in 2003, I figured out that I could take my bike with me and meet a whole new group of people and explore France by bike in between assignments.
One of the clubs I've ridden with over the years is the Houilles club. I met Jean-Manuel several years ago while waiting in the forest near St. Germain for another training group I'd met the year before. Standing in the rain, disappointed that I'd missed them, a group of blue and yellow jerseys came by. I tagged on to the back of the group, the ugly duckling in my orange and red Free Flight jersey and did my best to slaughter the French language. Soon one of the club's English speakers rotated next to me and my friendship with Jean-Manuel was born.
This year I'm lucky enough to be able to plan my visit to allow three organized rides with the club. The first will be a new one for me, Versailles-Chambord, a 216k randonnee south to the beautiful hunting castle of Francois the 1st in Chambord.
Also on the docket is the 150k De Selle en Selle randonnee from Maisons-Laffitte to Chantilly and back, the two premier equestrian centers of France (the first built by Louis XIV's ill-fated minister of the treasury and the second the home of Chantilly whipped cream).
Stay tuned.
One of the clubs I've ridden with over the years is the Houilles club. I met Jean-Manuel several years ago while waiting in the forest near St. Germain for another training group I'd met the year before. Standing in the rain, disappointed that I'd missed them, a group of blue and yellow jerseys came by. I tagged on to the back of the group, the ugly duckling in my orange and red Free Flight jersey and did my best to slaughter the French language. Soon one of the club's English speakers rotated next to me and my friendship with Jean-Manuel was born.
This year I'm lucky enough to be able to plan my visit to allow three organized rides with the club. The first will be a new one for me, Versailles-Chambord, a 216k randonnee south to the beautiful hunting castle of Francois the 1st in Chambord.
Also on the docket is the 150k De Selle en Selle randonnee from Maisons-Laffitte to Chantilly and back, the two premier equestrian centers of France (the first built by Louis XIV's ill-fated minister of the treasury and the second the home of Chantilly whipped cream).
Stay tuned.
Bicycle Repairman
Talking with a friend the other day, I was surprised he'd never seen the 'Bicycle Repairman' Monty Python sketch. Doubly surprised because he's a bike shop owner as well. Perhaps this dates me a bit; only riders 'of a certain age' might be familiar with it.
The video brings back a flood of memories for me. I first saw it in 1980 when I was hired by King Cyclery in Milwaukee as a 16yr old bike mechanic trainee. Jim King, the shop's owner, had a bunch of shirts made with BR emblazoned in the familiar Superman crest on the chest. For me, it was the start of a long relationship with bicycles.
The video brings back a flood of memories for me. I first saw it in 1980 when I was hired by King Cyclery in Milwaukee as a 16yr old bike mechanic trainee. Jim King, the shop's owner, had a bunch of shirts made with BR emblazoned in the familiar Superman crest on the chest. For me, it was the start of a long relationship with bicycles.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Friends day out
Few things are more enjoyable for me than riding with my wife and some good friends. We met at the Dubuque shop in the morning, sun shining, air drying out a bit and headed west on a familiar run to Epworth. 
The pace was a comfortable spin, more of a recovery ride pace for Mike and I, but going up Humke Rd's climb is always an effort, especially at the beginning of a ride. Our group, my wife and I,
Mike and his wife Molly, and our good riding friend 
Tammy, rode along in various formations. Sunday morning traffic was light and most folks still had a sermon echoing in their brains, so maybe that made them a bit more tolerant and understanding of bicycles on the road.In Epworth we turned north to climb up to Bankston and then ride east on Park Hollow Rd. Park Hollow snakes it's way between the forested hills, cutting through farms, meandering with a stream. It occurred to me that this would be one place I would want to show a cyclist from another country; this is world class cycling. About five miles on this road was a gift and then we paid for it with the steep climb up to Highway 52. On to Sherill and then the high road downhill to Dubuque.
Coffee, smoothies and a sandwich at the Cafe Mana Java and life is good.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Largest Collection of Ronald McDonald Art in the World
or how I spent my two days at the Downer's Grove National Criterium Championships.
First thing, Hotwire is a really cool way to stay in four star hotels for the price of a room in a Days Inn. I use it all of the time and haven't been disappointed yet. So for the Downer's Grove weekend, I went to Hotwire to get a room for Saturday night and, voila, a four star room, complete with marble floor bathrooms and a scenic, park-like atmosphere, on the McDonald Campus in Oak Brook. Two thing about Hotwire: first, there's no turning back; second, you have to get to the hotel early to get the best room. If you, say, wait until your evening race is finished and take in part of the men's pro race at 7pm, then your reservation will tumble down from that king-sized bed to a queen and down to two doubles.
Ok, so a 6'6" vegetarian is sleeping with the corporate leaders of McDonalds on a bed he hasn't been able to fit on since he was in fifth grade.
One more observation about the hotel. This has to be the largest collection of what appears to be serious attempts at art, using McDonalds as a theme, in the world. I didn't realize this until after the race Sunday morning when I was strolling the halls of the hotel trying to find the whirlpool. I walked past a dozen paintings, oils and watercolors, not really focusing on them (key to subliminal advertising), but pleased that there was original artwork everywhere, when an absolutely astounding piece caught my eye. There was an oil painting of three people in medieval garb in front of a stained glass church window with the Golden Arches in the leaded glass. If the artist wanted to disturb the viewer physically and spiritually at the same time, he or she succeeded.
Then I noticed that everyone of the paintings on each floor, hanging between each room, somehow had a McDonald's theme. A hole at St. Andrews golf course, a beautiful cloud formation and lush greens? That's Ronald putting. A bucolic American fishing scene, with some children fishing at the end of the pier? Those aren't regular lunch bags next to them; focus a little more and notice the iconic white bags with golden arches.
The jacuzzi was out of order and it was definitely time to check out.
And the racing. Saturday night's Men's 3/4 was a large field of over a hundred riders and, for the most part a good race. I bumped (literally) into Triple XXX riders and was reminded why I wanted to upgrade to 3's last year. One fellow even pushed me out of the way, from behind and yelled at me. I told him to do something to himself and was scolded by his teammates and told to 'ride my bike.' My reaction should have been to lean against the push, putting him and his fellows on pavement, but it was an indication that my head wasn't into the racing. I rode smart and stayed in the first ten wheels or so, but, as my English friend Geoff would say, I was a 'no-hoper'. I got shelled with about five laps to go and pulled off.
Ditto for the 3's race on Sunday morning. After Saturday's race, all kinds of thinking happened. Not enough sleep, bad warm up, bad nutrition, etc., etc. When it happened again on Sunday, at the same point in the race, I realized I just wasn't fit enough. 'Not enough miles' as Geoff would say. Too many races and not enough time to work on the base again after the Super Week debacle.
One good thing was connecting with folks I've grown to consider my friends, and meet some new people. And, in the end, that's what this riding/racing thing is all about. Transcending results and performance, it's about people doing something they love with other people. Results are nice, though...
First thing, Hotwire is a really cool way to stay in four star hotels for the price of a room in a Days Inn. I use it all of the time and haven't been disappointed yet. So for the Downer's Grove weekend, I went to Hotwire to get a room for Saturday night and, voila, a four star room, complete with marble floor bathrooms and a scenic, park-like atmosphere, on the McDonald Campus in Oak Brook. Two thing about Hotwire: first, there's no turning back; second, you have to get to the hotel early to get the best room. If you, say, wait until your evening race is finished and take in part of the men's pro race at 7pm, then your reservation will tumble down from that king-sized bed to a queen and down to two doubles.
Ok, so a 6'6" vegetarian is sleeping with the corporate leaders of McDonalds on a bed he hasn't been able to fit on since he was in fifth grade.
One more observation about the hotel. This has to be the largest collection of what appears to be serious attempts at art, using McDonalds as a theme, in the world. I didn't realize this until after the race Sunday morning when I was strolling the halls of the hotel trying to find the whirlpool. I walked past a dozen paintings, oils and watercolors, not really focusing on them (key to subliminal advertising), but pleased that there was original artwork everywhere, when an absolutely astounding piece caught my eye. There was an oil painting of three people in medieval garb in front of a stained glass church window with the Golden Arches in the leaded glass. If the artist wanted to disturb the viewer physically and spiritually at the same time, he or she succeeded.
Then I noticed that everyone of the paintings on each floor, hanging between each room, somehow had a McDonald's theme. A hole at St. Andrews golf course, a beautiful cloud formation and lush greens? That's Ronald putting. A bucolic American fishing scene, with some children fishing at the end of the pier? Those aren't regular lunch bags next to them; focus a little more and notice the iconic white bags with golden arches.
The jacuzzi was out of order and it was definitely time to check out.
And the racing. Saturday night's Men's 3/4 was a large field of over a hundred riders and, for the most part a good race. I bumped (literally) into Triple XXX riders and was reminded why I wanted to upgrade to 3's last year. One fellow even pushed me out of the way, from behind and yelled at me. I told him to do something to himself and was scolded by his teammates and told to 'ride my bike.' My reaction should have been to lean against the push, putting him and his fellows on pavement, but it was an indication that my head wasn't into the racing. I rode smart and stayed in the first ten wheels or so, but, as my English friend Geoff would say, I was a 'no-hoper'. I got shelled with about five laps to go and pulled off.
Ditto for the 3's race on Sunday morning. After Saturday's race, all kinds of thinking happened. Not enough sleep, bad warm up, bad nutrition, etc., etc. When it happened again on Sunday, at the same point in the race, I realized I just wasn't fit enough. 'Not enough miles' as Geoff would say. Too many races and not enough time to work on the base again after the Super Week debacle.
