Batten-over

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?

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...

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

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

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.

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

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.