All dressed up

I’m still getting used to the air, not just its thinness, but the crisp, dry mountain smell that greets me each morning when I open kitchen door to pump up the tires and look over the bike before a ride.  The air is bracing, the sun is out and I’m looking forward to a good, hard ride with my new friends on the Saturday morning training ride.

I slide through the back streets and main street of Manitou.  The tourists are still snoozing and few locals are getting things ready for a day of business on Manitou Avenue.  Just past the cop shop, I turn left and take the little jog over to El Paso.  El Paso runs parallel to Manitou, past bed and breakfast establishments and older estates looking south over the canyon.  It’ an easy downhill spin.  A climb past 31st and then dodging the cars going to the market in Old Colorado City across from their Carnegie Library.

At Walnut, the road is going to end, a quick right and left and I’m on the main drag of Colorado Ave, pointed at Downtown Colorado Springs, warmed up and raring to go.  Perhaps this week I’ll play more on the front, take a pull or two and sprint for the at hill climb…

Road Closed Ahead.  Tejon is closed?  Then I remember, the big military parade today.  I turn a block earlier and then right on Bijou to the Starbucks.  Fifteen minutes early and not much to do but sit and watch the preparations with the patriotic folks on the street.  A young black guy, street person through and through, “You OK?”  Yep.  “No problem?”  I don’t think so.  An older woman, to no one in particular, “My husband is off to Afghanistan for his eighth tour.” Uh-huh.  “If we don’t keep ‘em out of here, then they’ll be hanging jews from the lamp posts.”  Ok, that’s enough.  I move away from my conversation partners and sidle up to another rider sitting at an outdoor table.  Ahh, my tribe.

Byron, a new student at UCCS and transplant from East Lansing, pulls up.  Greetings.  Soon we have a posse of about 25 riders wondering how we’ll get to our route, on the other side of the parade route.  The parade starts at precisely 10am; we lollygag for a few more minutes and then head back west a block to try to ride around the start. 

Bump, pause, bump.  I feel the roughness of Bijou under my bum.  Either the rear tire is really over inflated, or I have a flat.  I look down; a flat.  The group rides away and I prop the bike up on bench.  It’s game over.  I change the flat and ride back up Colorado Ave, Pikes Peak Ave, El Paso Ave and the back way to Manitou. 

Instead of high speed jockeying for position this week at the front of the pack, I trade ideas for cooking zucchini with an older woman coming back from the Old Colorado City market.  Funny how these things work.

Taking a spin with my baby

The morning is clear, dry and there’s a cool easterly breeze blowing.  The kids have school.  All day!  and Janet and I both have very nice bikes.

We go for a ride.

Who am I?

A dull throb, a low remembering of the effort on Wednesday, a slight feeling of constriction, the blood forcing its way through capillaries blocked by something or mysteriously shrunken since the last big ride.  Thoughts, can you do this? why are you doing this?  you’re old, you will get dropped, you will be embarrassed?  Inward fears, but on the outside there’s just a rider cycling down Manitou Ave, dodging the early tourists and folks setting up for the annual buddy walk in town. 

Bravado is usually in great supply before a training ride, especially one that draws riders from so many teams and regions.  No one blinks at the Kiwi or Aussie accent in the paceline, or the team kits from various domestic and international teams, Team Type 1, Jelly Belly, Garmin Slipstream, Rock Racing.  Perhaps this is adding to my anxiety.  My legs still ache but I keep it all tucked in and meet the other riders at the Starbucks on Tejon.

Waiting for the ride to begin.  It occurs to me that insecurity comes more from not knowing than anything else.  Ignorance of the other riders abilities, ignorance of my own.  Weakness is a human quality that makes us do stupid things, like shoot past another rider on a climb, an act that shouts, I’M STONGER THAN YOU!  for no other reason than to mask some shortcoming in my head. 

We roll out, kitty corner across the intersection, our group large enough to last the entire light, but impressive enough in size that the drivers are patient.  A few blocks north and then east on Boulder, the group sets a comfortable rolling speed that touches twenty and then backs off.  Folks are talking, catching up; some have a serious, brooding look.  Most often the latter are dropped when the speed doubles at the turn south.  The well-trained are comfortable enough to laugh, the others focus on the pain ahead.

The road descends and then crests a small hill at Powers.  We’re on a multilane concrete ribbon with drib drabs of Saturday morning traffic.  The hill is the first effort of the morning and there is a huffing and gasping as some riders slow too much and come back through the group.  I’m sure this worries them; we’re not at speed yet.  We leave the main drag and take a frontage road and there is a stop.  The group obeys lights and considers stop signs seriously but not literally.  Hands go down, palm back, to let following riders know to stop.  Forty riders today?  Maybe fifty.  The next stop sign is our turn south.

The pace goes from twenty to thirty five just past the turn.  Chain noise, riders out of the saddle, the strong sun glinting off helmets.  I stand and move smoothly into a comfortable seventh wheel or so, just behind someone large enough to provide a comfortable draft and steady enough to not kill me.  I dread the idea of hitting the edge, or lapping a wheel at this speed and quickly put the idea out of my head. 

My strategy today is to not take any pulls at the front, even if I’m comfortable.  This is based on two things: my tired legs and the fact that the group attacked me last week after a pull and dropped me just before the railroad tracks and the second sprint.  It might happen today, but I’m going to do everything to not get dropped.  I’m aware that I am feeling good and resist an invitation to pull into the rotating paceline, choosing to ride in the rocking chair just off the tail of the rotation.  I’m good at this.  So good that the rider looking to move to the right and towards the front doesn’t even see me.  Once in a while a rider does, and leaves the gap, but I resist and they move into it themselves.

Riding at the front, I have no idea who is behind me, the same riders move around me, familiar pedaling motions, predictable behaviors.  I hear Cody, a large rider like myself and so instantly a friend in the draft, telling a new rider he brought along to stay on my wheel.  “Just stay on it.  Don’t worry about the sprint, you won’t be a factor.  Just keep his wheel.”  This makes me feel good.  I’m a resource; I can be counted on; and, I belong.

The sprint is approaching.  We pass a subdivision HOMES STARTING IN THE 120,000’s; we pass through a left turn and I see the first hills approaching.  A few weeks ago I made the mistake of moving onto the front here and paid for it.  I’m comfortable, there’s no trouble keeping the pace or the wheel in front of me and and let’s keep it that way.  Over the second bump and I see the hill whose top marks the first sprint.  My goal is too stay comfortable.  Comfort, easy, breathe, be comfortable and smooth.  Cody comes by on the left and I let him.  Good for him if he gets the sprint today.  He fades.  The little guy in the Garmin kit takes a pull and we all strain under the effort to not break the string.  We crest the hill and I’m fifth wheel now and the effort has taken my ability to breathe away.  I take regular gasps, but I’m on the moon; there’s no air.  And we’re going downhill, spinning out my 53x12, probably around forty but I can’t see clearly enough to glance at the computer.

