Bike Urban

Logic?





















Medic!





















Awww!

All Images ©2010 Clay House Publications, LLC

Saddle Soar

Discoveries are made in odd ways. In this case, it was an over the handlebars revelation.

It was only after the event unfolded that I saw something in a way I'd never seen it before. I didn't see it with my face in the dirt, of course, nor while out there on the trail, consciously at least. But later. When I allowed my eyes to see. To really see.

I was sprawled there momentarily, face down trailwise, taking a quick inventory of various body parts. One after another responded in the affirmative. My helmet was packed with dirt, but better that than my head. My nose had a buff of trail scrum. I cleared that off without incident. I stood up. That worked. Good so far.

See it?

Body in order, the bike became my focus of attention. The first thing I found as I cast my eyes about was the saddle itself, the soft cushy part at least, downhill, crouching in the dirt like a furtive rat. I moved my gaze uphill to the bike proper. There lay my Epic straddling the ravine, with the discomforting skeletal remains of its saddlelessness shining back, all glistening steel and provokingly sharp ends.

With about eight more miles of trail to ride, hill after punishing hill, those rails didn't look inviting.

I retrieved the saddle, its proboscis broken near the front. I've been known to use duct tape to repair all kinds of things, but I don't carry it with me while riding. Let's face it, you could carry your whole tool kit on a ride and the one tool you needed would be the one left back in the garage. I tried to reattach the saddle in a makeshift way. I remounted the bike with the saddle flopping on the rails and attempted to ride, but it gave me a couple of nice pinches as it bounced around, snapping my skin between leather and metal. If I arose, the saddle bounded right off the bike. This wasn't good.

I dismounted once more and found a way to get the rails to slip into a couple of slots on the base of the saddle. It held, but the nose was still free to wander and the pinching continued if I didn't take care. I took care as best I could.

Broken Nosed Rat

Five pinches later I made it back to the car and eventually back home. I pulled the bike out of the car. The saddle, yanked free from the rails, was trying to hide, rattily hunkered down behind a wheel well, its long broken nose just peeking out. But still firmly attached to the bike were those rails. At that moment I saw the graceful form of a beautiful stag.

It touched something deep down. Real deep. When I'm out riding and all is going well (unlike days like this when the crash reveals my fleshly limitations), I'm that flying stag. The trail and I are one.

I Been There, Leaping Free

Then I started thinking, maybe I need a saddle that matches my spirit. I thought of myself as that wild rider on a palomino flying with the wind on the wide open prairie--only on a mountain bike palominoie kind of thing. (With dual-sus it is possible.)

So now that I'm in the market for a new saddle, eschewing any thought of my usual duct tape repair job, I've cast about for something with a little more style.

Maybe you can help me. I've narrowed down my choices, but I'm having a hard time deciding. The first choice is a clean-lined saddle not unlike those you might find out west on that wide open prairie. It's brown and sleek with nice pinch-free thigh protection, and I can just toss it over the top of those rails, strap it down and ride, ride, ride.

(Photo courtesy Montanabw)

But then another saddle caught my eye. I looked at it and thought, now this has a European flair. This is something Tomeke, Jens V, Fabian C, or Julian A might toss their legs over for their own epic rides. It even looks a tad Spanish, so maybe it would make me feel like Alberto Contador, that pelotonian matador.

(Photo courtesy David Straub)

This is a tough one. My Epic is a stark contrast in black and white. Maybe it's time to give that steel mount a bit of color, a touch of style. What do you think?

................................oRo

©Clay House Publications, LLC

Barry-Roubaix 2010 - A Tale of Two Laps(es)

Getting Down and Dirty
Near the end of the first lap I was pulling a single speeder in my draft over the last few miles of the paved road section. At one point he let out a loud moan.

"I can relate," I replied. If my legs had been a TV ad graphic with words written on them explaining their condition, they would have said "throb, ache, ugh!" all over the place.

"I'm doing two laps," I said, trying to sound upbeat. There was a long pause, then I heard a chuckle. "That brings to mind a great saying I've heard," he said.

