"When your luck turns, Sully, it TURNS"

Between races this weekend, I spent a little time talking about my father and the past. I spent a little more time berating myself for bad choices, but I did that only in my head. I even lost track of my humanity just a little bit, and that may have been the worst part.

But then, everything turned; the weather, the roads, the legs, the pedals. My luck. Now that I'm standing on the other side of what seems like a paradigm shift in my Omaha stopover, I'm torn between writing this story as a random convergence of forces or as a culmination of preparation and intent. I tend to blame myself and my decisions when things go poorly and attribute positive developments to luck. That makes living kind of hard, sometimes--especially when I accept blame for crippled mothers, disabled kids, disenchanted friends, lost jobs, unfulfilled potentials. But when my writing goes well or my kids achieve something, I chalk it up to fortune or happenstance. Resolving such negative thinking has been an ongoing challenge of subjective evaluation.

But on the bike, the numbers and the results don't lie. Maybe that's why my "fun' writing focuses on the bike: it's easier to explain.

Or maybe it's not: sometimes the strongest guy doesn't win. Sometimes you find yourself hurled into the abyss on a descent or hit by a car driven by an idiot. Sometimes you launch a heroic attack that doesn't work or suffer a mechanical failure that ruins months of training.

But sometimes, the gods smile on you and offer what Wordsworth calls "abundant recompense." Such was my weekend.

I drove to Clear Lake, Iowa for a weekend of Bikes, Blues, and BBQ with my teammates Leah and Shim. (I learned that Shim really doesn't like being referred to in social media, so I suppose we should call him "He Who Must Not Ne Named." But since that cat's already of the bag, let's just stick with Shim). 

Shim and I both raced the Master's 30+ crit through downtown Clear Lake, which meant that Cat 1/2/3 "youngsters" Ian Robertson and Lee Baumgarner from Flatwater Cycling in Lincoln also toed the line. The course was a semi-technical, eight-turn affair that started and finished next to the town square and ran alongside the ubiquitous lake for two blocks. It featured a block-long power climb and two potholes at the apex of two of the turns.

I failed to get enough intensity in my warm-up, so I hoped to sit in for the first half of the race until my legs opened up. How many times have I made that mistake? If you see me before a crit, remind me that without two five-minute ramp-ups to threshold before a crit, disaster awaits. Disaster.

I felt okay during the first three laps of the race. While Ian and Lee both blazed along at the front, I let the confidence I gained from cornering through Lawrence last weekend help me move up in the corners while drifting back on the little climb. But when I hit a pothole and heard an audible "clunk" at the end of lap three, I started to panic: I couldn't shift into the lowest gears on my rear cassette, and my breathing went to hell. the pedals just wouldn't turn, and my handling felt wiggly and unpredictable. I got gapped off the back twice and then dropped really badly.

When I looked down at my rear derailleur, it hung askew beneath the cassette. I hopped off the bike and realized that the impact of the pothole had jarred loose my derailleur hanger--the same one that fell off just before the start of the Lawrence Crit last weekend. Because we had to order the missing bolts directly from Trek, I had spent the week riding the bike with the hanger held in place by the force of the quick release skewer, but I evidently didn't get it properly aligned when I changed wheels right before the race. The tire was rubbing one of the brake pads, and the derailleur cage was way out of alignment. Race over. I blamed myself, as I should have, for not getting the bolts in time. But I ordered them as soon as I could, and I visited the shop and tried to find a solution. But I failed to properly secure the hanger in place. But Trek made a bike that allowed the bolts to pop out. But they popped loose because I misused my trainer in Lawrence. On and on, ad infinitum. Bad luck or simple negligence?

I threw the bike over my shoulder and did the racer's walk of shame through the backside of the course as the race continued. Wayne's Ski and Cycle had set up a tent in the town center, so I wandered over and told Wayne about my dilemma. He pulled bolts from his personal Trek Speed Concept Tri bike, but they were the wrong diameter. A QBP rep's loaner Cannondale, however, proved a better donor--its bolts worked just fine.  He and Wayne also re-tuned my rear derailleur and got the bike back in fighting form.