The secret is to keep the mask in place.  Catch your breath on the sly and by the next turn, I’m following the wheel of someone and letting another into the corner.  If this were a real race, I’d close the door on him, but I’m sure I’ll need whoever it is in a few minutes. 

We’re rolling on to the second sprint.  I let myself go to the back.  All of these riders are working for me now!  The back comes up quickly; there’s maybe ten of us now.  Ten.  We pass the spot I was dropped last week after a pull and resist the urge to pull again.  A slight rise and Garmin sprints and pulls the chain taut.  A gap grows in front of the rider in front of me and I let it.  He pulls off and I catch the wheel of someone else to close the gap.  Comfort.  Garmin sprints again and we all stay close.  The sprint point is in eyesight, a lonely sign on the side of a deserted road next to a railroad track.  I survived.  I feel good.  I belong.

Redemption and adaptation

I know, confusing title without some background of what needed redeeming the past two weeks on the bike.

The shape of my cycling week here in Colorado:

Saturday is the training ride with the local hot shots who meet at 10:00 at the Starbucks on Tejon.  A mixture of local guys, visiting pros, and top amateurs, this is the ride to be on in the area.  I ride to the start from our home in Manitou, about 8 miles down the canyon to Colorado Springs, then an easy tempo for the first 10 miles east past Peterson AFB.  Once the road heads south, the fireworks begin and the group lunges up a hill after the turn.  From that point, it’s balls-out, race-pace to the first sprint about 12 miles up the road at the top of a small climb.  The last sprint is just before the turn-around where the road tees into Hwy 115 south of Ft. Carson Army Base.  We turn and pick up folks that had to pee, couldn’t hold the pace or had a mechanical and carry a tempo back to the start.  55 miles of training ride and 8 miles on each side for warm-up and cool-down.  It’s a nice ride and every week we ride the same course with slightly different results depending on who’s in town.

Wednesday is my long ride and this week I spent it with Scoots, aka the evil Mountain Elf, on the road north of Woodland Park.

Two days this week were spent with Karl on a loop through the Garden of the Gods and these rides, more than any other, keep me in love with cycling.

Monday Karl had a half day at the elementary school, his first day at his new school, so afterwards we aired up his tires, cleaned the Nebraska bugs off his frame and located some gloves and his helmet.  We rode from the house for the first time, down Manitou Ave and then zigged over to El Paso for the ride into the Garden of the Gods. 

Karl was nervous at first, but then was shouting, “Dad, I got up to 37 miles an hour on that hill!”  We laughed and I shouted out pedestrians lumbering up the bike lane.  It was a sweet and beautiful way to spend a recovery ride and Karl showed some panache on the longer climb on the north side of the park, accelerating away from his dad.

Two days later, I figured it was time to do some base miles to build up my endurance fitness.  One thing I’ve learned since moving out here a month and a half ago; you can’t ignore the difference between the rolling hills and thousand foot elevation of northeastern Iowa and the Rocky Mountains.  Recovery is longer and so are the climbs.

Scoots came down and we saddled up at 9:30, envisioning a 118 mile loop from Manitou, west to Woodland Park, north to Deckers, over to Sedalia and then down through Palmer Lake and the Air Force Academy. 

I’ll make it official here: Scoots is now a climber.  From Manitou it’s straight onto the climb up Ute Pass, the only warm-up the brief descent from our home on Pilot Knob to Manitou Ave.  Then it’s up.  For twelve miles.

I’ve been up the pass four times now and each time I give myself about twenty minutes to let the muscles cool, but not this time.  Maybe it was the rider just ahead on Highway 24, maybe it was some inner alpine demon struggling to possess Scoots, but we went up the pass in record time, even with my friend slowing down for me on the steeper ramps.  By Woodland Park, we had only 106 miles to go and I felt like I’d just been put through the ringer and there was still suds in my hair.

Descending to Deckers is a blessed thing.  There is a climb on the way, past hills scorched by the Hayman Fire, but soon the pines come closer to the road and the cool breeze coming off the Platte River rinses the sting from the quads.  We stop in Deckers for some gatorade and run into two cyclo-tourists from Washington, Lauren and Tai.  Great folks, I invited the

m to stop for the night at our house; we’d be there in the middle of the afternoon, just 85 miles to go.  Right.

The sweet scene continued along the Platte.  The water was muddy from a landslide a few weeks before and when the north fork entered, the clear water ran next to the brown and we scooted along at a respectable 17mph as the tarmac gave way to packed dirt.  We must have been looking at the water, because we rode right past our turn to Sedalia.

We noticed this fifteen miles later, when our road teed into Foxton Road and Scoots said, “Hey, if we take that road we’ll be in Denver.”  So we turned around and passed the fly fishermen, the kayaks playing in the rapids and the astounding scenery.  One worry was the waterbottles were running low, putting off the peanut butter sandwich in my pocket. 

At our turn for Sedalia, we stopped for a snack and Scoots read a sign at the base.  He laughed and as we launched up the gravel road, just three miles from reunification with tarmac, I saw it too, “15% grades ahead”  Shit, it was plural.

I tried, I really did.  I tried so hard, I wrenched my back and landed on my balls when the rear wheel spun out and my testicles had no where to go but down to meet my top tube.  One climb, then another. I walked up one and felt relief when I could see the road leveling to a saner ten percent grade.  Then the air went out as we rounded the corner and saw the steepest climb yet. 

“Scott, I can’t do it.”  For me, this is rock bottom.  I’m never the guy that quits, but I am now.  I just can’t do it.  My water is low, my back throbs and my bike just won’t go up that climb.  I suck.

Scoots is good about it.  We turn and descend that hard-fought mile of gravel we had just endured and met our road again, the road that seemed to keep us close.  We headed the ten miles back to Deckers. 

Bonk.  The word is peculiar to cycling and for a rider it is the worst thing that can happen short of being smashed in the face by a semi-truck.  It’s sneaky, too.  Taking advantage of you when you’re being stupid, it makes you stupider.  You forget to eat, you forget to drink, you keep pushing until, suddenly you don’t feel right and the bike you’re riding just doesn’t seem to roll anymore.  I bonked on the way back to Deckers.  I met the man with the hammer and he visited a wallop on my skull.  As we rolled in, I said I would just call Janet and have her pick us up.  It was three, we’d been on the road for 5 and a half hours and I hadn’t eaten my sandwich yet.  It was gone in a flash, along with a large gatorade, a bar, a liter of Pepsi and something else that may or may have not had fur on it. 

