The Mines are Open

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's not snowing yet

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

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

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

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

Early Morning Thoughts

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

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

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

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

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

Put Me Back on My Bike: Review

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

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

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

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

Iced In

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

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

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

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

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

That ain't a Porkie Pie.

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Weekend Ride in Trevor

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

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

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

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

A Sunday Ride in November

Every ride outside now is a bonus ride.  Snow is a constant possibility and, after whiffing the endless hours of sitting on a trainer or rollers in a back room, sun and 40 degrees is downright delightful.  As I did last week, road in on Hwy 3 to meet the guys from Dubuque in Durango.  Nine o'clock on a Sunday morning is pretty uneventful, mostly folks going to church in Luxemborg or Holy Cross, and they offer plenty of room, most of the time an entire lane, as they pass.  Is it the Sunday sermon effect?  or maybe they're just used to seeing me on the road now.  The exception is the evil milk truck driver.  He drives a blue milk truck and hurtles down the highway, probably to the Swiss Valley plant in Dubuque, at various and unpredictable days and times.  Today he caught me just past Holy Cross, waited impatiently for some churchgoers to make the turn and then passed me.  He now gives me plenty of room, but then deftly rides squarely on the gravel shoulder with his right wheels.  Over-correction?  Naw, he stays there for a good 200 yards, spewing gravel and dust into my face.  If that's the worst of it, then I'm OK and I meet my buddies at the crossroads in Durango.

Mike, Spahny, John and Lance, good company on a nice November ride

A Winterish Morning

 

One of the pleasures of living in Iowa is waking up to snow flurries, wind and 10 degrees on the thermometer.  What to do after downing a bowl of oatmeal and a double shot of espresso?  Hop on the bike.  But not outside, not today.  Today is reserved for the rollers.  My setup, an old set of Kreitler Dynolytes, sweat-induced rust pushing through the red paint on the frame, paired with a Headwind fan running off the front roller and a 10 pound weight spinning off the rear drum, this setup has seen me through hundreds of winter hours over the last ten years.  Most of the time, the rollers are reserved for fast cadence recovery spins, but sometimes, like this morning, they need to take the place of a real base-building ride. 

A great resource for figuring out what to do is Dirk Friel's Workouts book.  It's a little binder stuffed with variations of indoor trainer workouts to add some variety to the hours that you should be spending on the rollers if you're one of the poor blokes not living in southern France this winter.  Friel separates the into Endurance, Force, Speed Skills, Muscular Endurance, Anaerobic Endurance, Power and Mixed.    I'll be highlighting a few that I've incorporated into my routine over the last two years.  Oh, and best of all, the pages of the book are sweat proof!

This is low volume week for me.  Typically, I've been doing about 15 hours a week of base work with a spinup thrown in for three weeks and then I'll do a week with half the volume.  These half-volume weeks typically correspond to bouts of tremendously crappy weather where my MWF commutes to work aren't possible.  This frosty morning I'm going to do the strangely named (I'll be riding on rollers afterall) Rolling Hilly workout, E1 in Friel's text (the first exercise of the Endurance section).  I also set up Cycling TV on the ol' computer.  Today's selection is the 2008 Amstel Gold.  My goal is to recognize some of the towns we rode through during our visit in 2007 (our friends live in Rjemerstok). 

The goal of the workout (besides avoiding frostbite) is to develop endurance and hip strength by imitating cadence and pedal force encountered on rollers.  After a 15m warmup where Friel has me spinning, stand, sit and then do single leg work, we get to the meat of the workout.  Two sets.  First set is 6 reps, 2m each.  Each rep is 2m at 70rpm in Zone 2.  The recovery interval is 1m at 100rpm in Zone 1.  After a three minute rest interval between sets, the second set expands the low cadence interval to 3m.

This sounds ridiculously easy, but after the first set I realize that my hip flexors are killing me.  During the three minute rest interval, my legs feel fantastic, smoothly spinning away at 90ish rpm.  The second set finishes me off by the sixth rep.  The workout's a success: an hour has passed and no frostbite.

Memories of Versailles Chambord 2008

Long delayed in posting a report about my ride with Jean-Manuel in the 30th anniversary of the randonnee, Versailles-Chambord, on September 21st.  While I was flying in the day before from Iowa, JM drove his car down to Chambord, parking it near a police station to keep it safe.  The end of the 140 mile ride was about 10k from a train station and the thought of sitting on a train for two hours after a 6 and a half hour ride and then riding again to get home didn't sit well.  Thanks to his effort the day before, we were able to ride home in the comfort of a Peugeot 405 and stop for a decent meal near Orleans.

 

 

 

This fellow followed the riders to each rest stop on the way.

 

 

 

 

 

Registration at daybreak in front of the Palais de Versailles didn't dampen these ladies' spirits.   

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe it was the coffee?