I watched Shim take third in our Masters race and saw an unfortunate crash in lap two of the Cat 5 race. I thought I was having a bad day:

No matter bad your luck gets, it can always get worse.

That's a total loss of a 2011 Trek Madone 6.5. Ouch. Even though I watched it happen, I have no idea what caused the crash.

Crashes feature prominently in the history of Clear Lake, a pretty little town with huge lake-front mansions alternating with charming Victorians. It's famous for hosting the last show that Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens played before their plane went down the Day the Music Died.

After a bit of food and some rest, Bryan and I kitted up for the cat 3 race. I was confident in my bike and my legs, but I was wrong. I couldn't recover from even minor surges in speed, and I got pulled after 20 minutes of racing. Bryan stayed in the race and gutted out the heat and humidity until the finish, while I tried to stop coughing and was inexplicably rude to a passer-by who wanted to chat about the racing. I was still in the process of peeling off my jersey when he wandered over to our van, so tried to tell him that I couldn't breathe or think coherently, but I think I bungled it. As a guy who always tries to serve as a positive ambassador for the sport of cycling, I totally blew that exchange. Bad timing-- or negligence?

After decompressing for a bit, I walked the course and tried to give Leah some positive vibes during her Elite Women's race. Look at her, all bad-assed and focused on the startling line:

She was outnumbered by the racers in the blue kits who attacked one by one until the winner got away and won by several seconds. Shim and I watched in horror as Leah eased off the pedals just before the finish line and got pipped for third. She was justifiably upset, but Shim's bellowing "don't stop pedaling!" would prove prophetic the next day. Still, her fourth place in that field and on that course was a great result.

Shim dropped his chain in the Pro 1/2 race, which was won in a solo attack by Nick Frey of Jamis Sutter Home. Fellow professional Gregg Brandt of Kenda / Five-Hour Energy chased valiantly for 5 laps but couldn't close the gap, while Clear Lake native Tom Zirbel controlled the pack and finished fourth. The crowd numbered in the hundreds:

Yeah, we race bikes in the Midwest!

As pleased as I was to see such a great turnout for a crit in Northern Iowa, I was really disappointed by how poorly my racing had gone. All the travel time away from my family, the entry fees, the expense of the new bike, the missed writing time: all of it seemed like a total waste as the day wound down. Shim and Leah and I met some good folks for dinner in Mason City, but I brooded throughout the rest of the evening.

We awoke the next day to rain and awful humidity. All three of us dragged a little as we loaded our stuff from the hotel and drove back to Clear Lake. The road race was staged in the parking lot of the Surf Ballroom, which has been restored to the way it looked the night of the gig that preceded the plane crash. One wall of the lobby is covered by Buddy Holly memorabilia, and on another wall hang pictures from hundreds of bands that played the room during the last 40 years.

My dad loved Buddy Holly. His was the generation that danced to that music and watched in horror as it died.

By the time Shim and I started our Master's 40+ race, the rain had stopped and the roads had started to dry. Temperatures were pretty mild, and Shim commented that we had covered the first 10 miles in what seemed like no time at all. I didn't know the course, but everybody commented on its lack of climbs and constant wind--two factors that usually play into my favor. I won my first race over the Dunnigan Hills in Northern California on a hot, windy day, and last year's Nebraska State Championship road race was run in similar conditions. But the wind was non-existent as we rode through flat corn and soybean fields. It felt like an easy recovery ride, just 30 guys chatting and spinning along.

Besides Shim and I, there were two guys from the Central Iowa Cycling Club, two from Sioux City Velo, two from River Valley Cycling in Minnesota, and three locals from North Iowa Spin, the host club. Assorted singles rounded out the field. I chatted about the course with Scott Wall, a lean, chiseled-legged hard man from Central Iowa CC, and a few guys from North Iowa. All of them said that the wind usually broke up the fields because there just weren't enough hills.