By three fifteen I felt better and we decided to give the climb to Woodland Park a shot.  If we could get there, it was a twelve mile coast to home.  By three thirty I knew this wasn’t going to happen.  By three thirty three I was pulled over on the side of the road, dizzy and incapable of riding more than twelve miles an hour.  We’d gone 88 miles and I was done. 

The long and the short of the rest of the story is that we did indeed call Janet, but Scoots had to ride back and forth over a mountain to do so.  We then waited for a while before realizing that we’d made a mistake in the directions and she was driving in the wrong direction.  This necessitated another ride for both of us over the climb and we nearly made it to Woodland Park before the blessed Scion arrived to take us away. 

The rest is a wonderful dream involving Fat Tire Ale, bean burritos and lots of laughs. 

Moving in

The past weeks have been a whirlwind.  Closed last Friday, moved in Wednesday, received a sea of cardboard boxes filled with all of our earthly possessions on Thursday morning, unexpectedly early.  Toss in a four week summer course in general linguistics, a two week intensive methodology course for a visiting group from Mexico and final grades due TODAY, and one gets the sense that the world is spinning a few degrees faster.

My cycling life has taken a hit of sorts.  After initially maintaining my weekly time in the saddle, I got tired.  No other way to explain it.  Perhaps the altitude acclimation, perhaps the crazy work schedule and stress of moving…

So now we’re a few weeks along in our Colorado experience, half a week in our new Manitou home, and I’m not so tired today, even though our Sunday group did a good, hard climbing ride up to the zoo and through the Garden of the Gods. 

Maybe this is starting to feel like home.

Springs Sat Training Ride: Part Deux

A week into my Colorado life, making the ride in downtown Colorado Springs less fraught with anxiety and anticipation; I knew what was coming.  Knowing where I was going and where to park was also reassuring.  Less comforting was the tread on my rear tire.  Unloading the bike, I noticed the Gatorskin I glued the day before the Quad Cities criterium on Memorial Day was finally showing some threads.  Not bad service, I just hoped it would last the ride.

Cruising past the Starbucks on Tejon, no riders are there yet: 9:50am.  Looks like the 10am start is an approximation. 

The ride starts easy as it heads east.  We navigate the city streets, stopping for stop lights and moving in and out of the traffic.  A couple of small climbs before we turn south and hit race pace.  There are a number of new riders this week: a couple of professional women with aussie accents, a Kelly Benefits rider, a fellow from the Ride Clean squad and the usual squadron of Air Force team guys.

We hit the turn south.  There’s a stiff headwind and I’ve been telling myself just to hang in there.  The legs don’t feel that great and my head feels like it’s covered in gauze, perhaps the afterglow of the margueritas I had last night at Christi’s?  But I’m up in the first six and driving the pace, taking my turn.  The road has a slight downhill pitch and the wind takes care of any sweat. 

New today: a recumbent blasts by, probably about 32mph.  The big sprinter in green kit tries to keep the wheel, but there’s no draft and it’s like pulling on your own.  Our pace settles in at about 29mph and we pick up the recumbent on a slight incline.  I move over to the inside position, and soon the recumbent sweeps backward through the group, taking the riders sandwiched against the road’s edge with him.  Soon he’s back, coming past fast on the outside.  We learn to leave him to do his thing.

The first hill sprint comes and I stay in the front of the first group this time, pleased that my acclimation to the altitude is coming along.  A tiny girl from the AWB team with that funny accent is right there as well and the big green sprinter is pipped at the line by a smaller rider who comes by in his wake.

I call off the second sprint; it comes right after the nasty railroad crossing and I don’t want to hit the rocks too fast with my dicey rear tread.  Half the group takes off and I do an easy pace.  We’ll meet up when they do the turn-around.

Sunday is for riding

“meet at Vindicator and Centennial, just north of the Walgreens.”  so said the email from Ed King this week, organizer of a local ride near Ute Park and fellow poster on Roadbikereview.com.  A twelve mile ride down from our friends’ home across the interstate from the Air Force Academy, passing through suburban, urban and beautiful red rock country, led me to the Walgreen’s parking lot.

A bit early.  Forty five minutes early.  A ubiquitous Starbucks beckoned at the end of Allegheny Rd and a tall skinny late later, I was only twenty minutes early, but feeling much better about it.  A Toyota Land Cruiser rolls into the parking lot with a Merlin attached.  I go over to say ‘hi’ and meet Carl, who helps folks visualize their mountain cabin dreams by rendering said dreams on the computer, complete with virtual walk-through rooms.  I ask if there was a way to render the reality of forest fires in his mockups and he laughs, ‘Don’t think that would sell well with the vendors.’ 

Soon a group of eight riders has gathered.  Dominic and Elaine own a local restaurant that has been written up in Zagat’s guides; Eric owns a furniture store that having a going out of business sale, ‘couldn’t resist selling the building’; Amy is a DoD contracter and an avid cyclist with a good sense of humor.  Eric and I chat as we head south and asks how I’m adapting to the elevation.  ‘Fine except for the climbs.’  He asks if he can call me Thor and soon we’re heading out to do some climbs.

The sign for Seven Falls says that it is three miles away, but twenty minutes down, or actually up, the road, I know this is a lie.  There isn’t any Seven Falls; there’s just this road that keeps ascending.  Alternating thrusts of 12 percent then 7 percent, then 14 percent, prevent a rhythm from developing.  It’s just about staring at the road a few feet in front of the wheel.  I glance at the wattage numbers and we’re staying constant in the upper 300’s, sometimes jumping to 500 on a steep ramp, or sprinting up to 6 mph to get around a dead deer that is only half there (the other half in the belly of a mountain lion) but smells like a herd of dead deer.

It’s just Dominic and I suffering together.  Eric is up the road a few hundred feet and I try to cross up to him, but succeed in only burning that last match.  A cool rock beckons and I totter over to it to get my breath.  Twenty minutes later, Dominic is a few hundred feet away and I get back on the bike to catch him.  We’re near the top and Eric is coming back down.  Screw it, I turn the bike and pull up with him and we hurtle down the narrow road, between the red rocks, the creek and probably under the gaze of some very stuffed mountain lion.

Later I ask Carl if the Seven Falls climb was a regular feature of their rides.  ‘No,’ he says, ‘we’ve never ridden up there.’ 

Thanks a lot for that Eric!

A Saturday morning ride

I was as nervous coming to my first training ride in Colorado Springs as I’ll be meeting my first UCCS class on Monday.  Was I fit enough, would the altitude be too much for me, and, most critically, would I fit in?  In the end, I share the same anxieties about finding friends, fitting in with the group and being accepted as my ten year old. 