One good thing was connecting with folks I've grown to consider my friends, and meet some new people. And, in the end, that's what this riding/racing thing is all about. Transcending results and performance, it's about people doing something they love with other people. Results are nice, though...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The woman sitting at Cafe Hollander's corner table was glancing over at me. The restaurant was packed with racers and fans coming to watch the Pros race on Downer Ave and the air was filled with noise.
I looked back down at my glass of water. Chills ran like currents through my body; my face was white and I was sure the cafe goer in the corner thought I was an addict of some kind in serious withdrawal.
Earlier in the day I felt like the luckiest guy in the race, bunny-hopping someone's carbon wheel as it slid across my path in the category 3 race. On lap two. It was a large field, more than a hundred riders, many bandaged from earlier crashes the day before in Kenosha. Our race had been delayed. First by the now regular lack of organization of the Super Week organization, which led to a full hour and a half of standing around for the first race. Then we were delayed by the bratwurst fire alarm and the firetruck responding to the neighbor's automatic fire alarm. The neighbor had left his window open, brat smoke filled his apartment and the Masters 123 race was delayed. We were delayed by the kiddie races that were moved ahead of our race in order to placate the waiting moms and dads. I don't blame them, but I do blame the race organizers for not getting their act together.
So we're standing at the start line, me in row two, feeling a bit iffy after a day of multiple trips to the bathroom. The gun goes off and we're rolling. After the first turn, the road disintegrates into a series of running cracks in the concrete running down the middle of the road and radiating out every five feet or so. The organizers hadn't thought of filling them in. My teammate skips his rear wheel over a manhole cover and promptly cracks his rim. As we round through the finish line after one lap, I'm still feeling OK and my teammate is five hundred dollars poorer. I hear my family shouting after turn one, "Go, Dad!" and the stomach bug is forgotten.
Turn two and then some guys discover there is a crack in the middle of the road by riding into it and jumping over it. We're going 32mph. I move to the outside to give myself an out but we round turn four and come down the straight to the finish line. The peloton is together when someone falls into someone else about 6 wheels from the front. Like dominoes, riders fall towards each side, sliding and creating a pile of bodies and bikes from behind. I accelerate towards the gates on the side and watch the rider and bike slide towards me. I pull up and jump onto his wheels and ride over, expecting to hit some snag and be pulled down, but I'm rolling on pavement again, free. I look back and see I'm the last one through and a pile of more than thirty riders on the deck behind me.
A delay as the race is stopped for 20 minutes to fix the bikes and clean up the riders. Most come back into the race. The ref lectures us about keeping our heads up. I look at the other riders and my stomach is not so good anymore. We're off, but I'm not into this anymore and hang at the back before dropping out. My teammate stays in, crashes (ruining his other wheel, seat and surgically repaired shoulder) and then gets 8th place.
An hour later I'm shivering and feeling ill.
No results during this Super Week for me. There are many reasons, most tied to me, my training, my limitations, my luck, my lack of wisdom. Things learned? I shouldn't race in extreme heat when I'm not ready. That, combined with my limited intensity miles earlier in the season due to first snow and then concussion, was all I needed for a complete breakdown the past two weeks.
No results, but it was worth it to meet new people who share my passion for bikes and racing, to rekindle old friendships with Super Week friends from all over the US and to spend time with my mom and dad. Got mom to a bike shop for a fitting and we'll be getting a new Trek 2.1T when she comes to Grandparents' Day in Colesburg in the fall.
It's five days later and I'm feeling pretty good now. Think I'll go the races this weekend in Elk Grove Village...
I looked back down at my glass of water. Chills ran like currents through my body; my face was white and I was sure the cafe goer in the corner thought I was an addict of some kind in serious withdrawal.
Earlier in the day I felt like the luckiest guy in the race, bunny-hopping someone's carbon wheel as it slid across my path in the category 3 race. On lap two. It was a large field, more than a hundred riders, many bandaged from earlier crashes the day before in Kenosha. Our race had been delayed. First by the now regular lack of organization of the Super Week organization, which led to a full hour and a half of standing around for the first race. Then we were delayed by the bratwurst fire alarm and the firetruck responding to the neighbor's automatic fire alarm. The neighbor had left his window open, brat smoke filled his apartment and the Masters 123 race was delayed. We were delayed by the kiddie races that were moved ahead of our race in order to placate the waiting moms and dads. I don't blame them, but I do blame the race organizers for not getting their act together.
So we're standing at the start line, me in row two, feeling a bit iffy after a day of multiple trips to the bathroom. The gun goes off and we're rolling. After the first turn, the road disintegrates into a series of running cracks in the concrete running down the middle of the road and radiating out every five feet or so. The organizers hadn't thought of filling them in. My teammate skips his rear wheel over a manhole cover and promptly cracks his rim. As we round through the finish line after one lap, I'm still feeling OK and my teammate is five hundred dollars poorer. I hear my family shouting after turn one, "Go, Dad!" and the stomach bug is forgotten.
Turn two and then some guys discover there is a crack in the middle of the road by riding into it and jumping over it. We're going 32mph. I move to the outside to give myself an out but we round turn four and come down the straight to the finish line. The peloton is together when someone falls into someone else about 6 wheels from the front. Like dominoes, riders fall towards each side, sliding and creating a pile of bodies and bikes from behind. I accelerate towards the gates on the side and watch the rider and bike slide towards me. I pull up and jump onto his wheels and ride over, expecting to hit some snag and be pulled down, but I'm rolling on pavement again, free. I look back and see I'm the last one through and a pile of more than thirty riders on the deck behind me.
A delay as the race is stopped for 20 minutes to fix the bikes and clean up the riders. Most come back into the race. The ref lectures us about keeping our heads up. I look at the other riders and my stomach is not so good anymore. We're off, but I'm not into this anymore and hang at the back before dropping out. My teammate stays in, crashes (ruining his other wheel, seat and surgically repaired shoulder) and then gets 8th place.
An hour later I'm shivering and feeling ill.
No results during this Super Week for me. There are many reasons, most tied to me, my training, my limitations, my luck, my lack of wisdom. Things learned? I shouldn't race in extreme heat when I'm not ready. That, combined with my limited intensity miles earlier in the season due to first snow and then concussion, was all I needed for a complete breakdown the past two weeks.
No results, but it was worth it to meet new people who share my passion for bikes and racing, to rekindle old friendships with Super Week friends from all over the US and to spend time with my mom and dad. Got mom to a bike shop for a fitting and we'll be getting a new Trek 2.1T when she comes to Grandparents' Day in Colesburg in the fall.
It's five days later and I'm feeling pretty good now. Think I'll go the races this weekend in Elk Grove Village...
Saturday, July 19, 2008
More Heat
What do you do when the racing isn't going well? Look for an explanation and try to fix it.
The big explanation for my crappy performance so far can be summed up with one word: heat. Not good with it and not smart enough to avoid racing in it, I still feel the effects of doing five races in hot temps and high humidity and I'm sitting in a cool basement. Oh well, as my wife said this morning on the phone, you're getting out there and getting a decent workout in. And I do enjoy racing!
Today's race in Waukesha is promising to be wet and/or humid. I like the course a lot; lots of accelerations, power climbs and a long descent into the final corner leading to a long finishing straight. It's scheduled for forty miles, but at this Super Week that can mean anything at all. If it's raining, the warm-up might be problematic, but c'est la vie, n'est ce pas?
After the race, it's back to Iowa to see the family and rest before returning to Cedarburg on Tuesday. Hopefully with fresher legs and fresher spirit.
The big explanation for my crappy performance so far can be summed up with one word: heat. Not good with it and not smart enough to avoid racing in it, I still feel the effects of doing five races in hot temps and high humidity and I'm sitting in a cool basement. Oh well, as my wife said this morning on the phone, you're getting out there and getting a decent workout in. And I do enjoy racing!
Today's race in Waukesha is promising to be wet and/or humid. I like the course a lot; lots of accelerations, power climbs and a long descent into the final corner leading to a long finishing straight. It's scheduled for forty miles, but at this Super Week that can mean anything at all. If it's raining, the warm-up might be problematic, but c'est la vie, n'est ce pas?
After the race, it's back to Iowa to see the family and rest before returning to Cedarburg on Tuesday. Hopefully with fresher legs and fresher spirit.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Fear and Loathing in Richton Park
After getting dropped 12 laps into a fifty lap race, due to no reason other than an inability to hold the 30mph pace, my head is a flurry of conflicting emotions, thoughts, and rationalizations. I'm certainly not fit enough to actually race Cat 3 races right now, I nearly survived the furious attacking and high pace on a course that I was suited for; two more laps and I would have been OK.
I used the inhaler and my lungs were fine.
On the plus side, the racing is better, smoother, faster, more challenging than Cat 4. I think this year's 3 races are faster than last year's as well. After I dropped on lap 12, I heard an official remark that the riders were averaging 30mph per lap, kind of surprised at the speed.
This is good for me, I'm going to respond to this by becoming a better rider. I know part of my problem is a lack of early season racing, hard to get your race legs all at once at Super Week, but that couldn't be helped. Not the 7 foot snow drifts in early March, or the concussion due to equipment failure in May. And this is another thing that is wonderful about bike racing. To do well, everything must come together in a balance. I do my part to train and plan, for each race, for each training ride, for the year. Then things happen and the dance and the balancing begins again.
Today I'm off to Bensenville for my last Chicago race of the Super Week series. Next up will be Humboldt Park on Thursday and maybe a spin with my little guy tomorrow. Sometimes balancing is not such an unpleasant thing after all.
