Rolling Untrue

The taco train

2011-01-22T19:51:00.005-05:00

It's been one full week now since I've moved my bike from its perch, screwed into my trainer and propped up atop the yellow pages, in front of my dresser/ad hoc movie theater.

Oh the joy that is winter in New England. Life could be worse though. In my absence, the school gym received a little bit of a makeover, so rotating between there and my trainer station has helped to keep me sane. Plus, the movie collection in my new house is impressive to say the least, so in-flight entertainment has helped keep me going as well. It's not ideal, but I'll do what it takes to stay on track while I have to.

On a more exciting front, week one in the house and back at school has been everything I hoped. Naturally, I'm not thrilled about the start of classes, and I happily would have taken an extra week, or two, of just living back at Tufts with nothing to do but loaf around the house, workout, and cook. But, no. C'est la vie.

Our kitchen has been undergoing a remodeling of its own all week long, and as of today it is finally done. With new cabinets, added counter space, a dishwasher, and new microwave practically the size of an oven, I'm excited for all the new culinary possibilities. Last night I served up wine-braised chicken and onions with a spinach and pasta salad. But, to christen the finished galley, tonight Jose and I teamed up for taco night. Mmmm. Corn tortillas, spicy peppers and onions, spiced shredded chicken, black beans, and homemade guac and tortilla chips. At the very least, it looks like we'll be eating well this semester.

I'm a big kid now

2011-01-17T18:50:00.007-05:00

That's certainly what it feels like at the moment. As of yesterday, I'm finally living in my own house with five friends up at Tufts, where I'll be staying for the next year and a half, through graduation. After a day-plus of building adult Legos (ie. Ikea), my room is all put together and I'm complete moved in. After living abroad for four months in the fall, it's an incredible feeling to have a place that I can really call home, especially now that I am in my own house rather than a cramped and sterile dorm room.

A lot of things and a lot of emotions have been packed into the past two days, so I think they will be best captured in pictures, rather than a mini novella about the moving process. So here they are.

The car on the way up.

A victory beer after the Jets' glorious dethroning of the Pats.

My bed and desk after moving in.

The first meal I cooked in the new house: sauteed potatoes, roast chicken with roast tomato gravy, and green beans.

Is it a little stuffy in here?

2011-01-14T21:28:00.003-05:00

When all your belongings will not fit into the folded-down trunk space of a Honda Pilot, you probably have a bit too much stuff. I guess I'm guilty as charged.

As I'm heading back up to Boston on Friday, finally going back to Tufts for the first time in eight months, I decided that today, Friday, might be a good time to start packing. So, at around 4pm, after a ride and a late lunch, I started loading pieces of boxed Ikea furniture into the back of my car. I'd like to add here that were it not for the fact that I have a completely barren bedroom to furnish, I would have no trouble squeezing all the contents of my life into the trunk (if you count the bike rack as part of the trunk). But, I'm not really keen on sleeping on the floor or doing my work at the kitchen table, so Dad's trunk space will have to share the load. It's a good thing he's coming along. Thanks Dad.

I'm not trying to deny the truth, though. I really do have a lot of stuff. I admit it and embrace it. It's not that I'm materialistic, as I honestly feel that I am anything but. The way I see it, I have a few very specific interests about which I am rabidly passionate: namely, cycling and cooking, both of which require quite a lot of stuff to pursue. More to the point, they require quite a lot of big stuff. So, additional trunk space is going to be required to haul all of my cycling and cooking stuff, along with the normal stuff like clothing and bedding plus the aforementioned furniture (stuff) needed to make my life for the next year and a half more commodious in my new house.

I would take a picture of all this stuff, but at the moment it is still scattered about the house. Maybe on Sunday as I stuff my stuff into the trunks of the cars, I'll try to capture the moment.

At least all that stuff is mostly out of the way now, so I can enjoy my last day at home tomorrow before moving into my new one at school. Thanks to Wednesday's snowfall, I was off the roads until today's ride, but I found good ways to occupy my time. Thursday was another humbling day on the cross country ski trails. And after Wednesday morning's shovel session, the fourth of the season, I headed to Roger's house for a lactate balance point test. The results were interesting, and helped to confirm my progress and that the zones we thought I should be training were, in fact, what we thought. It's always reassuring to know you are doing things right, and it was fun, in a sick sort of way, to ride progressively harder for an hour while having my finger pricked.

A matter of pride

2011-01-12T09:54:00.002-05:00

I have to say, I was a little shocked when, last evening, our local schools called to preemptively announce a snow day today. Not that it affects me in any way, only my eight-year old brother and my mom, who has to keep him entertained for the day, but I still found it ridiculous. At 8am today, the streets were already plowed, no more than a half-foot or so of snow had fallen, and no more was coming down. Jumping the gun? I would say so. It's not like we've never seen snow before.

After breakfast and a hot cup of joe, I suited up and grabbed my shovel to go outside and free the cars from our annoyingly long driveway. Working with my step-dad, the job took no more then half an hour. Though it was, I believe, the fourth time I've had to rescue my driveway from a blanket of white and fluffy in the past month, and though I would never go so far as so to say I enjoy doing it, I decided that shoveling one's driveway really is, and should be a matter of pride.

Unless you are over a certain age, which in my opinion should be about when you start receiving social security checks, or have a certified physical ailment that prevents you from doing so, you should be outside shoveling your own driveway every time it snows. I don't care how rich and how lazy you are. If you are physically cable of picking up a shovel and pushing, hauling, lifting, or by any means removing the snow from your premises, you should. In fact, you must. There are lots of people out there who physically cannot do so but also probably cannot afford to pay for it to be done for them. But the much-needed services of the snow removal professionals are often reserved only for the wealthy and lazy. So you have a two-mile-long driveway? Tough. No one forced you to live on your own private street. If you were rich enough to buy said property, you can probably afford a day off to shovel it yourself.

On a less serious note, I took full advantage of the last day before the new snowfall yesterday by putting in five hours on the still-clear roads. It was a little on the chilly side, never quite cracking 30 degrees, but it easily could have been much worse. The obligatory pancakes ensued, though not until 3:30 in the afternoon. When lunch is that late, and you've been on the road since 10am, I think it's a sign that you've been riding long enough. My appetite not yet satisfied, I journeyed off to the supermarket to pick up provisions for dinner. On last nights menu: oven-roasted chicken and carrots in a garlicky sauce of roasted cherry tomatoes and chicken jus, served with a side of beer-braised broccoli and all on a bed of linguini.

Until next time,
A proud driveway shoveler.

And that's a wrap

2011-01-07T18:54:00.004-05:00

Sandwiched between snow days, this past week has been one of the best I've had. On break with not very much to do as most people have already headed back to school, I have more than ample time for riding and post-ride cooking. So, in the seven days before today's latest dumping of snow, I compiled 26 hours in the saddle and 450 miles. And that's not to mention the 18 pancakes consumed, three per day except for Sunday. That's a whole lot of flapjacks, so I would say that I'm pretty proficient at the griddle now.

Normally, I wouldn't be exactly thrilled by a fresh dusting, but today's could not have come at a better time. I was more than ready for a day off, and I have no issue with heading to the slopes tomorrow in lieu of riding. If everything is clear by Sunday or Monday, I can go at it again and call it a block.

As the saying goes, "All work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy." And though I by no means consider riding my bike work, something has to get you through the last hour of a long winter day. So, as my mind has started to wander and sugar levels have started to drop, dinner menu planning has kicked in and gotten me home hungry but happy. Here are some of the highlights from this week's cooking.

Coq au vin with roasted potatoes and green beans.

Whole wheat pancakes with apple butter. (We ran out of syrup.)

Mushroom bourguignon (with fettucini)

On the road again

2011-01-03T15:10:00.002-05:00

Last week was sort of a mixed bag back here on the East Coast. After Sunday's snowy ride, the roads were anything but safe from Monday on, as we were pounded by a foot and a half of snow. Shoveling out of the way, the recent dumping made for perfect conditions for my new favorite winter activity: cross country skiing.

Despite having just two days on the trails under my belt from our trip to Montana, I excitedly joined Roger, our resident expert on skis (he did grow up doing it) in Cold Spring, NY for cross training (hahaha, I made a pun). Judging by the fact that I only went down once in two hours of skiing on Thursday, I would say it went pretty well.

Though I loved skiing and absolutely plan to do more of it in the coming years, as well as this year if conditions allow, and demand, but I was more than happy to trade in my fiberglass for rubber on Friday. And with the exception of yesterday's dreary fog and drizzle, things have been nothing short of excellent since. Many, many pancakes have been burned and earned, and judging by the forecast, there are many more to come. So far, this new year is getting off on the right foot.

On another note, with my extra long vacation in comparison to most of my friends, I have quite a lot of time to kill. And since I can only ride so much, much of the rest of my time is spent in the kitchen. Tonight, I am making a soba noodle salad with a soy-honey dressing. Tomorrow night is a foray into classical French cooking with coq au vin, courtesy of Julia Child. There will be liquor, and yes, it will be lit on fire.

Ski trip

2010-12-26T22:40:00.006-05:00

Sorry for the unannounced hiatus from blogging. Just a few days after settling back in at home, I was on a plane again for a week-long ski trip in Montana with my dad and sister. I hope that inches of powder and a total lack of lift lines will suffice as passable excuses for the absence.

Rarely on a ski trip are we so fortunate as to get fresh snow from day one. Usually, we seem to get one good dumping towards the end of the trip. This, time, however, it snowed for the first two days and nights. One of the greatest aspects of Big Sky, Montana is that it is near essentially nothing. While most ski resorts in Colorado are in driving range of Denver, or most in Utah of Salt Lake City, Big Sky is about as remote as it gets. For the powder obsessed, "no lift lines" are words to die for. There are no friends on a powder day.

As great as the skiing was, after day three we decided to try a new activity to break up our seven-day stay: cross country skiing. Having never ventured into this realm of snow-related antics before, we signed up for a morning lesson at the local Nordic center. In surprisingly little time, we were off and skating, and spent the rest of the day exploring some of the 100 km of trails the center had to offer. While by no means experts, and certainly not yet Olympians, we had it down well enough to enjoy a hard day of aerobically taxing adventures. Excessive amounts of pizza were in order.

The rest of the trip went much of the same way. Two more days of downhill on our still-deserted mountain, followed by one more day of cross country out in West Yellowstone on Friday, where we once again flogged ourselves for hours as we explored one of the nation's most prized national parks. After a 16 km ski, we had built up quite the appetite. While burgers and pulled pork did the job of satiating or hunger pangs, the highlight of the day was undoubtedly this:

The Lone Peak Brewery sampler. A beer rack built of two sawed-off skis, the sampler consists of 10 4 oz. samples of the beer currently on tap at the brewery, which brews all of its own, well, brews on site. From left to right you have: 1) Nordic Blonde 2) Headplant Pale Ale 3) Hellroaring ESB 4) Lone Peak IPA 5) Buck Snort Porter 6) Hippy Highway Oatmeal Stout 7) Swiftwater Pilsner 8) Wit's End Belgian White Ale 9) Steep n' Deep Winter Ale 10) Bourbon Barrel Stout.
The favorites were numbers 4, 6, 9, and 10. The oatmeal stout and bourbon stout were particularly interesting, and by the time we got half way through the bourbon stout, it tasted a whole lot more like bourbon than it did stout.

Back home now, I am literally snowed in. I got in a ride this morning before and during the start of the the massive snowstorm that has now delivered well more than a half foot of white and fluffy to our doorstep, but I have a feeling that will be the last for a least a few days as the storm rages on tomorrow. Forecasts have projected as much as a foot and half. Sadly, that probably means hitting the trainer for the first time since June, when I got all the practice I will ever need at getting through indoor workouts. Let the Food Network marathon commence.

I'm a man. Yes I am.

2010-12-15T11:18:00.002-05:00

I'm a man. A manly, manly man.

Or maybe I'm just crazy. Either way, I was out on the bike again today, the first time since getting home from Spain on Sunday. Just one week ago, on a sunny Wednesday in Barcelona, the temperature had soared to 20 degrees Celsius. Today, back in New Jersey, it was barely 20 Fahrenheit. That's not exactly a smooth transition.

But, I survived. With all my warmest winter gear pulled on, an hour outdoors was really not so bad, with the exception of my toes going completely numb. It certainly beat the alternatives (running or riding the trainer), and to be honest, I really wanted to do it. Three days off was enough for me, and I was really itching to get back outside, no matter the temperature.

Winter riding, here we come. I'm going to miss the "cold" of Barcelona, though. It's just not quite the same.

I'm leaving, on a jet plane

2010-12-12T02:59:00.002-05:00

Sitting here at 9am, waiting for my cab to arrive to shuttle me off to the airport and officially bring an end to my nearly four-month stay in Barcelona, I can only think about how truly perfect my final day here was. So, in the few minutes I have before my chauffeur arrives, I think I would rather pine about those last 24 hours than reminisce about the last 16 or so weeks. Maybe we'll save that for another time.

Up at 6:45am on Saturday, I was out the door by 7:45 for one last two-wheeled journey with Ismael and a few friends I've made here out on the road. The ride turned into one of the most spectacular I've had yet, despite the feeling of utter emptiness in my legs I had to combat for the next 5 hours. But I was lead to a truly gorgeous national park, with a stunning view of the Pyrenees and a dazzling descent down into the valley between towering rocky peaks to either side. That was only after an 8 km ascent, though, up which Ismael and I duked it out one last time, unloading every drop of energy in both our tired bodies and attacking all the way up. So much for being empty.

After riding through more spectacular scenery in the natural park, we cruised towards home, slowly saying goodbye to one rider after another. Finally, it was just Ismael and I, and I finally got the chance to see where he lives and sip a Coke and eat a pastry before saying goodbye to my good friend. You'll be missed. Then, I set out for home, bringing me to five hours of riding on the day, 26 in the last seven, and a whole lot of hunger. After some lunch, I finished my packing, showered, and began the rest of my farewell to Barca.

First on the list was one more decadent cup of gelatto, well-deserved if I do say so...and I do. So I met my friend and fellow gastronomer Chris and walked to my favorite frozen treats spot, where I had turron (nougat for the English speakers) and pistachio. Magnificio! We then walked around aimlessly for a few hours, exploring my neighborhood one last time, before sitting down to dinner around 7:00, early for Spain, at an excellent Lebanese restaurant I've been to once before. For just 30 euro, we split a sampling of seven different dishes, ranging from hummus and baba ganoush and a pomegranate puree to a plate of various roasted meats. It was quite the spread. Full as we were, there was still some room left in the tank, so to speak, so we set out once more for a final treat. This time it was a crepe, and a huge one at that. We shared a chocolate and strawberry filled offering, which came with a shot of Port alongside it to pour over the top, soaking into the thin pancake and saturating the fruit inside. Delicious.

Mission accomplished in my final 24 hours on the Mediterranean? I think so.

No more pencils! No more books!

2010-12-10T07:29:00.003-05:00

No more teachers' dirty looks!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qga5eONXU_4

Yup, that's right: School's out for summer!

Well, not really. It's still December. But whatever, school's out! My last final in Barca is done, my notebooks are in the trash, where they belong, and now it's time to ride! Five full weeks of nothing but vacation. Thank the Prince of Darkness! And since he started this post for me, it's only right that he should end it:

School's out with fever!
School's out completely!

Una salida a lo largo

2010-12-07T14:39:00.004-05:00

Or, as we English speakers would say, "to go out with a bang." And what a bang it was.

The epic that was originally planned for this past Sunday did not come to fruition, so instead Nick and I decided to plan it for today. So, I got in touch with my friends Carlos and Ismael, and along with Nick's teammate Lars, also from Holland, we had a perfect group for an epic day on the bike.

A five-plus hour march may not have been on my training plan for today, but as I said last time, or maybe the time before (who's counting anyway?), it's still only dawn in the season, so it's OK in my mind to do what you think is right. Sometimes, that means simply doing what you want. Having been here for nearly four months now and not yet having been to the top of Montserrat, I knew that I had to make sure to make it to the summit this week. So with our little quintet, off we went, at 9:00 this morning, in search of a mountain peak.

The weather was just right, possibly even a little too warm if you ask me. But I'll take it, especially when it's blizzardring in Montreal, where my sister is, and a full 25°F cooler back home. After 2.5 hours at no mean pace, we arrived at the base of the mountain, a towering behemoth of jagged rock. Already a little bit worn from the approach, we attacked the ascent with abandon. Thirty minutes and 8 km later at an 8% grade, we hit the entrance to the parking lot, and after a little soft pedaling, but still uphill, arrived at the monastery. The views from the mountain were the best I have yet seen here, though I couldn't really take the time to notice them on the way up and the descent was too treacherous and wet for photos. The only shot we got, then, was at the top, standing in front of the monastery, which is the main attraction for most visitors. For us, it was the road...and maybe the soda vending machine.

From left to right: Carlos, Ismael, me, Lars, and Nick.

After a water refill and some Coke, we were on our way down and back at it, marching, or rather attacking, our way home. Part of the beauty of having a group like this, especially when everyone is more or less around the same level, is that we can throw a little competition into the ride, even if it is only December. So pretty much all the way home we were either zipping along or taking digs at one another. Good fun, good fun.

Sitting here now, many hours and many meals later, I couldn't be happier with my last big hoorah. The final count: 5 hours and 133 km. Not too shabby, especially considering that at least half that time was spent going up hill, if not more (and no, I am not exaggerating). But really, what made the day epic was spending it with some of my favorite people I have met here in Spain and planning a ride tri-national group ride that I won't soon forget. I have a few days left here, and I'll make the most of them, but it will be hard to top this one.

Smokey da bear

2010-12-05T10:40:00.005-05:00

That's certainly how I feel right now: smoked. It's my last full weekend in Barca, so I wanted to make the most of it and get in as much quality riding as I reasonably could. Mission accomplished.

Yesterday was trip number two up to Girona to ride in the foothills of the Pyrenees with Michael Barry. I was on the train at 8:50 am, and by about 11:00 we were off. As we pedaled further and further out into the country, the ride only got more and more spectacular. The open and quiet country, scattered with gorgeous houses and farms that have probably been in families for generations, populated as much by livestock as they are by people, were enough on their own to provide a breath-taking backdrop to our ride. But, as we rode along, Michael drew my attention to our right, where, towering far above, were the snow-capped Pyrenees, an awesome contrast to the still green hills through which we rode.

As we climbed on, it was at times difficult to look at the road, and not over my shoulder at the view behind. The ride itself was no coffee shop stroll (though we did stop at a cafe halfway for a slice of apple-topped cake and a cafe con leche). Back in Girona, we had accumulated 4:20 at a very solid clip, enough to leave my legs aching as I chowed on a tuna bocadillo and ham and spinach empanada before hopping on the train home. I'm happy to say, though, that I was still my usually chatty self, blabbing away the whole time.

Today was more of the same, only this time back on my usual stomping grounds with Nick. Though or original plans for an epic to the top of Montserrat did not happen today, we still ticked off another 4:30 and emptied our respective tanks. By the time we faced the last 6 km climb before we could come back to the city, we were both dreaming of the food we would soon be eating. That came sooner than expected, though, as we stopped at the first bakery in sight back in Barca to stave off bonking in the middle of Sunday traffic. What just two days ago was supposed to be a rainy day turned into another great one, though we did get a bit of a scare for a little while as the ominously dark clouds overhead began spitting raindrops while we were still two hours from home. Fortunately, that was the point in our ride to start heading back, and we were soon riding back toward blue skies and smiles...and cream-filled pastries. I'm going to miss this.

The home stretch

2010-12-02T02:51:00.002-05:00

Today is Thursday, December 2. Hard to believe, I know, but according to the little iCal widget on my dock, that's the date. And my Mac would never lie to me, now would it?

The coming of this date means that I have just 10 days left here in Barcelona, a terrifying prospect. To be as cliched as I can, it really does feel like only a week ago that I stepped off the plane into BCN, lugging my suitcase and bike box around the airport and to the bus. But, here we are: December 2. Ten days to go.

Rather than reminisce about my time here or philosophize about what I've learned, I'd rather just tell you what I'm going to do with my little remaining time. (Chances are, though, that you can figure most of this out for yourself anyway.)

Number one on the list is, of course, ride. With all three of my papers handed in already, and two of my four final exams behind me, I'm left with quite a bit of free time. A trip to Girona and an epic to Montserrat are already on the menu, but I have a full week to fill up, so there will be plenty more of that. The fact that my gym membership expired as well only means more time for riding. I love winter. As much as I love to race, and as much as I love to ride in nothing but shorts, there is something about a crisp winter day, when the sun is out, the wind is not too harsh, and racing season is just a little ray of light breaking the plain of a still-distant horizon. It's hardly dawn yet in the cycling season, and as you all know, I am definitely a morning person.

The other item on my menu is, well, food. This is a menu, after all. There are still restaurants and hidden treasures I have yet to experience in this city and treats I have yet to sample. At the same time, there are places I am determined to revisit to get one last taste of something I loved here and don't want to forget. With all the riding I hope to do, I think that should work out just fine. And I still have a few Euros in my wallet, so I might as well spend them all. We only like green bills in the good ol' U S of A anyway.

