Speed at the Sea Otter Fondo

I was reading this story that one of my colleagues in the cycling media wrote about this year's Sea Otter Gran Fondo, and then I remembered that I have this long-suffering blog, and that I once used it to earn myself my least favorite nickname. Might as well re-up:

For those who don't know, a fondo is mullet on two wheels: All about the business of going fast at the front; letting the good times roll at the rear. It's a challenge for everyone, but the degree to which it's a challenge may vary: In this year's event, the last-place finisher was more than five hours slower than the winner. I can't say that the last-place finisher was still having fun after more than 10 hours in the saddle, but most of the people in the middle probably were.

For my part, the entire fondo came down to about three miles toward the bottom of Arroyo Seco Road. Back in 2011, when the fondo was easy, I rode a comfortable tempo and still clinched the fastest time. This year, I found myself on that climb in a group of 10 riders, including at least two active pros and one former pro who's still really fucking fast, a few of my esteemed colleagues in the cycling media, and some members of the cycling industry who are, apparently, much faster than me.

It was on this shallowly sloping grade that winds between bucolic farms, rattles over cattle guards, and whooshes under shady trees that Freddy Rodriguez hit the front and pegged us at some speed that was fast enough to make me bend my elbows and mash my junk into the tip of saddle so that I could drop my chest toward the stem in an effort to get a little lower and eek just a bit more draft from the person in front of me -- a person who was probably only about five-foot-ten. I quickly developed tunnel vision, looking only at the wheel ahead, watching the black tread going around and around and around and around, the mottled rubber occasionally picking up grains of sand or bouncing over a California-signature crack in the pavement. I wanted only to make sure that I kept the narrow stripe of tire that dominated the entirety of my vision from getting too far away, or too close.

I started thinking to myself that I wasn't as fit as I thought I had been this spring, that the form that had seen me ride in the lead group at the Tour of the Battenkill just the week before had been an anomaly. I did not have a power meter on the bike I was riding that day, but I know that my heart rate was pegged, the organ trying to escape my body nearly 200 times each minute, and my legs were working about as hard as they could, filling quickly with the leaden paste that would eventually cause them to seize. I was breathing through my mouth, which was hanging open, recycling oxygen as quickly as I could. I thought about how I like to donate blood sometimes, but how I was glad it had been a few months since they took my last pint. I needed all my hemoglobin. Then I thought about doping, as one does.

A bead of sweat rolled lazily across the lens of my sunglasses in a manner that seemed so opposite the tenor of the moment and Freddy's furious pace that I couldn't help but chuckle to myself -- inside my head, there was no breath to waste on an audible noise. I was convinced I was going to get dropped. But I looked ahead and saw that there were still some riders in the group who I knew I could not lose to, so I reached deeper. I pushed the pedals harder, tried to get even lower, to breath deeper and slower, to change gears for a higher cadence. As you do when you're me and you're struggling, I blamed the bike I was on; a Cervelo that costs more than a new Honda but that stupidly came with a semi-compact crank. Yes, a 53t chainring would have solved my problems.

This was the kind of speed that I'm only exposed to when one of the pros who lives here in the Valley decides to punish us amateurs on the Derby, or at the Thursday night crit; the kind of speed that serves as a healthy reminder that no matter how many Coach Scott intervals I may do on Limeport Pike, or how many times I lap the field at the Shit Crit in March (twice, for the record), I will never possess pro speed. Your average amateur race may go that fast for a bit, but it will inevitably easy up. We are not guys who can go sit on the front of the Giro D'Italia and beat riders for hours and hours and miles and miles, bludgeoning whole teams into submission until they surrender, or until someone stronger comes to put an end to it. We may aspire to be so in our dreams, but that is all. 

For me, now that the agony of those few moments is passed, I can see that it's an honor to try to hang with riders who have that speed. Of course, I did eventually get dropped. The climb suddenly becomes exposed to the sun and to the view, and it's steeper, and I realized that there was a gap between myself and three riders (one pro, one former pro, one member of the industry). I tried to close it, briefly, but could not. I dropped back to the second group, which contained a bunch of other journalists -- on the ride to take a break from work, and to establish a pecking order -- another pro or two, and some members of the industry. We rode the remaining miles at a pace amenable to working stiffs.