Nothing happened until the 15-mile mark, when I took a race-pace pull at the front to loosen my legs. When I pulled off, Bob Gregg from Sioux City tried an attack that Shim and a Minnesota guy covered pretty easily. I thought that if either Shim or I and one rider each from the other teams got into a break, we'd have a chance to stay away, but each time Shim or I tried to go, the pack would jump really hard. A solo rider escaped for about 5 miles but simply dangled ahead of us, and after we caught him, Scott Wall tried to launch 3-4 times in the next few miles. I tried to bridge up to him with a Minnesota guy on my wheel, but my jump must've scared the pack, because they roared to life and caught us just after we reached Scott.

Two solo guys did a lot of the chasing, which I found odd. Shim and I and the two Central Iowa guys did most of the animating and attacking, but the two solo guys chased while the local host club never appeared at the front. They probably ride these roads enough to know that no breakaway was going to stick on such a calm day.

I focused on scarfing down salted Clif Blocks and caffeinated Gu shots to stave off cramping in the humidity. No back pain ever crossed my mind, and despite heavy sweating in the sultry air, my legs felt supple. I did my best to cover most accelerations so Shim didn't have to, and when the pack converged, I slotted in ahead of him and tried to give him my huge draft.

Shim asked me how I felt with about 8 miles to go, and I told him that if the race ended in a sprint, I had the legs to win. We tried to pick one of the Minnesota guys to start a break with, but we just couldn't get the right combination of guys, so we resigned ourselves to mass finish.

A solo rider tried  to escape with 2k to go, but he came back on his own soon afterward. A few surges failed to string things out, so I side drafted into about fifth position as the group converged at the 1k sign. The referee had told us at the starting line that the route was closed to oncoming traffic only at the 200-meter mark, so I sat on the yellow and watched passing signs that reminded us not to cross the center line. I was chomping at the bit. I told myself over and over to wait, wait, wait.  Patience, patience, patience. Wait, wait, wait.

When I saw the "open road" sign allowing us to use both lanes, I swung out hard to the left and surged with everything I had. I stood up and threw the bike from side to side, flicked through the shifting, and felt my wheels fly beneath me. I passed the head of the group immediately and felt myself gap them off my wheel. I hit my biggest gear in about five seconds and then tried to punch through it. At about 75 meters to the line, my vision started to blur and my heart wanted to explode, but in my head, Shim bellowed at Leah, "Don't stop pedaling!" I crossed the line with my head down, still sprinting as hard as I could, terrified that someone would come around me. No one did.

I'm not sure how much of a gap I had, but I think I probably crossed the line alone. A few dozen people snapped pics and cheered as I won, but I saw none of it--I just tried not to pass out.

I was too wrecked from the sprint to feel anything other than nausea; the next few minutes after the race are still a memory-less haze. Shim picked his way through traffic for fourth place, and we rolled back to the finish line in time to watch Leah take fourth in her race, as well.

The host club fed us some beer and BBQ as they waited for the Pro 1/2 field to finish their 82-mile slog. Leah lamented my failure at race van organization when I haphazardly spread my stuff all over the place like a zombie, and Shim itched to get on the road for home. We left before the podium presentations (family and sponsor-disappointing FAIL on my part), but it felt good to leave town a winner.

Shim's power numbers prove that it was an easy race, but we animated the thing as well as we could. And I learned that I still have my sprint, even if I seldom get to use it.

How in the world did I go from dead-legs awful on Saturday to easy-race winner on Sunday? The different nature of the courses, for one. A good night's sleep, for another. A supportive teammate. A solid eating and drinking plan. Smart tactics in the group. Patience in the final kilometer.

Or was it all blind, stupid luck?
 

*       *        *

Richard Russo wrote one of my favorite books about an affably charming, Irish-American loser of a sixty year-old man. Sullivan's barely getting by, estranged from his family, allowing his unfulfilled potential to sadden the people who love him. But then an accidental visit from his son offers Sully a shot at redemption and a chance at repentance. All in the name of luck.

