(EDITOR'S NOTE: This is the final part of my account of the Outer Banks Marathon 2009. The first part is below. Thanks for reading.)
The Outer Banks Marathon wound its way through the neighborhoods of Kill Devil Hills west of our U.S. 158 By-Pass. Bobby Mack led the full marathon field with two African runners I spotted some 800 to 1000 yards behind. In a marathon barely one third completed, this is a small distance. Bobby's position was not secure by any measure.
We reached the softer sandy loam road of Nags Head Woods Ecological Preserve where the runners would go on and we would turn back, ride east over to the Beach Road and follow it south to Barnes Street in Nags Head. Here we turned west and rode back to the spot the runners would emerge from Nags Head Woods. Would Bobby still have his lead? This is where I defected my assigned neutrality and quietly hoped to see him still out front. He appeared from the woods alone and I was now fully in his camp as if I was his very own personal coach, soigneur, or cheerleader. His countenance read of intense, concentrated focus. This reminded me of the huge distance between us and why we both filled the two roles we filled, why each of us was here this day.
I returned to my supposed neutrality. Broken lines of watchers clapped and cheered along the streets. Families sat in beach chairs at the ends of their driveways, parents pointing to the lone runner for their children to see. "This is Bobby from Raleigh, our marathon leader," I repeated at each turn.
I let Bobby know what was up ahead and how far he had come. He responded that his mile splits were still good. "You're gonna do it today," I insured him, once again letting slip my neutrality.
We turned right onto the By-Pass at Blue Jay Street and after about another 1/2 mile I looked back, way back behind us and there I spotted the two African runners churning out a steady pace. "Bobby, they're still back there around 800+ yards. You're doing great!" We were now moving through the half marathon runners many of whom were walking. I could see Rick about 100 yards ahead clearing these folks to the right. Many were walking two and three abreast and as he passed, some would return to this. I carried a whistle which I laid on pretty hard from time to time as a more insistent way of clearing our path. We plied on passing Orange DOT cones one after the other on our left. "This is Bobby from Raleigh..."
Water aid stations, some with blaring music and bulging masses of runners and volunteers on both sides of the water-cup tables were to our right. Cars slowed outside the cones, windows down, passengers cheering and encouraging Bobby. My whistle bleated out above the fray. Our small lane was crowded now as we turned west to the causeway, mile 21 or so. The southwester had blown up this morning and was ripping across this stretch of asphalt beside the Roanoke Sound with the huge open expanse of Pamlico Sound beyond. There was enough fetch for a hurricane to wind up over this inland sea and here came a wind racing over it fully able to suppress even the strongest of marathoners.
I looked at Bobby for what I thought would be the inevitable: "They say if you can make it through this point in a marathon, you can make it the whole way," Bobby called to me. Profound pain was creeping over his face now. We were at the foot of the arched Daniels Bridge. Runners and walkers were jamming the lane. I quickly looked back for the African challengers but couldn't pick them out. Creeping cars to our left, people yelling out words of encouragement to the runners and walkers had fused into our landscape now. Commotion, and chaos as we climbed, me plowing through other marathoners on my bike, he rapping out a heavier pace up and over the top of the bridge where the wind had us fully.
I could see Rick way up there moving people aside and them filling back in behind him many mindlessly struggling with their own personal race demons. At two miles out (from the finish) we were to call the race official at the finish line to report who had the lead. Rick was to make this call. I signaled up to him that now was the time. My computer showed just over 24 miles run. I could see Rick, a big guy, standing over his bike making that call. I looked back at Bobby just at the moment he abruptly stopped running, holding his right leg rapt in pain. I knew this look well. He was cramped. It looked like a hamstring. He stood, hunched over, knees locked trying to stretch it out, make it relax.
Just then a runner rushed by me yelling at Bobby who looked up. The other runner pointed to Bobby calling out, "Come on Bobby, get back on it. Come with me. You can do it man." As if on a vehicle which would not stop, he ran right by us and kept on. Bobby told me that runner was a friend of his, Ryan Woods, whom he had run with at N.C. Sate University. He was a little older, but he was a good guy and a fine athlete. Bobby kicked with his right leg and then began to jog up to his race gait once again. He was in tremendous pain. This was awe inspiring to watch.
I realized I had let the new leader of the marathon go by without picking him up to lead him, but this was not to be. I would not leave Bobby out of respect for the effort I was so fortunate to have witnessed this day. Maybe Rick would lead Ryan to the line.
One mile later another full marathon runner passed us. This was Nicolas Robin, I believe one of the African runners whom had been dogging Bobby's lead the whole way. I had heard Philip Cheruiyot, a prior winner of this race and a sure threat to win it again, had abandoned the race somewhere on the causeway.
The last mile had finally come. With his goal of setting a new course record and the lead left so far behind on the causeway, Bobby wound down toward the waterfront in the original part of the old town of Manteo. He finished in third place behind Robin and his old buddy Ryan who won the marathon at 2 hours, 32 minutes and 38 seconds. He will never know what his marathon effort left with me that day. In a way he is still running along with me as I ride my own race.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Reflections on the OBX Marathon 2009, Part 1
I wasn't sure I was going to like the ride today. I rounded up the really warm clothes, the water bottle, pushed extra air into my tires. I mounted my fixed gear bike for the fourth straight day. Forty-two degrees. West cross wind jamming my spokes at a solid 35 knots. I rode north on Bay Drive along Kitty Hawk Bay once again---the usual route---the one offering some wind cover in trees and among homes farther north. I settled in finding my work tempo. The wind ripped over my ears. It all sounded like high volume, close-in roaring that only I could hear.
Training rides can be introspective when it's like this. You carry with you a private place to consider a multitude of things. Today as I toiled, I thought about the Outer Banks Marathon this past fall and its spell still lingering over me like a veil, a vision. I was one of many locals who helped with the event. Rick Godsey and I were to lead the elite male leader of the full marathon through the course on our road bikes replete with water bottles, gels, cell phone, and Gruppo Sportivo Outer Banks racing kits.
Although a tremendous honor, I failed miserably with my assignment this day. I had even done this before in an earlier race. But I still blew it.
We gathered with the throngs of runners at the north end of Woods Road near Dominion Power at 6:30 a.m. The phrase "beehive of excitement" comes to mind. Runners everywhere warming up and trying to stay warm. People introducing others to their friends and chatting all nerved-up before the monumental challenge they were about to engage. New friends made on the brink of tremendous efforts. The only place I've witnessed greater hope, greater anticipation is in a Little League dugout before the first pitch of the first inning of the first game. The day started cold and sharp but warm among the runners.
We positioned ourselves some 30-40 yards out in front of the start line in the pavement's center, bikes pointed down the road, heads turned back to the runners. In pairs, all our cyclists had different lead runners to lead, male and female runners in both the full and half marathon. The starter's gun cracked the air. Here they came. We pedaled forward nervously with the thousands of runners and the energy they rode so close behind us.
I've ridden in many road bike races. I know well the gamut of emotion and roiling nerves which seem to bind you like a guilty prisoner until you're snatched up by the focus required to race. You become given completely to the sweet moments as they stream past with you and all around you in their embrace. But leading a leaderless race you're not contesting is quite another thing. Peace rests at your center but hope reaches for someone who has not yet emerged to challenge the field. Who will it be? To witness up close a whole marathon alongside the leader, to observe the suffering and embedded joy all at once apparent on the runner's face would leave me with an indelible memory and a bond unlike any I've ever experienced.
By mile one a solo runner had nosed out by ten and then twenty yards. He was sprung, gap growing. So this was our guy. We let him settle in and then drifted back to let him know we would lead him through the course to the finish. There were two or three Africans in this marathon who were known contenders. One, Philip Cheruiyot, had won the 2006 OBX Marathon the day after winning the Chicago Marathon, slipping backwards cracking his head on the street as he crossed the finish line. His feet were laying over the finish line when he fell. I remembered seeing his beautiful, steady open stride, as he passed me that day. He was back there somewhere.
We rode onto Kitty Hawk Village road, a curvy two-lane affair. Our guy was steady at it while it appeared a pair of African runners separated from the unseen following main field somewhere further back. The miles unrolled as we passed clapping, cheering bands of locals all along the course. This event is huge in our community. In my opinion, there is no other land event which unites Outer Bankers like this one. Everybody was out there.
I was told last year every traffic cone possessed by the North Carolina Department of Transportation comes to Dare County for this event. Roads were blocked with them and later when we emerged from the backstreets onto the U.S. 158 By-Pass, we saw the runners' lane they marked for miles going south through Nags Head, across the causeway and bridge to Roanoke Island and Manteo.
Our leader was Bobby Mack, a young, former North Carolina State track athlete. He told me his goal was to beat the course record. He looked down at his watch and at mile 15 said, "Everything's good. I'm doing 5-21 to 24 splits so far" (1-mile splits at 5 minutes 21 to 24 seconds). Poker-faced, I turned around in the saddle and dropped my head in disbelief. I looked at my computer: 11.3 mph. I was astounded!
The course record for the 4-year race is 2 hours 24 minutes and 15 seconds held by Mike Wardian of northern Virginia, set in the 2007 race. He had come in third behind Philip Cheruiyot's first place the previous year, the first Outer Banks Marathon.
Fans were strung all along the route, some dressed in costume. Cow bells clanged as we passed. "This is Bobby from Raleigh our full marathon leader!" I called out swelled with pride. A runner from our state was leading. The knotted crowds along the route lit up when they heard this I believed, for the same reason.
(Part 2 to be posted soon.)
Training rides can be introspective when it's like this. You carry with you a private place to consider a multitude of things. Today as I toiled, I thought about the Outer Banks Marathon this past fall and its spell still lingering over me like a veil, a vision. I was one of many locals who helped with the event. Rick Godsey and I were to lead the elite male leader of the full marathon through the course on our road bikes replete with water bottles, gels, cell phone, and Gruppo Sportivo Outer Banks racing kits.
Although a tremendous honor, I failed miserably with my assignment this day. I had even done this before in an earlier race. But I still blew it.
We gathered with the throngs of runners at the north end of Woods Road near Dominion Power at 6:30 a.m. The phrase "beehive of excitement" comes to mind. Runners everywhere warming up and trying to stay warm. People introducing others to their friends and chatting all nerved-up before the monumental challenge they were about to engage. New friends made on the brink of tremendous efforts. The only place I've witnessed greater hope, greater anticipation is in a Little League dugout before the first pitch of the first inning of the first game. The day started cold and sharp but warm among the runners.
