I SHOULD have written a "gift ideas" post in advance of Christmas, but my Mac wasn't feeling well. The post wouldn't have been too hard. You can pick just about anything out of the VeloGear catalog and make a cyclist happy. But now that it's Boxing Day (a Canadian holiday that we Michiganders celebrate only because it gives us another excuse to eat.), I want to know what the BEST gift a cyclist received for Christmas this year. And which gifts made you say to yourself, "What were they thinking?" Or you might have said that out loud.
I got myself a Garmin nuvi200 which turns out to be about the niftiest useful toy a cyclist can get.
Got myself. Yeah, it's like that.
In "Roadie", I mention the whole gift giving thing and say that kitchen utensils and gadgets are pretty safe bets because food is always on a cyclist's mind.
Am I right? Or is there a better gift idea? If so, leave a comment and tell me what the gift of the century is.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
If a Roadie tells you he stayed at the Marriott, he's lying.
I have a confession to make to my family and co-workers:
When I said I stayed at the Marriott in Monterrey during a racing road trip in the summer of 1991, I actually parked my car in the Marriott parking lot, and slept in the car.
Technically, yes, I stayed at the Marriott.
If I had told them the truth, I would have caught hell for it. They'd worry. Who wants that?
The question I pose to you readers: Have you ever told this lie (or one like it) to keep your family from worrying about you during your cycling road trips?
Like a friend who shall remain nameless (which makes it difficult for him to get a credit card) who once told his family that the expensive bike he'd just bought (while a poor college kid) was given to him as part of a sponsorship deal. (That's a common one.)
Or the guy who always bought RED bikes because his wife couldn't tell the difference between a Trek or a Guerciotti or a Serotta. As long as they were red, she thought it was all the same bike.
True stories, all of them.
Got one? Let's hear it.
When I said I stayed at the Marriott in Monterrey during a racing road trip in the summer of 1991, I actually parked my car in the Marriott parking lot, and slept in the car.
Technically, yes, I stayed at the Marriott.
If I had told them the truth, I would have caught hell for it. They'd worry. Who wants that?
The question I pose to you readers: Have you ever told this lie (or one like it) to keep your family from worrying about you during your cycling road trips?
Like a friend who shall remain nameless (which makes it difficult for him to get a credit card) who once told his family that the expensive bike he'd just bought (while a poor college kid) was given to him as part of a sponsorship deal. (That's a common one.)
Or the guy who always bought RED bikes because his wife couldn't tell the difference between a Trek or a Guerciotti or a Serotta. As long as they were red, she thought it was all the same bike.
True stories, all of them.
Got one? Let's hear it.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Where Were We?
Three unrelated things and an unrelated photo:
1. Try going without the Internet for a week. Holy crap, it's not easy.
I was forced to. My Mac took a well-timed vacation. (Seriously, (tell me this isn't well-timed) the DAY after I sent my post-final-final revisions and additions for Chapters 15-16-17 back to VeloPress, I tried to turn the Mac on, and it gave me the Screen of Death (officially known as the Kernal Panic screen - whatever THAT means) that says not-in-so-many-words: call tech support and get your wallet.
It was a close call. (don't judge me for what I'm about to say) I had spent an entire weekend making substantial changes for those chapters, and I hadn't backed up ANY of my work. Ha ha ha. The winds of fate don't hit you when you draft off the bike of luck.
I learned my lesson...for now. That's about as living-on-the-edge as I get.
So now I'm digging through more old material hoping to put together a post that will rock the cycling world.
2. Jef Mallett's artwork is amazing, and will really make Roadie - The Book more fun to read. I'll post some of the rough sketches here when I get permission. He simply has it dialed in. You can see the cover art at VeloGear.com but that doesn't even scratch the surface.
3. I just got my assignment for the Tour of California in February. As luck would have it, I'll be announcing from the mobile P.A. truck which can be seen just a few moments before the first riders on the road. I imagine they'll also put me to work during the time trial stage on a secondary stage somewhere on the course.
