It's hard not to get excited about this:
We're still working on the starts, but he has the rest of it down pretty well. We last tried this about two months ago and it was pretty awful. He got a Strider shortly thereafter and has been tearing things up since. On Saturday night (or maybe Friday?) I took off his training wheels, rolled it at him and told him to get on with it.
That ride was merely OK, but he nailed it tonight. No turning back now.
Look out, other little kids whose parents drag them to bike races, line them up and and then beam proudly. Jack has arrived.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
I made a list
Though the season is winding down - the bike-selling season, I mean - August is a busy month. Trek World, that trip to KC for Shimano and Pearl Izumi, then the progressive sale. And in between, Chris' birthday, Jack's birthday and our anniversary.
We're dealing with a lot of stuff here.
And because of the business, which included working on GamJams, VeloGear and freelancing for the World-Herald, I'm officially pretty much tired of everything. Well, tired of everything that isn't sitting around and doing nothing. Of course, it's mostly my fault. You know that Gallup Strengths Finder thing? I have responsibility as a strength, which means I tend to take on whatever comes my way.
That's probably a detriment now and then.
So I'm taking a couple of days off. Really, it's just one extra day off - Wednesday - but it feels like a super-huge vacation. And while I'm on my super-huge, yet deceptive, vacation, I have a list of things to do.
That seems a bit like it would defeat the purpose, but they're just little tasks that have been lost in the shuffle of the past six weeks.
For example:
And when I'm done with those little tasks, which really shouldn't take up too much time, I'm going to try to convince myself that I need to be psyched up about 'cross. I still like the idea of it, but I'm in a nice little groove right now - long, steady bike rides. Man, that's a lot of fun.
We're dealing with a lot of stuff here.
And because of the business, which included working on GamJams, VeloGear and freelancing for the World-Herald, I'm officially pretty much tired of everything. Well, tired of everything that isn't sitting around and doing nothing. Of course, it's mostly my fault. You know that Gallup Strengths Finder thing? I have responsibility as a strength, which means I tend to take on whatever comes my way.
That's probably a detriment now and then.
So I'm taking a couple of days off. Really, it's just one extra day off - Wednesday - but it feels like a super-huge vacation. And while I'm on my super-huge, yet deceptive, vacation, I have a list of things to do.
That seems a bit like it would defeat the purpose, but they're just little tasks that have been lost in the shuffle of the past six weeks.
For example:
- Killing the grass on our parking. It's been bad since we've been here, but it's worse now. So it gets the RoundUp treatment and then resodded. Maybe in the spring. But it needs to die first.
- Dogs to the vet. That's a fun one. Nothing major, just a couple of stinky dogs in the car.
- Took the glass recycling in (already done!). I really wish we didn't have to do that.
- Pick up license plates for the Camry.
- Go ride a bike. That should be an easy one.
And when I'm done with those little tasks, which really shouldn't take up too much time, I'm going to try to convince myself that I need to be psyched up about 'cross. I still like the idea of it, but I'm in a nice little groove right now - long, steady bike rides. Man, that's a lot of fun.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Isolation drills
Were I to make a list of the top 10 inventions of the last 50 years, the Apple iPod — in whatever flavor — would be on the list.
Portable digital music players existed before the iPod, but they all sucked. The software used to manage them was brutal and, yes, they didn't look very cool. But then there was this:
I got my first iPod (the one shown above, though that's not my Chili Peppers song) for Christmas in 2003. It was the 20GB version, spinning hard drive platter and all. Chris got one a couple years later. And that's around the time that things got nuts. Instead of hard drives, newer models used flash memory. iPods got smaller and thinner and cheaper. (Well, not so much cheaper, but more bang for the buck.)
As they got smaller, they got more accessible. Everybody (close enough) has one. And for people who spent the 1990s carrying around a Sony Discman and a pile of CDs, they were revolutionary. Not only could you carry an album or two with you, you could carry a couple hundred albums with you. And you could go anywhere.
Like, for example, the Keystone Trail in Omaha.
As I was riding into work yesterday — yes, it's true: you can ride a bike to the trail and then ride on it, rather than drive to the trail to go for a ride — I got stuck in the middle of a 10K run of some sort. (And I feel sorry for those who had to run a 10K on the Keystone. Bleh.)
By and large, most of the runners were on the right side of the trail, shuffling away their miles in the time-honored way. There were a few others in the same spot with headphones on (earbuds, really) listening to music.
And there were still others — though a minority — who were in the middle of the trail listening to music. Loudly. How loud? Loud enough to not hear me say, "passing on your left," even when I was right beside them.