Time to go?

2010-11-28T17:20:00.004-05:00

After a weekend like this, it would be a lie to say that I won't miss this place. Fortunately, it's not quite time to head back stateside just yet, as I have another two weeks left in Barcelona. I think that will be just right.

On Saturday, I set out for a long weekend ride with my friend Nick, heading out into the mountains to explore. Once again, I was shocked at how cold it can get here when you leave the city and get up into the mountains, especially after a long a windy descent. Where did that never-ending Mediterranean summer go? But, after stopping for some cafe con leche and bocadillos, we were both good to go again and cruised on home for just shy of 5 hours of riding. Next time, we'll be tackling the mountain we rode to the base of this weekend, Montserrat.

It's going to be a long climb.

Today, though, reminded me again of another thing I'm going to miss: the ever-wrong weathermen. Though we have those at home too, it seems that they are always wrong in the wrong sense of the word. Here, when they say it is going to rain, it never seems to do so. At home, when they say there is going to be sun, there always seems to be rain. Go figure. But, as the saying goes, don't fix it if it ain't broke. So don't think I'm complaining about today's non-stop sunshine on what was supposedly a rainy day. My three hours of not soaking wet riding were just terrible.

Despite all that, though, I am just about ready to head home. Living away from home for four months, especially in an entirely different country and in someone else's home, does get tiring after a while. I still love it here, I still want to come back here, and I still am just as sure that I could live in Europe, at least for a time, someday. Home, though, will always be the Northeast. And though there is not one tangible thing I can say that I painful miss, home is calling. Soon enough, though. Just soon enough, actually, because I'm not ready just yet.

A slice of home

2010-11-25T18:05:00.002-05:00

Or a whole roast bird of it, rather. As I type this, I am sitting in my Barcelona bedroom, cozy and loose sweatpants on, belly uncomfortably yet pleasantly full, and stomach acids churning violently as I try to digest the Thanksgiving offerings I heartily finished shoveling down not an hour ago.

Since it's Thanksgiving and we are in Europe, my study abroad program put on a holiday dinner for us at an extremely nice restaurant, reserving an entire back room and two large communal tables for our feast. I have to admit, though, I tried not to get my expectations up before the meal. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite days of the year, both for the food and the family gathering, and though I knew they would try their best, I was afraid it would just not be the same. Especially over the past week, as I have been thinking a bit more about home than I have over the past few months, I didn't want to build it up too much. I'm happy to say, though, that the evening exceeded all expectations.

Now, I won't say that it was an entirely traditional Thanksgiving. We started off with salad and oven-roasted, garlicy baby artichokes, which I happily consumed. Neither of those fit into my notion of a Thanksgiving day feast, but that's OK. They were both delicious. When it came time for the main course though, the goods were delivered. A beautiful roast bird, or two I believe, was carried out before us, perfectly cooked, perfectly stuffed, and perfectly moist. The dark meat was tender and succulent, and the stuffing was chock full of pine nuts, dates, currants, and raisins. And the coup de grace: ramekins of salsa española; or as you and I would call it, gravy. And this gravy was just the way it should be, nothing more than pure bird fat, fortified with some stock and some butter. Oh, there were mashed potatoes too. But the gravy!

Sure, I missed my beloved sweet potato casserole. And sure, I missed my pumpkin, pecan, and lemon meringue pies (though the apple tart was delicious). But when the centerpiece was so fantastic, all else could be forgiven. As I overindulged again and again, probably eating a full gobbler all on my own by the time the evening was done, I could almost forget I wasn't at home. Between a scrumptious meal and the company of a great group of friends, all equally looking to make a little home away from home, I could be thankful.

Now, as I digest the night, both literally and metaphorically, I'm thankful for a number of other things too. But to focus on just one, I'm thankful for the way I have changed over the past year, both while here in Spain and throughout the year as whole. This time last year, and I mean that quite literally, as in last Thanksgiving, I was out riding as hard as I could to "dig a whole" for the Thanksgiving feast. I wanted to make sure I deserved that indulgence that day, fearing otherwise it would ruin my hard work. That is no way to live. Why can't I reward myself for the determination and dedication I've had over the past month? Why can't I just say, "What the hell? It's Thanksgiving, so I'm going to make the most of it." Well, you know what, I can. At least now I can anyway. A lot has happened for me, and to me, in the past year, much of it cycling related and none of which I will get into now, but I can absolutely say that it's all been for the better, and for that I am thankful. For that, and the turkey that gave it's life to help remind me of all this.

Now, it's off to bed (or into food coma) to hopefully digest the rest of this meat and to pray for no food hangover tomorrow. Some things may have changed, but some things never will: No class on Fridays still means I get to ride lots. Happy Thanksgiving.

I thought this was the Mediterranean

2010-11-24T17:26:00.002-05:00

It looks like I may have made a small mistake when packing for my extended stay here in Barcelona. Until recently, I never had a problem, but all of a sudden, as December approaches, the temperature is starting to dip a bit southward as well. Uh oh.

Normally, this wouldn't be a problem. I'd like to think that I'm a pretty hardy guy, and I've normally gone out as long as the temperature is above 15 degrees (Fahrenheit, that is). I've even more than once ridden while it was snowing. But, I've always had the right clothes to make the weather a non-factor, or at least tolerable.

Most days here in Barcelona, I ride at a pretty reasonable time of day, often setting out at 9 or 10 am. On Wednesdays, though, with class from 11 am to 3:30 pm non-stop, I usually opt to get out before class, as I just don't do well with afternoon rides. Like I've said before, I love the morning special and the feeling of starting my day off with a good ride, leaving the rest of my day open. When class starts at 11 and is a 30-minute commute away, though, that means I need to be out the door by 7:30 am to squeeze in two hours in the saddle. And at 7:30 am, it's usually pretty cold in the month of November, even in the Mediterranean, as I found out this morning.

The sun was not yet up when I left this morning. Things started out just fine as I rode out of town and then climbed 5 km to get truly out of the city. But, once I pointed my wheels downhill, the cold kicked in, and it didn't get better until I was going skyward once again an hour later on my way home. Ug. It's just no fun being cold, no matter how used to it you are. When you don't have the right attire, though, it's even worse. Fortunately, I only have two more Wednesdays left here and only one of them with class, so hopefully I won't freeze to death before returning stateside.

But fear not, fellow New Englanders: I'm not going soft. I'll still be riding in stupidly cold weather all winter long. I just want my damn warm gloves!

A Jew in Paris: the king of street food

2010-11-21T11:04:00.002-05:00

I'm just going to warn you now, this post is long. Very long. So long, in fact, that I considered cutting in two, using one half to talk about my day from an eating perspective and one from the site-seeing perspective. But, when I thought about it, I decided that the two were so perfectly intertwined today that doing so would be shame, and that I would unweave the beautiful web I spun around Paris yesterday, doing my last full day there an unforgivable injustice. So skim if you like, or don't. I'll have pictures up in a day or two so those may help if you aren't up for, or interested in, the whole thing. Here we go....

In stark opposition to my previous two days, the only meal I ate formally sitting down yesterday was breakfast, in my hotel. The rest of the day was spent on foot, starting at 9:30 am and ending at 8:30 pm, getting my hands and face right into whatever I was eating and doing all day. And it was without a doubt my best day yet.

I began with a walk to l'Arc de Triomphe, from the top of which I think is the best view in the city. Go wait in line for the Eiffel Tower if you like, I'll stay right here, staring down the Chaps Elysee and happily enjoying the lack of crowd. I also bought a four-pack of AA batteries here, which came in handy as I drained them all throughout the day.

Next, I set out to walk the Champs Elysee, hopefully to scout it out for a different point of view some day. Along the way , I spotted a Peugeot dealer, with a gorgeous array of sports cars inside. The best vehicle on display, though, was of the two-wheeled variety: a carbon Peugeot bike, the mode of transportation that, in my opinion, the company should stick to making.

Soon after, I spied the mint green exterior of what could only be Laduree, Paris's most famous of bakeries for macarons. I bolted across the Champs and barged inside. The display was overwhelming, and the task of choosing what to get was daunting, made possibly only by the fact that I knew I was here for macarons and macarons only. I finally settled on the box of 6, which still set me back 8 euro. My choices were this: vanilla, coffee, praline, chestnut, fig and date, and soft salted caramel. It was not yet 11 pm, so once outside I decided to try just one and save the rest for later. Vanilla it was, and let's just say I was glad to be sitting down already when I took a bite.

The lower half of the Champs was covered in both sides by a Christmas market, composed of easily over 100 white tents set up selling all kinds of food from crepes to kebabs to caviar and every trinket or collectible known to man. I quickly stopped for a vin chaud before cruising down one side and then back up the other, stopping to ogle nearly every item, but especially the edible ones, on display. After making it back up to the top, I decided that my original dining plans would have to be adjusted, because lunch was happening here. Despite the absurd selection, I knew what I must have: poulet provencal. Cooking in a stupendously large cauldron wide and deep enough to bath in (and don't think I wouldn't have), the rouge of this chick and potato mash called out to me the moment I saw it. As it was heaped in hearty amounts into my Styrofoam container, I knew I was in for treat. I set up shop at a tall table and dug in, instantly transported to the French countryside. Magnifique! A quick stop down the block for one oyster shooter, and I was on my way.

After another walk through much of the heart of the city, I found myself at the Cluny museum, as suggested by my uncle (thanks Ron), which is a former abbey and now hosts the pieces one stolen from or now replaced at many cathedrals and churches in France. It also gave the story of the development of many religious art forms in France, my favorite of which was the altar pieces, which I have always been attracted to and awed by.

After the museum, I set up shop in a park outside to indulge in my remaining macarons. One after another I popped them into my mouth and delighted at the soft and almondy goodness. Yet again, I was happy to be seated. The intense, almost red velvet, hue of the fig and date macaron was almost sensual, but the soft salted caramel took the cookie in my opinion. Next up, time for more walking, of course. As a side note, I did not use the Metro once yesterday.

Making my way out of the Latin Quarter, I spent a long time just meandering the 3rd arrondisment, also known as Le Marais. I had a destination in mind, but decided that if I should find it by chance, I would pop in. If not, something equally good would come up. I walked from store to store, sampling free wine and chocolates here and there, spotting incredible displays like a chocolate store that makes chocolate neckties, and just drinking in the charm that can only be found in a place when you explore it with no destination in mind. At 4:15, I caved and stopped at a place called La Suzette for the obligatory Nutella crepe. As the dough as spread out and began to sizzle in front of me, the Pavlov effect kicked in and I could feel myself salivating. Yum. Do get one.

Lucky for me, as I dug into my crepe, only half conscious of the road ahead, I found myself right at my semi-destination: Musee Carnavalet. Also suggested by Uncle Ron, I think this may have been my favorite museum yet. A true hidden treasure of the city in which I encountered few other Americans and sparse crowds, this building packs a mighty punch and contains much more than you would expect from the outside. For the next hour and half, I walked through a story book, discovering the history of Paris from Paleolithic times up through the 1900's. Set in paintings of the city's development and collections of furniture and fixings from important palaces from every time period, the museum is possibly the best way to learn how Paris got to where it is today.

Upon leaving, I had a few dinner plans in mind, and spent the next 30 minutes ambling about the area and debating all my options. I was torn in so many different directions that I once again arrived somewhere I had never intended to but am thankful to whatever God there is for bringing me to. As it turns out, he must be a Jewish one, because where do you think I wound up? The Jewish Quarter, of course! Once again, my plans were out the window once more, and deliberations began anew as I tried to decide where to go. The famous L'As du Falafel was closed (it was Shabbat after all) but that was not a problem. It was just one less place to choose. Finally, after some serious running back and forth, literally, I settled on the first place to catch my eye: Sasha Finkelsztajn. As I stood there, holding back a tear and trying to figure out what I should eat, another miracle took place: my dead camera came back to life! I immediately jumped out of line and started snapping pictures of everything. The food, the sign, the door, the street, the place across the street. All of it. Finally, though, it was time to eat.

To get to the point, dinner was a pastrami sandwich. But not just any pastrami sandwich. This salted beef was sandwiched between two halves of an onion and poppy roll, smothered in a baba ganoush-esqe puree, a paprika puree, and adorned with onion, tomato, and sliced kosher pickle. Oy gevalt! As much I have raved about the food in Paris, I found the winner. If you are ever in town, you are going. I'm sorry, but you have no choice.

I left that heavenly kosher deli/Jewish bakery/godly oasis thinking life could not get better. I was in such a mood that I decided I would walk home. And that is no short stroll, mind you, even if you go direct, which I did not. But, along the way, I opened up the final stroke of genius: an apple strudel. As I sunk my teeth in for the first bite, I was literally stopped in my tracks and let out such a groan that the woman in front of me stopped to turn and look at the lunatic behind her. I could only smile. As I walked back through the star-lit (and yes, it was, as this was the first and only clear day of the trip) Parisian night, taste of Jewish baking still on my tongue, I could only think, "When will I be here next?"

A happy accident: What luck!

2010-11-19T16:54:00.002-05:00

Day Two in Paris was today, and it did not fail to produce. Out the door by 8:45 this morning, and I was on my way for another walking tour of city. Despite being a big-time breakfast person, I often find when traveling that some of my best breakfasts are grabbed on-the-go, and today was no different. Before hopping on the Metro, I stopped into a gorgeous bakery and asked for a coffee and one "Viking." How could you go wrong with that. The Viking is no more than a whole grain and nut bread, but as I ripped through its crusty exterior and bit into the moist and soft dough housed inside, I was ready to let out my greatest battle cry. Fortunately for my other morning commuters, I contained my joy.

This morning's Metro ride was just to the hotel I am spending two nights in, where I dropped my things off and was on my way once again, starting today's march by heading to le Mussee Marmottan. I arrived before opening, which is at 11, so I wandered around a bit until then. At 11, the magic began, and Marmottan was certainly my favorite site I have been to so far. Housed in a small, well, house, Musee Marmottan is a tribute entirely to Monet, the father of Impressionism. Alive with color and the vivid yet subtle differences of recurring motifs at different times of day, this small site packed a serious punch. Sadly, I forgot the camera today.

Following the museum, I set out on the long walk to my next planned lunch. Along the way, I picked up a few chocolates, eating one and saving the rest for later. Among the batch were nougat, praline, coffee ganache, and marzipan. This is when the happy accident took place.

I navigated my way over to rue Saint-Dominique without trouble, but when I arrived at what I though was my destination, I stepped into one restaurant too soon. The name of this restaurant was nearly identical to the one next door, where I had intended to go, and as soon as I saw the menu, I had a feeling I had made a mistake, but I was sufficiently enticed by what I saw to stay where I was. This meal was undoubtedly the high point of my culinary experience here so far. I ordered the pig's cheek stew with basil and basmati rice. When my plate arrived, I was thoroughly surprised, as in front of me sat a miniature pastry crust housing a bed of rice and topped with the meat. This looked like no stew I had ever seen. But as soon as I laid fork to the pig's cheek, it literally fell apart. I knew I was in for a treat. With the first bite, I had to lay down my fork, close, my eyes, and try not cry. Perfection. Every bite, first to last, was equally spectacular.

After lunch, I set out once more towards the Rodin museum, where a cute waitress at the restaurant suggested I should go. Along the way, I got distracted and turned in to the Musee de' Armee, which at the price of free (since I am technically a European student) was too good a deal. It was a great museum and a fun way to learn about the military history of France, particular during the time of Napoleon Bonaparte, one of my favorite historical figures.

Next up, I did make it over to the Rodin museum, just next door and also free to students. Like he Martmottan, this is yet another smaller exhibit than, say, the Louvre, but with no less effect. Naturally, I found the Thinker, one of my more vivid memories from my last trip here. It was also interesting to learn in the Museum that Rodin and Monet were good friends and an influence on one another, so seeing the two in the same day was yet another happy accident indeed.

I spent the rest of the day generally wandering around this area of the city, stopping for a delicious quiche before exploring the Latin Quarter and sneaking my way into the Sorbonne to see what school in Paris is like. While waiting for my friends t make if over to the area, I walked into a wine store, at first only to peruse. I was about ready to leave, when another couple walked in and started talking to the employee and quickly bought two bottles. I guess buying is contagious, because before I knew it I was swiping my card for a 2007 Crozes Hermitages from Cave de Tain. Oops. But, at 8.95 euro, I decided that it was a truly a steal and that I would convince my waitress at dinner to let me drink my own wine.

After stopping at a bar to meet up with three friends, it was time for dinner. We found a restaurant to our liking at around 7:30 and took our seat. From the prix fixe menu, I started off with a mushroom and egg cassolette, followed by another duck confit, and finally a creme brulee. I know I had the confit last night, and I had originally ordered salmon, but when I saw a confit going by to another table, I had to have it. And oh how right I as. But, I won't deny it, the wine was the real star of the meal. The owner at first was not pleased with my asking to drink my own wine, but after a little bargaining and my offering to cough up a few euro for corkage, we understood each other. Merci, madame. Merci. I'm looking forward to finishing the rest tomorrow.

Gimme three steps

2010-11-18T17:16:00.002-05:00

Well, it was actually a little bit more than that today, as I think I can safely say I completed the Parisian marathon on my first day in the city. Save for my trip on the metro to get away from my cousin's apartment this morning, I did not take it again until tonight to come home. I like it that way, though. There were times that I easily could have hopped on and saved 30 minutes, but you can't see anything from underground, and that's a sad way to miss a lot of special things. So marching it was for me.

First stop: the Louvre. I decided to go today because I hoped that on a Thursday morning I would not have crowds to contend with. I was right. The first exhibit I checked out was the Egyptian collection (that's for you Kelly, if you're reading this). Next was the large collection of French paintings, where I found one of my favorite rooms yet. It was a room devoted to the epic, and by epic I mean both in execution and size, paintings of the history of Alexander the Great, done by Charles Le Brun. Of course, I also found the requisites, like the Grand Gallery and the Mona Lisa, but these paintings by far moved me the most.

After 2.5 hours, I was ready for lunch, so I began my first epic trek of the day, walking about an hour to find the singular restaurant I had in mind, as suggested by my grandma: Les Enfants de Paris, all the way off in the 11th. It is a Brazilian-French fusion restaurant that was well worth the hike. I ordered the lunch prix fixe menu, which first brought me a Thai shrimp soup to start. It was rich and hearty with a coconut milk broth, cut by slices of pickled ginger and bamboo that added a pleasant little kick to it as well. Next was a lightly battered and pan-fried sole, accompanied by a garlic aioli and a smooth helping of pomme puree, which I can only assume was flavored with a little tomato, which I am guessing from the color and taste as I could not tell from the French menu. To go with it, I had a glass of Alsatian Riesling. Like I said, worth the hike.

Next up, I marched back in the other direction to find Notre Dame and Saint Chapelle, back towards the center of the city. Along the way, I picked up an apple crepe. Yum. Notre Dame was spectacular, though in my opinion it is more incredible from the outside than in. Sadly, Saint Chapelle was closing, so I'll have to go back tomorrow, but I was able to find a small but moving Holocaust memorial in the park just behind Notre Dame. Though hidden and sparsely adorned, it was a solemn tribute that needed no words or images to convey its message.

Because I am a sadist, I decided to walk back to the Louvre for round two, since my ticket was good for the day. This time, I had one particular exhibit in mind: Napoleon's apartments, restored to look as if the little man himself were still kicking it there. The instant I walked in, I felt as though I had been there before, which, in fact, I have, about ten years ago. After a truly wonderful day of exploring Paris on my own, it was finally time to socialize a bit, so I started hour-long march number two, heading off in the direction of the Eiffel Tower to meet up with my friends and find out what they had been up to. Along the way, I of course stopped in just about every pastry shop I saw, debating the pros and cons of every pastry option. Finally, I made a choice: macarons. Seeing as it was nearly 6:00 pm, I kept i light, sampling a coffee and a pecan macaron. Let's just say that there was a party going on in, on, and around my mouth.

The journey finally came to an end as I found the rest of my fell0w-tourists at a cafe and we headed off to dinner, this time on the metro. After some meandering, we settled on a promising bistro and wine bar. When I asked the waiter her opinion on which mussels I should get, she was a little iffy, which I found odd. But when I inquired about the duck confit, she instantly lit up. My only response was to close my menu and smile. Canard confit it would be. And boy was she right.

Underneath a deeply browned skin was meat that literally fell apart at the touch of a fork, moist and flavorful. Alongside it were heavenly roasted potatoes and simple haricot verts, both of which I dipped in the spiciest of dijon mustards sitting on the table. Like I said, I am a sadist. To drink, I ordered myself a carafe of Cotes de Rhone Bertrand. It grew on me as the meal went on and accompanied the duck well, but it was nothing special compared to its poultry counterpart.