Or is it conscious choice?

The bike's a metaphor for many, many things. In my immediately post-race, finish-line hypoxia, I thought of something else Shim said, or asked. About my father.

Perhaps some failures aren't my fault.

But that doesn't mean I can't help rectify them.

Marx Was Right, Baby! (A Cycling Dialectic)

Here's conclusive proof of Marxist historiography from my old friend (ie: total stranger) Bike Snob NYC:

You'd imagine that at some point Americans would wake up to the fact that they're being sold a very expensive illusion of safety that is in fact killing them and opt for practicality and efficiency over sheer size, but until that day there's nothing illusory about city streets filled with light-running SUVs driven by a gentry who are more or less free to maim with impunity. And when it comes to cycling for transportation, the fact that your safety--indeed your very life--is not a consideration is what you might call a "barrier to entry."

The illusion of safety that BSNYC describes here is a function of what literary theorists call ideology, or an imaginary relationship to a real mode of production. We NEED cars. Cars MUST exist. You CAN'T live without one. You have to get from your suburb to your office every day, right? Because ownership of a McMansion with an acre of lawn is the AMERICAN DREAM, right? And so to protect ourselves from death and dismemberment, we should buy cars that are SAFER (ie: more expensive) than anybody else's car. Escalade! America!

The other salient point I find in the BSNYC quote is about "gentry." Marx argues that "the [written] history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggle." So it's the "gentry" (ie: rich whiteys) in their Yukons and Escalades who are endangering proletarian cyclists? (ie: working stiffs) Right? That's why more people don't ride bikes?

Is that what makes me a radical? I ride a bike?

But wait. The average retail cost of the bikes ridden on an average American "race ride" is ~$3,000? And most of the riders drive their SUVs to the start of the ride? Well, crap.

So I guess the revolution will be led by super-commuters Rafal, Munson, and Sarah, none of whom have updated their blogs in weeks. How about Matt Martin and the Community Bike Project? They're getting working stiffs on bikes by recycling old parts and teaching folks how to fix their bikes.

I'm certainly not in the vanguard. The only cycling-based class struggle I saw last week was when an exemplar of white-trash hickdom in a broken-down pickup truck tried to run a bunch of doctors, lawyers, and middle managers off the Omaha Trace Road as we spun along on our snazzy pieces of carbon. Workers of the world, unite -- and kill all the freaks wearing $250 bib shorts!

Know what else? I don't care what the crime statistics say: the safest place in Omaha, Nebraska is along Florence Blvd and North 24th St -- when you're riding a bike. These neighborhoods are riddled with drugs and gang-related crimes, but at least the motorists there don't value their time more than cyclists' safety. They'll get their vehicles around you eventually, so what's the hurry? Most all of them return my friendly wave as they ease past me.

That courtesy doesn't happen in Millard very often. No one in in the predominately bourgeois Omaha suburbs has EVER yelled "Hello, beautiful white people!" when a bunch of Union Pacific executives rode by, at least not when I was around. And only a hillbilly meth-head has ever stepped out from behind a Redwood tree along the the Bohemian Highway in Norcal and yelled "Peace on earth! Wanna see my tits?!"

Rhetorical support for the revolution: that's gotta count for something.

Rules for Old Men in the Rain

photo courtesy John Clayton

With all due respect to the Flatwater Criterium, Norfolk Classic, and Papillion Twilight Criterium, last weekend's Tour of Lawrence was the first time since I've come back to Nebraska that I felt like I was in a real bike race. Maybe it was seeing Brad Huff in his Jelly-Belly kit, or maybe it was the throngs of spectators lining the start / finish line and creating walls of of sound on three of the eight corners. Maybe it was the other racers--both the masters and Elite 3 races had fields of over 50 guys, and everybody came to race. Maybe it was me--I stayed with the pack the entire race. But this day of criterium racing felt just as charged as the Merco or San Francisco events I used to race.