We positioned ourselves some 30-40 yards out in front of the start line in the pavement's center, bikes pointed down the road, heads turned back to the runners. In pairs, all our cyclists had different lead runners to lead, male and female runners in both the full and half marathon. The starter's gun cracked the air. Here they came. We pedaled forward nervously with the thousands of runners and the energy they rode so close behind us.
I've ridden in many road bike races. I know well the gamut of emotion and roiling nerves which seem to bind you like a guilty prisoner until you're snatched up by the focus required to race. You become given completely to the sweet moments as they stream past with you and all around you in their embrace. But leading a leaderless race you're not contesting is quite another thing. Peace rests at your center but hope reaches for someone who has not yet emerged to challenge the field. Who will it be? To witness up close a whole marathon alongside the leader, to observe the suffering and embedded joy all at once apparent on the runner's face would leave me with an indelible memory and a bond unlike any I've ever experienced.
By mile one a solo runner had nosed out by ten and then twenty yards. He was sprung, gap growing. So this was our guy. We let him settle in and then drifted back to let him know we would lead him through the course to the finish. There were two or three Africans in this marathon who were known contenders. One, Philip Cheruiyot, had won the 2006 OBX Marathon the day after winning the Chicago Marathon, slipping backwards cracking his head on the street as he crossed the finish line. His feet were laying over the finish line when he fell. I remembered seeing his beautiful, steady open stride, as he passed me that day. He was back there somewhere.
We rode onto Kitty Hawk Village road, a curvy two-lane affair. Our guy was steady at it while it appeared a pair of African runners separated from the unseen following main field somewhere further back. The miles unrolled as we passed clapping, cheering bands of locals all along the course. This event is huge in our community. In my opinion, there is no other land event which unites Outer Bankers like this one. Everybody was out there.
I was told last year every traffic cone possessed by the North Carolina Department of Transportation comes to Dare County for this event. Roads were blocked with them and later when we emerged from the backstreets onto the U.S. 158 By-Pass, we saw the runners' lane they marked for miles going south through Nags Head, across the causeway and bridge to Roanoke Island and Manteo.
Our leader was Bobby Mack, a young, former North Carolina State track athlete. He told me his goal was to beat the course record. He looked down at his watch and at mile 15 said, "Everything's good. I'm doing 5-21 to 24 splits so far" (1-mile splits at 5 minutes 21 to 24 seconds). Poker-faced, I turned around in the saddle and dropped my head in disbelief. I looked at my computer: 11.3 mph. I was astounded!
The course record for the 4-year race is 2 hours 24 minutes and 15 seconds held by Mike Wardian of northern Virginia, set in the 2007 race. He had come in third behind Philip Cheruiyot's first place the previous year, the first Outer Banks Marathon.
Fans were strung all along the route, some dressed in costume. Cow bells clanged as we passed. "This is Bobby from Raleigh our full marathon leader!" I called out swelled with pride. A runner from our state was leading. The knotted crowds along the route lit up when they heard this I believed, for the same reason.
(Part 2 to be posted soon.)
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas and Thanks
I sit here today, Christmas Day, over a huge welling up need to be thankful. I'll try not to be sappy. This is to my true friends. You know who you are. They take their own time to consider things I say or write, and there is often much. They challenge the same with fresh ideas and perspectives. They keep me pointed toward the things they know I love. Sometimes we lose our way to these. They experience these things with me---they make sure I'm there when it counts. I hope I remember often enough to do the same for them. They too need direction occasionally.
I've often said to them at this time in life I may need an attendant (or attendants), preferably wearing white lab coats and carrying clipboards. Sometimes it's that bad. But my friends are much more than that. They help me keep my road bikes and surfboards repaired and ready. They call me when conditions are favorable to us. They invite me to play music together.
They allow me to vent emotion and to not hide out as an enlightened soul work-in-progress, to be a miserable failure in my own eyes, and then turn the mirror my way to remind me the good we all possess. On this day, I thank my friends for meaning so much to me. I hope your Christmas holds you in the arms of love wherever you may be.
This morning I rode 28 miles on a Cannondale framed fixed gear. The onshore wind was east around 18 mph, air temp at 51 degrees. I warmed up circling the monument (Wright Memorial) and took the usual route north along the sound and Kitty Hawk Bay up to Southern Shores where I crossed east over toward the Kitty Hawk Pier. There I took the Beach Road south the 6+ miles to First Street and then home.
The sky pushed down with low clouds and the dampness preceding rain. The white-ish cloud underbellies warned me of the rain moving from the mainland, creeping closer and closer. Would I make it home dry? This is where I start reciting the names of my friends who live along the Beach Road in a chronological order beginning where I am now, who will give me shelter if it gets bad. The ocean water---smell the salt air---is 43 degrees, dropping a full 10 degrees since last week. It now truly is winter. This is the equivalent of our first snow. The cross wind and fixed gear are working me hard now. To counteract this discomfort I thought about my friends.
I've often said to them at this time in life I may need an attendant (or attendants), preferably wearing white lab coats and carrying clipboards. Sometimes it's that bad. But my friends are much more than that. They help me keep my road bikes and surfboards repaired and ready. They call me when conditions are favorable to us. They invite me to play music together.
They allow me to vent emotion and to not hide out as an enlightened soul work-in-progress, to be a miserable failure in my own eyes, and then turn the mirror my way to remind me the good we all possess. On this day, I thank my friends for meaning so much to me. I hope your Christmas holds you in the arms of love wherever you may be.
This morning I rode 28 miles on a Cannondale framed fixed gear. The onshore wind was east around 18 mph, air temp at 51 degrees. I warmed up circling the monument (Wright Memorial) and took the usual route north along the sound and Kitty Hawk Bay up to Southern Shores where I crossed east over toward the Kitty Hawk Pier. There I took the Beach Road south the 6+ miles to First Street and then home.
The sky pushed down with low clouds and the dampness preceding rain. The white-ish cloud underbellies warned me of the rain moving from the mainland, creeping closer and closer. Would I make it home dry? This is where I start reciting the names of my friends who live along the Beach Road in a chronological order beginning where I am now, who will give me shelter if it gets bad. The ocean water---smell the salt air---is 43 degrees, dropping a full 10 degrees since last week. It now truly is winter. This is the equivalent of our first snow. The cross wind and fixed gear are working me hard now. To counteract this discomfort I thought about my friends.
Monday, December 7, 2009
December Atlantic
I surfed last Thursday, December 3rd at Martin Street with 3 young teachers I work with at First Flight High School. In the water at 4:30 p.m. after battling a torrent of distractions and then hurriedly fighting my way into my wetsuit---a full 3-2 O'Neill Psycho with boots and gloves. The fighting only seems to occur when I'm in a rush---this time racing a falling sun. Water and air about the same at 57 degrees. I saw an extremely south head-high swell with fierce angle and long open lines of brown water when I topped the dune boardwalk. This is the sand bottom stirred up to the surface. It has that winter water look we know so well here. Right-hand tubes peeled and spit out a sideways spike of spray vapor maybe 15 feet as waves rolled over themselves, paced up over a shallow bar.
I tapped a few nice rights on my old (1982) 7'2" Sunset single fin---so fine. I hadn't felt this kind of ride in 26 years. The current was ripping from south to north at 7 or 8 knots. It felt like a conveyor belt grinding up the coast, riding it from sandbar to bar until the next set came through. All aboard! Ride a long right back to the beach, trudge back up on the beach out of the wash and stroll south. Paddle out again and repeat.
I left the water at last when I could no longer make out the contours of the wave face. I knew this when I took off on a big right closeout and had to pull out, straighten up, and bag it all.
Three of us, including one female art teacher who knows how to ride a wave, walked together up the sloped, soft sand beach back over the dune to our vehicles. I left the water that evening having caught only a few waves. I was content. The sun finally fell into a pool of rouge and maize.
I realized it doesn't take as much for me to reach satisfaction as it used to when I first rode this surfboard so long ago. My appetite for waves was insatiable then. But the measure of stoke now is just the same with far fewer waves caught. The joy in it must never have been in the quantity like so many things in this world. Or have my expectations only adjusted to my age and physical limitations? I really don't care what the answer is. I had these questions to consider nonetheless. You can't let them go unnoticed. Surfing does that to you. It makes you consider its joyful pursuit, its fleeting nature, your inability to own it as only yours. Yet it can give itself to you so completely or, crush and spit you out sending you home master of nothing. But we still go back over and again.
Thanks for reading. Get waves...on whatever you like to ride.
I tapped a few nice rights on my old (1982) 7'2" Sunset single fin---so fine. I hadn't felt this kind of ride in 26 years. The current was ripping from south to north at 7 or 8 knots. It felt like a conveyor belt grinding up the coast, riding it from sandbar to bar until the next set came through. All aboard! Ride a long right back to the beach, trudge back up on the beach out of the wash and stroll south. Paddle out again and repeat.
I left the water at last when I could no longer make out the contours of the wave face. I knew this when I took off on a big right closeout and had to pull out, straighten up, and bag it all.
Three of us, including one female art teacher who knows how to ride a wave, walked together up the sloped, soft sand beach back over the dune to our vehicles. I left the water that evening having caught only a few waves. I was content. The sun finally fell into a pool of rouge and maize.
I realized it doesn't take as much for me to reach satisfaction as it used to when I first rode this surfboard so long ago. My appetite for waves was insatiable then. But the measure of stoke now is just the same with far fewer waves caught. The joy in it must never have been in the quantity like so many things in this world. Or have my expectations only adjusted to my age and physical limitations? I really don't care what the answer is. I had these questions to consider nonetheless. You can't let them go unnoticed. Surfing does that to you. It makes you consider its joyful pursuit, its fleeting nature, your inability to own it as only yours. Yet it can give itself to you so completely or, crush and spit you out sending you home master of nothing. But we still go back over and again.
Thanks for reading. Get waves...on whatever you like to ride.
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Nor'Ida Aftermath
The place you live and see every day looks completely different at bike speed no matter who's turning the pedals. You should try it sometime, and if you have, try it more often. It's an amazing view almost as if you've never really seen it before.