The old stoic, Epictetus, comes to my aid.  “Make the best use of what is in your power, and take the rest as it happens.” 

That, and a couple shots of espresso, and I’m good to go.

We meet at the Starbucks on Tejon, in downtown Colorado Springs.  I decide that the goal of the ride is to not get dropped, and if that is not a worry, to stay near the front.  A group of about 35 riders pedals off at 10:15 and I also make a note to find a good wheel.  Two guys I talk to before the ride starts are likely candidates.  Steve is a retired Air Force vet now doing Christian ministry and doesn’t have more than a few grams of fat on him.  Wiry with chiseled features and a good smile (I make a special note to avoid religion at all costs).  The other fellow is also new to ride but is the new Air Force team’s coach and is a Cat 1 rider from New Mexico.  His wheel does turn out to be the one to follow.

Now, hours later, other riders also come to mind.  A surly guy, built like myself, a nice woman, rail thin, a rider dressed in dark blue US Postal kit and a camelback strapped on (mental note to avoid).  We sort ourselves into a peloton and navigate the city streets of the Springs, heading east.  The pace is easy for the first 8 miles or so, until we turn south and suddenly I’m sprinting out of the turn to close a gap. 

The group strings out into a long paceline and I move up through the pack to take one of the front wheels.  I don’t know where we’re going, so I can’t be on the front, but I can be upfront and avoid the riders falling off the back.  We’re cruising along at a constant 29 mph with surges into the low 30’s, but I’m pleased that I’m breathing well and not under too much stress.  We’re in the flats and I feel like I’ve got power to spare yet.  The first spring comes about twenty miles in.  It’s up a hill and I get the first hint that I’m not 100 percent when I’m winded half way up.  I gapped the field, can’t hold it and fade right through to the back chasing on with the other slow guys.

We head south to another sprint and then back track north to Ft. Carson, cross it (bring your ID) and head north back towards the Springs.  The group splits and I opt to take the flatter route to town and finish with about 55 miles in.  Good miles and the body feels stressed.  One of the guys slaps me on the back and says I rode well today.  ‘How long have you been in Colorado?’

‘One day.’

‘Shit, you’re going to kick our asses in two months.’  Probably not, but I would like to do better in those sprints…

No longer an Iowan: Day 1

Kearney, Nebraska: Just past Grandpa’s Steakhouse, across I-80, W Road heads west along the Platte River.

To say it’s flat here is an understatement.  After a quick twist in the road, W continues to the horizon, a lean, smooth ribbon slicing through endless green fields of green corn stalks, a testament to American monoculture.  Most of the world’s religions seem to have grown from flat, featureless landscapes like this.  Will the next be some type of corn worshiper sect?  These random thoughts flit in and out of my head, with nothing outside of myself pushing in, everything is leaking out.

Yesterday was an emotional day.  Packing the house, moving a lifetime of things onto an auctioneer’s moving van, layers of our life together peeling away.  After loading a sink we never installed, the planer and table saw that helped rebuild our old farm house and sorting through the detritus of our honey business, it didn’t take much to let hot tears stream down.  What it took was seeing my ten year old son cry as I prepared to hit the road.  How did I help create this being who loves me so much?  He fought to hold back the emotion, struggling to be manly, to be brave, and it all occurred to me at once, a strange combination of leaving, loss and the promise of something new, yet unknown.  I cried till my eyes hurt.

The wind is from the south and, at 32 minutes I turn around on a non-descript point on the infinite line that is W Road.  I’ve climbed 42 feet in 9 miles.  Half of that must have been the overpass.  My legs are gummy; I can feel the blood pushing through the muscles stiff from sitting yesterday in a Japanese car seat, and it’s uncomfortable.  A couple of sprints (but where is the sprint point?) and the feeling goes away for awhile.

Tuesday, Janet and I rode as a couple on the Tuesday morning ride for the last time.  Amidst the green waste I ride through, it occurs to me that a good friend is someone I can disagree with openly without feeling a threat to our friendship.  I haven’t met many folks like that in my life; we tend to gravitate towards people we are unlikely to have disagreement.  I’ve made some real friends on my rides with the local club…

And the ride ends and it’s time to reload.  Four bikes on the roof, loads of boxes stuffed in the car and a crucial box of wine from France, stuff we’re saving…

A mind at 28mph

Sunday morning was our club's annual Eagle Point Criterium.  The forecast's call for thunderstorms earlier in the week had softened to showers beginning at 2pm, so things were looking up for my Masters race at 10:30. 

Driving into town, the fog was lifting and the air still felt warm from the day before.  My task before the racing started was to mark the cracks, holes and large oak trees on the course.  At 7:20 the gates were open and David and Bruce were already wrestling with the finish line banner. 

There are trees growing in the road at Eagle Point park.  No one has ever run into one yet during an event, but just to be sure, I wrap each oak with orange tape at eye level and string it off to the side of the road.  The other obstacles are familiar now, the grate with slots that could grab a wheel (hasn't happened), the curb that offers some air to a rider riding too far to the right or left, the garbage can holder (a steel pipe) sans garbage can, offering to skewer an unsuspecting rider.  On some there is residual orange paint from last year.  One can does the mile-long course and, as I finish, the whine of the leaf blowers dies away as well and the course is ready.

The Masters 40+ is a small group, just twelve riders.  This is deceptive as the other eleven riders are top riders, some category one or two, some with many miles spent in southern climes training this winter.  At other races, the field is often packed with 'fodder', guys just starting out, guys curious about what a Masters race is like.  There is no fat in this field, and this is typical for most Iowa races; just the lean field of good riders.

So, our group is like the eschappe that escapes from the larger field at Super Week.  We start hard, pushing a bit towards the first corner.  No one really wants to be on the front, but no one wants to be relegated to the rear either and we're all thinking the same question: who is the Guy?  Soon, the accelerations happen and we quickly learn who the favorites are.  Each time, Tracey with his bright green bar tape accelerates off the front and then looks around to see what he did.  Chris E. covers and I follow, dragging the whole group because I'm not accelerating fast enough to get a gap.  This happens over and over for the first five laps.

Time slows down under effort.  I realize that if my life was spent doing this, I could live forever.  But it's only been five laps, eleven more to go.  The acceleration comes again and I decide that I will not drag the group along again, someone else should. 

But no one does and that is the winning move.  Six of us are left to argue over fifth place.

Quick Pic

Getting for first club ride of the season and got this picture in the mail from the folks that take photos for the Birkie. 

Snow really isn't so bad.

Blown Clean

Coming home from work, it was time to pay for the northwest tailwind of the morning.  With interest, as the wind was pushing 17mph with gusts up to 25, still from the northwest.

The sun was shining, though, and the legs felt fresh, finding a rhythm.  I watched my shadow dancing on the side of the road as I stood on a climb on Prier Rd. 

