Assorted Snobbery: Fight Me I'm Irish

Kansas City. Fourth Largest St. Patrick's Day Parade in the country. Who knew? Even though I found out last year I am English and not Irish, I still think of myself wearing a kilt, so dye my head red and pass the green beer, brother.

The crowning St. Paddy's Day moment showed that often your friends have your back, even though you may be oblivious to it. The crew and I were walking back to our hotel after a late dinner when a drunken Johnny Knoxville knockoff starting shouting across the street to some unknown assailant. We were on a two-tiered sidewalk, with Seven and I on the highside when Johnny decided to yell, "Lick my fucking balls." My rules are pretty simple, cuss like a sailor, I do, but not around my crew. However, before I could even take a step down the stairs, his friends saved the day. "Danny, look around man," said one. "We're really, really sorry about that," said another. "Thanks guys. Take care of your boy." Faith in humanity momentarily restored.

A few other notes. I didn't see a lot of people riding. Bummed me out a little, but I was in a horrible area unless you want to go full blow attitude all the time. Seemed like there was nearly an accident at every corner all the time.

People don't take kindly to someone running hard on a highly angled treadmill with the NCAA tourney blasting over the sound of the treadmill. I turned the TV down though.

Missed the race but Lincoln did not. Large Props to Sydney and Matt for taking the six hour wins, not to mention the rest of the crew for clearing having fun. Not to mention, BKB represent.

The Kemper Museum Welcome Wagon.

Don't Call Me Junior.

The Ceramics Building at the Intitute.

Couped Up.


Road Trips, Ball Point Pens and Future Tattoo Lovers.

Consolation Prize Fighter

No Spoke and Pony. So, the correct answer turned out to be zero. The trip to the area was meant as a mini-vacation for crew and, while I might have raced if it had only taken a half day, the logisitics make the race a full Saturday affair so I am falling back and spending the time with the family as planned. The IF will have to wait until Ouachita to wish it had another engine.

Speaking of crew: GF 29er Crew.

Speaking of IF: Win One.

Spoke and Pony

It turns out I will be in KC the weekend of the Spoke and Pony, so now the questions are three or six hour and which gear do I run. Suddenly the season is in my face.

Finished product complete with dirt chaser.

Even Mediocre Days Are Great

If I weren't feelings so worked, I am sure I would wax on about how nicely the weekend would have tucked under the heading of Living A Cycling Lifestyle.

Finished the new IF on Saturday, with an ample amount of assistance from Tony T and Jerrod at the shop. I was already heading in when Jerrod called asking if a High Life Delivery might be in order and, of course, it was. It occurred to me while heading home that my complete ineptitude with a wrench is only enabled by the "shop hangout factor." If I knew what I was doing, I'd be done faster and thus would dimish the fun.

Sunday felt like summer in San Fran. I know it hit sixty, but I was cold the whole day. Rock D and I took the new ride out to Branched Oak bright and early. Day Light Savings is a bitch and it doesn't help when you're up until 4am the night before. Rest hard? Hardly resting. I was a bit overgeared for the long day I had planned but the conversation was good (thanks to Rock for carrying it) and the IF wanted more than gravel, but I don't think the trials are quit ready for that.

Got back to town just under forty miles later and just past the meeting time for the group ride to Panama. Fortunately, the Avey-ator missed it too so we meet at the Casa du Cronin, I switched to the cross bike and we headed to Panama. Apparently, we took the short cut because we looked back at one point to see a peloton of about 25 cats bearing down on our slow poke legs. We were on a slight uphill which would have made a great photo, but a capture of "The Catch" was not to be since my camera told me there was no memory card. Dare I Say, Genius?

After Panama, the week's illness started catching up to me. I shut things down a little earlier than planned but still managed a very long day in the saddle. Finished up by watching the Paris-Nice prologue with Mrs. Snob and crashed into a deep sleep.

Too bad I don't have the pictures to prove any of it.

Two weeks out from Ouchita. Whoa.

Assorted Snobbery: A Fighter's Heart

Usually when I am down for the count (pun intended) whether it be from illness, drink or other assorted issue, I read and this time was no exception. While no high brow literary awards are going to go Sam Sheridan's way for A Fighter's Heart, I enjoyed the hell out of it. Despite feeling at times a little too much like magazine articles pinned together for a book, it was an intriguing look at the art and pyschology of fighting.