Yesterday I decided to ride north on the beach road from 1st street so I could work into the wind right away and so I could survey the last northeaster's carnage from the week before last. I was riding my fixed gear, a bike sort of given to me by a friend I surf with---a former pro cyclist who has been re-born as a surfer recently having spent a number of years away from the sport. Another friend had just gone over the bike fixing the chain which was bent during my last ride on it, and putting on gum rubber sidewall tires as in vintage 1980. He's a farm boy in Chapel Hill who loves to turn a wrench. He's quite good at it too. Fortunately I can accommodate this fetish with my bikes once in awhile. He's a cyclist also. He understands my quirks on two wheels.
I struggled into yet another northeast wind and was somewhat within myself most of the way toward Kitty Hawk Pier. I did notice the asphalt parking driveways at the beach accesses were swept clean of sand and debris. The towns jumped right on the clean up as soon as the coast was clear.
I soldiered on and rode right past the forensic evidence of the storm now piled on both sides of the road. Was I lulled into monotony by an all-too-common sight? It seems even garden variety northeasters deliver real punch into the infrastructure and homes along the coast these days. The bite of the Atlantic begins closer to its prey each year as erosion takes beach sand captive sending it to some new location---I don't know where---probably on the coast. The sandbars that reflect good surf are re-shaped, or muted, new ones emerge. You have to keep a lookout to know.
I reached well into Southern Shores when I felt a thump, thump, thump on my rear tire. I guessed right away that the vintage tire which hadn't been pressured by 110 psi in quite a long time was coming apart. I stopped to examine it. A split at the edge of the tire face threatened letting the inner tube through and out. I opened my rear brake caliper, relieved air pressure from the tire's hernia, and turned around to limp home. I wondered if I could make it the eight miles home. I had left just enough air to not bang the rim on the pavement, but not enough to keep the bike from wagging around on the squirrely low air tire.
I reached Kitty Hawk Pier and turned south again on the beach road. It was now, slowed down a few more notches, that I really saw what the storm had left behind.
The homes along the beach road in this section of Kitty Hawk are modest and from a time when their owners just wanted "a cabin at the beach". When originally built they stood on 6x6 pilings with single pane windows, many with no floor insulation and not much insulation up top. They were called beach boxes.
This area has been under ocean siege for more than twenty years. During coastal storms now the ocean overwash channels under these homes on their concrete slabs, down their driveways pouring saltwater onto the beach road. The overwash also likes the paved beach accesses too. The towns know this and when coastal storms loom, dump trucks rush to build small (6-8 feet high)sand walls at the ocean end of the accesses.
Along both sides of my route stood giant mounds of sand some 8-10 feet tall with concrete driveways clutching the side of the beach road, hanging on for dear life. There were numerous, intermittent debris piles, still partially assembled stairs replete with picket railings, pilings, sections of decks, pallets, all with beach grass entangled through it. I passed pile after pile after pile, both sides of the road for several miles. It looked as if virtually every oceanfront wood structure had been ripped apart and put in piles along the beach road to await being carted to the dump. So now new ones are being built, all to be fed to the next coastal storm.
For days debris was floating in the surf zone. A friend told me a friend of his landed on floating debris and took a nail in the back when he wiped out while surfing when the wind went offshore right after the storm. Others have spoken about high levels of bacteria in the water from runoff following the massive amount of rain we had. This I can't substantiate.
I hobbled all the way home on that old, split gum rubber sidewalled tire. I guess you can't really go back to what it was like then.
Yesterday I decided to ride north on the beach road from 1st street so I could work into the wind right away and so I could survey the last northeaster's carnage from the week before last. I was riding my fixed gear, a bike sort of given to me by a friend I surf with---a former pro cyclist who has been re-born as a surfer recently having spent a number of years away from the sport. Another friend had just gone over the bike fixing the chain which was bent during my last ride on it, and putting on gum rubber sidewall tires as in vintage 1980. He's a farm boy in Chapel Hill who loves to turn a wrench. He's quite good at it too. Fortunately I can accommodate this fetish with my bikes once in awhile. He's a cyclist also. He understands my quirks on two wheels.
I struggled into yet another northeast wind and was somewhat within myself most of the way toward Kitty Hawk Pier. I did notice the asphalt parking driveways at the beach accesses were swept clean of sand and debris. The towns jumped right on the clean up as soon as the coast was clear.
I soldiered on and rode right past the forensic evidence of the storm now piled on both sides of the road. Was I lulled into monotony by an all-too-common sight? It seems even garden variety northeasters deliver real punch into the infrastructure and homes along the coast these days. The bite of the Atlantic begins closer to its prey each year as erosion takes beach sand captive sending it to some new location---I don't know where---probably on the coast. The sandbars that reflect good surf are re-shaped, or muted, new ones emerge. You have to keep a lookout to know.
I reached well into Southern Shores when I felt a thump, thump, thump on my rear tire. I guessed right away that the vintage tire which hadn't been pressured by 110 psi in quite a long time was coming apart. I stopped to examine it. A split at the edge of the tire face threatened letting the inner tube through and out. I opened my rear brake caliper, relieved air pressure from the tire's hernia, and turned around to limp home. I wondered if I could make it the eight miles home. I had left just enough air to not bang the rim on the pavement, but not enough to keep the bike from wagging around on the squirrely low air tire.
I reached Kitty Hawk Pier and turned south again on the beach road. It was now, slowed down a few more notches, that I really saw what the storm had left behind.
The homes along the beach road in this section of Kitty Hawk are modest and from a time when their owners just wanted "a cabin at the beach". When originally built they stood on 6x6 pilings with single pane windows, many with no floor insulation and not much insulation up top. They were called beach boxes.
This area has been under ocean siege for more than twenty years. During coastal storms now the ocean overwash channels under these homes on their concrete slabs, down their driveways pouring saltwater onto the beach road. The overwash also likes the paved beach accesses too. The towns know this and when coastal storms loom, dump trucks rush to build small (6-8 feet high)sand walls at the ocean end of the accesses.
Along both sides of my route stood giant mounds of sand some 8-10 feet tall with concrete driveways clutching the side of the beach road, hanging on for dear life. There were numerous, intermittent debris piles, still partially assembled stairs replete with picket railings, pilings, sections of decks, pallets, all with beach grass entangled through it. I passed pile after pile after pile, both sides of the road for several miles. It looked as if virtually every oceanfront wood structure had been ripped apart and put in piles along the beach road to await being carted to the dump. So now new ones are being built, all to be fed to the next coastal storm.
For days debris was floating in the surf zone. A friend told me a friend of his landed on floating debris and took a nail in the back when he wiped out while surfing when the wind went offshore right after the storm. Others have spoken about high levels of bacteria in the water from runoff following the massive amount of rain we had. This I can't substantiate.
I hobbled all the way home on that old, split gum rubber sidewalled tire. I guess you can't really go back to what it was like then.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Latest, Greatest Storm
I drove away from it as it wound up on Thursday. Had to go down to Morehead City for a training. The Weather Channel was proud to name it Nor'Ida---part of their TV ratings grabbing circus passing through our small beach towns. You know the drill: pull your hood up, strike a wind and blowing rain resisting pose before a camera and break into a rage about how terrible it is and that no one, absolutely no one should be out in this stuff unless you absolutely have to.
How terrible a storm like this is lies somewhere at each end of this spectrum---if your home or business is badly damaged, it's a disaster---if your home or business is untouched or holds up, it's just a bunch of wind and rain. Boring. Maybe you can't get to work for a few days and then life goes on. We clean up, make repairs and mark time by debating beach nourishment until the next storm or stormette.
Meanwhile the circus flies through every once in a while. Cantore's in town. More footage of homes falling into the surf in Kitty Hawk north of what long-time locals used to call "Old Station", and what newer-comers now call the "Black Pelican"(restaurant). We'll see these over and over again all year as lead-ins for Weather Channel features. Unlike regular news-reporting channels we can't be saved from this visual repetition even if some new guy named Peterson murders his wife.
So I drive back today from my visit to the Crystal Coast calling friends living at various vantage points along our coast. They report this: South Nags Head, standing water and debris on the beach road, police guarding streets to the oceanfront where damage was heaviest, several houses have fallen, one or more in the ocean, at least one smashed and pushed back in a pile at Surfside Drive, building inspectors condemning homes whose septic systems are compromised, public water supply lines broken, or have structural foundation damage; Kitty Hawk, Beach Road closed north of Old Station/Black Pelican, sand and standing salt and rain water still on the Beach Road; Hatteras Island, Route 12 impassable between Pea Island, about a mile south of Oregon Inlet's Bonner Bridge and Rodanthe about to Lisa's Pizza, road buried by sand and standing water, some road sections broken and completely gone; Dare County schools were canceled for Thursday and Friday, 15 inches of rain fell.
Early Friday evening wave height at the Duck data buoy offshore was over 20 feet with a dominant period of around 15 seconds. Around 9:30 p.m. the wave height had dropped to 18+ feet at 11 seconds. The wave period is the amount of time it takes for the troughs of waves to pass a fixed point (like a buoy). That means a big, hulking swell. We were impressed.
Back in town, I picked my way down the Beach Road in Nags Head headed for Kill Devil Hills starting at Gull Street---debris and some standing water. Left the Beach Road right before Surfside Plaza as the ocean always overwashes the low dunes where the really old shingle-style Victorian homes hang on year after year. Don't want to drive my old Subaru wagon through up to 8 inches of salt water.
I continued north on the by-pass returning to the Beach Road at Barnes Street and stayed north. I pulled into the Martin Street beach access for a look at the beach. A quick glance showed bobbing wood debris in the beach break drifting north in the current. The road was clear down to Prospect Street east of the Wright Memorial, simply called "the monument" by locals. I could see vehicles slogging through deep standing water north of here. This too was most likely salt water which had come through at the 1st and 2nd Street beach accesses just like it usually does.
There's a steady drizzle outside right now. Maybe tomorrow will give us relief from this crappy weather.
How terrible a storm like this is lies somewhere at each end of this spectrum---if your home or business is badly damaged, it's a disaster---if your home or business is untouched or holds up, it's just a bunch of wind and rain. Boring. Maybe you can't get to work for a few days and then life goes on. We clean up, make repairs and mark time by debating beach nourishment until the next storm or stormette.
