My eyes were clinched tightly shut. There was silence. I laid on the warm asphalt on my right side. I moved my fingers, toes then my hands and feet until I felt it was safe to move my body. Still lying where I had landed, I looked back where I had just come tumbling out of a 4-man bike crash. This was the worst I'd ever seen, let alone been involved. The next thing I saw transformed into one of those lifetime snapshots you carry in your head for all time.
I was part of an early morning group ride, about 15 riders, which started in Southern Shores, warmed up progressing south on the Beach Road, then worked its way over to roads on the soundside and back north to Kitty Hawk. The ride starts at 5:30 a.m. I met the group riding toward it on the Beach Road as I live 7 miles south of their starting point. The spectrum of road experience and bike handling skills was diverse in the group which assembled that day. Many riders are quite fit and able to carry on pretty vigorous efforts.
Upon completion of the warmup, the group organized into a paceline (single file, wheel to wheel)and began the real work. The morning was beautiful with the sun reaching just above the Atlantic horizon. It felt as though it was ours and ours alone to view as we rolled down a virtually empty Beach Road. The ocean was mirror glassy and flat.
The typical ride goes like this: Sprint markers are embedded along the route, the first of which is the Nags Head Inn. The north end of Bay Drive is next, and the last sprint finishes before the light at the north end of Kitty Hawk Woods Road.
As we approach sprint markers, lifting the tempo all the while, the stronger riders vie for front position and all at once, one attacks launching a sprint toward the next mark. The paceline stretches at first and then riders explode across the road each tracing his own lane to the finish mark. The first riders across sit up and pedal a slow cadence until the group re-forms. Then everybody's off again, the paceline running around 25-26 mph between sprints.
Upon reaching the lead-up to the Woods Road sprint the group divides with the strongest riders now riding lead in their own group. Newly formed groups follow behind at whatever pace they can maintain.
I moved to the front of the lead group to take my turn pulling on Kitty Hawk Village Road and turned the corner onto Woods Road. We were cruising at 25+ mph. One quarter mile further I came off the front as a few riders wanting more speed passed to my left. As I dropped back seven places, I heard Matt coaxing me back into the paceline while opening a space. I sidled safely in ahead of Matt and behind Mark. We were between 27 and 28 mph now and steady.
The riders in front of Mark were in this order: Roger, Chip, Art, Joe and Robert (at the front). Fortunately this day we had two doctors in our group.
I was watching the line of riders' heads and shoulders while peering over Mark's right shoulder. Occasionally I looked at the proximity of my front wheel to Mark's rear wheel, maintaining a safe distance but staying in his slipstream.
The familiar sound of spokes cutting the morning air was in my ears. Riders' heads and bodies were moving in an unscripted, wiggling choreography all the while working to stay rail steady on the bikes.
In one long, long instant Roger (Mark was between us) dropped straight down gone from my view, his head and body twisting to the left. Mark reacted by steering left and catching Roger's now tumbling bike and going down himself. Roger and his bike were now before me as I jambed on my brakes. Matt streaked by on the right plowing into the helpless Roger still sliding on his back, his bike laying over him.
Having no place to veer, I rode my skidding bike into the tangled mess of downed riders and bikes. I can clearly remember attempting to miss my friends as they lay there. My front wheel stuck hard on something and then the inevitable came. I went over my handlebars tucking my head, turning one shoulder to the ground hoping to roll while kicking out of my pedals. I ended the super spill pretty far down the road by myself. All of this in one long, long instant. Roger was one of the two doctors in our group this day.
I was afraid to look back at them that morning. These were special people in the life of a man. We come together only for this hard work---a loose team, growing closer in whatever precision we can muster each day on our road bikes.
I got up as Mark was getting up also. We went to Roger and saw he was unconscious. Matt was on the street edge holding his head and moaning. I ran to my bike seat bag, grabbed my cell phone, cut it on and literally pleaded with the phone to find the "Network" it was searching for before making itself available. I called 911.
