2013 Festive 500 Begins

Posted on by
Reply

The Festive 500 is one of those annual events you do just to see where you are and what kind of season you have ahead of you. I have been participating in this challenge since its inception in 2010. The challenge itself is simple in concept, ride 500km in eight days between Dec 23rd and Dec 31st. Complete the challenge and you receive a patch bearing its name.

 festive-500-2013-v1

If you take a pragmatic approach, the challenge appears in a word…doable. Forty miles a day is an effort most recreational cyclists can afford. However, need I remind you, we are talking December and most of the country and a fair bit of the cycling world is held hostage by sub freezing temperatures blanketed by snow. Climbing a 5% incline is tough in June….try it with icicles hanging from your beard.

Even in Miami, Mother Nature seems to conspire with Aeolus and kicks up a headwind so strong it wears down even the the most stubborn among us. Throw in familiar obligations, friendly gatherings and plenty of opportunities to overindulge and the Festive 500 begins to seem all but impossible.

Even so, each year thousands of cyclists of all shapes, sizes and age attempt to complete the arduous task. Many not only complete the challenge but blow it away, others put on display their creative genius with dramatic stories and artful photos, then still others do it in such hardman style it serves as inspiration to all but the least initiated of human existence. If you want to read some stories of challenges past hit the Rapha blog site for some tales of suffering, defeat and achievement.

This year I have chosen to relax for 5 days in Jamaica sans velo. This leaves me with only 3 days to complete the challenge.

Yeah, your math is correct……107 per day.

There is some shoulder time around flight days that might allow me to catch up miles I may miss in the first three.

 All I want for Christmas is the legs to see me through the 2013 Festive 500.

 And a patch to prove it…..

 And a T-shirt too.

 

The Homestead Speedway Century

Posted on by
Reply

One thing I like about riding annual events is that it marks the calendar for a personal fitness gauge. With 600 participants, The Homestead Speedway Century is just that sort of gauge. Everyone who attends prepares to bring their best legs including clubs who train together in a mission to display their unified force.

I arrive with plenty of time and begin my pre-ride ritual. You can feel the energy in the air surrounding the parking lot filled with anxious riders pumping tires and kitting up in the dark. Just before lining up I catch up with Willy Suarez. Willy and I forged a bond in the crucible of pain back in 2009/10 when I was just returning to cycling. He and I would sometimes (read often) get dropped on the return trip from Bay Front Marina during our regular Saturday morning group ride. One would catch up with the other and with an exchange of friendly if somewhat humble smiles we would drag each other against prevailing headwinds back to Miami City Hall. Things changed in 2010, both of us were mixing it up a bit and began riding at the front of some pretty spirited groups.

Every year the Speedway commences with a lap around the NASCAR track and heads out to the Homestead farmland. This year was different with an out and back to Key Largo for the first 60 miles. As you can imagine, weeding your way through 600 riders to find the right place with riders keeping the right pace can be a challenge. I look down to see that my speed had climbed to 29 mph with hits to 32 mph within the first two miles and I am keenly aware I am out of my league for my current fitness level.

So I dial it back to a 23-24mph. There is an absence of riders at this pace leaving me caught out alone as I watched my speed slipping to 22-23mph. The strain in my legs lets me know that I am in need of a group to provide some respite if I think I am going to keep up the pace. After a few more miles I can hear the leader of Team Sindicato, Jorge Gonzalez, dispensing orders and keeping things tight. I pull out left and slow down to let the blue and white kitted riders slide on by knowing I can count on them to provide a steady pace. It was then I realize that they were pulling just about everyone left in the ride and so finding a hole in the pace line was more than a little difficult. I was likely thirty riders back when I finally found some space amongst the minions. A quick look around confirmed there was another thirty more wheelsuckers in tow.

Riding mid-pack of a large group has its own set of challenges not the least of which is the potential for crashes. I open a gap in front of me to let a stray rider into the lee. It wasn’t long before I realized my mistake; he was a coaster. Yeah, the kind of rider that races up to the wheel in front of him then coasts and opens a gap of two bike lengths and then does so repeatedly for the entire ride.

