Tag Archives: Cycling

On Trying Hard

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“Hey man, I have to give you props”. Slowly I lift my head from my towel still out of breath to find a young man, let’s say in his early thirties, with his hand extended. Instinct has me reach out and shake his hand with a breathless, “thank you”. I try to control my breathing in a sad attempt to regain my composure. I don’t know if he can see on my face that I am perplexed by the compliment but he follows with, ”every time I see you in the gym you are always working very hard; you leave it all out there, in the gym. I am truly inspired”.  

I don’t know what to make of it. Unknowingly, this kid has sent me on a little head trip on purpose and past. I don’t understand why I am putting so much effort into my gym workouts except that I want dividends delivered on the bike. Why am I so hung up on performance in the first place? It is not the first time someone has recognized my efforts in the absence of results.

In high school I ran cross-country and could run sub-six minute miles for three miles.  Not bad but it was not quite enough to beat the opposing teams fifth man with the regularity required to letter. I never missed a practice and I put everything I had into my workouts. The members of my high school cross-country team presented me with a plaque giving me the distinction of “Most Determined Runner” in my sophomore year.  Touched as I was, it was really a consolation prize for not meeting the criteria for a letter. I did in fact receive a letter as well.

Athletic talent was not my gift. I ran, skied, studied karate, played tennis and raced bikes. Good but not great, I enjoyed them all and continue to this day to work hard at being a better cyclist.

 “Thanks again”, I reply as I continue my march up the stairs to the locker room while the sweat is streaming down my face and off my chin.

Chasing Wheels

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Two flights and six taxi rides sends me to NYC and returns me home safely. Business trips mess with my training and mess with my head. I don’t feel like sleeping. I can’t wake up. When I am awake it feels like I am asleep. I want to ride but the legs have something less stressful in mind. It makes me wonder how pro cyclists deal with the long transfers between stages of a grand tour. As the length and quantity of transfers seem to be a topic of debate when new grand tour routes are announced or even while a tour is under way, I am guessing the peloton has the same opinion.

Then there is this self imposed pressure to catch-up on training in an attempt to regain lost fitness. After returning from Germany I managed to complete two rides and an hour in the gym. That’s two rides in twelve days!

 “Where do you get the energy?”my wife questions while standing naked before me. “I have to ride”, I respond with conviction. Now I can tell you that leaving a beautiful, naked woman at home in bed on a Saturday morning is just about the most difficult thing a man can do… at least this man anyway. You do this on enough Saturday mornings and you start to seriously question your priorities.

I ride out to Miami City Hall only to discover that the 18-22mph group is not riding this week. Without a moment to spare, I head south towards Casa Larios knowing I had little chance of getting there before the guys roll on. As expected, the parking lot was free of the telling, anxious riders rolling around in semi-circular and squiggly patterns like scout bees returning to their hive. So I roll on.

Now just about every Miami group ride that heads south towards Black Point, Bayfront or Homestead follows the same route which begins by meandering through the residential district of Pinecrest. The only way I was going catch a fast moving group ride is to cut the distance by making a beeline towards Cutler Bay. Questioning my sanity I am riddled with self doubt as I calculate the effort required to hold the wheels of a group cranked up above 30 mph. I am surprised when I find myself keeping a 20-22mph pace as I solo towards the rotary connecting Galloway with Old Cutler Road. I am impressed with my legs as they are working well at tempo without the all too familiar sting of lactic acid buildup. Is my fitness improving? Are my legs just rested? Where’s the travel affect? Could it be the royal jelly in my water bottle? Is it just motivation?

While searching for answers my attention is now directed towards a group moving through the rotary at speed towards Black Point. Is it Larios? Can I do it? Can I bridge a half mile gap? Instinctually I pick up the pace to 22-23mph, hit the rotary, slow down for a truck towing a boat and accelerate again to 23-24mph.  I quickly mark the group at about one third of mile away. I have made decent ground, but if this is Larios they are going to accelerate to 28mph soon and then they will be gone. I top out at 24.5 mph and hold it. After a few minutes I slide off to 23mph. Out of the saddle I push it back to 24.5mph and hold. “Just one more” and with another acceleration, I reach the back of the peloton where I stay while I regain my composure. They are rolling at 22mph. This can’t be Larios?