The front part of our group was arriving in our midst. Robert ran back up the traffic lane in which we had crashed in order to direct oncoming vehicles around us. The rear group began to arrive. Two riders bent over Roger attending to him as best they could. I directed some to take off their jerseys and cover him lest he go into shock. I had the 911 operator in my ear asking tedious questions. I gave her our location. As I spoke I can remember the absolute awe and bewilderment in the other riders' faces as they took in the scene.
A couple came running to us from a nearby home offering pillows and blankets. I could hear sirens, one coming from each end of the road. I soon realized Art, the other doctor on the ride, was one of the two attending to Roger. As the 911 operator began asking me medical questions about Roger I passed the phone to Art so that he could communicate the medical situation. I didn't know whether I helped or hindered by doing that.
We helped pull Matt and his bike off the road. The other riders filled in around us picking up bikes and parts and taking them off the road. A paramedic was at my side offering alcohol soaked cotton swaths to clean the blood off my right leg and arm, all standard road rash, my only injuries. Mark had the same injuries. Matt had a concussion.
Roger was seriously hurt, a breath away from life changing injury or death. He spent that night in a hospital intensive care unit. His injuries? Four broken ribs, broken scapula, brain hemorrhage, severe concussion and a severe hip bruise causing him to loose 3 units of blood internally.
When the ambulances left us there that morning, we weren't sure if one of our group would live. Everyone went home. I got on my bike and rode south and the long rest of my day. Since this group ride we all have had much to think about---mostly how to be safer and even why we do what we do.
This post will be followed by my own discussion of group road cycling safety in the next post. Also I'll reveal why this accident occurred having now spoken to the riders involved including Roger. In the meantime, if you are an experienced cyclist, I would love to hear your comments relative to improving safety with such a diverse group riding together. If you prefer to respond off line my email is skip.saunders@gmail.com. I welcome your take.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Long Beach Island, New Jersey---A Ride to Remember
So here we are in the North Shore Inn, one block from the Jersey "shore" (they don't call it the "beach" up here)on Long Beach Island, near Barnegat Inlet. I came up here last year kicking and screaming with my son for his skimboard contest. I had no interest in coming to the beaches in New Jersey. After a lifetime of hearing crummy stuff about the place, I was shocked at how beautiful and well cared for the beaches and the tiny beach towns were when I finally arrived. So here we are again.
I brought my trusty Trek road bike for this trip however and went out for a 30-mile tempo ride this morning. As I was readying for the ride, I spied a guy flying by on the road out front of the North Shore Inn on a hand cycle. I know, what's that? I didn't know that's what it's called either. It's a type of tricycle (high-performance wheelchair) for handicapped athletes operated by turning chain-drive sprockets with each hand and arm. It's frame is triangular in shape with it's rider snug between two approximately 20-24-inch wheels, their top edges leaning inboard toward the rider. A single front wheel, about the size of a standard road bike, projects out in front of the rider held by an aluminum, steel, or carbon fiber fork.
A racing wheelchair, on the other hand, has a smaller front wheel out front about 32 inches. It is held by a straight rod and fork extending forward from the rider's seated position and can be constructed of the same materials found on any road bike.
As I entered the road, I saw a police car, its blue lights ablaze, beside a roadside roped-off area. Adjacent to this was a tent and a gathering of people near what appeared to be a finish line. I was riding along in a race course for a wheelchair race. I looked behind to see racing wheelchairs closing fast.
I moved over toward a group of wheelchair racers who had just finished the 5-mile course. I rolled over to a dark-haired, smiling racer clad in a yellow Cannondale jersey, who introduced himself as Shannon. He had come from Washington, D.C. for the race. He was a 30-year old double leg amputee, the stubs of his legs and his lower body, wore black cycling shorts.
I introduced myself and told him I was very unfamiliar with his ride, so he showed me around and told me some about these special vehicles. His was not a hand-cycle, but a racing wheelchair. The frames were fairly similar, both somewhat triangular, but the means of propulsion were quite different. He said he has a hand-cycle, but prefers to race in the chair. It's his speed machine.
