Do you remember that feeling you used to get when you were a child and you knew you were going to be in trouble? Not just 'trouble' but life ending, seriously deep, capital T-trouble. At the time you were committing whichever atrocity it might have been you knew that if you got caught then that would be the end of you. The fundamentally ominous foreboding experienced at the words, “Wait until your father gets home,” or “Go to your room until I talk to your mother.” Only prisoners on death row dining on their last meals can relate to the sense of knowing terror awaiting the child caught with their hand in the cookie jar; awaiting the inevitable spanking, chewing out or interminable grounding to come.
Riding in today amidst the warmth of the rising sun, a cool 30 morning on this eve of Thanksgiving, I gave thanks. I gave the thanks of a cyclist, the thanks of a child, who knows he is about to be punished. I’m so thankful for all that I’ve been given…and while I’m at it…I’m really sorry too for a whole bunch of stuff and whatever…amen. On the north western horizon of the metro area stands a wall of seriously heavy dark clouds. The blizzard, arriving as promised to the northern and central front range. By nightfall our temperature may be 6 degrees. The winds might be blowing at 30mph. It also might be snowing…or raining frogs…or both, who knows? All I know is that I’ll be on a bike headed westbound at about 4:30pm…preparing to be spanked.
Showing posts with label peculiarities of cycling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label peculiarities of cycling. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Swinging Back
On July 3, 2010 Martin Joel Erzinger, a fund manager for Smith and Barney, ran into visiting New York cyclist Dr. Steven Milo with his Mercedes in Vail, CO. Rather than stopping like a responsible citizen, Erzinger drove home and called--wait for it--the Mercedes Benz body shop to come out and take a look at his wounded car. Meanwhile, Dr. Milo lay on the side of the road with a broken knee, shoulder, spine and brain damage. At least he was in a scenic place to bleed to death. In true salt in the gaping head wound fashion, the Vail District Attorney just announced that they're going to drop felony charges against Erzinger in favor of 2 misdemeanor traffic charges. If, like me, you're a math person then please allow me break it down for you math style otherwise your logic minded brain may struggle to digest this:
Nearly killing someone + Cowardice<=Broken Tail Light + Speeding
Brain damage and cowardice traded for a slap on the wrist because of the clout and power of Erzinger's employer and deep pocket local connections to the well heeled in Vail. Very well done indeed. Apparently big time money managers don't have to play by any of the rules: they can help muddle up Wall Street wrecking our economy and taking our bail out dollars and they can run you off the road and drive off without a second thought...that is unless their precious beemer is somehow tarnished. I for one am planning a career change. I wanna be one of these guys too...it seems so glamorous and thoughtless; like watching Jersey Shore in your underwear all day while eating caviar.
If you doubt me and think that I'm making up such a fanciful fairy tale of blatant stupidity, ignorance and favoritism, please feel free to check out the Vail Daily article. If you check out the link and are as 'mildly annoyed' as I was with the DA's disregard for our injustice system in favor of padding pockets and coddling his fellow rich neighbors, then sign the petition on this site asking that the felony charges not be dropped. Some are even calling for a boycott of the Vail TT stage of the upcoming Quiznos Pro Challenge race as a means of sending a message to the Vail fatcats and bike hating attorneys that this type of under-the-rug-sweeping is not to be tolerated. While I've been to Vail many times and have ridden there on several of those visits I have to say I'm on the fence with this strategy. Vail is a great place to ride both around town on their many paths as well as through the surrounding mountain side trails and mountain pass peak climbs. People in Vail (the real people in Vail not the fake cardboard ones cut out and placed in the windows of $2.5 million dollar vacation homes to make them look occupied in the 'off season') really love their bikes, skis and outdoor environs. They're not the type who'd support a bike bashing, car fixing, head wound causing, felony charge dropping attorney and his havoc causing money manager sidekick. I know from reading some of the forums and comment boards related to this story that the locals are pissed. I too share in their pissed-off-ed-ness.
But this tragedy brings up stark reminders of the other countless examples of the law siding with the driver and not the victim in these car vs. bike encounters, like the story of Kevin Flock who was killed by Aaron Stapleton a Virginia Army Recruiter. Stapleton got off completely with similar wrist slapping (only to be caught driving recklessly 30 days later after running through a fence)...oh yeah Flock, he's still dead at least according to Google. Under no other circumstances can a person do catastrophic and negligent physical harm to another person and face the prospect of easily getting off quite like running over a cyclist with your car...unless of course you're Dick Cheney and you shoot your hunting buddy in the face. As I've said before, our justice system somehow seems to sympathize with, or at least relate to, the trials and complications facing motorists; it 'understands' how such accidents can happen. Silly cyclists shouldn't be on the roads anyway, they're dangerous places what with all the reckless cars driving about on them. When a woman in a large SUV ran over an 11 year old girl riding her bike in her north metro neighborhood she got off because the girl was going the wrong way. It doesn't matter that the driver was on the phone and not paying attention: the stupid wrong way riding child apparently got what she deserved not 3 blocks from her home. What happened to the postal worker who killed Shahram Moghadamnia on 32nd 2.5 miles from my home? Not much from what I could find, and the family's case is bogged down in civil court (its been 2 years); that sounds like good old American justice doesn't it? We all understand, accidents can happen, and yet where's the responsibility for owning one's mistakes should the accident cause severe injury to the victim or be the result of negligence?
Friday, November 5, 2010
Farewell Sunshine
This afternoon I greeted the final rays of daylight savings light with the same knowing of one who knows their last days are nigh. To add insult to injury, the fleeting sunshine carried with it a warmth and comfort more akin to a May evening than an early November one. I concurred with Kate’s sentiment entirely, I could kept on riding as well. Instead, as I climbed the driveway after a long, meandering, detour filled, ride home tonight I turned and looked towards the growing shadows all around me and heading inside turned my back on one more summer. This is a bittersweet time of year. It marks the end of what is generally a hectic season of activity (riding or otherwise) and ushers in the season of long nights inside reflecting and relaxing. On the other hand it marks the onset of a 4 month stint of cold, dark rides home, the roadway illuminated solely by the passing lights of cars and the small lumen output of my CatEye headlight. There’s something isolating and saddening about riding home on a chilly 32 degree night in the dark. The prospect is not something to anticipate with enthusiasm or relish. I enjoy being seen clearly while riding. I enjoy seeing clearly while riding. I don’t exactly enjoy feeling my way dumbly in the dark. But there’s no use hoping against the inevitable; its time to ‘fall back’. So, popping the top off my festive, snowy bike bottle cap on my New Belgium Two Below, I toast the fading light of summer; all hope, warmth and memory saved within their diminishing glow. Here’s to another summer put to rest, and a fine one at that.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Personal Space
Let’s talk about a very touchy subject called: personal space. Outside the scope of certain friends and intimate relations it is generally considered rude in American culture to 'get up in one's grill' in the parlance of our times, or otherwise invade one's personal space. Even without direct contact, the sheer presence of one averse to the fundamental understandings of proximal relationships can make an otherwise normal occurrence very uncomfortable. The close talker, the casual shoulder toucher, the close passer, hand grabber, awkward chest looker...these are all creepy intrusions into the private sphere of personal space. Unless you're standing on a crowded bus, elevator or playing rugby people generally respect boundaries and try not to engage in too much unsolicited bumping, grinding, touching or encroaching.
So with such a well understood concept governing our interactions with strangers walking down the street or pushing our carts at the store, why then do we struggle to apply such courtesies to the road; its a mystery to me. Let's play a little Rorschach style game and try and figure this mystery out if we can.
What do you see here?
Clearly it’s a sign that says “Bike Route”, but what could be meant by this? It might mean…that the designated roadway is--a route for bikes. This would then mean that bikes could be routed along it, which thusly could also mean that people could actually ride their bikes on this surface (and in fact are encouraged to do so.) So if you happen across such a bike propelled by such a person on such a surface designated with such signage, then you should perhaps do your best not to run them over and in missing them narrowly show your disgust at their very presence on the same plane of existance as you with your colorful hand gesturing.
So now, how about this one?
This is a trickier one, while both symbolic and declarative its not entirely specific. “Ahead” is a very vague term in the grander sense of the entire space time continuum. But unless you are Steven Hawking (or his clone), then this sign means that BIKES have a LANE...AHEAD....generally meaning right freakin' there. This would indeed be separate from the normal general use lanes of traffic commonly seen on either sides of the dashed yellow line.
As in this picture for example:
Now clearly the symbols and copious use of paint show us the exact distinction of spaces for use by bicycles (hint: it’s the one with the picture painted on the ground) and the other general use traffic lane (hint: the one without the picture of the bike on the ground). Now you might think that such a sophisticated species with unwritten social mores around personal space would appreciate the actual designation of separate physical spaces as outlined by these markings. And yet not everyone seems to get this. Take this example:
Clearly law is not enough if the business people of the law cannot seem to unravel and decipher its tangled intricacies. How can I expect the average Joe to know the difference? Clearly the half dozen or more Joe's on my ride home from work today really struggled with the concept about as much as the professional law enforcement types depicted above. Well I suppose that’s the crux of it. Taken as a whole, the Bike Route, Bike Lane, Bike Pictures and Solid White Painted Line SHOULD suffice it to say to the general motoring public: STAY OUT OF MY DAMNED PERSONAL SPACE and yet that seems to challenge some who see this congruence of pictures and paint and think: passing lane, turning lane, parking lane, u-turn lane, my lane. Well guess what, its actually MY LANE, so its my space when I’m occupying it. That means get your close talking, shoulder touching, close passing, hand grabbing, chest looking, bike lane driving ass out of it!
So with such a well understood concept governing our interactions with strangers walking down the street or pushing our carts at the store, why then do we struggle to apply such courtesies to the road; its a mystery to me. Let's play a little Rorschach style game and try and figure this mystery out if we can.
What do you see here?
So now, how about this one?
As in this picture for example:
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A Case of the Dundies
"Is that a wadded up pair of boxers in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" Oh no baby its boxers, and you know why??? --cause its Double-Undies Day (Dundies...that's my new word. You heard it here first, add it to your spell check its going to be big...I've been big on firsts lately...maybe its my lack of racing turning me competitive in other, far more mundane, exploits...)
Dundies occurs when its so miserably wet and soggy outside that you get soaked all the way to the core by the time you get to work such that you either end up going ‘sans-culottes’ or you have to cart around another pair of boxers, briefs, panties (or worse) with you. I can’t recall the last time it rained on a commute IN to work. The summer occasionally boasts rainy rides home, generally preferable to the 90+ heat, but the Dundy day is a rarely experienced joy most common to spring and fall. Today it rained, heavy, cold, fat drops my entire ride in to work. Despite my rain jacket and pants, by the time I got to the office I was more or less soaked to the core; the tops of the legs really get the brunt of the rain hence the penetrating sodden condition of one’s boxers. My shoes likely won’t dry out for another day. My socks were still wet and cold when I put them back on for the ride home. My gloves…ditto.
And yet don’t get me wrong: I’m not complaining. A Dundy ride is almost a badge of honor. Ben at work also road in today, so the camaraderie in the bike room this evening was extra heightened; the commiseration in the morning’s dreariness and discussion of best lube for post-rain rejuvenation being the hot topics of conversation. Plus a truly dreary, gray, rain-fest of a morning ride only portends more ominous and inhospitable conditions to come: I love it. Not that I’m a huge fan of winter commuting (especially come April when I’m fed up with it), but right now its novel, new, a sign of the changing of seasons; time to really get down to business. Soon it won’t just be commuting by bike, on some days it almost becomes an exercise in survival or at least coping with wet drawers. So get out the good lube, the Swiss Army knife, those extra boxers and other survival gear; winter’s on its way, time to get ready!