I accelerate up into an open gap in the pace line and confirm with my new partner that this group is indeed not the Larios group. We are keeping a gentleman’s pace of 22-23mph and so I decide to hang on and see where they lead. We travel through the palm tree nurseries between Black Point and Bayfront maintaining a double pace line at a steady tempo. I am second wheel when we turn left after the bridge and over the channel towards Bayfront. The front guys peel off and my partner asks, ”where do you want to put it”. “Twenty two-twenty-three”, I reply. We bring it up to 22mph into a headwind and hold.

There is a little bridge just before the entrance of Bayfront Park that marks the sprint  line. I am not sure why, but in Miami we don’t sprint for county lines, we sprint for bridges.

We pull on the front for a mile leaving a mile to go before the bridge. Soft pedaling I roll back and find a gap in the pace line after five riders. The guys at the front spy a small group of riders and so like bees to a hummingbird we accelerate forward until we are all mixed up and on the attack. The new guys try to maintain their dominance on the front but we engulf them anyway. That’s when things heat up and we are in full flight towards the bridge.

As is always the case, my time at the front too close to the sprint caused me to fall off too soon but not before hitting 29mph. A nice long break at Bayfront preceded the ride home that stayed at a steady tempo. Later a brief break at Starbucks resulted in a rare Miami Rapha kit sighting. After talking with the young chap for moment I joined his group for ten of the twenty miles home to close out a seventy five mile ride.

Tuesday morning finds me in a taxi on the way to the airport.

Even when I am not on the bike I am still chasing wheels.

Hand Made

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I spent the last week in Germany on business motoring from village to village desperately seeking hand-made products in decent quantity.  Like the wine regions of France, German villages and regions are well known for their distinct manufacturing skill set. Whether it is the watches and clocks from the Black Forest, cutlery and steel implements from Solingen or cosmetic brushes from Nuremburg; Germans have been passing unique manufacturing skills down to new generations for generations.

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Mass consumer desire for affordable throw away goods, the global economy and changes in the career paths of today’s youth has created a vacuum of knowledge and skill required to manufacture high quality hand-made products.  

Translation: A skilled labor force is in short supply.

The grey haired guys are increasing the void even further as they are unwilling to teach their now rare skills to anyone in an effort to sustain their own self-importance into retirement.

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Sunday morning I am stateside and find myself pondering the affects of a mechanized, mass produced world on the quality of life as the sun rises over Biscayne Bay and South Beach.

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A simple bike ride can be a study in global economics.

I prepare for riding my custom steel frame fabricated by the hands of Peter Mooney in Belmont, MA by inspecting the drive train made by Shimano in Japan. Next I pump up the tires from Continental in Germany mounted on custom wheels built by the hands of Jude Kirstein of Epic Sugar Wheelworks in Portland, OR.  The wheels are assembled from rims made by HED in Shoreview, MN with hubs made by Phil Wood in San Jose, CA and CycleOps in Madison, WI. I apply chamois cream made by Mad Alchemy now in Broomfield, CO and then pull on my Italian made Rapha Bibs. It appears the balance of my kit still comes from China.

Yes there is a theme here beyond listing all the states in the U.S. and all the countries of the industrialized world. I am partial to products made in the western world and particularly keen on developing a relationship, however small, with the person who makes it. When you spend eight to ten grand on a bike and almost the same on your kit and gear you want a little more from the experience than simply handing over your AmEx to a store clerk.

 I know I do.

So I roll out by 11am to knock off the forty mile ride out to Starbucks and back. As expected, the week away from my bike has left my legs a bit lethargic.  A simple reminder to “enjoy the bike” kept me from worrying about the numbers although a couple of wayward challengers still managed to keep the ride interesting.

Twenty miles in I enjoyed a latte while checking this out.

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Center-pull brakes and friction shifters

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This gentleman informed me he received this gift 49 years ago on his 17th birthday.

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I hope I will be riding the Mooney in 46 years.