The racing chair is driven with the riders' hands and arms pumping in a vertical motion, with his mitted hands driving the wheels' forward edges downward by contact with a rubber coated ring attached to the outer face of the wheels. This repeated motion has the rider bent over at the waist and face downward toward the road for virtually the entire race. Today's race was a mass start race. Drafting was allowed and is effective with these machines as it is with racing bicycles.
Shannon said his chair, made by Top End, is custom fitted to his body and cost about $5500. Cannondale made chairs for some years but has gotten out of it. Most chairs cost between $3600 and $6500. They even sport deep dish carbon fiber wheels (as his did) and disc wheels, the type used by road cyclists in time trials.
"I wasn't real happy with my results today. I was up real late drinking with a buddy in Atlantic City last night," Shannon confessed. "He came up here with me from D.C. so we sorta stuck together last night. There aren't many out-of-town athletes in this race. These guys are mostly locals," he went on. "I'm from around here so it's kinda nice to come back here for a race like this.
"Well who do you train with at home?" I wanted to know.
Shannon: "The only person I train with around D.C. is an Olympic Parathlete. But I can't really keep up with him. He's super strong. I mean he's a real Olympian. But it's great to have the opportunity to work and learn from someone of that caliber."
As for his training, Shannon said he trains at about 13 to 15 miles per hour. He does long rides of 8 to 10 miles and does intervals to improve his speed. He talks about his training with the same precision of a dedicated road racing cyclist.
As Shannon said this, another rider pulled up wearing a red jersey looking a bit surly and well worn from the road race. "This guy won the race today," Shannon explained. "We're gonna ride back now." Seated inches above the road, he reached up and shook my hand. I also shook the hand of the race winner and wished them both good health and great racing. They took off south down the road intent upon catching up to their racing buddies who now had a head start on them.
They were off in the same direction I was going so I started off as well. I passed the group of them, and as I went by I looked down upon flat backs, faces inches to the road, elbows pumping up and down with a furious rage.
I had an especially good ride today.
I brought my trusty Trek road bike for this trip however and went out for a 30-mile tempo ride this morning. As I was readying for the ride, I spied a guy flying by on the road out front of the North Shore Inn on a hand cycle. I know, what's that? I didn't know that's what it's called either. It's a type of tricycle (high-performance wheelchair) for handicapped athletes operated by turning chain-drive sprockets with each hand and arm. It's frame is triangular in shape with it's rider snug between two approximately 20-24-inch wheels, their top edges leaning inboard toward the rider. A single front wheel, about the size of a standard road bike, projects out in front of the rider held by an aluminum, steel, or carbon fiber fork.
A racing wheelchair, on the other hand, has a smaller front wheel out front about 32 inches. It is held by a straight rod and fork extending forward from the rider's seated position and can be constructed of the same materials found on any road bike.
As I entered the road, I saw a police car, its blue lights ablaze, beside a roadside roped-off area. Adjacent to this was a tent and a gathering of people near what appeared to be a finish line. I was riding along in a race course for a wheelchair race. I looked behind to see racing wheelchairs closing fast.
I moved over toward a group of wheelchair racers who had just finished the 5-mile course. I rolled over to a dark-haired, smiling racer clad in a yellow Cannondale jersey, who introduced himself as Shannon. He had come from Washington, D.C. for the race. He was a 30-year old double leg amputee, the stubs of his legs and his lower body, wore black cycling shorts.
I introduced myself and told him I was very unfamiliar with his ride, so he showed me around and told me some about these special vehicles. His was not a hand-cycle, but a racing wheelchair. The frames were fairly similar, both somewhat triangular, but the means of propulsion were quite different. He said he has a hand-cycle, but prefers to race in the chair. It's his speed machine.
The racing chair is driven with the riders' hands and arms pumping in a vertical motion, with his mitted hands driving the wheels' forward edges downward by contact with a rubber coated ring attached to the outer face of the wheels. This repeated motion has the rider bent over at the waist and face downward toward the road for virtually the entire race. Today's race was a mass start race. Drafting was allowed and is effective with these machines as it is with racing bicycles.
