The same crew as last week showed up for the hill ride this morning. Butts even showed up on time, but he wasn't a factor in the workout since he's racing CapTech tomorrow and wast taking it easy. I didn't have a chance to hit the trainer before I got out the door, but I spun my legs up as much as possible before we hit the first interval.

On the first interval, I sat behind Peter until the first hill and then went to the lead. Brad followed behind me and eventually pulled up alongside me. He went stroke for stroke with me until the last stretch when I slowly pulled away a bit. I tried attacking hard on the second interval and got a decent gap coming off Military Rd. But the pack reeled me in with ease and I had to fight my way up the long gradual climb. Brad was again up there and I had to again sprint him off in the last little bit. The third interval was more of the same, with the exception that old man Bellora let out his usual kick up the Muur and left Brad and I in the dust. Even a patch of gravel before the climb couldn't stop his enthusiasm for the steep rise. The final interval was an exact repeat of last week. I attacked hard on Military and gapped everyone. Then I climbed the first hill hard and chilled the rest of the way. Brad was just back at the finish, but there was just too big a gap.

After the workout, Brad and I stayed behind with John Larson to wait for him to switch out a tube. I was avoiding work mostly and was happy to take a breather before rolling back to the Shack. Good workout today. Brad is really coming on strong and pushes me a great deal. It's a lot different from chasing Brian, but I'm working hard. My rear derailleur is getting worse. It looks like I may have to replace it soon. Maybe I can get it done before Rapho this weekend?

Jim: Kissing John MacAdam

We always joke about the Muffin Ride - Squadra Coppi's easy Friday morning spin - as being by far the most dangerous ride most riders will ever undertake. It's true. More freakish crashes happen on the Muffin Ride than occur in Atlanta on I-85 after an ice storm. My first ride with Coppi, in fact, was a Muffin Ride. I celebrated by low-siding while turning onto Quincy Street in Arlington, after hitting some black ice, or construction debris, or because some inchoate force in the universe decided it was time to deck me, or maybe I crashed just for no reason at all. Since that day several months ago, I found out one other rider has crashed on the exact same spot, in exactly the same inexplicable manner. My friend Bill, another Coppi, crashed and broke his collarbone a little further down the bike trail on the Muffin Ride. For a ride where we all go really slow, it's bloody dangerous.

I brought a non-racing riding buddy out for the Muffin Ride this morning. I warned him to pay attention, since freak crashes always occur on this ride. Everything went okay until the Muffin Ride was finished and we were transiting back to where I'd parked my truck at the base of the Capital Crescent Trail, underneath Key Bridge and the Whitehurst Freeway. Jon (not this John Brewer, but my other friend Jon) was riding along with me.

We were spinning about 10 MPH down K Street, which is under the Whitehurst at that point. It's dark under there. I was going really slow to cool off, since my truck was 50 yards up and I needed to be relaxed before I took off on the 40 minute trip home. We rode over a broken up bit of pavement that I had trouble seeing due to my sunglasses, the overcast, and the huge overpass above our heads.

Surprised by the bumps and concerned for my safety in the dark, I took my sunglasses off. As I fiddled with them, trying to wedge them into my helmet vents, I had one hand on the bars. Just then, I rode into a hole that I hadn't seen.

You know where this is going, don't you?

Straight down.

My front wheel went into some kind of a sewer vent pipe in the road that I hadn't seen in the murk. It was about six inches in diameter, and the cap on the pipe was all busted up. Ordinarily, I'd just ride over something like that, get bounced really badly and maybe put my wheel out of true, but I wouldn't crash. But I had one hand up to my face, and one hand on the handlebars. Plus I was on the fixed gear, which doesn't have the neutral handling of the geared bike going through obstacles.

BANG! The front wheel tucks under, and as is my wont, I go down face first. Fortunately, my right elbow and shoulder took the brunt of the blow. I wouldn't want to damage my $12 Performance gloves, or my cheapo-helmet (purchased to replace the one I cracked at Baker Park). I popped back up to my feet.

Jon rode back and asked, "what the hell just happened?" I looked back and saw the hole. About 15 seconds too late. Well, at least with the sunglasses off, there was no danger of me walking back to where the hole was, missing it again, and spraining my ankle in it.

The damage is minor, I think. The bike needs new handlebar tape. I've got three spots of minor road rash on my right leg. The elbow cuts (shown above) are the most spectacular evidence of the crash, and my right shoulder is aching - moderate A/C joint pain, a bruised pectoral (reaggravating an old injury), and bruised trapezius muscles. I don't think the shoulder dislocated or separated - if it was separated, I'd have passed out, and the A/C joint only hurts somewhat badly when I press down on it, much less than it has hurt in the past following separations. Oh yeah, and there's a ping-pong ball-sized hematoma on my right hip. But that doesn't hurt at all so it doesn't count as an injury.

On the way home, I picked up my toddler, William. In my small pickup truck, he had occasion to poke my elbow cuts about 50 times. "Daddy hurt. Bike-y fall." When your kid only knows about 75 words, and four of the words related to bicycle crashes, perhaps it's time to consider a new sport. Perhaps mountain biking. Mountain bikers don't crash much, do they? And how bad could it be... it's on dirt, right?

Five Advil and two bags of ice later, I'm mulling it over and wondering if it isn't too late to start playing rugby again. Jeeez. I wasn't even racing or going fast. I was trying to be safe. I even rode responsibly today on the Muffin Ride and didn't run 50 stoplights. What the heck... If I'm going to hurt like this on a regular basis, the least I could do would be to find a sport where I have the opportunity to hit my opponent back once in a while. This whole "John L. MacAdam beats Jim up" storyline is becoming a cliche. And no, it's not the District of Columbia's fault that their roads are hazardous. Everybody who lives in D.C. knows that secret, rat-like albino anarchist revolutionaries living in Georgetown's sewers occasionally blow up a manhole or utilities vent pipe, just to make life interesting for the surface-dwellers, whom they hate due our carefree lives above ground, our relatively small eyes, and our ability to vacation in Cabo without getting third degree sunburns. We have to take the roads as we find them and adjust accordingly, and I blew it by not getting my shades off earlier. Or perhaps by not staying in bed when I had the chance.

Today I actually got out of bed rather quickly for the Hill Ride. I kitted up and set up my bike on the trainer. I rode that for about five minutes at a high rpm just to get my legs feeling fresher than they usually do at 6:30a. From there, I rolled over to the Java Shack to join up with the boys.

Cusmano was out for the first time since I've been riding hills and Brad was back. John Larson was also there for the first time on the same week as I. Other usuals were Jordan, Peter, and Jim. I'm sure I'm forgetting someone as this was probably the biggest hill ride we've had. Also joining us was NCVC rider Frederik Andersson. Butts was a no show at the Shack and we left without him.

Just before we reached Military Rd., John Larson starting gapping the rest of us and so I went to track him down. He said he was just trying to get his legs moving and not feeling sluggish. I can definitely attest to that feeling, but the trainer has cured me of that lately. After I caught Larson, we started to get going on the first interval at the base of the first climb on Military. That's pretty early and we were slowed by a great deal of traffic preventing us from crossing onto 31st. When the interval started, we were all together.

I took the lead from start to finish. But it was by far the most painful interval of the day. I got up the first hill in front and felt strong, but I was being chased closely by Brad. I threw in a few brief strong cranks, but nothing really shook up off my wheel. I was starting to sweat a little when my HR hit 195. I was just in front of Brad and we were nearing the end. I was finally able to get a small gap after standing and stomping away, but this was right at the finish of the interval. I was happy to finally reach the church parking lot.