Saturday in the Rain

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This Friday I had a little extra time and energy so I laid out my Kit, gear and nutrition in preparation for the morning’s ride.

Good thing too.

Saturday I launch myself out of bed after letting an hour expire post alarm in snoozeville. I’m doing the rundown in my head to calculate the elapsed time required to make it to Miami City Hall in time for the group ride start. The math says maybe…

so I say YES…

and its Kit Up, Pump up, and Go!

The Legs are feeling fresh so my mood is positive and my thoughts wander to the Black Point sprint. How will I position myself, who will I mark; I can’t burn myself up bridging the gap to the lead sprinter this week. As I am cruising through the bowels of Overtown I notice my….

My bibs…

Are…

Inside Out!

Ok… now I am in crisis mode.

It is not like no one will notice.  In a group ride cyclists are nuzzled up, one behind the other close enough to see the crack of your arse if you happen to be wearing white cycling shorts. My brain is busy snapping pictures of every conceivable location where I might find sufficient privacy for a full strip down. That’s right, when you wear bibs you can’t just drop your trousers and pull them back on. No, that would be too easy. The shoes must come off, the Jersey must be removed and then, and only then can you remove your bibs. Now it’s no secret that cyclists don’t and should not wear underwear so as it prevents chafing, so my mind has now flash forwarded to a public strip tease and a potential arrest on charges of public nudity.

I did find a private locale and so escaped public embarrassment. More time is lost, the clock is ticking.

I arrived in time to hear the last of the group leader’s riding instructions communicated at the beginning of every ride. The Everglades Bicycle Club has been doing a great job providing organized leader lead rides at various levels while providing some basic training to ensure everyone’s safety. We roll out and ride south.

And the rains came.

The first few drops quickly turned into a steady heavy tempo of sorts.  We rode in organized fashion for about a mile until we stopped at the intersection of Ponce De Leon and SW 88th. “Does everyone feel safe to continue?” the lead rider shouts. I have come to realize that Miami riders don’t like rain, at the mere mention of it they scatter like cats for the safety of shelter. These guys were no different and everyone was opting in for opting out.

“I came to ride”, I replied. Making the right turn on 88th I looked over my shoulder and confirmed I was on my own. I smiled as the memories of riding in New England in the eighties came streaming in while swimming through the water pouring from the sky. If you didn’t ride in the rain, or the snow for that matter, you severely limited your riding potential. Additionally, I used my bike to commute to work and so the choice was already made; “Necessity being the mother of invention” and all. I remember many rain soaked rides on my way to and from work in some pretty horrendous conditions in a time when performance apparel consisted of wool tights with suspenders, a wool ski sweater and a windbreaker. Polypropylene was the base layer material du jour and Gore-Tex was in limited use at a price that placed it way out of reach. “Wear what you have”, Peter Mooney would say.

Yeah, I have had some pretty cold wet rides in my day.

The best advice I can give you is to take a hot shower as soon as you unclick and dismount.  Drink plenty of warm liquids when you can because if you wait for the chill, you are toast.

So after 30 minutes of swimming in this soup of a rainstorm I am rewarded for my stubbornness when the sky opens up and the sun begins to shine through. I am thoroughly pleased with myself and continue the tempo pace heading towards Black Point. Rounding the corner and riding towards Bayside I look up and see a huge, looming, grey mass, a virtual wall of rain in the distance. After a moment of self doubt and thoughts of self preservation I think to myself….What would Jens Voigt do? And so I forge ahead toward the darkness as a small group of three riders pop out like they are exiting some sort of space portal. The lead rider salutes me as if to say, soldier on. Another hour or so of this madness had me returning from the abyss and ready for a latte.

Starbucks is the café of choice for cyclist in Old Cutler Bay and frankly there are no other options. The floor sports a wet trail from cyclists who have come before me. I comment on the rain to a lady cyclist in queue who replies, “at least my bike is washed”. I retrieve my latte and venture outside to enjoy the brew with a Honey Stinger waffle. These things are delicious and will fill the void when gels are no longer of interest.