Because no day in Paris would be complete without one final indulgence, and I had already had my crepe for the day, on my back to the metro to head home I popped into the nearest bakery and ogled the selection. Pie and tarts tend to be my go-to bakery items, my vice really. The choice was not easy, as the spread ranged from pear to pecan, from cheese to flan. Finally, though, I had to make up my mind, and I went with the new and unknown: rhubarb. Though I am familiar with rhubarb as a popular pie filler, often accompanying strawberry, I've never before had it. So that made up my mind, and I was in no way disappointed. Walking to the Bastille to catch the metro home, rhubarb pie in hand, I could only think, "I hope tomorrow is as good."

(As a side note, I for once have a camera for this trip, as my friend Kelsey generously lent me her spare. I don't have the USB cable, so I will upload all the pictures back in Barcelona.)

Aux Champs-Élysées. Au soleil, sous la pluie.

2010-11-16T16:11:00.003-05:00

That's right, you guessed it. Tomorrow, I'll be singing my way around Paris, sipping wine, eating macarons, and living it up. It's been a long time coming and I am giddy as can be.

Despite the fact that I have been before, though it was far too long ago, Paris was instantly at the top of my list of places to go when I knew I would be spending the semester in Europe. I've already been to Amsterdam this semester, which was undoubtedly a trip, and a fantastic city that I would more than happily return to. But, the allure of Paris was, and is, greater. What it is, who can say?

Oh wait, I can: The food and wine of course!

If you know anything about me at all, it should be these three things: I like to bike, I like to eat, and I like to drink good wine. Period. Evan in a sentence. And if Paris is not the epicenter of the gastronomical world, then I've been sorely mislead. Through in an obvious affinity for cycling in all of France, and you have the makings for a match made in heaven.

Sure, you could say that Barcelona offers many of the same things. After all, on CNN's list of the world's Top 50 restaurants that I read before leaving for the semester, Spain notched five spots. And both Barcelona and Spain as a whole certainly have all the above attributes, and I did choose to spend the semester in Barcelona for a reason. But still, something about Paris is different. If I knew exactly what, I would tell you. Since I was only 11 years old the last time I was there, though, I can't say I know. I'm hoping that by the time I get back on Sunday I'll have an answer for you. Until then, it's munch, munch, munch, munch, munch. Oh, and gulp, gulp, gulp too.

I'll try to do a little food blogging while there. (Obviously there won't be any bike blogging since I don't trust EasyJet with my bike, and the fee would set me back a whole lot of meals and whole lot of bottles of wine.) My accommodations are going to be just as good as my provisions, too. For the first two nights I'm going to stay in my cousin's apartment. For the second two, my mom was able to set me up with a gorgeous room in a four-star hotel de gratis to help solve a little housing crisis my friends and I had last evening. That works for me. Thanks, Mom. I'll have a drink for you.

The morning special

2010-11-14T08:48:00.002-05:00

It's currently not even 3:00 pm yet, and my food count today is already through the roof. So far, I have eaten:
2 eggs, 1/2 a baguette with jam (breakfast)
1 Nutella and honey sandwich, 1/2 peanut butter sandwich (on the bike)
1 large unidentified pastry (post-ride)
1 entire mushroom pizza, meant for two (lunch)
1 tuna bocadillo (lunch number 2)

As a side note, for you unfortunate Americans still eating sandwiches between two pieces of sliced bread, a bocadillo is the Spanish version of a sandwich, made on a baguette and usually with some form of ham, tuna, or a tortilla. We could learn a thing or two from them about bread selection.

Anyway, the reason for the absurd amount of food I have torn into today is this morning's ride. A few weeks ago, I met Ismael, a cyclist from a town nearby whom I saw on a ride one day and decided to approach and ask if I could come alone. To make a long story short, I would say we have become friends very quickly and have ridden together often. This morning, I joined Ismael and some of his friends on a great ride. It would not have been too hunger-inducing, despite the extremely fast pace for November thanks to one or two very eager beavers, but the 45 minutes of riding pre- and post-route, both of which included 5-6km of climbing, tacked on enough to put me deep in the hunger cave. Fortunately, there is lots of daylight left for me to dig myself out of that cave, fork and knife in hand.

And that is one of the beauties of getting out and riding in the morning: you can ride 4+ hours and still actually have a day. Rather than leaving at 10 or 11 and not getting home until well into the afternoon, I was home by 12:30, a quality morning in the saddle already in my legs. You know that saying, "Why do today what can be put off for tomorrow?" Well, I couldn't disagree more.

Finally, I have to say how lucky I am to have met Ismael, as well as all the other riders I have befriended here. Walking around the city, going to museums, and traveling to other European destinations are all ways to explore a new place while abroad, and there is nothing wrong with any of them. But for me, there is no better way to see a place than to spend time with the people who live there and know it best. And perched atop a bicycle, it all goes by at just the right speed. Excuse me for butchering this, but a friend of mine once said to me, "A bicycle is the perfect way to see the world. By foot, you go too slowly to see enough. In a car, it goes by too quickly to see anything at all. On a bike, everything is just right." Now that I can agree with.

When things go right

2010-11-12T16:52:00.003-05:00

Some things are just blog-worthy. What I have been up to in the four months since my last post, not blog-worthy. Today's events, definitely so. To give you some context in as few words as possible, though, I am currently in Barcelona, where I have been since August to study abroad and will be until December. Four months, in a nutshell.

Anyway, today I finally got the chance to do something that I have been hoping to do and excitedly looking forward to since I first confirmed that I would coming to Barcelona: ride with Michael Barry. We had never met before, but thanks to his writing in the New York Times, Velonews, and his own blog, not to mention his racing, I knew I admired the man. So I shot him an email and hoped for the best. To my delight, his answer was yes. (So this doesn't turn into a game of Jeopardy, my question was whether or not I could come to his hometown of Girona to ride together.) It never hurts to ask.

So at 6:30 am I was making coffee and eggs before hopping on the bike to catch the 8:15 train to Girona. By 10, we were rolling over to a cafe to pick up a friend of Michael's and then off to the open roads. Since I don't want to sound like some teenage pop-star groupie, though I guess I am in my own nerdy way, I'll just say that the day was everything I hoped it would be. The riding was fantastic, and I'm wondering why I don't live in Girona already. We climbed to a gorgeous reservoir that feeds (if that is the right word for drinking water) Barcelona, before ascending what I can only describe as a dirt and rock wall. With hardly a car to share the road with for the majority of the ride, we could pedal and talk care-free for 4 hours. Topped off with a delicious lunch back in Girona, the day could not have been better.

And that is one of things I love most about this sport: how easily we can share it. No matter how badly I wanted to, I could not go play catch with, say, Derek Jeter - though I would never actually want to since I am an unfortunate but painfully loyal Mets fan. But one of my favorite cyclists? No problem. And the fact that he's willing to host me in his hometown and on his favorite roads, even better. Like I said before, it never hurts to ask.

"So, how do we know you aren't just making this up to make us all jealous?" you might ask. Well, I don't own a camera, as I told my dad when he said I should bring one along. Fortunately, though, Michael does own a camera, so there are few pictures from the day so that especially all you New Englanders can be jealous of what I'm getting to do in the so-called winter here in Spain. I may miss fall in New England, and I most definitely miss apple pie (had to get a food reference in there somewhere), but I sure as hell don't miss freezing my balls off.

I'm not going to make any promises, but I will try to make blogging a more regular thing again. If nothing else, it will at least give me a reason to go find and do worthwhile things to blog about. And if anyone knows where to find a good pie in Spain, please let me know. The pastries here are delicious and cheap, but something about that gooey, fruity filling encased in a flaky and crunchy pie crust is just irreplaceable. The apple tarts just aren't cutting it.

It's Getting Hot In Here

2010-07-05T15:12:00.002-04:00

My living room that is. One month removed from the worst crash of my career so far, and hopefully the worst I'll ever have, I'm happy to say that I've found peace, and a routine. Though unwanted and at times utterly demoralizing, this forced break has caused me to take a step back and reassess my approach to training and my connection to this sport.

Starting with the latter, I now know beyond all doubt that I love cycling. It' been 4 weeks since I've seen a road or raced my bike, and I can honestly say that I do not feel whole. I'm definitely eager to be back. As for the former, I've adopted a somewhat new approach to training that has allowed me to settle into a very tolerable routine on the trainer. Not only has this change in direction helped me get through this time and stay in shape, but I am confident that it will both bring me back in better form than ever before and serve me well in the future as I continue to apply it back on the road.

Admittedly, this past month has not been all unicorns and rainbows. There have been some darker days that have admittedly reduced me to a state of considerable depression. It sucks when you can't do the things you love. There is just no other way to put it. But when you truly love them, you do the best you can and you survive. You find inspiration all around you and you realize that time heals all wounds, and that soon enough you will have those things back. Today, that inspiration came from cycling itself. It came from Sylvain Chavanel.

Recovering from a skull fracture just 2 months ago, Chavanel returned to racing with gusto and with love. The tears he shed today were not just the tears of some overly emotional athlete, like the ones we've sees from World Cup players the past few weeks. They were the tears of redemption. They were tears that proved how strong the human heart and will are, and they were the tears that will get me through this last leg of my recovery.

As Chavanel said himself after his win this morning, "It just goes to show that you should never give up. I had a really hard time recovering from my injury two months ago, and even before that I only had some top 20 placings in the Spring Classics even though I was always in the right group. And then, when I think of all these hours of training in front of the TV, watching the Giro... I can put all of that behind me now."

See you all soon.

Winner, winner chicken dinner

2010-06-20T11:44:00.003-04:00

I have to admit that I've been struggling lately to keep my head up and not get too down on myself. Anyone reading here probably knows that I've been through a pretty rough stretch lately and it has taken a lot for me to stay positive. It hasn't been getting any easier.

I love to race my bike, and I love to ride my bike. I love to cook, and I most definitely love to eat. These are the things that make me most happy. Right now, though, they've all been taken away from me. I'm stuck on the trainer every single day, trapped indoors with only thumping techno or the endless drone of World Cup fans to drone out the whir of the trainer. That's not bike riding. What more? Cooking is a struggle, as I cannot chop anything and all other kitchen tasks are made ever-more difficult as well. Finally, with less riding than I would be logging sans-injury, I simply cannot eat as much as I would like if I want to maintain my lovely figure. (As you may recall from a previous post, I am a firm believer that happiness is a direct correlation to pancake consumption. And pancake consumption is down, way down.)

Could things be worse? Yes, they most definitely could. But they could be much better too.

Now that you probably think I'm a total downer in need of a good doctor or at least a little "medicinal" relief, I'm going to flip things around on you.

Yesterday, my teammate and awesome friend Emerson Oronte soloed to the win at the Purgatory Road Race. He has been getting stronger weekend after weekend and looks like he is approaching his best form yet just in time for U23 Nationals, where I know he is going to crush it. Though I couldn't be there with him, that win means more to me than I begin to verbalize. It inspires me to work harder than I did before. It presents me with a tangible goal to work toward, namely making myself the best and most determined rider I can so that, when I'm back, I can support my friend better then I could before. Whereas before I was upset as I felt that I was being left behind by those around me who are meeting their goals and achieving success, now I'm just more determined than ever. Whereas before all I had was anger to drive me, now I have inspiration. That's a dangerous combination. So look out, because I'll be back before you know. And now I'm pissed, but with a purpose.

Crash bang boom

2010-06-10T09:26:00.002-04:00

So just when I thought I'd hit rock bottom already and was due for some good fortunes, it all came crashing down again...quite literally.

By now, I'm sure that many of you already know about how the P1/2 road race at Connecticut was cut short, so I'll skip the details. That and I am currently typing challenged, and just these two paragraphs have taken me an unduly long amount of time to hammer out. So I'll just skip to my own injury report, following my visit to the orthopedist yesterday.
I'm recovering from my crash and I feel well, but it turns out the damage was worse than I thought. My knee is alright and I should have the green light to ride the trainer by this weekend and will get the stitches out some time next week. My hand, though, is going to keep me out of commission for a bit longer.

My pinky is essentially broken in half, so the fear is that the two plates of bone could slide or rotate out of place, requiring surgery. Also, I badly sprained the ligaments in my thumb, which could degrade into a tear. So I left the orthopedist yesterday in a full hand cast that goes halfway to my elbow. I will need it for 4 weeks and will find out next week whether or not I need surgery.

So that's the report. I'm hoping to start riding the trainer soon and plan to get in the gym as soon as the stitches come out. Maybe I finally won't be so freaking skinny any more. Could be good for me. Who knows.

I'm definitely hopeful to be back in action by Fitchburg, but I wouldn't count on it. This won't be season-ending, but it's going to force a major shift in goals unfortunately. Time to find some perspective. I'll let you know when I do.

On the mend

2010-05-18T14:46:00.002-04:00

After some time off from any focused training thanks to my unfortunate affinity for making friends with the front of automobiles, I was finally able to get back to business this past weekend. I made it through a tough week of finals, rode as much as I could, and finally made it to Friday, when I was able to load up the car and head home. What a relief.

So Sunday was the Bear Mountain Spring Classic. Earlier in the year, I had marked the race as an early season goal, but after the recent turn of events I erased all expectations for the race and went into it more with an eye to just enjoy myself and find out where my fitness is right now. The result was no surprise. I cracked sooner than I would have liked and then found myself in a chase group a good way off the back. Fortunately, I had some good company to ride out the race with. Unfortunately, my front wheel, brand new tire and all, decided it did not like having air in it that day. After riding about 2/3 of lap 3 on my now flat tire, I decided to pull out rather than attempt the 50+mph decent. I like my life and very much like to continue living it. The alternative seemed counterproductive to that. And with no neutral wheels to be had at the start/finish, that was the end of my day.

But it's not all bad. I had a great weekend with the team staying at my house, cleaning out all of my pancake mix and putting a serious dent in the ice cream. And the race itself was not all negative either. My legs were not nearly as bad as they could have been, and I think I'm not too far off from returning to from and hopefully putting up some descent results in the near future.

Next up is Sunapee and a little team mini-camp. Maybe I can forge a little form for the up-coming stage races. Who knows.

Alice In Wonderland

2010-05-13T18:28:00.002-04:00

Sitting here, beer in hand with nothing on my mind at all, I couldn't be happier. In the words of Alice Cooper, "School's out for summer! School's out for ever! School's been blown to piecessss!"
And damn does it feel good!

I'm not going to go into the details, but it has been a rough week or so for me. Easily the most difficult I have ever gone through. After two major incidents in the course of four days, I was pretty shaken up. I had to cancel my trip to Nationals after the first, and the second sent me into a bit of an existential crisis for a day or so. But a visit from dad, the help from my friends, and a fridge full of beer put me back in a good place. I made it through finals now, am feeling normal again, and am just enjoying life and enjoying my bike. I feel I've learned that I really just need to let go and enjoy the ride, and that if I'm having fun and doing what I love, things will usually just fall into place.

So with all that behind me, I now have summer to look forward to, starting...NOW. I'm headed home tomorrow and the team is then coming down to crash at my place for a fun day of racing at Beat Mt. Hopefully we can pull out a big result to kick of the summer season. My plan is just to have fun and see where I go. No expectations at the moment. Well, except maybe a few more of these...

Not what I had in mind

2010-05-02T22:27:00.002-04:00

It's been a rough few weeks.

Starting with the second to last ECCC weekend of the year at Army, I realized that I wasn't riding quite the way I wanted to. Something just wasn't right, and despite being confident in my training and having plenty of energy, something was simply lacking. The sort of power I had come to expect (and need) just was not there. So I took a step back, listened to the people around me and to my own body, and figured out what was going on. The following weekend at Dartmouth, things started to improve.

I wasn't where I would like to be, but you can't expect a complete turnaround in just one week's time. But I could tell that I was on an upward trend, heading the direction I wanted.

Then I got the news that I could head to collegiate nationals in Madison, Wisconsin, which was just a huge morale booster. Despite the major load of finals I have facing me as the semester draws to a close, I could not pass up an opportunity like that. So I booked my flight and hotel and was all set to go. Then today happened.

Less than an hour into my ride today, I found out that car's are hard objects that do not want to be friends with you. Fortunately, the driver was not one of those from all the horror stories we all know, and he helped me get off the road once I was done groaning on the pavement and called the police right away. I was shuttled off to the hospital in an ambulance, where they took care of me quickly and had me on my way in a little over an hour. I feel so lucky to have no serious injuries, just a few cuts and some deep bruising and contusions on my right shin and knee, which took nearly all of the impact. I don't think my bike was so lucky, though. It looks like she is going to be out of commission until this is all cleared up.

As for Nationals, I'm leaving that up in the air. Today is Sunday, and Nationals doesn't kick off until Friday. My flight is scheduled for Wednesday morning, so that leaves me two days to rest and assess my condition. At the moment, I am still determined to go, but I won't make any final decisions just yet. Things could be worse in the morning, so we'll have to see. Not quite the preparation I was hoping for, but I guess all you say is this: Shit happens.

Peanut butter jelly time, peanut butter jelly time

2010-04-29T10:14:00.002-04:00

I think you all know the song...

http://www.tuftsdaily.com/the-wheel-and-chain-on-race-day-it-s-peanut-butter-jelly-time-1.2246351

"You probably wouldn’t try to run your Formula 1 car on low−grade, regular−octane fuel, and I haven’t seen any Lamborghini owners lately filling up their ego−soothers with any form of eco−friendly fuel. That’s just not the way things are done, and it’s not the way their engines run. These are high performance vehicles with high performance needs. So you would think that athletes work the same way, right?

Well, not exactly. Sure, we scarf down heaping plates of pasta and stuff our faces with oh−so−delicious energy gels (though vanilla and coffee aren’t all that bad, I swear), but there’s more to it than that. I’m not saying that you can be an elite−level cyclist, or any type of athlete for that matter, and eat nothing but pizza and KFC, though you can certainly better afford the occasional Crave Case than the average American. But at the same time, you aren’t going to get there on nothing but brown rice and tofu either.

Let’s take this past Sunday as our test case. The race: L’Enfer du Nord. In layman’s terms: The Eastern Collegiate Cycling Conference (ECCC) Championships, hosted by Dartmouth College. The Men’s A race was 75 miles long, featured a pretty substantial amount of climbing and took somewhere on the order of three and a half hours. Oh, and we raced pretty hard. I should probably mention that. And as you may know from your experiences cruising along the highway well in excess of the legal speed limit, the faster you go, the more fuel you burn. The same applies.

So in order to survive a race like this, one thing is needed above all: calories, calories, calories. And yes, a calorie is a calorie, no matter where it comes from, but when you are trying to fill yourself with upward of 4,000, or even 5,000, of them, things get a little tricky. That plate of pasta isn’t going to cut it anymore, at least not on its own. That’s not to say that you don’t eat it, because pasta is definitely a source of high−quality carbs and is probably still going to be one of your best sources of fuel, but it’s only going to get you so far. This is where my peanut butter and jelly metaphor comes in.

The peanut butter and jelly sandwich serves both as one of the best ways to get that much−needed fuel, while at the same time symbolizing the balance that you need to strike in order to get in enough food without risking losing or gaining weight, both of which will hurt your performance.

The classic PB&J features the ideal ratio of foods for a cyclist: lots of carbs from the bread, some healthy fat and a little protein from the peanut butter, and some quick and tasty energy from the sugary jelly. It’s all there in a nice, neat package. You can wrap it up and put it in your jersey pocket, and it makes the perfect pre− or post−race snack. Personally, I never leave for any race weekend without my trusty Tupperware container filled with four premade and wrapped PB&J’s. And I would bring more too if they would fit.

But there is more to the PB&J than the sandwich itself. There is a lesson. Like I said, healthy carbs and healthy proteins are all great. We need lots, and I mean lots, of them in order to train, recover and race. But there is a time and a place for everything, and that means those “unhealthy” foods fit in somewhere too. If you’re going to get in enough calories, you’re going to have to get it from denser sources. This is where the fun begins.

Peanut butter, of course, is high on the list of approved foods. But right up there with it, and probably higher on most cyclists’ lists — including mine — is Nutella. This fatty, rich, chocolaty spread is pure energy in a jar, and it is calorie−dense and delicious. Did I mention that it’s chocolate?

It’s foods like these that help fill the caloric gaps in your diet that you just can’t account for with healthy foods alone. It takes cookies, French toast, hamburgers, ice cream, eggs, Snickers bars — you name it — to fill us up. Especially when you’re on the lighter side and your stomach probably isn’t big enough to handle large volumes of food, the trick is to choose foods that pack a lot of punch in a smaller package. (Does anyone have some Oreos for me?)

Now, I’m not saying that by riding a bike you get free license to stuff your face with whatever you want whenever you want. Fueling right is absolutely essential to performing well, and knowing when to eat that donut and when to opt for grilled chicken and a big salad is equally as important as any other aspect of your training. But it is a fine line between being a healthy, conscientious eater and being a little too neurotic. Eat too little, and you will suffer, possibly even more than if you eat too much. The key is balance. And that is why I always look to the PB&J.