Halfway to Petersburg, my mind blown clean of the day’s anxiety, the stress streaming out in cold rivulets on my back, image snippets float in memory.  The Harley rider putting chapstick on in front of the Detour Tap in Petersburg.  He smiles and signals to the passenger seat on his ‘bike’.  I smile and point down the road.

Into the wind.

An Amish afternoon

The day is warmer than expected and for the first time this season I actually feel fast on my bicycle.  Perhaps it’s the shedding of the layers of clothes (I am the Michelin Man sans tires); perhaps all of the training I’m doing is having an effect; or, maybe, warm air is less dense than the frigid 33 degrees and rain I’ve been dealing during this purgatory of a month.  March is purgatory.  I’ve survived the cold brutality of life in an Iowa winter, only to be forced to pay for my sins with cold and rain during an Iowa spring.

Today is a respite.  The sun is up, the wind is under twenty miles an hour, and there are tinges of green in the silver and brown landscape.

My plan is simple; do a hilly loop to Littleport and come back through Garber and Colesburg.  Hills and a bit of distance.  From my house, Highway 3 dips into a canyon for a couple of miles.  This is an old road, built over a creek.  On each side the road does little to scrub the climb’s pitch.  Climbing out is a great warmup, but the descent with cold legs just makes everything a bit colder.  I’m sure I creak and grown like an old floorboard as my speed drops into the low thirties and I pick up the pedalling again on the flat past the park and stand as the pitch arrives.  Walls of limestone on the right, the curving brown of Elk Creek on the left and in a mile the rollers heading west to Edgewood.

Wind is out of the southwest, a bit stiff at 14 or so, but the sun makes up for it.  After Edgewood, it’s a left on Littleport Rd., named after the town cleverly built between the bluffs on the Turkey River.  In 1998 the town was under 23 feet of water.  A friend and I canoed it a few days after the crest.  One clear memory of a dead cow in a tree high above the river. 

The road climbs coyly in a series of false flats, making it’s way to the ridges before the river.  The wind is out of the southwest and I feel a slight push on the slower uphills.  Fields of corn stubble stretch out and roll to the horizons all around me and in some moments I feel my pinpoint of perspective losing itself in the landscape.  A long downhill to the river and town, with a step in between where pedalling is needed again.  I remember the joints on either side of the bridge, the jolting sense memory of my first ride here seven or eight years ago (did I really live here for five years without riding this road?).  And then the river is past, the stinking wrecks of houses underwater ten years ago but still lingering, past, the old church moved high up the bluff, past (but much more slowly; I’m in my lowest gear, standing now) and in too short a time I’m at the turn to Garber.

There isn’t much to recommend the road to Garber here, outside of the slight tailwind.  It’s flat and new, cheaply built homes litter the sides of the road.  Vinyl over plywood, yards filled with recreational toys made of cheap vinyl and plastic.  One place takes the cake.  Behind a modern two story home that would look swell in a suburb of Milwaukee, sits a man in a canoe in a farm pond.  Docked to his left, about 20 feet away, is a pontoon boat.  Ah, the dream.

Elkport also sits in a valley squashed between the bluffs of the Turkey.  It’s twin, Garber, lies to the east a bit and the river runs down the middle.  A road closed sign tells me that I might soon have to add a couple of serious climbs to my ride plan.  Sure enough, the bridge over the Turkey, my path to Colesburg, is completely gone.  In it’s place a pile of wood and concrete and two imposing cranes.  Something is sure going to happen here, but not today, and I turn towards a beautiful hilly climb through Amish country.

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Happy St Patrick's Day

Gaelic Gallop to Petersburg, Saturday, March 14th, 2009

Wild rivers, giant strawberries and other wonders of northern Iowa

Thirty five miles an hour on a downhill descent, past the quarry before Osterdock, the cold knocks against my ears like bags of marbles.  I almost look forward to climbing past the Turkey river and warming up again.  Sun glints off lingering ice and chunks of the concrete Osterdock bridge are missing.

Fatigue, stress, the worries of several weeks of life's turmoil since the Birkie, I seek to lose these in the rhythm of climbing.  North to Garber road, west to Elkader, south to Strawberry Point and east home.  Six thousand five hundred and forty five feet of climbing (so says my Garmin) and four hours of measured pain and freedom inducing endorphins.  The wind is out of the south, southwest and I stick my nose into it above the climb.  No speed records today, just a lot of time in zones 2 and 3, well below my lactate threshold.  Ploughman's Barn appears on my left, closed for the season, the collection of classic pioneer and early century buildings  sit together in a kind of historical ghetto.  Then the descent into Garber.

'Where Rivers Run Wild!'  declares the sign for Garber.  I can almost see the water stains on the sign from the last flood in '98 that nearly washed the town away.  Should they brag they have problems with flooding?  Another long climb and I notice the wisdom of the century old house perched above the new construction in the flood plain below.

The wind picks up on the ridge and my speed slows.  No matter, what's important are the watts, power, I'm producing

.  With a tailwind I'd be sailing along at 25 right now, instead I'm satisfied with 13.  Right turn for Elkader and a beautiful descent into the wind.  The land stretches out in waving series of hills and valleys.  The Volga meets the Turkey here and, like the interlocking waves of several stones dropped into the pond, the hills from the Mississippi intersect with the rippling ridges of the other two rivers. 

Full headwind going southwest towards Strawberry Point on Highway 13.  Twelve miles.  The speed drops to 12, but a curious thing happens; I'm passed by a

Caterpillar backhoe, a moving wall of steel 12 feet high.  Perfect, I slot in behind and cozy up in the warmth

of the engine.  The wall maintains a nice 17.5 up the climbs and screams along at 27 on the downhills.  Heaven until six miles later and he turns off.  Is he upset with me for following, interested or indifferent?  One more climb into the wind that reminds me of the small col north of Perpignan, radio tower and all.

Strawberry Point is a collection of antique homes, a drugstore that still has a real, working soda fountain and the world's largest strawberry.

The road flattens and I head east through Edgewood, tailwind in hand, maintaining a nice 22.  Home is reached with 66 miles on the odometer and I'm feeling the body hum.

Our Birkie Week

Tuesday: Bags are packed with ski clothes, skis, boots, poles are located and loaded, the skis only after another look at weather.com and pondering of the weather forecast. 9 degrees and cloudy at 9am Saturday. Both cars are packed and I wonder if we'll need a trailer next year.

Wednesday: After my last class with the French students, I glance again at the weather (0 degrees and cloudy) and head to Portage to pick up mom, our designated helper and kid-sitter during our races.