The next two intervals, of course, are where I have the most trouble. Butts regularly takes me on these, but without his presence today, I wanted to be sure and win all four intervals. I had more company on this interval than any I can remember. I think we had a lot of quality riders out today and it showed. I started in the lead and pushing the pace by gapping the group. But they tracked me down before the real hills started and Peter went around me. John Larson did too and I latched on to his wheel. We passed everyone and I stuck to his wheel. From watching the Giro all week, I had visions of Basso following Sastre as he destroyed the peloton. I eventually went around Larson and that was all she wrote. Another solid effort.

The Muur interval has always been my nemesis, but without Butts or Bellora out for this one, I knew I should win it. Surprisingly that first long and steep hill on Vermont gave me some trouble. I was really working to get up that one and once we hit the false flat I was hurting like I should be in a workout. Frederik was the only one to follow my closely and I led him up to the Muur. I think I rode that stupid hill as slow as I ever had, but this being my home turf, I was able to keep Frederik behind me. Butts or Bellora would have dusted us both today.

On the final interval, I wasn't all that interested in a repeat of the first. I didn't want another long interval of pain, so I attacked the group from behind before we made the turn onto 31st. I got an enormous gap, probably b/c no one wanted to start the interval so soon, and it was free wheeling from there on. The first hill really took me a while to get up and I still managed to feel some burn, but Brad and Frederik were pretty far back and I was never challenged.

The cooldown was typical, with me chasing down a few folks for no reason. I chatted briefly with Butts as he showed up during our workout to do a slightly different hill workout of his own. I also chatted some with Matt Donahue, who I noticed had joined up with us about mid-workout. This was a good solid effort today, but it's going to take a lot more to snatch all four from Brian. We'll see.

Jim: Thought for the Day

My response to a fellow Coppi who attacked repeatedly on last week's hill ride, only to make himself really tired and have me inexplicably catch up each time when he slowed - a shameful thing given my fitness level and how badly I climb. He told me he was trying to break me. My stunned response:

"Trying to break me? Puh-lease. I was already broken. It's not like your attacks were going to break me any worse. Give it up, man."

Jim: "You're in a world of hurt..."

That was what Gunnery Sergeant Hartman threatened Private Pyle with in Kubrick's epic war flick, Full Metal Jacket.* It also happens to be the planet I'm living on after my hot date with finest tarmac in Frederick last Saturday.

I've played a number of contact sports in my life, including a couple really really full contact sports - rugby, ice hockey and hapkido, the latter being a stellar but particularly vicious Korean martial art. But until I splattered on the road at 30 MPH, it never occurred to me that my whole body could get tenderized like a slab of cheap steak. It's a persistent low grade hurt all over, combined with a couple stabby sort of pains, including a bruised calf, a goofy shoulder, and an upper back spasm that only hurts when I climb hills. (Insert Joke Here).

As I struggled through the hill ride Wednesday, aches and pains compounding my usual crappy climbing performance, it struck me how physically tough mass start racing is. My crash was no big deal; other guys have done a whole lot worse. The racing itself is a bit brutal; you spend a lot of time in moderate discomfort, and a fair amount of time (especially in crits or on a hilly road course) in major discomfort. Combined with the fact that in any race there is only one winner, and 49, or 74, or 124 losers, this frickin' sport is nothing but one long kick in the teeth. Heck, Lance Armstrong won the TdF last year, by winning only one stage. Know what that means? It means he lost 19 times in three weeks. And if he isn't the best there ever was, he merits a spot somewhere in the Top 5. How much more beaten down are the rest of us lowly and unknowing schiavi della bicicletta?

Ahh, who am I kidding. That's what makes it worthwhile. It is hard. If it wasn't, it wouldn't be worth doing. So leave a note in comments, tell me about your hardest ride ever. I'd like to know what it was. I'll go first.

I actually have two. The first one was the day I bought my bike last July. It was about 95 out. I still haven't a clue why an obese bastid like me decided to sit on a roadbike again. It's just a weird universe we live in, I guess. So fat as a monk, two gallons over 300 pounds, I pulled on my Bellwethers (the fat shorts) and went for a ride around the neighborhood. I pedaled about a mile from the house, where I encountered a low rise which I struggled up, huffing like a steam engine (thank goodness for granny gears on touring triple cranksets). I took a right and went up a slight hill that most would describe as "a long kicker." Two thirds of the way to the top, I had to get off and push. Back on the bike at the top, down the next hill into cool shade under the trees... the comfort was too brief, then it was a right turn, laboring up a false flat, and then about 15 pedal strokes up a short, steep hill, before I had to get off and push. I seem to recall a woman on a hybrid pedaling up past me, but that may have been another day shortly thereafter. At the top, labor up another false flat. Come to a rise similar to the first, and struggle up it at about 7 MPH. It hit me at about this point how badly out of shape I had gotten, and the fact that my bench press had hit epic levels (a truly gnarly 4 sets of ten with a pair of 110 pound dumbbells) was irrelevant to overall fitness. I was a pathetic fat bastard, with no lungs. A couple years away from rugby and regular running and that kind of thing had wiped me out. I felt like dying, never mind the thick layer of flab I had packed on. When I got to the top of the rise, it was mercifully mostly downhill back to my house. The grand total: 11 miles, one hour. To put it in perspective - nowadays, I do both low rises without downshifting. The first hill I encountered, the long kicker, I hit at speed, drop one gear, and do as a big ring climb. The second hill... well, that's a minute's worth for me, but even though it's steep I hammer up it pretty quick. The whole loop now takes around 30 minutes, tops, and I ride it as a warmup. I can barely remember what it was like to ride it the first day unless I stop to really think about it.

My second toughest ride ever was the first crit I did, one of the Quicksilver series. I barfed, and got lapped. Oh my God did it hurt, and boy was I ever ignorant about how to conserve energy. But all of you would understand that, so I'm not going to go into details. The thing is, my definition of what my toughest ride ever was, has changed. Six months ago, it was this long climbing day that I had. After a couple months of racing, I now realize it was the first ride I took on the new bike after being away from road riding since around 1990. It took me 15 years to get out of the house and down the road on that ride...

So let's have it. What was the toughest ride you ever went on?


*There are several bicycling relevant quotes from FMJ that R. Lee Ermey's Gy.Sgt. Hartman spouts off. The first time Pyle can't get over a wooden tower on an obstacle course, Hartman says something I often think of when doing the hill ride: "I guess if God had wanted you to be up on top of that thing, he'd have miracled your @ss up there by now." Yes, I console myself with that thought. And I know what you're thinking: my inner monologue is absolutely vicious if my consoling voice is Gunny Sergeant Hartman. Indeed my mind is like one of the future scenes from the Terminator films. My inner monologue typically resembles the social dynamic in "Lord of the Flies," except with an R rating for strong language and adult situations.

Jim: Jumps

Just some short random comments today.