Meanwhile the circus flies through every once in a while. Cantore's in town. More footage of homes falling into the surf in Kitty Hawk north of what long-time locals used to call "Old Station", and what newer-comers now call the "Black Pelican"(restaurant). We'll see these over and over again all year as lead-ins for Weather Channel features. Unlike regular news-reporting channels we can't be saved from this visual repetition even if some new guy named Peterson murders his wife.
So I drive back today from my visit to the Crystal Coast calling friends living at various vantage points along our coast. They report this: South Nags Head, standing water and debris on the beach road, police guarding streets to the oceanfront where damage was heaviest, several houses have fallen, one or more in the ocean, at least one smashed and pushed back in a pile at Surfside Drive, building inspectors condemning homes whose septic systems are compromised, public water supply lines broken, or have structural foundation damage; Kitty Hawk, Beach Road closed north of Old Station/Black Pelican, sand and standing salt and rain water still on the Beach Road; Hatteras Island, Route 12 impassable between Pea Island, about a mile south of Oregon Inlet's Bonner Bridge and Rodanthe about to Lisa's Pizza, road buried by sand and standing water, some road sections broken and completely gone; Dare County schools were canceled for Thursday and Friday, 15 inches of rain fell.
Early Friday evening wave height at the Duck data buoy offshore was over 20 feet with a dominant period of around 15 seconds. Around 9:30 p.m. the wave height had dropped to 18+ feet at 11 seconds. The wave period is the amount of time it takes for the troughs of waves to pass a fixed point (like a buoy). That means a big, hulking swell. We were impressed.
Back in town, I picked my way down the Beach Road in Nags Head headed for Kill Devil Hills starting at Gull Street---debris and some standing water. Left the Beach Road right before Surfside Plaza as the ocean always overwashes the low dunes where the really old shingle-style Victorian homes hang on year after year. Don't want to drive my old Subaru wagon through up to 8 inches of salt water.
I continued north on the by-pass returning to the Beach Road at Barnes Street and stayed north. I pulled into the Martin Street beach access for a look at the beach. A quick glance showed bobbing wood debris in the beach break drifting north in the current. The road was clear down to Prospect Street east of the Wright Memorial, simply called "the monument" by locals. I could see vehicles slogging through deep standing water north of here. This too was most likely salt water which had come through at the 1st and 2nd Street beach accesses just like it usually does.
There's a steady drizzle outside right now. Maybe tomorrow will give us relief from this crappy weather.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Tranquility in the Swell Window
I sat on the beach today with a dear friend and marveled at the serenity around us. I saw people in kayaks over the wreck at 2nd Street on the outside bar. Three guys were scuba diving there as well all under a bright blue sky. October 4th and the air was warm, not hot. The ocean water a comfortable 71 degrees. Low tide held small waves over the sandbars, a vast contrast to my last post and all that has passed since on this, our piece of Atlantic coast. This marks one week exactly since the last real surf here and the first flat spell since late August.
There's been Hurricane Bill passing offshore. Then Tropical Storm Danny, followed by an unnamed low pressure system, both bringing open lefts---too much to resist for a goofy-footer like me. Many sandbars are tuned up and working their magic. Offshore winds have ruled and shaped it all, and best of all our local friends are owning what is theirs in the water.
A sad passing of our water buddy, Greg Bennett, marked last week. The last time I saw him was surfing at Barnes Street in Nags Head summer before last with many locals and their children in the water. He was the happiest of us all, savoring his day with waves to ride. We all will miss you Greg.
This flat spell, this quiet day on the beach, let me reflect on these things I am so thankful for---to continue being able to surf after 45 years and enjoy this way of living. No amount of riches could ever buy this happiness with these friends.
I'll keep my vigil watching for the next swell, and surely it will come again as it always does. And we will surely play there.
There's been Hurricane Bill passing offshore. Then Tropical Storm Danny, followed by an unnamed low pressure system, both bringing open lefts---too much to resist for a goofy-footer like me. Many sandbars are tuned up and working their magic. Offshore winds have ruled and shaped it all, and best of all our local friends are owning what is theirs in the water.
A sad passing of our water buddy, Greg Bennett, marked last week. The last time I saw him was surfing at Barnes Street in Nags Head summer before last with many locals and their children in the water. He was the happiest of us all, savoring his day with waves to ride. We all will miss you Greg.
This flat spell, this quiet day on the beach, let me reflect on these things I am so thankful for---to continue being able to surf after 45 years and enjoy this way of living. No amount of riches could ever buy this happiness with these friends.
I'll keep my vigil watching for the next swell, and surely it will come again as it always does. And we will surely play there.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Hurricane Bill and Our Crickets
We've now definitely fallen into Fall. About 10 days before Hurricane Bill I saw a cricket on the floor in my office. I had to smile a private smile. That night as I returned in the dark from the grocery store, the Food Line(Lion)as I like to call it, I heard crickets raising hell all around the house. This was now the official first sign of our Fall swell window. We were firmly in it now. The crickets were here! I was stoked.
Hurricane Bill had pushed up between Bermuda and us, about 200 miles offshore. It was moving too fast at 20 mph and its wind speed had dropped to 90 mph as it fed on cooler water east of us. The swell from the storm's approach hit on Friday and was decent in some spots mostly south of Kill Devil Hills. The wind was west about 20 mph. The wind rules everything here. And frankly, we get much better, longer lasting waves from slow-moving storms (less than 10 mph) and tropical depressions---much better.
The next day the wind was northwest and howling up to 20 knots (1 knot = 1.13 mph) under sunny skies. A low pressure trough line approached from the northwest as I walked over the Martin Street boardwalk to look at the ocean. Its storm face is always contorted, exaggerated, and severe when big storms are around. It demands to be witnessed. What I saw is now stamped onto me forever.
The ocean was sticking out its chest and beating on it. The steel-gray clouds of the approaching front rolled under themselves toward the beaches like a great canopy roller riding a 30 knot offshore wind. Massive wave faces stood proud in the shredding air, their crests ripped back in spray and water vapor reaching about forty feet. From north to south, as far as one could see were these spraying mammoths.
Light flashes sparked off the back of my glasses lenses. What I thought must be lightning, were scores of tourists on condominium balconies firing their cameras at nature colliding. The rain began. I walked slowly to my car hoping tomorrow would bring the surf conditions that thrill me. It surely did.
Hurricane Bill had pushed up between Bermuda and us, about 200 miles offshore. It was moving too fast at 20 mph and its wind speed had dropped to 90 mph as it fed on cooler water east of us. The swell from the storm's approach hit on Friday and was decent in some spots mostly south of Kill Devil Hills. The wind was west about 20 mph. The wind rules everything here. And frankly, we get much better, longer lasting waves from slow-moving storms (less than 10 mph) and tropical depressions---much better.
The next day the wind was northwest and howling up to 20 knots (1 knot = 1.13 mph) under sunny skies. A low pressure trough line approached from the northwest as I walked over the Martin Street boardwalk to look at the ocean. Its storm face is always contorted, exaggerated, and severe when big storms are around. It demands to be witnessed. What I saw is now stamped onto me forever.
The ocean was sticking out its chest and beating on it. The steel-gray clouds of the approaching front rolled under themselves toward the beaches like a great canopy roller riding a 30 knot offshore wind. Massive wave faces stood proud in the shredding air, their crests ripped back in spray and water vapor reaching about forty feet. From north to south, as far as one could see were these spraying mammoths.
Light flashes sparked off the back of my glasses lenses. What I thought must be lightning, were scores of tourists on condominium balconies firing their cameras at nature colliding. The rain began. I walked slowly to my car hoping tomorrow would bring the surf conditions that thrill me. It surely did.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Page Valley Road Race and My Physical Limits
So I sat in the grass by the side of the road. My helmet was off lying upside down in front of me, my sweaty head in my hands. I was on the summit of the climb just past the finish line. I was deep in oxygen debt, breathing so fast. I was burning up from the 95 degree heat. I poured hot water from one of my bottles over my head---one more insult. Here is where my race season ended and what a weird,wacky season it's been. The Page Valley Road Race had done me in once again.
A good friend and teammate asked me by email after we had left the mountains of Virginia far behind if I had left my PV experience behind also. He knew I was beating myself up for abandoning my first race. But I had already thought about it and told him you can never leave the Page Valley race behind completely.
It's just that it's so beautiful up there and everything we do together preceding the race is so memorable as well. The training rides taken by themselves are worth the effort and traveling. You can't stay completely stuck in your own race results especially what you might interpret as failures when in this context, this landscape. I can't take my racing that seriously. I raced Category 4 where I race against all ages. My racing age is fifty-eight. Yeah, this race I had reached my limits.
We live on the Outer Banks. Yes, we're "flatlanders". The highest mountain training site for us is the 80-foot high Wright Memorial, U.S. Park Service property. We often do hill repeats there from first light of day until the the park opens. But it's not the same as the PV experience. We do however have wind to torture us on the road, and plenty of it. It's the "mountains" of the Outer Banks.
But we don't have real mountains. You know, the 1-5 mile kind with 6-12 percent gradients. As cyclists we understand you must taste this in order to know the whole of the sport. So we do the PV road race, the Jefferson Cup, and the hills of North Carolina's Piedmont Triad Omnium. I throw myself at it, the PV as such. It's been a nasty sight each year. Then we witness the real, epic climbs of the Tour De France and the climbing specialists. We are reminded where we stand in our lowly world of amateur bike racing. We speculate those Tour riders would take Page Valley's climbs in the big chainring and never strain and fight their bikes the way we do up the mountain.
Robert and I met at Hawksbill Recreation Park Friday afternoon to recon the race course. It was a cloudless day in the low eighties. Perfect. We rode two laps of the 11-mile circuit. We felt great and fought the urge to work hard into the strength our legs offered. From here we drove south on route 340 to Waynesboro and then over Afton Mountain to Mark's family's farm. There we waited for our other teammates Mark and Ricky.
The next morning the four of us did a light 20-mile spin-up on the local winding, undulating roads in the vicinity of the farm. We then drove into Charlottesville for groceries and a visit to Roger Friend's bike shop.
Ricky's and my race was at three Sunday afternoon. We arrived on the scene around noon, registered at the Hawksbill Rec Park, and then drove through the course up to a field to park the car near the feed zone. It was within the last 200 meters of the final climb to the finish line.