The new bike made its debut and performed like a champ; cornering was much smoother, and my out of the saddle efforts resulted in noticeably quicker surges. My back hurt a lot during the second half of the Masters race, so between events I borrowed a stand from Sunflower Bike and Outdoor and adjusted my saddle forward a centimeter. That helped a lot.

Aching spinal erectors were the least of my worries, however. Black sheets of rain started about ten minutes into our masters race and continued until just after we finished. I saw at least ten guys go down, and one of them slid on his back alongside me for 20 feet as I ripped down a long straightway at 25 miles an hour. I saw him after the race, and he didn't have a mark on him. The water was that deep.

 The Cat 3 race was also a crash-fest, but none of the carnage seemed to faze me. I was squeezing through gaps, moving up in corners, and covering surges like a racer who's been doing this a while. Which I have. It's just nice to rediscover that fact. I finished 17th out of 50-something after losing Lucas's wheel in turn seven when a Des Moines rider chopped me by diving for the inside of a corner. He took out another rider, so I watched Lucas pass a few guys for fourth. But I had the legs at the end. That's a first this year.

Once again, I marvel at the equanimity and decency of my teammates. These are good folks. 

Lucas Marshall, Matt Tillinghast, and E.O'B. Photo by Jill Tillinghast

After the races I drove into Kansas City and hung out until the wee small hours with Carole, Tiff, and Erin. Too much whiskey and way too much laughter helped squeeze the weekend well into the fourth of July. How in the world did I survive four hours in the car, two hours of crit racing, and five hours of drinking, noshing, and gabbing? Good company helps--in racing and in socializing.

After coffee Monday morning, driving back to Omaha proved harder than I'd imagined, especially since I-29 is essentially closed. But winging through northern Kansas and southern Nebraska has it's advantages, especially when my bike wasn't the only new blue addition to the family:

Meet Blue Roo Sally, the Aussie Cattle Dog & Abbey companion extraordinaire. Having these two waiting for me at home made the trip fly right by.

This weekend I'm off to Clear Lake, Iowa for a crit and road race with Bryan, Shim, and Leah. I'll race the masters and the Cat 3 criteriums and the masters race on the road.

I can't wait.

Why does my ass hurt so much?

This post's provocative title is designed to generate web traffic from all the sites that link to mine. There.  I admit it.

Multiple choice answer:
A. I rode a time trial for the first time in seven weeks and strained something.
B. I had my ass handed to me by Brady Murphy.
C. My other teammate beat me by one measly second.
D. The course's pavement is bisected by a multitude of taint-crushing expansion cracks.
E. I forgot my chamois creme.
F. All of the above.

photo by David Allen Seevers

 

Over the last few years, I've taken a lot of grief from my teammates about my bike face. Whenever Phil Mooney watched me race a crit, he would yammer about the pain cave: "You looked like you were in agony out there!"

Now Redemske's doing the same thing on his blog--he's using my grimace-snarl to accentuate his own sang-froid. It's true--I DO look like a serial killer at the start of this 24-mile state ITT championship.

By the finish, I'd calmed down a bit:

Okay.....not so much with me and the calming down.

Good things happened on Saturday: the rain stopped by race time. I got a good warm-up. The starter and "crowd" laughed at my joke: "Murphy-Feagan-O'Brien-O'Donell? It's the Irish Mob potion of the race!" I started slow and didn't blow up in the first two miles. I went a minute faster than last year in slightly harder conditions. My back never hurt. I managed a bit of self-deprecating wise-assness at the turnaround that made those volunteers laugh. I retained my mental focus throughout the race. I was the second-fastest Cat 3 in my age group. Brady and Leah won state championships. My teammates and I shared a good lunch afterward. Ryan Feagan rode the TT Eddy Merckx-style and learned that he prefers mountain biking.

Bad things also happened: I went too easy on the return and couldn't sustain a steady pace.

I was hoping for a big-gear tailwind on the way back, so on the way out, I deliberately spun a higher-than normal cadence to save my legs. But my legs felt great at the finish, so I probably saved a bit too much.