I listen with curiosity as three cyclists discuss the drudgery of cleaning their bikes. The conversation was initiated when one gentleman confessed that he has never cleaned his chain. The others offered up what sounded like they were forced into slave labor to perform arduous tasks of disgust.

Seriously, I cannot believe what I am hearing.

First, Google “Clean a bike chain” and there are 20 YouTube videos ready to explain the process in detail.

Second, these men of a mature age are complaining about the effort required and mess created by simply cleaning their machines? I force myself not to comment as I know it will come off as arrogance and so remain in polite silence.

We are talking just 10-30 minutes once or twice a week. It is worth the trouble and made easier when you use the right tools and when it is performed regularly. In manufacturing it is called Preventative Maintenance. Even more important, you become closer to your machine, you know its condition, and you gain an understanding of how it operates.

So when you ride into the abyss, it will be ok because you know that you are not alone.

Friday Night Ritual

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Another Saturday rolls up on me fast. Labor Day Monday’s tempo ride was awesome and I was happy to see that my power numbers are on the rise. The balance of the work week finds me in the gym on a Wednesday night which was a prelude to a difficult and failed attempt to complete 2 X 15 minutes of Threshold intervals on Thursday. It’s a little hard to take but I am learning to let these things go.

My Friday night ritual starts with a rather intense hour at the gym. “Basic Pushing and Pulling” is what my trainer calls it.

Yes, I said trainer.

No, I am not headed for the Nationals nor do I have any delusions of grandeur.

If it were not for Thomas I would not make it to the gym consistently if at all and I certainly would not work beyond 30 minutes at the intensity we work at for a full hour. He is the best trainer I have ever contracted, knowledgeable, serious and devoted to me for the entire time I spend with him. Thomas is a quiet gentleman that leads by example rather than bark orders from the sidelines and knows when to push me hard or when to modify an exercise to meet my current fitness level. His depth of knowledge and experience affords him the capability to train a client to meet the client’s needs rather than stick you in a “one size fits all” training plan. He does however emphasize all our work outs around muscular balance thereby reducing the potential for injury and maximizing my potential for power. The excercises he encorporates are sometimes complex which makes them difficult yet all the more compelling. He the architect and I the brick layer have together built a structure that I can rely upon during my training on the bike.

Besides……despite statements to the contrary…… girls like guns

and an Andy Schleck wannabe I am not.

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The ritual continues with basic bicycle maintenance. It is important that everything is working properly during a Saturday morning group ride as nothing ruins a good ride faster than a crash caused by a mechanical or being dropped for the same. The majority of maintenance one must endure is cleaning the bike and drive train. Throw in an occasional adjustment to a derailleur or brake cable and you have it covered.

I live in a high-rise condo so access to an outdoor faucet or garage to clean and maintain my machine is non-existent leaving me to maintain my bike in the living room overlooking Biscayne Bay and South Beach. To facilitate this work I set up and secure my bike on a Park PRS-20 Repair Stand , wipe her down with a Velo-shine wipe, clean the chain with a Park Cyclone Chain Scrubber  and Finish Line Degreaser, and wipe the chain with a standard bar towel. I give the degreaser a chance to dry before applying Chain-L chain lube. This whole process takes maybe 10 minutes when I am focused but distractions like the finishing sprint at the Vuelta or the death of another terrorist type on Strike Back tend to prolong the activity. So I give myself a 30 minute block of time at least once a week or every 100 miles for basic bike maintenance. You should too.

This Friday I had a little extra time and energy so I laid out my kit, gear and nutrition in preparation for the morning’s ride.

Good thing too.

Sunday Spin

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There are things you miss when you are focused on a goal, like a slow Sunday morning. This Sunday, I eased into the day and let it spin away freely. A little coffee, a bit of grocery shopping, a dash of the Vuelta and a couple of chores left me with two hours to get in a ride.  Saturday’s three hour group ride was hard enough and left the legs a bit heavy so I decided to forgo the Big Gear training until Monday.

After a quick hour ride on South Beach I found myself waiting for the bridge on the Venetian. The cars started lining up like cows to the slaughter. While waiting, I exchange some light conversation with a young couple riding up on their rental beach cruisers. The bridge descends and we roll over it while maintaining the conversation. Eventually the conversation leads to directions to Star Island. “Ahhh…that would mean you would need to ride on the MacArthur”, I mumbled.