Dundies occurs when its so miserably wet and soggy outside that you get soaked all the way to the core by the time you get to work such that you either end up going ‘sans-culottes’ or you have to cart around another pair of boxers, briefs, panties (or worse) with you. I can’t recall the last time it rained on a commute IN to work. The summer occasionally boasts rainy rides home, generally preferable to the 90+ heat, but the Dundy day is a rarely experienced joy most common to spring and fall. Today it rained, heavy, cold, fat drops my entire ride in to work. Despite my rain jacket and pants, by the time I got to the office I was more or less soaked to the core; the tops of the legs really get the brunt of the rain hence the penetrating sodden condition of one’s boxers. My shoes likely won’t dry out for another day. My socks were still wet and cold when I put them back on for the ride home. My gloves…ditto.
And yet don’t get me wrong: I’m not complaining. A Dundy ride is almost a badge of honor. Ben at work also road in today, so the camaraderie in the bike room this evening was extra heightened; the commiseration in the morning’s dreariness and discussion of best lube for post-rain rejuvenation being the hot topics of conversation. Plus a truly dreary, gray, rain-fest of a morning ride only portends more ominous and inhospitable conditions to come: I love it. Not that I’m a huge fan of winter commuting (especially come April when I’m fed up with it), but right now its novel, new, a sign of the changing of seasons; time to really get down to business. Soon it won’t just be commuting by bike, on some days it almost becomes an exercise in survival or at least coping with wet drawers. So get out the good lube, the Swiss Army knife, those extra boxers and other survival gear; winter’s on its way, time to get ready!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
"Meat loaf beat Loaf. I hate meat loaf."
And to think that I thought my entirely asynchronous interests in bicycles and organic food would never align. Sure there were some connections, but the thread between Zipp wheel-sets and fish emulsion fed veggies is a tenuous one at best; that is until I got on VeloNews this morning.
The story on MSN of all places actually caught my eye before I even got a chance to get to VeloNews to read the real coverage of it: Tour de France champion Alberto Contador tested positive for a scant trace of clenbuterol. The lithe Spanish cycling virtuoso alleges the steroid found its way into his system via contaminated beef that his friends brought him while visiting him on one of the rest days during the tour. And indeed his Yellow Jersey, daily samples confirm that the steroid was not present (even at such microscopic amounts) until this point when it theoretically could have been ingested with his tasty burger or what have you. Head hunters, vigilantes and Lance supporters are clamoring for his ban from the sport, but I could really care less. The significance of such an announcement means so much more to me personally and professionally than anything that could happen to some brilliant bike racer I’ve never met. I’ve now discovered that my mission in life is to market hormone and steroid free meat and veggies as sponsors for continental ProTour cyclists. Finally cycling can resonate with something truly American: prime rib. Mark the time, note the location: this is MY idea.
Picture this: the new Schleck powered Luxembourg team sponsored by some high profile Euro-bank and…Cascadian Farms home of certified organic fruits, veggies and granola. No chemical sprays, poisons or CERA on those lovely leaves. Or how about the new power house: Garmin-Cervelo-USDA Certified Free Range Angus Beef…the team cars could be black and white spotted like a cow! The guy who runs alongside the TDF riders on massive hill climbs with his antler helmet could now be sponsored to wear ‘hook-em’ Texas Long Horn-horns. "Texas the land of beef"…some raised with chemicals like yucky Spanish meat that losers like AC ate (we don’t like losers)…but some is raised in the good, natural way off grass and pasture before the steer is shot with a bolt to the head like in No Country for Old Men. Cue son of Texas…that’s right, the big L.A. himself.
Rather than the gravely voice of Sam Elliot or some other such Hollywood Western namesake, Andy Schleck in his broken English could pitch “Beef…steroid, antibiotic and hormone free that is…its what’s for dinner.” Then he and O’Grady could switch over for Anheuser Busch and ‘pedal’ some of that as they clearly share a need for some good brew (not that AB is good brew per se but we’re talking market share here folks. And when the almighty dollar talks you better believe the cheap beer is flyin’.) This might be the big break that cycling needed; a crack into the meat and potato crowd of American consumers. And speaking of cracking breaks: “Need a little excitement?” Well snap into that Slim Jim says scar faced Jens Voigt and Christian Vandevelde…who lately in grand tours have looked more like snapped Slim Jims than anything. Maybe Hank Williams Junior could work on a new jingle for the Versus, “Are you ready for some time-trial? An early morning tape delayed time-trial…all my rowdy friends are coming over for fat-free low carb salads, whole grain rice, pasta and some freakin TIME TRIAL!!" (Cut to cheerleaders, cause nothing sells men in spandex like women in lingerie; cow walks across the screen led by none other than 4-time Fabian himself.) Holy shit, what NASCAR loving blue-blooded American wouldn’t tune in for that!?!
So AC passes into the mire and skepticism of his second modern-day doping scandal, but through Operacion Puerto-Meato-Oh-No and his plummet from grace he’s opened a great wide door for potential meat fed marketing to just walk right in one hoof at a time. I for one will be there to cash in on that great cow of opportunism and financial boon. I just hope its not tainted with something that gives me indigestion.
The story on MSN of all places actually caught my eye before I even got a chance to get to VeloNews to read the real coverage of it: Tour de France champion Alberto Contador tested positive for a scant trace of clenbuterol. The lithe Spanish cycling virtuoso alleges the steroid found its way into his system via contaminated beef that his friends brought him while visiting him on one of the rest days during the tour. And indeed his Yellow Jersey, daily samples confirm that the steroid was not present (even at such microscopic amounts) until this point when it theoretically could have been ingested with his tasty burger or what have you. Head hunters, vigilantes and Lance supporters are clamoring for his ban from the sport, but I could really care less. The significance of such an announcement means so much more to me personally and professionally than anything that could happen to some brilliant bike racer I’ve never met. I’ve now discovered that my mission in life is to market hormone and steroid free meat and veggies as sponsors for continental ProTour cyclists. Finally cycling can resonate with something truly American: prime rib. Mark the time, note the location: this is MY idea.
Picture this: the new Schleck powered Luxembourg team sponsored by some high profile Euro-bank and…Cascadian Farms home of certified organic fruits, veggies and granola. No chemical sprays, poisons or CERA on those lovely leaves. Or how about the new power house: Garmin-Cervelo-USDA Certified Free Range Angus Beef…the team cars could be black and white spotted like a cow! The guy who runs alongside the TDF riders on massive hill climbs with his antler helmet could now be sponsored to wear ‘hook-em’ Texas Long Horn-horns. "Texas the land of beef"…some raised with chemicals like yucky Spanish meat that losers like AC ate (we don’t like losers)…but some is raised in the good, natural way off grass and pasture before the steer is shot with a bolt to the head like in No Country for Old Men. Cue son of Texas…that’s right, the big L.A. himself.
Rather than the gravely voice of Sam Elliot or some other such Hollywood Western namesake, Andy Schleck in his broken English could pitch “Beef…steroid, antibiotic and hormone free that is…its what’s for dinner.” Then he and O’Grady could switch over for Anheuser Busch and ‘pedal’ some of that as they clearly share a need for some good brew (not that AB is good brew per se but we’re talking market share here folks. And when the almighty dollar talks you better believe the cheap beer is flyin’.) This might be the big break that cycling needed; a crack into the meat and potato crowd of American consumers. And speaking of cracking breaks: “Need a little excitement?” Well snap into that Slim Jim says scar faced Jens Voigt and Christian Vandevelde…who lately in grand tours have looked more like snapped Slim Jims than anything. Maybe Hank Williams Junior could work on a new jingle for the Versus, “Are you ready for some time-trial? An early morning tape delayed time-trial…all my rowdy friends are coming over for fat-free low carb salads, whole grain rice, pasta and some freakin TIME TRIAL!!" (Cut to cheerleaders, cause nothing sells men in spandex like women in lingerie; cow walks across the screen led by none other than 4-time Fabian himself.) Holy shit, what NASCAR loving blue-blooded American wouldn’t tune in for that!?!
So AC passes into the mire and skepticism of his second modern-day doping scandal, but through Operacion Puerto-Meato-Oh-No and his plummet from grace he’s opened a great wide door for potential meat fed marketing to just walk right in one hoof at a time. I for one will be there to cash in on that great cow of opportunism and financial boon. I just hope its not tainted with something that gives me indigestion.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Day 9: CO Monument to Utah Line
Miles traveled: 27.6
Ride Time: 1:36
Avg Speed: 17mph
The Utah and Colorado border along highway 6 lies out in the middle of nowhere marked only by a stone pillar and a cattle guard. The pillar, in true American fashion, has been vandalized by spray paint and shotgun shells. Little is sacred for us these days. But to me this past week has been somewhat of a sacred event, an exploration of physical, mental and emotional limits. No I didn’t climb Everest, and no I didn’t ride across the country, but I did venture out in a spirit of discovery and find new places, meet new people and learn a bit more about myself and my home state.
One gains an intimate appreciation for the landscape traveling by bike. When not racing by at 75mph on an interstate one can appreciate both the largeness and smallness of our more remote places. While many of the little communities along my route are in decline if not outright extinguished, there is a life to these places and a history still vivid in the structures and faces that call them home. I think we take these small places for granted in our rush to convenience and ease, sealing ourselves up inside our small, perfect neighborhoods. A hard scrabble folk still make their living from the land in our country and others, closely tied to this existence, support them by running and maintaining stores and restaurants, shops and services. These small communities are ones of a quaint interconnectedness. People who still say good morning and wave as they drive by, who know each other by name and have a general concern, if not direct dependency, on each other’s well being. There’s a lack of anonymity in these smaller communities, which makes it harder to hide as well as harder to avoid the interpersonal contact one has with everyone else in the town. That person you snub or cut off on the road may very well be the person teaching your child or ringing up your groceries. Its harder to just brush off the casual stranger as someone you will never meet again, and in that sense an accepting welcome greets those who would take the time to head out of their way and venture into these rural locales. For those who drop the pretense and sense of expectation, one can find a more rewarding destination in a small community than in some 5 star hotel or resort. And yet for all the smallness of the back corners of this state there are great vast expanses to behold as well.
The enormity of our great mountain ranges, the vastness of our plains really only sinks in when physically confronted by them. The landscape of Colorado is formidable and at times hostile, yet it offers a rich and diverse range of scenes and climates for everyone to explore. I started on the plains, traveled through great wide, dry hills to stony mountains cut by roaring streams. I climbed high peaks and saw the ferocity of the high plateaus and windswept valleys and have now descended down to red rock desert vistas and sweeping prairie of tumbleweed and junipers. I saw all these things and soaked them in over a single week of pedaling my bike.
I don’t know all that I have gained from this experience on a personal level. There is a tremendous amount of physical accomplishment and understanding at what all I can endure and persevere. But there’s also a point at which the noise and distraction in my head finally shut off and quieted itself. I don’t know at what point this occurred, perhaps when being baked by the sun on the plains near La Junta, or battered by the winds in canyons and valleys towards Gunnison or maybe it was the cold and wet of Kebler that wrung it out; in any case it eventually stopped. And this noise, this incessant chatter which continually provides the background track for my thoughts left in its absence a calmness. Last night sitting out under the stars in the cool wind of Colorado Monument my head and my thoughts were clear and simple. No anxiety for the future, no questioning of decisions in the past. Just a cool wind and wide open sky. I know that as soon as I delve back into the ‘real’ world of obligations, expectations, anticipations and stress my thoughts will again cloud over with self-conscious chatter and obsession; my compulsiveness fed by an unsettled state of being. And yet perhaps when this starts to happen I’ll think back to that night on the red rock with all on earth at that moment exposed and opened wide to the star filled heavens. And I will contemplate the lone serenity of that cool, desert night and I will remember. With the impressions of this trip so richly felt and intimately experienced, in truth I believe it will be difficult to forget.