Election day waiting game

The first time I voted, I was the first, or maybe second, in line at 6 a.m., when the poll at Skidmore’s student center opened. There was, of course, no one in line behind me and the one friend who had volunteered to join me in opening the poll ahead of a day to be spent covering the election for our student paper. I voted for the Kerry/Edwards ticket, then we sat near the poll waiting for the masses to come participate in Democracy. The poll was in a corner of the building, in a room dubbed at that time, the multicultural center, or something like that. Voting, for all the importance it holds in our society, boiled down to a surprisingly simple act of pressing a button. There wasn’t even the dramatic KACHUNCK of the lever that my parents had let me throw when I accompanied them into the booth as a kid.

Of course, this being a college campus, the masses didn’t show up until around 10, bedraggled and on their way to class. It was college, after all. To no one’s surprise, everyone we interviewed had voted the Democratic ticket. There were no local elections of any significance that year and so the hoards of area organizers had mostly stayed away. The afternoon dragged on. The poll workers, most of whom were retirees, had been chipper in the morning. By noon, they were hungry and ornery. At some point I left to go to class. I came back. The workers were bleary-eyed by five, just as most students seemed to have scheduled in their voting. A line formed, snaking from the corner of the Case Center out toward the common area. The mood was not ebullient, but anxious. Everyone knew, even then, that Kerry had but a slim chance of unseating the incumbent. But, dammit, we were going to help him.

The polls closed and the senior citizens declared that the Dems had won Skidmore’s district (Bush did receive a couple dozen votes), and bid us adieu. Although it was 2004, our paper had little online presence, so we didn’t rush to file any copy, as I would in 2008 when I covered Barrack Obama’s victory for a slightly more professional news organization. Instead, the newspaper staff, significant others, study partners, and friends piled into someone’s living room and huddled around CNN. We drank beers, but not out of jubilance or celebration, but worry. We hoped the alcohol would tamp our emotions, would offer some relief to the waiting. We were all tired, we all had work we should be doing, but we had to watch the returns. They were slow in coming.

I threw in the towel around 2 a.m., realizing that I’d been awake for more than 20 hours. There was still no winner in the morning, although it was looking increasingly bad for Kerry. The mood on campus was one of sadness. Eventually, Kerry conceded. One professor said the only time he’d seen the entire campus more down in the dumps was on 9/11/2001. The collective funk of 2,000 young adults losing their first election, it turns out, can be a powerful thing. We all took it personally.

In subsequent years, I would vote at a civic center, and at a government building. Today I returned to a college campus to vote, not as a student, but as a neighbor of the institution. It was early by student standards — around 8:30 a.m. — but not as early as the younger me might have wanted. The scene was much as I remember it from Skidmore—students coming out from their dorm rooms holding coffee mugs and attired in sweat pants, fleece jackets, and sneakers. Mixed in were people who looked obviously out-of-place, area residents. We all shuffled into a similar room to the one I’d spent the day in back in 2004, tucked off of the student center’s lobby, and stood in line to have our ID checked, and to sign the rolls. We stood behind the small partitions and dialed in our selections. The machines were different than that first election, but also the same, and the button to confirm my votes held the same anticlimax that I remember from 2004. Maybe that’s what Democracy has come to?

Rides like water

I like to navigate by landmarks. Here in the Lehigh Valley, it's all but impossible to get lost as long as you maintain a bearing on the sun, and keep track of the east/west ridges. Riding home, often, is a simple matter of riding east, parallel to South Mountain, on whatever roads seem most appealing.

This navigation by topography also means that I'm constantly reminded of the physical realities of my home. The streams flow down from the ridges and collect in larger creeks that crisscross the valley floor, and the rivers that flow to the ocean. Sometimes, on longer rides, we'll cross over the ridges, riding against the flow of water, and drop into neighboring valleys. Sometimes, like a snowboarder on a halfpipe, we'll splash up against one vertiginous ridge line, arcing higher and higher before rushing back down toward the next one south, progressing ever west, or ever east, bouncing between those imposing walls.

We talk a lot about flow. We joke about flow, too, but it's a real consideration: does the ride let you carry momentum into the climbs, does the ride have intersections with good visibility that let you know if you need to stop -- or if it's safe to roll. Some rides flow better than others, where roads seem to naturally come together in logical spots, allowing us to suss along without unneeded stops or breaks, where the climbs build into a crescendo of burning muscles and panting before releasing all that pent up tension into a beautiful descent, which then, in turn, drops us off onto another road, in another shady valley.