I used the inhaler and my lungs were fine.
On the plus side, the racing is better, smoother, faster, more challenging than Cat 4. I think this year's 3 races are faster than last year's as well. After I dropped on lap 12, I heard an official remark that the riders were averaging 30mph per lap, kind of surprised at the speed.
This is good for me, I'm going to respond to this by becoming a better rider. I know part of my problem is a lack of early season racing, hard to get your race legs all at once at Super Week, but that couldn't be helped. Not the 7 foot snow drifts in early March, or the concussion due to equipment failure in May. And this is another thing that is wonderful about bike racing. To do well, everything must come together in a balance. I do my part to train and plan, for each race, for each training ride, for the year. Then things happen and the dance and the balancing begins again.
Today I'm off to Bensenville for my last Chicago race of the Super Week series. Next up will be Humboldt Park on Thursday and maybe a spin with my little guy tomorrow. Sometimes balancing is not such an unpleasant thing after all.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Spasm
Seems like the older my body gets, the more difficult it is to hold everything in balance for a decent race performance.
It wasn't the three hour nightmare drive to the south side of Chicago, though that was unpleasant enough. Blue Island is what many Milwaukeans think of when they hear 'Chicago', old, crusty, lots of large people standing outside of bars, "Hey, whar ar you from?" "Dubuque." "Huh?" Another large person, maybe more sober, "That's in Iowa."
By our start at 3:20, the skies were threatening rain and the temps were getting close to 90. The thick air should have given me a clue to take a puff from the inhaler in my bag. I've had EIA, exercise induced asthma for a couple of years now, but hadn't had a full blown spasm for two years. But I'd had a nice warmup on the rollers, a few spins around the parking lots and now was in a nice position in the line for the start with 71 other, soon to be elbow to elbow close, friends.
Moving to cat 3 this year means that my races are no longer the first of the day, but often the last of the day. I've added more training in the heat to compensate, but this change doesn't really help a big guy like me at all. The race started fast and there were attacks early and often in the first laps of the one mile circuit. The backside of the course had a cross tailwind from the left, but coming onto the delapidated main street, the wind was hard and swirling between the buildings.
I was the only Wheaton fellow in the 3's race, so covering moves wasn't in my game plan, just positioning and identifying the strong riders. I moved up and surfed the group about 15 riders back, said 'hello' to a couple of familiar faces. "Haven't seen you since last year; how ya' doin'?" "That's my son on the front there, my 13yr old got 17th in the fours race."
About ten miles into the forty mile race, there was a hard acceleration and with no warning, I couldn't breathe much.
And that's it. One of the beauties of racing is that amidst all of the complexity, tactics, machines, relationships, the race comes down to a brutally simple reality in the end. I learned not to take breathing for granted... and to check the air quality reports before I head to Chicago again.
I'm also readjusting the schedule: no race Sunday in Olympia Fields, just a ride with my little guy Karl in the park. Perhaps I'll add Richton on Monday if the weather is OK.
It wasn't the three hour nightmare drive to the south side of Chicago, though that was unpleasant enough. Blue Island is what many Milwaukeans think of when they hear 'Chicago', old, crusty, lots of large people standing outside of bars, "Hey, whar ar you from?" "Dubuque." "Huh?" Another large person, maybe more sober, "That's in Iowa."
By our start at 3:20, the skies were threatening rain and the temps were getting close to 90. The thick air should have given me a clue to take a puff from the inhaler in my bag. I've had EIA, exercise induced asthma for a couple of years now, but hadn't had a full blown spasm for two years. But I'd had a nice warmup on the rollers, a few spins around the parking lots and now was in a nice position in the line for the start with 71 other, soon to be elbow to elbow close, friends.
Moving to cat 3 this year means that my races are no longer the first of the day, but often the last of the day. I've added more training in the heat to compensate, but this change doesn't really help a big guy like me at all. The race started fast and there were attacks early and often in the first laps of the one mile circuit. The backside of the course had a cross tailwind from the left, but coming onto the delapidated main street, the wind was hard and swirling between the buildings.
I was the only Wheaton fellow in the 3's race, so covering moves wasn't in my game plan, just positioning and identifying the strong riders. I moved up and surfed the group about 15 riders back, said 'hello' to a couple of familiar faces. "Haven't seen you since last year; how ya' doin'?" "That's my son on the front there, my 13yr old got 17th in the fours race."
About ten miles into the forty mile race, there was a hard acceleration and with no warning, I couldn't breathe much.
And that's it. One of the beauties of racing is that amidst all of the complexity, tactics, machines, relationships, the race comes down to a brutally simple reality in the end. I learned not to take breathing for granted... and to check the air quality reports before I head to Chicago again.
I'm also readjusting the schedule: no race Sunday in Olympia Fields, just a ride with my little guy Karl in the park. Perhaps I'll add Richton on Monday if the weather is OK.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Super Week Schedule
Racing starts tomorrow in Illinois and I'll be heading down to Blue Island for their second annual SW race. Last year was not an auspicious start: lots of crashes, dicey pavement and hot temps. Not sure what this year will bring, but as long as the thunderstorms hold off...
Here's my schedule for the next two weeks. I might add Downer's and/or Racine to the mix if I'm feeling great, otherwise I'm sticking to my rule of two or three races and an easy spin day. Nothing like having a 44 year old carcass to haul around! Like my friend/mentor Geoff in Le Boulou says, 'Racing as you get older is 60 percent mental and 40 percent physical.' He's still winning at 62, so there might be some truth in that. More later, off to the races!
7/12: St. Francis Hospital Blue Island ProAm [Men 3]
7/13: Olympia Club Criterium [Men 3]
7/15: Ray Basso Bensenville Criterium - Day 1 [Men 3]
7/17: Humboldt Park Criterium [Men 3]
7/18: Ripon Red Hawk Criterium [Men 3]
7/19: Carl Zach Cycling Classic presented by Couri Insurance Agency [Men 3]
7/22: WDSC Cedarburg Cycling Classic presented by Time Warner Cable [Men 3]
7/23: Whitnall Park Criterium [Men 3]
7/25: Chase Food Folks & Spokes [Men 3]
7/27: Time Warner Cable Whitefish Bay Classic [Men 3]
Here are some quick links for info:
Daily race info
Race Technical Guide
Results
Here's my schedule for the next two weeks. I might add Downer's and/or Racine to the mix if I'm feeling great, otherwise I'm sticking to my rule of two or three races and an easy spin day. Nothing like having a 44 year old carcass to haul around! Like my friend/mentor Geoff in Le Boulou says, 'Racing as you get older is 60 percent mental and 40 percent physical.' He's still winning at 62, so there might be some truth in that. More later, off to the races!
7/12: St. Francis Hospital Blue Island ProAm [Men 3]
7/13: Olympia Club Criterium [Men 3]
7/15: Ray Basso Bensenville Criterium - Day 1 [Men 3]
7/17: Humboldt Park Criterium [Men 3]
7/18: Ripon Red Hawk Criterium [Men 3]
7/19: Carl Zach Cycling Classic presented by Couri Insurance Agency [Men 3]
7/22: WDSC Cedarburg Cycling Classic presented by Time Warner Cable [Men 3]
7/23: Whitnall Park Criterium [Men 3]
7/25: Chase Food Folks & Spokes [Men 3]
7/27: Time Warner Cable Whitefish Bay Classic [Men 3]
Here are some quick links for info:
Daily race info
Race Technical Guide
Results
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Some thoughts about joy
A few seasons ago, racing in the bunch at MGA Proving Grounds in Burlington, Wisconsin, I turned to a fellow next to me. Amid the chain whirr, the buzz of the tires, the sharp relief of shadow and sun on a downhill run, I was experiencing exhilaration in it's purest form, with a sheen of summer sweat, in a race during Super Week, with a group of nearly complete strangers I had been bonding with for several days of racing.
"Man, isn't this fantastic?"
"Huh?"
"Isn't this great, what it's all about?"
"Huh?"
I don't remember who I was talking to, just someone who happened to be next to me. I know I was smiling and the other fellow probably backed away a bit, but it was a moment I had to share with someone, and, like D.T. Suzuki said, in sharing I likely diminished it a bit. But these moments seem to come infrequently in life so sharing seemed like a great idea at the time.
Now a few years later, Super Week racing is about to start again. Postings on some of my friends' racing blogs are filled with variations of doom and gloom and a kind of weltschmerz dread of what is to come. There is a lot to be concerned about, big fields, the upgrade to a higher category, the crappy courses in Chicago, where pale riders with hairy legs mix it up badly in the last lap.
There is an essential reality about bike racing that transcends all of that. It brings us to the moment, the constant now from which the past spins off like a spool of thread. The past was real, the future is not real, only the moment exists and we are brought to this moment in the constant flux of a race. The sprint is essentially the roshi's stick cracking us in the back, the barrage of stimuli, of pain, sweat in the eyes, bumping elbows, grinding gears, offer the chance to live right now, balanced on twenty two millimeter tires, traveling 30 miles per hour, elbow to elbow with one hundred people you met for the first time minutes before.
Isn't this fantastic?
"Man, isn't this fantastic?"
"Huh?"
"Isn't this great, what it's all about?"
"Huh?"
I don't remember who I was talking to, just someone who happened to be next to me. I know I was smiling and the other fellow probably backed away a bit, but it was a moment I had to share with someone, and, like D.T. Suzuki said, in sharing I likely diminished it a bit. But these moments seem to come infrequently in life so sharing seemed like a great idea at the time.