"Go ahead," I said, "I can take it."

"There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity."

Yes, I thought. There certainly is. I raised my hand high. "And I know exactly where I fall along that line." We got a great laugh out of that. His laugh was hearty and full of joy. He was finishing up soon. My laugh had more of a grievous tinge of woe.

I thought of all those racers finishing up while they were still compos mentis. Beer awaited them. Good beer. Beer from Founders. Founders is one of the country's great brewers these days. I love Founders beer.

I don't want to say I was in no mood to do a second lap. I don't want to say it, but I will. My mind was more compost mentis at this point. I felt that in that first lap I'd done my service in the detritus of the early race season. My legs were full of distance prep and very little intensity. Good, you might say. One more lap is made for you. But I'd included this new concept of intensity for the first time this year on that first lap. My legs looked up at me and wondered what the hell I was thinking. I looked back and sheepishly apologized.

A short while later I was behind a couple of other guys who were pacing along at a nice clip. What I didn't realize was that they, too, were finishing up their race in a few minutes. Somewhere along the road there was a sign for the second lap turn for the "Elite" racers. I didn't see it. We got back to the State Park entrance and I knew, like a foolish character in a country song, that I'd done wrong.

I thought for a fleeting moment of hanging it up. But no, I signed up for the full tour. (I may be stupid, but I ain't no quitter. I'm sure that's a line in another country song somewhere. Not sure at this point whether or not that's a wise view of the world.) So I swung the bike back, all alone now, took out my home crafted energy bar that looks extremely unappetizing but is full of things that are good for you (yum!). I chewed at it dejectedly as I rode back against the long stream of those finishing up. Yes, I wanted to say to them, I was boneheaded enough to, 1) sign up for the Elite race and then, 2) miss the turn. My podium chances were now very slim. Very slim indeed.

I'll let you hold on to that lamentable thought for a minute, while I tell you about the yard sale.

Yard Sale
In the midst of the second lap, my confidence at navigation was at an all time low. I hadn't seen another rider, much less a course arrow, for miles. The sky was blue and the air was crisp and that podium was growing more and more elusive by the minute.

High on a hill, among all those endless rolling hills, was a small old man sitting alongside the road in a plastic lawn chair. His face was chestnut brown and wrinkled from many years in the sun. There was a light layer of dust on his jacket shoulders. These are dirt roads after all and dust is what happens on dry days. Nearby was a sign that spelled out, in a childlike scrawl, Yard Sale. He beckoned me over with a tip of the head. I pulled in.

"Racing?" he asked, in a thick, old world accent. "Not sure I'd call it that," I replied. "Let me show you something," he said. He arose, stiff from sitting, though once up he had a lilting spring in his step. He was a healthy looking spry old man, thin, but in a fit way. He walked a bit stooped over, like he was leaning toward a pair of handlebars. He led me back behind the metal floor lamps without shades, the rusting reel mowers, and a few wooden chairs missing their spindles. Gleaming there in the early afternoon sun, leaning against a table full of old iron skillets, a tangle of bent silverware, and a dented chrome toaster, was a vintage condition Cinelli road race bike, powder blue. He said something about Fausto Coppi, but I was so entranced by the mint condition of this old glistening mount, that I barely heard what he was saying. I knelt down and became engrossed in the details, particularly the head badge, a work of art in itself with a coat of arms and the magic city of Milano scrawled across the front.

I looked up into his face and he smiled. He patted me gently on the back. I envisioned him in his youth, spinning over the roads of rural Italy on this bike, his muscles taut, his back arched and his face turned toward the sun, smile spread cheek to cheek. As if reading my mind, he nodded. It was like he saw into my soul and I knew that we were brothers, different generations perhaps, but one in our passion for disappearing down quiet back roads on two wheels, the wind in our face.

"How much?" I asked, but he shook his head. "Not for sale?" I said with a hint of sorrow in my voice, realizing my error.

"Oh yes," he said, "very much for sale. But only to the right buyer."