Ride Time: 1:36
Avg Speed: 17mph
The Utah and Colorado border along highway 6 lies out in the middle of nowhere marked only by a stone pillar and a cattle guard. The pillar, in true American fashion, has been vandalized by spray paint and shotgun shells. Little is sacred for us these days. But to me this past week has been somewhat of a sacred event, an exploration of physical, mental and emotional limits. No I didn’t climb Everest, and no I didn’t ride across the country, but I did venture out in a spirit of discovery and find new places, meet new people and learn a bit more about myself and my home state.
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| My cyclist flag and manifesto to motorists. |
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Rumors and Hearsay
Spoked has definitely been offline for much of the summer. And with any hiatus or departure from the public eye, gossip begins to spread and rumors grow. So in the interest of rekindling my intimate relationship with all you wonderful bike loving, blog reading folk I thought I’d enter the confessional booth and say my Hail Mary’s and Hello Dolly‘s. I’ll try to address all of the speculation and rampant rumor mongering to cut off many of these ill-truths and falsehoods at the head.
Do you even still ride a bike any more? I heard you quit.
Well don’t believe everything that you hear. Of course I ride my bike…all the time. I still get around town on my trusty Surly and have racked up over 3,500 miles on it since Feb. (Don’t pay attention to that there odometer to the right just yet, I’ve not sorted it out.) I’ve enjoyed riding to work around the 2 dozen detours and construction projects which have made my commute an exercise in backtracking and circumlocution.
Well do you race? I heard you quit.
Well don’t believe everything that you hear….ok this one is more or less true. I did: I raced. I raced this season (like 4-5 times) and that was that. I don’t train. I don’t measure my food, weigh myself in the morning each day, and check my resting heart rate when I get up before I pee and then weigh myself again. I don’t name my days of the week: interval, hill repeat, recovery, active recovery, LSD, race-day. They’re back to Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday etc. I just couldn’t find the mojo to get it working for racing this year. While I miss hanging out with my team I don’t miss the second job…amateur bike racing. I now enjoy my bike and when I want to park it, I enjoy parking it.
Have you secretly been using your bike as a tool to invoke a communist, UN led revolution here in Colorado?
Sort of…that’s about all I’ll say. You can thank Dan Maes for ruining that one though: if it weren’t for that pesky kook-pot, tin-foil hat republican, and his dog too (reread that last bit and think about Scooby Doo…it makes this quasi true story much, much better.)
What happened to the Dick?
Well the Dick finally got caught. Alas I was not the one to catch him, but I did hear all about the tale and will be updating you all on that fantastic sea-yarn very shortly. It involves a harpoon, a stakeout, and the Wheatridge PO.
What about the trip across CO?
Oh yeah baby what about it? Its happenin’…next weekend. I’ve actually been training for this event over the past month or so with several preparation rides and other bouts of prolonged suffering on my heavy bike with bags full of heavy stuff. I’m heading out to the eastern border Thursday night and then I’m going to guide my Surly LHT westward to the CO border near Fruita. While I’m out there I might just mountain bike my Surly with all its pannier weight on some sweet Fruita single track…or I might just drink some wine and pass out instead. Who knows? I’m gearing up for this ride so I’ll be posting all my ride details, experiences and in’s and out’s on this here blog. Just stay posted.
Did Elin hit you with a golf club too when you told her all about Tiger?
No, she was pretty grateful to find out about her DB husband. I won’t see any of that cash though which is a bummer, I thought we had something real special…like a connection or something.
So what’s new in bikes?
Nothing. It is still a simple, gear driven, human propelled machine. It’s the most efficient method of human conveyance. I think they make them out of aluminum now though which is pretty cool.
Any funny commuter stories?
Well I was riding home from work the other day and I got passed by this racer, all kitted up for his weekday afternoon glory. He passed me at the light at Pierce heading up the hill before Wadsworth and then made a big acceleration up to the light. But he stalled! He kind of looked back and then down at his bike. His SRAM doubletap failed him and he dropped his heavy, sponsor laden chain like a CAT 4 amateur in a Pink Floyd jersey. I smoked him after that, laughing all the way to Paris…oh wait. Did that really happen? Now who’s spreading rumors?
Well I think that covers it for now. And you know what? I feel much better. Don’t you?
Do you even still ride a bike any more? I heard you quit.
Well don’t believe everything that you hear. Of course I ride my bike…all the time. I still get around town on my trusty Surly and have racked up over 3,500 miles on it since Feb. (Don’t pay attention to that there odometer to the right just yet, I’ve not sorted it out.) I’ve enjoyed riding to work around the 2 dozen detours and construction projects which have made my commute an exercise in backtracking and circumlocution.
Well do you race? I heard you quit.
Well don’t believe everything that you hear….ok this one is more or less true. I did: I raced. I raced this season (like 4-5 times) and that was that. I don’t train. I don’t measure my food, weigh myself in the morning each day, and check my resting heart rate when I get up before I pee and then weigh myself again. I don’t name my days of the week: interval, hill repeat, recovery, active recovery, LSD, race-day. They’re back to Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday etc. I just couldn’t find the mojo to get it working for racing this year. While I miss hanging out with my team I don’t miss the second job…amateur bike racing. I now enjoy my bike and when I want to park it, I enjoy parking it.
Have you secretly been using your bike as a tool to invoke a communist, UN led revolution here in Colorado?
Sort of…that’s about all I’ll say. You can thank Dan Maes for ruining that one though: if it weren’t for that pesky kook-pot, tin-foil hat republican, and his dog too (reread that last bit and think about Scooby Doo…it makes this quasi true story much, much better.)
What happened to the Dick?
Well the Dick finally got caught. Alas I was not the one to catch him, but I did hear all about the tale and will be updating you all on that fantastic sea-yarn very shortly. It involves a harpoon, a stakeout, and the Wheatridge PO.
What about the trip across CO?
Oh yeah baby what about it? Its happenin’…next weekend. I’ve actually been training for this event over the past month or so with several preparation rides and other bouts of prolonged suffering on my heavy bike with bags full of heavy stuff. I’m heading out to the eastern border Thursday night and then I’m going to guide my Surly LHT westward to the CO border near Fruita. While I’m out there I might just mountain bike my Surly with all its pannier weight on some sweet Fruita single track…or I might just drink some wine and pass out instead. Who knows? I’m gearing up for this ride so I’ll be posting all my ride details, experiences and in’s and out’s on this here blog. Just stay posted.
Did Elin hit you with a golf club too when you told her all about Tiger?
No, she was pretty grateful to find out about her DB husband. I won’t see any of that cash though which is a bummer, I thought we had something real special…like a connection or something.
So what’s new in bikes?
Nothing. It is still a simple, gear driven, human propelled machine. It’s the most efficient method of human conveyance. I think they make them out of aluminum now though which is pretty cool.
Any funny commuter stories?
Well I was riding home from work the other day and I got passed by this racer, all kitted up for his weekday afternoon glory. He passed me at the light at Pierce heading up the hill before Wadsworth and then made a big acceleration up to the light. But he stalled! He kind of looked back and then down at his bike. His SRAM doubletap failed him and he dropped his heavy, sponsor laden chain like a CAT 4 amateur in a Pink Floyd jersey. I smoked him after that, laughing all the way to Paris…oh wait. Did that really happen? Now who’s spreading rumors?
Well I think that covers it for now. And you know what? I feel much better. Don’t you?
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Cyclists break all kinds of laws and I've had it
Police in Boulder Colorado are currently on the watch for a cyclist with shaved legs who stole some coffee and maybe some cash from a Boulder coffee shop. This actually made local news here in Denver…at least the web versions of it (aren't we still fighting a war or something, dumping oil into the ocean and our economy's in the shitter?) But I have to say I’m quite pleased with the due attention this important case was given by our great local media sources. Consider this my Crime Stoppers tip of the week: we’ve got to find this shaved legged, bike riding, coffee thieving bastard. Some of you have probably heard my rants about cyclists running stop lights and acting like lawless brigands, giving the rest of us decent upstanding bike riders a bad name. That running stop signs crap is child's play compared to this most recent lawlessness. Just think about it, now when Miranda or Randal go to Starbucks to get that 3rd grande latte of the day before climbing back into their Cadillac SUV for the trek to little Johnny or Madeline’s soccer game, they’re now going to eye the cyclist standing outside the door with undue suspicion. They’re going to scan down to see if the legs are indeed shaved. They’ll hold their latte tighter, pressing their sweaty palm firmly against the cardboard insulator...they might even burn themselves a bit. Their heart will start to race, and it won’t be due to the caffeine or complex sugars coursing through their system. It will be panic, or rage or smugness, or all three take your pick. They might frantically tell their child to get back in the safety of their car: cars are very safe. They’ll whisper to Karen from pilates about the shorn legged, Chrome bagged hipster at the door mysteriously eying the skinny, half-caff, no-foam cappu being whipped up by Devon behind the counter. Hell, they might even start packing heat, and they sure as freakin' hell won’t give 3 feet to pass now that one of ’us’ has started ripping off their damned fancy coffee drinks!!! Oh shaved legged coffee bandit you’ve gone too far! You’ve woken the sleeping giant by poking its slovenly gut with a knuckle tatted fist and track-standing on its thoughtless head. I hope the cops find you and punish you to the fullest extent of the law. You will pay that $3.75 and you will be made an example of; through your punishment we cyclists will all find redemption…like Morgan Freeman and the white guy from that prison movie. I for one will not be able to shave my legs until you are caught, road rash and stubble be damned…plus I nabbed a bagel the other day and I hope that if the bagel shop catches on they’ll pin that crap on you.
Viva La Revolution…700c’s going round and round and round….
Happy Saturday from Denver...its smooth legged, cycling anarchy out here...sweet!
Viva La Revolution…700c’s going round and round and round….
Happy Saturday from Denver...its smooth legged, cycling anarchy out here...sweet!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Have Bike, Will Travel
Although we moved around a couple times growing up, I consider Kirkwood, MO to be my childhood home. A quiet suburb of St. Louis, Kirkwood offers all of the charms and comforts of small community living with the connectedness to the broader St. Louis area which makes it so desirable. Good schools, parks, shopping, and a rich local history all combine to make Kirkwood a highly sought after place to live. As is typical in such locations, small neighborhood homes occupying spacious lots often find themselves purchased cheaply and then razed to make room for McMansions and other tacky displays of ostentation. If you were to go by our old home at 602 Pamela Lane you’d see this sign of progress in action. The small, blue 1950’s ranch with black shutters and basketball hoop no longer occupies center stage of the large lot framed by twin silver maples, there’s a monstrosity in its place now. I even think the maples are gone.
So with this new suburban trash moving in and devastating the character of the neighborhood to make room for their garage-mahals, I cannot speak to the quality of the community today. I can say that the cul-de-sac community of families, working folks and seniors made for an ideal place to grow up a couple decades ago. One of three long, deadend lanes, Pamela sat on the boarder of Kirkwood and an even more exclusive west county community. Yet for all the wealth and splendor of the blocks surrounding it, the cluster of homes on these three streets were all more or less the same; simple mid-century ranches with spacious lawns and healthy mature trees. The ‘black path’, so named for its crumbling asphalt, spanned the back side of the three streets and led to the elementary school not a mile or so away. Given our proximity to school and the relative safety of our neighborhood we grew up first as walkers. We walked to school each morning at 8:00 and when the bell rang at 3:00 we walked home. I think we walked from 1st grade, shepherded by the 5th grade crossing guards and an occasional parent. The Pott’s kids, Matt Plank, Jimmy Humphreys and several others usually accompanied my brother and I as we made our daily trek home from Westchester Elementary, backpacks and lunchboxes flopping around as we went. On weekends and during the summer though our walking turned to riding. As cliché as it may be to say it, in our small neighborhood a bike was your passport.