Now a few years later, Super Week racing is about to start again. Postings on some of my friends' racing blogs are filled with variations of doom and gloom and a kind of weltschmerz dread of what is to come. There is a lot to be concerned about, big fields, the upgrade to a higher category, the crappy courses in Chicago, where pale riders with hairy legs mix it up badly in the last lap.
There is an essential reality about bike racing that transcends all of that. It brings us to the moment, the constant now from which the past spins off like a spool of thread. The past was real, the future is not real, only the moment exists and we are brought to this moment in the constant flux of a race. The sprint is essentially the roshi's stick cracking us in the back, the barrage of stimuli, of pain, sweat in the eyes, bumping elbows, grinding gears, offer the chance to live right now, balanced on twenty two millimeter tires, traveling 30 miles per hour, elbow to elbow with one hundred people you met for the first time minutes before.
Isn't this fantastic?
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Out with a friend
Robert is visiting with his family for a few days. We stayed with Robert and Nicole in Rejmerstock at the end of our French sabbatical a year ago (see http://99daysinfrance.blogspot.com). We did 50 tempo miles out to Backbone State Park, surveying the flood damage and spinning back with the 20mph tailwind. A beautiful day.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Potter's Hill Ate My Crank
Things have not been working too well this past week. In one week I've bounced on my head at 20mph in the middle of Asbury Rd., simulated a heart attack on a climb up Durango Rd., broken two cranks (one during the aforementioned Asbury Road Incident) and one vastly more expensive one on the main ramp up Potter's Hill.
In the search for some positive side to this week, I want to balance What is Not Working with What is Working, just to keep things in perspective. I'm sure I'll come back to this post again and again to fend off complete depression.
What is Not Working
My 25 year old Phil Wood bottom bracket, previously installed on my Centurion touring bike of the same vintage; now only partially installed on that bike. This component was my touring bike's raison d'etre; there really are no other components on the bike of redeemable value, except perhaps the Huret Duo-Par derailleur, but even that is the Eco model.
While finishing up a pretty nice 100 mile ride from Colesburg to Dubuque and into the hill country north of town, the bottom bracket axle sheared into two pieces. I was climbing with my club buddies as second wheel, just a small rise on Asbury Rd and really cooling down, when I pushed down on the crank and there was nothing there. As I type this, it doesn't sound so bad. I mean, we all mis-estimate the number of steps once in a while (some more than others), but pushing down on a crank arm with a lot of force and having it decide to fly into space at that moment, leaves the rider off balance and bouncing on their head.
What is (was) Working
My Specialized Decible helmet. Now cracked down the middle, but taking the force of that blow made all of the helmets I've worn in my life, all of the discomfort on hot sunny days, suddenly worth it. Moments before my head first helmet test, I chastised a young rider we passed on Radford Rd., "Put a helmet on; being able to eat solid food is a good thing."
What is Not Working
Campagnolo cranks are a wonder, especially for me, the Destroyer of Bottom Brackets. In a Campy Ultra Torque crankset, the axle is split into two halves, joined with a 10mm bolt and the cups/bearings are externally mounted. What this means is that the crank can be put on with one bolt in about 1 minute. And the bearings are spaced farther apart and seem to bear the load much better. It's been 8000 miles and I have not blown a bearing yet.
Unfortunately, the chainring bolts on the Campy crank can either: shear off, or vibrate loose. I should have checked their tightness to eliminate the latter, so I can't be sure. But I can be sure of this. When one chainring bolt comes out, and it's next to the crankarm, and you're climbing a 17% grade and you weight more than a brick shithouse, the hidden bolt behind the crankarm will tear out of the arm and the chainring will fold over on itself, disintegrating into several, very expenisive pieces. While it is doing this, the chain will continue to destroy the back of the carbon crank arm, rendering it the most expensive paperweight you will ever own.
What Also is Not Working
My heart. Wednesday's ride scared the poop out of me. My heart rate soared to 225, about 50 beats higher than it was supposed to be, on a climb that I usually stomp up fairly easily. It stayed there and a couple of guys drifted back to see if I was OK and they stayed with me up to Ridge Rd. Mike turned with me back towards town, coasting and soft-pedaling to rest.
I wanted to find out what the problem was, so I went to the internet. I know, I should go see my doc, but I don't think he'll know anything more than I do at this point. Searching for tachycardia led me to a site that listed 200+ reasons for a fast heart rate; everything from too much excitement (put away that Pamela Anderson picture) and too much caffeine to a brain tumor. If I was a hyperchondriac, this would be a great opportunity.
In the search for some positive side to this week, I want to balance What is Not Working with What is Working, just to keep things in perspective. I'm sure I'll come back to this post again and again to fend off complete depression.
What is Not Working
My 25 year old Phil Wood bottom bracket, previously installed on my Centurion touring bike of the same vintage; now only partially installed on that bike. This component was my touring bike's raison d'etre; there really are no other components on the bike of redeemable value, except perhaps the Huret Duo-Par derailleur, but even that is the Eco model.
While finishing up a pretty nice 100 mile ride from Colesburg to Dubuque and into the hill country north of town, the bottom bracket axle sheared into two pieces. I was climbing with my club buddies as second wheel, just a small rise on Asbury Rd and really cooling down, when I pushed down on the crank and there was nothing there. As I type this, it doesn't sound so bad. I mean, we all mis-estimate the number of steps once in a while (some more than others), but pushing down on a crank arm with a lot of force and having it decide to fly into space at that moment, leaves the rider off balance and bouncing on their head.
What is (was) Working
My Specialized Decible helmet. Now cracked down the middle, but taking the force of that blow made all of the helmets I've worn in my life, all of the discomfort on hot sunny days, suddenly worth it. Moments before my head first helmet test, I chastised a young rider we passed on Radford Rd., "Put a helmet on; being able to eat solid food is a good thing."
What is Not Working
Campagnolo cranks are a wonder, especially for me, the Destroyer of Bottom Brackets. In a Campy Ultra Torque crankset, the axle is split into two halves, joined with a 10mm bolt and the cups/bearings are externally mounted. What this means is that the crank can be put on with one bolt in about 1 minute. And the bearings are spaced farther apart and seem to bear the load much better. It's been 8000 miles and I have not blown a bearing yet.
Unfortunately, the chainring bolts on the Campy crank can either: shear off, or vibrate loose. I should have checked their tightness to eliminate the latter, so I can't be sure. But I can be sure of this. When one chainring bolt comes out, and it's next to the crankarm, and you're climbing a 17% grade and you weight more than a brick shithouse, the hidden bolt behind the crankarm will tear out of the arm and the chainring will fold over on itself, disintegrating into several, very expenisive pieces. While it is doing this, the chain will continue to destroy the back of the carbon crank arm, rendering it the most expensive paperweight you will ever own.
What Also is Not Working
My heart. Wednesday's ride scared the poop out of me. My heart rate soared to 225, about 50 beats higher than it was supposed to be, on a climb that I usually stomp up fairly easily. It stayed there and a couple of guys drifted back to see if I was OK and they stayed with me up to Ridge Rd. Mike turned with me back towards town, coasting and soft-pedaling to rest.
I wanted to find out what the problem was, so I went to the internet. I know, I should go see my doc, but I don't think he'll know anything more than I do at this point. Searching for tachycardia led me to a site that listed 200+ reasons for a fast heart rate; everything from too much excitement (put away that Pamela Anderson picture) and too much caffeine to a brain tumor. If I was a hyperchondriac, this would be a great opportunity.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Whitnall
First race with my Wheaton mates last Saturday at Whitnall Park in Milwaukee. Our team was organizing the race and I experienced the first two hours as a corner marshall on the last corner before the finish. Nice spot to watch the juniors and women as they recovered after the hill into the wind (and freeze my tushie off as the wind was 26mph and the temps were a balmy 38).
The course is beautiful, long sweeping turns, a two part climb into the wind and a descent and a small roller before the finish. Chilled to the bone, I warmed up for an hour, getting some feeling back in the limbs and a slight sweat on. Chris, a new Wheaton guy from Viroqua and Rudy, a doctor I've raced against for a couple of years from Racine, joined me in the race. As we rolled past the pond just east of the course, I pointed out the spot where I killed a goose two years ago at a Super Week race.
Chris is very up, probably a result of being a personal fitness coach and husband of a yoga studio owner, and right away came up with a plan to lead me out to the last roller before the finish. The group was pretty big, maybe 50-60 riders and the wind on the hill kept things together for most of the time. Climbing is not a specialty for most of the Milwaukee/Chicago area riders and even I found myself cruising up to the front without much problem on the climbs.
With about 6 laps to go, a break was 'off' the front with a rider from Chrono Metro and another guy. They made it maybe 100 meters off the front and then kind of dangled there, slowly coming back on each climb. Chris burned a lot of matches trying to bridge earlier in their break, thinking he could make it work, but didn't make it across fast enough and came back.
I sheltered and played around with positioning. It's been many months since my last big pack race, and the first time back can be interesting. There were several squirrels and they were promptly yelled at and marked, so often when there was space to move into, it was behind or next to one of these guys.
After Chris came back, Eck, the leader of the team, yelled at me to do some work. It wasn't time for me to work yet, and besides, I didn't really know how many matches I had to burn anyway. With two laps to go, the pace picked up and I moved into position behind Chris. He yelled and looked under his arm and was kind of surprised that I was already sitting on his left hip. We hit the last climb pretty hard about four wheels back. He had said we would take the inside line on the descent, so I moved to his right side and waited for his accelearation. It came, but took him to the outside of the turn. I stood and jumped and was immediately bumped off by a guy from Beans and Barley. In retrospect, I wasn't aggressive enough with that guy and let him push me off my wheel. Chris gapped the group on the last rise, looked back for me to sprint by and instead saw a pack coming to swallow him up. Very disappointing pack finish for me.