You can make a case about a group of cyclists being the most terrifying (and sometimes rude) thing on the trail — I get that. I've been in the middle of groups that haven't exactly been the greatest ambassadors for the sport. But the thing about a group of cyclists, generally, is that they all know how to ride their bikes and won't run into anybody/anything. Basically, if there's a crash, it won't be because of them.
Runners with iPods, however, are a different story. I've never understood running with music. I've tried it, and it pretty much always sucks. Headphones don't stay put, you have wires dangling. And the music sounds awful — though that's mostly because earbuds are awful, too. To hear your music, you have to turn it up louder (oh, hello there, hearing loss). And when you turn it up louder, you lose the ability to hear "passing on your left."
Is it a motivation thing? A need to hear a favorite song while you're out there? I would argue that if you need to listen to music for motivation, you're doing it wrong. The motivation is to be fit and healthy, is it not?
Sure, music is nice, but not at the expense of other trail users. Take off your headphones and enjoy being outside. It's a nice day.
Portable digital music players existed before the iPod, but they all sucked. The software used to manage them was brutal and, yes, they didn't look very cool. But then there was this:
I got my first iPod (the one shown above, though that's not my Chili Peppers song) for Christmas in 2003. It was the 20GB version, spinning hard drive platter and all. Chris got one a couple years later. And that's around the time that things got nuts. Instead of hard drives, newer models used flash memory. iPods got smaller and thinner and cheaper. (Well, not so much cheaper, but more bang for the buck.)
As they got smaller, they got more accessible. Everybody (close enough) has one. And for people who spent the 1990s carrying around a Sony Discman and a pile of CDs, they were revolutionary. Not only could you carry an album or two with you, you could carry a couple hundred albums with you. And you could go anywhere.
Like, for example, the Keystone Trail in Omaha.
As I was riding into work yesterday — yes, it's true: you can ride a bike to the trail and then ride on it, rather than drive to the trail to go for a ride — I got stuck in the middle of a 10K run of some sort. (And I feel sorry for those who had to run a 10K on the Keystone. Bleh.)
By and large, most of the runners were on the right side of the trail, shuffling away their miles in the time-honored way. There were a few others in the same spot with headphones on (earbuds, really) listening to music.
And there were still others — though a minority — who were in the middle of the trail listening to music. Loudly. How loud? Loud enough to not hear me say, "passing on your left," even when I was right beside them.
You can make a case about a group of cyclists being the most terrifying (and sometimes rude) thing on the trail — I get that. I've been in the middle of groups that haven't exactly been the greatest ambassadors for the sport. But the thing about a group of cyclists, generally, is that they all know how to ride their bikes and won't run into anybody/anything. Basically, if there's a crash, it won't be because of them.
Runners with iPods, however, are a different story. I've never understood running with music. I've tried it, and it pretty much always sucks. Headphones don't stay put, you have wires dangling. And the music sounds awful — though that's mostly because earbuds are awful, too. To hear your music, you have to turn it up louder (oh, hello there, hearing loss). And when you turn it up louder, you lose the ability to hear "passing on your left."
Is it a motivation thing? A need to hear a favorite song while you're out there? I would argue that if you need to listen to music for motivation, you're doing it wrong. The motivation is to be fit and healthy, is it not?
Sure, music is nice, but not at the expense of other trail users. Take off your headphones and enjoy being outside. It's a nice day.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tuesday
As much as I don't like to complain about day-to-day stuff, Monday was pretty much a drag.
Stuff happens from time to time in retail, and Monday was the day a lot of stuff came to a head. Though I wasn't in until noon — technically — I was dealing with things from 7:30 on. In between I had to write a story to finish off a freelance job.
By 1 p.m., I was pretty much done.
And when I woke up this morning, allergies were hitting me pretty much full-force. Things haven't been too bad this year, but Tuesday was the first time I wanted to pop a pill and go back to bed. After spending time cleaning the gunk out of my eyes and nose, I finally got moving.
Mark and I had an 8:30 meeting with Kam, our Capo rep, at the store, and after that we planned on a ride. The meeting was good — lots of cool stuff coming down the pipeline for 2012 — and the ride was even better. Cycling in Omaha doesn't get the credit it deserves. We have some really, really great roads on which to play. Sometimes it takes an out-of-towner's perspective to remember that. (Kam recorded a pair of videos during the ride here and here.)
After the ride, Kam and I grabbed a bite at the Dundee Dell and I headed home — finally — at 4:30.
It ended up being a nice day, which was nice considering how it started (and how Monday ended).
Here's to good days, every day.
Stuff happens from time to time in retail, and Monday was the day a lot of stuff came to a head. Though I wasn't in until noon — technically — I was dealing with things from 7:30 on. In between I had to write a story to finish off a freelance job.
By 1 p.m., I was pretty much done.