I can remember my first bike. It was a red and white Huffy. It had a red foam top tube and handlebar pad. It was a gift from Santa Clause, and probably the best he ever came up with. I can picture myself flailing away on that little bike, trying to keep up with the bigger kids in the neighborhood, Danny Plank and the two Albers boys all three of which were several years older than I. Our street climbed the entire length from Geyer Road at the bottom to the circle at the top. We rode up and down it, perhaps a half mile in length, often racing each way. Sometimes we rode down through everyone’s backyards; few had fences and since most of the homes had kids it seemed ok to race down the hills and over the roots of trees without too much concern for property or privacy. The Albers boys were eventually replaced by the Tomasinos who had two girls, but we rode through their back yard still anyway. You could generally always tell where everyone was on a given afternoon by the pile of bikes at the end of the driveway. It was not uncommon on a good football or baseball day to see a half dozen or so ten speeds and bmx bikes in a pile on someone’s lawn. I think it made us easy to find when we happened to be out later than curfew.
The highlight of growing up had to be 3rd grade when they let you ride your bike to school. Westchester had a bike storage area adjacent to the gym by the ‘big kids‘ playground. Generally filled on a nice autumn or spring day, everyone in the surrounding neighborhoods could access a quiet residential street or back alley path to get to school. Once I got older this interconnected web of paths and streets presented an opportunity to wander even farther from home. I’d love to go back in time and add up the miles of neighborhood streets I traveled. I knew every street and path from our home all the way to Ballas Road easily a couple miles away. I don’t know if my parents even realized how far we went at times. Since we avoided any major streets it seemed safe enough and certainly not worth illustrating in any revealing detail.
My first road bike was a black Murray 10 speed. I got a Domino’s pizza cycling hat from a Cub Scout event and wore it for an entire summer until the brim eventually came off of it. This was the era of Lemond and I’d seen his narrow time trial victory on Wide World of Sports and I thought bike racing was fantastic. I could race my bike too. The surrounding hills became Alps and every ride was a sprint and charge through each turn. Heading home one drizzly afternoon while in middle school I charged through a turn a little too pro-style and ended up in the emergency room with a broken wrist. Certainly not my first bike crash (and definitely not my last) my knees and shins still bare the scars from cycling antics gone awry: going over the handlebars after hitting my brother’s wheel while trying to scare him by riding right at him--he moved, or hitting a manhole in the field by the middle school with Jack Kramer--he got the worst of it when one of his spokes went into his leg. Bike riding in those carefree, helmet-less days certainly was hazardous, but we could have been doing worse things I suppose.
While I can remember several fascinating and rewarding aspects of Boy Scouts, one of the highlights has to be the bicycling merit badge activities. I took a trip with the troop and my dad and we went out to Defiance and rode the Katy trail to St. Charles and back: very ironic that my family would later move out to that picturesque area. It was a 50 mile day and at the time my longest ride to date. We climbed some real hills, and as a scrawny boy saw the true advantage of my lightweight physique. I could never be a linebacker but I could climb a hill on a bike like nobody’s business. We also did a ride from Westchester Elementary down to Forest Park in St. Louis. I can clearly recall the moment where I realized that all the places I’d been in a car could easily be connected up and reached by bike. I’d been to Forest Park dozens of times but as a 12 or 13 year old, never under my own power. We could climb the tree at the Plank’s house and see the skyscrapers around Clayton on a clear fall day. After that bike trip, I’d climb the tree just to see how far I’d ridden.
And today I sit on bench at a campground northwest of Fort Collins, Colorado at the mouth of Poudre Canyon. As I type I look up at the blue Surly Long Haul Trucker resting against a fence across from me. My bike is still my passport. Today it brought me safely north over hills and country roads, more than 75 miles from my home. And tomorrow when I wake up I’ll climb back on the saddle and it will take me somewhere else. I’ve come a long way from the days of red Huffys, but that same excitement still remains; have bike, will travel.
So with this new suburban trash moving in and devastating the character of the neighborhood to make room for their garage-mahals, I cannot speak to the quality of the community today. I can say that the cul-de-sac community of families, working folks and seniors made for an ideal place to grow up a couple decades ago. One of three long, deadend lanes, Pamela sat on the boarder of Kirkwood and an even more exclusive west county community. Yet for all the wealth and splendor of the blocks surrounding it, the cluster of homes on these three streets were all more or less the same; simple mid-century ranches with spacious lawns and healthy mature trees. The ‘black path’, so named for its crumbling asphalt, spanned the back side of the three streets and led to the elementary school not a mile or so away. Given our proximity to school and the relative safety of our neighborhood we grew up first as walkers. We walked to school each morning at 8:00 and when the bell rang at 3:00 we walked home. I think we walked from 1st grade, shepherded by the 5th grade crossing guards and an occasional parent. The Pott’s kids, Matt Plank, Jimmy Humphreys and several others usually accompanied my brother and I as we made our daily trek home from Westchester Elementary, backpacks and lunchboxes flopping around as we went. On weekends and during the summer though our walking turned to riding. As cliché as it may be to say it, in our small neighborhood a bike was your passport.
I can remember my first bike. It was a red and white Huffy. It had a red foam top tube and handlebar pad. It was a gift from Santa Clause, and probably the best he ever came up with. I can picture myself flailing away on that little bike, trying to keep up with the bigger kids in the neighborhood, Danny Plank and the two Albers boys all three of which were several years older than I. Our street climbed the entire length from Geyer Road at the bottom to the circle at the top. We rode up and down it, perhaps a half mile in length, often racing each way. Sometimes we rode down through everyone’s backyards; few had fences and since most of the homes had kids it seemed ok to race down the hills and over the roots of trees without too much concern for property or privacy. The Albers boys were eventually replaced by the Tomasinos who had two girls, but we rode through their back yard still anyway. You could generally always tell where everyone was on a given afternoon by the pile of bikes at the end of the driveway. It was not uncommon on a good football or baseball day to see a half dozen or so ten speeds and bmx bikes in a pile on someone’s lawn. I think it made us easy to find when we happened to be out later than curfew.
The highlight of growing up had to be 3rd grade when they let you ride your bike to school. Westchester had a bike storage area adjacent to the gym by the ‘big kids‘ playground. Generally filled on a nice autumn or spring day, everyone in the surrounding neighborhoods could access a quiet residential street or back alley path to get to school. Once I got older this interconnected web of paths and streets presented an opportunity to wander even farther from home. I’d love to go back in time and add up the miles of neighborhood streets I traveled. I knew every street and path from our home all the way to Ballas Road easily a couple miles away. I don’t know if my parents even realized how far we went at times. Since we avoided any major streets it seemed safe enough and certainly not worth illustrating in any revealing detail.
My first road bike was a black Murray 10 speed. I got a Domino’s pizza cycling hat from a Cub Scout event and wore it for an entire summer until the brim eventually came off of it. This was the era of Lemond and I’d seen his narrow time trial victory on Wide World of Sports and I thought bike racing was fantastic. I could race my bike too. The surrounding hills became Alps and every ride was a sprint and charge through each turn. Heading home one drizzly afternoon while in middle school I charged through a turn a little too pro-style and ended up in the emergency room with a broken wrist. Certainly not my first bike crash (and definitely not my last) my knees and shins still bare the scars from cycling antics gone awry: going over the handlebars after hitting my brother’s wheel while trying to scare him by riding right at him--he moved, or hitting a manhole in the field by the middle school with Jack Kramer--he got the worst of it when one of his spokes went into his leg. Bike riding in those carefree, helmet-less days certainly was hazardous, but we could have been doing worse things I suppose.
While I can remember several fascinating and rewarding aspects of Boy Scouts, one of the highlights has to be the bicycling merit badge activities. I took a trip with the troop and my dad and we went out to Defiance and rode the Katy trail to St. Charles and back: very ironic that my family would later move out to that picturesque area. It was a 50 mile day and at the time my longest ride to date. We climbed some real hills, and as a scrawny boy saw the true advantage of my lightweight physique. I could never be a linebacker but I could climb a hill on a bike like nobody’s business. We also did a ride from Westchester Elementary down to Forest Park in St. Louis. I can clearly recall the moment where I realized that all the places I’d been in a car could easily be connected up and reached by bike. I’d been to Forest Park dozens of times but as a 12 or 13 year old, never under my own power. We could climb the tree at the Plank’s house and see the skyscrapers around Clayton on a clear fall day. After that bike trip, I’d climb the tree just to see how far I’d ridden.
And today I sit on bench at a campground northwest of Fort Collins, Colorado at the mouth of Poudre Canyon. As I type I look up at the blue Surly Long Haul Trucker resting against a fence across from me. My bike is still my passport. Today it brought me safely north over hills and country roads, more than 75 miles from my home. And tomorrow when I wake up I’ll climb back on the saddle and it will take me somewhere else. I’ve come a long way from the days of red Huffys, but that same excitement still remains; have bike, will travel.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
With a little help from my friends
Usually when I spy a race slick tire coming up alongside me on my commutes I figure I’m most assuredly about to get “schooled.” Sometimes these riders just blow by, unencumbered by the weight of a full pannier and hefty touring bike. Other times they think they’re going to blow by but actually end up stalling out in front of me at a hill or other such obstacle. I find the latter group a bit more annoying than the first. You can’t blame someone for passing a slow moving vehicle, but you can blame them for becoming one in return.
Today I’d gone out to our office on the northeast side of Denver. When I left work the morning’s benevolent tailwind now met me head on as I slogged my way westward. In addition to the wind I found myself in a somewhat sour mood. Riding downtown, which I don’t do too often, I’d been buzzed, honked at, flipped off and passed while stopped at a light by a cyclist who thought it more prudent to just run it. Deep down inside I hold him partially accountable for the buzzing and honking culture I have to contend with. I was annoyed and each gust of the 30+mph headwind only egged on my sense of annoyance. Can I just say that on a particularly windy day it is especially insulting to ride by those “Your Current Speed Is: “ displays, only to have your whopping 14mph speed displayed in bright yellow brilliance for all the world to see. So when the light changed at Sheridan and 26th and I heard the tell-tale sign of Keo’s clicking behind me I thought for sure I knew what to expect next. In truth fate did not disappoint and just passing the Burger King I caught the approach of skinny tires out of the corner of my eye. However, when the rider passed me today he quickly slid back over and said, “I’ll pull for a while.”
Dumbstruck but comfortably in the safety of the draft my speed increased dramatically and I breathed easier. I sat in for a while and then took a pull up to the light at Wadsworth. I never caught the rider’s name. He was commuting home from work as well with his gear in a Timbuktu messenger bag. He was new to the area having recently come back to Denver from Spokane. He rode a Specialized. He had an optimistic view of the weather and the impending change back to cold and rain due in the latter half of the week. I enjoyed swapping pulls with him and shooting the breeze…no pun intended. I arrived home more refreshed than I would have if I’d made the trek alone, and I was in much better spirits having shared the suffering with another rider. Sometimes it is nice to be out on the open road, enjoying the solitude of the ride and the peace of your own thoughts as company. And yet when the headwinds are a blowin’ and the horns a honkin’ its almost always better riding with a friend; even one you‘ve just met and may never see again. But if I do see him again he’s definitely got a wheel. I owe him that much.
Today I’d gone out to our office on the northeast side of Denver. When I left work the morning’s benevolent tailwind now met me head on as I slogged my way westward. In addition to the wind I found myself in a somewhat sour mood. Riding downtown, which I don’t do too often, I’d been buzzed, honked at, flipped off and passed while stopped at a light by a cyclist who thought it more prudent to just run it. Deep down inside I hold him partially accountable for the buzzing and honking culture I have to contend with. I was annoyed and each gust of the 30+mph headwind only egged on my sense of annoyance. Can I just say that on a particularly windy day it is especially insulting to ride by those “Your Current Speed Is: “ displays, only to have your whopping 14mph speed displayed in bright yellow brilliance for all the world to see. So when the light changed at Sheridan and 26th and I heard the tell-tale sign of Keo’s clicking behind me I thought for sure I knew what to expect next. In truth fate did not disappoint and just passing the Burger King I caught the approach of skinny tires out of the corner of my eye. However, when the rider passed me today he quickly slid back over and said, “I’ll pull for a while.”