On the up side, I think we'll work well together in the coming weeks, especially in the crits. I'm looking forward to my next race in Muskego.
The course is beautiful, long sweeping turns, a two part climb into the wind and a descent and a small roller before the finish. Chilled to the bone, I warmed up for an hour, getting some feeling back in the limbs and a slight sweat on. Chris, a new Wheaton guy from Viroqua and Rudy, a doctor I've raced against for a couple of years from Racine, joined me in the race. As we rolled past the pond just east of the course, I pointed out the spot where I killed a goose two years ago at a Super Week race.
Chris is very up, probably a result of being a personal fitness coach and husband of a yoga studio owner, and right away came up with a plan to lead me out to the last roller before the finish. The group was pretty big, maybe 50-60 riders and the wind on the hill kept things together for most of the time. Climbing is not a specialty for most of the Milwaukee/Chicago area riders and even I found myself cruising up to the front without much problem on the climbs.
With about 6 laps to go, a break was 'off' the front with a rider from Chrono Metro and another guy. They made it maybe 100 meters off the front and then kind of dangled there, slowly coming back on each climb. Chris burned a lot of matches trying to bridge earlier in their break, thinking he could make it work, but didn't make it across fast enough and came back.
I sheltered and played around with positioning. It's been many months since my last big pack race, and the first time back can be interesting. There were several squirrels and they were promptly yelled at and marked, so often when there was space to move into, it was behind or next to one of these guys.
After Chris came back, Eck, the leader of the team, yelled at me to do some work. It wasn't time for me to work yet, and besides, I didn't really know how many matches I had to burn anyway. With two laps to go, the pace picked up and I moved into position behind Chris. He yelled and looked under his arm and was kind of surprised that I was already sitting on his left hip. We hit the last climb pretty hard about four wheels back. He had said we would take the inside line on the descent, so I moved to his right side and waited for his accelearation. It came, but took him to the outside of the turn. I stood and jumped and was immediately bumped off by a guy from Beans and Barley. In retrospect, I wasn't aggressive enough with that guy and let him push me off my wheel. Chris gapped the group on the last rise, looked back for me to sprint by and instead saw a pack coming to swallow him up. Very disappointing pack finish for me.
On the up side, I think we'll work well together in the coming weeks, especially in the crits. I'm looking forward to my next race in Muskego.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Fixing a flat
Often the space to think well, to consider, to perceive, comes in the intervals between, the cracks in the pavement. Geared up this morning, squeezing in a post race ride back to Whitnall Park in Milwaukee, planning a new round of Tabata intervals, I was given some space; I had a flat tire.
Considering a craivason a gift might seem a stretch, but it is. The fast escape of air and the immediate loss of cushion, the 'thwack, thwack, thwack' of the valve slapping the pavement, pushes all plans to the side and I have to step off the bike and enter the ritual of changing my tubular tire.
Texture, I run my hand over the pebbly surface of the Continental, notice that there's life in the tread and make plans to patch it this evening. Nothing sharp, no nail, no glass. The wheel comes off, bike layed on the grass and the tool kit opened. I have a favorite yellow tire 'iron' (now plastic) that I use to separate the tire from the rim. About 10 spokes worth and I can gently pull the tire off the rim without tearing the base tape. Notice that the Conti glue seems to leave the base tape in place. Cars are passing, most likely on their way to church. The sun is out, but the air is very cool, maybe 50 degrees.
The ritual of the tire change is automatic and my mind relaxs into the new space in my schedule. Yesterday's race at Whitnall comes into focus, the last turn, the new teammates, the feeling of pushing against limits and the will of others.
And the flat is fixed. Tabata intervals here I come.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Route de Arnouville
Two things to know about Terminal 2E's boarding gate area at Charles de Gaulle aeroport: the baguette avec thon is pretty good and the café au 
lait is really bad.
Other notes to self: do not take Air France again unless they drop their ridiculous bike fee (150.00 from the US and free back--due to a flim flam of a new check-in person. I figure it was a karmic break even). As far as I know, British Airways still flys bikes for free, as a piece of baggage, but I won't take that for granted anymore.
Eight hours on the flight back is plenty of time to think about the fabulous ride to Thoiry and Mantes I had yesterday. Seems like a week ago already, must be the effect of all of that couscous, wine and rugby last night.
And where are those stewardesses now? Plotting some new form of subtle torture for all of us strapped into our tiny seats? Sure, fill us with saumon and truffle and yoghurt and baguette and a couple of tiny bottles of vin rouge and then make sure there's no toilet paper in the toilet with the impossibly small door. (Oops, I was just trying to wipe; I didn't mean to call for help).
Lots of folks on the roads after Chavenay, but none that were friendly or going my speed, so it was a pass and a wave and a 'Salut' or 'Bonjour' depending on the mood. The temps had dropped a few more degrees into the w
ear-long-sleeves range and I got to try out my new, black Campagnolo Retro Next jersey. The man in black! Not Johnny Cash (or Johnny Holiday, the ubiquitous hybrid of Cash and fat Elvis looking so french and so stylish in those new glasses from Optique, 2 pairs for 79 euros), no not those guys in black, but maybe Vinoukorov in black... Would anyone confuse me with that dude? 
Not if they saw me climbing out of the Seine valley at Mantes. Just to the top of this hill and then... the road continues upwards. Just around this town square and up this 22 percent climb on cobble stones and... this is just ridiculous. The wind climbs with me, now out of the northeast and the combination of elevation gain and wind drop me down to a robust, buy thigh-burning 13mph. Vinoukorov I'm not.
lait is really bad.Other notes to self: do not take Air France again unless they drop their ridiculous bike fee (150.00 from the US and free back--due to a flim flam of a new check-in person. I figure it was a karmic break even). As far as I know, British Airways still flys bikes for free, as a piece of baggage, but I won't take that for granted anymore.
Eight hours on the flight back is plenty of time to think about the fabulous ride to Thoiry and Mantes I had yesterday. Seems like a week ago already, must be the effect of all of that couscous, wine and rugby last night.
And where are those stewardesses now? Plotting some new form of subtle torture for all of us strapped into our tiny seats? Sure, fill us with saumon and truffle and yoghurt and baguette and a couple of tiny bottles of vin rouge and then make sure there's no toilet paper in the toilet with the impossibly small door. (Oops, I was just trying to wipe; I didn't mean to call for help).Lots of folks on the roads after Chavenay, but none that were friendly or going my speed, so it was a pass and a wave and a 'Salut' or 'Bonjour' depending on the mood. The temps had dropped a few more degrees into the w
ear-long-sleeves range and I got to try out my new, black Campagnolo Retro Next jersey. The man in black! Not Johnny Cash (or Johnny Holiday, the ubiquitous hybrid of Cash and fat Elvis looking so french and so stylish in those new glasses from Optique, 2 pairs for 79 euros), no not those guys in black, but maybe Vinoukorov in black... Would anyone confuse me with that dude? 
Not if they saw me climbing out of the Seine valley at Mantes. Just to the top of this hill and then... the road continues upwards. Just around this town square and up this 22 percent climb on cobble stones and... this is just ridiculous. The wind climbs with me, now out of the northeast and the combination of elevation gain and wind drop me down to a robust, buy thigh-burning 13mph. Vinoukorov I'm not.
Friday, October 12, 2007
L'Ille de Noirmoutier
A morning good-bye to my friends at ICES and I'm off in the rent-a-car to the coast and a jaunt to the Ille de Noumoutier. Four years of visiting and I have not been to one of the more popular tourist destinations in the Vendee. Fog is thick as I approach the coast, and the landscape flattens until the the road flatlines into a misty horizon line.
About noon, I reach the bridge to the island. Some pave, literally paving stones, bread and a small block of cheese make a nice lunch. I'll save the the bottel of Pouilly fume for apres ride when I'm back in L'Etang la Ville.
Pines line the route on both sides and I park in the rest area. There is not a single car there; this is definitely the off-season. Unpack the bike, change into bibs and jersey ,like Superman, in the bushes, unlike Superman. An older couple pulls in and the old gens regards me suspiciously as I emerge from the forest in my lycra getup.
Warming up by climbing a tall bridge isn't recommended, but I do ala Dr. Conconi's advice, and spin slowly, standing up to stretch out the flexors stiff from sitting in a Peugeot 207 the past couple of hours. And I'm on my way up.
The view of the tidal zone between the island and the 'continent' is beautiful.
Terns and seagulls, small boats and sand, take turns capturing my attention. My map is limited, a simple tourist map of the Vendee. The main road is a busy, four-lane highway running 16k to the ville of Noumoutier.
I try the sentiers or piste cyclable on the right. It's paved for about 500 meters and then turns to packed limestone and then, after another kilometer or so, to just plain gravel. I'm not into experiencing a gravel ride right now, not on my tubulars and not miles from my car, so I take the double track on the left and soon I'm back in the fast lane on D355. Not where I want to be. There are bicycle signs, but they have a yellow caution square, not a red line, but the next worst thing.
I try another side road and soon I'm at a dead-end on a farmer's road with no choice but the 355. At the next rondpoint, a bicycle lane appears and guides me to the west side of the island where it encourages me to ride my road bike through the sand dunes. I'm on my own; I can't depend on these silly bike routes and choose the Route de Pins which takes me a few k's until I'm again on the four lane highway.