I was thinking about all this when it rained last week. It rained hard; it was the kind of storm that turns the sky black, whips stout trees horizontal and send rain screaming at window panes like so many harmless bullets. Looking out the window, I could see the water, driven by the wind, flowing across the roof of a neighboring building. I could see it sluicing across the parking lot and pouring into a storm drain.

There was supposed to be a bike race. It wouldn't happen, even though the sun broke through not long after the rain had started, leaving a bright, cool, afternoon in its wake.

I got dressed to ride and headed out on my own. The roads were already starting to dry, but I tried to follow the patterns left by the water that had fallen in such volume, cutting straight across hills, and sticking low in the gutter where the rain had pooled and cascaded downhill. Water is wise in its flow; it doesn't waste time with obstacles, it simply goes where it must to maintain its gravity-driven march toward the lowest point. Sometimes it goes over objects impeding its travels. Sometimes around, through, or below. Sometimes it simply picks up the object and takes it along.

We can't always ride like that. We are bound by the yellow line, by gravel margins that mark the edge of the road, and by prudence that tells us that the most direct downward path is not always the wisest route.

Tough day!

Couldn't sleep last night Not sure why
An hour inside a doughnut Can't hear the music! Why do they bother?
Not a big deal, just out of alignment
Needs to be tweaked, like a derailleur
Turn a screw, slip it back into place
Couple months and done
Nothing heavy, though
No reason to loose sleep
Moving will be a bitch
Two moves, in fact
And these boxes Piling up everywhere
So much crap Where did it all come from?
Things coming, going
Landing here
For now, anyway
Maybe the dumpster next?
Crash at lunch
Bells rung, skin scraped
Glad I stayed at my desk It was so nice today
Needed restraint
Markus Bohler
Not quite 50 Nearly twice my age
Racing his bike
It's fun, right?
Dead in a bike race
Glad they didn't cancel the next one, gotta keep going
Natalia Hogan
Couldn't pass up a challenge
Gotta respect that, right?
Dead in a bike race She had a kid
Did Markus have a kid? Maybe two? Three?
"We don't know how long it will take."

A spice called hunger

Ever since Brett, Zander and I enjoyed some lean-to burritos last weekend, I've been thinking about one of my favorite proverbs: "Hunger is is the best spice."

I'd forgotten to pack the cumin to spice the meat, and our burritos were without beans, lettuce, or tomatoes (though we did have plenty of Cholula). But, the food was twinged with the scent of pine needles that were still stuck in our hair and clung to our clothes, giving our pan-Mexican dinner an exciting olfactory twist. I couldn't get enough -- especially after a day of traipsing around the mountains, and falling in and out of Spruce traps.

Today, I got home from riding the Derby and two training crits at about 3 p.m. The efforts were hard, and took a toll. I was pretty close to bonk stage by the time I rolled back to the triangle. In my house I didn't have enough food for lunch, but the stale carrot cake cupcake I found hiding in the back of my refrigerator was delicious. It was sweet and still held moist carrot shreds. It was, so good -- although, under different circumstances, or to a different, less hungry person it might have been inedible.

Hours later, after I'd slayed an Italian sub from Armetta's, showered, had a little snooze on the couch, took care of some household chores, and settled back onto the couch, I started thinking again about the power of hunger to imbue flavor into otherwise distasteful food. Doubtless, I've had a few really wonderful meals over the years. Some prepared in my own kitchen, or in that of friends or relatives. Some were served at restaurants. But most of those meals fade after a time. In fact, looking back, there are very few meals that I remember.

Here's one that stands out: On a long day in the Wind River Range in June or July of 2002, myself and other students on my NOLS course were traversing rocky terrain interspersed with glaciers and snowfields high in the mountains. After walking all morning under heavy packs we reached a saddle that marked the top of a pass by which we would cross the continental divide. Approaching from the west, we'd walked up moderate grade on a rocky slope. Upon reaching the top, though, we found a steep snowfield dropping away below us to where we were planning to camp that night.

After roping up, donning crampons and settling our ice axes comfortably into a ready position (at your side, adze forward with fingers cradling the pick and shaft), we began down the slope. It was tough going. Progress was slow, and roped up as we were, there were no easy opportunities to stop for a snack or drink. Someone fell and wasn't able arrest their slide before the rope tethering them to other climbers drew tight, stopping them with a jerk that reminded us all how dangerous that kind of terrain can be.