Cooooaast, pedal, pedal, pedal – Cooooast, pedal, pedal , pedal, Coooast….

Nothing saps the energy out of a pace line like a coaster. The accordion effect he creates cascades all the way back to the last riders who will be likely become exhausted from the repeated efforts to hold on and then subsequently dropped . So I wait until he begins his coast, pull out, and jump in front to him in the gap he creates. I am sure he thinks me rude, but I just can’t take it anymore.

Card Sound Road Bridge is just a quarter of a mile at 4.5% but still steep enough to shake me loose from the group. No worries, the dropped riders regroup and forge ahead keeping a steady effort to finish out the 30 miles to the first rest stop. Things are a bit crowded at the tents so as the masses forage for bananas, PBJ sandwiches and granola bars, I tuck into a little tasty morsel of rice, eggs and bacon I have been carrying in my jersey pocket. These delicious rice cakes contain 270 calories the majority of which are supplied by carbohydrates from calrose rice and further flavored with liquid amino acids and parmesan cheese. I whisper a thank you for my wife, Renate who lovingly prepares these nutritious tidbits without request for big riding weekends.

Riders are gathering to leave and so I top off my bidons, find a wheel and hold on for the return trip. Head and crosswinds keep the effort high. This group dwindles from about 20 riders down to 6 as the wind and miles take their toll. Returning to the Speedway, I am surprised to find so many riders hanging out post ride in jovial spirits enjoying each other’s company as announcements are made and raffle swag is distributed.  I reflect on my previous Speedway full century rides and remember clearly much smaller gatherings of fatigue fogged riders with that far away look in their eyes. It seems the party subsides in the time it takes to do the additional 40 miles of a full century.

I grab some food, a Pepsi and find an open seat soon to be joined by another riding buddy Alex Labora. Alex is a bit of a social butterfly and enjoys chewing the fat with just about, well… everyone. In fact, I don’t think there is a group ride in Miami that Alex has not ridden. I have never witnessed Alex in a foul mood apart from the occasional confrontations with errant motorists. We enjoy each other’s company until I find my energy waning and bid Alex adieu.

This year’s Speedway I have been measured and found wanting. It does appear, however, that I still have some friends out on the road and discover I am all the richer for it.

Beet Crazy

Posted on by
Reply

In the summer of 1980 my friend Arnold Desena, famously responsible for finding tunes far left from center, introduced to me Joe Jackson’s third album Beat Crazy.  We listened and learned all the lyrics singing them loud and often with total disregard for those oblivious to the albums existence.

In 2011 I picked up a copy of The Feed Zone by Allen Lim. Hidden in the pages was a reference to beet juice hinting to its benefits as a pre-ride drink for boosting performance and a post ride recovery elixir. So I added it to my pre-ride rituals on those big days.

I liked the way it made me feel.

 IMG_5698

The credit it seems goes to the nitrates in the beets.  The nitrates are converted into nitrites through digestion and further reduced to nitric oxide. Nitric oxide is a powerful vasodilator which means it helps widen your arteries. A wider artery means more blood gets to where it needs to go. Logic would dictate that more blood means more oxygen where you need it which is my take on it. Anyone riding in the front of a peloton at 30+ mph already in a state of oxygen debt and preparing for that final sprint knows what more oxygen could mean.

IMG_5672

So the claims are huge:

                            Increased time to exhaustion

                            Increased VO2

                            Reduced oxygen consumption for a given level of exercise

IMG_5684

Much of the blog and article claims I have read seem to be inferred from one study and dosages range from 60ml per week to 500ml 2.5 hrs before exercise. The going rule of thumb seems to be more is better but if you have ever tried to drink the stuff you have experienced some “cleansing” that may not be best served 40 miles into a metric century.

IMG_5682

Besides the benefit to athletic performance this blood red elixir claims to reduce blood pressure, inorganic calcium deposits, and inflammation. The list goes on but as I am neither a medical doctor nor medical researcher I will refrain from detailing further claims and urge you to do your own research and come to your own conclusions. As a cyclist, I am always looking for a nutritional advantage and this just might be it.