Soon, a sign for the Chateau de Noirmoutier and I find the center of town. 
The chateau has scaffolding on its walls where workers are removing the concrete plaster over the natural stonework: the 17th century making way for the 12th. The only thing the ride is missing is a grande café. "Nice bike." The waitress either knows bikes or says this to every cyclist that stops. When she brings me my order I learn that a grande café in Noirmoutier means a 'duble' shot of espresso. In Perpignan it meant a large café au lait.
Oyster beds, sailing boats on their keels, the smell of salty air and the sound of the wind, I roll back to the continent, caffeine pumping through my veins, legs refreshed and hungry for more miles. I intend to take the Gois, the alternate road to the mainland that is only traversable during low tide, but an altercation with a guy on a moped makes me miss my turn.
Guys on mopeds are obnoxious, weaving in and out of traffic and moving between lanes of traffic, so when the tiny white moped flipped me off as he passed too close, I returned the favor. My blood really started to roil when he stopped at the next rondpoint on the highway with his eyes in his mirror. OK, let's go buddy.
I'll say this right now to you, Moped Dude, 'Je suis tres desole.' You didn't need to stop and you certainly weren't angry that I flipped you off and when you realized I was an American butcher of the French language, you didn't drive away. You smiled and tried to explain that the road was too busy for bikes and that I should take the bike route instead. You smiled at my attempt at being angry in French, pointed to the bike path and drove away.
That's how I missed the amazing Gois, as seen in the 1999 Tour de France. I had big plans for pictures of the Gois, but instead have some of the bridge from the reverse direction and some interesting flowering plants. And that will just have to do.
About noon, I reach the bridge to the island. Some pave, literally paving stones, bread and a small block of cheese make a nice lunch. I'll save the the bottel of Pouilly fume for apres ride when I'm back in L'Etang la Ville.Pines line the route on both sides and I park in the rest area. There is not a single car there; this is definitely the off-season. Unpack the bike, change into bibs and jersey ,like Superman, in the bushes, unlike Superman. An older couple pulls in and the old gens regards me suspiciously as I emerge from the forest in my lycra getup.
Warming up by climbing a tall bridge isn't recommended, but I do ala Dr. Conconi's advice, and spin slowly, standing up to stretch out the flexors stiff from sitting in a Peugeot 207 the past couple of hours. And I'm on my way up.
The view of the tidal zone between the island and the 'continent' is beautiful.
Terns and seagulls, small boats and sand, take turns capturing my attention. My map is limited, a simple tourist map of the Vendee. The main road is a busy, four-lane highway running 16k to the ville of Noumoutier.I try the sentiers or piste cyclable on the right. It's paved for about 500 meters and then turns to packed limestone and then, after another kilometer or so, to just plain gravel. I'm not into experiencing a gravel ride right now, not on my tubulars and not miles from my car, so I take the double track on the left and soon I'm back in the fast lane on D355. Not where I want to be. There are bicycle signs, but they have a yellow caution square, not a red line, but the next worst thing.
I try another side road and soon I'm at a dead-end on a farmer's road with no choice but the 355. At the next rondpoint, a bicycle lane appears and guides me to the west side of the island where it encourages me to ride my road bike through the sand dunes. I'm on my own; I can't depend on these silly bike routes and choose the Route de Pins which takes me a few k's until I'm again on the four lane highway.
Soon, a sign for the Chateau de Noirmoutier and I find the center of town. 
The chateau has scaffolding on its walls where workers are removing the concrete plaster over the natural stonework: the 17th century making way for the 12th. The only thing the ride is missing is a grande café. "Nice bike." The waitress either knows bikes or says this to every cyclist that stops. When she brings me my order I learn that a grande café in Noirmoutier means a 'duble' shot of espresso. In Perpignan it meant a large café au lait.Oyster beds, sailing boats on their keels, the smell of salty air and the sound of the wind, I roll back to the continent, caffeine pumping through my veins, legs refreshed and hungry for more miles. I intend to take the Gois, the alternate road to the mainland that is only traversable during low tide, but an altercation with a guy on a moped makes me miss my turn.
Guys on mopeds are obnoxious, weaving in and out of traffic and moving between lanes of traffic, so when the tiny white moped flipped me off as he passed too close, I returned the favor. My blood really started to roil when he stopped at the next rondpoint on the highway with his eyes in his mirror. OK, let's go buddy.
I'll say this right now to you, Moped Dude, 'Je suis tres desole.' You didn't need to stop and you certainly weren't angry that I flipped you off and when you realized I was an American butcher of the French language, you didn't drive away. You smiled and tried to explain that the road was too busy for bikes and that I should take the bike route instead. You smiled at my attempt at being angry in French, pointed to the bike path and drove away.
That's how I missed the amazing Gois, as seen in the 1999 Tour de France. I had big plans for pictures of the Gois, but instead have some of the bridge from the reverse direction and some interesting flowering plants. And that will just have to do.La Vallee Verde
Two days of traveling and meeting students and administrators and a completely screwed up sleep schedule, one day 12 hours the next zero, has left me with a burning need to get on the bike after lunch today. The normally cold and wet Vendee weather is just cool today, with clouds and sun taking turns. Lunch is a wonderful fruits de mer pizza with shrimp, clam, oyster and other indeterminate seafoody things baked in the mozzarella and camembert. A small flask of vin rouge and a lunch companion from ICES and the table is set.Later, on the bike and wandering the road
through the Vallee Verde, our conversation comes in and out of mental focus, like the light squeezing in between the clouds and canopy overhanging the road. Andrew is an avid cyclist himself and much of our conversation touched on his cycling routine over the summer, old tours I've taken in the states and, of course the current issue with doping in cycling. This is the third or fourth time the issue has come up, and although many cyclists take the same line, 'I'm just concerned with my own riding now and really am not interested in the pros,' deep down we're all vested in all of the levels of the sport. 
The road climbs and drops on the road to St Martinet. Beaulieu sous la Roche is gorgeous. I stop on the bridge crossing the river Yon and by chance catch sight of a chateau through the branches. Quelle suprise! Then the road climbs for good out of the Yon valley and I'm twisting on the D42 onward to St. Martinet and Les Chapelles. I defend Floyd. Not because I think he's innocent exactly,
but because I think that professionals today have to sell their soul to a system that at once gives them an amazing lifestyle while exposing them to the possibility of total ruin. There is no union to allow cyclists to assert their rights and now they even have to sign over a year's wages if there is a positive test. What other sport does that? Are the tests fair? Is the process just? If the USADA is now 36 and 0 in its cases against athletes is this telling us how perfect their system is or how weighted against the athlete things have become?At La Chapelle, I turn briefly north, change my mind about going all the way to Apresmont, and take the Commune road, barely one lane wide, to Aizenay and the Sentiers cyclable, the railes to trails route to La Roche sur Yon. Today and tomorrow will be shorter rides; I'm planning a longer one on Saturday.
It's about six in the evening when I hit the trail at Aizenay and find the evening couples out for a stroll, groups of elderly hikers out for a club stroll and many single parents, riding without helmets, paired with tiny french cyclists wearing helmets and astride tiny bikes. The future peloton.Vers Enfer
Rallye Voltaire
Sunday morning darkness. Not yet seven, I air up the tires, give the brake levers a squeeze and ease out of L'Etang la Ville on quiet streets. The night before Les Bleus, the national rugby team, had upset the New Zealand All Blacks in an exciting quarterfinal game of the World Cup. An American equivalent might be... I really can't think of one. All of France had been celebrating into the night and now they were sleeping.
Climbing up to the Place Royale in St. Germain en Laye, the air is warmer and completely clear. Light shimmers on the newly washed streets and the rondpoint itself, its cobbles a tad slippery as I bounce through and take the first exit and descend to the Seine. The lights of Paris sparkle through the trees lining the road on my right and a monolithic stone wall rises to my left. With no cars, I let loose and feel the bike lean into the hairpin turns until the road runs out into a straight to the bridge.
The Pont Georges Pompidou is one of the gates into the city of Paris. Two large women recline in granite splendor on each side and a confusing array of traffic furniture and concrete islands sort the traffic as it enters the bridge. Just a bicycle on the bridge and the fog coming off the cool river water. Across the bridge, the city begins, a succession of shops one after the other, lights or feus (fires) as French call them. I take the first hard left onto Avenue Jean Jaures and continue through the melee to Sartrouville to meet my friend and his club from Houilles.
The rallye is hosted the local cycle club in Sartrouville, Ass Cyclo, and begins at the RER train station. I arrive early and knots of riders have assembled around the entrance. A registration table is set up and a some older gentleman wearing ASS CYCLO jerseys and jeans are busy registering riders. The start is from 7 until 9, and the Houilles club is ready to go at eight. Jean Manuel greets me and introduces me to his club members. The only rider not in a yellow and blue kit, I'm a bit of an ugly duckling, but I count in their club's attendance numbers and they pay my inscription.
To be an etranger (foreigner) in France, still learning the language, can be difficult, but JM and his club welcome me. And they wait for me as well. A few miles into the ride, my front tire goes soft and JM yells 'craivasson!' and the whole Houilles group pulls to the side of the road. I hope it's just an intermittent problem with the valve, and we reinflate the tire with a pump and continue. In a kilometer, one of the other members yells 'craivasson!' again, and this time I pull out my spare. The slower riders continue, we'll catch them up the road. Several people are handing me pumps and advice as I pull off the tubular. 'Boyeaux!' It seems I'm a constant source of fascination, as is my CO2 inflator. Five minutes and we're back on the road and I move towards the front to break some of the wind and pay back something for the comradery I've been shown.