"Oh," I said, caressing the top tube. I wondered what he meant by that, so I asked.

"What are you carrying with you?" he asked.

I laughed. "Not anywhere near enough to buy this," I said.

"What are you carrying with you?" he repeated, this time in a deeper tone, the thick Italian accent pasted throughout, his brow arched and grim.

I started to pull things out of my pockets. A spare tube (I had another in my bike bag under the saddle). He took it. The beautiful green Barry-Roubaix water bottle just handed out to me at the beginning of the race, which I'd foolishly filled with water and stuffed in my back pocket even though I had two full bottles in the cages on the bike. He took it, nodding happily. It was a nice looking bottle. I reached in further and pulled out a couple of Hammer Gels. "Oh, yes," he said, snatching them out of my hand. "They're the unflavored ones," I said apologetically. "Bellissimo," he said. My phone. He shook his head.

The only thing left was the wrapper for my home made energy bar, mostly eaten. He pointed to a garbage bag lying nearby. I tossed it in. He lifted up the water bottle. "You drink out of it yet?" "No," I said. "Cent' anni," he said and he took a large swig.

He then walked me back to my bike and pulled a half full bottle of Gatorade out of its cage and handed it to me. "Venduto," he said, reaching the bottle in his hand toward the bottle in mine. We tapped them together with a thwock sound. "Sold," he continued, since the look on my face must have shown my confusion. "Where are you parked?" he asked. From that point on I was in some kind of trance. I must have told him that my car was sitting in amongst hundreds of others back at the State Park, and he must have asked specifics, but I don't remember.

He held my bike for me as I mounted. "It will be waiting for you," he said. "You sure you're okay without this extra water?" I nodded and he pushed me off down the road. I felt light and free and soon I saw racers ahead of me so I knew I was still on course. I caught a few and passed them. My legs were sore, but not so sore that I couldn't pedal up those long arduous hills without a joyful spirit.

Sure, I'd tossed away all chances of a podium, but in the coming months I'd be riding a powder blue Cinelli out Huron River Drive, feeling the sun on my face. I crossed the finish line some time later, though time was now irrelevant to me. I rode straight to my car, and sure enough, there it lay. I must have told him where I'd hidden the car key because the bike was stretched out in the back of my locked Subaru with a sultry look, like Titian's reclining Venus of Urbino. The car key was just where I'd left it.

I wandered up toward the registration building to refill my now empty water bottle, bumping into Jason L and Ben C on the way. They'd both done well and were happy with their race. I didn't want to bring them down at the time with my own story, so I kept quiet about the bike and the old man.

I left shortly thereafter and headed back over the course in my car, trying to find the old man and his yard sale, but he must have packed it all up and I couldn't remember exactly where he was along the way. The course was, after all, full of one long hill after another, mostly dirt, but with a few paved sections. There were more hills than I'd ever imagined and they were longer than I thought they'd be. There was even a two-track sandy road shortly after the start that dumped one rider over another into the deep loam. In the early chaos racers dismounted at times and ran, more riders went down, but emerging from this on to the gravel road, the race was already sorting out and the crashes were few. Packs formed, disbanded, and reformed. The hills came and went, cramped legs came and went, opportunities appeared and disappeared.

And all in all, it was a great race. The B-R crew were extremely well organized. The weather was ideal (unless you're one of those demented people who enjoy slop and degradation). I can honestly say that this is the one and only time I will ever ride this race in its 60-some mile entirety again. But I will race it again. It is a fantastic course.

Where was that podium? I forgot to look for it. It's just as well. I would have probably gotten lost in the search. I think I'll start a facebook page for the navigationally challenged. And maybe another page for people who like to make up outlandish stories about their adventures.

By they way, I've since learned that the powder blue Cinelli holds quite a pedigree and is extremely valuable. It is now housed in an undisclosed location. Amazing world, isn't it?