Now that the ECCC racing season has come to an end, there is one collegiate race left for me before I transition to the rest of my season with my trade team: collegiate nationals. The race is a week from Friday in Madison, Wisc. In the span of 72 miles, the course ascends 8,000 vertical feet, which is simply a whole lot of climbing by any standard. For comparison, Mt. Everest ascends between 11,980 and 15,260 feet when measured from base to summit, depending on which face you start from.

Naturally, I like that. I like to climb, and this race does almost nothing but that. I’m not going to make any promises or predictions, but there is one thing I can guarantee: I’ll be bringing my PB&J."

Army, Crashing, and Shaving

2010-04-22T09:46:00.000-04:00

http://www.tuftsdaily.com/the-wheel-and-chain-road-rash-and-razor-raves-1.2236658

"Sliding across the pavement and off the side of the road as the pack speeds off down the road, all I could think was, “Well, that was dumb.”

If there is one question that I spend more time answering than any other, it has to be the one about why I, and all cyclists, shave my legs.

“Does it make you go faster?” everyone asks. “Is it like swimming?”

No, not really. If you take just a second to consider the physics of it, you will realize no amount of body hair fluttering in the wind could possibly create enough drag to pose a serious detriment to your performance and slow you down. I don’t care if you are as hairy as Austin Powers with a fleecy coat wrapping your body as if the next Ice Age is coming. When you’re battling the wind, it’s just not that important.

But when the pavement is your foe, now that is another story. Imagine the feeling of shedding a few layers of skin as you roll, slide and tumble across rough pavement somewhere in the vicinity of 25 to 30 miles per hour. I’ll give you a hint: It doesn’t tickle. Now add to that the bonus of all that hair you neglected to shave being ripped from its deeply rooted follicles and you have the makings of a truly memorable experience. And hence, I present to you, the razor. (Shaving cream and moisturizer are nice too, but that is another article in and of itself.)

The benefits of the shaved leg go beyond just pain reduction, though. It also greatly aids the clean-up process, as bloodied and dirt-caked hair is not getting in the way as you delicately try to extricate the bits of road from your body. You just had a rough date with some hard asphalt, and life is bad enough at the moment as it is. There is just no need to make things any harder on yourself.

Of course, there is also the vanity aspect of it. Shaving your legs says “I am a bike racer” like nothing else can, save maybe severe and permanent tan lines that make you appear like a human Oreo: brown on the outside, white in the middle. It confers membership to an exclusive club and, depending on who you ask, looks kind of cool. Body builders do it, right? Why not skinny guys in spandex?

Finally, and this is only my personal theory, having shaved legs makes massages that much better. As you work your way up the ranks in the sport, the number of massages you get increases. When you are on a bigger team with a bigger budget, you can afford niceties like masseurs and physical therapists who will gladly and expertly knead your every sinew and muscle fiber, working out those pesky knots that accompany miles of training and travel. With no silly hair to get in the way, their lives are so much easier and undoubtedly so much more pleasant, as I can only imagine the grossness of massage oil mixed with body hair (think Alec Baldwin).

Unfortunately, I am not a pro, and my massages have been few and far between (though definitely pleasant). Therefore, my reasons for shaving, at least for the time being, are largely the first two. This past weekend, though, I was thinking more about the first.

Riding along in the peloton at the ECCC Army race weekend on Sunday, I turned to a friend of mine and said, “If I try to do anything, I give you permission to just smack me.”

We had raced a time trial earlier in the morning and then, in pursuit of some quality training, myself, the aforementioned friend and one other went off for a two-hour ride on the hilly roads around the United States Military Academy. Needless to say, I was a little on the tired side, and sitting in for most of the race would have been prudent. But, despite all this, the ringing of the bell for a preme got me excited, and before I knew it I was attacking into turn one. The next thing I knew, I was sliding along on my left side, headed straight for the guard rail along the side of the road. Fortunately, I was wearing gloves and long sleeves, so that saved some skin. And, of course, my legs were cleanly shaved.

To be honest, the whole situation was quite funny. As I came to a stop, lodged under the guardrail and needing the assistance of the race marshals to get back on my feet and run to the pits to get my free lap and hop back in the race, all I could think was that I had actually just smacked myself. As soon I was back in the race, I found that same friend and told him just that, assuring him that his services would not be needed. At the very least, we got a few laughs out of it.

It’s not so funny now, and I would definitely like to extend my thanks to the ladies at Tufts Health Service for the generous box of bandages. But even more so, I feel I need to thank the people over at the Gillette company for their Mach3 Turbo razor. Its finely honed blades and delicate padding make shaving an enjoyable experience every time. Were it not for them, I might not have had such cleanly shaved appendages, and my discomfort now would probably be all the worse for it.

Hopefully for next week’s installment, I’ll be able to keep it upright."

Batten-over

2010-04-15T16:27:00.001-04:00

More on this to come when I get a chance soon, but for the meantime, here are my reflections on Battenkill from today's Daily:

http://www.tuftsdaily.com/a-cyclist-s-tale-stupid-is-as-stupid-doesn-t-1.2225064

"I had a personal revelation this weekend. It won’t seem like much on the face of it, and taken out of context it probably seems inconsequentially obvious. But after I backtrack a little, I think you’ll see what I mean. So what was the earthshaking conclusion that I recently came to? Simply this: No one knows me better than I do.

And now for some context.

Last weekend was the Tour of the Battenkill. The biggest single−day Pro−Amateur event of the year in the United States, Battenkill is generally the first big goal on many cyclists’ calendars. After taking second in the Category 3 race last year, I expected nothing less than the top step of the podium this time around. Go big or go home, right?

The big difference this year was that I was in a new field: the Category 2 field. Cat 2 is one level below the top level of amateur racing, and more often than not, the Cat 1’s and 2’s are combined in one field, with a few pros often thrown into the mix as well. But at a race with such an enormous draw like Battenkill, the 2’s are given their own field to race in, providing aspiring riders like me with a golden opportunity to shine.

The usual Battenkill course — on which everyone but the Pro/Cat 1’s and Cat 2’s races — is a 62−mile loop featuring 25 percent dirt roads and a number of climbs. None of them are epically long, but there are enough of them to leave your lungs burning and legs throbbing by the time you reach the line.

The Pro/Cat 1 and Cat 2 racers, though, contest an additional 20 miles, with the added loop including a second trip up one of the race’s more famous obstacles: Juniper Swamp Road. This little beast is a short but incredibly steep dirt hill that would give many cars trouble reaching the summit. Rarely is it the defining moment of the race, but if you’re not careful, it can spell the end of your day.

But that wasn’t my problem. Neither trip up Juniper gave me any trouble, and I crested the summit both times safely in the lead group without expending much effort. As the peloton rolled along on one of the less eventful stretches of paved road not long after, a rider rolled off the front and pedaled away from the field. No big deal. With about 60 miles left to race, none of us was all too concerned. Not long after, a single rider sped up the right side of the road on a slight incline, rapidly forging a gap to the idling peloton and making his way up the road as well. But still, none of us was worried about two lonely riders trying to survive 60−plus miles of dirt, hills and wind. That is a long way to go.

I should have known better. Both of those riders are known for their strength in long breakaways, and the latter of the two has been on an absolute tear all season long (though the season is barely a month old). By the first feed zone, their lead was already over two minutes. But the peloton never showed any sense of urgency, and neither did I.

We continued to take the flat and paved sections at a sadly pedestrian pace, only turning the pedals in earnest when we hit the dirt or began to climb. Then our anger would show. Then we would unleash our fury on one another. But this inconsistent pace always favors the riders in the breakaway, who are consistently putting power to pedal.

Needless to say, we never saw those two riders again. The race was for third now. As for me, a crash on one of the final dirt sectors with about 15 miles to go found me on the wrong end of a split in the field. I was having a moment of weakness after launching an attack of my own on that same long dirt section and had drifted too far back in the field when the crash happened. Forced to slow nearly to a near stop, I didn’t have the snap in my legs to reconnect with the 20 or so riders who were spared. I spent the next hilly dirt section of the course alone, turning myself inside out to regain contact, but to no avail. Back on the pavement, I was reabsorbed by a few other riders, and we formed a chase group. We picked up a few more fading riders along the way, but we never closed the gap. We finished about 50 seconds back of the group ahead, our race now for 21st place — a sorry consolation. I didn’t contest that sprint, and simply rolled in for 30th place. Not exactly the top podium step I had dreamed of the night before.

So where did I go wrong? What foiled my plans for glory? In a word, me. I, and only I, am responsible for the missed opportunity that was the 2010 Tour of the Battenkill. I missed my chance when I watched that rider fly up the road while the peloton thought nothing of it. I let myself down when I didn’t spring from the safety of the complacent peloton myself and try to do what everyone else told me was impossible

“It’s 82 miles,” they all said. “That is suicide. Don’t worry about it — they’ll be back.”

So I listened. I sat there, safely in the field doing what was supposed to be smart: biding my time until the race got truly hard and all the excess baggage was shed from the field and only the strongest remained. But wait, that already happened. Those two brave men up the road had already forced the final selection, and that excess baggage was all the rest of us. And you know what? I should have known better. I should have known that I should have been up the road with them. I should have known that everyone has their strengths, and everyone has their weaknesses. And riding in a 60−plus mile break on challenging terrain, however stupid it supposedly might be, is my strength. I may not have the raw power to drop helpless riders with a searing attack, but give me an advantage on a course like that, and I won’t readily come back.

A little cocky? Maybe. But I think it’s realism. I know what I am good at and I know what I am not. But none of that matters when you don’t even try. None of that matters when you always try to do what is “smart.” Maybe smart doesn’t mean just one thing. Maybe what’s smart for you is stupid for me. Maybe the smart thing to do sometimes isn’t really all that smart. And now I know that. I already knew what I was good at and what I was not; I just didn’t know how to let me be me."

Batten-what?

2010-04-08T09:15:00.004-04:00

KILL. That's right, BattenKILL. Know that name. Study that name. Contemplate that name. There is a reason for it.

With just two days to go before the highlight of the early season for virtually every racer in the Northeast, as well as from many other regions, there's no time left for any doubt. If you don't yet know what you are doing it for, you are in serious trouble. Whether you are in it to win, or simply to give it your best shot and enjoy the ride, it makes no difference. At a race like this, there is undoubtedly more than one way to be successful. But you better know what that is for you. You better be toeing that line and pushing those pedals with a clear focus in mind, because nothing else is going to get you through. Nothing else is going to lift you up over climb after and crushing climb, drag you over dirt road after drudging dirt road. If you have a purpose, whatever it may be, and you focus intensely and singly on it, you are going to be OK.

And I am going to say it right now, here in the open for all to read, that my purpose is to win. That's all I want. That's I will accept. But that's just me, and that's just my choice. Here is a little more on that from today's Daily:

http://www.tuftsdaily.com/the-wheel-and-chain-a-cyclist-s-tale-deadlines-and-finish-lines-1.2216126

"No one looks forward to the day a paper is due. You know well in advance when it is coming, you usually know what it is going to be about, and you know how long it is going to have to be. You go to class (maybe), do the reading (maybe) and, as time goes on, you are hopefully closer to being ready to write that paper. But even the most studious among us can’t really claim to look forward to the deadline. It looms like a storm cloud, growing darker and more ominous with each passing day.

Bike racing just isn’t that way.

At the start of every season, riders sit down, either on their own or with a coach or mentor, and look out over the season ahead. They mark off a few races that they want to win the most — races that suit their strengths and racing style — and they build their entire year with those goals in mind.

Just like writing a paper, there is a process that goes into getting ready for one of these races. You set a due date: the race day, obviously. Then, you start to train. This is like going to class or doing your reading. Hopefully you don’t miss too many important workouts along the way. Sure, a few missed days here or there won’t spell defeat, but unlike writing a paper, you can’t just cram at the last minute and expect to come out on top. In fact, that’s about the worst thing you can do.

So you put in your time on the bike, pedaling away hour after hour. You ride when you want to. You ride when you don’t. You ride when it’s raining. You ride when it’s a fresh spring day. You ride out of joy. You ride out of anger. Whatever it takes, you train. The more you want it, the harder you train. It’s a little like that paper, right? The more it means to you, the more time you seem to be willing to put into it. But no matter what, you still don’t want the day that paper is due to come. It’s always, “Can’t I get just a little more time? An extension?”

But not with bike racing.

That day can’t come soon enough. You hang posters on your wall. You pour over previous years’ results, analyze the start list and memorize the course map.

Two weeks to go. One week to go. Come on, come. Let it be the weekend already. Yes! It’s finally here.

There’s no dread, not in bike racing. No emotion other than excitement, heightened by a touch of apprehension and angst. This Saturday can’t come soon enough. I’ve done my homework. Now I just want to take the exam.

The test is the Tour of the Battenkill on April 10. The biggest single−day race in the United States, it has been the focus of my training since I started riding my bike again with any purpose way back during the Boston winter, when snow was still falling and I otherwise might have just gone skiing. But I knew this was coming. I wanted it to come. Finally, it has. All I want to do is race.

Eighty−two miles. Twenty−five percent dirt roads. Hills. Lots of hills. In short, this is my kind of race. Tactics simply go out the window, and teams lose their advantage. On a course like this, it’s all about who can ride the hardest for the longest. It is a race of attrition and a race of luck. It is a race about desire. Every last one of us knows that from the moment we clip in to the moment we cross the finish line, probably about three−and−a−half hours later, all we are going to know is pain. It’s racing at its purest, suffering at its finest. But you know what? I really can’t wait.

So what makes this different? Why am I literally jumping out of my chair to get to the race on Saturday, but at the same time moaning and groaning about the paper I have due next Wednesday? I knew that both of them were coming. I know that my race is 82 miles long, and I know that my paper needs to be eight pages. I know that both of them are going to hurt, though in markedly different ways. And I’m equally ready for both: I put in all my training ,and I went to all of my classes. So what’s different? What makes the searing pain in my legs from laboring over climb after climb more gratifying than the burning in my retinas from staring at the computer screen all night long?

The answer is purpose. Simple purpose. Each one of those hills has a purpose — namely, to get me one step closer to the finish line, a line that I can point to and visualize. It is a line that I know exists and a line that I can define. It is a line that I want to get to first. But the paper? Sure, handing it in gets me one step closer to a decent grade (I hope) and one step closer to graduation. But where that leads, I have no idea. The finish line is nowhere in sight, and if anything, it is even more complex as it draws near. But not in bike racing. Not on Saturday. The finish line is there; I can see it right now. I know exactly what getting there first means, and I want to get there now."

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's a...

2010-04-02T08:45:00.003-04:00

BLOG!

Hello, there. Radio silence has resumed once more, but here I am with the newest installment of my weekly series from the Daily, recounting part of my experience last weekend at Johnny Cake Lane # 2. But before I give you that, here's a little something to make you jealous:

If you guessed that this is my new Independent Fabrication steed, courtesy of Team Ora presented by IF, you are right! She is hands down the best bike I have ever ridden, and I don't see myself giving her back any time in the near future, if ever. In the words of the dear Wayne Campbell and Garth Algar: "We're not worthy! We're not worthy!" I promise a full review is to come.

And now, some Daily action:
http://www.tuftsdaily.com/the-wheel-and-chain-a-cyclist-s-tale-where-do-you-think-you-re-going-1.2210037

"Editor’s Note: Evan Cooper is a sophomore, a sports editor for the Daily and an aspiring professional cyclist. He races for the Tufts cycling team and for the elite amateur squad Team Ora presented by Independent Fabrication. This series will chronicle his season as he tries to make racing into more than just a hobby.

“Pedal faster. Please pedal faster. God damn it! Just shut up, deal with it and pedal faster!” If that were all it took, winning races would be a whole lot easier. Unfortunately, things are bit more complicated than that.

It was a cold and windy day on a flat and narrow course. Eighty−five spandex−clad, over−eager men mashed their pedals in anger, fighting through gaps and edging their way forward through the peloton with one common goal in mind: Get near the front. Didn’t they know it’s only March? Didn’t they know it’s only the Johnny Cake Lane Training Series in New York, a minor training race, and that the winner would get just enough prize money to cover his entry fee and gas (if he didn’t drive too far to get here)?

But wait. Over on the right, a click of gears, a whoosh of wind, and suddenly one of those idiots went flying up the road, desperately trying to liberate himself from the clutches of the peloton and forge his way up the road to the breakaway. What a fool — he’ll never make it. Look at him. He’s so … little. Give him a hill to ride up, and then we’ll see what he can do; but here, what does he expect to accomplish? Hold on a second. I should probably go a little easier on this supposed fool. After all, that fool was me.

So just what was I thinking as I put in my feeble attempt to snap the elastic that bound me to the field and prevented me from riding in the breakaway at the front of the race? Well, I was thinking I might win. The course was undeniably not suited to my strengths. Despite mounds of pancakes and loaves (seriously, loaves) of French toast, I am still a lightweight, which means that I like to ride uphill. And when I’m done riding up one hill, I like to ride up another. That’s where I have my best chance to win. That’s where the big men with the muscles bulging from their shorts and biceps bigger than my calves will be left in the dust. But not here. Unfortunately, not every race is designed for climbers like me, and you just cannot afford to wait for those races, especially when they usually don’t come until later in the season. And besides, I’m young and eager, and I want to win.

So there I went, dashing up the road, into a headwind, tucking low over my machine and fighting the pedals to go faster. My gap to the field grew, but so did the pain in my legs.

“Ugh. Here we go.”

As the effort went on, my power dwindled. I was just not ready for this at the moment. The itch in my muscles turned into a burn. The embers in my lungs grew into flames. The cold air I sucked down felt more like acid now. But still, I’m young and eager and I want to win. So I pedaled harder. I looked over my shoulder. The field was in sight, but I had a gap. I thought to myself, “Maybe I can hold it? Click. A harder gear. Come on, suck it up. Get to that bend. If you get to that bend, you’ll be out of sight and maybe they’ll just let you go.”

I dug deeper and came to the bend. I stole another glance over my shoulder. Not what I was hoping to see: the field. A few riders rolled by me as I gasped for air. I wouldn’t have minded rolling all the way to the back of the field and spending the rest of the afternoon chatting it up with the guy who’s just happy to be there and hanging on for dear life. But you can’t win from there, so I got up and out of the saddle, gave the pedals a few kicks, and forced my way into the line of riders near the front. A friendly face appeared next to me. “Had to give it a shot,” I huffed out. A nod. He knew why I did it.

So what was I really thinking? I know what my strengths are. I know what they are not. I know what it takes to break the chains that hold each of us captive in the peloton, and I know when I have it and when I don’t. And at this point in the season, when I’m intentionally going to races with legs weary from training and treating those races as more training, I know better than to expect too much. But still, I’m young and eager, and I want to win. I feel like I have something to prove, partly to those other colorfully clad men and partly to myself. But that’s exactly what gets me into trouble.

Though they are crucial components of success in this sport, youth, eagerness and the desire to win are often intoxicating. I’m like a racehorse with my blinders on and the finish line the only thing in sight. There’s nothing wrong with intensity and focus, but there is such a thing as wanting it too much. It is when you want to win too badly that you don’t win at all; it is when you will do anything to win that you are bound to fail.

I could make the move on a course like this. I could win on a course like this. I’ve done it before and I’m going to do it again, but it won’t be because I suddenly develop the power output of someone whose right quadriceps probably weighs more than my entire torso. No, it’s going to be because I finally remember that I’m here for more than just winning. I am here for fun. Riding my bike is fun. Racing my bike is fun. And sure, wearing spandex is even fun. Next time I’ll remember that. Next time I’ll race with my head. And because of that, maybe next time I’ll win."

Peekaboo

2010-03-22T22:44:00.004-04:00

Way back when the ECCC season started at Rutgers nearly 3 weeks ago, most schools were beginning their spring breaks. Not Tufts. No, we Jumbos were busy taking exams and handing in papers. And even the next week, when a good chunk of other schools had their breaks, we were still in dorms, busy as ever. But, I am glad to say, break is finally here, and it could not have been more well-timed.

Thanks to my carefully planned Monday-Thursday schedule, I hitched a ride home on Thursday afternoon to make it home in time for dinner. (It's always about the food with me, in case you still haven't noticed.) Checking weather.com, I saw that I was in for an excellent weekend, with temperatures breaking the "it's tanning time" threshold. And I could certainly use some of that, as Roger now has a huge advantage over me after 3 weeks in Tuscon.

After an easy ride on Friday, I was ready to head to my first non-collegiate race of the year on Saturday: Johnny Cake Lane # 1. Excited as I was for the race, particularly because it was a 55-mile somewhat-road race rather than another crit or short circuit race, I was also a bit nervous. All my most recent attempts at hard interval work were nothing short of pathetic and demoralizing, and convinced that I was behind schedule to be ready for my first goals of the year, I kept working rather than backing off when I should have. A needless and amateurish mistake that I really should be smart enough not to make, but one that I did make nonetheless. So heading into Saturday I was afraid that I might be in a little bit of a hole.