There are three routes today: 50k, 75k and one ominously labled 100k+. Ominous as well in the first direction on this route, 'Continuer vers Enfer', 'Keep going towards Hell.' But we're not there yet, we're busy climbing out of the Seine Valley on a road that is pitching 15%. JM told me yesterday on a ride that there really wasn't a need for a compact crank here in the north of France; there were no hills. But as we labor at the front of the group, he admits that a compact might be nice.
I'm feeling good. Two days of spinning, a few hours of sleep (damn that jet lag), and the excitement of riding in a group, put me on the front with Jean Pierre and Gerry, two grimpers (climbers). Each might weigh 140lbs. Maybe. The air is still cool, just pushing into the 50's as the sun begins clearing the trees. The roads flatten after a few more rises out of the valley and we reach another climb at Boisemont.
Mont means mountain, but mountain is a relative term. In the Paris area, there are no mountains, but if one is used to flat riding, or if you're riding with two miniature hellions on carbon Giants, you might as well be in the Alps. The sound of quickly receding gasping told me that we were by ourselves half of the way up the climb. I followed with my front wheel just off of Jean Pierre's left shoulder, knowing that we had a long way left and that sometimes I couldn't trust the positive reports my brain sent me from the legs. After the crest, the club regroups. We've long since rejoined, and then dropped, the slower riders that continued after my flat, but all of come together again in time for the first Ravitaillement (refreshment stop) at Damply.
Paper cups with a foul tasting lime drink have been placed in rows, dense bread, square chunks of cake and pieces of chocolate have been placed on the tables. Again, there are more non-cycling volunteers, dressed in jeans and wearing the sponsoring club's long sleeved jerseys. Warm smiles and encouragement from the support people, joking and comments about the climbing amongst the riders and JM nudges me when he sees the 'fast guys' mount and depart. We follow toute suite.
The warmth of the sun removed my vest before we left and now I'm considering the arm warmers as well. There's not much room in the pockets; my three jam sandwiches still uneaten, so I resolve to eat one, make some room and then take off the warmers, a nice mental project as the road levels out and we are rolling through the french countryside towards Nucourt. The towns and villages come fast, one every six or seven kilometers it seems. Le Bellay, Bercagny, Moussy, Gouzangrez, Villeneuve St. Martin, Jambville. The village of Enfer isn't so terrible as it might seem and I make a note to check it out on wikipedia.fr when I get a chance. It's impossible to focus on much besides the movement of the body on the bicycle, the rear wheel or our fast friends, or eating a sandwich while travelling at 25mph.
At the second ravitaillment (RAVITO, on the map), I remove the warmers and tightly roll everything again and cram my pockets full. The remaining two sandwiches are perched in the middle pocket on top of a vest, cell phone and cleat covers. Do the French carry so much on their rides? The camera stays in its own pocket on the right and the arm warmers join the keys, money and hat in the left. JM has a waist pack on as well and now I understand why. I grab a cake and have a mouth of dry crumbs when we scramble again to catch on with the first group.
The group accelerates to climb and as I stand up, my sandwiches break free and tumble out of the rear pocket. A split second as I weigh retrieval of the sandwiches with chasing back on to this group, and the sandwiches lose. "Da rien," I shout, "It's nothing," and don't find out until later that JM didn't hear me. He was busy running over the sandwiches, stopping, putting them in his jersey and then unsuccessfully chasing our group for the next 20 kilometers. My attention is glued to the front riders who are taking turns trying to put the other seven or so riders under pressure. They are succeeding; as we are soon down to five or six.
I follow in the wheels, sometimes third, sometimes fifth or sixth. There isn't much draft behind the two tiny guys trying to inflict the pain, but a larger rider from the Houilles club is still in there, (he's been on my wheel most of the morning) and the his draft is like relaxing in a soft breeze.
The sun is warm now and we're heading back to Sartrouville along
the Seine, dodging large concrete planters, old people, children, dogs and cyclists going less than twenty-five. I'm rested, and decide to inflict pain on the little climbers. JM has rejoined us, inadvertently taking a short cut and popping up suddenly. I apologize for his effort and he hands me my sandwiches, one sliced in half by his front wheel. He and I and the other Houilles rider who is larger, ride on the front, taking pulls and keeping the speed high, occasionally shouting, 'Attention, les enfants' or 'deucement, deucement' when a stoplight interfered with our pace. We dropped the grimpeurs a couple of times and at the end, one slapped me on the back, 'Vous roulez bien aujoudhui!'
Indeed, it was a good roll today.
4:54, 82.4 miles, 3300ft.
Sunday morning darkness. Not yet seven, I air up the tires, give the brake levers a squeeze and ease out of L'Etang la Ville on quiet streets. The night before Les Bleus, the national rugby team, had upset the New Zealand All Blacks in an exciting quarterfinal game of the World Cup. An American equivalent might be... I really can't think of one. All of France had been celebrating into the night and now they were sleeping.
Climbing up to the Place Royale in St. Germain en Laye, the air is warmer and completely clear. Light shimmers on the newly washed streets and the rondpoint itself, its cobbles a tad slippery as I bounce through and take the first exit and descend to the Seine. The lights of Paris sparkle through the trees lining the road on my right and a monolithic stone wall rises to my left. With no cars, I let loose and feel the bike lean into the hairpin turns until the road runs out into a straight to the bridge.
The Pont Georges Pompidou is one of the gates into the city of Paris. Two large women recline in granite splendor on each side and a confusing array of traffic furniture and concrete islands sort the traffic as it enters the bridge. Just a bicycle on the bridge and the fog coming off the cool river water. Across the bridge, the city begins, a succession of shops one after the other, lights or feus (fires) as French call them. I take the first hard left onto Avenue Jean Jaures and continue through the melee to Sartrouville to meet my friend and his club from Houilles.
The rallye is hosted the local cycle club in Sartrouville, Ass Cyclo, and begins at the RER train station. I arrive early and knots of riders have assembled around the entrance. A registration table is set up and a some older gentleman wearing ASS CYCLO jerseys and jeans are busy registering riders. The start is from 7 until 9, and the Houilles club is ready to go at eight. Jean Manuel greets me and introduces me to his club members. The only rider not in a yellow and blue kit, I'm a bit of an ugly duckling, but I count in their club's attendance numbers and they pay my inscription.To be an etranger (foreigner) in France, still learning the language, can be difficult, but JM and his club welcome me. And they wait for me as well. A few miles into the ride, my front tire goes soft and JM yells 'craivasson!' and the whole Houilles group pulls to the side of the road. I hope it's just an intermittent problem with the valve, and we reinflate the tire with a pump and continue. In a kilometer, one of the other members yells 'craivasson!' again, and this time I pull out my spare. The slower riders continue, we'll catch them up the road. Several people are handing me pumps and advice as I pull off the tubular. 'Boyeaux!' It seems I'm a constant source of fascination, as is my CO2 inflator. Five minutes and we're back on the road and I move towards the front to break some of the wind and pay back something for the comradery I've been shown.
There are three routes today: 50k, 75k and one ominously labled 100k+. Ominous as well in the first direction on this route, 'Continuer vers Enfer', 'Keep going towards Hell.' But we're not there yet, we're busy climbing out of the Seine Valley on a road that is pitching 15%. JM told me yesterday on a ride that there really wasn't a need for a compact crank here in the north of France; there were no hills. But as we labor at the front of the group, he admits that a compact might be nice.I'm feeling good. Two days of spinning, a few hours of sleep (damn that jet lag), and the excitement of riding in a group, put me on the front with Jean Pierre and Gerry, two grimpers (climbers). Each might weigh 140lbs. Maybe. The air is still cool, just pushing into the 50's as the sun begins clearing the trees. The roads flatten after a few more rises out of the valley and we reach another climb at Boisemont.
Mont means mountain, but mountain is a relative term. In the Paris area, there are no mountains, but if one is used to flat riding, or if you're riding with two miniature hellions on carbon Giants, you might as well be in the Alps. The sound of quickly receding gasping told me that we were by ourselves half of the way up the climb. I followed with my front wheel just off of Jean Pierre's left shoulder, knowing that we had a long way left and that sometimes I couldn't trust the positive reports my brain sent me from the legs. After the crest, the club regroups. We've long since rejoined, and then dropped, the slower riders that continued after my flat, but all of come together again in time for the first Ravitaillement (refreshment stop) at Damply.
Paper cups with a foul tasting lime drink have been placed in rows, dense bread, square chunks of cake and pieces of chocolate have been placed on the tables. Again, there are more non-cycling volunteers, dressed in jeans and wearing the sponsoring club's long sleeved jerseys. Warm smiles and encouragement from the support people, joking and comments about the climbing amongst the riders and JM nudges me when he sees the 'fast guys' mount and depart. We follow toute suite.
The warmth of the sun removed my vest before we left and now I'm considering the arm warmers as well. There's not much room in the pockets; my three jam sandwiches still uneaten, so I resolve to eat one, make some room and then take off the warmers, a nice mental project as the road levels out and we are rolling through the french countryside towards Nucourt. The towns and villages come fast, one every six or seven kilometers it seems. Le Bellay, Bercagny, Moussy, Gouzangrez, Villeneuve St. Martin, Jambville. The village of Enfer isn't so terrible as it might seem and I make a note to check it out on wikipedia.fr when I get a chance. It's impossible to focus on much besides the movement of the body on the bicycle, the rear wheel or our fast friends, or eating a sandwich while travelling at 25mph.