It'll definitely provide more fodder for this site. So you have THAT to look forward to.
OK, I have to go back up my hard drive again for the 7th time since breakfast.
1. Try going without the Internet for a week. Holy crap, it's not easy.
I was forced to. My Mac took a well-timed vacation. (Seriously, (tell me this isn't well-timed) the DAY after I sent my post-final-final revisions and additions for Chapters 15-16-17 back to VeloPress, I tried to turn the Mac on, and it gave me the Screen of Death (officially known as the Kernal Panic screen - whatever THAT means) that says not-in-so-many-words: call tech support and get your wallet.
It was a close call. (don't judge me for what I'm about to say) I had spent an entire weekend making substantial changes for those chapters, and I hadn't backed up ANY of my work. Ha ha ha. The winds of fate don't hit you when you draft off the bike of luck.
I learned my lesson...for now. That's about as living-on-the-edge as I get.
So now I'm digging through more old material hoping to put together a post that will rock the cycling world.
2. Jef Mallett's artwork is amazing, and will really make Roadie - The Book more fun to read. I'll post some of the rough sketches here when I get permission. He simply has it dialed in. You can see the cover art at VeloGear.com but that doesn't even scratch the surface.
3. I just got my assignment for the Tour of California in February. As luck would have it, I'll be announcing from the mobile P.A. truck which can be seen just a few moments before the first riders on the road. I imagine they'll also put me to work during the time trial stage on a secondary stage somewhere on the course.
It'll definitely provide more fodder for this site. So you have THAT to look forward to.
OK, I have to go back up my hard drive again for the 7th time since breakfast.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Another One from the Vaults
Here's another old video from the days when I really thought I wanted to be a TV producer for cycling stuff. Every now and again I'll get a fleeting desire to chase that dream again. And then it hits me: that's way too much work. Watching the TV crews work at the Tour of California (77 days from now by the way, woohoo!), taught me that it's long days and short nights, and a lot of bickering. Heck, I get my fill of that by attending City Council meetings every week.
OK this clip is of the Flying Rhino cycling club. Some good photography. The narration is lame. I'm a crummy writer. And that's my whiny voice, too. No wonder we never showed this to anyone!
SO, wha'd'ya think? Want to be a sponsor? Call Jeff at Kinetic Systems: 248-625-7000.
OK this clip is of the Flying Rhino cycling club. Some good photography. The narration is lame. I'm a crummy writer. And that's my whiny voice, too. No wonder we never showed this to anyone!
SO, wha'd'ya think? Want to be a sponsor? Call Jeff at Kinetic Systems: 248-625-7000.
Monday, November 26, 2007
165 what?
Miles. 165 miles. In about 7 hours, 21 minutes, and 48 seconds.
I'm talking about a bike race from Mt. Pleasant to Mackinaw City, Michigan. It was called the Big Mack Attack and was a pretty cool albeit low-key event.
In the final edit of the book, I deleted this story in the Time Trial chapter. It was way too long and not at all pertinent. And I figured I could add it here instead. Here it is shortened where possible>>>>>>
Despite the name, the Big Mack Attack has nothing to do with the burger from Micky D's. In fact, the race predated the marketing campaign by several years.
The course traveled to the Mackinaw Bridge that residents of Michigan lovingly refer to as the Mighty Mack; hence our race was named for the bridge, not the burger.
165 miles is an uncommon distance, but this race was created as the result of a wager between two rival teams, so logic was never a factor.
I'd never ridden that distance before, but I thought I might be able to do so when pressured by teammates. In the months prior to the event, my teammates constantly pestered each other to ride as many training miles as we could in preparation for the race. I assured them that I was on schedule, and like any good Roadie, I lied about how many miles I was riding which caused many anxious moments leading up to the race. “O lord, why didn’t I train for this as much as I said I did?”
Even in the last week before the race, I considered backing out, but at this stage of the game, there was no way out. Our two support crews were formed and ready to go.