The Cat 1-2 race was in progress. A 5-man break was off the front of the main peloton. It contained a rider from each of the domestic teams in the race so the peloton rode the tempo of a Sunday group ride. On the following lap the peloton had fractured but the break was holding together. I heard the race finale and blistering 10-mph sprint to the summit was contested by two surviving riders from the break.
Robert and Chris' Cat 3 race was next. Chris, a close friend who now races for Atlantic Velo, flatted after his second lap. As he flatted he recalled hearing someone in the peloton mutter, "Lucky", as in 'now you get to have a reason for quitting this hellish race'.
Robert looked as though he was suffering mightily as each lap passed. Ricky and I had to return to the Rec Park for our pre-race rituals and warm-ups so we couldn't see his finish. I still don't really know Robert's race results as he is genuinely modest about discussing such a thing when someone like me is around licking his wounds over his own not-so-hot results. I believe he may have finished at least in the top twenty.
AT THE LINE
I rested on my top bar in the thick heat with 99 other Cat 4 riders as the head race official discussed the course. They had reduced the race to 4 laps or about 42 miles. They would enforce the center line rule. This means the peloton must ride wholely in the right half of the road and cannot cross the center line or center of the road. A Sheriff's Department truck with flashing lights would lead the peloton through the miles. Two race referees, replete with striped jerseys, would monitor riders' compliance with the rules. One near the front and one following the peloton's rear on motorcycles had them in good position to catch violators. A pickup truck followed the rear carrying tagged extra wheels riders had placed there prior to the race to cover the possibility of a damaged wheel or flat tire.
I had discussed race tactics with teammates before the race---that is tactics for me---ride at the front where it's usually safe; ride in the rear and ride through the carnage as the repeated climbs take their toll. It would, after all, be a race of attrition. I ended up riding in the middle of the peloton. Our beginning tempo was around 27-28 miles per hour. Other riders slid past me, while others slid backward as the miles rolled under us.
By the end of the first climb I had slid to the rear. As we summited I charged to the following descents and finally snugly back into the teeming mass of riders. I held the steady tempo of the peloton back around on the flats of Kite Hollow, Ida, and Farmview Roads. Thankfully I saw no crashes.
When we reached the lower slopes of the first climb I glanced quickly at my computer: 21 mph! I was pushing up the right edge of the road passing surprised, unsuspecting riders. I knew the upper slopes of this climb and the following climb would take their toll on me. I wanted to have as many riders behind me as possible so as to stay in contact should I fall toward the rear again.
I was firmly entrenched in the peloton's ranks now, though really suffering with the intense climbing pace. The young climbers at the front were laying down a blistering pace just the way they should be to drop weaker riders. I might be one of them. But when you start a race, you believe those weaker riders are other riders, not you.
Every now and then I could see Ricky near the center line through the mass of helmets and hunched, working backs up ahead. He's 24 years-old and super fit. I always have high expectations for him in these races.
On the final climb of this lap I was near the tail of the peloton. I was hurting badly and at once realizing I had to do all that I could possibly do to hold onto the main body. I was told by race officials later that riders were scattering all over the mountain about now. The heat, the climbs, and the pace were exacting the toll.
I bit into the final 200 meters of the 3/4-mile climb at 11-12 mph. I spilled everything I had left into the climb, passing the feed zone begging my teammates there to pour water over me. I was burning hot. I could feel the water pour over me, but could not feel anything cool.
As I summited I watched the gap between me and the last rider widen. I watched him seem to drop into the hot road as he began the first descent. I looked down at the road sliding under me, water pouring down on it from my head and face. I coasted off the right side of the road, laid my bike down, unclipped my helmet and sat down gasping for breath. My race season was over.
I'm now looking forward to the Fall surf I know is coming. There's nothing more fun than that---nothing.
A good friend and teammate asked me by email after we had left the mountains of Virginia far behind if I had left my PV experience behind also. He knew I was beating myself up for abandoning my first race. But I had already thought about it and told him you can never leave the Page Valley race behind completely.
It's just that it's so beautiful up there and everything we do together preceding the race is so memorable as well. The training rides taken by themselves are worth the effort and traveling. You can't stay completely stuck in your own race results especially what you might interpret as failures when in this context, this landscape. I can't take my racing that seriously. I raced Category 4 where I race against all ages. My racing age is fifty-eight. Yeah, this race I had reached my limits.
We live on the Outer Banks. Yes, we're "flatlanders". The highest mountain training site for us is the 80-foot high Wright Memorial, U.S. Park Service property. We often do hill repeats there from first light of day until the the park opens. But it's not the same as the PV experience. We do however have wind to torture us on the road, and plenty of it. It's the "mountains" of the Outer Banks.
But we don't have real mountains. You know, the 1-5 mile kind with 6-12 percent gradients. As cyclists we understand you must taste this in order to know the whole of the sport. So we do the PV road race, the Jefferson Cup, and the hills of North Carolina's Piedmont Triad Omnium. I throw myself at it, the PV as such. It's been a nasty sight each year. Then we witness the real, epic climbs of the Tour De France and the climbing specialists. We are reminded where we stand in our lowly world of amateur bike racing. We speculate those Tour riders would take Page Valley's climbs in the big chainring and never strain and fight their bikes the way we do up the mountain.
Robert and I met at Hawksbill Recreation Park Friday afternoon to recon the race course. It was a cloudless day in the low eighties. Perfect. We rode two laps of the 11-mile circuit. We felt great and fought the urge to work hard into the strength our legs offered. From here we drove south on route 340 to Waynesboro and then over Afton Mountain to Mark's family's farm. There we waited for our other teammates Mark and Ricky.
The next morning the four of us did a light 20-mile spin-up on the local winding, undulating roads in the vicinity of the farm. We then drove into Charlottesville for groceries and a visit to Roger Friend's bike shop.
Ricky's and my race was at three Sunday afternoon. We arrived on the scene around noon, registered at the Hawksbill Rec Park, and then drove through the course up to a field to park the car near the feed zone. It was within the last 200 meters of the final climb to the finish line.
The Cat 1-2 race was in progress. A 5-man break was off the front of the main peloton. It contained a rider from each of the domestic teams in the race so the peloton rode the tempo of a Sunday group ride. On the following lap the peloton had fractured but the break was holding together. I heard the race finale and blistering 10-mph sprint to the summit was contested by two surviving riders from the break.
Robert and Chris' Cat 3 race was next. Chris, a close friend who now races for Atlantic Velo, flatted after his second lap. As he flatted he recalled hearing someone in the peloton mutter, "Lucky", as in 'now you get to have a reason for quitting this hellish race'.
Robert looked as though he was suffering mightily as each lap passed. Ricky and I had to return to the Rec Park for our pre-race rituals and warm-ups so we couldn't see his finish. I still don't really know Robert's race results as he is genuinely modest about discussing such a thing when someone like me is around licking his wounds over his own not-so-hot results. I believe he may have finished at least in the top twenty.
AT THE LINE
I rested on my top bar in the thick heat with 99 other Cat 4 riders as the head race official discussed the course. They had reduced the race to 4 laps or about 42 miles. They would enforce the center line rule. This means the peloton must ride wholely in the right half of the road and cannot cross the center line or center of the road. A Sheriff's Department truck with flashing lights would lead the peloton through the miles. Two race referees, replete with striped jerseys, would monitor riders' compliance with the rules. One near the front and one following the peloton's rear on motorcycles had them in good position to catch violators. A pickup truck followed the rear carrying tagged extra wheels riders had placed there prior to the race to cover the possibility of a damaged wheel or flat tire.
I had discussed race tactics with teammates before the race---that is tactics for me---ride at the front where it's usually safe; ride in the rear and ride through the carnage as the repeated climbs take their toll. It would, after all, be a race of attrition. I ended up riding in the middle of the peloton. Our beginning tempo was around 27-28 miles per hour. Other riders slid past me, while others slid backward as the miles rolled under us.
By the end of the first climb I had slid to the rear. As we summited I charged to the following descents and finally snugly back into the teeming mass of riders. I held the steady tempo of the peloton back around on the flats of Kite Hollow, Ida, and Farmview Roads. Thankfully I saw no crashes.
When we reached the lower slopes of the first climb I glanced quickly at my computer: 21 mph! I was pushing up the right edge of the road passing surprised, unsuspecting riders. I knew the upper slopes of this climb and the following climb would take their toll on me. I wanted to have as many riders behind me as possible so as to stay in contact should I fall toward the rear again.
I was firmly entrenched in the peloton's ranks now, though really suffering with the intense climbing pace. The young climbers at the front were laying down a blistering pace just the way they should be to drop weaker riders. I might be one of them. But when you start a race, you believe those weaker riders are other riders, not you.
Every now and then I could see Ricky near the center line through the mass of helmets and hunched, working backs up ahead. He's 24 years-old and super fit. I always have high expectations for him in these races.
On the final climb of this lap I was near the tail of the peloton. I was hurting badly and at once realizing I had to do all that I could possibly do to hold onto the main body. I was told by race officials later that riders were scattering all over the mountain about now. The heat, the climbs, and the pace were exacting the toll.
I bit into the final 200 meters of the 3/4-mile climb at 11-12 mph. I spilled everything I had left into the climb, passing the feed zone begging my teammates there to pour water over me. I was burning hot. I could feel the water pour over me, but could not feel anything cool.
As I summited I watched the gap between me and the last rider widen. I watched him seem to drop into the hot road as he began the first descent. I looked down at the road sliding under me, water pouring down on it from my head and face. I coasted off the right side of the road, laid my bike down, unclipped my helmet and sat down gasping for breath. My race season was over.
I'm now looking forward to the Fall surf I know is coming. There's nothing more fun than that---nothing.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Traveling to Our "A" Race
This morning Ricky and I sit in the farmhouse at Strayhorn's farm in Chapel Hill. We traveled from the coast last night and stayed here. That way we can split the trip distance in half and arrive in Lexington, N.C. more relaxed. Tonight is the criterium leg of the Piedmont Triad Omnium stage race. Our plan is to arrive at Davidson County Community College in time to ride the time trial course we will race on tomorrow. Scouting a course like this can give us valuable seconds in this race against the clock simply because we'll know the course---its curves, hills, and tight corners.