The MacArther Causeway is a racetrack filled with lunatic motorists. I never ride my bike on this deathtrap of roadway and I begin to imagine two tourists pedaling along the causeway and envision the potential for horrific outcomes. “Hey….you wannah see something really cool? I shout loud enough for the gentleman to hear. “There is some great graffiti in the Wynwood district, it is worth the trip”. They agreed to take the detour and so we went.

Soon we were entering Overtown. Now I ride through Overtown 3-4 times a week and have become accustomed to its very urbane character. Abandoned buildings with broken windows, chain link fences surrounding unused littered lots and poorly maintained welfare housing are the visual cues that cause some folks concern. I recognize that this may be somewhat uncomfortable for my new riding companions and so comment, “This area gets a bit sketchy but no one will bother you, we will be fine…Honestly”.

We continue to meander through the streets and back alleys north of 20th street as the finger pointing begins and the shouts of excitement get more frequent while Wynwood slowly reveals its secrets.

This one goes 3-D as the paint goes down the wall and towards you on the side walk.

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Cartoons are always fun.

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Yes

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I keep trying to figure this one out, let me know if you can.

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Few things inspire a man more than a naked woman and a hot car.

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This one is particulary disturbing.

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Shiva?

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This one is my Favorite, it’s huge, detailed and says everything.

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Simon and Pilar introduce themselves and thank me for the experience. I lead them back to the Venetian and we said our goodbyes. It was obvious to me that they both enjoyed themselves on our little detour and truthfully so did I. If I was taking the day’s ride seriously I would have never spent the time with these folks and it would not have been as pleasant.

Saturday Morning Group Ride

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Five Thirty comes early on a Saturday morning. I take 20 minutes to sip the morning brew in the darkness while I stare at the wall covered in ink drawings, photographs and lithographs. I remain in a dream like state as I reminisce about how or where I found each piece. Surprised at how much I can remember…the day, the smells, the light, who I was with, and what I was feeling, I am thankful that they are there hanging on the wall in front of me. I look to the blank space on the wall and wonder what is next. This is how I start each morning suspended in the past, absent from the present and anxious for the future.

So starts the pre-ride routine that prepares me for a 3 hour tour of the Miami flatlands. Another 30 minutes has me filling bottles, laying out my clothes, nutrition, and gear. I procrastinate a few moments, as I always do, just prior to slathering on the chamois cream and sunscreen.

Then it’s, Kit UP, Pump Up and GO!

I haven’t made a Saturday morning group ride in over 10 months. Carless roads, cool summer breeze and a beautiful Miami sunrise greet me as I make my way through the city towards the meet point at Miami City Hall. I miss these quiet moments on the bike. The city has its own morning rituals. The young stumble out of the clubs, the long shore men line up for selection and the homeless begin to wake from their temporary beds. It is still too early for shops and bakeries to open but some coffee can be found if you know where to look.

This is a new group for me, an aspiring group of 20 riders in the 18-22 speed range. A collection of men and women of different sizes and shapes leave as scheduled. We rode out to Black Point with a sprint that topped out at about 25mph. The ride leader launched from the group with no chase. I looked around….anybody…anybody? Nobody chases. So I jump, bridging the gap and maintaining at 25 for a few hundred yards until we settle down at about 23mph for the remaining distance. This is a far cry from last year’s 34MPH top end and 23-26MPH cruising speed. Its ok, it is not all gone, I can work with it.

Todd Gogulski commenting on the Vuelta quotes Jonathan Vaughters.”The mind of the professional cyclist is a fragile thing”. He adds his own philosophies on the importance of a positive mental attitude and how it relates to Chris Horner’s chances of reclaiming the red jersey.

On the return trip, I begin to lose patience with the gaps in the double pace line and the accordion affect it creates. I pull out and up to the front alongside the group leader and stay there for the remainder of the ride. The group leader, a Hungarian supply chain professional, is a chatty guy so we hold a conversation while keeping a 20-21 mph tempo. We quickly find common ground and enjoy a work related discussion that makes light the effort on the bike. I’m reminded on how cycling is really a community of strangers and how cyclists in general are an amicable group.