And when I woke up this morning, allergies were hitting me pretty much full-force. Things haven't been too bad this year, but Tuesday was the first time I wanted to pop a pill and go back to bed. After spending time cleaning the gunk out of my eyes and nose, I finally got moving.
Mark and I had an 8:30 meeting with Kam, our Capo rep, at the store, and after that we planned on a ride. The meeting was good — lots of cool stuff coming down the pipeline for 2012 — and the ride was even better. Cycling in Omaha doesn't get the credit it deserves. We have some really, really great roads on which to play. Sometimes it takes an out-of-towner's perspective to remember that. (Kam recorded a pair of videos during the ride here and here.)
After the ride, Kam and I grabbed a bite at the Dundee Dell and I headed home — finally — at 4:30.
It ended up being a nice day, which was nice considering how it started (and how Monday ended).
Here's to good days, every day.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Herding cats
It was Jack's birthday on Saturday. As such, we invited a bunch of four-year-olds to our house, gave them squirt guns and got out of the way. Well, sort of. At some point, they came after me. I solved that problem fairly easily.
That's Jack and his cousin trying to refill the bowl, and therefore dump the bowl on me. Teamwork — that's good to see.
That's Jack and his cousin trying to refill the bowl, and therefore dump the bowl on me. Teamwork — that's good to see.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Rockin' the suburbs
The suburbs have no soul.
The suburbs have no trees.
The suburbs are where cities go to die.
That may be true — especially in certain sprawly parts of Omaha. But you know what else happens in the suburbs? We don't post to Twitter about power outages every time the wind blows.
Even if we did have huge trees (it's way better than it was when we moved in seven-plus years ago), we'd still be OK — many of the lines are buried. And that storm sewer/sanitary sewer thing? No problem.
I'm often preached to by those who live in the Midtown area — inside the beltway — about how much better everything is there. About how much easier it is to ride there. About all of the wonderful things going on there. I can ride pretty much everywhere out here, too. And I'm on country roads in less than 10 minutes.
There seems to be a strong sense of identity tied to the area in which your house is planted. For those types, I'll give you this: It's just a collection of buildings. You happen to live in one. It's what's inside the house — the people, the collective memories — that makes it home.
I like living here. I have little desire to move. Sure, our house doesn't have old-school character. But it also doesn't have old plaster or a crumbling foundation. It's just a building anyway. And I'm never worried about the neighbor's tree taking out our house.
Next time the power's out, come on over. We were probably going about business as usual while you were tweeting.
The suburbs have no trees.
The suburbs are where cities go to die.
That may be true — especially in certain sprawly parts of Omaha. But you know what else happens in the suburbs? We don't post to Twitter about power outages every time the wind blows.
Even if we did have huge trees (it's way better than it was when we moved in seven-plus years ago), we'd still be OK — many of the lines are buried. And that storm sewer/sanitary sewer thing? No problem.
I'm often preached to by those who live in the Midtown area — inside the beltway — about how much better everything is there. About how much easier it is to ride there. About all of the wonderful things going on there. I can ride pretty much everywhere out here, too. And I'm on country roads in less than 10 minutes.
There seems to be a strong sense of identity tied to the area in which your house is planted. For those types, I'll give you this: It's just a collection of buildings. You happen to live in one. It's what's inside the house — the people, the collective memories — that makes it home.
I like living here. I have little desire to move. Sure, our house doesn't have old-school character. But it also doesn't have old plaster or a crumbling foundation. It's just a building anyway. And I'm never worried about the neighbor's tree taking out our house.
Next time the power's out, come on over. We were probably going about business as usual while you were tweeting.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Weapon of choice: Sprinter van
If you've ever joined a group ride as an out-of-towner, you're familiar with the once-over you get from the locals. It's equal parts "Who is that?" and "Wonder if he's fast?"
The once-over turns into a twice- or thrice-over when you pull up in a fully done-up Sprinter that says "Trek Bicycle Store" in really large letters. (And the shiny white shoes probably didn't help, either.) Mark and I were in town — along with mangers from the rest of the stores — for a Shimano/Pearl Izumi 2012 preview. Early Monday, emails started flying about catching a 6:30pm group ride. Only 24 miles, but pretty quick pace.
Sounds good to me. I'll almost always choose riding over sitting around.
So we checked in, stopped by the Shawnee store and kitted up. After the thrice-over, we rolled out with a good-sized group. We'd been warned it was going to be quick. And it was ... about three minutes after we left.
Seriously? As Mark and I climbed a hill in the middle of the bunch, we both remarked about the lack of warmup. No easing into this one, apparently. Nothing like being on the rivet from the start. It was like jumping into a crit with no warmup on a course you've never ridden.