 

 

 

 

 

Riding in the early morning light through the Chevreuse Valley, home of the famous Gran Prix des Nations time trials for many years.  Our route retraced some of the same roads I first raced back in 2004 in the Versailles-Chartres road race.  Memories of being pegged at 31mph in a long line and the Cathedral of Chartres miles ahead on the horizon.  This morning was more of a surreal experience as groups of riders faded in and out of fog and light.  JM and I leapfrogging from one group to the next in search of the 'just right' tempo for the day. 

 

 

 

Rest stops were spaced at about 40k intervals and provided an opportunity for regrouping.  JM and I were the only riders from his Houilles club, but we quickly became comrades in wheels with others.  This particular stop was at a bakery, and we had our choice of a large croissant or a bun.  Next time, take the bun.  Nothing like burping up butter in a paceline.

 

 

 

 

JM in the lunch line. For a six euros we got a bag stuffed with an egg sandwich, couscous, fruit, chips and flan.  After the croissant earlier in the day, the chips and flan were gifted to another rider.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nice hunting shack!  And one of the most chaotic profiles of a chateau in France, the Château de Chambord is a must see.

 

 

 

 

 

With the sunlight fading and the quads still burning, JM and I wandered around a magical place. 

 

 

 

 

A good ride with a great friend.  140 miles with nearly 6000 feet of climbing helped make jet lag a secondary consideration.

 

 

 

	With over 650 riders participating, the variety of bikes on hand were something special.

No Snow Today!

The wind is out of the west, southwest, the temperature is threatening to move past 30 degrees and there is a break in the snow flurries that have been falling for the past few hours: time to ride.

I'm zipped, velcroed and generally bundled against the cold. The effect on the bike is a bit like riding in molasses. The gravel/dirt road that leads the half-mile from my house hasn't been graded since the last precipitation and is now frozen into a hard, brown surface that isn't too bad on the tubulars.
The muted colors of winter, slate skies, browns of harvested fields and the stubborn dark evergreens. The cranks turn and the muscle memories of yesterday's interval workout on the rollers make themselves known in a series of achey messages in my head. Only a few miles, but I know that by Luxemborg the spin will be back, and a rhythm will take the place of the aches.

Off-season riding in Iowa is tough in its own way. The speeds are slower, the risk of frostbite is always there; you can be feeling nice and toasty all over and then the sun slips away, the wind shifts and suddenly you can't feel your fingers anymore. Harder, though, is the doubt that creeps in when the average speed dips into summer's touring range and the top speed for a ride doesn't break thirty. Am I still fit? Will I be fit in the spring? Two antidotes are always on hand, however, your experience on the bike, the meso-cycles of fitness that happen annually, over and over (you've been here before) and your love for riding (I like being on my bike; who cares if I'm going slow?).

One way to measure how fit you are is to ride with others, push the pace up a hill and spend some time swapping stories, commiserating about riding in cold, wet weather, in cold, snowy weather or fighting a 35 mph headwind for a few hours riding home last week. This makes you feel better in the end and you realize that the community of the bike is as important as your average wattage for the ride.
Bonne Route!

No snow today!

The wind is out of the west, southwest, the temperature is threatening to move past 30 degrees and there is a break in the snow flurries that have been falling for the past few hours: time to ride.



I'm zipped, velcroed and generally bundled against the cold. The effect on the bike is a bit like riding in molasses. The gravel/dirt road that leads the half-mile from my house hasn't been graded since the last precipitation and is now frozen into a hard, brown surface that isn't too bad on the tubulars.



The muted colors of winter, slate skies, browns of harvested fields and the stubborn dark evergreens. The cranks turn and the muscle memories of yesterday's interval workout on the rollers make themselves known in a series of achey messages in my head. Only a few miles, but I know that by Luxemborg the spin will be back, and a rhythm will take the place of the aches.

Off-season riding in Iowa is tough in its own way. The speeds are slower, the risk of frostbite is always there; you can be feeling nice and toasty all over and then the sun slips away, the wind shifts and suddenly you can't feel your fingers anymore. Harder, though, is the doubt that creeps in when the average speed dips into summer's touring range and the top speed for a ride doesn't break thirty. Am I still fit? Will I be fit in the spring? Two antidotes are always on hand, however, your experience on the bike, the meso-cycles of fitness that happen annually, over and over (you've been here before) and your love for riding (I like being on my bike; who cares if I'm going slow?).

One way to measure how fit you are is to ride with others, push the pace up a hill and spend some time swapping stories, commiserating about riding in cold, wet weather, in cold, snowy weather or fighting a 35 mph headwind for a few hours riding home last week. This makes you feel better in the end and you realize that the community of the bike is as important as your average wattage for the ride.

Bonne Route!

Mont Valerian

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Johann is off the front!

There are few things more satisfying than seeing a child develop as a bike rider.

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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.