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.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
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...
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