Besides, this stuff just makes me feel good and so I will continue to go a little…

                                                 BEAT CRAZY

Mt Dora – Day Three

Posted on by
Reply

Sunday morning finds me drinking beet juice in the dark.  Yesterday’s metric has left me with fuel in the tank and ready to take on the 40 miles out to Sugar Loaf Mountain and back. Today is less about enjoying the ride and more about getting it done, packing up and driving 4 hours south home to Miami.

Still the weather is perfect for a ride and we travel at a pretty steady 20-22MPH for 15 miles out to where the climbing begins.  We hit a mile long hill leading to Sugar Loaf with a 2.7% grade. I struggle to hold onto wheels and loose some ground in the group whilst other riders slide on back. One of which is the huff and puff dude from yesterday’s ride shouting in recognition, “I remember you” as he is dropped without remorse. A short descent provides some respite just before the base of Sugarloaf. The 9% incline slows me down to a crawl while I watch manorexic sons of amateur racers float effortlessly past.  Some quick math reminds me this will all be over in just ten minutes as I make new pledges of dietary discipline.

A well placed and crowded rest stop atop of the climb has everyone filling bottles, eating bananas and lining up at the port-a-johns. The mood is relaxed and quite social, so I take my time and partake in some idle conversation. It is not long before a small group prepares to roll, quickly I lineup and leave with them avoiding the crowd that will soon follow. We head out to take on the final climb of the day affectionately known as “The Wall”.

Once again it begins; chains begin dropping on a 2% climb preceding The Wall. On a 2% climb! The pace line splays open like buckshot forcing me to dodge the chain droppers and other riders scattered across the tarmac in an effort to remain upright and unscathed. Another descent brings me to the base of The Wall where I prepare for the 8% climb with a steady pace in the saddle; no attack, just spinning through. My pace is slow but I feel no pain. As I approach the top I have a rider passing with intent. slowly I stand up and raise the pace just enough to leave him behind. No hero here, just a little selfish pride.

I return to Mt Dora in the comfort of a small group. Stories of chain droppers can be heard as volunteers serve up some soda and brats cooked to perfection. Now the race to beat check out time begins with a quick shower and ends with the key in the mailbox. I say goodbye to The English Rose Cottage I called home for the last three days, turned the key, dialed in the tunes and pointed the Explorer south.

“Have tunes, Will travel”, I whisper with a nostalgic grin.

Mt Dora – Day Two

Posted on by
Reply

Another beautiful morning greets hundreds of riders at the start of today’s ride. Century and Metric riders take off, up and over a short climb that keeps the initial pace in check.  A familiar figure slides on past me while riding his red Bianchi. I step up my pace and ride alongside Xavier Falconi, the President of the Everglades Bicycle Club, and engage in some light conversation. Xavier is a mild mannered, intelligent man who has brought to the EBC his organizational experience from the Pacific Northwest. We meander through the mass of riders as we attempt to position ourselves with a group that suits our pace. We settle into the third group with the first group still in sight, in the distance, yet out of reach. I hold my position as I struggle with the instinct to jump and bridge the gaps as I had done every year before. “Not this year kid, not today” are the words I tell myself to make it sound alright, to soothe the beast that is raging inside my head.

We run the rollers and head over to Thrill Hill. This baby is a short (0.1 mile) but extremely steep climb. You must prepare by shifting into the small chain ring and your smallest COG while you are coasting at speed down the preceding hill. The incline sharpens so fast that you go from 40 to 4mph in a matter of seconds. You must also prepare for the mayhem as riders to the left, right and center, are dropping to the ground like ducks along the Mississippi flyway come autumn. The scene is a little humorous and more than just a little bit pathetic. As the group approaches Thrill Hill experienced riders can be heard, “change to your small chain ring while coasting down” throughout the pace line.  And still, you watch in disbelief as you see riders try to muscle up the 18% grade of Thrill Hill. Their bike slows to a crawl and while maximum tension is being exerted on the drive train they will then and only then attempt a gear change. The chain springs off the 52T like McKayla Maroney vaulting for Olympic silver. Slapping against the seat tube the chain comes to rest on the bottom bracket as the full weight of the cyclist is directed straight down towards the tarmac. If the cyclist was sitting he will get one or two rotations of the crank set sans resistance before he tips over in comic relief; and if the cyclist was out of the saddle? Well let’s just say he will gain experience through suffering.