Not that I pulled out anything special at the race, but I did erase my fears. I wasn't fast, but I definitely was not slow, and I'm not too far from being as fast as I would like to be. I was really caught by surprise and my morale is now back up. But just in case, I'm taking it easy now anyway. The best time to take it easy is before you feel like you need to take it easy. By the time you're feeling over-cooked, it's already too late.

So a 3-hour long, little-ring-only ride under the sun with my dad on Sunday was just the thing. We rode, we stopped, we ate a muffin, we rode some more, and then, inspired by our faux-Shabbat dinner on Friday night, I made this:

That's right Matt Mainer, that IS French toast you are looking at. But not just any French toast. No, sir, that is cinnamon-nutmeg-vanilla challah French toast. As we all know, any French toast worthy of the name is made with thick, soft, and doughy slabs of quality challah.

Tomorrow, more easy riding. After that, though, it's back to work, and by work I mean earning more French toast. After all, I can't have that delicious treat every day. I do have my girlish figure to look after...

Racing in the rain

2010-03-19T08:28:00.002-04:00

I'm lazy, so here is my article from the Tufts Daily in lieu of a regular Blog post. I'll be doing these once a week now, so I'll put them up here too:

http://www.tuftsdaily.com/racing-in-the-rain-evan-cooper-details-his-cycling-in-new-york-1.2195911

"Editor’s Note: Evan Cooper is a sophomore, a sports editor for the Daily and an aspiring professional cyclist. He races for the Tufts cycling team and for the elite amateur squad Team Ora presented by Independent Fabrication. This series will chronicle his season as he tries to make racing into more than just a hobby.

“One day it started raining, and it didn’t quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin’ rain ... and big ol’ fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself, so I’ll just thank Forrest Gump for describing so accurately what last weekend was like for all of us in the Northeast. And for a decidedly obsessed cyclist set on getting his training and racing in no matter what Mother Nature has to say about it, those few days of apocalyptic weather were nothing short of torture. But before getting into any specifics, there is something I think you need to know about bike racers (or cyclists as I will refer to us from now on): We will stop at almost nothing to race our bikes. It could be pouring rain, gusting wind or even hailing, and a bike race still would not be cancelled. The only exceptions to the rule are lightning and sometimes snow, with an extreme emphasis on the sometimes.

Needless to say, cyclists are just a bit stupid.

So when the monsoon-like weather descended upon New York City last weekend, where there was a bike race scheduled that the rest of the Tufts cycling team and I happened to be attending, there were cyclists aplenty toeing the line to take on each other and the elements.

Have I told you that I’m stupid?

The Tufts cycling team is a member of the Eastern Collegiate Cycling Conference (ECCC), a collection of schools ranging from the University of Vermont in the north down to Delaware in the south and encompassing just about everything in between. The ECCC is one of the most densely peopled collegiate cycling conferences in the country, and despite the disadvantages of the low altitude and often cruel weather as compared to other conferences, it is one of the strongest. Last year, at Collegiate Nationals in Fort Collins, Colo., the ECCC claimed three of the four mass-start events, and many of its graduates are currently among the professional ranks. Clearly there are some talented cyclists amongst these ranks, but the men and women of the ECCC are also slightly stupid.

Do you see a theme here?

Last weekend was the second weekend of racing on the ECCC calendar, and the teams of our conference were gathered on Saturday to race around Grant’s Tomb in New York City. From the early morning on, the weather was anything but hospitable for bike racing. Temperatures hovered in the low 40s, winds gusted off of the Hudson at 40-plus miles per hour — and then there was the rain. Suffice it to say that kayaks and jet skis would have been better-suited to the conditions than bikes precariously balanced on centimeter-wide tires. But still, we insisted on racing.

The original course was shortened to a track-style event, with two long straight-aways linked by a 180-degree turn-around at either end. On the uphill stretch, the wind blew at our backs. On the downhill stretch, it was in our faces. The wind was so strong, in fact, that going uphill proved faster than going down. Then, in the turns, the wind whipped our skinny cyclists’ bodies — or at least mine — so hard that steering our bikes became little more than a desperate attempt at survival. It was a mess. And still, the racing continued.

As the day wore on, conditions did not improve. In fact, by the time the Men’s A race, the final collegiate race of the day and the race in which I was entered, was set to go off at around 2:30 p.m., the weather was worse than ever. The rain came down harder, the bitter cold increased and the wind most definitely blew harder. In fact, as I reluctantly climbed out of the safe and hot car to ride my bike up to staging, I was knocked against the rear of the vehicle, unable to remove myself from the trunk port without risking being knocked to the ground for the second time that day. (The story behind the first time is immeasurably more embarrassing.)

But still, every race on the schedule took off on time and lasted for the full duration it was planned for, even with the shortened course. It just meant everyone had to ride a lot more laps. Our race was no different.

I won’t lie: It was just too much for me to handle. These 133 pounds don’t provide a whole lot of warmth. When I decided to steer off course and get my idiotic self back to the car to get naked and warm as soon as possible — the only sane decision I made that day — I realized I wasn’t alone. A lot of people did not finish that race.

Normally, a race report would give the details of a race and all that played out on the road. There would be a winner’s name and probably a picture of his victory salute as he crossed the line first. But this year’s edition of Grant’s Tomb was unlike any other race. Every single racer — whether in the Intro categories, the Women’s C or the Men’s A — who was brave enough to clip-in at the line and give it their all was a winner that day, as corny as that sounds. Many of us did not finish our races, succumbing to the absolutely brutal conditions before time was up. But on that day, possibly more so than ever, winning was about more than crossing the line first.

In a sport that is all about pain, a sport that rewards those who can best accept and embrace their suffering, one thing is essential above all else in order to succeed: love. If you don’t love what you are doing, there is just no way to endure that much pain. It was pretty clear on Saturday, though, that everyone standing out there, shivering in their spandex and quaking in their cleats (and I am not kidding because that’s what I was doing), loves this sport. And that’s what I’m in it for: love.

Next time you hear from me, though, I hope I’ll be telling you about how the sport loved me back."

Reality Check: Status? Prepared.

2010-03-10T00:08:00.004-05:00

The first weekend of the 2010 season is behind us. For me, that meant heading down to Rutgers for Week 1 of the ECCC calendar, always a much-anticipated event for me since it not only marks the beginning of the racing season, but also my birthday and a chance to spend the weekend at home. On many fronts, the weekend did not disappoint, as 15 of my Tufts teammates and I got to spend two nights in my house and were treated to endless pasta and cookie-cake by my mom. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. It may not have been the 20th birthday party of your typical collegian, but then again, I don't claim to be your typical collegian.

Thanks Mom.

On the racing front, I definitely have nothing exciting to report. After a winter focused almost exclusively on long, long miles, with some tempo work starting after the new year and threshold only thrown into the mix in the past two weeks or so, I could not expect much when the weekend called for a 2.8 mile TT, a crit, and windy 80-minute circuit race. None of these were going to be my cup of tea. And they were not.

This time last year, the total lack of results would have bothered me, a lot. (As a side note, I did pick up a preme point while in a breakaway that I foolishly initiated during the crit, so I do have something to show for my efforts.) I probably would have been fuming right now and wondering what I'm doing wrong and why everyone is so much better than me. But in the past year, I feel that I have matured considerably. I have not been training for this type of effort. It's as simple as that. I've hardly used a fast-twitch fiber in months, so it would be absolutely ridiculous of me to expect them to be at all responsive when I called on them this weekend. I've chosen not to focus on season-opening crits in March, instead trying to set myself up for bigger things to come. When you have goals, you have to make sacrifices in order to achieve them.

Anyone can say he is going to do something and make a plan to do so. It is in the executing of that plan that most people get lost. Usually, it is a loss of the long-term focus that costs someone his chance to achieve what he initially set out to do. There are going to be a lot of distractions and obstacles along the way, but treating them as just that, distractions and obstacles, rather than road blocks, will see that you stay the course.

With that in mind, I simply had fun this weekend. Awful TT? So what. Mediocre crit? Who cares. Just surviving the circuit race? Alright. In the end, I know that it is all good for me and my long-term goals. I had a ton of fun this weekend just being around the people I like and the sport I love. It felt good to race my bike again, even if the people around me were making me suffer for it. But I didn't start my training way back in November with an eye to win the Rutgers crit, or Grant's Tomb. No disrespect intended to those races, of course. No, my plan has always been to enjoy myself at those races, which I did and will, but to keep in mind where they fall in the overall plan.

My first real goal, Battenkill, is just a month away now, and it's just a hair longer than 2.8 miles. That is what I have prepared for. That is what I am still preparing for. That is what I am prepared to sacrifice for.

Never Trust Your Weatherman

2010-03-05T16:58:00.003-05:00

Wow, in the time between my last post and this one, the countdown to the Rutgers Frozen-Toed Season Opener has dropped from 19 days to 1. That came up on us fast. Not that I'm complaining. How could I? It's finally time to race bikes again!

After a hectic week of paper-writing, endless reading, and incessant cramming to get ahead for the weekend, I'm finally sitting here an hour and a half before departure, killing time until dinner watching the Food Net......ahem, I mean the manliest thing I can find on TV at the moment - James Bond. But seriously, I'm incredibly excited to finally get away for the weekend and test myself against the rest of the ECCC and see who has and has not been getting in their miles during this decidedly bizarre winter. It's only March, and it's only collegiate, so results now mean absolutely nothing. Regardless, it's always fun to do well, and it's always fun just to race. I felt mediocre at best most of this week, but after a few short openers this morning, my legs finally felt pretty normal again, and I think I'm in good shape for the weekend.

Back to the topic of bizarre weather, I have to say that I hereby renounce the use of all weather-predicting services. I will henceforth rely on the only tried and true indicator of weather: look out the f-ing window. Rain? Snow? Oh poo. Sunshine? Yay.

Honestly, the weather men in New England are absolute morons. Multiple times in the past week I have gone to bed mentally prepared for another day on the trainer, only to wake up to a sunny sky and to see that the forecasters have changed their minds and decided that it is not, in fact, going to snow today. Such was the case this morning, much to my delight, and I was able to get in a perfect pre-race ride. The day that undoubtedly took the cake, however, came last Friday, when I once again went to bed expecting to wake up to another awful New England day. Fortune shown upon me, though, as when I woke up at 7:30 to use the boy's room, I was smart enough to take a peak out my window. Greeting me was a partially blue sky, dotted with some ominous looking clouds. The predicted precipitation was no where in sight. I bolted to the computer, refreshed the useless weather.com I always keep open (why?), and discovered that the rain/snow/miscellaneous precip. would not be arriving until 1 pm. So I dashed off to breakfast, scarfed down my usual meal, kitted up, and set out before 9 am. Save a few flurries around the midway point in the ride, I was safe. That is, until the final 30 minutes of my nice 4-hour jaunt.

The skies were suddenly completely blotted out by low, dark clouds. I had just enough time to pull over and yank on my rain cape before the heavens opened up with a combination of snow/rain/sleet/slush/hail, with the emphasis on hail. I drove it home as fast as I could, which in hindsight was not the best decision, as that only amplified the effect of the falling hail on my exposed face. The result was not pleasant. All I could do, though, was laugh. It was just Mother Nature's way of telling me that I have a problem. But you know what, Mother Nature? Well, I really don't know what, but I'll think of something. In the meantime, keep it coming, because you're not going to win.

French Toast

2010-02-15T19:31:00.003-05:00

Yes, the picture from my last post was of a glorious plate of French toast. And yes, I will once again be singing the praises of said French toast in tonight's recap of my four-day weekend.

Today was the third day in row that I have indulged in those scrumptious slices, and the fourth day in a row that my legs have felt like them. It started with last Friday, when my first set of truly challenging interval work of the season was on tap. To that point, I had been logging some pretty steady hours, combined with lots of work in my tempo zone and some "bulking up" in the gym. After those lovely 2.5 hours, the bread was sliced.

Challah French toast -- the king of all French toasts

On Saturday, I set out with some excellent company, riding over to Cafe Fixe in Brighton and then proceeding to take a roundabout route to Harvard, Mass. (no, not the school) and then finally home. My ride topped out at about 5 hours with some fun punching and racing thrown in to keep things interesting, which they absolutely were. Fortunately, I had created plenty of room for three thick slices of my new favorite recovery item, so French toast consumption ensued. In regards to my legs, consider the bread battered.

Sunday, I set out with Kevin, one of my new teammates on Ora presented by IF. (Yes, we have new sponsors. Yes, they rock.) Though today was just 3 hours, we rode a nice steady pace the whole time essentially without stopping, unless you count my demand for a pee-break thanks to my annoyingly small bladder. But with the previous two days piled on top, by the time I was turning home I definitely felt I'd had enough for the day. Fortunately, some fantastic French toast awaited me once again. The bread is in the pan. (Are you picking up on the metaphor yet?)

Today, though, I fried those babies up, lathered on the syrup, and dug in. The plan today was basically whatever I wanted it to be. Get out, start to ride, and just listen to my body. Well, I got out the door and I rode, but I did not exactly listen. The first hour I just felt so-so, riding a decent clip but nothing too hard, and considered just bagging it and making it a 3-hour recovery ride. But as the sun rose higher and the winds died down, I decided I should just man up, test my legs, and see what happened. So that's what I did.

Long story short: today turned out to be the best day yet, and I got in a solid 4 hours on my own, highlighted by hour 2.5-3.5, when I emptied the tank and abused myself until the road basically insisted I stop, though my legs had been asking me to for quite a while already. It's amazing what will happen when you just give it a shot. Listening to your body, it turns out, is not always the best thing to do at first. You might just need a little time and a few hard efforts to get opened up, which is just what I needed today. (Though if you still feel like poo after said efforts, by all means bag it. No one is wining the Stars and Bars in February.)

Oh, and I had more French toast when I got home. YUMMMM!!!

Now, though, it is in fact time to listen to my body. After four days that were absolutely better than I possibly could have hoped for, it's time to put the legs up (which they are at the moment, anti-embolism socks and all) and recover. That means a day or two off the bike and, sadly, no French toast. But fear not, readers and fellow foodies. A little down time means feeling better in just a few days time, or so I hope, and more chances to indulge.

Days until Rutgers Frozen-Toed Season Opener: 19.

Keeping Busy

2010-02-11T19:36:00.003-05:00

The title of today's post is both a summary and an explanation. There is no doubt that the semester is back in full swing, and the amount of reading I have on my plate right now is all the evidence I need of that. Between getting through those hundreds (no, I am not exaggerating) of pages every week and logging enough hours on the bike, Blogging has been relegated to B-priority lately. Sorry guys. But with a four-day weekend on the horizon, a nice little window of time just opened up.

To steal a line from my fellow-Blogger Andrew Bernstein, "It seems that winter has gone south for the winter." (Well played, sir.) And yes it has. While places like Maryland, DC, and New Jersey have been getting hammered with the white and fluffy, up here in Boston we got no more than a light dusting, which is just fine by me. I was only locked up indoors for a single day, so I used it to log some gym time and add some weigh to my lack of a frame. Today, Mr. Sunshine was back and I was out and about once again, in nothing more than leg warmers, which was an awesome surprise.

Of course, none of that is at all exciting, though if you hail from one the unlucky snow-packed regions it might be somewhat of a tease. If that is the case, read no further, because I am about to make you spectacularly jealous. One of the beauties of my collegiate life: the three-day weekend. After countless hours pouring over the course list last semester, I was able to construct the best possible schedule to allow me to train as much as I want. That means Thursday skips straight to a double dose of Saturday. I love it.

So last Friday (or Saturday, part 1 as I like to call it), I set out in search of a quality 4 hours. I couldn't find anyone to keep me company, but to be perfectly honest, there is something to be said for riding alone. The silence is absolutely soothing, and there is just no way to match the efficiency that you can achieve when riding alone. With no one to break the wind for you and no one else to dictate the pace, you can do whatever you want the whole time. And that's just what I did. I set out on my favorite extended loop to Harvard and back, with just a brief stop at the country store for some Fig Newtons and Coke to re-energize mid-way. It was a perfect day.

But now I need to make you even more green with envy than you already are. When I said I was riding alone, I may have lied a little. Though I may not have had anyone to talk to for those 70 miles, I did have this image in my mind the entire way, beckoning to me every mile, every pedal stroke, making the day that much easier:

Yup, that is simply the best French toast you have ever seen. Knowing that I would crave breakfast food after a long ride, but that by the time I was back the dining halls would have switched over to lunch, I craftily snagged these during breakfast and popped them in the fridge to save for later. Dubbed "Crunchy Texas Toast," these bad boys are, in short, supremely thick slices of bread, egged, battered, and coated in corn flakes before finally being thrown in the frying pan and served up. With some cinnamon and little jelly on top they were divine...and just what my growling stomach wanted.

If that's not good company, I don't know what is.

Round Two

2010-01-30T20:32:00.003-05:00

Temperatures today were not much better than they were yesterday here in Medford, MA. By not much better, I mean single digits rather than negatives, and that was only by about 1 or 2 o'clock this afternoon. I think you can see where this is going...

That's right, I spent the day kicking it with Bruce Wayne in the bat cave. Ok, not really, but that would have been really cool. Think of all the sweet toys. But I digress.

I actually spent my afternoon in my dorm room, which resembled a cave with the lights off and the blinds mostly drawn to help keep the room as cool as possible as I plugged away at the trainer again. I'm sure you're all pretty familiar with the set-up.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my roommate for being so accommodating, too. Though he likes to sleep in, which means I have to wait a little while, once he's up he is pretty understanding of my need to stink up the room for 2 hours and do battle with my alien-green spinning contraption (ie. trainer). Hell, he even provides me with my in-flight entertainment! Today's feature film: Platoon. It definitely got the job done. So thanks a lot man. I promise that as soon as the mercury rises again, I'll be out the door before you've even left REM. In the meantime, please continue to bear with me.

Anywho, today's workload was much more bearable than yesterday's, thanks to some good old-fashioned intervals. Though yesterday's easy 2 hours was by no means physically painful, it was sheer mental drudgery trying to slog my way through 120 minutes of left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot...

"Yes, drill sergeant!"

Today, thankfully, my 2 hours were nicely broken up into much more manageable segments of time. Sometimes I rode hard. Sometimes I rode really hard. Sometimes I rode easy. Sometimes I rode really easy. And, what do you know, the time sort of flew by. It's amazing what happens when you're only thinking about the next 5 minutes rather than the next 115.

Not that any of this is news to me, as I have done plenty of trainer rides before -- both totally boring and monotonous and broken up by interval -- so I know how to help pass the time; but some days intervals just aren't on the menu. Those are the difficult days when you just need to use every trick in the book to not look down at your cyclecomputer and see that its only been 1 minute and 46 seconds since you last checked how much longer you have to go. It's tempting, but you just have to resist.

In a way, riding the trainer offers a great lesson -- both for cycling and, well, life. In the end, of course, the big picture is all you can really see. All those little five-minute segments are just strokes of the brush on the canvas that is ultimately your season or your life. But if all you ever think about is the end result, what the puzzle is going to look like when you finally put in the last piece that you've been looking for and finally found under the sofa cushion, not only are you going to miss out on a lot of good things, but you're quickly going to be overwhelmed. It's just too difficult and too much to ask to keep your eye on the prize all the time. We all need some smaller incentives along the way to keep us on that yellow brick road to wherever it is we're going. The Emerald City may may be a pretty bright light at the end of the tunnel, but it's simply not always enough to get us all the way there.

So set that goal of beasting Battenkill, nailing Nationals, or fawoomping (yes I made that up) Fitchburg. But don't get too obsessed with it along the way. Keep it in mind, but don't let it blind you. Staring at the big picture all the time is just too much.

Grab the Bull by the Horns

2010-01-29T15:43:00.003-05:00

Fear not, my faithful followers. I haven't forgotten about my promise to keep updates more frequent. This past week just hasn't been all that eventful, and I haven't really done anything that I've though was Blog-worthy. That is, until today: I rode the trainer.

It may not seem like much, but for those of you who know me well, you might understand how difficult that can be for me. To date, I have ridden the trainer only two other times all winter, and one of them was only because I spent the entire day driving home from New Hampshire and night had already fallen by the time I was home. I've braved some pretty severe temperatures over the past weeks and months, all in the interest of actually getting to ride my bike. I've always felt that every time I'm forced onto the trainer, a little piece of my soul dies. There's just nothing fun and nothing satisfying about it, other than working up a good sweat and I guess feeling like I've accomplished something.

So as you can imagine, it had to take something drastic to keep me locked up indoors. Today, drastic came in the form of -7 degrees and wind gusts of up to 32 mph at 10am, when I wanted to start my workout. Though I'd like to think that I deal with the cold better than most, despite what some might call my "slight build," I'm no freaking polar bear; and last I checked, there's not an ounce of Inuit blood in me. Plus I don't have the muscular strength require for pedaling through anything more than 3 layers over my legs, so that ruled out wearing every pair of leg-warming device in my wardrobe.