Shannon said his chair, made by Top End, is custom fitted to his body and cost about $5500. Cannondale made chairs for some years but has gotten out of it. Most chairs cost between $3600 and $6500. They even sport deep dish carbon fiber wheels (as his did) and disc wheels, the type used by road cyclists in time trials.
"I wasn't real happy with my results today. I was up real late drinking with a buddy in Atlantic City last night," Shannon confessed. "He came up here with me from D.C. so we sorta stuck together last night. There aren't many out-of-town athletes in this race. These guys are mostly locals," he went on. "I'm from around here so it's kinda nice to come back here for a race like this.
"Well who do you train with at home?" I wanted to know.
Shannon: "The only person I train with around D.C. is an Olympic Parathlete. But I can't really keep up with him. He's super strong. I mean he's a real Olympian. But it's great to have the opportunity to work and learn from someone of that caliber."
As for his training, Shannon said he trains at about 13 to 15 miles per hour. He does long rides of 8 to 10 miles and does intervals to improve his speed. He talks about his training with the same precision of a dedicated road racing cyclist.
As Shannon said this, another rider pulled up wearing a red jersey looking a bit surly and well worn from the road race. "This guy won the race today," Shannon explained. "We're gonna ride back now." Seated inches above the road, he reached up and shook my hand. I also shook the hand of the race winner and wished them both good health and great racing. They took off south down the road intent upon catching up to their racing buddies who now had a head start on them.
They were off in the same direction I was going so I started off as well. I passed the group of them, and as I went by I looked down upon flat backs, faces inches to the road, elbows pumping up and down with a furious rage.
I had an especially good ride today.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
My Cycling "How Hot it Was" Story and Other Goings On
Hey y'all. It's been awhile. Locally we're into the transitional period between the late, mind-blowing epic winter/spring swells, and the summer doldrums. The tourists are filling in now and taking the upper hand everywhere over us locals---the roads, restaurants, of course the hotels, the grocery stores, and all the entertainment businesses. We still have 'em though when it comes to the beaches and ocean, thankfully.
The wind is southerly about 18 mph and we've been enveloped in smoke all day from the wildfire covering over 63 thousand acres in Pocosin Lakes Wildlife Refuge in Hyde County, North Carolina, about 45 miles southwest of Kill Devil Hills. It was started by a lightening strike and is feeding on the marsh peat billowing enough smoke to been seen on NWS national radar. One local woman reportedly saw so many black bears passing through her yard escaping the fire, she said she was afraid to go to her mailbox by the road. We need a soaking rain in a big way.
There's also another fire in Virginia to the north-northwest of us in the Great Dismal Swamp, allegedly started by logging equipment. So we have smoke here on the Right Coast too although so far not too many buildings have been destroyed.
The surf here now is small and locally dependent on the tide and of course the wind. The water temperature is between 70-76 degrees Fahrenheit. We're tropical again and it's so fine. However as I've said before, we're pointed into the doldrums, so for me bike road racing is the thing.
So far, in this late-start season for me (due to recent surgery), I've raced in one duathlon relay (the 25 mile bike leg), two criteriums held at the Virginia Beach Sportsplex, and one time trial, my favorite, the Peter Teeuwen Memorial Omnium in Chesapeake, Va. That particular race that day gets my award for the highest air temperature in which I've ever raced, an astounding 104 degrees F. with humidity around 90 per cent. One of the guys in our Kitty Hawk Cycling Club, Robert Netsch, raced that day and also won the previous day's Va. State Criterium Championship the day before in 107 degrees, a new record for that calendar day in Chesapeake.
Everybody's got "how hot it was" stories, so here's mine. I sat with Robert and a few riders from other clubs he knew under a canopy tent one of them brought. We warmed up on our trainers there and waited our turn to ride the time trial. It was demoralizing just sitting there waiting in the suffocating heat. As each rider returned to our pitiful oasis, he would dismount, shake his head, sigh, and babble something about how poor his time was.