There is still a couple of hill climbs left. Four of us form a groupetto and keep a steady pace of 20mph as we rotate every few minutes. As I slide back after a turn on the front one rider says to me, “you huff and puff but you keep on going”. I am sure he thought he was complimenting me. I am sure he meant no harm.  He is right though, I am breathing heavy on some pretty mild climbs. I am struggling with an extra 30 lbs and an asthmatic condition diagnosed during an early morning trip to the emergency room 6 months ago. Even so, I took it as a challenge.

You see, my philosophy has always been, “Speak with your legs”. So on the next climb the beast takes control and I huff and puff my way away from that group never to be seen again.

Not a word spoken…

everything said.

Mt Dora – Day One

Posted on by
Reply

Taking off on a road trip and especially one that leads to a three day cycling weekend fills me with anticipation. I left work early to do some last minute packing and head north on a four hour drive to Mt. Dora. There is some mysterious and inexplicable force that pulls at me, holding me back, slowing me down, and keeping me from escaping the comfort of home. There is always one more thing to pack, to do, and check before I bounce.

Once on the road the sense of freedom engulfs me as I enter the freeway and gain cruising speed. Old school music streams down from the heavens and through the speakers adding to the road trippin’ vibe reminding me of old times with the Rudy’s. “Have tunes, will travel” was announced before every trip and just prior to inserting the latest cassette tape.

The morning’s ritual includes donning brand new Rapha Classic kit purchased and received just in time. The folks are keeping a gentleman’s pace as we ride through some residential areas and around East Crooked Lake beneath tree cover dripping with moss. It is a beautiful, cool morning. Heading north we crossed a highway and turned west towards Lake Eustis this time with the sun warming our backs. The lake is glowing a turquoise blue usually reserved for the Caribbean ocean and what little ripples exist are gleaming with a bright yellow and Chartreuse green stained by the sun.

As we roll up and over the first set of hills we ride tempo along a huge rolling pasture lined with horse fence. The sun continues its magic across the open field. “A perfect day for riding” is being muttered throughout the peloton. The tempo quickens and so silences the group. A series of rolling hills increases the effort even more creating gaps in the pace line. I lose the lead group reminding me I am not the man rider I was just 12 short months ago.

After rolling into town and receiving a post shower massage I am greeted by Sal and family, David and Marilyn. Sal invites me to join them for lunch and we sit on the shade covered patio of Cecile’s French Corner and casually pass the time away with conversation and crepes. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Friday afternoon.

The First Ride

Posted on by
4

“You fell down a lot”

This was my father’s response delivered in his typical matter of fact style when I asked him about the day he taught me to ride a bike. Eight years old is the official bicycle bearing birthday in our family. The second of four boys, I looked forward to this birthday for two years with much anticipation. I don’t remember if there was a party, not the cake either…

I remember this:

 Schwinn Racer 1970

A shiny green single speed Schwinn Racer.

I loved this bike and it drove my younger brother crazy. I want to remember that I shared this treasure of mine but as an adult I am keenly aware of my reluctance to share the things I covet. He would have to wait another whole year before he would enjoy this new freedom, this feeling of flight, this joy. This bike was mine.

The Racer was a bit oversized to allow for room to grow and bolted to the rear axle were training wheels. I remember that riding a bike with training wheels was an extremely awkward experience. The teeter-totter motion as you attempted a straight line and the tendency of the bike to lean away in the corners to the tipping point, never felt secure. Regardless of their namesake, training wheels do not help you learn how to ride a bike. You are forced to steer with the handlebars by turning them in the direction you want to go. Anyone familiar with the term counter steer knows the fallacy of this logic. These infernal contraptions had to go.

Da-ad, “when are you going to teach me how to ride” became my mantra.

A sunny, summer, Saturday morning started with such great expectations. My father steadied the Racer while I struggled to balance. My toes barely touched the pedals. He pushed, ran along side, released..  I fell. My father, being a patient man, spent the better part of the morning pushing me and watching me fall, coaxing me back on only to see it play out in similar fashion over and over again. My courage and will were being tested like nothing I had done before. Each time I mounted the bicycle I knew a crash was eminent.