On the other hand, my breathing and heart rate were all over the place. I can usually sustain a just-below-threshold rhythm when I race a time trial, but this weekend I either went too easy or blew up straight into the red. I had to choose either Zone 3 or Zone 5c--there was no middle ground. Every time I tried to go just a little faster, I'd feel myself starting to pop. And muscling over the hills in gearing that I can normally handle left me wheezing by the time I reached the crest of the rise.

The entire race felt either either way too easy or way too hard, which is the result of the way I've been riding. I've spent plenty of time on my long endurance and not nearly enough time working on my LT and VO2 max.  I've done lots of volume (not by MOD standards, but still) and not enough intensity.

Last year was my first without Judd van Sickle and the UC Davis sports medicine people. I hurt my back really badly in November and never felt right until May, so I was willing to admit my mediocrity and just have as much fun as I could. I won a race and finished the season feeling like I'd done my best in difficult circumstances.

This year, I started training with a powermeter. I managed to ride throughout most of the late winter and early spring. But I haven't followed the sort of structured training plan that Judd used to write for me. I can do three hours of easy riding without dying, and I can hit the gas pretty hard early in a race to help some teammates. But I can't complete 60 minutes of intense crit racing without blowing up at least once. And I still can't climb.

I also don't race with the powermeter--my deep-dish carbon wheels and my Zipp disc are just sooo much faster. But I'm missing out on some good data. It's a dilemma. 

Here's what this TT taught me: I need to add some critical power intervals and work on some over-under intervals to help me recover faster from intense surges. I've got three weeks until Omaha cycling weekend. In the meantime, I'll race a crit in Lawrence, Kansas and travel to a crit / road race weekend in Clear Lake, Iowa. Those efforts should help me gain some top-end fitness.

And I'll work on my pain face.

Rookie Mountain Biker Makes a Debut

Abbey took her first mountain bike ride tonight, led by the fine folks with Omaha Devo.

I think I'll be spending a lot more time on dirt from now on.

Habitually dangerous motorist cited in Ft. Calhoun

From the Blair Bike Club:

"I just want everyone to know that we had another incident in Ft. Calhoun with Don Bilderback (the crazy man who hates bikers) with one of our club members whom was almost run off the road.

I talked to the county attorney and found out last fall charges were brought against him and he did have to pay a fine for reckless driving (after the incident with Bob and I on the Omaha Trace Rd).

It is important for you to call the sheriff and file a complaint if you have an incident with this man.  He is very dangerous and will kill someone someday if he continues with this madness.  If you carry a cellphone when you ride be sure to snap a photo of his plate #.  This is excellent evidence- take photos of his face -if the opportunity arises!

I told the county attorney that his license needs to be revoked and he said that would eventually happen if they keep relieving complaints against him.  So you can see it is very important to "act" when he harasses you.

One more thing!  We are requesting that if you have had an incident with Don Bilderback that you would please write to the editor of the Blair Paper at this address:  news@enterprisepub.com   with "letter to the editor" in the subject line.  I have spoken with Melissa from the paper and she said they will print all our letters the same day and that should have a big impact on the public.  Refrain from using his name and refer to him as "a particular individual in Ft. Calhoun" We only want letters that involve Bilderback --not general harassment from the public letters.  THANKS TO ALL  We have the right to ride safely on the road and not be harassed!!!

PLEASE PASS ON TO ANY CYCLISTS YOU KNOW WHO RIDES THE AREA NOT IN THE CLUB

 Most incidents have been on the Trace.  he lives in a white ranch style house with a black garage right on the trace, near the Ft. Calhoun end.

~Trudy
Blair Bike Club"

I've heard stories about this guy, but I've never seen him.

My two cents: action begets reaction. If you're endangered by a motorist, do two things: 1: ask yourself what control YOU had over the situation and how your actions might have contributed to the incident; 2: contact the authorities and/or file charges.