Last year was the inaugural Piedmont Triad Omnium a race promoted by Jim Martin, a prominent local from Davidson County, who is himself a cyclist. It is a well-run race in a beautiful setting and deserves to be experienced. The Omnium features a criterium through the streets of Lexington tonight, a 14.4-mile time trial Saturday, street sprints back in the town of Lexington Saturday night, and finally, a 33-mile road race on country roads with a rolling enclosure on Sunday.
Our club is fielding more riders than ever with eight, two of which are female. Last year there were only four of us. It's always a morale lift to see teammates in the field competing in the race's various divisions. It's also special to see a rider wearing your team's jersey in the peloton racing with you. I'll let you know how it goes.
As far as surfing at home on the Outer Banks---right now the ocean water temperature is around 78-80 degrees. We have had a few days showing a small pulse of rideable waves in the knee to chest high range in the last few weeks. Nothing remarkable but just some glassy conditions and fun summer swell.
We're moving into the doldrums in the next few weeks however. Tropical conditions will prevail with clear, translucent blue-green ocean water, great free diving conditions and no wave in sight. Then aorund the beginning of August, the real tropics will begin to boil and we'll be squarely in the swell window again. We can't wait. I'll keep you apprised.
Last year was the inaugural Piedmont Triad Omnium a race promoted by Jim Martin, a prominent local from Davidson County, who is himself a cyclist. It is a well-run race in a beautiful setting and deserves to be experienced. The Omnium features a criterium through the streets of Lexington tonight, a 14.4-mile time trial Saturday, street sprints back in the town of Lexington Saturday night, and finally, a 33-mile road race on country roads with a rolling enclosure on Sunday.
Our club is fielding more riders than ever with eight, two of which are female. Last year there were only four of us. It's always a morale lift to see teammates in the field competing in the race's various divisions. It's also special to see a rider wearing your team's jersey in the peloton racing with you. I'll let you know how it goes.
As far as surfing at home on the Outer Banks---right now the ocean water temperature is around 78-80 degrees. We have had a few days showing a small pulse of rideable waves in the knee to chest high range in the last few weeks. Nothing remarkable but just some glassy conditions and fun summer swell.
We're moving into the doldrums in the next few weeks however. Tropical conditions will prevail with clear, translucent blue-green ocean water, great free diving conditions and no wave in sight. Then aorund the beginning of August, the real tropics will begin to boil and we'll be squarely in the swell window again. We can't wait. I'll keep you apprised.
Friday, June 26, 2009
My Worst Crash Yet---and Its Lasting Influence
I crashed out big this time---serious injuries and bike damage. It was the Casey Crit on the last lap in the second to last turn, about 150 yards from the line. It's been about 10 weeks now. I cannot believe how its influence is still so profound. But its been a long Spring and mostly brimmed with the beauty of cycling, the sport, and not the down side.
My feet were spinning over round pedals. The cranks turned the sprocket over and over, the chain wrapping it, clinging to it and the round cog-loaded cassette hooked to the rear hub. This hub drove the rear wheel forward, spokes hushing round and round pushing the front wheel along over the loop of road---one of our local, regular rides. Meanwhile the earth spins, the sport I adore spins me through cycles of sights, sounds, and sites all sticking to who I am and still what I become. Here I have time to reflect on recent road forays.
I retreated to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia last week. Just my road bike and me. Dear friends had loaned me their beautiful small home as base camp. I rode north from Wintergreen on the parkway to Afton Mountain and back. Then from Wintergreen south to Irish Gap and back. The third day I met my good friend, Robert, at Front Royal to ride up onto Skyline Drive at the north end of the Blue Ridge Parkway.
I have to say I had amazing good bad luck here. I pulled my bike out to ride and found the rear tire flat. We fixed it. I mounted the bike, turned pedals and the chain broke. Yeah, at least we weren't up the mountain. We re-loaded the bikes and returned to the motel to computer-search for a bike shop. Robert found one with an impressive website. Being a computer (and bike) phenom, at least to me, I listened when he said, "this shop must be decent because they took the time to build a great website." It was in Winchester, Va. some 30 minutes away. Black Bar Bicycles is the name. We set out.
Jamie, one of the shop wrenches/owners welcomed us and went right to work on my bike, a Trek 5000, now over four years old. He suggested a Sram power link to join the chain back together. We talked about my bent derailleur hanger as being a possible culprit. It was bent in the Casey Crit crash and no one (understandably) wants to try to bend it back in place for one critical reason: it is permanently attached to the carbon frame, it is aluminum, and if it breaks while re-bending it---a fair prospect---my frame is f'ed.
The chain now repaired and having enjoyed Jamie's reparte and shop wisdom, we returned to Front Royal. It was getting late, around 6'ish. But Robert suggested we give the mountain another run albeit maybe for only an hour's effort---just to see how far we could go before failing light would scoot us home.
The climb up was about 5 to 8 per cent gradient over 8+ miles. It was wonderful with overlooks giving way to staggering glimpses of farms far below. As one rider confessed to me, "I would come here from anywhere in the world to ride. This parkway is a world-class ride."
We dropped about 2 miles down the backside of the mountain we had just climbed, turned around, climbed back up to the top and at the peak my chain broke again and unraveled right on the road under my bike. It broke in a different place this time.
I pondered the predicament but also my continuing great bad luck. We were virtually on top of the mountain now. I packed the broken chain into my infamous "too large" seatpack (sorry Mark), leg-paddled the bike up to speed and we began our descent. We reached a slight rise (easy for me to say, right Robert?) and as my bike began to slow, Robert put an outstretched hand on my back and pedaled for us both for far too long until we reached the top of the final drop.
We were steady at 39-42 mph for the 7 or 8 miles all the way down---him leading me, me passing him, and him taking back the point, trading leads to the bottom. We felt like 11 year-olds flying down the mountain sure we could reach any speed we had the courage to touch.
Next morning Robert left early for Newport News. I left for Black Bar Bicycles. As I came through the door, a new face greeted me, Jamie standing in the background repair area.
Bill Baker is a 56 year-old wrench/owner of the shop like Jamie. It was he who had built their website, and it was he who took final control of all my mechanical miseries.
I was beginning to get nervous about some of my bike parts, especially drive train and tires, which get huge amounts of wear each race season and should be replaced regularly. I was on a challenging 6-day mountain road training trip and the worn out crap on my bike posed too much danger for my liking. These elements become amplified to the extreme when plummeting down a two-lane blacktop between 40 and 50 miles per hour. In other words---you better have good shit on your bike.
I pointed to the broken chain, the bent derailleur hanger, and worn tires while Bill quietly inspected it all. He removed my rear derailleur, examined it and re-mounted it. He pulled out an alignment tool which gauged hub/derailleur alignment to the rear rim. I harped on about how the derailleur hanger was permanently attached to the carbon frame and blah, blah, blah...as he grabbed it and began bending it. Then the channel locks came out, were clamped onto the hanger and bent it...the alignment tool again, then the channel locks from the other way. I'm pacing behind him. Bill stepped back and eyed up his work. Years of experience and pure moxie are hard to beat. I peeked. The derailleur hanger was nearly as aligned as new.
Now as Bill lubed my Speedplay pedals, the real shop mischief began. He and Jamie offered me any bike in the shop for a test ride. I looked at the Pinarello and then the Parlees, then the Pinarello, and then the Parlees. I told Bill he had his hands full with my bike and I didn't want him to have to go through adjusting the saddle/seatpost height for me or transferring my pedals to another bike. He insisted it was no trouble, "why don't you try the Parlee Z3, if you came home with it, it would surely get you a divorce." The two of them chuckled. I work with carpenters and I got it, I mean the tone that is. (As set up with Sram Red gruppos and American, hand-laid full carbon, lugged frame and fork it rounds out about $8 grand.)
So he rigged me up. I got on my helmet and shoes and off I went. The last thing I heard as I went out the door was, "Don't worry about the bike. Enjoy the ride!"
I rode a total of about 6 miles. The ride was stunning in every aspect. Superb responsiveness. Torsional stability hard to comprehend...so fine. The power transfer to the road was unmatched by any bike I've ever ridden.
I walked back through the shop door and proclaimed Bill and Jamie both assholes for doing what they had just done to me, knowing full well I was headed for the Page Valley Road Race course for a training ride that evening and would have to ride my same old bike. How cruel and calculating they were I said as I watched them both shaking in silent laughter backs turned to me.
I settled up, still grumbling, and left to eat and then to Page Valley for some hard work alone. (Glad I could entertain you two.) I have to say, the guys at Black Bar Bicycles really were so kind to a stranger roadie that day. They even offered me the Parlee for my Page Valley ride.
The work and advice was outstanding. The inventory in the shop supremely tuned in to what's really needed and is available from the top names in the industry. They have my highest recommendation for great service, genuine friendliness---and of course, I was glad I could keep them entertained. Hope to see you two again out there.
As my Hawaiian friends would say, "We talk story later bra', okay?" Glad to be back.
My feet were spinning over round pedals. The cranks turned the sprocket over and over, the chain wrapping it, clinging to it and the round cog-loaded cassette hooked to the rear hub. This hub drove the rear wheel forward, spokes hushing round and round pushing the front wheel along over the loop of road---one of our local, regular rides. Meanwhile the earth spins, the sport I adore spins me through cycles of sights, sounds, and sites all sticking to who I am and still what I become. Here I have time to reflect on recent road forays.
I retreated to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia last week. Just my road bike and me. Dear friends had loaned me their beautiful small home as base camp. I rode north from Wintergreen on the parkway to Afton Mountain and back. Then from Wintergreen south to Irish Gap and back. The third day I met my good friend, Robert, at Front Royal to ride up onto Skyline Drive at the north end of the Blue Ridge Parkway.
I have to say I had amazing good bad luck here. I pulled my bike out to ride and found the rear tire flat. We fixed it. I mounted the bike, turned pedals and the chain broke. Yeah, at least we weren't up the mountain. We re-loaded the bikes and returned to the motel to computer-search for a bike shop. Robert found one with an impressive website. Being a computer (and bike) phenom, at least to me, I listened when he said, "this shop must be decent because they took the time to build a great website." It was in Winchester, Va. some 30 minutes away. Black Bar Bicycles is the name. We set out.