Did the commute on the fixed gear, as my post-industrial-revolution-bike with multiple gears was still in surgery. Coming down the Capital Crescent through Bethesda I was spinning out at about 22-23 MPH - it's hard to go faster than that for an extended period of time with my gearing, but I can go that fast (at a cadence of about 130) for a long time. I passed a guy in Bethesda and he caught my wheel. A mile on, we passed another guy who was moving pretty good and he caught on. A mile after that, another guy who rides a Bianchi, who I see commuting regularly and actually normally goes like stink (faster than 23) caught on. Then somebody else joined in. By the time we got to Georgetown, I was leading a 5 man train going 22-23 pretty steadily. You don't normally get a paceline on the trail, so that was unusual. I slowed for some traffic. Everybody came around. One guy said "nice pull. That was really impressive. Fast." I had to be both truthful and boastful all at once. "Thanks," I said. "But it really wasn't that fast. I'm not very fast, and besides, on the fixie, I'm limited to about 23, just can't spin any faster than that on this route." Wow. On the one hand, the truth is a bee-atch. I am not fast. I am, in fact, quite slow. On the other hand, just a bit of racing and training builds up the engine quite a bit, and the worst racer can crush commuters. Still, it was mean. Sometimes I appall myself. But it takes constant pumping to keep that unjustly puffed up ego inflated.

Fortunately, I have good friends who know how to keep my ego under control with regular pin pricks. Like this one:



Like the new handlebar tape? This is what you get when the LBS owner is a drinking buddy, and a you're a regular on his group rides, and he's a Cat 3, and he thinks your cocky butt needs some putting in its place. After destroying my bars in "the incident" on Saturday, I asked for a set of loaners to use for the hill ride and Greenbelt tomorrow night. I specifically said "No tape, Jon. As soon as the FSA Wing is in Thursday, I'll bang it on there." So this is what I get. Very funny. Actually I laughed my butt-tocks off when I walked into the house and saw it tonight. But I know I'm going to catch hell about this tomorrow. What can a boy do? Why, sing, of course.

I feel pretty...
Oh so pretty...
Oh so pretty, and witty, and gay!
And I pity,
Any girl who isn't me today."

I mean it would look fine if my name was Jan, and I rode for a phone company. Unfortunately, the only thing I have in common with that guy is we're both kinda fat right now, and we both just looove beer. As for Jon, my LBS guy... there will be ramifications. Count on it. Hat tip to West Side Story for the lyrics.

On the fixie, I've been able to do a skip stop or skid stop for several months, but only on gravel or wet pavement. That's when you lock up the rear wheel using just leg power, and skid to a stop. It's hard. Here's how the Wiki defines it:

A rider can lock the rear wheel and skid to slow down or completely stop on a fixed-gear bicycle, a manoeuvre sometimes known as a skip stop. It is initiated by unweighting the rear wheel while in motion (and usually lifting it off the ground slightly) by shifting the rider's weight forward and pulling up on the pedals using clipless pedals or toe clips. The rider then holds the pedals in a horizontal position, thus stopping the drivetrain and wheels, while applying his or her body weight in opposition to the normal rotation of the pedals. When the rear tire again contacts the ground the rear wheel will skid, which acts to slow the bike. The skid can be held until the bicycle stops or until the rider desires to continue pedalling again at a slower speed. The technique requires a little practice and using it while cornering is generally considered dangerous.

Great instructions, eh? Here's how a bike messenger told me to do it:

Press back hard with your back leg, man, then lean over the front wheel, kick back, and pray your knee don't blow out.

Yeah, that works better for me, too. Today I managed a skid stop for the first time on dry pavement. All it took was to be booking through George Washington Circle under full power, and have a woman pull out in front of me, raise her left hand (palm outwards) and come to a complete stop across three lanes about 15 feet in front of me. I couldn't get my hands of the drops and onto the brakes quick enough, locked 'er up and skidded to a stop, in a brief trackstand, about six inches from her door. Yet again, I impressed myself. On the other hand, she looked like the Psychic Hotline lady, so maybe she used a magic palm or something and that's how I stopped. I'll have to try it again tomorrow with some other motorist who is trying to kill me, and see if it works then.

The rain this morning gave me a little more time to lay in bed, but stole my time to ride. I was able to get out for a ride when I got home from work and headed down to my usual spot at Hains Point. I was riding just a slow recovery pace when I latched on to a couple of MSR riders doing some kind of tempo workout. Turns out it was Garner Woodall and Tim Scesney, both strong riders. I sat behind them for a bit, but because there was a strong crosswind, I didn't gain much benefit.

After a few laps at 25 mph or so, we picked up none other than Brian Butts himself. He was actually wearing Coppi shorts. Kosta also joined on and from there we rode at a more relaxed pace of around 22 mph. As most rides at Hains go, we chatted and kept the pace nice and steady.

I left to get home by 7:30 and threw in a few sprints just to make good and sure my legs were really tired. They'll enjoy the commute tomorrow now that the weather's improving. I got in 27 miles of riding after work, so that's hard to beat in the amount of time I rode.

Jim: On the Road Agin...

I rode to work today on the fixie. The Giant is still down. Things were nervous since I'm suffering from PTSD and other potentially profitable injuries as a result of that crash in the race saturday. No, I'm not as delusional as those funny blogging M Street / Rockville Harley / Silver Cycles / Your Name Here for $10 / Will Race for Food guys. But I see how it can happen.

The commute to work was easy. It was raining just a bit, but I didn't mind. The undercarriage of the fixie is easier to clean than mine so rain is a non-factor. I was wearing my oldest shorts, the Bellwethers that they used to sell to British motorcyclists in the 1960s for riding in trials competitions. I should only ride in them if I'm wearing a waxed cotton jacket and green Wellington boots. The shorts are that old. The funny thing is they are my "fat shorts" that used to fit when I was really rotund, and they are now so loose that the downwind side flaps in the breeze, so I have to keep looking down to see if it's the shorts flapping, or if some bearded pipe smoking guy on a recumbent is tugging on my leg to ask if I have our current GeoCoordinate, the windspeed and our velocity. But the shorts are made with this really heavy substance, maybe Bakelite, so they have outlasted many nicer, newer shorts. Yep, perfect rain gear. I also had on this opaque rain coat with underarm vents. It's like a body condom for riders. I don't know why it has the underarm vents, because the they are completely covered when you ride, trapping in the sweat. If the rain stops while you are riding, it looks like it has been raining on the inside. If I was like John and winning (or even finishing) races, and raising my arms all the time, it would be perfect. There'd be lots of ventilation. But I'm usually head down, grinding, so the vents are useless and its like being inside a steam room, except without the nudity. I should have just bought a Hefty bag and used the money saved to buy some Pabst.

On the way in, I stopped at stoplights because, y'know, after the big crash I'm really cautious and completely scared about riding. That lasted about three traffic lights, until some guy in a cab cut me off, which sort of lit my fuze. After that, I decided to run the red lights wherever I thought it was safer to run the light than to sit there. Which was pretty much all of the time.

On the way home I knew I needed to do some work. The ring finger has stopped bleeding, the road rash is on the mend... So I motorpaced across town on K Street. I left work late, a bit after 7:00, the traffic was light. I was doing over 30 MPH behind this big Volvo most of the way. Yeah, that sounds terribly slow for motor pacing. But consider my gearing - 44-18, fixed. It works out to about 160 RPM. I must have looked like a freak, more than usual anyhow. When I got to the C&O Canal/Capital Crescent, I started doing stomps - starting from a wobbly trackstand, doing a full out accelleration for 20 revolutions. The gears were a little too low for me to do 20 revolutions standing the whole time and still keep accellerating. So I would stand for about 10-12 revolutions, get on top of the pedals, then sit and spin up in a seated sprint for the last 8 revolutions. This would take me from 0 to 27, and take my heart rate from 115 or so, up to about 160 in the 15 or so seconds it took each time. I would then soft pedal, as much as you can with a fixie, for the next 4-5 minutes, and do it again, for 6 reps. By the time I did the last one, I was shooting through the tunnel in Bethesda and just a few cool down miles from the car. Yeah, a pretty weak workout, but the best I could do on the fixie. Plus a few of the stomps were uphill, so that has to be worth something.