After that, I just made sure I was inside of the first five guys and held on. But it was a strange ride. Unlike most rides around here — even random weekend rides — which settle into a nice rhythm with rotating pace lines and the like, this was a free-for-all the entire time. I remember one time where we actually did a rotation. And that one rotation led into a hill, where the guy ahead of me in the line gapped the hell out of the dude behind him and then proceeded to accelerate further, making it even more difficult to pull through.
Seriously, it was like riding with a bunch of guys who learned how to go fast, but didn't learn how to keep it under control. After a stop light, they pinned it. After a corner, they pinned it. Damn.
That said, it was pretty fun mixing it up and showing 'em we know how to ride. Mark did more damage than me, like always, but we made it hurt. At the end of the ride, the locals were all looking at their computers in amazement. It was their fastest ride of the year on that route — 23.something mph.
Lance, the assistant manager at the Papillion store, ended up off the main group and with a very, very strong Cat. 2 (I think) woman. She summed it up best: "As soon as they saw you guys pull up in that van, they all wanted to drop you guys."
Gee thanks, Sprinter van.
The once-over turns into a twice- or thrice-over when you pull up in a fully done-up Sprinter that says "Trek Bicycle Store" in really large letters. (And the shiny white shoes probably didn't help, either.) Mark and I were in town — along with mangers from the rest of the stores — for a Shimano/Pearl Izumi 2012 preview. Early Monday, emails started flying about catching a 6:30pm group ride. Only 24 miles, but pretty quick pace.
Sounds good to me. I'll almost always choose riding over sitting around.
So we checked in, stopped by the Shawnee store and kitted up. After the thrice-over, we rolled out with a good-sized group. We'd been warned it was going to be quick. And it was ... about three minutes after we left.
Seriously? As Mark and I climbed a hill in the middle of the bunch, we both remarked about the lack of warmup. No easing into this one, apparently. Nothing like being on the rivet from the start. It was like jumping into a crit with no warmup on a course you've never ridden.
After that, I just made sure I was inside of the first five guys and held on. But it was a strange ride. Unlike most rides around here — even random weekend rides — which settle into a nice rhythm with rotating pace lines and the like, this was a free-for-all the entire time. I remember one time where we actually did a rotation. And that one rotation led into a hill, where the guy ahead of me in the line gapped the hell out of the dude behind him and then proceeded to accelerate further, making it even more difficult to pull through.
Seriously, it was like riding with a bunch of guys who learned how to go fast, but didn't learn how to keep it under control. After a stop light, they pinned it. After a corner, they pinned it. Damn.
That said, it was pretty fun mixing it up and showing 'em we know how to ride. Mark did more damage than me, like always, but we made it hurt. At the end of the ride, the locals were all looking at their computers in amazement. It was their fastest ride of the year on that route — 23.something mph.
Lance, the assistant manager at the Papillion store, ended up off the main group and with a very, very strong Cat. 2 (I think) woman. She summed it up best: "As soon as they saw you guys pull up in that van, they all wanted to drop you guys."
Gee thanks, Sprinter van.
Monday, August 15, 2011
It begins
I woke up yesterday morning a little bit stuffed up. It's been like this for a while now, but it clears up pretty quick and I get on with things.
Yesterday, though, my eyes were watering, too. And I blew my nose a zillion times. And midway through my little gravel ride, I felt all gunked up again. (Side note: the gravel and bike were both wonderful. It's a nice little power-hour loop.)
Sigh.
The annual allergy post is pretty much right on schedule — second or third week of August. It's when I start the day with a 24-hour allergy pill instead of firing up the coffee pot first thing. (Although, truth be told, the coffee's on immediately afterward.)
For the most part, it's never really been a problem on the bike or running. It only gets bad when I'm standing around or working outside. And that's easy to fix: just stay inside.
I'm going for a run here in a little bit, then it's off to the shop early and then to KC, where I'll learn about more new 2012 product (Shimano, Yakima and Pearl Izumi, this time). No, I won't bring an Ultegra Di2 setup back for you.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Fuzzy memory, blurry pictures
Brady asked me a while back how I come up with stuff to write about. Usually it just pops into my head and I transcribe my thoughts. Right now my thoughts are mostly half-formed, but 100 percent dull and mundane. With that in mind, here's a photo dump from Trek World. Because indoor lighting is generally brutal for a camera phone — even a decent one — the blur on these photos serves as an apt metaphor for four days on the road with the Midwest Cycling crew.
More of the rocket bike. The fire belched out after the jet was turned off. And the leaf blower? That's how they pushed enough air into it to get it to light.