Jamie, one of the shop wrenches/owners welcomed us and went right to work on my bike, a Trek 5000, now over four years old. He suggested a Sram power link to join the chain back together. We talked about my bent derailleur hanger as being a possible culprit. It was bent in the Casey Crit crash and no one (understandably) wants to try to bend it back in place for one critical reason: it is permanently attached to the carbon frame, it is aluminum, and if it breaks while re-bending it---a fair prospect---my frame is f'ed.
The chain now repaired and having enjoyed Jamie's reparte and shop wisdom, we returned to Front Royal. It was getting late, around 6'ish. But Robert suggested we give the mountain another run albeit maybe for only an hour's effort---just to see how far we could go before failing light would scoot us home.
The climb up was about 5 to 8 per cent gradient over 8+ miles. It was wonderful with overlooks giving way to staggering glimpses of farms far below. As one rider confessed to me, "I would come here from anywhere in the world to ride. This parkway is a world-class ride."
We dropped about 2 miles down the backside of the mountain we had just climbed, turned around, climbed back up to the top and at the peak my chain broke again and unraveled right on the road under my bike. It broke in a different place this time.
I pondered the predicament but also my continuing great bad luck. We were virtually on top of the mountain now. I packed the broken chain into my infamous "too large" seatpack (sorry Mark), leg-paddled the bike up to speed and we began our descent. We reached a slight rise (easy for me to say, right Robert?) and as my bike began to slow, Robert put an outstretched hand on my back and pedaled for us both for far too long until we reached the top of the final drop.
We were steady at 39-42 mph for the 7 or 8 miles all the way down---him leading me, me passing him, and him taking back the point, trading leads to the bottom. We felt like 11 year-olds flying down the mountain sure we could reach any speed we had the courage to touch.
Next morning Robert left early for Newport News. I left for Black Bar Bicycles. As I came through the door, a new face greeted me, Jamie standing in the background repair area.
Bill Baker is a 56 year-old wrench/owner of the shop like Jamie. It was he who had built their website, and it was he who took final control of all my mechanical miseries.
I was beginning to get nervous about some of my bike parts, especially drive train and tires, which get huge amounts of wear each race season and should be replaced regularly. I was on a challenging 6-day mountain road training trip and the worn out crap on my bike posed too much danger for my liking. These elements become amplified to the extreme when plummeting down a two-lane blacktop between 40 and 50 miles per hour. In other words---you better have good shit on your bike.
I pointed to the broken chain, the bent derailleur hanger, and worn tires while Bill quietly inspected it all. He removed my rear derailleur, examined it and re-mounted it. He pulled out an alignment tool which gauged hub/derailleur alignment to the rear rim. I harped on about how the derailleur hanger was permanently attached to the carbon frame and blah, blah, blah...as he grabbed it and began bending it. Then the channel locks came out, were clamped onto the hanger and bent it...the alignment tool again, then the channel locks from the other way. I'm pacing behind him. Bill stepped back and eyed up his work. Years of experience and pure moxie are hard to beat. I peeked. The derailleur hanger was nearly as aligned as new.
Now as Bill lubed my Speedplay pedals, the real shop mischief began. He and Jamie offered me any bike in the shop for a test ride. I looked at the Pinarello and then the Parlees, then the Pinarello, and then the Parlees. I told Bill he had his hands full with my bike and I didn't want him to have to go through adjusting the saddle/seatpost height for me or transferring my pedals to another bike. He insisted it was no trouble, "why don't you try the Parlee Z3, if you came home with it, it would surely get you a divorce." The two of them chuckled. I work with carpenters and I got it, I mean the tone that is. (As set up with Sram Red gruppos and American, hand-laid full carbon, lugged frame and fork it rounds out about $8 grand.)
So he rigged me up. I got on my helmet and shoes and off I went. The last thing I heard as I went out the door was, "Don't worry about the bike. Enjoy the ride!"
I rode a total of about 6 miles. The ride was stunning in every aspect. Superb responsiveness. Torsional stability hard to comprehend...so fine. The power transfer to the road was unmatched by any bike I've ever ridden.
I walked back through the shop door and proclaimed Bill and Jamie both assholes for doing what they had just done to me, knowing full well I was headed for the Page Valley Road Race course for a training ride that evening and would have to ride my same old bike. How cruel and calculating they were I said as I watched them both shaking in silent laughter backs turned to me.
I settled up, still grumbling, and left to eat and then to Page Valley for some hard work alone. (Glad I could entertain you two.) I have to say, the guys at Black Bar Bicycles really were so kind to a stranger roadie that day. They even offered me the Parlee for my Page Valley ride.
The work and advice was outstanding. The inventory in the shop supremely tuned in to what's really needed and is available from the top names in the industry. They have my highest recommendation for great service, genuine friendliness---and of course, I was glad I could keep them entertained. Hope to see you two again out there.
As my Hawaiian friends would say, "We talk story later bra', okay?" Glad to be back.
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Month of Maypril is Here!
Yes, I said Maypril! The month which tortures the place in our souls longing for warmer, dryer weather and fair winds. This cruel month, running from mid-April to mid-May paws and gnaws at our expectations for all that is getting better we hope. I carry a whole year's wardrobe sampling in the back of my truck: from Carhart insulated oversuit to board shorts and sandals, tee shirts, hooded sweatshirts, 4-3 wetsuits, boots, and gloves, and foul weather gear. Eighty-one degrees on Saturday, 39 degrees on Sunday---change is the only thing which remains the same.
So into this crazy 30-some days we plunge. I'm still optimistic, still looking forward to what my piece of coast has to share.
The cycling season is rolling. The surfing scene is slow for me right now. I really hate cold water---anywhere in the forty-degree range. The water temperature at the Duck Research Pier is bumping 50 degrees just about now. The waiting won't be much longer.
The cycling race season left the start line on the wheels of our new club, Gruppo Sportivo Outer Banks, February 22nd at the Snowball Criterium #1 at the Virginia Beach Sportsplex, a beautiful, flat, oval-ish, close to one mile loop. The wind blew around 20 mph, west/southwest with steady rain and mid-forty degree air for the C race. We fielded 7 riders in this race, all about to feel what it means to be "hardmen" in bike racing.
Most of these riders were new to road bike racing on this day. I moved in and around the vehicles which carried us all up from our warm, dry North Carolina coastal homes some 90 miles south. I looked closely at faces framed in an air of doubt, unsureness,
trepidation, and then slowly transforming to a steeled resolve, facing this new challenge posed by horrid weather and a multitude of competitors, many concealing the same seeds of self-doubt.
These new racers without pre-race rituals, without race tactics born of knowing what to do when this or that happens---they still answered the call. Their energy charged and lifted all around them. I wasn't racing this day, but was so compelled to witness their charge around the course, I just had to be there. We all inspire each other this way. Their race was our race as it were. To Rob, Matt, Joe, Randy, Art, Kevin, and Wayne, you all were unforgettable in this race. Three placed in the top ten---all finished first in our eyes for answering the start and being there for the finish.
So into this crazy 30-some days we plunge. I'm still optimistic, still looking forward to what my piece of coast has to share.
The cycling season is rolling. The surfing scene is slow for me right now. I really hate cold water---anywhere in the forty-degree range. The water temperature at the Duck Research Pier is bumping 50 degrees just about now. The waiting won't be much longer.
The cycling race season left the start line on the wheels of our new club, Gruppo Sportivo Outer Banks, February 22nd at the Snowball Criterium #1 at the Virginia Beach Sportsplex, a beautiful, flat, oval-ish, close to one mile loop. The wind blew around 20 mph, west/southwest with steady rain and mid-forty degree air for the C race. We fielded 7 riders in this race, all about to feel what it means to be "hardmen" in bike racing.
Most of these riders were new to road bike racing on this day. I moved in and around the vehicles which carried us all up from our warm, dry North Carolina coastal homes some 90 miles south. I looked closely at faces framed in an air of doubt, unsureness,
trepidation, and then slowly transforming to a steeled resolve, facing this new challenge posed by horrid weather and a multitude of competitors, many concealing the same seeds of self-doubt.
These new racers without pre-race rituals, without race tactics born of knowing what to do when this or that happens---they still answered the call. Their energy charged and lifted all around them. I wasn't racing this day, but was so compelled to witness their charge around the course, I just had to be there. We all inspire each other this way. Their race was our race as it were. To Rob, Matt, Joe, Randy, Art, Kevin, and Wayne, you all were unforgettable in this race. Three placed in the top ten---all finished first in our eyes for answering the start and being there for the finish.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
And Yet Another Winter Coastal Storm
So hear I sit. My home is warm and dry. It's nestled in pine and live and pin oak trees beside a small canal. It is the same canal dug many years ago as a means of floating by barge the granite slabs used to build the Wright Brothers Memorial very close by. Our home is 1 mile by street to the Kill Devil Hills, First Street beach access.
Another winter collision is about to occur between a coastal low pressure system crawling northward up the coast and arctic air sweeping in from the northwest tomorrow night. We may get snow or sleet or rain. Who knows? We are sure to get wind though---and, as usual, plenty of it.
We can count on our home of 21 years keeping us warm and dry once again. We are grateful for it. This is the home we were going to live in for only 5 years and then build on another lot we have in Southern Shores. But our youngest child was born in it and no one in our family wanted to move from it after Jack came along. It has become a sort of sacred family site. So here we are.
The shed out back has a rack full of window storm shutters I custom built for every window on the house. One of the shutters for one of our front windows has a list of every hurricane our home has been shuttered for. The list includes infamous names, among others, Emily, Fran, Bertha, Floyd, and Isabel. Many unnamed storms never made the shutter including several unnamed northeasters which have blown in excess of the 75 mile-an-hour threshold hurricane force wind, the 1993 "Storm of the Century", the "October Storm", which produced the "Perfect Storm" off the northeast coast of the United States and the largest surf I've ever witnessed on this coast having lived here virtually my whole life. Countless unnamed storms rake this part of the coast regularly, usually going unheralded by the now very fashionable storm-chasing media. They are part of routine living on the Outer Banks.
March is now on the doorstep. The ocean water is 43 degrees. The month of "Maypril" is on the near horizon with it's playful torture of our expectations for coming good weather, and another storm is brewing. I suppose I'll spend some time on the trainer tomorrow and duck another messy winter day.