I got the call from the bike shop today. Turns out the Giant's handlebars are wrecked, there are more scratches on the bike than there are on Guy Ritchie's back, the rear wheel is wayyyyy out of true. But otherwise, things are fine. My LBS (Family Bikes, Crofton - good shop, owned & operated by a Cat 3 racer) is hooking me up with loaner handlebars until the new FSA Wing comes in. I chikkened out and ordered the aluminum. After the 10 speed chain blew up this weekend, I'm a little leery of "lighter better" technology. My personal components are of the "older, worse" variety for the most part, so maybe me and carbon fiber are just fundamentally incompatible. Still, it's nice to dream.

Original plans for the day called for a 50+ mile ride in Montgomery Co. with Will, but rain for most of the day prevented that. Instead, I watched Ivan Basso destroy the field in the Giro and was so inspired that I had to do a little hill riding of my own.

I finally got a break in the weather at 7p and went out for sixty minutes of hell. I rode over to the North Arlington hills around Military Rd. and rode up nearly every steep slope I could find. I did a few of the regular intervals and threw in a few new ones and explored the area.

I'm still having some trouble with my rear derailleur and the chain not running smoothly through the pulleys when I'm in the small chain rings and approaching the small cogs. I may have to get that fixed before any real big hilly races because it becomes a problem when I'm really climbing fast.

My legs felt terrific and I was hammering up the hills. Unfortunately, my cooldown couldn't be nearly long enough since the sun was going down, so my legs probably won't feel as good tomorrow. I probably should have hopped on a trainer, but I enjoyed the series finale of West Wing instead.

Jim: Baker Park Crit, Frederick, CRP for 4/5 Over 30, and Cat 5

At the outset, I just want to say that if I’m doing something stupid on the bike, correct me. Just say, real loud, “Look moron, you’re being an idiot." I got jammed up real good Saturday because of some idiots riding stupid, and one guy who caused me big problems even had the nerve to get on my case in an earlier race for chewing out a guy whose little stunt nearly caused a crash. Racing is tough. It's tougher when you're stupid. I ain’t here to get my butt kissed, I’m here to get better at this racing thing, faster, fitter, smarter and more skilled. It won't happen if y'all don't take the time to unscrew me, when I'm screwed. I'll repay the favor it if seems appropriate.
------------------
When I hoisted my bike into the back of my decrepit pickup truck this morning, my right thumbnail caught on the seat and pulled away from the cuticle. By the time the bike was settled in and I finished cursing and hopping around on one foot waving my arms like a chicken, there was a substantial flow of blood coming down the thumb into my palm. This set the tone for the day, and was an omen of things to come. I should have taken the hint, driven to Dunkin Donuts, bought a half dozen mixed and a bucket of coffee, and retreated to bed sound in the knowledge that disaster was averted. I’m not a subtle man, however, and ignored my bike’s warning.

The first race was the Cat4/5 Over 30 – the Somewhat Old Guys Slow-ish Race. Only it wasn’t slow, it was about 2 MPH faster than the typical Cat 5 race I’ve been in, but easier because the pace through corners was smoother. The Baker Park course is basically flat. After the start, there’s a slight downhill into a technical left hand, 90 degree turn. The turn ends on a bridge, with a couple big expansion joints on it. A hundred flat yards later, turn two is another technical, 90 degree left turn, with a raised manhole cover in the middle and a tall curb and drainage grate on the far right hand side. This leads into a long flat, which ends in a semi-technical turn three, another 90 degree left onto a bridge, again with another raised manhole cover mid-turn. This leads into a left hand sweeper, and up a slight big ring, one downshift uphill to the start-finish line. It’s big boy heaven – if hills make you break out in hives and involuntarily empty your bladder, but you can crank out a lot of power, this is the crit for you. The racing rhythm made a lot more sense than the mindless attacks and random braking that usually happens in the 5s. The senior 4s worked where it made sense to work, like on the downhills and the back straight, and lazed around like dogs going up the slight uphill. Ahh yes, age and treachery…

The race went well, mostly. Joe Rudolph set the pace for Coppis, he seemed to be in 3rd or 5th for the entire race, right up front whenever I looked. Damian Penny looked to be hanging out between about 8th and 15th for most of the race, and I spent most of my time between about 12th and 20th. I can’t speak for the other guys but as a rider who needs to hide a lot and pick his spots carefully, I found 15th or so to be a perfect spot, with little accordion effect and great draft potential, and none of that bothersome having to work and pull for others stuff.

It wasn’t all sunshine and joy, however. There were some squirrels out there. One guy in an unmarked jersey overreacted a bit in the second turn, and suddenly ran about eight feet wide, pushing me onto the drainage grate. I corrected him a bit as we went up the back straight. Nothing serious – just “buddy, you can’t f*$in’ swing out in that corner, you’re going to cause a huge crash.” When I said that, this guy behind me in a “DOA” jersey said “don’t talk big man, just ride.” More on him later. A lap or two later, a WWVC guy also swung wide. This time I wasn’t kind at all and shot him a “WTF were you thinking by doing that? Just pedal through.” Both times I narrowly avoided getting run into the curb, and the second time, I actually used the high curb as a berm and bounced my tires off it. That was pretty puckering, but on the positive side the adrenalin released by that near-disaster helped me catch up to the pack and regain the positions I lost pretty quickly. Maybe I'm a dick, but when people screw up and I know a better way, I usually try to tell people, especially if my safety is at stake.

I survived 18 laps with the lead group without incident. I didn’t try for the primes (a six pack of beer each time) though I was inadvertently positioned well to try to win the last one with four laps left, maybe in 8th or 10th, but not really interested in sprinting for it – it seemed like a stupid time to try to work really hard, so I just sat in. So did most people - the front 15 or so bunched into an area about 12 feet deep and 10 feet wide. Nobody wanted to go, but eventually I think some NCVC guys went after it.

Coming up the hill going into the 19th and next-to-last lap, I was sitting at 15th or so. Joe looked to be in the front three or five, Damian had his wheel or was pretty close to it, hard to remember, so I decided to join them in the front five or right on the wheel, to see if I could do something to help out. Joe looked really strong so I was thinking about vonlunteering to lead out, or maybe launching an attack on 19 or early on 20 to try to draw the serious guys out for a minute just to soften them up. My heartrate was low and under control – it was a mid/high tempo at that point and I had a lot in the tank for a hard last two laps. As the pack dogged it up the rise, I upshifted twice, and swung out wide right to do a little standing sprint to move up a couple bike lengths into the top 5 or 10 really quick on the jump, so as not to bring anybody with me. As I stood up to sprint, I heard a noise from the rear cogs: “CHUNKGNGNGCRUNCH.” Something lashed my right calf really hard and I totally lost communication with the rear wheel, I free spun a half revolution, sat down, raised my hand, hollered “chain chain chain” and rolled to a stop along the curb. The pack – which had gotten really atritted at this point to maybe 25 riders, whooshed by, and I got off the bike and started screaming at it. The chain wasn’t off, it was broken. I’m right by the stop/finish line, and I’m looking the bike square in the top tube, going “you duck. You ducking mother ducker.” Okay, I’m a dick. I freely admit this. And I’m a bad role model. I’m screaming at my bike in front of maybe 10 little kids. Ick. What a jerk. The only redeeming value of my actions is that I only whipped out about a half dozen workaday profanities, and kept the really creative and foul stuff that I learned as an Army NonCom in the bag. I wouldn’t want to water down the shock value of my creative profanities on something this minor…

The chain was wrapped up in the derailer and around the right seat stay. That pain I felt in my calf was the breaking chain whipping me. As Ken Woodrow insightfully observed later, “this is probably what Hincapie meant when he said that sometimes on those days you feel like you’re doing really well, it’s like you’re riding without a chain.”