I return home to a hot bath and some much deserved rest.

I sleep  dream the rest of the day away.

I Never Ride at Night without Lights

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A couple of weeks ago I was returning home from a ride on The Key. It was already dark and the rain diminished visibility even further.  Miami rain can be intense. We will see 3-4 inches in an hour, 8-9 inches in a day when other cities may not see 2-4 inches in a month. When I lived in New England, rain was a daylong – weeklong affair of grey skies and drizzle. A place where storm talk delivered 2- 4 inches in a day. This is Miami, when it rains, visibility is reduced to 10 or 20 yards. Even the erratic, unpredictable, and irrational Miami motorists seem to take caution when water pours from the sky.

Less than a half a mile from home I ride past a single speed hipster without lights. Well folks… sadly it is in my nature to pass judgment on people when they demonstrate a total lack of basic common sense. Not very gentleman like I know, but honestly, would you drive your car at night, in the rain without lights? I have learned to keep these thoughts and impressions unexpressed in the name of civility and self preservation.

He rolls up on me at the next traffic light and exclaims, “I better follow YOU the rest of my ride!”

I don’t respond.

I just hung my head and looked down as the water runs off my helmet, along my visor and down to the tarmac looking more like water from a faucet. I knew what he meant though, I run a Serfas Thunderbolt on my seat post and a TSL-250 on my bars. At times like these I fire up the Raider I have attached to my helmet. Pedestrians and motorists complain, jest, and rant but I can be seen. I am visible. I am alive. Anyway, I love the Raider. It is light, bright and easily attaches to my helmet.  It is my plan B for when the Thunderbolt wanes and augments it when I need it most.

I am in decision making mode. He must think me rude as I have not made any verbal recognition of his presence. “Be the change”, I think as I reach up with my left hand, detach the Raider from the helmet and hand it to him with my right. He gives me a puzzling glance but quickly snatches it from my hand and fumbles a bit while attaching it to his seat post. “How…?” he begins.  I interrupt, “Just turn it 180 degrees… It’s rechargeable with USB “.  “Thanks”, the traffic light turns green and off he went. I roll to the left turning slowly so as to observe his departure. It is a damn bright light. Within only 50 yards you could not see him any longer. The Raider is the only thing that betrayed his very existence. “THANKS”, can be heard from the distance.

I smile.

At 200 yards I can still see the Raider.

Have I mentioned that I love that light?

Last night I rolled out while the sky was still that unmistakable Miami blue. Four miles out I reached down to fire up the Thunderbolt. I left it at home on the charger. With no plan B, I picture myself riding The Key without a rear light through the road construction on Bear Cut Bridge or the darkness created by the mangroves on the way to the Tennis Center.

I turned home to pick up the Thunderbolt. I never ride at night without lights.

Blocked

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“Just go out for an easy one”

These are the words I tell myself whenever I lack the kind of motivation that has me strip down, pump up, kit up and go. An easy spin has me over the Rickenbacker in less than 25 minutes. It is now time for my 4X 8 minutes of big gear training. I call them interval training wheels.

My 1st attempt at an interval quickly turned my legs into two swollen balloons. Insert Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb”, here. This feeling is unique. It is not the kind of pain induced by a long hard effort. Like when you are pulling at the front straight into a headwind and even when you try to peel off… no one comes up; you suck it up and you push through. In fact, there is no pain at all. No pain and no power either. You just can’t make a go of it. It’s like driving an old jalopy in need of a motor rebuild. You press on the gas… and nothing.

I know this feeling. I have had it before……”Your legs are blocked” says Simon back in 2011.

What kind of new age, acupuncture, or yoga voodoo are you trying to sell me?

“You need to do some 6/24’s”, he adds.

Next day I go out and do 2 X 5 min of 6 second sprints with 24 second recovery. The following day, Voila, I’m doing 2×20 minute threshold intervals like a Belgium on Pave.

So tonight, it’s 2x5min 6/24s and we will see what tomorrow brings.