Dumbstruck but comfortably in the safety of the draft my speed increased dramatically and I breathed easier. I sat in for a while and then took a pull up to the light at Wadsworth. I never caught the rider’s name. He was commuting home from work as well with his gear in a Timbuktu messenger bag. He was new to the area having recently come back to Denver from Spokane. He rode a Specialized. He had an optimistic view of the weather and the impending change back to cold and rain due in the latter half of the week. I enjoyed swapping pulls with him and shooting the breeze…no pun intended. I arrived home more refreshed than I would have if I’d made the trek alone, and I was in much better spirits having shared the suffering with another rider. Sometimes it is nice to be out on the open road, enjoying the solitude of the ride and the peace of your own thoughts as company. And yet when the headwinds are a blowin’ and the horns a honkin’ its almost always better riding with a friend; even one you‘ve just met and may never see again. But if I do see him again he’s definitely got a wheel. I owe him that much.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Lookout...the end
On the 12th day of Lookout, the mountain sent to me: 12 days of climbing...
Today actually summarized my entire Lookout climbing escapade over the past two weeks. I woke up this morning and it was snowing. Later the snow turned to rain. Then by the time I headed home to face the dreaded mountain for the last time it was sunny and pleasant. Once I started riding pleasant turned quickly to windy and cold. It was like reliving the past 12 days all at once...at least meteorologically speaking.
I'm not sure what exactly was gained by riding Lookout Mountain 12 days in a row. I certainly don't know if I'm any more or less prepared for Saturday's race than before I started. I'm sure I am... However at this point I feel strangely like I'm back in school...feverishly studying for a test, living solely off of orange soda, Doritos and Pez; its 2:24am and I've hit that point where you realize nothing more will go into your brain. I've done all the climb-cramming my legs will hold without crossing the line into severe overtraining. I'm definitely over trained...just not severely so quite yet. With the jury still out on the effectiveness of last minute hyper training, I can say that I've enjoyed the experience regardless of my fate on Saturday. My mental block on training seems to have dissipated. Having a goal helped me focus enough to start riding with more regularity and push my fitness levels more than when I was just piddling around avoiding the subject. I worked through some of my descending issues, and at least now on Lookout I feel like I'm close to descending and cornering with the same level of confidence I had last year.
I think I also realized some things about my riding. I certainly enjoy my opportunities to ride to work each day, but beyond that I enjoy being out on my bike (especially when its not taking me to work.) At some point, even during the crappiest of riding days there's always that moment where you feel like a kid again. When your bike was your passport to new places and adventure. You could get on your bike and take off on your own for a while, cruise down hills, pedal hard and never know quite where you'd end up. While I knew at least for the past two weeks that I'd generally end up at Lookout at some point, there was always that moment: I'd feel gravity sweep my bike and pull it through a turn; I'd experience that first push of tail wind driving me faster; that instant where the sun pulls from behind a cloud and returns warmth to cold extremities. Damn, cycling is fun...even after 12 days of climbing its still fun.
So after a nice soak in the tub with some Epsom salts and after a bit of work on the legs with the recovery stick, I should feel right as rain again. And there's no climbing tomorrow so that will be a relief. To sum up the nuts and bolts of my experience here's some Lookout Stats:
Days of Climbing: 12
Trips Up and Down the Mountain: 14
Miles of Lookout Climbing: 63
Miles of Lookout Descending: 63 (I know that's some pretty hard math)
Total Miles on Lookout: 126
Total Miles To and From, Up and Down etc: 314
Miles of cheating due to driving out one rainy day in the Vanagon: 16
Today actually summarized my entire Lookout climbing escapade over the past two weeks. I woke up this morning and it was snowing. Later the snow turned to rain. Then by the time I headed home to face the dreaded mountain for the last time it was sunny and pleasant. Once I started riding pleasant turned quickly to windy and cold. It was like reliving the past 12 days all at once...at least meteorologically speaking.
I'm not sure what exactly was gained by riding Lookout Mountain 12 days in a row. I certainly don't know if I'm any more or less prepared for Saturday's race than before I started. I'm sure I am... However at this point I feel strangely like I'm back in school...feverishly studying for a test, living solely off of orange soda, Doritos and Pez; its 2:24am and I've hit that point where you realize nothing more will go into your brain. I've done all the climb-cramming my legs will hold without crossing the line into severe overtraining. I'm definitely over trained...just not severely so quite yet. With the jury still out on the effectiveness of last minute hyper training, I can say that I've enjoyed the experience regardless of my fate on Saturday. My mental block on training seems to have dissipated. Having a goal helped me focus enough to start riding with more regularity and push my fitness levels more than when I was just piddling around avoiding the subject. I worked through some of my descending issues, and at least now on Lookout I feel like I'm close to descending and cornering with the same level of confidence I had last year.
I think I also realized some things about my riding. I certainly enjoy my opportunities to ride to work each day, but beyond that I enjoy being out on my bike (especially when its not taking me to work.) At some point, even during the crappiest of riding days there's always that moment where you feel like a kid again. When your bike was your passport to new places and adventure. You could get on your bike and take off on your own for a while, cruise down hills, pedal hard and never know quite where you'd end up. While I knew at least for the past two weeks that I'd generally end up at Lookout at some point, there was always that moment: I'd feel gravity sweep my bike and pull it through a turn; I'd experience that first push of tail wind driving me faster; that instant where the sun pulls from behind a cloud and returns warmth to cold extremities. Damn, cycling is fun...even after 12 days of climbing its still fun.
So after a nice soak in the tub with some Epsom salts and after a bit of work on the legs with the recovery stick, I should feel right as rain again. And there's no climbing tomorrow so that will be a relief. To sum up the nuts and bolts of my experience here's some Lookout Stats:
Days of Climbing: 12
Trips Up and Down the Mountain: 14
Miles of Lookout Climbing: 63
Miles of Lookout Descending: 63 (I know that's some pretty hard math)
Total Miles on Lookout: 126
Total Miles To and From, Up and Down etc: 314
Miles of cheating due to driving out one rainy day in the Vanagon: 16
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Lookout You Just Got Served
One thing I’ve come to truly appreciate after my 11th day of riding Lookout is this: people on bikes love to race. Sure not everyone on a bike wants to race or likes the idea of racing. But when standing around the parking lot at the base of Lookout (as I did yesterday for a while) one picks up on some interesting conversations. People get keyed up to ride their bikes and everyone deep down wants to feel like a superstar. And so yes, while it may seem surprising, the mid 40’s woman replete with jacket tied around waist, riding the hybrid comfort bike is also very interested in her finish her and place within the pecking order of the band of cyclist comrades she will accompany up the hill. Other riders just wear their race-obsession on their sleeves for everyone to see.
This is particularly apparent with the 20-30 something male, out to somehow prove how exceptionally strong he is against everyone else on the hill. And if you happen to be wearing a team kit of some kind, you might as well have a target on your back. You are the yardstick that this ambitious foe would love to measure himself against. I’ve seen dozens of these Tuesday night racers on my rides up Lookout over the past week. Lookout on a good day is crawling with these hammer heads. And yet while there’s some great competition to be had on Lookout, one must be careful not to bite off more than they can chew. Here are two examples:
On Sunday while cruising out to Lookout I came across some 20 something guy on a Specialized, rocking his Assos or Castelli (I don’t recall) jersey and shorts just like the guy in the advertisement. He was moving well enough. I came around him on one of the hills heading into Golden, said my hellos and spun onward. Hitting the second light at Washington and 13th in Golden my new friend pulled right up behind me in a huff. The light turned and he was a mess of hasty clipping and shifting: I suppose I’d been served. We didn’t take the same route up through the School of Mines but as luck would have it I encountered him again at the light crossing to begin the climb up to the infamous Lookout pillars. Now, for as tough as Lookout is on its own, the climb up to the actual parking area, while short, is equally tough: straight up a steep grade. My new race buddy had something to show and took off, leaving the collection of riders also waiting at the light in the dust. He probably toasted himself on this initial hill…but that’s jumping ahead a bit.
My goal for the day was to put in a sustained, consistent effort up Lookout pushing a big gear and then spin my way up around Boettcher to recover before heading out to 40 and down to other locales for more climbing. I had this plan before I finished my pancakes at breakfast. I wanted to put in some miles and get a hill workout in, so that’s what I settled on for the day. Nearing the pillars the grade eases. I shifted into my big ring and started grinding onward. A little sustained power, big gear equals adequate speed. Lo and behold a quarter mile up the road I came across my friend, weaving and passing riders, flailing his knees and putting the hammer down on those unsuspecting, weak bastards. As I neared him I simply slid over to the middle of the road and passed. From behind I could hear a flurry of shifting and heavy breathing. This persisted until the mile and a half point where it became eerily quiet. That was the last I heard from my friend.
My second story also starts on the way out to Lookout. It was Monday and I was again rolling out getting the legs going. After I got past the I-70 bridge I heard the sound of a rider behind me. He made some indication that he wasn’t coming around and sat in for the ride. As the road widened he pulled around and starting chatting. He road comfortably, strongly and was barely breathing hard. He wore a local team kit and was riding an old Independent frame. He pulled back in behind me as traffic demanded and when the lane freed he came around and resumed conversation. I did most of the pulling for the way out and heading up the long gradual hills outside of Golden still had the rider on my wheel, occasionally pulling even to talk a bit. The interesting tidbit about this guy is that he couldn’t shift into his big ring. Something broke on his derailleur while out and he was left with his 9 gears and small tooth chain ring. So while I hammered my 53 he spun his small ring, and kept pace enough to shoot the shit all the while. When we pulled up to the light and parted ways, he said that I about gassed him there on the descent past Coors. Gassed or not, he hung in and kept with me. I was more than impressed.
The moral of these stories is that as much as cyclists want to get out on the road and smoke other riders around them, believe me I was one of these guys not too long ago so I know how this works, you never know who you may or may not be smoking. Especially in Colorado where the field of cycling talent is quite deep, you never know who might be waiting to serve you some humble pie in return for your hubris. Colorado boasts literally dozens of local race teams with rosters of strong talent. We also play host to many pros who like to train here at altitude. And you never know if the unmarked rider pulling up next to you is a former 3 time Iron Man or former Junior World Champion. So while it is great to race and get all geeked up on how many people you passed on the road, before jumping in to wage battle sometimes it is better to get a feel for what your competition is really all about. Coming up on some rider, team kit or not, you don’t know if they’re on a recovery spin, if they’re doing intervals, if they’ve been riding Lookout for 25 days, if they’re ramping up for a big stage race, if they’re hopped up on EPO. You just never know, that is unless you ask. “Where you heading?” “How far you going?” “Mind if I sit in or trade pulls?” Any of these simple questions can help create a sense of mutual acquaintance and set the stage for some fun at a later point. On the other hand, if you pass someone going up Lookout and think you’re a hard ass, you might be severely disappointed to know that they’re also riding another 75 miles or they plan to do Lookout 4 more times...whereas you only have the cajones to do it once.
I suppose my point is, if you really want to race then go out to the ACA site and pick a race and actually race. Or go join a group ride and get to know riders who have similar abilities or interests as you. There are entire group rides for guys who want to race but don‘t want to pay to race. They talk shit, they sprint, they crash its all fantastic and totally free. Or, for the non-joiner then at least strike up a conversation with your fellow rider and see where it gets you. Don't hop on people's wheels and flail away because to you that is some form of competition and you just might 'beat them.' Its one thing to find a rider and have them push you to work harder and get stronger, its another thing entirely to notch your belt by wheelsucking on some team rider, picking off old men and schooling people on hybrids: what fun is that really? Then again, I know some guys in their 50’s who run sub 4 hour marathons and know their way around a bike…they also like to lie in wait for younger guys to try and pass them. Or in the classy dialog penned by one Quentin Tarantino, “The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That's pride fucking with you. Fuck pride! Pride only hurts, it never helps.” Well I guess pride might help get you served!