So then it was off to the nearest bike shop. Some people gave me screwy directions for Wheelbase, so I hunted around for it. Hey, did you know that there are granaries and farm supply and animal husbandry stores in Frederick? Neither did I, until I went looking for a bike shop. Man, there is all kinds of crap in Frederick, mainly surrounded by people in pickup trucks and Volvos driving 5 MPH looking at it. Not stopping, but not really going, either. It makes navigating through Frederick on a Saturday, when you are in a hurry, very frustrating. Think July 4th traffic in downtown D.C., and you have an idea about the pace of Frederick traffic. Which is a little frustrating when your chain is broke, it’s 60 minutes to your next race, and you can’t find the bike shop. Eventually I found it. Wheelbase is a nice shop, easy to feel at home there. I highly recommend it, if you happen to break a chain, have no time to get it fixed, and think you need to lighten your wallet by about $60 and get back to the race in a hurry. Can’t be beat, if that’s your itch. Looks like they sell some Campy components too. Useful to know.

The second race, the regular ol’ Cat 5s, went off about as expected. The pace wasn’t faster but it was much harder. A lot of guys braked in the corners, causing bad accordions coming out. One guy early on – another WWVC guy – braked hard in that second technical corner, slowing the whole pack behind about 10th place to a near stop going into the back straight. This opened up an enormous gap that we had to work very hard to close. I shouted at the dude as he braked – he also swung from the inside of the turn to the outside as he braked – but as all rolling road hazards do, he pedaled off, oblivious. I guess we dropped him by about the 4th lap, but he made the corners interesting until then; I made a point of moving past him before the next corner.

I mostly rode nearer the front to avoid the whipsaws. I think I came through the start/finish in 3rd or 4th or 5th for a few laps but dropped back a bit, I wanted to make sure I didn’t do any work, since my legs were a little tired from the earlier race. Midway through the race it started to rain, but only in corners one and two, the tightest ones on the course. This made line choice really critical. The road was slippery and there was a lot of road paint as well as that big, slippery expansion joint in the middle of turn 1. The middle and outside line were treacherous if you carried a lot of corner speed. I tried a couple variations and found that no matter which of the normal lines I picked, my rear wheel would slide out about 6 inches going around the turn, which seemed to be just courting disaster. After experimenting for a while I settled on an inside line that seemed really fast. From the inside of the paceline going down the slight downhill, get on the yellow line. Cut turn one really sharp, clip the apex right by the 90 degree curb and pedal out of it. Any turning done after the curb was gentle, and the expansion joint and painted surfaces were out of play. Drift out to the middle of the road and take turn two the same way. By pedaling steadily across the bridge it was easy to pick up a handful of positions this way, and turn three could be ridden the same way, also picking up positions. Making it even better, the wind was blowing from right to left at this point, so riding on the inside coming out of turn 3 as well would position you perfectly w/r/t wind, for the uphill sprint finish. I filed this away in preparation for the last lap.

So it went for about 16 laps. Nobody really did anything except for Michael Githens, who attacked off the front for a couple laps just to see what he could do, I think. He’s a nice guy and a strong rider, a Cat 5 who took 4th at Poolesville in the 4/5, and he may be out for the muffin ride… At some point around lap 14, I was riding next to the guy with the DOA jersey. Remember him? He’s the guy who said “shut up and ride, big man” when I was trying to un-screw one of the squirelly guys in the 4/5 race. In the 5 race I was trying to be friendly and as some really small guys tried (futilely) to attack off the front, "I said “let the little guys attack. We’re in great shape right here.” He didn’t respond and was really tight, clenched jaw, didn't seem able to talk, had a deathgrip on the bars. I should have noted this at the time but didn’t.

Coming into lap 19, the second to last lap, the pace started picking up a bit. I soft pedaled up the hill, gathered myself a bit, and cruised up a few spots going down the hill into the first corner. I felt good, certainly capable of a top 10 finish and maybe something a bit better. I held myself in about 14th place or so, and planned to move up strong going up the hill by the start/finish, just before the start of the last lap. As we rounded turn two into the back straight, everything seemed in place. We were in a triple paceline, and a lot of the small guys were having trouble keeping the pace. Unlike most hilly crits or road races, a lot of big, powerful guys had survived to the end, so we were rocking around 30 MPH down the back stretch. Still pretty comfortable if you ride Hains Point regularly, but faster than most guys seemed used to.

As we passed the halfway point of the straight and the paceline weaved left a bit as it did on every lap, I noticed a guy coming by me on the left. He was sort of close. As he passed, he half wheeled me and started to cut me off, trying to squeeze in. Normally I’d brake a touch and slip out to the left behind him, let him in, but he had an NCVC guy right on his wheel, so both of these guys were boxing me in hard on the left. I also noticed the damnedest thing: the guy in front had a squirrel tail hanging from his bike seat. (Again, another omen I ignored). As soon as squirrel boy thought he was clear of me he tried to force his way in. He wasn’t clear and I had no place to go, so when his rear wheel got within an inch of my front hub and kept moving in, I moved in maybe six inches, to within 2-3 inches of DOA, so that I was a couple inches inside the guy in front of me. That’s when DOA guy starts making the clenching up noise – “uh, uh, ah, ohhhhhh!” and wobbling. It only took an instant to know he was going to lose it, and he swerved a bit (we hadn’t touched) and the next thing I know, he is locked up and he slams into me, I slam into the NCVC guy on my left, DOA is upside down next to me and I’m flying.

I don’t remember everything that happened then. I tried to relax. I went ass over teakettle and landed on the top of my head. I skidded quite a ways. Some guy rode over me and crashed. Some other guy saw it and just crashed. It was pretty bad. The guy who had been just outside of me on my left got back on his bike and pedaled away moaning, trying to catch the pack. The EMT stopped him on the next lap around, it looked like he had a broken ankle.

I apologized to DOA. Said “sorry I was coming in man… the guy with the squirrel tail pushed. You didn’t have to react like that. We didn’t touch… just lean into me if we do.” In reality I should have freakin screamed at him but I didn’t and felt really awful because he was complaining about how bad his shoulder hurt, and I didn’t feel that bad… at the time.

After the race, immersed in bitterness, shaking, and wondering if I’m a hopeless non-finisher, another NCVC guy came over while Ken Woodrow and I were scarfing peanut butter and jelly sammiches. The NCVC guy complimented me on my pack riding skills, said I was moving really comfortably in the crowds and dragging him up through the pack and giving him a luxury draft all day… "that's nice," I thought. "Irrelevant, but nice of him." Then he launched into a tirade about DOA guy – how he was squirrelly, he was a road hazard in the first race too, and he just knew he’d cause an accident, the guy shouldn't have been out there, and so on. Amazing. Later on DOA passed by Ken and me and said something about how I was coming at him really fast and that caused him to crash. I was "coming at him really fast"? Hell, I moved left six inches. That’s when I *knew* I hadn’t touched him, he’d just lost it, getting the nerves when I dodged squirrel boy – otherwise he’d have mentioned me hitting him instead of “you were coming at me really fast.” Of course I was coming really fast. If I hadn’t, squirrel tail boy was going to take me out and we still would have gone down.