Lance Armstrong's 2003 Tour de France bike. Specifically, the bike he rode in the Luz Ardiden victory. After getting yanked down by that musette bag, Iban Mayo ran over Armstrong's bike and cracked the chainstay — right on the N of Shimano. It's pretty cool seeing all of the famous/infamous bikes stationed in the Trek atrium.
Yup. Gary Fisher. The first 10 minutes of last year's Trek World was, "Whoa! Gary Fisher!" But then I saw him 300 more times in the next few days. Now it's like, "Oh, hey Gary."
Jens Voigt and Fabian Cancellara signing autographs. The lines were long, but they were both pretty cool.
And here's Andy Schleck. Both he and Frank made me feel fat. They're tiny.
The Schlecks' bikes. Andy's had a computer on it still. I checked the odometer: 2,074 miles. Minus the time trials, that's about right for the Tour de France.
Cancellara's bike. He uses mechanical Dura-Ace instead of Di2. The paint job was pretty nuts, too.
The end result of waiting in line with a bunch of other bike hacks. I'm keeping this one for myself. The rest are heading to the store, including one from Jens Voigt.
I'm sure I'll come up with something to write about next week. Actually, check that. I make no promises.
More of the rocket bike. The fire belched out after the jet was turned off. And the leaf blower? That's how they pushed enough air into it to get it to light.
Lance Armstrong's 2003 Tour de France bike. Specifically, the bike he rode in the Luz Ardiden victory. After getting yanked down by that musette bag, Iban Mayo ran over Armstrong's bike and cracked the chainstay — right on the N of Shimano. It's pretty cool seeing all of the famous/infamous bikes stationed in the Trek atrium.
Yup. Gary Fisher. The first 10 minutes of last year's Trek World was, "Whoa! Gary Fisher!" But then I saw him 300 more times in the next few days. Now it's like, "Oh, hey Gary."
Jens Voigt and Fabian Cancellara signing autographs. The lines were long, but they were both pretty cool.
And here's Andy Schleck. Both he and Frank made me feel fat. They're tiny.
The Schlecks' bikes. Andy's had a computer on it still. I checked the odometer: 2,074 miles. Minus the time trials, that's about right for the Tour de France.
Cancellara's bike. He uses mechanical Dura-Ace instead of Di2. The paint job was pretty nuts, too.
The end result of waiting in line with a bunch of other bike hacks. I'm keeping this one for myself. The rest are heading to the store, including one from Jens Voigt.
I'm sure I'll come up with something to write about next week. Actually, check that. I make no promises.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Sights seen
Oh, Trek World. The place where amazing, cool or reasonably important things are seen. This year's demo was pretty chill for me - I rode a Madone and a Speed Concept, just like last year. The trails were a bit wet, and seeing a bunch of muddy people coming back didn't make me want to join them.
So, short of amazing things on the bike, we took in the rocket bike. That's a pulse jet on the side. And that guy is so hunched over because he's holding it back. It can go 60mph. It's completely ridiculous. And, of course, completely awesome.
Later on, we saw Jens Voigt, Fabian Cancellara, the Schleck brothers, Chris Lieto and Julie Dibbens. The last two are pro triathletes. The previous four are bike-riding rock stars. So I waited in line for a long time to get a few posters signed. By the time I got through the Voigt/Cancellara line, the Schlecks' line was ridiculously long. So long, in fact, that when I got there, one of the Trek folks let me know they'd be stopping soon. Oh well.
After that, it was far too much beer in a three-day span, some nice rides on Madison-area roads and a lot of walking around. A lot. That's pretty much how trade shows work, though.
All told, it was fun. But I'm glad to be back. And unlike last year, I have no idea which paint job I'm going to go with for my 2012 demo bike. Last year I had it locked up in 5 minutes.
Priorities, man.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Jens Voigt is here
When we started getting our Trek World itineraries about a month ago, I wondered if the Leopard Trek boys would be here. It's been a few years since they've had any sponsored riders here, I guess, and the current batch represents a pretty clean break from the way things used to be (ie, Lance, USPS, etc.)
People started buzzing when Fabian Cancellara tweeted something about Chicago and the Trek show. Then the Schleck brothers rolled in, with Jens Voigt in tow. One of my employees and his fiancee actually met the whole bunch in Chicago at the airport.
And when they got to town, Twitter and Facebook pretty much blew up. When you follow a lot of bike people - local, pro, industry and otherwise - it's pretty obvious when something big is going down. This would qualify. I think I saw photos from the picnic at John Burke's house (Trek president) from about 15 different angles.
We'll see them in person today/tonight, and we'll all end up getting our pictures taken. And I'm sure Andy and Frank will make me seem fat. (Speaking of which, Taco John's may be the biggest contributor to obesity in America. Enough with the potato oles man!)
But before then: breakfast, a quick meeting, riding the 2012 stuff, another quick meeting and then more food.