The rules stated that we would have one support vehicle following immediately behind us in the event of a mechanical problem; the second support van would scoot ahead to four designated feed zones where they would hand us food and water. There were now ten people counting on me. Backing out was not feasible.
At 5:30 a.m. on the day of the race, I dragged myself out of bed to join the team at the Flap Jack Shack restaurant in Mt. Pleasant. On the way there, I made a deal with myself that if I could just make it to the halfway point of the race, I could pull out at any time after that. The rules clearly state that only three riders must finish the race. Surely my teammates weren’t expecting me to be one of the finishing three. C'mon!
At breakfast, I noticed two distinctly different moods. The support crews were chipper, talkative, full of energy, even giddy. Why not? They're going on a road trip. The four of us dressed in cycling clothes were stone-faced, slack-jawed, and silently wondering what possessed us to race 165 miles.
The actual start of the Big Mack Attack was almost as glamorous as it sounds. Twelve teams in the parking lot a farm supply store surrounded by mid-Michigan farmers who were looking at us as if we were from Planet Dorkoid. Every five minutes, one of the teams would roll up to the starting line, wait for the officials to say the magic words, and then they’d ride off in pursuit of the Big Mack. When it was our turn, we followed suit. There was little fanfare.
At the seventy-mile point, it happened. I felt the first hint of a cramp forming in my right thigh. At the eighty-mile point, the cramp worsened. Here we were not quite to the halfway point, and I was nearly cooked. Time to quit.
And I made that decision just a few seconds too late.
Just as I was about to quit, I was beaten to the punch by someone who had a legitimate excuse, or at least a better plan than mine. A teammate stood on the shoulder of M-27 and began to purge his pancakes to the horror of passing motorists (and standing teammates). He would not get back on the bike. The deal I had made with myself earlier in the morning was no longer on the table. There was no way I was going to let my teammates down. I had find a way to complete the next eighty-five miles.
This is common for Roadies. It’s one of the unspoken rules in this sport: if you commit, you must follow through. So for the next ninety-five miles, I blocked any thoughts of pain from entering my mind. It was easy to do because after a certain point, everything hurt about the same. The last twenty miles were the hardest. Not because of the all-consuming pain, but because we could actually see the gleaming white towers of the Mighty Mack from twenty miles away. The bridge stood there in the distance taunting us for the entire final leg.
To this day, I remember that our finishing time was 7:21:48. We finished in fourth place twenty minutes behind the winners. It took a full week to recover.
The final word on this story is that my two teammates who finished the race with me later admitted that they too had been on the verge of quitting when our rider fell ill at the eighty-mile point.
I want to thank those of you who stuck around to read the whole thing. I hope I have impressed on you three important lessons. First, never sign up for a race unless you’re prepared to finish the distance. Second, if you need to withdraw from such an event, try to do so before the other guys have a chance. Third, northern Michigan is much better enjoyed from the front seat of a support vehicle.
Spectacular? Let's not pretend. As events go, it's pretty dull. But it is a challenge.
And as crazy as it may seem, there's talk of bringing it back to life. Call me if you're interested.
I'm talking about a bike race from Mt. Pleasant to Mackinaw City, Michigan. It was called the Big Mack Attack and was a pretty cool albeit low-key event.
In the final edit of the book, I deleted this story in the Time Trial chapter. It was way too long and not at all pertinent. And I figured I could add it here instead. Here it is shortened where possible>>>>>>
Despite the name, the Big Mack Attack has nothing to do with the burger from Micky D's. In fact, the race predated the marketing campaign by several years.
The course traveled to the Mackinaw Bridge that residents of Michigan lovingly refer to as the Mighty Mack; hence our race was named for the bridge, not the burger.
165 miles is an uncommon distance, but this race was created as the result of a wager between two rival teams, so logic was never a factor.
I'd never ridden that distance before, but I thought I might be able to do so when pressured by teammates. In the months prior to the event, my teammates constantly pestered each other to ride as many training miles as we could in preparation for the race. I assured them that I was on schedule, and like any good Roadie, I lied about how many miles I was riding which caused many anxious moments leading up to the race. “O lord, why didn’t I train for this as much as I said I did?”