Needless to say, squirrel tail boy was unhurt, and probably won the whole thing. I notice that the people who cause crashes in races generally ride away unscathed and unknowing, leaving wreckage in their wake. The next lap around, I’m sure squirrel boy was thinking, “Hmmmm… wonder why those guys are laying there moaning? Must be a new crash… didn’t see anything like that my last time through… Hey, I wonder what time ‘World’s Fastest Indian’ is showing at the dollar cinema tonight?”

Mainly I’m pissed about being nicely positioned in two races, and not being able to close the deal. It’s like taking that hot cheerleader to the prom, and she still goes off and dances with the stupid quarterback. But there is lingering damage too. My bike is pretty bent up and I’m not happy about that. (The helmet is wrecked, the jersey looks like somethign out of "The Warriors," the bibs are wrecked and the gloves are wrecked too, if you were curious. But my racing license, which was in the back jersey pocket is unscathed... that's some tough paper). The shop is taking a look at the bike and I’ll get the butcher’s bill tomorrow afternoon or Tuesday. I may be without a ride for a while if the thing is damaged bad enough. I’m bruised all over. Holy crap, I only rarely felt this bad after a rugby game - I remember a guy who played for the English developmental side making me feel that way, and another guy who had played for the great Welsh teams of the late seventies doing this to me... but I normally don't associate this kind of pain with bicycling. My entire back and neck are bruised, causing a slight headache. My left shoulder is very bruised – just muscle I think. My left leg and but-tock have extensive road rash, as do my shoulder blades, left arm and shoulder. My fingers are sanded down, my left knuckles look like I was in a minor fistfight. And the fingertip of my ring finger on my left hand is still MIA, ground off in action, presumed dead. We sent Chuck Norris and a team of Marines out to look for the fingertip, but its location is unknown at this point and we’ve taken steps to notify the other fingers and the toes that this one heroic digit won’t be coming home, except perhaps in a pine box draped in Coppi colors. Some gave all, all gave some, and I gave the finger. Ken Woodrow claims he ran over the fingertip in turn three late in the Cat 4 race, and that it caused him some trouble, but we’re treating that like most reports of MIA sightings – taking it seriously enough, holding out hope, but not expecting to see it again.

Writing this a day later, I realize… man alive, that was a hell of a crash. On the plus side, you don’t often go down on the pavement at 30 MPH, do a huge endo, and just walk away from it. Roadracers ride at tempo, where angels dare not tread. Dial Soap and a bath scrubby did a good job of getting most of the dirt out, just lather up, scrub it hard, then let it sit for three or four minutes and do its disinfectant thing. A bit of “no pain foaming disinfectant” afterwards, followed by Neutrogena on the road rash, one of those “H” bandaids on the new Yakuza finger, some Neosporin on the big cuts on the elbow and fingers and a couple Motrins, I’m as good as new. Well, not really. My body is definitely paying a price. I needed a four hour nap this afternoon and I’m still wiped out, heading for bed in a couple minutes.

Final note. You are probably wondering how I’m typing this with a mangled hand. Well… let’s just say it hurts. The missing fingertip on my left ring finger – between the pinkie and the ‘big angry communicator finger’ has been “debreeded” down to a point near the bone, and the nail appears to have been torn upwards out of the cuticle pretty good, like three or four other fingernails. Sadly, the nerve endings – lots and lots of them – remain, wiggling in the breeze just asking every solid object in the room for a little high fivin’ love. “Go ahead, coffee table… get me high, get me low, baby.” “But doesn’t it hurt to type?” Eh. Not compared to my bruised up back I suppose. Even my new Yakuza finger only hurts when I type w, s, or 2. But who uses w or s or 2 when they type? What can I say. If you want to avoid pain, this is probably the wrong sport for you.

Jim: Friday Mornin' Comin' Down...

I missed the muffin ride this morning. I had this appointment with the local dentist who promises "Pain Free Dentistry." That's like promising "Guilt-Free Catholicism," or "Easy Hill Climbs." It seems to me that some essential element of dentistry would be missing, were it not for pain.

I did squeeze in a short easy ride, however, just to limber up the legs after Wednesday's twin suffer fests, and to set the tone for Baker Park. As soon as it was light enough to see the road, I was circling the Crofton Parkway on my fixie. It was tough at first, the combination of the hill ride, the atmospheric condition (I gots the rheumatoids) and Greenbelt left me with IT band stiffness, probably from the maximum force efforts it takes to move my one eighth of a ton butt up the hills. Things loosened up after a lap or two and eventually the pain went away, and then it was just me and the bike for 45 minutes or so. The Parkway was repaved a few months ago and the tarmac surface is smooth enough to putt on; I'd guess there are many velodrome surfaces that are not as smooth. The outer loop is just under four miles, with a couple short hills, a long uphill false flat, a short, sharp downhill, and a long downhill false flat. On the fixie, which is set up at 44:18 right now, or 66 gear inches, the two hills go easier as high tempo standing climbs. Fixed gears being what they are - they only really go at one speed mainly - this means that each lap has a long period in low recovery zone Hr, a long period in low to mid- aerobic zone, and two short periods where the Hr reaches tempo. A perfect warmup ride in other words. I did about 48 minutes at 18 MPH, with the heartrate primarily in zone 1 and 2 if you're a Friel fan, recovery and aerobic if you like Wenzel; not breathing hard, and breathing just a little if you are a casual cyclist.

It's a really sublime ride because a fixed gear drivetrain makes no noise at all if you are pedaling properly, there's just a smooth "whoosh" of the tires whispering to you as you try to slip into the most comfortable rhythm you can find. I understand why some ultramarathon cyclists are big fixed gear fans, because it is a barefoot toes-in-the- warm-dirt-I-date-a- hippie-chick-and-drink -lots-of-wine kind of experience to ride fixed. Today it was 54 degrees, the sun just rising over one of the two hills, with a slight mist and the slightly electric post-thunderstorm freshness in the air. With the wonderful conditions, smooth road and whispering bike, it only took about two laps for me to get into that zen state where you just go along, totally unconscious of your progress and your effort. The only thing that might have made it better was having 30 of my best friends in light blue riding with me on the way out to the local coffee shop for muffins... but even that may not have improved the ride, and might even have wrecked the vibe. Sometimes the best ride is one you take in stolen moments, by yourself, wedged in between obligations and appointments and duties. This was one of those times - just brain off, legs on, relax.

After riding for a while, I came back into touch with the rest of the world, realized I'd ridden about 14 miles, 48 minutes or so, and it was time to get cleaned up and go to the dentist. It felt like I'd been meditating, and even now, a couple hours later, it feels like I just spent a weekend at a spa. Some days, riding the bike is hell. On the rivet? More like sitting atop the pike. Other days, going for a ride just fixes what ails ya. Today was one of those good days, and I'm really looking forward to riding two Baker Park crits tomorrow. I'm told the course is technical, flat and fast, so it should suit me. We'll see.

Now for the funny stuff. I just went to the dentist for a checkup, but my upper left teeth have been bothering me. I've read stories about riders rotting their teeth out, having taking up biking only to find out that that constant supply of carbs tends to be sugary and rot-inducing. Since I pound roughly three bottles of sports drink per race, two per training ride, and basically eat all the things that made Dr. Atkins cry, I was worried. After the usual X-rays, as the doc was digging around in my gums with a Warsaw Pact-vintage torture device, he asked if I was having any problems. I told him about the pain. He asked if I ever clenched my teeth. I thought for a second. "Five times, for 6 minutes on Mondays. Four or five times for 6 to seven minutes on Wednesdays. Then typically for about 25 minutes on Saturdays."