People started buzzing when Fabian Cancellara tweeted something about Chicago and the Trek show. Then the Schleck brothers rolled in, with Jens Voigt in tow. One of my employees and his fiancee actually met the whole bunch in Chicago at the airport.
And when they got to town, Twitter and Facebook pretty much blew up. When you follow a lot of bike people - local, pro, industry and otherwise - it's pretty obvious when something big is going down. This would qualify. I think I saw photos from the picnic at John Burke's house (Trek president) from about 15 different angles.
We'll see them in person today/tonight, and we'll all end up getting our pictures taken. And I'm sure Andy and Frank will make me seem fat. (Speaking of which, Taco John's may be the biggest contributor to obesity in America. Enough with the potato oles man!)
But before then: breakfast, a quick meeting, riding the 2012 stuff, another quick meeting and then more food.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Saying the magic word
Despite our occasional ideas to the contrary, the racing scene in eastern Nebraska is pretty small; pretty close-knit. We know each other very well - perhaps too well. We know each other's strengths and weaknesses and tendencies. We know how to get under each other's skin.
But by and large, it's a pretty friendly population. Think about the Nebraska peloton as a whole and try to count how many people you really, truly dislike. I only have two on the list. But I'll still be friendly when I see them. You don't have to like people to be polite.
With that closeness in mind, a discussion popped up a few days ago that was so beyond the norm for our little community that it bears examining.
Synopsis:
Ian Robertson, of Lincoln, went to the U.S. Masters national track championships and won a race. There's a masters 30-34 category, in which Ian raced. So, hooray for stars and bars, even though he's Canadian.
He posted a note on Facebook, got a few congratulatory notes and likely moved on with his day. But then the magic word showed up: sandbagger.
Sandbagger, with the implication that masters races weren't for a rider of Ian's caliber - he regularly finishes in the money of Cat. 1/2 races. Sandbagger, as in he's taking money intended for somebody else.
You can imagine what kind of shitshow that started.
I've won two races in my entire life - they were both running races when I was 27 years old. Both were very hard to win. In the first one, I came on strong in the last mile and took the guy at the end. In the second, I went from the gun and simply ran away from everybody.
But that doesn't mean it was easy. And I guarantee Ian's win wasn't easy. Winning is never easy - that's why so few people get to do it. I savor those two running wins, because it might not happen again. Ever.
I've seen a few masters criteriums in my time as a bike racer. They're not easy. Take the masters race in Papillion a few weeks ago. Four Cat. 1/2 guys beat the bunch into submission and rode away. Think that was easy? Were they sandbagging?
No, because they fit into the criteria for competing in the race: they were aged 40 years or more. Ian fit into the criterion for his 30-34 races - he's between 30 and 34 years of age. That was the only stipulation. There was no "between 30 and 34 but not if you're a cat. 2 racer or better."
It was just "between 30 and 34." So Ian raced. And he won. I see no problems with that. Moreover, I fail to see how anybody else could have a problem with that.
What say you, Nebraska?
But by and large, it's a pretty friendly population. Think about the Nebraska peloton as a whole and try to count how many people you really, truly dislike. I only have two on the list. But I'll still be friendly when I see them. You don't have to like people to be polite.
With that closeness in mind, a discussion popped up a few days ago that was so beyond the norm for our little community that it bears examining.
Synopsis:
Ian Robertson, of Lincoln, went to the U.S. Masters national track championships and won a race. There's a masters 30-34 category, in which Ian raced. So, hooray for stars and bars, even though he's Canadian.
He posted a note on Facebook, got a few congratulatory notes and likely moved on with his day. But then the magic word showed up: sandbagger.
Sandbagger, with the implication that masters races weren't for a rider of Ian's caliber - he regularly finishes in the money of Cat. 1/2 races. Sandbagger, as in he's taking money intended for somebody else.
You can imagine what kind of shitshow that started.
I've won two races in my entire life - they were both running races when I was 27 years old. Both were very hard to win. In the first one, I came on strong in the last mile and took the guy at the end. In the second, I went from the gun and simply ran away from everybody.
But that doesn't mean it was easy. And I guarantee Ian's win wasn't easy. Winning is never easy - that's why so few people get to do it. I savor those two running wins, because it might not happen again. Ever.
I've seen a few masters criteriums in my time as a bike racer. They're not easy. Take the masters race in Papillion a few weeks ago. Four Cat. 1/2 guys beat the bunch into submission and rode away. Think that was easy? Were they sandbagging?
No, because they fit into the criteria for competing in the race: they were aged 40 years or more. Ian fit into the criterion for his 30-34 races - he's between 30 and 34 years of age. That was the only stipulation. There was no "between 30 and 34 but not if you're a cat. 2 racer or better."