Wednesday night I enjoy a late dinner of fries and a grilled chicken sandwich with mom at the Opera House Restaurant in New Lisbon. It's starting to snow as we head north on I94, not heavy, but I'm starting to think the trails are going to be a bit slow tomorrow.

It's 11:30 and pitch black at our rental cabin outside of Minong. Janet and the kids were supposed to be here already; our last phone call had her about 40 miles north when we were clearing Eau Claire. There's just time enough to worriedly try her cell phone, no answer, when the headllights illuminate the trees and the red Scion rolls up. 'Hi Dad!' Relief. We made it up in one piece for another year.

Thursday: The Barnebirkie is at 12:30! Unfortunately the wind has picked up and the wind chills are down in the negative range. At the church in Hayward, we learn that the 5k race has been shortened to three blocks. Groans from the kids. Karl and Johann go skiing off onto the lake, oblivious to the wind. Again the automatic reflex of fatherly pride as Johann laughs off our admonition to turn around and come back and Karl is already gliding off.

As each year passes it becomes more clear that the boys are becoming more independent. Normally, turning them loose on a ski trail would be very safe, no real chance to lose them. Throw in 1300 other kids, though, and the three adults were scrambling to figure out how to keep track.

Mom and I are sent to the finish line ahead of the first wave containing Karl and Johann. We run, dodge parents with cameras and make our way up Main St.

The kids are led by the Hayward ski team carrying flags from the nations in the Worldloppet circuit. And then the mad rush of youngsters. Karl has managed to line up near the front and finishes in the same spot three weeks later. 'Is that it?' Well, yes, but we'll go over to Fish Hatchery to ski for an hour. Johann comes up a few minutes later, skiing classic technique, a huge smile and taking in the milieu of the finishing area. Each gets a medal hung on his neck and we shepherd them over to the Backwoods coffee shop for hot chocolate and espresso.

I check the weather forecast: 0 deg and partly cloudy. Do I commit to the cold wax yet?

Thursday night is Karl's birthday.  Not exactly, but for seven of the last eight years we've celebrated with friends and family the birth of our youngest on the night of the Barnebirkie.  Normally our birthdays are about the cake and grandma didn't disappoint with a classic chocolate cake.  This year also had a big surprise: a new racing bike to replace the 24" Giant TCR Junior we purchased in France two years ago.  It is amazing how fast these guys grow.  We'll be stopping by Free Flight to size up a red Trek 2.1 WSD (still trying to figure out another acronym that will be 10yr old boy friendly).

Friday: Tomorrow's the big day and the butterflies are starting to appear. First, though, is the Junior Birkie, which will be a new experience for Karl. It's limited to 10 to 13 year olds and promises to be a real spring at just 3.5k. We leave early, just the two of us, and find the registration tent behind the Telemark Lodge.

Karl is having second thoughts, not sure that this will be too fun. I don't want to force him to race, but I encourage him to go through the motions and share some of my anxieties before races I've been in. He's surprised. Dad has anxieties?

We find ourselves sitting in the hallway next to a family of skiers getting ready for the Junior race. Dad is the wax tech and we share a laugh; I only had two kids and wife to wax for and he had seven. He noticed Karl was upset and came over to make him feel better. Later, 'Ok, dad, I'm going to race.'

The course winds on a 1.7k loop into the woods on a rolling course before returning and making a sharp climb to the finish line. Karl sets up in the holding pen and creeps into the second row for the start. The start and a mad rush and they're in the woods; my son off on his own with a hundred other boys.

Anxious parents wait on the other side of the loop, snapping pictures as the leaders from Spooner shoot over the crest. Five seconds. Fifteen seconds. Thirty seconds and then the rest of the group start coming through. After thirty or so come through, most not as good as Karl, he pops over, sees me and declares he's quitting. Something's happened in that mysterious part of the course outside of my parental sight.

'You have to quit at the finish area.' I hope he'll recover and reconsider, but I find him behind the start area, staring at the snow. Flashback to my childhood failures, the fear of condemnation by my father who had such high hopes for my basketball career, unspoken but present. I put my arm around him and say nothing.

Later I learn that he was forced into the woods on a turn by another skier and this through him way off. 'Next year, I need to start at the front.' Again that chronic fatherly pride.

Later in the lodge, after I pick up the bib packet, and departure for the cabin is approaching, one last stop at the Fast Wax booth for the latest recommendation. 15 deg and cloudy. 'We're still saying to wax cold, the snow is dry and the clouds will keep the moisture down. White over Teal. No Flouro.'

Early morning spin-ups

The alarm gently pushes into a technicolor dream; the waxing moon is still high in the sky at 5am and the room is fairly bright, bright enough to find the watch and kill the sound.  Janet is exhausted and immune to both the moonlight and the watch alarm's chirping and to the various old-guy sounds that my body makes as I swing the carcass out of the bed.  There's time for a latte and I justify the need for some calories before a workout on the rollers.

I'm stiff and sore.  Pain is usually delayed two days after an activity.  Sunday's marathon was followed by difficulty with stairs on Tuesday and Wednesday's basketball game against the students (we won!  Check out the video) has resulted in an generally achy sensation everywhere.  I have faith that the latte will fix that.  If it doesn't, my strategy is to put my training clothes on.  I agree with my self that if I put my clothes on and get the bike ready and still don't feel like working out, then I don't have to.

Of course, I'm lying to myself, but that's OK; it's early and I'm not quick enough to catch on to the deception.

I cue up a video distraction on the computer, noting that the Tour of California will be shown on Cycling.tv.  My bottle is full, the workout selected.  Today will be a set of spin-ups to work on leg speed.  Not overly taxing on my old, recovering body, but important to keep developing the sprint.  After a fifteen minute warmup with some accelerations, I hit it hard in an easy gear for 30seconds.  Cadence hits 140, stays there, starts to drift down to 135 and then comes back up and the 30 seconds is over.  Four and a half minutes to spin easy, same gear.  I'm pleased.  The legs feel better than I thought, I successfully tricked myself into riding early again and I thought my form wasn't too bad in that effort.  Now, just seven more times.

Winter Spring

Today a small window opened and fifty five degrees of warmth blew in (at 20-25mph from the southwest).  The snow, so carefully layered on the ground over the past three months, flowed into storm drains, pooled in low spots on the road and generally disappeared in a whoosh of springtime euphoria.

Still a bit sore from my morning ski two days ago, I jumped through the opening into spring as well, tweaking my rear derailleur cable tension (just installed some new, semi-sealed cables last week) at 6am, digging through the drawers for my springtime gear and spare tire, and loading the bicycle into the car.  With skis on top of me, and my bike in back, I was set for whatever silent sport the weather forecast offered.