Having already lifted yesterday, when it was definitely warmer but happened to be snowing quite heavily, my options were limited. So I reached under my bed, pulled out my chemical green Kurt Kinetic trainer, and thus began the war of the wills. The victor: me. Two hours later I was showering and off to lunch. Amazingly, my soul is still intact, and for that, I have Mr. Martin Scorsese to thank. "Raging Bull" proved just the trick to get my mind off the drudgery at hand, and what do you know, it's exactly 2 hours long! Thanks again Martin. It's hard to be too bored while De Niro is pounding faces in. I highly recommend it for your own attempts at self-chastigation.

Building and Rebuilding

2010-01-21T16:43:00.003-05:00

In this sport, everything is about building and rebuilding in one way or another. When training, we are constantly breaking ourselves down with long hours in the saddle and hard, focused efforts in order to build ourselves up for our goals. Once those goals are passed us, whether we achieve them or not, the process starts anew, and that form we had often deteriorates before we build it up once more, often times higher than before. Build and rebuild. Those are two of the key principles in cycling, as well as in life, in my opinion.

In the past year, I have become intimately familiar with these principles and what it feels like to successfully implement them. Under the guidance of Roger, my coach and mentor, I put in more effort and time to training for my goals than ever before, and I definitely enjoyed the fruits of my labor. A big result at Battenkill, an upgrade to Cat 2, and simply enjoying every minute on my bike were amongst my greatest achievements. I learned a lot about myself and what works for me, and though I still have much to learn, I think I have a lot more figured out now than I did at this point last year.

As I said in my last post, before coming back to school I finished up a huge block of training. I had never before logged such hours in the saddle, and the work I did in those two weeks have me feeling truly confident about what I will be able to achieve this coming year. Without getting into my plans for the whole year, I will say that my most immediate goals are to have a dominant performance at the Cat 2 event at Battenkill in April and then to earn my Cat 1 upgrade by June, before Fitchburg. With school starting today, training is definitely not going to be easy, as I have a big course load with three courses for my major at the same time, but I know I can make it work. I will never let cycling get in the way of school, especially since I know that waiting until I am 22 to let it fully take over my life, at least for a while, will only make me stronger, but that does not mean that I can't still devote most of my remaining energies to the sport. And that is what I intend to do. Though I'll be hard at work studying, I'll be just as hard at work proving I belong where I recently found myself.

That brings me to my final topic of the day, which I alluded to the other day. After throwing my name around and reaching out to a few different people, I was offered an opportunity that, to be honest, was beyond my wildest dreams. Back in November, I was offered, and of course accepted, a spot in the Independent Fabrications Racing Team . I was, and am, truly thrilled to be on such a respected and accomplished team, with a group of riders that I know command serious respect and are proven performers. It is an awesome group of guys and I feel privileged to be counted among them. Now I just want to go out and prove that I belong, even if only to myself.

How does this tie into building and rebuilding? Well, there are certainly some deeper and more meaningful ways, but I'm going to leave you with a bit more of a material one. On my way back to school yesterday, I picked up my new steed from the IF factory. She's a shiny and beautiful IF SSR, finished up with my first ever set of Dura-ace components. At the moment, I'm just finishing the set-up, which should be done early next week. Not that there's anything wrong with Orbea, which I fully intend to keep until it dies, but this bike is SWEET. It's going to be an awesome machine, and I will lick it clean if I have to in order to keep it as beautiful as it is now. It's going to be a good year.

A Beginning and An End

2010-01-19T16:45:00.003-05:00

I'm sure that my long absence has lost me any faithful followers I may have once had, but for those of you still interested enough to reading this, hello again!

It would be a waste of time to recap the past four months, so I'll just give you a few highlights:

I finished the fall semester of my sophomore year at Tufts.
I joined Independent Fabrications Racing Team, which warrants an entire, forthcoming post of its own.
I skied in Mammoth, California.
I hiked in New Hampshire with my new teammates
I rode my bike...a lot.

And there you have it: the cliff-notes of my life from September through now. As of now, I'm all packed and ready to head back to school tomorrow morning, where I will reluctantly be heading back to class and, gasp, reading. At least I made the most of my time at home.

Since coming back from my ski trip Christmas week and then playing in the snow in New Hampshire with my new teammates, I have spent pretty much every minute of every day either riding my bike or eating so that I could ride my bike again the next day. As you may recall from an earlier post, pancake consumption is absolutely tantamount to my happiness and motivation; and let me tell you, my mood has never been better (I'm sure Aunt Jemima must be happy too). I don't do the whole "here are my numbers, now bow and worship me" thing, but I will say that over the course of 15 days, ending yesterday, I logged 51 hours in the saddle. That's a lot of pancakes.

Nearly all of those miles were logged in some very good company, namely other local riders and Finkrafters in the area. The group was different every day, but Roger was always in it, which for me is just incredible. I can't stress enough how valuable it is to get to ride with my coach/mentor literally every single day.

Though there were lots of great days over those two weeks, the real high point was last Friday, when Roger, Kyle, Andreas, John Raheb, Prinsloo, Arland, and I set out for the first great epic of the year. We covered 112 miles and climbed over 6000 feet, and somehow still had it in us to haul ass for the last 45 minutes to get Prinsloo home in time to go pick his son up from school. I'd be lying if I said that didn't hurt, but we made it and it was one of the best days I have ever spent on a bike, and 6 hours has never gone so fast. Great company makes days like that truly enjoyable, and all those guys were great.

So now that I have closed that chapter with a nice coffee shop ride today with Rog and Kyle, it's time for me to rest up a little bit, settle back into life at school, and then prepare for the start of the racing season. Collegiate racing kicks off the first week of March at Rutgers, once again on my birthday, which I really enjoy. Though, as I said, I'm a little reluctant to go back to school, where I'll have a few more things on my plate than just bikes and pancakes, I know that I can push through the semester and, before I know it, I'll be back here in Jersey and back to the simple life I love. In the meantime, I'll have this to keep me motivated:

Isn't she pretty?

I promise to try to keep the updates a bit more regular from now on. I'm already beyond excited about this year, and I know it's going to be a lot of fun. Landing it IF was really a dream for me, and all my new teammates are really awesome guys. I could not ask to be in a better place, and, like I said, I promise to fill you in a little better later on. In the meantime, thanks for reading and, to many of you, thanks for riding with me.

Reset your clocks for GMST...

2009-09-02T21:00:00.004-04:00

Green Mountain Standard Time, that is!

That's right, folks. The big show up in Vermont that marks the end of the road season for most of us is finally upon us. It is officially two full days into September, a scary thought in itself, and all those long hours in the saddle and nights spent neglecting friends and any semblance of normalcy are about to pay off - or so we all hope.

Personally, I could not be more excited or feel more well prepared. For the first time in weeks, I am feeling no fatigue at all - rest days will do that for you - and I can sense some excellent form coming on. That's what my WKO+ software is telling me, anyway, and that thing is like a freakin' crystal ball, isn't it? But in all seriousness, I am confident as can be that I can make something out of this race and convert on all the work I have done this year. It has been a long summer, starting when I got home from my freshman year at Tufts at the beginning of May, occupied almost exclusively by riding and racing my bike, with this one last weekend of racing my biggest goal. I should probably be a little nervous and freaked out then, shouldn't I?

Probably, but to be perfectly honest, I am not. All I am feeling is pure, unadulterated anticipation. I drove up to school on Tuesday a day earlier than planned, taking advantage of a rest day to move into my new room (which is absolutely awesome, by the way, and will make an excellent arena for Beirut) and have now had a full day here to settle in and take of my last-minute preparation under as little stress as possible. With a nice spin this morning and most of the day spent lounging happily in my new pad and admiring my shiny, new coffee maker that can actually be set to brew automatically when I wake up (tears of joy), all that remains is to head up to Vermont tomorrow and get ready to race and eat copious amounts of food. Does it get any better? I doubt it.

The nerves might kick in a little tomorrow night or Friday morning before my time trial, but for the time being the satisfaction of being settled in at school is serving well to help me forget any of that pressure to ride well. On Monday, before leaving, the prospect of hauling a truck filled with everything I own up to Boston and then schleping it all up two flights of stairs and arranging it in my new home, on top of then getting up to Vermont and settling in there to race all seemed a little daunting. But now that all I have left to do is race my bike, I feel that I really don't have anything to worry about. After all, that's what I do - race my bike. I'm a bike racer, not a move-stuff-to-Boston'er. With that major task out of the way, I know that I will be able to simply enjoy the race that much more, which usually means I will do that much better. After that, I may dabble in cross, which I am sure I am going to love, but more importantly it will finally be one of my favorite times of the year: Beer season!

Because I'm white, and I sure as hell can't dance.

You'll never rain on my parade!

2009-08-22T15:22:00.004-04:00

I have this theory, a little hypothesis if you will, that I want to run by you. It's pretty simple, and I guarantee that you can test it out for yourself to prove me right or wrong if you feel so inclined, though I have a strong feeling that wont be necessary. So here it goes:

One's happiness is a direct correlation to rate of pancake consumption.
Or, in mathematical terms: P x N = H,
where P is pancakes (a constant), N is number of pancakes, and H is happiness.

Doesn't that look like genuine happiness to you?

I am a pretty firm believer in this theory and have been putting it to the test with regularity over the course of the season. While flogging myself on a particularly long or gruelingly hard ride, doing my best to stave off overwhelming boredom or fight back tears of pain, the promise of a fresh batch of oh-so-delicious pancakes never fails to reinvigorate my spirits and add a little power to my pedal stroke. No matter how much or little I may have suffered on the ride, I know that when I roll up my driveway, by some sort of divine magic, the properly measured combination of fluffy powder, eggs, and milk will yield my absolute favorite recovery and comfort food. Whether drenched in rain, sweat, mud, blood, or any combination of all the above, nothing can take that away from me - with the exception of my own laziness, in which case I may settle for the second-best option of waffles and eggs. But in general, as long as long as good old Aunt Jemima is still around, no one and nothing can rain on my parade.

And with that, I arrive at my question of the day, only this time it is for you to contemplate, whoever you may be, as you now my answer. What I would like to know is this: What do you use to motivate yourself on a particularly trying day? When the skies open up and you absolutely getting pissed on, literally or figuratively, from what source do you draw the strength to drag yourself on rather than curl up in a pathetic heap on the roadside and cry for Mom?

Before you answer that, I need to attach a condition. Some of you might be inclined to say that you are inspired by the desire to be the best, the hunger to succeed, and nothing else. You think of yourself as a pure competitor whose motivation to compete and triumph is never-waning. I'm going to say to you right now that that is absolute bull shit. I am convinced that even the bravest and most ruthless of competitors, be it Alberto Contador, Lance Armstrong, Michael Jordan, or Mohamed Ali, have their moments of weakness and doubt. Every one of them and every one of us must have some other source to draw from, however basic it may be. It may sound crazy, but for me that is pancakes.

Maybe I was dropped over the top of that last climb, or maybe the prospect of another interval sounds about as fun as a Jonas Brothers concert, but as long as I keep those pedals turning until my body completely fails me, I know that I can still earn those pancakes. The more I ride, the more pancakes I can justifiably eat. And no, pancakes are not the reason I ride, they are not the reason that I dream of one day being a professional cyclist, but on those days that I doubt myself and doubt my dream, I need a contingency plan. I need some source of motivation that I can keep in reserve when my primary source is waning a little. That is when I think of pancakes.

What does it for you?

Capitol Region: Courageous, but Crushed

2009-08-19T22:09:00.003-04:00

Though admittedly a little belated, I've finally decided to fill you, my loyal reader, whoever you may be, in on my latest attempt at eking out a result in a P/1/2 race. Five days later, though, I am not really feeling a full blow-by-blow race report, and I doubt you would truly want to read it anyway, so I'll skip the filler and just serve up the main course.

It was a hot, hot, and, dare I say, hot day, as it has been every day lately. The race was 4 laps of a 20 mile course, and on lap 1 I was already in trouble, nearly losing contact on the first time over the series of short but sharp climbs. I could tell I was on a bad day, but I was able to maintain contact, though just barely. On the second and much flatter half of the course, the innevitable early break began to form. I could see it happening, and knew exactly what was going on, but my legs were absolutely telling me no. But Roger then decided to make things even more obvious, pointing out to me that this was going to be the break and that I should probably be there, now leaving me with absolutely no excuse for being a complete and utter pussy. So when Jackson Weber of Embrocation came up to the front, where I was currently "hiding," and gave me THE LOOK, what else could I do? Ultimately, I grew a set, and Jackson and I, along with two CCNS riders painfully bridged to the 5 riders already up the road. This was the break, and everyone there knew it.

My death was imminent. What can you do.

I'll hit fast-forward now and spare you some details in the interest of both keeping your attention and salvaging some of my pride. I was eventually dropped from the break and then caught by the elite and select chase group a few minutes behind. The next time up the climbs, I was dropped by them as well, as the big boys dropped some bombs and blew the remnants of the field to shreds. Jackson and I were reunited (YAY!!!), and we rode at a conversational pace along with an Anthem rider for the remainder of the lap. Through bribery, namely an offer to pay for beer later, I was able to convince Jackson to continue the death march with me and grind out the final lap. Unfortunately, the promoters felt otherwise, deciding that only the 14 riders contained in the break and scattered behind would be allowed to complete the last lap, and that the rest of us would simply receive pro-rated placings. So I ended the day 16th, which I am not particularly proud of, though I would probably have been a little happier with it if I could have ridden that extra lap. Plus, I could have eaten more cookies, pie, cake, and other assorted baked goods afterward had I ridden the extra lap. Damn you promoters, always denying me my just desserts!

Now that my wordier-than-planned race recap is out of the way, I will answer my question of the day, which I think is becoming a new theme for my posts.
Today's Q: "What did I learn today?" (boring, I kn0w, but nonetheless important).
Today's A: Well, I think I learned that I actually can sneak my way up the road, as I had hoped, and that I am capable of animating a race at this level. Granted, I did not have what it took to hang on to what ultimately proved to be the winning move (4 of the original 9 hung on to sweep the top 4 spots), but at least I was part of it at some point. That in itself is invaluable experience that I will certainly benefit from. I didn't walk away with any result to speak of, and I didn't bring home any prize money, but I took a step in the right direction. All this on a day that I felt absolutely awful from the get-go. Hopefully next time, which should be Green Mountain, I won't be having a jour-sans, and I can actually capitalize on an opportunity.

But, but, BUTT!

2009-08-12T15:55:00.005-04:00

If there is one issue that all cyclists would give up nearly anything to be able to ignore, but are forced to discuss and address all too often, is is our butts. Or, more specifically, the much more sensitive region thereabouts.

After countless hours of turning circles while perched atop an often scantily padded saddle with nothing but a layer of lycra and some sort of chamois in between, it is inevitable that all but the most fortunate are bound for some degree of discomfort in the not-so-distant future of their cycling careers. An entire line of products exists that is specifically geared toward alleviating this problem. An endless variety of chamois creams and balms are available at local bike stores and through online retailers to assist the avid pedaler both during and after rides, reducing the friction on the dingleberry wonderland and easing the pain afterward. Fun monikers like "ass sauce" (a play on Assos if you didn't get that) and "DZ Nuts" help make light of the conundrum, but it still hangs over all of us like Peter Gibbons' painfully annoying boss in Office Space.

Nothing else can truly compare to the pain of a nagging saddle sore that shoots bolts of pain up through your nether regions every time you touch down to set off on a ride. Runners may complain of awful blisters on their toes and feet, football players of concussions and dislocated shoulders, and baseball players of I honestly don't know what. But let's be honest here: Wouldn't any one of us in an instant trade a quarter, or even half dollar-sized blister on the heel or a swift shot to the head for the pain incurred simply by sitting in the saddle for hours on end? I know I would. So please, will all the sneaker and cleat-wearing folks stay out of this conversation. You've lost already.

Unlike Big George Hincapie, whom I gleaned through an interview over the winter is one of the blessed few who can go without the aforementioned products, probably saving him huge dollars over the years, I am cursed by a rather sensitive tainte (pardon my French). Despite my best efforts and countless tubs of chamois cream, of which I have found Assos to be by far the best, my usually enjoyable saddle time has recently been marred but a very unpleasant discomfort. Using my own well-being, and possibly that of my future (and by future I mean distant future) offspring, as an excuse, I decided to make a purchase that I have been contemplating for some time now: a new saddle. And not just any saddle. Yesterday's mail brought with it my brand new Selle San Marco Concor Light Racing Team saddle. Quite the name for quite the saddle.

I've been eyeing the saddle for the better part of the season, and the time seemed right to make a change, my hope being that a slightly different way of rubbing the saddle would bring an end to my worries and that little forest creatures would merrily scamper along as I ride care-free through the hills of northern New Jersey. Today was day two of my experiment and, sadly, my entourage of forest creatures has yet to form, though I've seen more than enough roadkill. I am happy to report, however, that the pain factor has gone from about a 7, with spikes as high as 9, down to a 2. Granted, over the course of my 4.5-hour ride today I was forced to stop nearly ten times to make adjustments, and at one point was nearly crippled with agonizing hamstring pain that was the result of too low a setting, but the pain I was most worried about was gone. And with the insightful input of my seemingly all-knowing coach, the Flying Fin, I was able to finally get everything set-up so that if feels nearly perfect. By the end of the week, I'm expecting a pain-free ride, or as much as is possible in our decidedly masochistic sport.

Oh, and by the way, if you don't own a tub of this already, buy one now. As the great Ferris Bueller would say: "It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up."

Finding my place: "Where am I?"

2009-08-10T17:23:00.002-04:00

With yet another race in the books, bringing me, sadly, one weekend closer to the end of the season, I've had the chance to learn a little bit more about bike racing and little bit more about myself, two things that I take as pretty fair consolation for not getting a noteworthy result.

Yesterday was Tokeneke, a race that I had not done before but that I had heard was a serious challenge. Although it was a little on the short side for a P1/2 race at 66 miles, the 6000 feet of climbing and utter lack of flat road made the race live up to its reputation. In the interest of keeping your attention and focusing on the real subject of this post, I'll just give you a quick synopsis of how the day went.

No one was shy about racing, and the first lap was intense to say the least. Things cooled off on the second lap, and a break finally rolled away that the field was happy with. The break never gained more than a minute, things got hot again on lap 3, then on the last power climb before the long run-in to the finish climb, the race went nuclear. The field shattered, I didn't have the gas to make the split, and finished the race in a chase group, dropping most of my fellow chasers on the 2.5-mile finish climb and rolling in with Jerome Townsend and James Morrison 3 minutes down for 24th place. The winner? The Fin himself, who clearly earned it by being one of the few riders in the peleton to make any effort to control the break before Jamey Driscoll and BikeReg took over.

Ok, now that we've established a background story, I can try to answer my own question: "Where am I?" Working backwards, the answer to that question is off the front. Unfortunately, that's only the answer if we're working backwards. At the moment, I'm really just a face in the crowd, holding on for dear life and trying to survive in the shadows of the big boys. That's simply no way to live, let alone race. Going forward again, where I should be is off the front, trying to take advantage of my relative anonimity in the P1/2 field. I realize that when I toe the line every weekend, I'm not considered a threat the way any of the top riders are. And nor should I be. I haven't done anything yet to warrant that kind of respect or fear. The problem, then, is that I haven't taken advantage of that.

Rather than trying to mark the fast powerhouses in the race and hoping, rather unrealistically, that I don't get spit out the back when the shit hits the fan, I should be taking advantage of the long leash that I'm sure I'll be given and forging my way up the road with other riders who, like me, are not yet considered a true threat. That way, when the big boys decide to pull out their guns and are shedding riders in every direction, I'll be safely up the road, riding a steady pace and biding my time before they catch up. By then, I can at least hope that just a little bit of the sting from their relentless pace has been used up already. It would be ludicrous to think that I'm ready to match their speeds when they decide to turn on the heat, especially when I know that it is short, intense efforts that give me the most trouble, and long sustained ones that allow me to excel. Granted, it is a major gamble to take off up the road, where you are working much harder than you would be in the fold of the peloton. But the steady effort in the break can be so much less punishing than the constant accelerations of a charging peloton.

So what's missing now? In all honesty, just a little bit of courage and touch of racing savy. These are all things that I know well from racing for 4 years and watching the Tour on TV every summer. All that's left is to work up the nerve to actually apply the lessons I have learned to an actual race and risk losing in order to try to win. I realized yesterday how much I admire those racers who, like me, are not yet labeled a threat, but who actually have the courage to go up the road and try anyway. Some of you may be reading this post right now, and you probably know who you are, as you are the riders who try this same stunt week in and week out. Sometimes it fails, sometimes it succeeds. Either way, you played your best card, and that's really all you can ever do. Your courage inspires me, and I only hope that, starting now, I can find that courage in myself and join you in the possibly doomed, but not necessarily so, break of the day the next time we toe the line. Here's to hoping we make it!

Stalefish

2009-08-04T19:48:00.002-04:00

Rain, rain go away.

So it's pretty clear that I've become negligent in my Blogging lately. I'd like to say that it's because I've been extremely busy doing something somewhat productive or garnering some huge race results, but both of those would be a total lie. I've simply been extremely lazy.