Later,
........................................................................................oRo

©Clay House Publications, LLC

Barry-Roubaix, Mr. B, Beeline to STS & Spring Fling

Mark Braun (Mr. B)
Okay, I did a stupid thing a couple of days ago (surprise!). I was out riding the dirt roads north of town taking photos of whatever struck my eye. Then this guy approaches on a bike. I wave, realize it's Mr. B, and wave harder. He doesn't know me, but everyone knows Mr. B. I've listened to his great boogie piano stomps for years. He thought I was someone else, so he stopped. That someone else should be deeply flattered because Mr. B thought I looked a lot like his friend, Brian Rosewarne. That only goes to show that all us bikers look alike under the lycra, helmets and cool shades. Brian and I do wear the same team kit, and he is a suave guy, so I see the mixup.

Brian is, of course, one or two or fifteen years my junior, but what's a few years? I left the helmet on to keep up the more youthful impression. The "mature" hair color would have tipped Mr. B off to my true vintage. Cutting me in half would have revealed a lot of rings to count, though I don't often allow that.

Anyway, my error? I forgot to lift the camera to take Mr. B's photo. He's a very friendly, gregarious guy and we were so quickly caught up in conversation that I completely forgot. (See the recent Bike Minded post for a further explanation of this phenomenon.) Got some nice barn pictures, though.

Here's why this all ties in: Mr. B has a concert coming up April 10th and 11th at the Ark (7:30pm both nights). It's his annual Piano Celebration--and it involves a bike.

"Part of the proceeds from this weekend's celebration will go to support Mr. B's Joybox Express -- a bicycle with a piano pulled along on its own little trailer. With the help of this amazing contraption, Mr. B takes his show on the road to raise money for kids' music and athletics charities."

Go to: theark.org/2315.html for more info on this concert.

If you haven't seen his dazzling Joybox Express go to:
annarborchronicle.com/2009/06/22/gearing-up-for-art-fairs, or,
www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2009/07/boogie_woogie_pianist_mark_bra.html
You'll see photos of, and learn more about, the JBExpress bike that hauls his axe. Be aware, Mr. B is no small axe to follow. (My daughter groans when I come up with these, so don't hold back, groan away.)

It's a good cause, it's bike and music related--what more could you want!--so check it out.

Barry-Roubaix
This weekend, though, is devoted to some early season bike racing. Barry-Roubaix takes place on Saturday, the 27th. I've signed up for the 62 mile elite suffer fest. My only hope is that no one has been riding all winter and this is their first day out for the season. Long shot, but I do live in my own little world of pretend. I will report back next week on the joys of the race if I'm in any condition to do so.

Go to: www.barry-roubaix.com to get more info on the race itself.

Spring Training Races
Two siblings, the Flying Rhino's Spring Fling, and the Ann Arbor Velo Club's Spring Training Series begin this weekend. They take place back-to-back on Saturday the 27th (Fling) and Sunday the 28th (STS) on their respective courses, then follow through April.

For Spring Fling, go to: www.flyingrhinocc.com/Home/index_b.htm

For the STS, go to: aasts.blogspot.com

These are fantastic ways to either hone all the training you've been doing (or not doing) this past winter, or to learn how to road race. There are A (expert), B (intermediate), and C (beginner) categories and it's all very inclusive and a lot of fun.

Spring is here. Time to get out and enjoy the sprouting of wheels from the fecund earth.

Bike Minded

Jasper. What you have to contend with if you deal with dogs.

Lab Minded
We once had two Labrador Retrievers. Very friendly, very fun, very easy to mess with their minds. One day at the animal hospital, in for their yearly shots, the vet distracted Jasper, the yellow lab, with some fancy finger work, flipping his one hand around as he poked the needle into the dog's butt with the other. Jasper was mesmerized by those wiggling fingers and didn't even know he'd been stabbed.

"Amazing," I said.

"Naw," said the vet. "He's a Lab. Simple minds. Easily distracted. That's all."

That's all, I thought, as a worried realization crossed my mind. They say you get a dog that matches your personality. I can't say I was ever as bone headed or goofy as Jasper--I don't sleep with my face in a box--but the simple mind thing hit a little closer to the mark than I cared to admit at the time.