It was my turn now. Riders start from the start line every 60 seconds in this time trial. As I moved into the line, fifth rider from the line, my handlebar tape started uncoiling in my hands, as the heat had melted the tape holding it in a tight wrap around the bars. I tried to quickly tie it, but nothing worked. I flew back to the tent in a panic asking everybody there if they had any kind of tape in their vehicle. One rider did and I followed him to his truck, made a quick repair with some electrical tape, and rushed to the line. Thanks Dave, for the assist!
I took my place at the start line and thanked the official for being there to start us in such absurd heat. I looked down at my two water bottles, enough I thought, to carry me through the 23-mile time trial. I knew it would be close, but felt pretty confident I could make it through.
I looked out on the wafting waves of intense heat rising from the road before me, the first 6-mile stretch. I saw the previous rider's image fade into a distorted figure seeming to melt bike and all into the scorching asphalt. This was profound heat---the kind that can create doubts and second thoughts if you choose to let it in.
My cycling mentors have always told me not to go out too hard on a time trial because the adrenaline surge at the start can have a rider find a speed he would never be able to hold for the whole distance. You must know your own ability and limits. If not, you redline, you bonk, and the lactic acid build-up in your muscles snuffs out your ability to carry the full race distance.
I started, stood on the pedals, and sprinted up to my tempo speed. I dropped down to my saddle and settled in. I was riding on borrowed Zipp wheels, 404's on the front and 808's on the rear. These are carbon fiber, deep-dish wheels like the pros use. For me, this was like Cinderella wearing the golden slippers. They are worth the same amount as my bike in dollars. They were generously loaned by Chip Cowan from Outer Banks Cycle in Kill Devil Hills. Thanks Chipper! I'm sure though, he was entertained to see a rider like me with such high performance gear. You know, one of those "what's wrong with this picture?" kinda deals for the local riders who know me.
So back to the heated time trial. I'm one mile out settling into my steady state tempo. The Zipp wheels are making me feel like Superman plus I was sure I looked pretty cool too. I'm already thirsty so I pull up a water bottle and take a short gulp. I lower the bottle to the top of the bottle cage, blink, and now I'm watching the same full bottle spinning on it's side across the burning asphalt to the far side of the other lane. I turned forward and wondered whether I should go back and get it, start crying, abandon the race, or listen to the inner voice reminding me I can make it on one bottle because I was after all, as immortal and invincible as I'd always been. The heat is only another obstacle standing in the way of my growing cycling credentials. Can't this inner voice shut up just once?
So now the plan was make sure I had half a bottle left halfway through. Water rations no less. I passed riders walking who had abandoned the race. One carried a shoe in his hand. I reached the halfway mark with my half bottle. I poured a little of the almost scalding fluid over my helmet and the back of my neck, shot a little in my mouth in celebration. This heat was demeaning.
The Chesapeake Ruritan Club is the registration building for the time trial. The time trial begins and ends in front of it. It is a white stucco building which can be seen straight down the last say, mile and a half of the course. It is little more than a shimmering white gable end looking as though the road leads right into its side from my distant view. Mostly open fields frame my view of it on both road edges. But there it was heat-distorted ahead finally in my sight. I was now seeing in its simple form the end of my self-imposed torture. I was sure there were people cooling off in the shade with cold drinks in their grip near that building. I was also sure I wanted to be one of them as quickly as possible. I somehow quickened my tempo, relishing the coming euphoria of ending this sublime suffering. I passed several of the riders whom had started before me.
I saw visions of every sort, from fantasy to Dante's Hell as I crossed the finish line, I'm sure speaking in tongues. I was one and a half minutes slower than the same time trial on the same date last year. I was nonetheless alive and on the correct side of the grass, sitting in the shade, under the tent among friends, feeling how superb a freezing cold bottle of water can feel poured over my head after riding in such conditions.