Even in the last week before the race, I considered backing out, but at this stage of the game, there was no way out. Our two support crews were formed and ready to go.
The rules stated that we would have one support vehicle following immediately behind us in the event of a mechanical problem; the second support van would scoot ahead to four designated feed zones where they would hand us food and water. There were now ten people counting on me. Backing out was not feasible.
At 5:30 a.m. on the day of the race, I dragged myself out of bed to join the team at the Flap Jack Shack restaurant in Mt. Pleasant. On the way there, I made a deal with myself that if I could just make it to the halfway point of the race, I could pull out at any time after that. The rules clearly state that only three riders must finish the race. Surely my teammates weren’t expecting me to be one of the finishing three. C'mon!
At breakfast, I noticed two distinctly different moods. The support crews were chipper, talkative, full of energy, even giddy. Why not? They're going on a road trip. The four of us dressed in cycling clothes were stone-faced, slack-jawed, and silently wondering what possessed us to race 165 miles.
The actual start of the Big Mack Attack was almost as glamorous as it sounds. Twelve teams in the parking lot a farm supply store surrounded by mid-Michigan farmers who were looking at us as if we were from Planet Dorkoid. Every five minutes, one of the teams would roll up to the starting line, wait for the officials to say the magic words, and then they’d ride off in pursuit of the Big Mack. When it was our turn, we followed suit. There was little fanfare.
At the seventy-mile point, it happened. I felt the first hint of a cramp forming in my right thigh. At the eighty-mile point, the cramp worsened. Here we were not quite to the halfway point, and I was nearly cooked. Time to quit.
And I made that decision just a few seconds too late.
Just as I was about to quit, I was beaten to the punch by someone who had a legitimate excuse, or at least a better plan than mine. A teammate stood on the shoulder of M-27 and began to purge his pancakes to the horror of passing motorists (and standing teammates). He would not get back on the bike. The deal I had made with myself earlier in the morning was no longer on the table. There was no way I was going to let my teammates down. I had find a way to complete the next eighty-five miles.
This is common for Roadies. It’s one of the unspoken rules in this sport: if you commit, you must follow through. So for the next ninety-five miles, I blocked any thoughts of pain from entering my mind. It was easy to do because after a certain point, everything hurt about the same. The last twenty miles were the hardest. Not because of the all-consuming pain, but because we could actually see the gleaming white towers of the Mighty Mack from twenty miles away. The bridge stood there in the distance taunting us for the entire final leg.
To this day, I remember that our finishing time was 7:21:48. We finished in fourth place twenty minutes behind the winners. It took a full week to recover.
The final word on this story is that my two teammates who finished the race with me later admitted that they too had been on the verge of quitting when our rider fell ill at the eighty-mile point.
I want to thank those of you who stuck around to read the whole thing. I hope I have impressed on you three important lessons. First, never sign up for a race unless you’re prepared to finish the distance. Second, if you need to withdraw from such an event, try to do so before the other guys have a chance. Third, northern Michigan is much better enjoyed from the front seat of a support vehicle.
Spectacular? Let's not pretend. As events go, it's pretty dull. But it is a challenge.
And as crazy as it may seem, there's talk of bringing it back to life. Call me if you're interested.
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Epic Ride
In Chapter Four I discuss this rare event in the life of a Roadie.
Here's an excerpt:
<<<<<<
Every now and then, a Roadie will experience a ride that lasts longer than expected, goes farther than expected, and runs into more challenges than an ordinary ride. We call these epic rides. They are completely unplanned.
To qualify as an epic ride, the training ride must contain some or all of the following elements:
-§ Being chased by a dog
-§ Being chased by a motorist
-§ Bonking
-§ Staying out long after sunset
-§ Getting rained upon.
-§ Getting snowed upon.
-§ A 15 degree change in tempurature
-§ A mechanical problem.