Of dropped chains, turtles, and futility

Apologies for my absence. I've been blocked for about a month; in the aftermath of a furious bout of academic writing (and a freakish amount of public response to THIS), I moved house. I've struggled to work cogently on my project since then, so my blogging has fallen by the wayside, much to Bryan's chagrin.

Alas, Hobbit House is no more--a persistent leak in the basement's foundation led me to start looking elsewhere. I moved only about six blocks, but hauling all the kids' stuff--to say nothing of my absurd amount of books--was still a Herculean endeavor.

I've managed to race my bike a little; the outcome of the Nebraska State Championship Masters criterium is still too fresh to write about. I've drafted two race reports, both of which inadvertently denigrated the efforts of Joe Savoie, the winner of the event. I had a mechanical. He won. I didn't.

Bryan actually took my bike out of my hands after I finished the masters race, sensing my urge to do this:


I wallowed in self-pity for about an hour, but then Bryan reminded me that I had another event to race.

The Elite 1/2/3 crit was a smashing success for the team--we swept the podium.

Bryan and I strung out the pack for a few of the early laps and rode a pretty good tempo. I also launched an abortive solo flier that allowed Shim to counter-attack after our opponents chased me down. When HE was caught, Paul Webb and Lucas Marshall countered and established the winning break. The rest of us either sat in or covered bridge attempts. Team Kaos guys Vaughn Pierce and Jordan Marsh got decent gaps on the field at various times, but both seemed pretty frustrated to find me sitting on their wheel as they tried to get away.

Mark Savery patrolled the front for much of the second half of the race, spelled occasionally by weaker efforts from Bryan and I, and he eventually won the field sprint. Ryan Feagan and Brady Murphy scrubbed enough speed through corners to frustrate the chasers. It was a great team effort, motivated by the fact that these are all good guys both on and off the bike. I really like this group.

My mechanical in the master's race didn't reoccur in the elite race, but I was so angered by the slow decay the Fuji has displayed that I finally pulled the trigger on this:

It's a Trek 6.5 with SRAM Force components and Ultegra 6700 road tubeless wheels. I'll train on my Powertap / Mavic wheelset and race on my deep-dish carbon clinchers, so the new hoops are expendable.

I opted for the 6.5 becasue I wanted a Midwestern-made bike, and the 6.5 is built in Waterloo, Wisconsin. I rode Bryan's Trek 6.7ssl and found it just a bit too stiff for my back, which is a real shame--the black version of that frame is visually stunning. The 5.2 is also available in black, but it's made in Taiwan. I loved riding it, but again, this localist thinker wants a local bike. If I ever get back to Norcal, I'll buy a Seven.

Oh, and let's play "guess the metaphor." No, the obvious choice isn't the BEST answer. After getting dropped from the State Road Race championship (I dropped my chain, chased for 4 miles, caught the pack, brought back a break, and THEN got popped), I encountered THIS fellow shuffling along in the middle of the road. 

photo by Lois Brunner

The photo doesn't capture his size: his shell was probably 18-20 inches in diameter. When I tried to pick him up to get him off the road (The cat 4 field was about 5 minutes behind me), he tried to take my arm off. "It's in my nature," he seemed to say. 

There's a lesson: a lost turtle on a bike race course as a metonymy for me, I suppose. But I still couldn't help him.


 One last bit: today a friend of mine posted a link to a Katy Perry video. It valorizes the popular culture and fashion of the 80's in a way that really pisses me off. Here's what my postmodern retrospective of the 80's might look like. One which bears a passing resemblance to the conditions under which we all labor.

It wasn't much of a party, young ones. And it still ain't.




I'm off this weekend to a wedding in St. Louis; hopefully I'll be able to forgive myself for missing one in Guerneville last weekend. Then, it's four straight weekends of racing: the Nebraska State TT championship, a criterium on the KU campus in Lawrence, an omnium event in Clear Lake, Iowa, and Omaha Cycling Weekend. All the while, I'll be sending out chapters of the dissertation. Three by August 1, in fact.

Crap.