This drew a really weird look. I explained that when I'm doing a really focused workout on the bike or racing, I think I might be clenching my teeth a bit. "Oh," he said. "I've heard about that." Anyhow, my teeth are magnificent (to the extent my Scots Irish ethnic heritage permits it), sugary drinks weren't behind the problem, an uncooperative crown that isn't much of a team player was causing the trouble. It seems that when you clench your teeth a lot, your teeth make "micro-adjustments." They move a bit to compensate for the stress. The problem is when you have a crown, the tooth doesn't flex, and doesn't adjust as well. So while my other teeth were moving around, the non-team playing, destructive, complaining tooth with a crown - the Vinokourov of my teeth - was refusing to play well with the others and was in fact crushing a couple of the teeth on top. Two minutes with an angle grinder later, the crown was reshaped a bit on top and shortened so it only just touched the uppers, all the the choppers were re-aligned, and all was well in the world. Let's see you cephalopods do that!

But now my mouth feels weird because it doesn't hurt any more, and I'm starting to get really nervous that the teeth are going to start shifting around like crazy, now that the Tooth Captain, who was bullying them before has been cut down to size. And you want to know the weird thing. I told the doc "I'm going to try to stop clenching my teeth on the hills and doing intervals. It's probably inefficient anyhow." Then he says "No, don't do that. Your teeth might start moving again. I want you to clench your teeth, if that's what you do."

This explains a lot about my riding and fitness. I take psychiatric advice from 32 year-old fixed gear bike, and bicycle training advice from a dentist. Coming tomorrow: my barber gives me some hot stock tips.

Maybe it was the dream last night meeting Tyler Hamilton at a ski slope, or maybe it was just that I didn't ride yesterday because of all the rain, but whatever the reason, my legs FINALLY felt the way I want them to feel. Granted, this was just the Muffin Ride, but I was ready to rock when I rolled out of the apartment. I cranked up 15th St. in the big ring and felt fast. It really is a shame that I'm not racing this weekend.

Cusmano was there, in only his second week back after breaking his collarbone. Dana, James, Peter, and a few others. The pace was nice and controlled and I chatted with Dana for the first half of the ride. We picked up Scott and Joe Metro at the W&OD as usual and continued on our way, Ken Woodrow and a few others joined up at various locations.

Going up the long slow climb back to the Java Shack, I had to get things moving a bit with the way my legs were feeling. I got the HR up to 180 and I felt great. If I wasn't trying to get out of town after work this evening, I would have enjoyed actaully staying for the Muffin part of the ride. But alas, it was off to Sterling for me--and in a car.

Since Jim's started blogging with me, I figured it was about time I actually posted something of length. I hope the two readers out there enjoy Jim's postings--they should be everything my postings are not: funny and not impeded by the facts. My posts will continue to be of the dull, training and racing variety. Anyways, hope you enjoy . . .

In each of the last few weeks, I've felt worse and worse on the hill ride. Well this time, I was determined to have a good ride and not let my legs stand in the way. I got up a bit early and made sure to put in five minutes on the trainer before heading up the hill to the Java Shack. I think that really did wonders as my legs felt terrific when the ride started. A bonus today was the return of Brian Butts. I was definitely ready to ride hard once I spotted him and his Scott CR-1 waiting in front of the Java Shack. Tomas also showed up along with Jordan Cross, Big Jim, Peter, and eventually Mr. Metro.

On the first interval, the left turn off Military Rd. onto 31st St.-26th St., Butts took the initial lead and I moved past Tomas to sit on his wheel. I went past Brian going up the first hill and feeling very strong, I kept going and put quite the gap into him. I was a bit surprised he didn't respond at all, but I kept my head down and tried to sustain the effort up to Marymount. I finished well ahead of both Brian and Tomas and started looping in the parking lot to shake out the legs. They were filled with lactate.

In the roll out back to Military, Tomas started riding tempo on the front, so the rest of us had to follow suit. Tomas thought the rest was too long, and he was probably right, but we'd never started the interval so soon. The pace wasn't difficult and things still didn't really heat up until the hard right onto 35th. That's a turn that always makes me feel like I'm in the mountains, and watching Butts take that hard is a thing to admire. Fortunately I didn't do that for too long and I was sitting on his wheel after that inital rise. I came alongside him on the next hill and then took the lead, towing he and Tomas right behind me. Just before the last hill, Brian sensed I was slowing up and pounced. He put in a great attack and I had to dig deep to cover it. I was able to get back on his wheel, but coming to the final hill, I couldn't hold it any longer and he slipped away as he so often does.

On serve going into the third interval, I wanted desperately to ride a good effort. The third interval takes Vermont by the golfcourse and has the infamous Muur de Maryount at the end--a hill I've yet to actually win on this ride. Last week it was James driving past me on the Muur and so this week I was going to go as early as I could and keep the pace high. After turning onto 35th and just before Vermont, Peter mysteriously went into the lead--having fun I guess. Well, I jumped to "cover" his move and then passed him and started to climb the biggest hill in this workout. I topped it in first, with Butts quickly in tow. From there, I shifted into the big ring and tried to keep things fast on the killer false flat. I succeeded, but of course I didn't keep Brian off my wheel. He passed me just before the hill and I killed it going up, but never made back the ground. Butts took it easily.

I have to say that I rode the Muur better than I ever have. I was sprinting in my largest cog and smallest ring. It really is that kind of effort. It's so short, but so painful and I have to find a way to ride that better. Being so steep and not coming into it with a lot of speed just isn't the right combination for my skinny legs. But I have improved!

The fourth interval is a repeat of the first, just coming from the opposite direction on Military. Things didn't start off so well, with a truck blocking our turn onto 31st and then my horrendous cornering giving Brian a decent gap. I closed it soon enough, however, and from there it was indentical to the first. I powered past him on the middle hill and then kept putting distance between us. Somehow, it seemed like the finish line was further away this time! But I kept the pedals churning and expected Brian to counter. It never came and I finished off the workout with a nice interval. I was happy to come away with a 2-2 split, taking the same route twice and losing the middle two.

Rolling around in the parking lot trying to recover, I was a bit suspicious of Brian. I asked him what it was about that interval route that allowed me to put so much distance on him. The up-and-down nature of that ride with two big hills seemed to bother him. But I'm not totally convinced he was giving everything. Hopefully that's not the case as I would be very disappointed if Brian wasn't giving it his all. I've said before that his presence in this workout is a huge motivator for me.

Chatting on the way home, Brian was telling me I should upgrade as soon as possible. That's more in line with my original thinking of making 3 by the end of the season. But my obvious deficincies in racing strategy have made me think about riding with the 4's for a while. I'm still trying to get a race summary written for Poolesville, but I doubt anyone will be interested by the time I do. At least I was able to diagram all the important events from my memory so that I can be as accurate as possible for a guy hopped up on adrenaline.

Jim: Welcome... me!

Hi everybody. (Wow, big echo. Sure is empty in here). I'm Jim McNeely, John's teammate. John asked me to guest blog here, because we are complimentary in a lot of ways. He's fast, generally polite, kind to children and the elderly, a converted runner, truthful, and skinny. I possess... different qualities. Cat 5, adult onset racer with a racing age of 39, down to 250-something from a weight embarassingly close to three and a quarter bills, a converted contact sports guy (mainly rugby), took up racing because... well, just because. It's what you do. I stink, in general, but am working pretty hard and seeing some improvement along with continued incremental losses in weight, and cracking wise about it along the way. Funny how those things seem related, somehow. In spite of all my infirmities, I go pretty hard for a fat slow old guy, and like being on Squadra Coppi with John, who in spite of his modesty is a very nice guy and good racer who makes the team look good on a regular basis.