Tomorrow I'll ride in the Farm Bureau Langley Speedway Criterium in Hampton, Virginia. The predicted temperature is a freezing 86 degrees F.
More later. Keep riding........something.
The wind is southerly about 18 mph and we've been enveloped in smoke all day from the wildfire covering over 63 thousand acres in Pocosin Lakes Wildlife Refuge in Hyde County, North Carolina, about 45 miles southwest of Kill Devil Hills. It was started by a lightening strike and is feeding on the marsh peat billowing enough smoke to been seen on NWS national radar. One local woman reportedly saw so many black bears passing through her yard escaping the fire, she said she was afraid to go to her mailbox by the road. We need a soaking rain in a big way.
There's also another fire in Virginia to the north-northwest of us in the Great Dismal Swamp, allegedly started by logging equipment. So we have smoke here on the Right Coast too although so far not too many buildings have been destroyed.
The surf here now is small and locally dependent on the tide and of course the wind. The water temperature is between 70-76 degrees Fahrenheit. We're tropical again and it's so fine. However as I've said before, we're pointed into the doldrums, so for me bike road racing is the thing.
So far, in this late-start season for me (due to recent surgery), I've raced in one duathlon relay (the 25 mile bike leg), two criteriums held at the Virginia Beach Sportsplex, and one time trial, my favorite, the Peter Teeuwen Memorial Omnium in Chesapeake, Va. That particular race that day gets my award for the highest air temperature in which I've ever raced, an astounding 104 degrees F. with humidity around 90 per cent. One of the guys in our Kitty Hawk Cycling Club, Robert Netsch, raced that day and also won the previous day's Va. State Criterium Championship the day before in 107 degrees, a new record for that calendar day in Chesapeake.
Everybody's got "how hot it was" stories, so here's mine. I sat with Robert and a few riders from other clubs he knew under a canopy tent one of them brought. We warmed up on our trainers there and waited our turn to ride the time trial. It was demoralizing just sitting there waiting in the suffocating heat. As each rider returned to our pitiful oasis, he would dismount, shake his head, sigh, and babble something about how poor his time was.
It was my turn now. Riders start from the start line every 60 seconds in this time trial. As I moved into the line, fifth rider from the line, my handlebar tape started uncoiling in my hands, as the heat had melted the tape holding it in a tight wrap around the bars. I tried to quickly tie it, but nothing worked. I flew back to the tent in a panic asking everybody there if they had any kind of tape in their vehicle. One rider did and I followed him to his truck, made a quick repair with some electrical tape, and rushed to the line. Thanks Dave, for the assist!
I took my place at the start line and thanked the official for being there to start us in such absurd heat. I looked down at my two water bottles, enough I thought, to carry me through the 23-mile time trial. I knew it would be close, but felt pretty confident I could make it through.
I looked out on the wafting waves of intense heat rising from the road before me, the first 6-mile stretch. I saw the previous rider's image fade into a distorted figure seeming to melt bike and all into the scorching asphalt. This was profound heat---the kind that can create doubts and second thoughts if you choose to let it in.
My cycling mentors have always told me not to go out too hard on a time trial because the adrenaline surge at the start can have a rider find a speed he would never be able to hold for the whole distance. You must know your own ability and limits. If not, you redline, you bonk, and the lactic acid build-up in your muscles snuffs out your ability to carry the full race distance.
I started, stood on the pedals, and sprinted up to my tempo speed. I dropped down to my saddle and settled in. I was riding on borrowed Zipp wheels, 404's on the front and 808's on the rear. These are carbon fiber, deep-dish wheels like the pros use. For me, this was like Cinderella wearing the golden slippers. They are worth the same amount as my bike in dollars. They were generously loaned by Chip Cowan from Outer Banks Cycle in Kill Devil Hills. Thanks Chipper! I'm sure though, he was entertained to see a rider like me with such high performance gear. You know, one of those "what's wrong with this picture?" kinda deals for the local riders who know me.