This is particularly apparent with the 20-30 something male, out to somehow prove how exceptionally strong he is against everyone else on the hill. And if you happen to be wearing a team kit of some kind, you might as well have a target on your back. You are the yardstick that this ambitious foe would love to measure himself against. I’ve seen dozens of these Tuesday night racers on my rides up Lookout over the past week. Lookout on a good day is crawling with these hammer heads. And yet while there’s some great competition to be had on Lookout, one must be careful not to bite off more than they can chew. Here are two examples:
On Sunday while cruising out to Lookout I came across some 20 something guy on a Specialized, rocking his Assos or Castelli (I don’t recall) jersey and shorts just like the guy in the advertisement. He was moving well enough. I came around him on one of the hills heading into Golden, said my hellos and spun onward. Hitting the second light at Washington and 13th in Golden my new friend pulled right up behind me in a huff. The light turned and he was a mess of hasty clipping and shifting: I suppose I’d been served. We didn’t take the same route up through the School of Mines but as luck would have it I encountered him again at the light crossing to begin the climb up to the infamous Lookout pillars. Now, for as tough as Lookout is on its own, the climb up to the actual parking area, while short, is equally tough: straight up a steep grade. My new race buddy had something to show and took off, leaving the collection of riders also waiting at the light in the dust. He probably toasted himself on this initial hill…but that’s jumping ahead a bit.
My goal for the day was to put in a sustained, consistent effort up Lookout pushing a big gear and then spin my way up around Boettcher to recover before heading out to 40 and down to other locales for more climbing. I had this plan before I finished my pancakes at breakfast. I wanted to put in some miles and get a hill workout in, so that’s what I settled on for the day. Nearing the pillars the grade eases. I shifted into my big ring and started grinding onward. A little sustained power, big gear equals adequate speed. Lo and behold a quarter mile up the road I came across my friend, weaving and passing riders, flailing his knees and putting the hammer down on those unsuspecting, weak bastards. As I neared him I simply slid over to the middle of the road and passed. From behind I could hear a flurry of shifting and heavy breathing. This persisted until the mile and a half point where it became eerily quiet. That was the last I heard from my friend.
My second story also starts on the way out to Lookout. It was Monday and I was again rolling out getting the legs going. After I got past the I-70 bridge I heard the sound of a rider behind me. He made some indication that he wasn’t coming around and sat in for the ride. As the road widened he pulled around and starting chatting. He road comfortably, strongly and was barely breathing hard. He wore a local team kit and was riding an old Independent frame. He pulled back in behind me as traffic demanded and when the lane freed he came around and resumed conversation. I did most of the pulling for the way out and heading up the long gradual hills outside of Golden still had the rider on my wheel, occasionally pulling even to talk a bit. The interesting tidbit about this guy is that he couldn’t shift into his big ring. Something broke on his derailleur while out and he was left with his 9 gears and small tooth chain ring. So while I hammered my 53 he spun his small ring, and kept pace enough to shoot the shit all the while. When we pulled up to the light and parted ways, he said that I about gassed him there on the descent past Coors. Gassed or not, he hung in and kept with me. I was more than impressed.
The moral of these stories is that as much as cyclists want to get out on the road and smoke other riders around them, believe me I was one of these guys not too long ago so I know how this works, you never know who you may or may not be smoking. Especially in Colorado where the field of cycling talent is quite deep, you never know who might be waiting to serve you some humble pie in return for your hubris. Colorado boasts literally dozens of local race teams with rosters of strong talent. We also play host to many pros who like to train here at altitude. And you never know if the unmarked rider pulling up next to you is a former 3 time Iron Man or former Junior World Champion. So while it is great to race and get all geeked up on how many people you passed on the road, before jumping in to wage battle sometimes it is better to get a feel for what your competition is really all about. Coming up on some rider, team kit or not, you don’t know if they’re on a recovery spin, if they’re doing intervals, if they’ve been riding Lookout for 25 days, if they’re ramping up for a big stage race, if they’re hopped up on EPO. You just never know, that is unless you ask. “Where you heading?” “How far you going?” “Mind if I sit in or trade pulls?” Any of these simple questions can help create a sense of mutual acquaintance and set the stage for some fun at a later point. On the other hand, if you pass someone going up Lookout and think you’re a hard ass, you might be severely disappointed to know that they’re also riding another 75 miles or they plan to do Lookout 4 more times...whereas you only have the cajones to do it once.
I suppose my point is, if you really want to race then go out to the ACA site and pick a race and actually race. Or go join a group ride and get to know riders who have similar abilities or interests as you. There are entire group rides for guys who want to race but don‘t want to pay to race. They talk shit, they sprint, they crash its all fantastic and totally free. Or, for the non-joiner then at least strike up a conversation with your fellow rider and see where it gets you. Don't hop on people's wheels and flail away because to you that is some form of competition and you just might 'beat them.' Its one thing to find a rider and have them push you to work harder and get stronger, its another thing entirely to notch your belt by wheelsucking on some team rider, picking off old men and schooling people on hybrids: what fun is that really? Then again, I know some guys in their 50’s who run sub 4 hour marathons and know their way around a bike…they also like to lie in wait for younger guys to try and pass them. Or in the classy dialog penned by one Quentin Tarantino, “The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That's pride fucking with you. Fuck pride! Pride only hurts, it never helps.” Well I guess pride might help get you served!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Third time's a...lot like the second
With the prospect of a 3rd straight day of foul weather in front of me I sucked it up and started out for Lookout early. I wanted to get it over with. A constant stream of drizzle followed me out to the mountain and about a mile up before turning to large snow flakes. While cold and damp it didn’t feel insufferably cold and damp like the previous days. The road didn’t cling to the moisture from the flakes the way it had with the rain. I passed two guys on mountain bikes at the start and a runner about half way up the route. I saw two cars on my climb, that’s it. One passed me very gingerly shortly after I saw the runner. The second passed me towards the top and as if having read the comments on my post the other day, promptly stopped at the entrance to Buffalo Bill’s grave at the top. Not quite turning in and not quite going straight. I scooted by them and stopped to take these pictures.
The orange sign in the background warns driver's of the up coming closure next weekend for the Lookout Hill Climb. Hopefully by then the scenery has changed.
Towards the bottom of the hill I encountered a piece of radial or staple of some kind and had the pleasure of changing a tire with cold, wet hands, in the cold wet air. When finished I was shaking pretty badly and done with Lookout for the day. As if sensing my defeat Mother Nature decided to turn tables on me and the clouds started to part. The road on the way back dried almost instantly. I started to see riders passing me on 32nd on their way west to Golden. Lucky bastards. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so eager to get going; patience would have afforded me a better ride…oh well. Suffering builds character, at least that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself.
The orange sign in the background warns driver's of the up coming closure next weekend for the Lookout Hill Climb. Hopefully by then the scenery has changed.
Towards the bottom of the hill I encountered a piece of radial or staple of some kind and had the pleasure of changing a tire with cold, wet hands, in the cold wet air. When finished I was shaking pretty badly and done with Lookout for the day. As if sensing my defeat Mother Nature decided to turn tables on me and the clouds started to part. The road on the way back dried almost instantly. I started to see riders passing me on 32nd on their way west to Golden. Lucky bastards. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so eager to get going; patience would have afforded me a better ride…oh well. Suffering builds character, at least that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Warning Lookout May Be Hazardous For Your Health
Day 5 of Lookout. It rained on the way to work this morning. It rained a bit on the way home. As I pedaled my way home I could clearly make out the peaks of the foothills in the distance. The sight gave me hope that like yesterday’s ride I might be able to sneak in a quick trip up the mountain in between cloud bursts. No such luck today, the rain found me in a big way. Taking the coward’s way out I opted not to take the ride out to Lookout this afternoon…I drove out to Golden instead. To drive home the sheer laziness and hypocrisy of this act let me point out that I’ve already railed on in a couple of blog posts on this very blog about driving to rides. I also happen to live like 9 miles from Lookout…so driving 9 miles to avoid getting ‘wetter’ is somewhat lame, though today it proved fortuitous. The ride up Lookout Mountain this afternoon was quite perilous. Exactly how so? Let me elaborate via the 9 lives of this afternoon’s Lookout cyclist.
Slippery When Wet: It was raining considerably hard by the time I pulled into downtown Golden and unpacked my bike. Slick roads make for a dicey downhill descent. Soaking wet wheels and brakes are the icing on the cake.
Bend Over and Take It: This is what they tell you if caught out in a lightening storm, bend over and stick your rear in the air or huddle in a ditch. As I passed the 1 mile mark the heavens decided to commemorate the occasion with a flash of lightening and a teeth rattling boom. Almost instantaneously I went from “happy ride in the rain” to “get me the f@!% off this rock.” If there’s lightening during the Lookout Hill Climb I’ll race really fast; I apparently do well with a little motivation.
Avalanche: I’m not talking NHL playoffs folks, I’m talking about rock slides. After my thunder shock I heard another disconcerting sound; an odd banging along the guard rail. I didn’t think anything of it really until I rounded the corner and noted debris (sand and rock) in the roadway. Then I put two and two together: wet+loose rock+wind+2+2= the 4th way to go…getting popped in the head by an errant softball size piece of mountain.
FOUR!: This is what they shout in golf when teeing off to warn people on the fairway of the incoming projectile. I yelled a similar 4 letter F word when a VW Golf came careening around one of the corners near the mid section of the mountain while I was heading up the other lane. Presumably pumped full of Mountain Dew and lame techno music, the driver must not have appreciated the slideyness of the road. His wheels squealed slightly, he over corrected a bit and then hiss-hiss of sweet turbo bye-bye. I hate the Tokyo Drifters, especially in the rain.
Now you see me: As the pictures below indicate, it got a little foggy on the mountain as the clouds descended into the area from the north. On my way down I hit the series of switch backs just below the trees and came upon a neat stretch of clear air just before the clouds rolled up the hillside to sack it in with fog. I took this picture of the sign before it became completely wrapped in grey; then I realized your average Lookout motorist likely wouldn’t be able to see me if they came bolting around the corner: time to make a movie.
Switchbacks just below the trees.
Pausing to look back up towards the windy saddle on Lookout.
Sub Zero: The temp was in the mid to low 40’s when I hit the top of the mountain and began the descent. Although I made my way cautiously, hitting speeds of 25 mph while soaking wet in 40 degree weather gets the teeth a chattering.
Well I guess that’s about all I got…doesn’t quite add up to 9 lives. I suppose I can keep the other 3 and save them for tomorrow when it looks likely for rain again. But for people who need resolution, here’s 3 more (albeit far fetched) perils of Lookout:
One might get attacked by a deer suffering from mad cow or chronic wasting or hopped on EPO. After getting thrashed in the Giro Atmos you end up sick with deer disease and croak weeks later as you protest to your wife about how you feel better and just want to go out for a ride.
A kamikaze hang glider could sweep down from the heavens like a nylon clad pterodactyl and knock you and your carbon rims off the mountain side. "Death from above!"
There’s always the time tested, stress induced embolism (like in Clerks…chick dies while swimming laps in the pool…story line linked to Mall Rats where TS apparently told the girl she was fat…I'm a dork...anyway) Not very dramatic but certainly effective.
Safe riding all!
Slippery When Wet: It was raining considerably hard by the time I pulled into downtown Golden and unpacked my bike. Slick roads make for a dicey downhill descent. Soaking wet wheels and brakes are the icing on the cake.
