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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.

French Toast

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

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.