The last time I checked in, I was set to take a camping trip, marking my first true break from the bike all season. In the interest of saving words, I'll just say that the woods were refreshing, the beer was cold, and the plenitude of s'mores was absolutely delicious. I couldn't have asked for a better way to recharge the batteries.

Coming back from my trip, I got right back to business. My season is decidedly bottom heavy, with three big events (Tokenke, Capital Region, and GMSR) all falling in a one month span and all involving lots and lots of hills (you would see my smiling right now if I were telling you this in person). But before I can go out and hopefully convert some of those hills into results, I have to train and race more, and this past weekend, that meant the Tour of Lancaster County.

Now for the stalness:
The TOLC was a 2-day, 3-stage race, involving an 80-mile road race on Saturday followed by a TT and a crit on Sunday. Once again in the interest of saving words, the road race was hot as hell and hard, the TT was run amidst a monsoon, and the crit was blazing fast. I didn't leave with any results to speak of, though I was not embarassed either. Realistically, I couldn't really have expected much out of myself at this race, as I hadn't raced since Union Vale nearly 3 weeks prior, unless you count the local Rockleigh Criterium. That span was by far my longest stretch without racing since the beginning of March, and coupled with the my camping trip the previous weekend, it left me without much top-end power. To put it simply, I was very stale. My fitness was high, there is no doubt about that, but I just couldn't quite tap into it. It was like having a full tank of gas before a road trip but not being able to find your keys. I was able to gut it out on what I had, though, and the hope now is that I'll be able to convert that into some good form this weekend at hilly race No. 1: Tokeneke.

With 6000 feet of climbing over the course of 66 miles, it sounds like my kind of day. I've spent the last two days just recovering from the weekend, with a 2-hour recovery ride Monday and a 3-hour joy ride today. Though it's taken me a little longer to recover than I would like, the lack of stress and abundance of good food I have been a party to (tonight thanks to my own cooking -- a fantastic shrimp fra diavlo), I have high hopes that I'll be ready to get down to business tomorrow and Thursday and turn it on Sunday. I'd be thrilled to nab my first Top-10 as a Cat 2, which would be a really encouraging sign a few weeks out from my biggest remaing goal, Green Mountain. We'll see how it goes.

Vacation, epic, and pancakes

2009-07-18T15:51:00.003-04:00

I'll be the first to admit that I'm often a bit of a hard-head when it comes to pretty much everything. When I want to do something, it is pretty tough to convince me otherwise, and it's usually best to just let me go for it and deal with the consequences myself, because chances are I'm going to wind up doing it despite any objections. So it's a little surprising that I wasn't too reluctant to completely for racing this weekend; though I guess that means that I really was ready for a little time off.

There weren't many worthwhile races to go to, except the Owasco road race, which seemed like an excellent event that would have suited me well, but with no one signed up and the absurdly long drive out to Syracuse, there was just no point. So when Roger texted me yesterday to tell me he had decided not to go, I wasn't exactly disappointed. To be perfectly honest, I was pretty happy about it. I just didn't want to spend my weekend in a car. And instead of driving up to Connecticut on Sunday for 50-mile crit that I probably couldn't win anyway, I decided that this would be a good time to just ride my bike as much as possible and start to get myself ready for Green Mountain in about 6 weeks from now. It's never too early, especially with the all Cat 2 field they just added, which really opens the door for me to end my season on a great note.

So today I went on one of the nicest rides I have had the pleasure of doing all year. It was a rare chance to truly ride with my dad, who happens also to be in the best shape he has ever been at the moment, which made it a truly enjoyable ride. We set out around 8am and headed off to Bear, getting in a pretty awesome amount of climbing including Perkins, the Bear Mt race loop, and many other nice ascents, giving us around 5300 vertical feet by day's end. When it was all said and done, we had logged over 5 hours of saddle time and I had burned a cool 3400 calories according to my SRM, a number I don't think I have ever seen before. Can you say hungry? The reward of endless gorging just might be my favorite part about this sport.

As soon as we got home, I cracked open a beer (Magic Hat), and began preparing the pancake batter as my dad took a quick shower. After he cleaned up, we switched roles, and I hopped in the shower as he cooked. Mmm mmm good. You just can't beat that. And not more than 45 minutes later, I was sitting down again and digging into a heaping bowl of cereal, which probably won't hold me over for long. It's not easy to eat over 5000 calories in a day, believe me.

I definitely could not have asked for a more pefect day, and I think it's safe to say that not many people are fortunate enough to be able to enjoy 5 hour rides with their dads. I consider myself beyond lucky to have that, and it was a much better way to spend my day than racing in Prospect Park at 6am. Now I'll use whatever I have left tomorrow to put the hammer down on the Nyack Rider, our local big group ride that everyone seems to think is a race. And with just a fun camping trip planned for next weekend, my first true break from the bike since March, I might as well keep the pressure on all week. Hopefully this big block will pay off in August, when the real racing resumes to close out the year. Besides, I might as well earn some more pancakes.

Enter the pain cave

2009-07-14T10:39:00.005-04:00

It seems that I have been saying this over and over again this season, but this time I truly mean it: Union Vale on Sunday was the hardest race I have ever done. I raced there last year in the 3/4 field, which covers 58 miles and is hard enough as is. But with an extra loop and more than a little extra fire-power, the 72-mile P123 race was another ballgame.

I felt strong as I toed the start-line and was fairly confident that I could reap the benefits of the stage-race form that I may have gained from Fitchburg. Waiting in the staging area and chatting with everyone, I realized that, for the first time this season, I would have teammates in the field. Gilberth and Rafy were both there, and Gilberth warned me that the chances of a break sticking were very good. With that in mind we rolled off for the start of our sufferfest.

Not 3 miles into the race, Gilberth launched an attack up a small roller, drawing out some other riders soon after and forming what would be the main break of the first half of the race. Overly anxious, I began to cover just about every move for the better part of the first lap, which I soon realized was a bad idea and not something I could keep up, so I finally wised up and just sat tight near the front but out of the wind. The break maintained a solid gap, but we were by no means going easy back on the pack. We caught them some time on the third lap, I think but the incessant suffering I was subject to leaves the the details a little hazy.

Going through the traffic circle at the start of lap 3, I was caught by surprise by an acceleration at the head of the field and found myself at the wrong end of a big split going into a serious head/cross-wind. I chased like mad to bring myself back, but couldn't seal the deal until we finally turned left onto a downhill section with a tailwind, where I immediately got back on. One big match burned.

The next time through the feedzone, which happens to be on the second half of the first main climb, I was too focused on grabbing a neutral bottle and let myself slide too far back in the group. The next thing I knew, an attack had drawn the majority of the field up the road and I was once again on the wrong end of a split, only this time the front end was a lot larger. Along with a few other riders like Andrew Bernstein, I chased with utter desperation, making it back onto the group just in time to fall off the back again as we headed up yet another climb. Somehow, I kept them close enough that I was able to chase back on down the ensuing descent, this time latching on permanantly. Match number two gone.

I was pretty convinced at this point that I was cooked, and that the next hill would be my last. Amazingly, though, my legs grew stronger and stronger as the race wore on, though it did not get any easier. The break was caught and a new one formed, this time with Rafy in it. I entertained no illusions about my chances on the day, switching to full on survival mode and just hanging on as the big-guns live Cameron Cogburn and Matt Purdy set a furious pace up each climb.

Despite feeling as if I was going to be dropped on every climb over the course of the final lap, I managed to drag myself over the top every time still safely in the fold. We crested the last climb with a very reduced group and began the run-in to the additional 1.5-mile finishing climb, where the fireworks were sure to start. We hit the base of the climb, which is steepest for the first half and then tappers off for a little while before pitching up again for the final 600 meters or so, and Gavi Epstein literally exploded up the left side. There was a response in the bunch, but no one could match his acceleration. The ensuing surge shed lots of riders though, and the second surge that came soon after finally shed me. Unable to even stand, I just dug in and tried to keep turning over my 25 as fast as I could, which really was pretty slow. I don't know how, but I managed to pick off a few riders along the way, catching up with Gilberth just before the flat section. We paced each other through there before I gapped him on the final steep section.

When the first piece of signage finally came at 200m to go, I tried to kick it into gear and finish as strongly as I could, but at 50 to go my legs basically failed. I could hear the whooshing of wheels coming up behind me, as Matt Cutler and Kyle Peppo, who I had dropped earlier in the climb, had clawed there way back as I faded. As I desperately tried to beat them to the line, I felt a hand shove me forward from behind, and with one last desperate kick, I got to the line first, claiming 13th place. It's nothing special, but hey, I'll fight for whatever I can. So I owe a huge thanks to Gilberth for that nice shove. Job done.

I'm not going to get into specifics, but let's just say that I put out some numbers for amounts of time that I did not think I could. I would have really liked to finish strongly and have a solid finish, especially with a climb that this one that really suits me, but the tank was truly on empty at that point. Maybe I could have dug just a little deeper, suffering that little bit more, but I am not so sure that it would have any difference. I was running on fumes. Those two matches burned earlier in the race cost me, and I am definitely learning how important it is to conserve in these races and fire your bullets when it counts, because you don't have many of them.

A turkey sandwich, a coke, a Nutrigrain bar, two hamburgers, a sweet potato, salad, a bowl of cereal, and some fruit all helped a lot bringing me back to life after the race, but it has definitely taken some time to fully recover. Even my feet hurt on Monday! Though I would have loved to finish in the Top 5, either with a strong finishing climb or by making the break, I can at least take some consolation from the fact that, once again, I was in the mix. Only my second race as a Cat 2 (if you count Fitchburg as one big race), this was definitely another good sign that I am not in over my head. I can confidently say that, when the shit hits the fan, I will be there. At this point it's not a matter of being strong enough to survive the race, I can do that. All I need now is the ability to finish the job, to have enough as left in the tank to fight for the line. But at least I'm in the position to fight for the line at all, so I'm pretty happy about that. Step by step, bit by bit, I'll get there.

The sky is falling!

2009-07-08T12:06:00.002-04:00

Last night, as I was just hanging out with my friends Erica and Sharyu in Erica's basement, one of the most bizarre events was taking place outside. I was not aware of what was going on until the power suddenly cut out for a few seconds, prompting Erica to go upstairs to investigate, and the report she came back with was quite shocking.

Apparently, in a 10 or 15 minute span, one of the most devastating storms I have ever seen was wreaking havoc outside, sending down monsoon-like rain mixed with hail, as well as gale-force winds and searing bolts of lightening. Both my parents called me immediately to warn me to wait before trying to come home and to be as careful as possible. The warning was needless, as when I finally left for home around 12PM, I was forced by numerous felled trees and their branches to crawl along, not to mention change my route home no less than 3 times. And all of this took place in no more than 15 minutes!

This morning, when I awoke at 5AM (thanks to my cell phone alarm clock since the power was out when I went to bed last night), I was disappointed to find that my house was still sans-electricity. So I ate my breakfast by candlelight (how novel!), kitted up, and headed over to Rogers so we could make our way to the shop for an early morning ride to Bear. On the way there, we were able to see the extent of the damage incurred last night. It was quite impressive. Fortunately, and bizarrely, the epic storm was confined to a very small radius, and in 4 hours of riding we encountered no obstacles other than one fallen tree that we had to climb over in the first few minutes.

So how does this have anything to do with cycling or my life, you might ask? Well, the impressive damage caused by the brief but obviously intense storm brings one word to my mind: Power.

If you're reading this Blog, chances are you ride a bike in some capacity, so you know the meaning of that word. Power is watts. It is force applied over and over and over to the pedals, propelling each of us forward through the wind and up into the mountains. But what I have been realizing more and more as of late is that power is not merely physical. In fact, I am starting to feel that power output is as much a mental task as it is a physical one. On that note, I'd like to bridge to a conversation I had with Andreas during our ride today.

We were talking about how we both feel that we often lack the fortitude, bravery, or whatever you would like to call it that allows a rider to really unleash all he has left in the tank as the line approaches. We are both strong riders who can survive most grueling races on all types of courses. He is a super strong all-around rider, I am more of a pure climber with a decent time trial; and not to sound cocky, but neither of us is going to be dropped easily. But when the time comes to uncork those last few watts and fight for the line with whoever is left in the race, we both agreed that we often have trouble making that last massive effort to out-kick our competitors to the line. Personally, I feel that the problem is entirely mental. It has nothing to do with being a poor sprinter, as someone like Roger is by no means a sprinter but that doesn't seem to have stopped him from winning more races than I care to count, and I can assure you that they have not all been solo. It is a certain ruthlessness and temporary disregard for one's body that allows a rider like Roger to self-inflict what should be an overwhelming amount of pain on himself to claim glory time and time again.

Physically, I think I have what it takes to produce results, though I undoubtedly have a long way to go and can only get better and stronger than I am now if I continue to work at it. But, for the time being, I am just as sure that all I need to do is flip that mental switch to suffer just a little bit longer, and I will be better able to use the physical tools that I already have. Today, I felt like I took a step in that direction.

As we ascended Bear, Roger set a nice steady tempo up to the gate, though nothing that would induce any soul-crushing (not that it was meant to be). After climbing around the gate, I took over on the front and was feeling a little frisky, so I upped the ante, holding a solid clip on all the moderate pitches and accelerating a bit on all the steeper ones. It wasn't anything that could drop Roger or Andreas, but it got me breathing hard and I could hear a little panting behind me, always a good sign. I was feeling it as we approached the last bend, which is where I often crack under the pressure of Roger's pace and just make my way to the top as best I can, but this time I threw my lever to get a few more gears, stood up, and dug in for the top. After 20 straight minutes of climbing, it hurt, but I held it all the way to the top.

Did Roger still out-kick me? Of course. But for once, I think that was only because he is the superior rider, something that was never in question, and not because I backed down. It was just like last night's storm. It does not necessarily take an overwhelming or drawn-out, never-ending effort to produce results. Just as that mini-storm, or whatever it was, wreaked unimaginably massive damage, it might only take another 30 seconds of suffering to put you on the top step of the podium. It's not going to kill you, and your legs probably aren't going to give out, though they may feel as though you've dipped them into the fiery pits of hell. The only question is whether or not you are willing to endure just a little bit longer. For the first time, I think I can truly answer with a resounding "Yes." And with Union Vale this Sunday, I have the chance to find out.

Fitchburg Roundup

2009-07-06T08:28:00.002-04:00

So it seems that I failed on my promise to post daily updates on racing at Fitchburg, but as most of you probably know, bike racing leads to laziness, and I don't claim to be any exception to that rule. But I am home now, and with two enormous cups of coffee in me, I have no more excuses, so here we go:

After a surprising 22nd in the opening time trial that left me in contention for a Top 20 overall, I was feeling pretty good. Day 2's circuit race historically features a pack finish, with most riders just trying to conserve for the queen stage on Day 3. With Mt. Wachussett out of the picture this year, though, it seems that people were holding back a little bit less, and fairly early on in the 16-lap race a large break made its way up the road and built a considerable gap. The gap shrunk and grew throughout the race, and a few riders were dropped from the break. Towards the end of the race, a few guys bridged up, and the break ultiamtely stuck, gaining 35 seconds on the field. I spent the entirety of the race comfortably in the fold, expending surprisingly little energy and getting off the bike feeling very fresh, something I did not expect at all. The break's success bumped me down to 25th on GC, but I wasn't too concerned.

The plan for Day 3 was much the same as the previous one: hold on. With Mt Wachussett gone, our race was extended to 8 laps for a total of 87 miles and 8 trips up the notorious feed zone climb, a stupidly-steep 500-600 meter, two-step hill. The first time up was one of the hardest, with riders eager to chase the green jersey points offered at the line. I was happy to have my 27 on, allowing me to spin past riders who were groaning their way up on bigger gears.

Around lap 3, a sizeable break formed and began to gain on the field. Once again, I was content just to sit in and watch things unfold, a perfectly sound strategy since I had no teammates and had been a Cat II for less than a week. Patience seemed like a good plan. Sure enough, soon after the final descent on lap 8, the race moto told us that the gap was 20 seconds to a bunch of riders who not cooperating at all, with just one rider ahead at a minute-thirty. Not long after, all but the one rider, who we soon figure out was Matt Purdy of team Spooky, were reeled in. I took a glance back and, much to my surprise, found that most of the 90+ man field was gone. In fact, I would guess that there were less than 40 of us remaining. Through clawing, grinding, and fighting, I had managed to cling to the main bunch and make the final selection. I was shocked to say the least. All the race leaders were there, and all I had to do was hang on a bit longer.

On the second of two short rollers before we turned onto the final time up the climb, a big acceleration sprung 6 or 7 riders free of the group, and they were able to hold their advantage onto and up the climb. In retrospect, I should have dug deep to follow this move, but I was just so shocked to have made it to the finish in such good standing that the thought didn't occur to me. My pre-race plans only included survival, and included no thoughts of what I would do when I actually approached the line. Call it complacency, call it shock. Whatever it was, it was a little stupid, but at the same time, I think I can cut myself a little slack for being a freshly minted Cat II only looking to get his feet wet. I ended up cedeing a few more seconds than I would have like up the finishing climb, that I passed a number of riders on the way up and dropped a few who had been ahead of me on GC. I finished 24th on the stage and climbed to 18th on GC, now officially in the money!!! I have never felt so completely shelled and empty in my life, and am still on a high from having made it through that day.

The final day's criterium was, for me, just a necessary evil. I don't particularly like crits, as they suit none of my strengths, but I know that I can survive them, so that is exactly what I sought to do: survive. I knew which riders were a potential threat to my GC position, which, though not Top 10 or anything, meant a lot to me. So I kept a watchful eye on them and did my best to stay in the top half of the field and as near the front as possible whenver I could. Some attacks were launched from time to time that had me a little worried, but patience once again proved the most prudent tactic, and all moves that could have threatened me were very short lived, as the ambitions of other riders in the filed proved just as powerful as those trying to escape. Yay for field sprints!

With 10 laps to go, I took to the front and fought like hell to not fall out of the top 10 riders, where I knew I would be safest. My friend and apparent crit-beast Connor Sallee was up there as well, so I clung to his wheel like it was my job. He proved an excellent wheel to follow, and if you're reading this, Connor, thank you! Ken Harris and one other rider took off with 9 to go and staid away to finish, which was fine by me and apparently with the race-leaders CCB team, as it took away the larger time bonuses on offer. I held my spot in the front until 2 to go when, as usual in crits, I lost my nerve and just faded to the rear. That was fine, though, as it this point everyone was just in full sprint mode. I tucked in and rolled across the line in 40th place, a first-page result but nothing to write home about. But my job was done: I had kept the rubber-side down and no one threatening to me gained any time. Whatmore, due to the bad luck of other riders, I climbed another spot on GC, slotting me into 17th at the end of the race and earning me a nice $70 check to bring home. Not that I could ever take pleasure in the ill-fortunes of other riders, but it just goes to show how important posititioning and attentiveness are in a race.

I left Fitchburg with all of my expectations met and far surpassed. I would have been content with a mid-pack finish every day, but instead I was in the mix, if not an actual factor, and emerged with a Top 20 placing, something I never would imagined. Had I had some expectations of myself going in and seized on that opportunity at the end of the road race, I could have been ever higher, but, as I said, the shock of being in the mix at all was too much for me and the possibility never really occurred to me. But I think I can now say that I learned a lot about myself this weekend and received a huge boost in my confidence. This race validates my Cat II upgrade and encourages me to start chasing some results in the near future. Next up, Unionvale this Sunday, a real climbers race with a 1.5-mile finishing climb. Who knows, maybe a Top-10 is in the cards. I'll just ride hard, hold on, and, this time, maybe take a shot.

Low expectations yield results

2009-07-02T20:24:00.002-04:00

I came into Fitchburg with absolutely no expectations whatsoever. I have only been a Cat II since Sunday, and I wanted to be completely honest with myself and not roll up here thinking I was going to clean house, a mistake I have made before. I came here to have fun and ride my bike, and if some result comes out of that, then great. If not, I won't be disappointed because I have nothing to fall down from.

But today's opening time trial left me realizing that I actually can expect a lot from myself. After what I thought may have only been a mediocre performance that I did not execute perfectly, I snagged 22nd place in the 94-rider field. I would have been happy with anything in the top half! I was just 1 second off the pace of a Top 20 finish, so I am pretty pleased to say the least.

Before I get ahead of myself, though, why don't I rewind a bit. With a 3:57 PM start time, I had all the time in the world to kill this morning. Time to eat, relax, read, eat, think about my race, and eat some more. It was pouring rain pretty much all day, letting up here and there, so I was expecting the worst. Fortunately, though, by the time I arrived at the parking lot, the rain and stopped and it was only misting every once in a while. I got in a nice warm-up under cover of a roof overhand and timed everything perfectly, though they definitely made us sit in line at the start house for much too long, not letting me roll up 60 seconds before like I usually do. But everyone was on the same boat.