-§ Getting horribly lost
At some point in an epic ride, the objectives become less about training and more about survival. On safe return, a Roadie will be tempted to kiss the ground, though few actually do. It will become a topic for discussion for a while until it fades from memory. Eventually, it will be replaced by another epic ride.
Oddly, a rider could simply end the battle by using their cell phone to make a simple phone call for help, but that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it?
Ask any Roadie to tell you a story of an epic ride. I guarantee they will have several.
>>>>>
In that list, I left out a key component of an Epic Ride. You can probably guess.
Last weekend our small group's dirt road ride turned into a small-scale epic when we decided to go off road and take a loop through a network of easy mountain bike trails. Mind you, we were all riding mountain bikes or 'cross bikes, so we were at least partially prepared for it. But because we're all Roadies, we were out of our element.
As is usually the case, when we were a sufficient distance from the road (that is, deep in the woods), one of our party crashed heavily on a short steep rocky, rooty, nasty hill.
I didn't see it happen, but it must have been ugly; her bike landed in a tree. (Hey John, note the semi-colon!)
She was hurt. Now we were concerned with getting her out of the woods as the temperature dropped. Well, she was a trooper. Bruised, battered, and a little bloody she insisted on walking the two miles of trail to get to the road (might have been a shorter route, but we didn't know the trails) and riding the entire 13.06 miles home at a very slow pace.
Her mountain bike was in bad shape. Not because of the crash, but because she's a Roadie. Roadies won't tend to the mechanical needs of their mountain bike with the same fervor as their road bikes.
Like I said, it was a small-scale epic ride this time. Could have been much worse. We'll thank the Cycling Gods and move along.
The next Big Epic Ride is waiting around the next corner.
Here's an excerpt:
<<<<<<
Every now and then, a Roadie will experience a ride that lasts longer than expected, goes farther than expected, and runs into more challenges than an ordinary ride. We call these epic rides. They are completely unplanned.
To qualify as an epic ride, the training ride must contain some or all of the following elements:
-§ Being chased by a dog
-§ Being chased by a motorist
-§ Bonking
-§ Staying out long after sunset
-§ Getting rained upon.
-§ Getting snowed upon.
-§ A 15 degree change in tempurature
-§ A mechanical problem.
-§ Getting horribly lost
At some point in an epic ride, the objectives become less about training and more about survival. On safe return, a Roadie will be tempted to kiss the ground, though few actually do. It will become a topic for discussion for a while until it fades from memory. Eventually, it will be replaced by another epic ride.
Oddly, a rider could simply end the battle by using their cell phone to make a simple phone call for help, but that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it?
Ask any Roadie to tell you a story of an epic ride. I guarantee they will have several.
>>>>>
In that list, I left out a key component of an Epic Ride. You can probably guess.
Last weekend our small group's dirt road ride turned into a small-scale epic when we decided to go off road and take a loop through a network of easy mountain bike trails. Mind you, we were all riding mountain bikes or 'cross bikes, so we were at least partially prepared for it. But because we're all Roadies, we were out of our element.
As is usually the case, when we were a sufficient distance from the road (that is, deep in the woods), one of our party crashed heavily on a short steep rocky, rooty, nasty hill.
I didn't see it happen, but it must have been ugly; her bike landed in a tree. (Hey John, note the semi-colon!)
She was hurt. Now we were concerned with getting her out of the woods as the temperature dropped. Well, she was a trooper. Bruised, battered, and a little bloody she insisted on walking the two miles of trail to get to the road (might have been a shorter route, but we didn't know the trails) and riding the entire 13.06 miles home at a very slow pace.
Her mountain bike was in bad shape. Not because of the crash, but because she's a Roadie. Roadies won't tend to the mechanical needs of their mountain bike with the same fervor as their road bikes.
Like I said, it was a small-scale epic ride this time. Could have been much worse. We'll thank the Cycling Gods and move along.
The next Big Epic Ride is waiting around the next corner.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)