So back to the heated time trial. I'm one mile out settling into my steady state tempo. The Zipp wheels are making me feel like Superman plus I was sure I looked pretty cool too. I'm already thirsty so I pull up a water bottle and take a short gulp. I lower the bottle to the top of the bottle cage, blink, and now I'm watching the same full bottle spinning on it's side across the burning asphalt to the far side of the other lane. I turned forward and wondered whether I should go back and get it, start crying, abandon the race, or listen to the inner voice reminding me I can make it on one bottle because I was after all, as immortal and invincible as I'd always been. The heat is only another obstacle standing in the way of my growing cycling credentials. Can't this inner voice shut up just once?
So now the plan was make sure I had half a bottle left halfway through. Water rations no less. I passed riders walking who had abandoned the race. One carried a shoe in his hand. I reached the halfway mark with my half bottle. I poured a little of the almost scalding fluid over my helmet and the back of my neck, shot a little in my mouth in celebration. This heat was demeaning.
The Chesapeake Ruritan Club is the registration building for the time trial. The time trial begins and ends in front of it. It is a white stucco building which can be seen straight down the last say, mile and a half of the course. It is little more than a shimmering white gable end looking as though the road leads right into its side from my distant view. Mostly open fields frame my view of it on both road edges. But there it was heat-distorted ahead finally in my sight. I was now seeing in its simple form the end of my self-imposed torture. I was sure there were people cooling off in the shade with cold drinks in their grip near that building. I was also sure I wanted to be one of them as quickly as possible. I somehow quickened my tempo, relishing the coming euphoria of ending this sublime suffering. I passed several of the riders whom had started before me.
I saw visions of every sort, from fantasy to Dante's Hell as I crossed the finish line, I'm sure speaking in tongues. I was one and a half minutes slower than the same time trial on the same date last year. I was nonetheless alive and on the correct side of the grass, sitting in the shade, under the tent among friends, feeling how superb a freezing cold bottle of water can feel poured over my head after riding in such conditions.
Tomorrow I'll ride in the Farm Bureau Langley Speedway Criterium in Hampton, Virginia. The predicted temperature is a freezing 86 degrees F.
More later. Keep riding........something.
Monday, June 2, 2008
A Surfing Winter-Spring Like No Other
I've surfed this coast for 40-some years. This winter-spring is by far one of the most memorable for the virtually constant profusion of regular, sizable swell. Seems like every 10-14 days another low pressure system was coiling up into a tight fist while swinging offshore to kick back epic local conditions. Even the water temperature cooperated somewhat, falling only as far down as the mid-forties (degrees Fahrenheit that is). Two winters ago, the ocean water temperature plummeted to 36 degrees, the coldest I can remember here in my lifetime.
What's more, so much of the action is now being recorded in photographs and video and published on the internet. Mickey McCarthy's dogged pursuit of the local action is without peers in my book. I point you to SURFKDH.COM as evidence. Nice work Mick!
For many, many years what happened during the really world class swells was left behind only in the memories of those who were here so long ago: surfers like Don Bennett, Stuart "Panda" Taylor, Scott Busbey, and Jimbo Brothers to name a few of the many who shredded the Outer Banks without fanfare, acclaim, or audience.
The photographic proof pours forth now for all to see. What many of us knew for so long in this spot so far from the more dense surfing population cauldrons of California and Florida, that the Outer Banks juices up real good now, just like it did back then but without the crowds.
We're pointing toward the mid summer doldrums now. I suppose it's a good time to reflect a little on recent swells past. Anticipation will soon build for the tropical storm season looming just ahead. Look out...
What's more, so much of the action is now being recorded in photographs and video and published on the internet. Mickey McCarthy's dogged pursuit of the local action is without peers in my book. I point you to SURFKDH.COM as evidence. Nice work Mick!
For many, many years what happened during the really world class swells was left behind only in the memories of those who were here so long ago: surfers like Don Bennett, Stuart "Panda" Taylor, Scott Busbey, and Jimbo Brothers to name a few of the many who shredded the Outer Banks without fanfare, acclaim, or audience.