I'm resolved to it now. I think. I've decided it has its advantages. I'm awful at so called multi-tasking. I like to focus on one thing at a time. I don't always finish it (I do try), but while I'm on task that's where my focus is. My mind strays, sure. It's easily distracted (after I wrote this line I went to the kitchen, brewed a cup of tea and checked the weather for the day), but for set periods of time I zero in and work.

Begin to Beguile
But when it comes to play, I like to let things wander a bit. I use distraction as a map with lines that are allowed to run all over the place. It's a free range thing.

Untrained veggies and grains in their raw state. They haven't done interval training yet today.

Raw Meets Mr. Cook
When I cook, which I think of as a form of play, my favorite thing to do is look into the refrigerator to see what's available. Then it's a matter of taking those component parts and creating something for dinner, putting flavors together that become enjoyable to toss around the mouth and swallow. Sometimes it's strange, sometimes downright unappetizing, but often it's pretty good. After hundreds of screwups I'm getting better at it.

There's one flaw, of course. I can never repeat something that comes out extremely well because it was a process of a little here, a little there, a tweak of this, a toss of that. That's okay, though. Those moments can be great and it's sometimes hard to repeat something even if you have the exact same ingredients and proportions next time you try. (At that moment you were in just the right mood for that kind of food.)

Mind-messing bike photo. Or is it?

Two Wandering Wheels
Biking (you knew this was coming, didn't you?) is the same thing for me. I usually have a set time available each day for a ride, but within that time frame the route is often very flexible. I'll pick the bike of the day, let's say the cross bike this time, and head out of town with the intent to do a route I map out in my thoughts. But after a couple of turns, I notice the wind is coming from a direction that will make my return difficult, or I think about a dirt road that I haven't been on for a while that would be fun to hit, I decide to do part of the local loop, or I think hey I could do a few hills today, or for no apparent reason at all my mind wanders (there's that Lab thing) and I turn right instead of the intended left.

A short while later, I'm north of Dixboro rather than west of Dexter. And somehow the ride is the right ride for that day. I'll usually find something new that makes me glad I went that way. The sunny afternoon I saw a flock of friendly nuns, in habits, jogging on Warren Road was one of those pleasant surprises. Or a deer steps into the road and stops and I stop and we have a stare down. It happens sometimes.

The same happens when I "train." I often go out with the best of intentions to "do interval training." But once out, the breeze feels good, the legs feel sore, and instead of intensity I'm just riding tempo, easing up the hills and loving every minute of it. The dreaded intervals will have to happen another day. And on that day I'll usually do something sneaky to fool my inner Lab, like find a beautiful hilly area and blast around for a while, unaware that I'm doing intervals.

This is about re-creation. It's breathing the air and feeling my body go free for a short while. We spend a lot of our day tied to specific responsibilities. My bike time needs to be a release from those responsibilities rather than a continuation of another set of agenda items. Happy is what I aspire to on a bike, whether I'm riding hard or settling in to a slow cruise and chatting with friends. I let the Lab in me go out and romp. With spring coming on, it looks like romp season is underway.

© Clay House Publications 2010

Bicycle Race Broadcasts

CX
Nathan Spear's web site disappeared shortly after the Cyclocross World Championships. It went down without an explanation, though there's a catch 22 in there anyway--if the site's down, how can he explain, right? Have to thank him, though, for bringing so many good, complete European races to those of us here in the US. Great job, Nathan.

Cyclocross season is over. I know, for some it's a hard dose of reality to face, but that is the case. Go to a mirror. Look at yourself. Take your strong hand and slap your face hard a couple of times. Painful, right? That's your reminder of cyclocross. In the meantime, there are other bike race venues to follow.

Versus
Versus is back on biking, though the bucking will always be there somewhere, I'm sure. They broadcast parts of the Paris-Nice race for the past couple of Sundays.

The Critérium International is on deck March 27th and 28th. Versus will carry this on Sunday the 28th from 2:30-4p ET.