Eventually, we were back down on level ground where about all I could think of was dinner after a long day afoot. Soon, my cook group unpacked our food bags and surveyed our options. It was getting close to a resupply midway through the month-long trip and our stores were lean. It was decided that we'd prepare a bag of dried TVP. For anyone keeping score, that's textured vegetable protein. Sitting around eating dinner, I remember being amazed at how much the brown mush looked, smelled and tasted like chili. Like, the meat kind that I'd make at home, with fresh chillis and onion, and with cayenne pepper. It was so good, maybe the best I'd ever had. And, in that moment, my friends and I were all completely content.

And, as you know if you've tried to get me to eat vegetable protein of any kind in the past 10 years, it was a meal that I know I'll never be able to recreate without the perfect amount of that spice called hunger.

On-the-fly revisions and what's really important

Zander and Brett on Panther
Although he's scared of snow, Brett loves winter camping
Zander, to our relief, survived his first winter trip

I realized this past weekend that Brett and I have observed a tradition of going winter camping nearly every year since 2000. We missed a few years during college, but have otherwise made sure to set aside at least one weekend to turn off our cell phones, ignore our email, and get up into the mountains for a couple days.

Some times we've gone with other friends, some times we've been joined by various girlfriends, sometimes it's just been the two of us. The uniting thread through all the trips has been the Adirondack High Peaks, and a goal of obtaining one or several summits. We both know those mountains well, and, for a long time, they were easily accessible as Saratoga provided a good jumping off point. And, I've been a 46er since 2001, but would like to complete my winter round one of these decades.

I found my way into a few spruce traps
Extricating myself was ... challenging
By day's end, I must admit, I was rather frustrated

This year, we were joined by one of Brett's brothers, Zander, and set off with the goal of climbing three trailless peaks: Santinoni, Panther, and Couchscraga. It was the first time that we'd planned to climb trailless mountains, and reports on the conditions of the herd paths varied from, "impassable," to "cake." I was a little concerned that we might not be able to climb all three peaks -- and thus delay my tortoise-like progress toward that 46-W. But, to date, Brett and I had always managed to achieve our objectives.

It snowed a fair amount the day before we got to the woods, and we broke trail on the way to the lean-to. That meant, of course, that the herd path would be snowed in, and we'd have to break trail on the way uphill while navigating the trackless woods. But, it didn't seem like an insurmountable challenge, and besides, I'd climbed the Santinoni range twice in the summer.

As it came to pass, we lost the route fairly early in our climb, while hiding from a driving snow under our hoods. We pressed uphill, figuring that we knew we were on Panther's flank, exactly where we wanted to be. As it turned out, that wasn't quite right. After five hours of pushing through alpine vegetation and deep snow, and becoming ensnared in Spruce traps, we came out onto a promontory north and east of Panther's peak, overlooking the old MacIntye Iron Works and Bradley Pond. We were supposed to be further to the south and had, apparently, climbed the wrong ridge extending down from the mountain. We could also see the summit above us -- the first of day's three objectives.

But, it was already late, and it was going to take a lot more bushwhacking to reach the top. From there, we'd have the option of backtracking back through the brush, or breaking a second trail down. Zander called uncle, and we beat a retreat.

On the way up hill.
Zander's face said, "Why is this so fucking hard?!"
Brett's face says, "Nothing like my little brother's misery!"

In past years, I think I would have been disappointed not to have fulfilled the weekend's objectives. I might have thought that seven hours is an awfully long time to sit in the car and not reach the top of a single mountain. But I found that I wasn't bothered: We'd had a great walk through the woods. We shared laughs, conquered some adversity, stayed (mostly) warm, coached Zander through his first winter camping experience, and enjoyed meals seasoned with a powerful spice that can only be found deep in the woods on cold nights edged with driving snow and howling wind: hunger and sheer gratitude for a warm meal.

Most importantly, we'd left our cell phones in the car and told our friends and families not to bother trying to reach us. I came home feeling at peace with a lot of things, and I was thankful for having had the time away, brief though it may have been. Maybe we'll reach the summit next time.

Adventures afield: Tucson's Shootout

At the end of a week spent testing bikes in Tucson, Bill and I rode the Shootout, a famed Tucson-area group ride roughly analogous to the Lehigh Valley’s Fleetwood Derby. Their ride seemed to have a higher concentration of pros, including a large contingent seemingly in town just for the winter.