After a winter of cold slate skies, there was something both glorious and sad about the warm tailwind pushing me along Old Highway 20 east towards Dubuque.  About 48 hours earlier I was skiing in 9 degrees of crystaline magic, thinking about cold toes and wondering if I waxed too cold for the day.  Now I was descending the line of Sundown Hill, thinking of past experience of potholes on fast corners, listening for traffic and feeling like this was just too easy.

The snow was completely gone now.  The wind had dried most of the roads and, at the bridge just west of Graf, the ice was a jumbled mess of slabs hung up on the rocks.  Bittersweet thoughts: it would likely be another nine months before I would ski again in Iowa.  That's the beauty of winter sports, be it skiing or snowshoeing or skating; we learn to look forward to the cold, the snow; the approaching cold front from the Rockies and the moisture pushing up from the Gulf aren't threats but promises, chances to touch the feeling of flying through the forest without effort or sound.

I climb the hill past the bridge.  It pitches at first, forcing me into the lowest gear for a bit.  A glance at the computer tells me I'm putting out a good effort, around 350watts.  'Duh' my quads say.  I can feel a tiny bit of ache in the legs yet, but it's sandwiched between strong feelings of euphoria.  I'm back outside on the bike, I'm riding up the climb.  Life is pretty darned good.

Mornings in the sun

The first ten kilometers glided by in a pleasant blend of sunlight, a blue for colorful skin suits, heavy breathing and smiles. The skis were fast, so fast the expected resistance of ski-on-snow was not there and more forward lean was needed to avoid falling backwards. Fastwax recommended two layers of highly flourinated salmon over a layer of blue with a topcoat of pure flouo, and I had a set wasxed that way, but today it was 10 degrees andthere wasnno new snow, so the other skis with the finer base structure were the choice and they were flying.

We looped north on the 58k trail, splitting from teh 35k skiers (about half of the field), riding the light tailwind and feeling the sun on our backs. I wasn't looking for a personal best today; this was a day to build more base miles in the legs to prepare for the Birkie in two weeks. 'Ski with joy.' was my mantra. I smiled as I thought my Karl and Johann racing the day before in the 7k Miniloppet.

They were both successful. Johann, coming off of a Strep infection, still on antibiotics and skiing with swollen legs that would have sidelined most people, deciding to forgothe 4k course in favor of the longer 7k course and crossing the finish line in downtown Mora with a huge smile on his face. Karl, lining up in the front at the start and getting into a five person pack, reduced to three at the trail split and then getting fourth for the 7k race. Character, confidence, and the joy of skiing beaming in their faces.

I needed that memory at the halfway point as the trail softened and the my legs started feeling weariness from the relentlessly flat trail. Smile, ski with joy and have a highly caffeinated Gu shot. Much better. How many left? Mth gets difficult, dividing 30k by 4 Gu packs... 2 kilometers later the answer pops through the gauze.

The trail snakes through the private land of hundreds of land owners on a trail that, for the most part, is only groomed for skiing once a year. Each crossing is manned by groups of local volunteers shoveling snow onto the road, holding back traffic and ringing the cowbells that create the unique background noise of ski events.

For some reason, the ten kilometer marks are significant for some reason. 50k comes very quickly, a quick note to take it easy; 40k, will the whole race go this fast? A comment from a skier behind from Thunder Bay "We're doing a sub 3hr pace!" 30k, I get passed by a JV skier on a climb and my legs are getting into trouble. 20k, another hill? I thought this was a flat race. 10k and now the push for the line, my body is not my own, the legs aren't listening to me and I eat my last Gu, circle behind the Mora ski center and head towards the bell ringing at the edge of town, up the incline onto the soft snow of Main St. around the corner...

'And there's number 477, Chris Sauer from Colesburg, another Iowa finisher!'

A beautiful day

Woke up to a black sky leaking pink at its eastern edges.  Janet wisely set the alarm for 6am and a quick snuggle later, the La Pavoni is steaming two cups of milk in the kitchen.  Karl comes down after laying in bed for a few minutes; he's on the top bunk now and is confident enough at nine years of age to head down stairs without repeatedly asking Johann if he's awake until Johann is actually awake.  Johann is probably going through a growth spurt right now and sleeps hard onto 7am, late for our family.

A skinny latte and a bowl of grapenuts, two sandwiches made and lunch bags loaded, and I'm filling waterbottles for my morning ride.  Riding to school actually crossed my mind when I learned the high today would be near freezing, but our road is still a mixture of ice and snow melded with the gravel and Janet is meeting with teachers in Galena and I'm picking up the kids after school, so my time to spin is now.  Such is our daily dance.

Ten minutes into the warmup, Johann and Karl come in to say good-bye, they don't want to hug the sweating guy on the bike, but smile and wave and I'll see them again in a few hours.  Today's workout is alternating spin-ups and sprints, each 30s with five minutes spin in between.  The first set of six, I spin in level 1 (>165 watts, 135bpm) and the second set has me 'recover' with a bit higher pace (175-195watts, 136-145bpm).  I'm always a bit leery of this workout, the fifth or sixth all out sprint can leave me feeling a bit woozy. 

Today went well.  Instead of having the third stage of the Tour Down Under on (internet connection to cycling.tv was down), I watched Marco Pantani put the wood to Jan Ulrich in the Alpes during the 1998 Tour de France.  My focus alternates between the beautiful countryside, the village storefronts, the riders' faces under stress, and my stress as the computer ticks down to my next interval.  Time slows: Was the last interval a spin-up or sprint?  Sprint.  Whew, still six more minutes till the next max effort.  What cadence did I maintain last time?  140.  Still 30 seconds to go... grab a drink and glace at the screen, "Jan Ulrich's face is a mask of pain." Glance down, 12 seconds.  Keep the gear the same and glance at the average watts for the rest interval, 158, still within the Active Recovery zone.  Three, two, one and the watts shoot up to 330 and the cadence hits 130, 135 and finally sticks at 145. 

30 seconds takes at least 10 minutes and a beep and I'm spinning easily again.  Alpe d'Huez is behind me and Marco is comfortably in the Tour lead an American (not THAT American) Bobby Julich in second.  Jan has slipped to third; I wonder what's going to happen next?

Climbing hills while standing still

I've been doing the rolling/hilly workout from Dirk Friel's menu of trainer workouts once a week or so since mid November.  At first the low cadence of 65rpm really taxed the hip flexors, leaving me stiff and hardly able to walk (yes, you can do that to yourself on rollers).  A month and a half later, the workout leaves me with a sensation of having pleasantly taxed my muscles.  Amazing what this training stuff can do for fitness...