Bend Over and Take It: This is what they tell you if caught out in a lightening storm, bend over and stick your rear in the air or huddle in a ditch. As I passed the 1 mile mark the heavens decided to commemorate the occasion with a flash of lightening and a teeth rattling boom. Almost instantaneously I went from “happy ride in the rain” to “get me the f@!% off this rock.” If there’s lightening during the Lookout Hill Climb I’ll race really fast; I apparently do well with a little motivation.
Avalanche: I’m not talking NHL playoffs folks, I’m talking about rock slides. After my thunder shock I heard another disconcerting sound; an odd banging along the guard rail. I didn’t think anything of it really until I rounded the corner and noted debris (sand and rock) in the roadway. Then I put two and two together: wet+loose rock+wind+2+2= the 4th way to go…getting popped in the head by an errant softball size piece of mountain.
FOUR!: This is what they shout in golf when teeing off to warn people on the fairway of the incoming projectile. I yelled a similar 4 letter F word when a VW Golf came careening around one of the corners near the mid section of the mountain while I was heading up the other lane. Presumably pumped full of Mountain Dew and lame techno music, the driver must not have appreciated the slideyness of the road. His wheels squealed slightly, he over corrected a bit and then hiss-hiss of sweet turbo bye-bye. I hate the Tokyo Drifters, especially in the rain.
Now you see me: As the pictures below indicate, it got a little foggy on the mountain as the clouds descended into the area from the north. On my way down I hit the series of switch backs just below the trees and came upon a neat stretch of clear air just before the clouds rolled up the hillside to sack it in with fog. I took this picture of the sign before it became completely wrapped in grey; then I realized your average Lookout motorist likely wouldn’t be able to see me if they came bolting around the corner: time to make a movie.
Switchbacks just below the trees.
Pausing to look back up towards the windy saddle on Lookout.
Sub Zero: The temp was in the mid to low 40’s when I hit the top of the mountain and began the descent. Although I made my way cautiously, hitting speeds of 25 mph while soaking wet in 40 degree weather gets the teeth a chattering.
Well I guess that’s about all I got…doesn’t quite add up to 9 lives. I suppose I can keep the other 3 and save them for tomorrow when it looks likely for rain again. But for people who need resolution, here’s 3 more (albeit far fetched) perils of Lookout:
One might get attacked by a deer suffering from mad cow or chronic wasting or hopped on EPO. After getting thrashed in the Giro Atmos you end up sick with deer disease and croak weeks later as you protest to your wife about how you feel better and just want to go out for a ride.
A kamikaze hang glider could sweep down from the heavens like a nylon clad pterodactyl and knock you and your carbon rims off the mountain side. "Death from above!"
There’s always the time tested, stress induced embolism (like in Clerks…chick dies while swimming laps in the pool…story line linked to Mall Rats where TS apparently told the girl she was fat…I'm a dork...anyway) Not very dramatic but certainly effective.
Safe riding all!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Lookout Day 4: No one to lookout for
Technically when I left my house this afternoon for Lookout Day 4 rain was falling. Fortunately I ignored my better judgment as the ride up this afternoon, despite the cold, humid air was really enjoyable. Upon reaching the pillars I found the road still wet but drying, and looking up towards the mountain top the clouds loomed but remained content to simply look ominous without actually dropping any rain. This happy twist of fate left a wide open road before me with nary a bicycle or car in sight. It wasn’t until the mid section of the mountain that I finally saw other cyclists. It surprised me how many cyclists were actually out on the mountain in the face of the cold wind and dampness, but the number barely amounted to half of the number on the road on Monday or Tuesday. And the absence of vehicle traffic was almost eerie, as if at some point zombies were going to appear around the corner waiting to eat my brains. A couple cars passed me on their way down, but I was almost to the top before one passed me coming up the mountain. This is almost unheard of given the norm for Lookout.
As I’ve said before, Lookout attracts a myriad number of people to its recreational offerings. Today, without any of said hordes in sight, it was easy to reflect on just how many people actually use the mountain...and how nice it was to not have to share it with them for a change. Here’s a rundown on the list of Usual Lookout Suspects…if you see some of these folks you just may want to Lookout!
Motorists:
As I’ve said before, Lookout attracts a myriad number of people to its recreational offerings. Today, without any of said hordes in sight, it was easy to reflect on just how many people actually use the mountain...and how nice it was to not have to share it with them for a change. Here’s a rundown on the list of Usual Lookout Suspects…if you see some of these folks you just may want to Lookout!
Motorists:
- There’s a fair amount of local traffic up from Golden to the neighborhoods atop Lookout Mountain. I feel for these folks as their commute has to be hell. You can easily spot the locals, they generally handle their vehicles confidently and know how to share the road.
- Contrast this with folks who are heading up the road for the first time; usually readily identifiable by the non-Colorado plates. These drivers crawl up the mountain about as fast as the 50 year old Triple Bypass cyclists training for their annual bike holiday. The tourists are even worse on the descents where they initiate their turns poorly and ride their brakes until they melt. Getting stuck behind these stinky rubber smelling minivans (usually minivans) is the worst. Getting oneself unstuck often requires a bit of daring.
- Along similar lines as the tourists are the Driving School kids. I don’t know what it is about Lookout but it attracts Driving School teens like the latest New Moon film. I had a car pass me on Monday all but brushing my elbow, and I looked over to see a driving school instructor frantically reaching across to grab the wheel, thankfully intervening to prevent my untimely death. God knows I fully appreciate the long arc that is the learning curve…but why does it have to the same curve where I’m riding my damn bike.
- Then there’s the Tokyo drifters. These are probably the worst and most reckless of the motorists who use Lookout. These douche bags drive their Subaru/Volkswagen/Audi/BMW/Mitsubishi chainsaw-sounding pieces of crap up the mountain at unnecessarily excessive speeds. Playing out some scene from Too Fast Too Furious, they corner erratically, accelerate in an obnoxiously loud manner and obviously have nothing better to do with their time. If a 4 minute Lookout Peak climb is all they need to toss their rocks off, then I feel for the hoochie mama’s they’re often toting around with them. "Ain't my car so cool baby?"...."
Oh yeah its real cool baby." - Last but not least are the big tough truckers. "Did you question how tough I am? Well I'll just run you down to show you. Yeah those are giant steel balls hanging from my hitch." Almost as dangerous as the Tokyo Drifters, these guys run their gigantor trucks up narrow mountain roads and get off on forcing everyone else (or generally just cyclists) out of their way. Usually discernable by the characteristic growl of throaty, diesel engines, its best to hear them coming and hug the shoulder.
- Old school Harley riders love Lookout, and generally they cruise up to the top, kitted out in leather and frequently toting some chica on the back of their ride. Lookout offers a nice route up to some of the biker bars in the foothills...and I think they typically pick a different route to head back when finished. Generally, the Harley riders aren’t in a particular hurry as its better to allow badassness to marinate…you don’t want to spoil the effect by rushing around like a jackass Tokyo Drifter.
- On the other hand, take a Tokyo Drifter and put them on a crotch rocket and you get suicidal speed and inconsideration revving at 60,000RPM. Usually traveling in bands of 3 or 4, these pricks like to ride fast and apparently don’t care who’s around the corner in front of them when they’re doing it. Even though it makes me somewhat of a sicko, I dream of a Tokyo Drifter meeting its 2 Wheeled Compatriot around a corner one day: the carnage would be horrifically karmic.
- The last crew of motorized, two wheeled brethren are the Orange County chopper super fans. Often indistinguishable from the Harley riders, these guys generally command their vehicles with a similar devil may care spirit as that of the crotch masters…I mean riders…I mean crotch riding masters. These guys are usually never in leathers, preferring to ride helmet-less in muscle shirts and jeans. They generally can be counted on to throttle their glasspack straight pipes just as they fly past.
- Lookout attracts legions of thrill seekers: para and hang gliders, downhill luge riders and equally psychotic long board skateboarders. I’ve seen a guy going down Lookout on a unicycle. I’ve almost been hit by guys in full motorcycle race leathers and helmets going down the hill at ridiculous speeds on skateboards. On a sunny day one can be assured of seeing at least one hang glider: I saw one take a really nasty landing into the hill on Saturday. Early in the fall one can sometimes see the School of Mines cross country ski team practicing on the road on their odd rollerblade/ski contraptions. There are climbers who park along the road and hike down to some of the craggy cliffs along HWY 6 on the north side of the mountain. I respect all of these wackos although I may not understand why they do what they do. Lookout is a thrill seekers paradise...if you've got to be home by 4:30 and can't get to Moab or somewhere really cool. With the exception of some careless long boarders, most of them keep to their lane and don’t try to run you over.
- For some strange reason people like to walk, jog or run along Lookout Mountain Road. There are a large number of trails running up and along the mountain, so often you’ll see folks wandering on the road trying to connect up with one of these.
- Racers: the racers love Lookout like flies to honey or Cadel Evans to one day race victories. They do intervals, repeats, high cadence practice: every racer’s got a ‘workout’ in mind. There’s nothing worse than feeling like you’re putting in a great Lookout effort, only to get passed by some guy on a steel framed cross bike just out to ‘stretch his legs.’ The racers generally climb with authority and descend with some serious skill, capable of banking some of the turns well in excess of 40 mph. What the crotch masters have in fancy helmets and horsepower, the racer makes up for in riding the rails down hill on a thumb’s width of rubber, cornering at nearly the same speeds with nothing but spandex and a helmet for protection. The only thing better for a racer is repeat day, when you get to do it more than once!
- Wannabe racers: these guys love Lookout too but often lack the mastery of it to avoid hitting the wall before the top. Generally you can spot one of these guys easily because they’re hammering the bottom steeps WAAAYYYY too hard to be sustainable. Anyone breathing heavy in the first mile is going to be near death by the 4th.
- Mountain bikers: most of these riders are just trying to get to the trail. Occasionally, like a deer who wanders into a suburban neighborhood, the mountain biker finds himself on the road in between trails. I always feel sorry for them having to haul all that weight up the road, even with their low gearing. It just doesn’t seem right.
- Triple Bypass Aficionados: these are generally 50+ year old riders wearing their Triple Bypass jersey from 1997, training for the coming year’s edition. They’re generally strong albeit slow and often inappropriately dressed for the conditions (read: overdressed for all conditions.) For many of these riders this will be their training for the Triple until Squaw Pass thaws out, at which point they’ll gravitate from Lookout to Squaw where they can again ride their bikes in 3 layers of clothing without suffocating to death.
- Bike Tourists and Commuters: I’ve seen a handful of loaded up bike tourists and commuters on Lookout. I have to remind myself that they generally have low gearing, however hauling all that crap up Lookout is impressive even if you are in your 24X27.
- Everyone else…fixed gear riders, recumbent bikes, penny farthings you name it, you could easily see one on Lookout.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Good Morning from a Grump
As I puttered around the house this morning I exhibited a less than enthusiastic mood about the prospects of going to work. My wife labeled it grumpiness, and indicated that both I and the dog were apparently grumpy: she lives in a house of grumpusses. You are welcome to feel sorry for her at any point. In any case, I got on my bike for the ride to work and after a mile or so felt much better, then I realized my riding was taking me to work and I promptly resumed my grumpiness.
On an unrelated note, I once read in some magazine or blog that when biking you should keep your knees covered if the temperature is less than 50. That person was all too correct in his or her observation. This morning it was 43 and while I felt very fashionable in my shorts, the ligaments and tendons around my left knee are fomenting rebellion. So on this glorious Monday, keep those head’s down, noses to the grindstone and knees covered. Its just better that way.