I will try to stick to the truth when it suits me, but won't let the facts get in the way of a ripping good story. So while I promise to try to report accurately what I'm involved in, the severe state of oxygen debt that I'm in during rides combined with a tendency to make stories um... read well, means you should take what I say with a grain of salt. The main thing is that you enjoy them, and if you don't, well, I dunno. Go ride your trainer and watch spinervals videos until you feel better, ya grim bastid.

For my first substantive entry... a Greenbelt C Training Race from last night. Most people wouldn't find a training race worth talking about. I'm easily amused, however, and can usually find something worth noticing in just about anything. So too in last night's C race, which followed hard on the heels of a brutal 90 minute hill ride early yesterday morning.

I hit up the Coppi listserve for advice on how to recover my legs prior to the evening's training race. I was crampy, having trouble sitting still or walking. Peter's recovery advice - "drink fluids like it was your job" - was brilliant. The gallon of Deer Park that I sucked down between noon and 4 PM flushed the daggers and rocks out of my legs, and the nine trips to the bathroom - I'm sure that was part of his plan too - loosened the legs up nicely. Art tied for first with "don't do both rides in one day." Now that was some good advice. In retrospect, Art's advice was probably smarter.

Bill was in the advice sweepstakes too, but I didn't know what to make of his sage advice. Sage in the sense that I grow sage in a pot in the front yard, it seems like it should be useful, yet I never know what recipes to use it in. It's kind of an orphan herb, sage. Bill said something profound about how some fertility specialist once told somebody he knows that if you want to get pregnant you need to find a 17 year-old and get into the back of a car. It seemed to me an odd way to revive my legs. Coming from Bill, who has Buddha-like wisdom without a Buddha-like curry gut, it must have been profound. Since I don't know very much about biking yet, and Bill has the wisdom of Solomon, at least the wisdom of Willie Solomon, I resolved to try to follow Bill's advice. My neighbor was at first somewhat unenthusiastic about asking his daughter to take one for the team, but he's a mountain bike racer. After he went back into his house to take his hourly dose of glaucoma medicine, he came back out and told me that he totally understood Bill's logic.

Oh yeah, the training race. I hung on with the pack for about 6 laps, stayed in sight of the dozen or so riders remaining on the lead lap until the 9th lap, and finished around 30th place in the official placings. Yeah, "WTF?" is exactly what I said too. How do you go from slipping off the back of a 12 rider pack, pick off a few more back markers, lap a bunch of people (in some cases twice) and slip into the high twenties... two weeks in a row? I have to conclude that the ref that runs the series has it in for me. He screamed at Carlos at Poolesville, probably because Carlos was riding with me. This has happened two weeks in a row now at Greenbelt. If I improve a little and manage to win a prime at Greenbelt, I fully expect the prize to be a two year ban from MABRA competition, combined with relegation to "Citizen" class. If I see the same ref at a non-training race, I think I'm just going to take a rock, smash the spokes out of my front wheel, and beg off the race pleading mechnical failure. Yeah, it takes a real jerk to get upset about training race results...

One observation about Cat 5s at Greenbelt. They like to come to a complete stop at the stopsign at the bottom of the big hill, look both ways, and then turn right, gently accellerating up the long hill. Lacking a legal education, they do not understand that "Stop" in some circumstances actually means "go like hell or I will scream at you." My colleagues in the peleton were amused by the colorful impromptu lecture I delivered on precisely this point of law as we trudged up the hill. BTW, if you ride to Murky coffee with Art, he follows a similar interpretation of the law.

One other observation. In keeping with the Training Blog theme, I felt extremely nauseous last night, and I don't think it's because of stage fright. I think it's because I spent the 5 or so reps of 6-7 minute morning hill climbs in Zone 5b, with my Hr at 10 - 13 beats over LT, around 170. I spent the entire crit with my Hr at 4-20 beats over, between 162 and 178, usually around 168. Without extensive training, the human body is probably not meant to spend an hour and ten minutes a day well past the lactate threshold. That's why some of you experienced riders can do two hard rides in a day without trouble, and why Art told me I should probably skip Greenbelt. Art was right.

Well there. I hope you enjoyed this. I certainly did. Not as much as I enjoyed the Hill Ride, but until blogging, and reading blogs causes hallucinations, I'll have to settle for this. I'll be here for a while, at least until John starts finding leg shavings in the digital sink, until I fill his tires with water prior to the Muffin Ride, or until I eat his entire box of Gu packets in an uncontrollable carbo binge after a long aerobic ride. So it should last roughly a week before he kicks me out. We'll let you know when the first stuff is posted.

Legal disclaimer: Bill actually is wise and has a good mind, and I almost understood the analogy he was trying to make. No libel was intended. The neighbor doesn't have a nubile 17 year old daughter, being in fact a 75 year old woman. She does not have glaucoma, does not take glaucoma medicine, and does not have a pipe. Art stops at all stop signs, is kind to orphans and crippled children, and drinks coffee responsibly. Joe gave basically the same advice in the leg recovery sweepstakes as Peter did ("fluid") but it wasn't colorful at all, so he got dropped. If you are the Cat 5 I screamed at in the cornerat Greenbelt... well, to heck with you. I meant it and stand by what I said. You can't stop in that corner buddy.

I commuted to work today and felt better doing it than I have in some time. The morning was cold enough to wear full-fingered gloves, long sleeve jersey and even leg warmers. It was kinda nice to have a brisk morning. Not too many people were out riding and so I was mostly alone for the duration. I was happy that I was at least able to spend most of my time in the big ring. With the legs feeling the way they have the past two weeks, I've been relegated to the small ring enough.

Coming home, the weather had warmed up enough to shed all the cold weather gear. My legs still felt solid but I had to ride into a small headwind and so I never got the great feeling that I can get sometimes with the usual afternoon tailwind.

The only memorable thing was seeing the aftermath of a biker getting hit at Hernon Town Center crossing Elden St. There's not a light there and it can get to be a very busy intersection around five o'clock. They were carrying the cyclist away on a stretcher with a neck and head brace. He was wearing a helmet and I saw it sitting on the hood of the police car. I'm not certain if the rider was conscious or not. It was not a pretty sight.

A sight which was very surprising was seeing the driver of the car being handcuffed in front of me. He was Hispanic, and I'm not sure if he was being arrested for something he'd done in the accident or whether he was driving without a license or something like that. Lots of drama to start the ride, anyways.

The rest of the ride was without incident and pretty boring for anyone not actually on the bike with me. I had the pleasure of yo-yoing with a few other riders around the hill at 66 and I ended up passing them at random spots along the trail due to stop lights and other things. I finished off the ride by checking out what's likely to be my new apartment, just North of 66 where the Custis and W&OD trails meet up. If I end up there, I'm pretty excited about my proximity to the trail and the fifteen minutes I'll save in my commute. Good stuff.

I won the biggest race of my brief career today. I spent the last four miles or so riding solo off the front and I was just able to hold off the fast closing lead group. I'm so happy about this win! It was wonderful to share it with Jess and all my teammates. I don't think anyone is more surprised about this one than me. How sweet it is . . .



I have some more of Jess' photos on the web now. But check out Kevin Dillard's shots as well.