My patience exhausted, I went head first into a childlike rage. My father, however unamused, remained steadfast.

“Let me try”, my younger brother asked as he picks up the bike and rides off like he has been riding for his entire life. My father mentions it may be time to give my bike to my brother as he was clearly willing and capable. Sibling rivalry, whether nature or nurtured, is a powerful motivator.

My father steadies the bike as I mount it bravely. My heart was full of fear; my head full of fight. One push and I pedaled into the oblivion of a consequence of my own making.

Our subdivision’s roadway was separated in the middle by a grass strip and lined with small maple trees. There is a break every 200 yards to allow vehicles access to the returning lane on the other side. Within thirty feet of my start was a turn around and the next break was down the road, out of sight. I changed my strategy and passed the first turn, then focused on going straight, giving me another 200 yards to build the courage necessary to attempt a turn. When I reached the end I realized I need only turn to the left 90 degrees heading towards a cul-du-sac. Of course, I began the turn by using the handle bars. Elegant it was not, but I succeeded in holding it together. Phew! After barely recovering from that turn, I pedaled my way towards the cul-du-sac with a huge radius. I turned with the handle bars again and again it was shaky. Ever so slowly I allowed my body to lean into the turn and as I did, the wobble, the shakiness was replaced by a smooth, comfortable turn.

Hall-e-lu-iah!

Taking a wide angle, I leaned nicely into the right 90 degree turn to bring me home and  pedaled like like Cavendish towards a line. I returned home confident with my new found skill and thrilled in knowing true joy. Sadly, I don’t recall my father’s reaction as I was consumed by my own feelings.

“You fell a lot”.

“Yeah… I sure did”, I replied as the expression skipped along my lifelong mistakes like a flat stone on the surface of a lake.

“Thanks Dad”

“Sure Son”

Century Season

Posted on by
Reply

Autumn is Century Season in South Florida. It begins with The Tour of Sebring and ends with the Highlands Bike Fest. Unfortunately, I am in base building mode and just not ready to take on 100 miles at speed. So this year it will be Metric Century Season and begins this weekend with Mt Dora Bicycle Festival.

I have participated in this festival for the last three years. This year marks it’s 39th annual and is one of the best run, most attended bicycle festivals I have attended. For three days, hordes of cyclist of all shapes, sizes and speeds descend upon this quaint little town nestled in Lake County, Fl. Lake County contains some of the only hills in Florida of any significant grade so the festival has appeal to those looking to climb a little.

Friday’s ride is a nice warm-up for Saturday’s century.  Some energetic riders itching for a fight are reeled in by the ride leader who reminds them of the weight of the following day’s labor.

Saturday’s century starts in the dark in cool temperatures and is an all out road race for anyone trying to stay in the lead group or groups. It includes a short steep hill affectionately referred to as “The Wall” which serves to filter out the pure flatlanders from the experienced hill riders. A true Grimpeur  will scoff at the small climbs but in Florida you have to take what you can get. Cyclists who choose to ride the full century are rewarded with 15-20 miles of head and cross winds that will cause some to question their resolve.

Sunday’s ride will just take whatever energy or will you have left and consume it dry. Give it away willingly.

There are two or three alternative routes on Saturday and Sunday for those riders interested less in speed and distances and more interested in the pure love of riding, in a bucolic setting, free of automobiles, and full of joy.

Century season continues with the following festivals/rides:

October 20th                                     Speedway Century

November 10th                                  Miami Gran Fondo

December 6th & 7th                            Escape to Key West

December 6th -8th                              Highlands Bike Fest

Then there are those rock’ em – sock’em SAG supported century rides that Keith Harrod organizes from November through December. These rides will find you in a large group barreling down the highway at 22-26 mph while working in organized echelons against some serious cross-winds. If you are feeling Belgium, order the fries with mayonnaise and find Keith on Facebook.

So, if you are suffering with cabin fever in colder climes and praying for warmer days and short sleeve jerseys, sign up for one or all of these rides and change your latitude.

On Trying Hard

Posted on by
Reply

“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

Posted on by
Reply

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.