On an unrelated note, I once read in some magazine or blog that when biking you should keep your knees covered if the temperature is less than 50. That person was all too correct in his or her observation. This morning it was 43 and while I felt very fashionable in my shorts, the ligaments and tendons around my left knee are fomenting rebellion. So on this glorious Monday, keep those head’s down, noses to the grindstone and knees covered. Its just better that way.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
"We Are Traffic"
Today I pulled up to the light at Federal and 14th and chatted with a rider about broken glass on the path just south of the intersection. In his 50’s, outfitted in shorts, nylon jacket and riding a mountain bike with slick tires, rear rack and double panniers, he was heading downtown this morning. Other than his frustration at the insensitivity and rudeness of others, he seemed to be in high spirits. Yesterday I pulled up to the light at 17th and Federal and exchanged pleasantries with a fixed gear rider on the topic of my Surly frame, which lasted the following two blocks until we headed in different directions. He indicated that he has been considering getting a Long Haul Trucker frame to build up for touring and was curious about the weight and quality of the stock components. These types of exchanges are not uncommon when cycling. I’ve never had someone say good morning to me while driving but when riding it happens quite frequently. My most social interactions with other motorists (on the positive side at least) only occur when I’m driving my Vanagon and I pass another one: the other driver almost always waves.
And like the cult of Happy Vanagon Drivers, with the weather finally proving to be reliably pleasant, bicyclists are out in mass and generally seem to be enjoying themselves immensely. The other day I passed three riders heading up 20th on my way in to work. I almost always see bicyclist on the way home, usually in route to or from the quality hill climbing around Golden. In the morning I now see several riders around work navigating the mess of RTD construction detours which have the Platte River Trail routed through the neighborhood. Most people seem very pleased to be out riding and it is not uncommon to get a “Hello”, “Good Morning”, a simple nod of acknowledgement, if not a full on conversation even if just for the cycle of a stoplight.
I don’t begrudge this mass of fair-weather new riders, even the one’s who use these fine days as an excuse to once again emerge from hibernation to plague the rest of us with their poor bike handling, traffic navigation and riding skills. I wish more folks saw the feasibility and practicality of riding throughout the winter season, but in any case it is good to see so many people out on their bikes: even the tools and douchebags. There is something about being in the company of other cyclists that represents a kindred spirit of sorts and makes one feel a little less alone on the road. In Jeff Mapes book, Pedaling Revolution: How Cyclists Are Changing American Cities, he discusses how safety for cyclists improves as a result of an increased presence on public roadways. The central contention is that it is not necessarily improved bike lanes, road ways or signage which will ultimately make roads safer for cyclists, it is increased numbers. The more riders who take to the streets for recreation, sport or travel purposes, the greater the presence cyclists have in terms of contributing to the natural flow of traffic. One bicyclist is an exception and easily regarded as an annoyance by motorists, whereas dozens if not hundreds of cyclists become an equally substantial component of road volume as vehicles and traffic. For examples of how this plays out in reality one need look no further than European cities in Belgium or the Netherlands.
While there is certainly value to being unique or exceptional, there is some level of comfort derived from being part of the group. Previously, I compared cyclists to wolves in the sense that a wolf needs its pack for protection and survival. The more riders we have in the fold the stronger our pack and greater our presence and legitimacy amongst other users of the road. So to that end I am glad to see other bikes on the road. It has been a long, cold winter riding alone and the extra company is a welcome change of pace. And that even extends to those two guys out for their “training ride” the other day who blatantly blew the stop sign by my work and nearly ran me down as I, who had stopped by the way, was starting to turn left. I’m glad you’re out riding your bikes with me…even if I called you illiterate douche bags and wanted to beat your wannabe, poser asses with my U-lock. Its nothing but brotherly love, honest.
And like the cult of Happy Vanagon Drivers, with the weather finally proving to be reliably pleasant, bicyclists are out in mass and generally seem to be enjoying themselves immensely. The other day I passed three riders heading up 20th on my way in to work. I almost always see bicyclist on the way home, usually in route to or from the quality hill climbing around Golden. In the morning I now see several riders around work navigating the mess of RTD construction detours which have the Platte River Trail routed through the neighborhood. Most people seem very pleased to be out riding and it is not uncommon to get a “Hello”, “Good Morning”, a simple nod of acknowledgement, if not a full on conversation even if just for the cycle of a stoplight.
I don’t begrudge this mass of fair-weather new riders, even the one’s who use these fine days as an excuse to once again emerge from hibernation to plague the rest of us with their poor bike handling, traffic navigation and riding skills. I wish more folks saw the feasibility and practicality of riding throughout the winter season, but in any case it is good to see so many people out on their bikes: even the tools and douchebags. There is something about being in the company of other cyclists that represents a kindred spirit of sorts and makes one feel a little less alone on the road. In Jeff Mapes book, Pedaling Revolution: How Cyclists Are Changing American Cities, he discusses how safety for cyclists improves as a result of an increased presence on public roadways. The central contention is that it is not necessarily improved bike lanes, road ways or signage which will ultimately make roads safer for cyclists, it is increased numbers. The more riders who take to the streets for recreation, sport or travel purposes, the greater the presence cyclists have in terms of contributing to the natural flow of traffic. One bicyclist is an exception and easily regarded as an annoyance by motorists, whereas dozens if not hundreds of cyclists become an equally substantial component of road volume as vehicles and traffic. For examples of how this plays out in reality one need look no further than European cities in Belgium or the Netherlands.
While there is certainly value to being unique or exceptional, there is some level of comfort derived from being part of the group. Previously, I compared cyclists to wolves in the sense that a wolf needs its pack for protection and survival. The more riders we have in the fold the stronger our pack and greater our presence and legitimacy amongst other users of the road. So to that end I am glad to see other bikes on the road. It has been a long, cold winter riding alone and the extra company is a welcome change of pace. And that even extends to those two guys out for their “training ride” the other day who blatantly blew the stop sign by my work and nearly ran me down as I, who had stopped by the way, was starting to turn left. I’m glad you’re out riding your bikes with me…even if I called you illiterate douche bags and wanted to beat your wannabe, poser asses with my U-lock. Its nothing but brotherly love, honest.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
A Thank You Note
Dear Mother Nature,
Boy, you are one messed up lady; very schizophrenic this time of year aren’t you! This is Jason: I ride my bike a lot to work and around town and stuff. I just wanted to write and thank you for the torrential downpour yesterday morning. That was really entertaining. I could swear it wasn’t raining when I left my house…but I could be wrong (silly me!) I’m sorry I missed the hail though, that would have been a real hoot. I guess I got to work too early for that. But your 40+mph headwind last night on the ride home really gave my thighs the much needed workout they’ve recently been missing. I fought pretty hard on that downhill along 26th to Kipling and still only made 17 or 18 mph. That Surly Long Haul Trucker just isn’t aero enough for your gale force winds: I need to get some TT bars and slap them on it, maybe that will help!
But really, the snow today was top notch; really a great touch. It picked up just enough to smack me full on for my entire ride to work: I’m glad I didn’t miss any of it. You know that wet spring snow, its so tenacious: I had rain pants and full shoe covers on and my socks are still wet! Very well done MN! I do however wish more of the snow would have stuck to the roadway. The slush helped a bit, but really the snow didn’t stick...fortunately that left plenty to stick to my drive train components! The Surly makes a great single speed once you freeze up the rest of the cassette with ice and slush. Good thing that happened on the long downhill along 20th so I would get to enjoy my 11 tooth cassette ring the rest of the way to work. I now appreciate the full heft of a laden, cromoly steel, touring bike even more after today: thanks again MN you’re swell! I’m glad I brought that towel to wipe my bike down, too bad you can’t wipe away frozen slush from in between the teeth of cogs—I guess it will just have to melt naturally and rust my components even more; golly that will be great.
Well, I’m sure glad you’re having fun with yourself. You really look to be in rare form this spring. If I’m lucky maybe there will be locusts this afternoon or it will rain toads like in a cataclysmic biblical sense. That would be the cherry on top for sure.
Bye For Now!
--jason (of the Surly—surely—wet sock and boxer clan)
Boy, you are one messed up lady; very schizophrenic this time of year aren’t you! This is Jason: I ride my bike a lot to work and around town and stuff. I just wanted to write and thank you for the torrential downpour yesterday morning. That was really entertaining. I could swear it wasn’t raining when I left my house…but I could be wrong (silly me!) I’m sorry I missed the hail though, that would have been a real hoot. I guess I got to work too early for that. But your 40+mph headwind last night on the ride home really gave my thighs the much needed workout they’ve recently been missing. I fought pretty hard on that downhill along 26th to Kipling and still only made 17 or 18 mph. That Surly Long Haul Trucker just isn’t aero enough for your gale force winds: I need to get some TT bars and slap them on it, maybe that will help!
But really, the snow today was top notch; really a great touch. It picked up just enough to smack me full on for my entire ride to work: I’m glad I didn’t miss any of it. You know that wet spring snow, its so tenacious: I had rain pants and full shoe covers on and my socks are still wet! Very well done MN! I do however wish more of the snow would have stuck to the roadway. The slush helped a bit, but really the snow didn’t stick...fortunately that left plenty to stick to my drive train components! The Surly makes a great single speed once you freeze up the rest of the cassette with ice and slush. Good thing that happened on the long downhill along 20th so I would get to enjoy my 11 tooth cassette ring the rest of the way to work. I now appreciate the full heft of a laden, cromoly steel, touring bike even more after today: thanks again MN you’re swell! I’m glad I brought that towel to wipe my bike down, too bad you can’t wipe away frozen slush from in between the teeth of cogs—I guess it will just have to melt naturally and rust my components even more; golly that will be great.
Well, I’m sure glad you’re having fun with yourself. You really look to be in rare form this spring. If I’m lucky maybe there will be locusts this afternoon or it will rain toads like in a cataclysmic biblical sense. That would be the cherry on top for sure.
Bye For Now!
--jason (of the Surly—surely—wet sock and boxer clan)
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Colorado Spring Commute
“Mostly Cloudy and 30…” This is easy, long underwear and shorts, long sleeve shirt and t-shirt with hat and full finger gloves.
“…with a high of 65…” Alright, scratch the long sleeve shirt and t-shirt for jersey and arm warmers. Trade the full finger gloves for half fingers with thin liners. Tough it out and wear shorts with a knit hat for the morning and nothing in the pm.
“…gusty winds likely; 30 mph…” Hmm...ok, switch back to long underwear and shorts, t-shirt, arm warmers and maybe a vest. Definitely keep the full finger gloves. Knit hat for morning and maybe a bike hat for the afternoon. Ditch the vest if it gets windy but stays sunny and warm.
“…and a chance of rain.” Mother f#$%@!... Toss the shorts and go with: trusty old thrift store khakis (which can be rolled up if dry and kept long if wet), keep the t-shirt and arm warmers, knit hat, toss in a rain jacket, bike hat for the afternoon. If it is dry, the jacket can go in the bag or be worn with the t-shirt if wet but warm, or with the long underwear shirt if it wet and cold, or with both if wet, cold and windy…ahhh screw it just bring everything.
“…with a high of 65…” Alright, scratch the long sleeve shirt and t-shirt for jersey and arm warmers. Trade the full finger gloves for half fingers with thin liners. Tough it out and wear shorts with a knit hat for the morning and nothing in the pm.
“…gusty winds likely; 30 mph…” Hmm...ok, switch back to long underwear and shorts, t-shirt, arm warmers and maybe a vest. Definitely keep the full finger gloves. Knit hat for morning and maybe a bike hat for the afternoon. Ditch the vest if it gets windy but stays sunny and warm.
“…and a chance of rain.” Mother f#$%@!... Toss the shorts and go with: trusty old thrift store khakis (which can be rolled up if dry and kept long if wet), keep the t-shirt and arm warmers, knit hat, toss in a rain jacket, bike hat for the afternoon. If it is dry, the jacket can go in the bag or be worn with the t-shirt if wet but warm, or with the long underwear shirt if it wet and cold, or with both if wet, cold and windy…ahhh screw it just bring everything.
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