I think I paced myself very nicely over the first half of the course, hitting my goal wattage, but the second half did not go quite as well. A little while after the turn-around, Gabe Lloyd, who had started 30 seconds behind me, caught and passed me. I kept him close, and was able to overtake him crossing the bridge into a headwind with about 2.5 miles to go. But, I had given it a little too much gas on the downhill sections, and he was able to pass me again, this time for good. I kept him very close for the rest of the race, but all of this had really messed with my head, and I was no longer doing a very good job of keeping track of my power and pace, concerning myself more with Gabe (who was on an excellent ride, claiming 8th). So the return trip was less than stellar, and had I just forgotten about him and kept myself nice and steady, I probably could have gone a bit faster, maybe clocking 18th or 19th. But, that was not the case, and I am by no means disappointed. On the contrary, I am thrilled to have done so well in my first Cat II race ever.

It's a great feeling to exceed your expectations, and for the rest of the weekend all I need to do is hang on and play it safe, and I could very well find myself making the Top 20 on GC, which is in the money. I am, afterall, a climber, and I get the feeling that at least a few guys ahead of me on GC are going to crack at some point in Saturday's road race. As Roger told me today, the more boring my race is from here on out, the better I will probably do. So I'm just going to keep my nose clean and try to stay safe and make all the splits. Tomorrow is a 16-lap, 50-mile circuit race that takes us up a certifiable wall every lap. People should be conserving their energy for the road race on Saturday, but there are always people looking for a bit of glory, so I'm sure it won't be easy. My plan is to sit tight and use as little energy as possible so I can just get home safe, enjoy my dinner, and get ready for the big one.

Getting it right, just in time

2009-06-29T00:38:00.002-04:00

My last post was written during one of the most frustrating periods I have had this season, and possibly ever, on or off the bike. I was going through a stretch of racing when, though I knew I had the fitness to do well, I wasn't able to get the results I hoped for. Sure, I was able to get a few Top 10's, but nothing truly special. The problem, though, was all mental. In my impatience to garner my Cat 2 upgrade, I was riding far too aggressively and, to be honest, quite stupidly. I wanted to be part of every single break to make sure that I was in the one that finally stuck. But when none did, I didn't have the gas to finish strongly, resulting in mediocre result after mediocre result. After coming home empty-handed once again from Housatonic, I knew it was time to reassess.

Rockleigh was somewhat of an improvement, and though I was a little too active in the first half of the race, I didn't do any work in the second half until hopping on Roger's wheel with 4 laps to go as he followed a promising attack by Greg Olsen and I believe an Empire rider. I pulled through as soon as we caught on, but only Greg was with me, and we tried to make it stick, but were caught with just under 2 laps to go. I was totally gased and just let the field absorb me as Roger, Wilson, Greg, and one other ridrer successfully countered to form the winning move. So I had missed out, but I played, in my opinion, a pretty good card and used my head for once. It was a step in the right direction. Saturday's NJ State Road Race went even better and was finally the day I have know I was capable of if I just used my head.

On a flat, open, and windy course typically suited to the sprinters, I had to have a plan and stick to it if I hoped to do well. For the first 2 laps of the race, I did absolutely nothing, just watching as a 6-man move made it's way up the road on the first of the 4 17-mile laps that composed the 70-mile race. It had some firepower in it, but I just told myself to be patient, which was extremely hard to do since, as I have said before, patience is something I typically struggle with. Sure enough, though, the chase began to organize and, by midway into lap 3, we were about to make the catch. Though I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to be the first to counter, we were about to catch the break at the only spot on the course that could be considered even remotely uphill, so if I was going to make any move at all, it had to be here. Just before we caught them, I punched it up the roller, blowing by the break and plowing forward. Mark Pohndork, who had been in the initial break, latched on, as did one Van Dessel rider, and we started to pull ahead. After a few minutes, John Landino and one other rider (Bill?) bridged up, and now we had the break.

To make a long story short, we cooperated flawlessly to the end, with Mark taking the win with a powerful sprint and myself rolling in for 5th, displaying my complete and utter lack of sprinting ability. I'm not complaining, though, as I rode the tactically savy race that I had hoped to it and it worked out just as I had planned. Aside from finishing well, it felt great to simply finally not screw up. With the points I earned, I reapplied for my Cat 2 upgrade, a goal I have had since the beginning of the season. The deadline that I had set for that goal was by after Fitcburg, and I am happy to say that I have now achieved it ahead of schedule, as I was approved today. Finally becoming a Cat 2 validates all the time I have put into this and, more than anything else, truly makes me feel that I am moving in the right direction. I should be competing in the Cat 2 field at Fitchburg now, which I do not doubt will be extremely hard, but I am excited for the challenge and fully intend to just play survival the whole race as I get my feet wet. The all Cat 2 field should make for an excellent transition into the higher level of racing though, so I think that the timing is perfect. We'll see how it goes.

Relax

2009-06-25T10:01:00.005-04:00

The scene from Zoolander when Mugatu hypnotizes Derek at his secret day spa and programs him to assassinate the Malaysian prime minister holds a very powerful moral that I would do well to take to heart. In the scene, Mugatu plays the hit song from the band he was in before becoming a desiger (beginning with the piano-key neck tie, and yes I have seen this movie too many times). The message that the song repeatedly beats into Derek's head is simple: "Relax!" If only Mugatu would kidnap me and subject me to the same hypnotism, I am convinced that all of my problems would be solved.

It has been my goal to garner my Cat 2 upgrade this season, preferably by the end of Fitchburg. I am ready to take that next step and compete at a higher level, as I really want to see how far I can get in this sport. Also, seeing so many other kids my age and even younger achieving their upgrades already definitely puts a little more pressure on me, as I sometimes feel that I am underachieving or being left behind. My season has not gone at all badly, and has been highlighted by a 2nd at Battenkill, 9th at Beat Mt and Balloon Festival, and 10th overall at the Connecticut Stage Race, as well as a few other top 10 results. But, I have walked away from a lot of races wishing I could have done a little more. Both Bear and Balloon fall into that category and, more recently, so does Housatonic Hills.

I came into the race with high expectations and great legs but, as I believe I have been most of the year, I was over-eager and wanted it too badly. To use my dad's very apt baseball analogy, like a hitter on a cold streak, I was gripping the bat far too tightly, causing me to swing and miss over and over. At Housatonic, like usual, I was hoping to force a break, as that clearly suits my strengths much better than a sprint finish. There was nothing wrong with that, but my mistake was trying too often to force that break to happen, burning my matches too quickly so that, when the right moment to snap the chord to the field presented itself, I couldn't take advantage of it. Even in the closing minutes of the race, when I probably could have taken the field by surprise with an attack in the second to last corner about ha half mile from the finish, I could not, as I had just burned my last match trying to get away on a decent. I then couldn't even sprint, I was so spent, and walked away with nothing. There is nothing wrong with wanting to do well, but putting excess pressure on yourself never does any good, and trying to be a part of every move is a surefire way to miss THE move.

So I don't have my Cat 2 upgrade yet, but I am knocking on the door and a win or two Top 5 finishes will get me there, and I am confident that I can achieve that very soon. I have a number of opportunities right in front of me now, particularly at Fitchburg next week, but I am going to make an effort just to enjoy myself and be patient with it. If it takes me another week or two, there is nothing wrong with that. I have Unionvale the following week, another hard and hilly race that suits me well. When the time is right and I learn to let things unfold on their own rather than trying to force it all the time, I am sure that what I am looking for will fall right into my lap. I know that I have all the physical tools now, I just need to learn to use them. Until then, I just need to enjoy the ride. See you tonight at Rockleigh.

Ready. Set. Sell!

2009-06-17T16:45:00.005-04:00

So that last big block of training went pretty well. In 7 days I rode 400 miles, logging 22 hours in the saddle. After a 4+ hour Orchards ride on my own on Saturday, I rode the George Washington Bridge Challenge on Sunday with my dad and sister. The GWB Challenge is a 62 mile charity event that benefits the American Cancer Society, and my dad has done it every year but one its 22 year history, and I have done it probably 6 times by now, so it's become sort of a tradition for us. This was the first time that my sister came along, so we had the full Cooper squad out on the road. It was essentially a 4 hour recovery ride for me, but that was fine, since my legs litterally felt like someone had drained them like they would the syrup from a maple tree. But I am now feeling awesome, having fully recovered from my huge week of training and feeling very ready for the Giro di NJ and Housatonic this weekend. This will be a great chance for me to score a big result, possibly twice since there are two good road races, and to test my TT ability ahead of Fitchburg.

There is no other way to put this, so I'm just going to say it blunty: employment and money completely suck. The three summers before this one, I had completely boring office jobs with regular 9-5 hours which, although they paid well, were painfully boring and were not at all conducive to training. Unless you like to wake up at 4am to get in a long ride, it's pretty rough, and training at dark is not a whole lot better. So this summer, wanting to really have a breakthrough year, I sought an alternative.

My first option was to work at a bike shop, which would of course have some obvious perks. But to make a long story short, that just didn't work out. Instead, I wound up working as a sales rep for Cutco, the knife company. It seems to have become a pretty popular thing to do, and it allows the most flexible work hours on the planet: whatever hours you want! You simply can't beat that. The only problem is that you really have to be very self-motivated and want to make money badly in order to make it work. It started out really well but, as one would expect, has slowed down considerably lately.

I could probably work a lot harder at it and be more persistent about finding new clients, but I have been so much more focused on turning the pedals. After all, the only reason I want/need a job is to fund my cycling needs, so why would I want to spend more time and energy working than I do riding? The former only exists to support the later, so I why let it get in the way, right? Well, like anyone else, I do have money worries, though I really despise money and would be much happier if it just didn't matter. The only reason I want it is so that I can afford to keep riding my bike, paying my entry fees, etc. So hopefully I can find the drive to put a little more effort into it and maintain some sort of positive cash flow, which I think I will do. All I have to do is sell, sell sell. So if you are in the market for any knives, and I kid you not they are actually really excellent ones, let me know! Otherwise, I can just use them to slash your tires.

Taint that funny

2009-06-12T13:38:00.000-04:00

As if trying to prove me wrong, the weather today actually decided to cooperate. I was woken in the middle of the night by pounding rain, and when I woke up again at 7, it was still wet outside, so I happily slunk back into bed. By 9am, though, things had a nearly completely cleared up, so I kitted up and hopped on the TT bike for Day 3 of this training block.

It was kind of odd because it was the first ride that I have done alone in at least a week, a stark contrast to the nearly complete solitude that I endured while training up at school throughout the winter and early season. I've definitely enjoyed the company, but a solo ride with just my iPod was actually pretty nice.

I was happy to be dry and see clear skies throughout the ride, and I just kept it light and easy for the first 45 minutes. Once getting to a road that I thought would be good, I checked my watch (SRM is being serviced) and ramped it up to tempo pace for the next 40 minutes or so. I found a good stretch of road that I was able to fly on with litter interruption, going from Blueberry to Brewery to Congers to Ridge to Little Thor. It was a nice stretch and a nice effort that was not at all hard but felt enough like to work to be fun. It also reminded me that, no matter how much chamois cream you use, the TT bike is just unkind. There is no way around it. All you can do is ride it as often as possible and get used to it. Now just one more big day tomorrow and that will finsih this phase of my big race prep, so I can hopefully ruin some people's legs next weekend.

It rains here?

2009-06-11T22:08:00.001-04:00

The weather at the start of this summer has been anything but summer-like, and this week has not failed to continue the trend. Today was the third day in a row that I've had to break out the rain slicker and brave the elements in the hopes of building some serious form ahead of Fitchburg and a few other big races that I plan to use to close the books on my Cat 3 racing career. But at least I've had some company every day.

It started Tuesday with an ass-crack-of-dawn TT workout with Roger and Andreas. We started with the jackets on, but as we started to ride harder and began to heat up, we stopped to peel them off. It was wet out, but only lightly drizzling at times. Inevitably, not fifteen minutes after we had peeled off our waterproof gear, the sky turned completely black and it began to piss on us, literally. It was an epic downpour. Except for not being able to see anything it was kind of fun, and weren't too far from home, so it was not so bad. Or at least it wouldn't have been if I had seen that hole in the road as we took a corner 5 minutes from the house. But I dind't, so rode straight into it and ate it in the middle of the road. Not so fun. Fortunately, I and my bike were both fine, and I washed off at home with nothing but a few cuts and bruises.

Yesterday and today I joined the shop rides to Bear, both times in equally wet conditions that left me with some awesome mud lines and road grime on myself and my bike when I got home. Tuesday's early morning adventure was pretty civil until we got to Bear, where Andreas decided he would try to take off early. That was a bad idea Andreas. You know Roger is going to chase you down...and he did. Roger towed Alex and I up to Andreas, and the 3 of us just hung on for dear life. After climbing around the gate, Roger put in some accelerations that shook Alex and Andreas, and then it was up to me to hold on, which I failed at several times only for him to wait for me to chase back on so I could get dropped again. Everyone regrouped at the top, and then we basically motored home. As is customary of most of my 4+ hour rides, I feasted on stawberry and blueberry pancakes to make it an awesome day.

Today was essentially rinse and repeat, with the emphasis on rinse. Today's ride was a little wetter, a little longer, and definitely hillier, featuring a new route to Bear that I hadn't taken before but definitely enjoyed. We also had a differnt crew today, including Kyle and his awesome green bartape that I am seriously jealous of, and were riding at the much saner hour of 9 am rather than 6. I am happy to say that this time up Bear I was the one to reel back in the earlier attacker, Jim, and then set the pace up to the gate. Once again, Roger played his cards on Perkins and shook the rest of the crew, and once again I was the last man standing. Only this time I actually held on until the last bend, where he put in one big, never-ending acceleration, which I guess just means he started riding faster than I could over the last 500m or so. I was pleased with myself for almost marking him all the way up. We then motored home once again, only this time no pancakes...not even eggs as we were out and I am way to lazy to go to the grocery store. Lots of cereal had to suffice.

So that's now 8.5 hours on the bike in 2 days, with a TT bike ride tomorrow and another 4 hours Saturday followed by some easier rides before I prep for the Giro di NJ and Housatonic, which should all set me up really well for Fitchburg. The goal is to win or at least podium at one of these road races and finish Top 10 on GC at Fitchburg before I upgrade to Cat 2 and start to take a beating. Now for some sleep before I probably get rained on tomorrow...again.

And your lucky number is...

2009-06-09T11:49:00.000-04:00

Apparently the answer is 9. Nine, nueve, neuf, nove, neun - whatever makes you happy. I just can't shake the number lately.

After a somewhat disapponinting (in my opinion) 9th place at Bear Mt a few weeks ago, I took 9th this past Thursday at the Rockleigh Crit in the 123 race. I was not too upset with that, as it was a 30+ man filed and I was extremely active throughout the race, burning pretty much all my matches. And when it came down to a field sprint in the end, I did not like my odds. Somehow, my skinny legs managed to hold my position at the front on the final lap and I clung to my spot in the top 10, drag racing Andreas to the line and just barely getting him (sorry bud). With a little more confidence and a few more elbows, I might be able to eek out a few top 5s in some fieild sprints for my final few upgrade points if need be. Who knows.

The notorious 9 found me once again this weekend, though, and this time I was a little less satisfied with it. First was Saturday's Balloon Festival in Cambridge, NY, at the same site as Battenkill (I took 2nd there!). After a long early morning drive with Roger, Andreas, and John Landino, I was ready to take my revenge on the race that I came oh-so-close to last year, when I had a mechanical on the final lap and was forced to drop from the winning break. But on the way up, I got the bad news that the course had been changed, and although we would be taking the main, and certainly difficult climb, 4 times, the course was overall much easier with fewer rollers and no dirt section. Long story short, despite my best and repeated efforts to shatter the field and several promising attempts that failed due to a general unwillingness of the Cat 3 field to work, no break succeeded and it was a sprint for the line with the remaining 30 man field of the the 70 starters. I kept myself up front, but chose a bad line into the left hand turn before that precedes the right before the final 200m. I had to grab my breaks to avoid the grass, and then I was bogged down and by the time I cornered again and was back up to speed, my sprint was shot and I could only overtake a few riders to nab 9th. Not what I was hoping, but still $10 and an upgrade point.

I hoped to redeem myself at High Bridge the next day, which was one of the most incredible courses I have raced. It was just brutally hard and I cannot wait to come back next year. After watching Roger claim the win in the Pro/1/2/3 race, which I was very tempted to do myself but am now thankful I did not, I was feeling ready to keep the Finkraft success rolling. The first 2 times up the wall, I felt awesome, having no trouble being one of the first ones up and and accelerating pretty hard myself the 2nd time to put the pressure on. On the rolling backstretch of the 3.3 mile course, I found myself with a gap on the field after I took a pretty standard pull on one of the rollers. This is where I made my biggest mistake: rather than sitting up and waiting for the field so I could just let the hill take its toll, I went for it. I forged ahead alone into hard headwind, pushing it far more than I should have. Whenever I looked back, except on the long finishing stretch before the hill, the field was out of sight. But when I made it to the wall, I knew right away that I hadn't held back enough. I made it over the top of the first pitch, but was soon caught on the false flat after the turn and watched an attack fly by me. I went backwards for a little bit and then latched on about 10 riders back. I thought I would survive, but when we made the left onto the final portion of the hill, one more acceleration shed me right away. Over the top, they were tantalizingly close, but there was just nothing I could do. I had not recovered at all.

I did what I could to make it through the lap, considering pulling out once I got to the line, but when I got there, I couldn't do it. So I put my head down and plowed on, grinding my way up the wall. My legs slowly but surely came back to me, and I picked off one rider after another, watching others drop out along the way as well. The final 2 laps of the race were horribly painful, but I kept catching riders so I knew I had to go on. I caught one more rider on the final rolling backstretch, and accelerated with all I had over the rollers to drop him and pushed to the line, putting a solid 20s into him. Despite my stupidity, I took - you guessed it - 9th. Another $20 for my wallet, but not at all what I was hoping for. The course suited my perfectly, as there was just no place to hide if you were weak. No real tactics, just hard, courageous riding. But I tried to be the hero early on, despite my better judgement, and I paid for it. Patience is a virtue that I have yet to receive, and I have no doubt that I would have won that race if I had only waited. Lesson learned, though, and next time I take the line, which will probably be the Giro di NJ followed by Housatonic Hills, I will have my revenge - AND MY UPGRADE POINTS!

The Trainer and the Powers That Be

2009-06-05T16:09:00.000-04:00

The awesome weather that we've had lately finally gave way to storm clouds today, and it was raining from the moment I woke up this morning. I thought I would just put up with it, but with the temperature in the 50s outside, and since cold and rain do not make a good combo when you're trying to stay healthy, I decided against it. So I set up shop in front of the TV and pedaled away...going nowhere, of course.

I really dread the trainer. I would say that it's a love hate relationship that we have, but that would be generous. I absolutely loathe the thing. I went to some serious extremes over the winter to avoid it, doing battle with the harshest conditions that Boston had to offer. Cracking open countless hand-warmers and struggling to unlock my dorm room with my frozen fingers day after day always seemed better than pedaling my way to nowhere. But sometimes, there just ins't much that you can do; and with Balloon Festival and High Bridge this weekend, I didn't want to risk getting sick and losing any of the good form that I've had over the past few weeks. So Mr. Kurt Kinetic, Indiana Jones, and I had a lovely date for an hour as I tuned up for the weekend.

After racing a very active Rockeligh Criterium last night, where I took 9th in the sprint finish much to my surprise, as galloping pack finishes are not exactly my strong suit (read 135 lb. climbers can't sprint), I felt encouragingly fresh today. I had been struggling to recover from last weekend's Connecticut Stage race, where I took 10th on GC for some valuable upgrade points, but I am glad to say that putting in some hard efforts last night and logging countless hours in the compression socks have me feeling pretty fresh again.

In other exciting news, all my wheels have simultaneously decided that they don't like being true anymore, and that they would rather I don't ride in a straight line, training or racing. First it was my Bontrager Race X Lite rear wheel, which has become my dedicated training wheel now that I replaced both my Powertaps with an SRM. It never did that when it used to be my race wheel! Maybe it was offended by the demotion. I already knew that my front Hed Bastogne tubular, which I strictly race on, was slightly out of true, but I've been using it regularly without any issue so I'm not overly concerned about that, though I plan to finally take care of it this week. But while at the shop today to drop of the Bonty and get a quick shifting adjustment, Al at Westwood tells me that my rear Hed wheel is slightly off kilter too. Now that is news! Fortunately, he was nice enough to set it straight for me with a few pulls of the spokes in question, and we are all set...or so I thought. It turns out that my shifting troubles are due to a worn chain and cassette, which I am starting to feel like I have to change as often as my underwear. The expenses just keep piling up. I'm just hoping I make it through the weekend without any more damage to my wallet, and maybe I can pick up a few bills tomorrow for my (fingers crossed) success at Balloon Festival. I won't be as hopeful for the outcome Sunday, since I'm racing the P/123 field at High Bridge, where the likes of Roger and various pros will be waiting to decimate my ego.