The photographic proof pours forth now for all to see. What many of us knew for so long in this spot so far from the more dense surfing population cauldrons of California and Florida, that the Outer Banks juices up real good now, just like it did back then but without the crowds.
We're pointing toward the mid summer doldrums now. I suppose it's a good time to reflect a little on recent swells past. Anticipation will soon build for the tropical storm season looming just ahead. Look out...
Sunday, June 1, 2008
A Kind Word at the Right Time
I've been making a fitness and cycling comeback beginning last winter and, at this moment, I'm just a little bit below where I left off last December when I had hernia surgery. But this is not a story of some heroic, epic effort I made in order to return to bike racing. No, those stories are found in the realm of cancer patients, injured war veterans returning from combat, and thousands who fight off the effects of other more serious diseases day in and day out their whole lives.
My story is of small note. But what happened has had huge influence on my slow, often grudging progress so far this year. I'm not a great cyclist or athlete. I do love riding bikes fast and the competition of racing---strength on strength, pure and primal, painful and purging---euphoric even. It's too easy it seems, to stay tucked safely away in our comfortable routines. Bike racing and all the intensity it pours over us, lets us step out of our safe place in this world regularly much the way one does when very young, and each day brings such rejuvenation and revelation.
In order to do what we do in this crazy, fast endurance sport, we must train obsessively. Some weeks I'm not sure I'm on or off the bike at the moment. Every week we pour over our planners to insure there is time for the right kind of ride we need at the time: group throwdowns, long steady-state tempo, sprint intervals, weight room, spin class, you name it. Many times the superfluous things which come up on the calendar get plowed over like last year's leftover crop. We read articles, blogs, books on everything from the latest technical equipment to fitness and training. Where is the next race? What do I need to do to upgrade my license? How strong will my opponents be in the next race?
But the one thing that rises above all, that seems to drive me forward without faltering, continues to nurture the cause and helps me see that I too can do it, is a kind word at the right time from those around in the midst of these same kinds of big physical efforts. Only they know what it feels like, what it takes to be there, the preparation, the dangers, and what payoff one carries home in the end.
During the past six months, as I've worked hard to get back in it, I've had friends and racing teammates encourage me, compliment my work, and even carry me through by pulling for me when the going was too much for my fitness level on that day's ride. I didn't know there was something even better to this sport. I've been surrounded with support during this time. I am a grateful man. Nothing makes me faster or stronger on a bike.
My story is of small note. But what happened has had huge influence on my slow, often grudging progress so far this year. I'm not a great cyclist or athlete. I do love riding bikes fast and the competition of racing---strength on strength, pure and primal, painful and purging---euphoric even. It's too easy it seems, to stay tucked safely away in our comfortable routines. Bike racing and all the intensity it pours over us, lets us step out of our safe place in this world regularly much the way one does when very young, and each day brings such rejuvenation and revelation.
In order to do what we do in this crazy, fast endurance sport, we must train obsessively. Some weeks I'm not sure I'm on or off the bike at the moment. Every week we pour over our planners to insure there is time for the right kind of ride we need at the time: group throwdowns, long steady-state tempo, sprint intervals, weight room, spin class, you name it. Many times the superfluous things which come up on the calendar get plowed over like last year's leftover crop. We read articles, blogs, books on everything from the latest technical equipment to fitness and training. Where is the next race? What do I need to do to upgrade my license? How strong will my opponents be in the next race?
But the one thing that rises above all, that seems to drive me forward without faltering, continues to nurture the cause and helps me see that I too can do it, is a kind word at the right time from those around in the midst of these same kinds of big physical efforts. Only they know what it feels like, what it takes to be there, the preparation, the dangers, and what payoff one carries home in the end.
During the past six months, as I've worked hard to get back in it, I've had friends and racing teammates encourage me, compliment my work, and even carry me through by pulling for me when the going was too much for my fitness level on that day's ride. I didn't know there was something even better to this sport. I've been surrounded with support during this time. I am a grateful man. Nothing makes me faster or stronger on a bike.
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