It was just "between 30 and 34." So Ian raced. And he won. I see no problems with that. Moreover, I fail to see how anybody else could have a problem with that.
What say you, Nebraska?
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Because why the hell not?
"Here lies David St. Hubbins ... because why the hell not?"
I'm at a weird kind of fitness level right now — some would call it being on form — where I can pretty much do whatever I want. It's perfect timing, of course, since the road racing season is effectively finished. (Speaking of which, I need to talk to a race promoter sometime. I had myself an idea on the spicy road ride on Saturday.)
Examples? I went for a run on Monday. It was hot. And when EOB and I were making our Tuesday-morning ride plans, he mentioned he had to do a power test. "Sure, I'll tag along for that."
When I last ran two weeks ago, I was sore for a couple of days afterward. It still didn't matter, though — I rode fast the rest of the week. And yesterday? Same deal. In fact, when Eric was done with his test (done, in the most literal way possible) I thought, "Hmmm. I should test right now, too."
Because why the hell not? I mean, it was hot and everything, but I felt OK. Nothing else to do, really.
After a quick wheel change and a quick spin to make sure everything was doing what it was supposed to do, I took off on a 20-minute TT. Oh, and I was on my Cronus CX, because I haven't put the new shifter on the Madone yet. And I had no heart-rate strap and no wattage to look at while I was riding — just the clock. With the exception of the last minute or so, I was rolling it pretty well. That last turn into the wind was tough.
At the end, the average power number was nice. I won't go into what it was, what it means and all of that, because nobody gives a crap about everybody else's power numbers. But it pretty much confirmed I'm on a good roll right now. I guess that's nice.
Today, after an early morning Castelli clinic and a day of selling stuff, I'll kit up and try to go fast again.
Because why the hell not?
I'm at a weird kind of fitness level right now — some would call it being on form — where I can pretty much do whatever I want. It's perfect timing, of course, since the road racing season is effectively finished. (Speaking of which, I need to talk to a race promoter sometime. I had myself an idea on the spicy road ride on Saturday.)
Examples? I went for a run on Monday. It was hot. And when EOB and I were making our Tuesday-morning ride plans, he mentioned he had to do a power test. "Sure, I'll tag along for that."
When I last ran two weeks ago, I was sore for a couple of days afterward. It still didn't matter, though — I rode fast the rest of the week. And yesterday? Same deal. In fact, when Eric was done with his test (done, in the most literal way possible) I thought, "Hmmm. I should test right now, too."
Because why the hell not? I mean, it was hot and everything, but I felt OK. Nothing else to do, really.
After a quick wheel change and a quick spin to make sure everything was doing what it was supposed to do, I took off on a 20-minute TT. Oh, and I was on my Cronus CX, because I haven't put the new shifter on the Madone yet. And I had no heart-rate strap and no wattage to look at while I was riding — just the clock. With the exception of the last minute or so, I was rolling it pretty well. That last turn into the wind was tough.
At the end, the average power number was nice. I won't go into what it was, what it means and all of that, because nobody gives a crap about everybody else's power numbers. But it pretty much confirmed I'm on a good roll right now. I guess that's nice.
Today, after an early morning Castelli clinic and a day of selling stuff, I'll kit up and try to go fast again.
Because why the hell not?
Monday, August 1, 2011
Roads may be (sp)icy
I had a grand plan as to how to spend the rest of the summer on the bike.
I was thinking of taking the week after Omaha easy, keeping it steady after that and then racing in Des Moines on August 13. And then, assuming I had Cat. 3 rider of the year wrapped up (yes, call it the perfect attendance award, Shim), I was going to start doing 'cross stuff.
Racing in Des Moines isn't going to happen. It just isn't. And I don't officially, mathematically have rider of the year wrapped up. (Side note: motivation for winning it is not carrying the title of "best rider," because that's not me — it's the free racing that goes along with it.) Vaughn can still win it, assuming he races and his elbow is still attached. Give me a heads-up on that, will you, Vaughn? I'd rather not race that last road weekend in September if I didn't have to.
And so, with racing off the table until 'cross (probably), it's time to just ride bikes. Brady and I rolled in the wee hours on Saturday and ended up with a bit over 80 miles. I was home around 10:30.
It was an adventure.
Rolling down Fort Street a little after 6, I had my Oakleys stuck in my helmet because it was a bit dark for tinted lenses. Only since I was wearing my Lazer helmet, I had no forward-facing spot for them. So I pointed them backward, since that works OK.
But going 35 or 40 down a hill turns backward-facing Oakleys into sails, and they went flying off my helmet. I heard the skittering of plastic on pavement, hit the brakes and turned around. They landed in the right tire track of the eastbound lane, and I could picture a car coming over the hill and crushing them, even as I was going back for them. (Sound familiar, Jeremy Cook?)