At the second ravitaillment (RAVITO, on the map), I remove the warmers and tightly roll everything again and cram my pockets full. The remaining two sandwiches are perched in the middle pocket on top of a vest, cell phone and cleat covers. Do the French carry so much on their rides? The camera stays in its own pocket on the right and the arm warmers join the keys, money and hat in the left. JM has a waist pack on as well and now I understand why. I grab a cake and have a mouth of dry crumbs when we scramble again to catch on with the first group.
The group accelerates to climb and as I stand up, my sandwiches break free and tumble out of the rear pocket. A split second as I weigh retrieval of the sandwiches with chasing back on to this group, and the sandwiches lose. "Da rien," I shout, "It's nothing," and don't find out until later that JM didn't hear me. He was busy running over the sandwiches, stopping, putting them in his jersey and then unsuccessfully chasing our group for the next 20 kilometers. My attention is glued to the front riders who are taking turns trying to put the other seven or so riders under pressure. They are succeeding; as we are soon down to five or six.
I follow in the wheels, sometimes third, sometimes fifth or sixth. There isn't much draft behind the two tiny guys trying to inflict the pain, but a larger rider from the Houilles club is still in there, (he's been on my wheel most of the morning) and the his draft is like relaxing in a soft breeze.
The sun is warm now and we're heading back to Sartrouville along
the Seine, dodging large concrete planters, old people, children, dogs and cyclists going less than twenty-five. I'm rested, and decide to inflict pain on the little climbers. JM has rejoined us, inadvertently taking a short cut and popping up suddenly. I apologize for his effort and he hands me my sandwiches, one sliced in half by his front wheel. He and I and the other Houilles rider who is larger, ride on the front, taking pulls and keeping the speed high, occasionally shouting, 'Attention, les enfants' or 'deucement, deucement' when a stoplight interfered with our pace. We dropped the grimpeurs a couple of times and at the end, one slapped me on the back, 'Vous roulez bien aujoudhui!'Indeed, it was a good roll today.
4:54, 82.4 miles, 3300ft.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
A Trip to Maule
Jean Manuel arrives just past two, "I'm always a little late, but just a few minutes." It's good to see him, and the first time we've ridden together in a year. We met one morning two years ago when I went to the forest outside of St Germain to meet a group of riders for an early morning ride. Some time passed and then a group came through and I decided to tag on the back, using friendliness and bad French to make friends.
That ride has led to others over the past two years and I now count Jean Manuel among my friends. Today we're heading out for a short jaunt retracing the first and last parts of my ride yesterday and adding a bit in the middle. We'll follow the route to Maule and then return via Les Alleuettes and St. Nom. Tomorrow we're meeting at 8:00 in Sartrouville for a longer club rallye, so today's goal is to loosen up the legs and put a few miles in.
Of course, my legs are so loose by the top of the climb out of L'Etang la Ville that I can hardly breathe. When I ask about Jean Manuel's family, it comes out as a croak. We back off and descend into the valley.
The trees are slowly dropping leaves now, bits of gold falling in the air. One of those things happening around us all of the time that we don't notice. Fascinating how riding a bike can sharpen the focus, my awareness of the beautiful mundane. Remember that crack in the road? That skunk carcass and it's smell? The little girl's smile as she rides her bike with ther dad? The steel, glass and speed of the automobile erase all of that, shrinking our world in the process to a list of places, appointments and itineraries. Our protection? The bicycle.
We crest the climb at Chavenay and avoid making the easy wrong turn at the Stad sign. Many cars are on the road today, yet only one seems to be upset that we are, beeping as it passes. Young kids. They still give us an entire lane. Vive la difference! In the US, they'd try to put us in the ditch.
The weather is cool, a high of 18 today. With the mild climate of northern France, the weather seems to intersect with Iowa's twice a year, in spring and fall.
We're climbing out of Maule to Bazemont and Les Alleuettes now. I feel good, the legs are fully back and as we climb I feel I could accelerate if I wanted to; a good feeling to know there is something in the tank. "I'm just getting my base fitness back again," I explain to Jean Manuel. The racing season took so much out of me that I actually felt out of shape a month ago. Riding longer at lower intensities seems to have helped. Now I feel the bike leap forward, as if it has some life of its own.
In Les Alleuettes we see markings for tomorrow's ride: S's in white with arrows pointing the way. Nevertheless, we are bound to refer to our maps and stop to ask an older couple for directions once we are on the road to St Nom. We descend a narrow road and suddenly we're in fields with views of the valley again. St Nom's church is in the distance and we return to yesterday's route in the forest.
1:51, 31 miles, 1260 ft
That ride has led to others over the past two years and I now count Jean Manuel among my friends. Today we're heading out for a short jaunt retracing the first and last parts of my ride yesterday and adding a bit in the middle. We'll follow the route to Maule and then return via Les Alleuettes and St. Nom. Tomorrow we're meeting at 8:00 in Sartrouville for a longer club rallye, so today's goal is to loosen up the legs and put a few miles in.
Of course, my legs are so loose by the top of the climb out of L'Etang la Ville that I can hardly breathe. When I ask about Jean Manuel's family, it comes out as a croak. We back off and descend into the valley.
The trees are slowly dropping leaves now, bits of gold falling in the air. One of those things happening around us all of the time that we don't notice. Fascinating how riding a bike can sharpen the focus, my awareness of the beautiful mundane. Remember that crack in the road? That skunk carcass and it's smell? The little girl's smile as she rides her bike with ther dad? The steel, glass and speed of the automobile erase all of that, shrinking our world in the process to a list of places, appointments and itineraries. Our protection? The bicycle.
We crest the climb at Chavenay and avoid making the easy wrong turn at the Stad sign. Many cars are on the road today, yet only one seems to be upset that we are, beeping as it passes. Young kids. They still give us an entire lane. Vive la difference! In the US, they'd try to put us in the ditch.
The weather is cool, a high of 18 today. With the mild climate of northern France, the weather seems to intersect with Iowa's twice a year, in spring and fall.
We're climbing out of Maule to Bazemont and Les Alleuettes now. I feel good, the legs are fully back and as we climb I feel I could accelerate if I wanted to; a good feeling to know there is something in the tank. "I'm just getting my base fitness back again," I explain to Jean Manuel. The racing season took so much out of me that I actually felt out of shape a month ago. Riding longer at lower intensities seems to have helped. Now I feel the bike leap forward, as if it has some life of its own.
In Les Alleuettes we see markings for tomorrow's ride: S's in white with arrows pointing the way. Nevertheless, we are bound to refer to our maps and stop to ask an older couple for directions once we are on the road to St Nom. We descend a narrow road and suddenly we're in fields with views of the valley again. St Nom's church is in the distance and we return to yesterday's route in the forest.1:51, 31 miles, 1260 ft
Friday, October 05, 2007
First Day Back
A rhythm has developed over the past four years of travelling with my velo to France. Of course there's the drive to Chicago, the black hole that is sitting in a 747 seat for seven hours when one is normally sleeping (just a step above sitting on a Greyhound on a cross-country trip).
The food is pretty good on the Euro airlines I take, mainly British Airways and Air France, and a couple of bottles of vin rouge can make things much better. Arrival at Charles de Gaulle can be an adventure, riding on a bus for 15 minutes after landing to get to a gate, waiting for the velo bag that doesn't come on its own, or trying to shake that over-friendly couple from Texas that befriended me while sitting across the aisle in 24A and 24B.
Inevitably, I land; I get my luggage and bike;
I pickup the rental car and enter the Peripheric, the wild, unpeeling onion of lanes that make up the Autoroute encircling Paris. And then the drive to the western suburb of L'Etang la Ville to stay with my inlaws for a few days to get my euro legs.
So today is a bit of a fog, four hours of sleep in a 36 hour day, but the fog dissipates with a short one hour ride. A quick climb up into the Foret de St Germain, several rondpoints and a dip to Rennemoulin, Villepreux and Chavenay and then a climb up to Feuchrolles. The traffic is heavy with mothers picking up their kids from school, but not one angry horn, yell, or finger salute.
I'm just spinning today, no big effort needed right now, just enough work to flush the system. I take the 307 back towards St Nom de Bretech and take the forest road that dives past the train station back in L'Etang l
a Ville. As I roll under the turning trees, bright with orange and yellow leaves and feel the contradictory cool breeze and bright sun on my skin, it feels good to be back.
The food is pretty good on the Euro airlines I take, mainly British Airways and Air France, and a couple of bottles of vin rouge can make things much better. Arrival at Charles de Gaulle can be an adventure, riding on a bus for 15 minutes after landing to get to a gate, waiting for the velo bag that doesn't come on its own, or trying to shake that over-friendly couple from Texas that befriended me while sitting across the aisle in 24A and 24B.
Inevitably, I land; I get my luggage and bike;
I pickup the rental car and enter the Peripheric, the wild, unpeeling onion of lanes that make up the Autoroute encircling Paris. And then the drive to the western suburb of L'Etang la Ville to stay with my inlaws for a few days to get my euro legs.So today is a bit of a fog, four hours of sleep in a 36 hour day, but the fog dissipates with a short one hour ride. A quick climb up into the Foret de St Germain, several rondpoints and a dip to Rennemoulin, Villepreux and Chavenay and then a climb up to Feuchrolles. The traffic is heavy with mothers picking up their kids from school, but not one angry horn, yell, or finger salute.
I'm just spinning today, no big effort needed right now, just enough work to flush the system. I take the 307 back towards St Nom de Bretech and take the forest road that dives past the train station back in L'Etang la Ville. As I roll under the turning trees, bright with orange and yellow leaves and feel the contradictory cool breeze and bright sun on my skin, it feels good to be back.
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