Another winter collision is about to occur between a coastal low pressure system crawling northward up the coast and arctic air sweeping in from the northwest tomorrow night. We may get snow or sleet or rain. Who knows? We are sure to get wind though---and, as usual, plenty of it.
We can count on our home of 21 years keeping us warm and dry once again. We are grateful for it. This is the home we were going to live in for only 5 years and then build on another lot we have in Southern Shores. But our youngest child was born in it and no one in our family wanted to move from it after Jack came along. It has become a sort of sacred family site. So here we are.
The shed out back has a rack full of window storm shutters I custom built for every window on the house. One of the shutters for one of our front windows has a list of every hurricane our home has been shuttered for. The list includes infamous names, among others, Emily, Fran, Bertha, Floyd, and Isabel. Many unnamed storms never made the shutter including several unnamed northeasters which have blown in excess of the 75 mile-an-hour threshold hurricane force wind, the 1993 "Storm of the Century", the "October Storm", which produced the "Perfect Storm" off the northeast coast of the United States and the largest surf I've ever witnessed on this coast having lived here virtually my whole life. Countless unnamed storms rake this part of the coast regularly, usually going unheralded by the now very fashionable storm-chasing media. They are part of routine living on the Outer Banks.
March is now on the doorstep. The ocean water is 43 degrees. The month of "Maypril" is on the near horizon with it's playful torture of our expectations for coming good weather, and another storm is brewing. I suppose I'll spend some time on the trainer tomorrow and duck another messy winter day.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Listen...
I'm listening to Sarah Vaughn sing "If Love is Good to Me". Just back through the door from walking my dog. Thirty-four degrees, saw my frosty breath and such an immense, deep, black night sky spattered with stars and silence. The wind died. The wood stove is so warm on my right side. It is fully chest-out winter now.
I rode 32 miles this afternoon with two of my cycling "daddies"---mentors. Patiently they've taught me the fine points. "Daddies" or "daddy" in carpentry is what you call the person who taught you the craft---framing, trim, or whatever. I like folky names like this born of oral tradition, passed along inside the culture of such a craft or trade. For me it has a place in other pastimes. It is transferable. It fits cycling well I think.
We rode from First Street in Kill Devil Hills to Coquina Beach ranger housing/campground where the ocean grinds away right on the other side of the dunes. The northwest wind pushed us hard over our right shoulders. It blew around 24 mph while we rode in virtual silence, the silence seeming to ride with us as if ours alone. When this happens it is certain we will pay the price for such speed, such an unweighted ride when we turned back into the teeth of the dragon. A rider can't keep this out of his head. It's just like riding in the mountains enjoying a plummeting descent knowing full well the longer and steeper you drop, the bigger and more tortuous will be the climb back up out of the abyss whose bottom you will find.
This is one of my favorite steady state, uninterrupted rides. But today I have teammates to share the work into the wind all the way home. They are on fixed gear bikes, I on the small chainring while healing my left knee.
Now it's Ella Fitzgerald, "I've Got a Crush on You". What a fine voice. What a natural treasure. Listen...
I rode 32 miles this afternoon with two of my cycling "daddies"---mentors. Patiently they've taught me the fine points. "Daddies" or "daddy" in carpentry is what you call the person who taught you the craft---framing, trim, or whatever. I like folky names like this born of oral tradition, passed along inside the culture of such a craft or trade. For me it has a place in other pastimes. It is transferable. It fits cycling well I think.
We rode from First Street in Kill Devil Hills to Coquina Beach ranger housing/campground where the ocean grinds away right on the other side of the dunes. The northwest wind pushed us hard over our right shoulders. It blew around 24 mph while we rode in virtual silence, the silence seeming to ride with us as if ours alone. When this happens it is certain we will pay the price for such speed, such an unweighted ride when we turned back into the teeth of the dragon. A rider can't keep this out of his head. It's just like riding in the mountains enjoying a plummeting descent knowing full well the longer and steeper you drop, the bigger and more tortuous will be the climb back up out of the abyss whose bottom you will find.
This is one of my favorite steady state, uninterrupted rides. But today I have teammates to share the work into the wind all the way home. They are on fixed gear bikes, I on the small chainring while healing my left knee.
Now it's Ella Fitzgerald, "I've Got a Crush on You". What a fine voice. What a natural treasure. Listen...
Friday, January 23, 2009
Traveling Over the Turn of the New Year
Hey folks. Well here we are over three weeks into 2009---new year, new president, new hope and certainly a time of transformation in our country. (Editor's Note: I'm going to vent a little opinion here. Please bear with me.)
The way I see it we have a national gut check on our hands. The Age of Entitlement has just ended in the United States and America must re-invent herself in the growing shadow of the revved up global economy. Can we do it? I believe so, with new people at the controls on Wall Street, in Detroit, and politically, most importantly down to the local level. Our children I regard as the transformational figures here.
They must understand that electing a president is not a silver bullet to mend all that we perceive as wrong in this country. It is, given unwavering leadership, a great place to stitch an agenda fully together in the public eye and ear. However they absolutely must not take a consumer mentality to fixing things: The attitude which shouts to elected officials, "That's what we elected you for." Instead they (and all of us) must carry some of the solution's weight on their own shoulders in their own locales and launch it upstream to their representatives. It will take that much effort this time.
Elected leaders must cease talking about how great America is and realize now is the time for us all to get back to work proving it once again. Hard work, self-reliance, this time on a global scale, honest effort at improving life around us and thus our country---it worked for my parents' generation (what Tom Brokaw called "the Greatest Generation") and I believe it can work for our children's generation.
When will Detroit get it. "Robert Lutz, GM's vice chairman for global product development, said the market volatility has made product planning difficult," as reported in today's Virginian Pilot newspaper. He's basically saying that when gas prices were nearly $4 a gallon GM couldn't make enough Cobalts (their gas miser car), but now that gas prices have fallen to the $1.78 range, the Cobalts aren't selling. He goes on to say the following:
"A lot of the media and pundits are maintaining the fiction that we're in a new world and that Americans want small, fuel-efficient cars. But at a buck-fifty a gallon, they don't. I'm sorry, but they just don't."
With leadership like this(and the insipid whining quoted above), I now understand why GM is faltering in the auto market. Yes, I understand the weight imposed by the legacy benefits they must pay former employees and the union stranglehold on their ability to compete in the global and domestic markets, but this guy clearly doesn't get the big picture. Apparently Lutz and GM want to plan production based on the moment's gas prices. They want the market to lead them. They don't want to lead the market. Where does Lutz think the market will end up in the future? There seems to be a limited supply of fossil fuel to drive vehicles and heat and power homes, and thankfully, a growing understanding that we just can't keep burning these fuels without completely trashing our world. Shouldn't an industry leader have the ability to have some semblance of vision about where it's all going to end up if we keep on consuming and wasting resources at disgusting levels in this country.
Meanwhile Toyota keeps rolling out vehicles powered by transitional power plants, using cleaner fuels toward where they must be projecting the auto market will land given current fuel costs, availability, and the condition of the world ecosystem. This is exciting vision intelligent, car-buying people want to own and use.
Sorry everybody. I really need to get this stuff off my chest. I can't take the market-whore mentality anymore. I do remember that this is only a kinda lifestyle, surfing, cycling, life-on-the-Outer-Banks blog. But will the brilliant, honest, resourceful, hardworking visionaries who put American products out front please come forward again? We need you so badly. I know you're out there. Please speak.
The way I see it we have a national gut check on our hands. The Age of Entitlement has just ended in the United States and America must re-invent herself in the growing shadow of the revved up global economy. Can we do it? I believe so, with new people at the controls on Wall Street, in Detroit, and politically, most importantly down to the local level. Our children I regard as the transformational figures here.
They must understand that electing a president is not a silver bullet to mend all that we perceive as wrong in this country. It is, given unwavering leadership, a great place to stitch an agenda fully together in the public eye and ear. However they absolutely must not take a consumer mentality to fixing things: The attitude which shouts to elected officials, "That's what we elected you for." Instead they (and all of us) must carry some of the solution's weight on their own shoulders in their own locales and launch it upstream to their representatives. It will take that much effort this time.
Elected leaders must cease talking about how great America is and realize now is the time for us all to get back to work proving it once again. Hard work, self-reliance, this time on a global scale, honest effort at improving life around us and thus our country---it worked for my parents' generation (what Tom Brokaw called "the Greatest Generation") and I believe it can work for our children's generation.
When will Detroit get it. "Robert Lutz, GM's vice chairman for global product development, said the market volatility has made product planning difficult," as reported in today's Virginian Pilot newspaper. He's basically saying that when gas prices were nearly $4 a gallon GM couldn't make enough Cobalts (their gas miser car), but now that gas prices have fallen to the $1.78 range, the Cobalts aren't selling. He goes on to say the following:
"A lot of the media and pundits are maintaining the fiction that we're in a new world and that Americans want small, fuel-efficient cars. But at a buck-fifty a gallon, they don't. I'm sorry, but they just don't."
With leadership like this(and the insipid whining quoted above), I now understand why GM is faltering in the auto market. Yes, I understand the weight imposed by the legacy benefits they must pay former employees and the union stranglehold on their ability to compete in the global and domestic markets, but this guy clearly doesn't get the big picture. Apparently Lutz and GM want to plan production based on the moment's gas prices. They want the market to lead them. They don't want to lead the market. Where does Lutz think the market will end up in the future? There seems to be a limited supply of fossil fuel to drive vehicles and heat and power homes, and thankfully, a growing understanding that we just can't keep burning these fuels without completely trashing our world. Shouldn't an industry leader have the ability to have some semblance of vision about where it's all going to end up if we keep on consuming and wasting resources at disgusting levels in this country.
Meanwhile Toyota keeps rolling out vehicles powered by transitional power plants, using cleaner fuels toward where they must be projecting the auto market will land given current fuel costs, availability, and the condition of the world ecosystem. This is exciting vision intelligent, car-buying people want to own and use.
Sorry everybody. I really need to get this stuff off my chest. I can't take the market-whore mentality anymore. I do remember that this is only a kinda lifestyle, surfing, cycling, life-on-the-Outer-Banks blog. But will the brilliant, honest, resourceful, hardworking visionaries who put American products out front please come forward again? We need you so badly. I know you're out there. Please speak.
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