I got lucky, though, and grabbed them before they were eaten up by the early morning traffic. Any other time of the day and they would have been goners.
We cruised through town and set our sights on Glenwood, though we weren't sure we'd be able to get there because of the flooding. (Spoiler: You can get there and back like normal.) A little bit into Council Bluffs, where we had to hop a guard rail and ride against traffic on the shoulder for a mile, we settled in and got moving.
As we were rolling east, a rock kicked off of Brady's wheel and smoked me square on the side of my right ankle — on that nice, round bottom portion of the fibula. It drew no blood — not even a scratch — but it felt like I got hit with a baseball. If you've taken a baseball to the ankle, you'll know what I'm talking about. It's still a little swollen and bruised.
We made it to just fine and headed south out of town. Just before turning off to Pacific Junction, we were the surprise guests at a chicken execution. Or at least we thought that's what it was. I can't think of anything else that would end with a chicken tossed out of a guy's hand, flapping about, while the other hand holds a hatchet.
As we rolled back north along the bluff, we remarked that the crazy anti-Obama guy has added a swastika and a picture of our president with a Hitler mustache to his carnival of crazy. A communist socialist, huh? OK, dude.
On the road back toward the Bellevue toll bridge, we were told to "get off the road." I think that's probably the first time in almost a year that anybody's said anything to me. I'm either lucky (probably) or things are getting better around here. Maybe both?
On our last bit of road before jumping back on the trail by Bellevue, we spotted the sign that inspired the title for this post. Added in spray paint were two letters - sp.
Roads may be spicy, indeed.
I was thinking of taking the week after Omaha easy, keeping it steady after that and then racing in Des Moines on August 13. And then, assuming I had Cat. 3 rider of the year wrapped up (yes, call it the perfect attendance award, Shim), I was going to start doing 'cross stuff.
Racing in Des Moines isn't going to happen. It just isn't. And I don't officially, mathematically have rider of the year wrapped up. (Side note: motivation for winning it is not carrying the title of "best rider," because that's not me — it's the free racing that goes along with it.) Vaughn can still win it, assuming he races and his elbow is still attached. Give me a heads-up on that, will you, Vaughn? I'd rather not race that last road weekend in September if I didn't have to.
And so, with racing off the table until 'cross (probably), it's time to just ride bikes. Brady and I rolled in the wee hours on Saturday and ended up with a bit over 80 miles. I was home around 10:30.
It was an adventure.
Rolling down Fort Street a little after 6, I had my Oakleys stuck in my helmet because it was a bit dark for tinted lenses. Only since I was wearing my Lazer helmet, I had no forward-facing spot for them. So I pointed them backward, since that works OK.
But going 35 or 40 down a hill turns backward-facing Oakleys into sails, and they went flying off my helmet. I heard the skittering of plastic on pavement, hit the brakes and turned around. They landed in the right tire track of the eastbound lane, and I could picture a car coming over the hill and crushing them, even as I was going back for them. (Sound familiar, Jeremy Cook?)
I got lucky, though, and grabbed them before they were eaten up by the early morning traffic. Any other time of the day and they would have been goners.
We cruised through town and set our sights on Glenwood, though we weren't sure we'd be able to get there because of the flooding. (Spoiler: You can get there and back like normal.) A little bit into Council Bluffs, where we had to hop a guard rail and ride against traffic on the shoulder for a mile, we settled in and got moving.
As we were rolling east, a rock kicked off of Brady's wheel and smoked me square on the side of my right ankle — on that nice, round bottom portion of the fibula. It drew no blood — not even a scratch — but it felt like I got hit with a baseball. If you've taken a baseball to the ankle, you'll know what I'm talking about. It's still a little swollen and bruised.
We made it to just fine and headed south out of town. Just before turning off to Pacific Junction, we were the surprise guests at a chicken execution. Or at least we thought that's what it was. I can't think of anything else that would end with a chicken tossed out of a guy's hand, flapping about, while the other hand holds a hatchet.
As we rolled back north along the bluff, we remarked that the crazy anti-Obama guy has added a swastika and a picture of our president with a Hitler mustache to his carnival of crazy. A communist socialist, huh? OK, dude.
On the road back toward the Bellevue toll bridge, we were told to "get off the road." I think that's probably the first time in almost a year that anybody's said anything to me. I'm either lucky (probably) or things are getting better around here. Maybe both?
On our last bit of road before jumping back on the trail by Bellevue, we spotted the sign that inspired the title for this post. Added in spray paint were two letters - sp.
Roads may be spicy, indeed.
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