The big change today was the addition of my new power meter to the workout.  I figured my FTP (functional threshold power) last week, but Dirk Friel's numbers for his workout book use a slightly different number based on the normalized power for the threshold test.  That number he calls the CP30, or the power one can handle for thirty minutes.  For the rolling/hilly workout (E1 in the text), he sets the power goal for the first set of intervals at CP180, or 12.5% of the CP30 number.  For me that would be 260 watts for the first set of 2 min intervals and then 270 watts for the second set of 3min low cadence efforts.  As a newbie to powertraining, it's fascinating to see how the wattage numbers correspond to the heart rate numbers I've been using for the past nine years. 

There is a correspondence but the HR drift during long workouts on the rollers is readily apparent as well.  The exact same wattage efforts would result in slightly increasing HR numbers over each set of six intervals.  Strictly following the heart rate limits for the workout would have resulted in a less productive workout, with lower quality efforts as the workout progressed.

This must all seem like a lot of gibberish to some folks.  I remember someone saying once, back when I first started training for racing bikes.  "You have to be really fit to suck" at bike racing.  To do well, requires something extra.  For some, the extra is a physical gift, really high VO2Max (the ability to take in oxygen), extremely high power to weight ratios, freakish builds.  But for others, we have to accomplish our potential through harder and better work and that's where the power meter and HR monitor come in.  A friend of mine, an accomplished rider and someone I consider a mentor, told me that there wasn't a need for these training toys; I just needed to get more miles in.  I agree; I need to get more miles in, but with a family, job and life outside of cycling, those miles have to be the best miles possible and these are tools to help make them so.

They're also a motivator to get my carcass on the bike and workout on a cold, dark morning in the middle of winter...

A weekend at the Mines

There's nothing that swells this father's chest with pride like seeing his sons out skiing. 

Karl and Johann (and their parents, too) are getting ready for their ski races in Mora, Minnesota and Hayward, Wisconsin.

The Mora Vasaloppet is the first weekend in February.  At 58k for the big people, the freestyle race is a grueling effort.  The distance isn't the biggest challenge; it's the lack of hills, maybe three in total as the course crosses small river valley.  Three hours of field skating will cause cramps in anyone!  By the time we reach the sharp hill at the foot of Main St. in Mora, the body can be locked up pretty good. 

Besides the unrelenting terrain, another unique feature of the race is the blueberry soup.  What is it?  I don't really know.  It comes in packages from Sweden and it's served hot at the aid stations along the trail.  Serving it up is the most amazing feature of the race: the host of volunteers from Mora.  The entire town gets out for the race, though very few actually ski it.  Our family is hosted by the Bangmas each year and Jeff is out there in the morning at 6am, getting to his post at the race start to serve blueberry soup. 

The racers line up, over a thousand, self-organized by our expected finish time.  I usually choose 3:30 as a realistic goal.  And we wait for the start signal; a stick of dynamite that follows the national anthem.  Last year no one took their hat off during the anthem.  I think the -7 degree temps froze it to my scalp...

 

Saturday at the Mines was our friend's first day on cross country skis!

A test or two...

 

Today is the first day this week I've woken up and the temperature was significantly above zero.  Yesterday?  -33.  And that isn't the wimpy euro thermometer (I'm thinking of all of those guys at RoadCyclingUK crying when the temps hit -7 C), no, this is -33 Fahrenheit.  It's so cold outside that if I cried about it, it could become a life-threatening situation. 

Since our return from vacation up north, our pattern has been to ski on the weekends and bike on the rollers during the week.  This keeps the cycling fitness at a basic level and works with our teaching and family life as well.  Even the little guys get on the rollers , albeit with the fork stand and a tempting video on the computer (listen closely and you can hear the Dutch narrator of 'Stars and Water Carriers)...

The new year also sees the addition of a new tool to my training quiver, a Power Tap Pro+ wireless hub to measure power.  Exciting stuff.  Basically cost me my track bike that I built last year and rode a few times on the rollers during last winter.  The hub takes up a lot less space and might actually help me train smarter. 

So last week, nursing a head cold and grasping my spoke wrench in one hand, a Velocity tubular rim in another and a bundle of super short 280mm DT Competition spokes in yet another, I built my new wheel, glued on a tire and prepared for my inaugural ride into the land of power training.  Hmm, kind of felt the same, except there was a new number on my computer monitor.  Just a shake down ride to get used to the numbers, and shake out the pesky cold in my chest. 

Tuesday came and I attempted a threshold test, cold and all.  Threshold testing is important, whether training with a heart rate monitor or power meter; it gives you zones around which to plan your workouts.  Most cyclists go way to hard during their recovery rides and not hard enough in their training efforts to force their body to make training adaptations.  A few minutes into the test, I coughed up what appeared to be a sea cucumber and Janet looked up in alarm.  Test aborted.

After two more rides and some sprints to get a baseline for my power in 15 second, 1 minute and 5 minute sprints, it's Friday!  I take the bike off of the fork stand and turn on the computer, select 'threshold test' and away we go.  A twenty minute spin in an easy warm-up zone (less than 165 watts), a few spin-ups to 100 rpm for a minute each and I'm ready to go.

The test starts with a 5 min maximum effort.  This doesn't mean an all-out sprint.  Do that and you'll find you have jelly in your legs after a minute or so (amazing how time slows down during a sprint).  Five minutes feels good and I increase the power right up to the end.  Ten minutes of much easier endurance zone spinning and this is where the power meter is interesting.  My heart rate is at 165 bpm, just nudging into my anaerobic zone, and even though I know I'm spinning easily, my heart takes a few minutes to come down.  The average power for this lap, though, is instantly right there and I adjust my effort to keep it in the lower zone.

Ten minutes passes so quickly, especially when anticipating a twenty minute maximum effort.  Again, the key is start gradually, ramping up to what I think is an effort I can maintain.  It's hard not to look at the numbers blinking back at me on the monitor, but I try to focus on the Vuelta Ciclista al País Vasco.  I've got stage five on the computer screen and there's a break of four, including eventual winner Alberto Contador, making a hard effort to the finish.  Perfect!  Half way through, less than ten minutes left and I need to gear down one cog.  I can feel the effort in my muscles, my ankles, I move around on the saddle, focus on the sprint for the line on the computer and notice only 28 seconds have passed since I last looked at the numbers.  I begin breaking down the effort into two minute parts.  I notice my average power for the interval has dropped a tad, from 320 w at the beginning to 305 sixteen minutes later.  Shifting into a higher gear, I nudge the number up to 309 and sprint for the line.

Two weeks of snowy dreams

The Family Sauer just returned from time away from Iowa.  First a journey to Milwaukee for Christmas and skiing and then north to Munising, Marquette, Kenton and Eagle River, seeing old friends, making new ones and searching for our ski legs, missing since last season.  Now it's a day after a last ski in in Eagle River and we have all of these pictures (and achy body parts)...

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.