Going to a new town and checking out their group ride is pretty fun. Earlier this year, I rode the Gimbles for the first time and had a similar experience, even though Yonkers is not exactly a new town for me. While Bill is certainly an expert on riding the Derby—and I am quickly learning the ropes—we were both completely out of our element on this new event.

Our adventure:

After arriving 30 minutes early to the start, putting our bikes together and getting dressed, we suddenly saw a huge group roll past. Crap! They’re leaving without us!

Van door slams, and we’re off and chasing. Oddly, it doesn’t take all that long to catch up. I stop to lower my saddle and, once again, quickly get back to the group. Bill’s bike guides us to a realization: This was the B group, which rolls out 15 minutes ahead of the main ride. Dura-Ace Di2 is, apparently, an unusual sight among this crew, and more bike than most people need for the casual ride with friends.

I don't know about Bill, but I briefly contemplated rolling with these guys. They seemed friendly, it had been a hard week and my legs really did feel like crap. But no, we’re not here for the B ride. We circle and wait and before long the A-group comes along. These guys seem better organized, and move along efficiently. Di2 doesn’t stand out quite so much here, although, the girls in the other group were cuter. It was all very civilized until we crossed Valencia. Like the Derby’s turn, that’s where the race starts.

Like many of the roads we perused over the previous week, the Shootout seemed to climb to infinity at a steady 2-percent grade. We knew we were going up, but only because of the pain in our legs. And oh! What pain. Clearly, a week of starting-and-stopping-and-switching-bikes-and-yeahsure,I’llhaveonemorebuthenIwantsomeScotch had exacted a toll.

I went to the front because I felt like I should. I did one rotation, and it fucking hurt. I thought I was going to have to sit up and turn for home right then. But I kept pedaling. I took one more pull then drifted to the back. Bill was tail gunning as riders were going out the back. I sat in. I talked to a local who wanted to know about my bike, a Focus with murdered-out paint. I drifted back to the front and was assured that the mid-ride “finish” was about 10 minutes away.

“Ten minutes,” I thought. “I can do anything for ten minutes.” I knew that the finish was on top of a small hill, a moderate grade. I knew that after the finish we’d be about 30 miles from the van, and that the group would allow itself to re-form before rolling home. I knew that at some point, there was a turn that would take you on a 30-mile extension, and no matter how much I wanted to ride more, I absolutely could not take that turn if I wanted to make my flight. I also knew that I was still in fucking trouble, even though I’d managed to push knots of inert, uselessness from the core of each muscle out to the periphery, just under my skin, where the iron bars of immobile tissue now sat, threatening to hit the emergency-stop – an action that would manifest as a cramp. The road was getting steeper, and headwind seemed to be intensifying.

We were about five minutes from the finish, I reckoned, and there was a little group up the road, with another group dangling between the main field and the front. I didn’t come here to sit in, lets be damned. I went to the front again, advancing on the double-yellow. There was a surge. Some dork on a tri bike (they allow those here?) jumped as if to try to bridge. I got onto his wheel, and let him take me up the road. He made it halfway and was clearly not going any further. “Bad wheel,” I thought. I jumped around him and closed the gap to the second group. They were gassed. These would have been my peers on the Derby; maybe they had a chance to win if they played everything right, but instead they chose to gamble with an early move. We still had a gap. I clenched my left molars around my tongue to keep it from hanging out of my mouth and jumped again, reaching the first group. These guys were also clearly gassed, but still moving along. I was in that stage where my legs become so numb with lactic acid that I feel like I’m either going to completely seize the engine solid like a Formula car that’s burned off its oil, or transcend onto some higher plane where my internal Gruber assist kicks on.

I got the Gruber.

There was one rider off the front, and I caught him easily. We were maybe 300 meters ahead of the main group, which had swept up everyone else. I could see the finish hill arcing ahead to the north. I sat on this wheel and tried to collect myself. There was clearly only one thing left to do, so I jumped again and hit it hard. Yesterday, a similar effort on the last hill we climbed as Bicycling Magazine test riders had nearly cost me my lunch, but today all I’d had to eat was a PB&J. I had a little gap. Holy Shit, I’m going to win! But, I didn’t know the climb.

Turns out, it’s pretty fucking long. And kinda steep.

Then came the curtains. My legs completely shut down, and then the first wave of riders went by me – including the eventual winners, I’m sure, although I wasn’t close enough to see the finish. I dropped the chain onto the little ring and ground up the rest of the hill.