Watch out for Versus. Their broadcast times are all over the place. They even have an asterisked caveat below their listings warning that "*all times are subject to change." For a list of the bike races they plan on covering this year go here:
www.versus.com/blogs/epic-cycle/2010-epic-cycle-schedule

World Cycling Channel 2
Mark Lovejoy, my man in finding great bike links, pointed out this one:
www.youtube.com/user/worldcyclingchannel2
It doesn't show complete races, but it does give some great highlights along with about ten minutes leading up to the race finish. Even more fun, you never know what language feed you'll get. Flemish one day, French the next. Tirreno Adriatico might come to you in English or Italian. For those of us who are multi-lingual it's a dream come true. For those of us who speak some bastardized form of English and nothing else, it's an education, and even a deep dark mystery.

Pavé
This link, in turn, came from an opinionated blogger who enjoys analyzing recent races. His blog is Pavé. These are great fun to read. Go to:
pavepavepave.blogspot.com

Cycling.TV
I used to subscribe, then got fed up with the glitches and the erratic support. It's a service you have to pay for and that was the part of the problem. (I think they broadcast live races for free at a lower resolution.) If they charge, I thought, the headaches should have been minimal. Such was not the case.

Also, somewhere in the small print it allowed them to re-up my subscription each year. I didn't realize this until I saw it on my bill. But, oddly, there was always a glitch with this, too. I needed to contact them after the renewal date to get it to accept my login.

To be fair, I jettisoned them a while back and they may have improved their service by now. The coverage and announcing was--and hopefully still is--excellent. If you have an opinion on this web broadcast site I'd like to hear it. Or, even better, if you're from CyclingTV, write a response.

It would be great for them to do well and succeed, considering the dearth of resources for viewing cycle races here in the US. They cover the Spring Classics, along with the other major races throughout the year. Go to:
cycling.tv.

Universal Sports
Whoops! I forgot to mention Universal Sports (Thanks, Dave). Live and recent broadcasts of major races. Great stuff.
http://www.universalsports.com/cycling/index.html

Any more good bike race broadcast sites you know of? Fill us in. I'm sure there are more.

And if you can't watch them, go out and ride. Pretend you're in a race. Ride pretend hard. Pretend win. Pretend podium. It can bring you moments of glory and happiness. Not that I've ever tried it.

...oRo

Bikes Arise from their Dank Holes

For the Uninitiated, These Are Not Bikes

Tires are sprouting out of the dead land. Faces not seen beyond stationary clad bikes are reappearing, mounted on crusty metal and carbon not cleaned since October of the previous year.

These marvels, unlike those in dank basements attached to or resting upon cruel devices, actually achieve forward momentum. They course along roadways still dusted with salt patina, soon to disappear after the first rains.

Hills, those sloping ascents, remind these dark holed strangers that the world outside their four walls requires accommodation to glacial landforms wrought upon the earth in eons past. The wince of recognition at the smallest rise reawakens apathetic muscles that, for too many weeks, stretched in languor on doughy couches.

The forgotten sun causes the eyes to squint, lachrymose, and as yet unfocused. The skin reddens.

This isn't a Bike, Either. Nor is it a Submerged Woodchuck. Woodchucks Don't Submerge Willingly. So I've Been Told.

But then, this is, after all, the fickle north. This fresh adulation becomes easily frustrated by drops in Fahrenheit, chilly rain, and worst of all, the reappearance of white obdurate crystals, sending these squint eyed strangers back from where they emerged.

This is a Manure Pile. If it's Not, I'm Sure Someone Will Let Me Know. (Good to Know Someone's Paying Attention.)

There are signs of life, however ephemeral. Manure piles strewn in spongy fields, torpid cows basking in the sun, sprouts of green timidity peeping out in damp swales. This new found warmth is showing its potential renewal but will willingly defy our naive hopes for a temperate spring, snapping its frozen jaw, like a corroded trap dispassionately awaiting the unsuspecting limb, alone and miles from home.

I Leave This Unlabeled and Open to Interpretation.

If April is the cruelest month, what then capricious March?