In particular, I was engrossed with the idea of gameness. The idea that even if one's getting pummelled, he's still willing to toe the line and keep fighting. Of course, I am sure gameness has gotten a multitude of fighters in trouble in the ring and over the course of their lives, but if you're just riding bikes, why the hell not?

Strep Throat

Ya gotta love it. Would someone please remove these 18t cogs from my throat?

Day of the Living Dead

And a lot of "on your left." Not a lot of bikes but a lot of runners and walkers half asleep along the routes today. Bumped into JK and the MonkeyGirl at the Works. Longest ride of the year so far.

Around 10am, and the boys (Butch and MW?) are getting last tracks before the melt.

Z-Dog. Sans air guitar.

Pugs.

JK sings Abba and dreams of his 29er to come.

The Reveal

Not all the parts are in, but you'll get the idea.

Z-Dog, lost in a heavy guitar solo.



Dammit Phil, quit glaring at me.

Rides and Runs in the Family

Mrs. Snob likes pink bikes, black rainbows and wispy walks.

Art. Life.

"There's No Walgreens Next to Blues"

Funny the things you find out after it's too late. Then I broke my chain.

Warning: Genius at Work.

Peeps.


Peepsx2+MonkeyGirl

Business Lunch

If you aren't going to ride or workout over lunch, a run to grab your new parts is the way to go.

Any archeologist will tell you, bikes outside the shop is a sign of Sping. The virgin gets sacrificed later in the week.

Miles understands. Clearly some customers do not.

iHipster color of week. Army Green. (Am I a hypocrite for saying that?)

"Well, ya see here son..."

Damn, I Guess It Really Is Game On

A funny thing happened while I was whining about my hamstring, the race season started.

Harlan started the season in style at the 12hrs of Razorback.

Sologoat took the line as well.

Tinker took Old Pueblo.

Epic Adam hit it for what looked like a tightly fought 14th.

And here I am just happy it's above 14 degrees for a few days in a row. Make mine a double on the sunlight as it's good for what ails you. Drink deep.

Sunday Grind

Here We Go Again

To bad OK GO is straight ripping off The Hives. Anyway...

Hammy and I were back in action today. A couple of hours. Soreness but not too painful at the end of the session. Mental reset for me. Riding is therapy.

Be patient Sparkle Ninja, I have an answer for you.

"... Here We Are After Dark...

...knocking back the Makers Mark, scrounging up the dollars from my buddy's car and..."

"Umm Honey..."

After I hopped off the trainer tonight, I was strolling through the kitchen and heard Mrs. Snob say from behind me, "Umm honey, you leg is really bruised."

I guess it is.

Off-Season's Second Wind

Perhaps it's because my hamstring's not quite healed to the point of being able to put in long hours or because the temp finally got above 23 yesterday, but off-season lethergy turned into energy for me last night.

Over the past few weeks I have lamented the piss-poor content of this blog and the piss-poor fitness I seemed to be stuck at. Now if the hammy will continue to cooperate, I'll just forget about last week as the lost week of riding and let things get back to normal.

Inspiration is where you find it:

Elk.

Dave Simmons.

The Kittens.

CVO and his cure for the common fever.

Nick Martin.

Indy Fab (and my short femur.)

Assorted Snobbery: A Question

Carbon Fiber Stems: Worth the added cost? Discuss...

Office Politics

Moons Over My Hammy

What happens when you make cracks about the YMCA? You tweak your hamstring on your next visit.

Warmed up for 15 minutes, got called off the treadmill to fill in for a game who needed a 10th guy, loose ball and POP.

It's really not to bad though. I played out the game and one more then sat out. It was pretty sore last night but is coming around today.

ICE. BITCH. REPEAT.

iHipster

I had to laugh at myself yesterday. I had an off-site meeting for work and as I got ready I began to count the hipster cliche oozing through the situation. It really hit me when I decided to wear jeans over my pearl tights so I wouldn't have to change when I arrived.

Nothing like working for a technology company, having meetings at coffee shop and arriving via the IF dressed like a wanna be bike messenger. Oh, and the bike is pink. How droll.

Mirror mirror on the wall...

At least I got a couple of hours in before the meeting. No packages were delivered however.

Technology hipster Mike Burda becoming "blog-famous."

How to be Hated at the YMCA

Granted, most people work to fit into life, but if you are in the mood to embrace your outcast self. Give some of these simple steps a try.

Step One. Visit the newest YMCA in your community. A spartan Y won't cut it. An older Y makes you just another freak in a freak kingdom. To truly bring the disdain of others to the fore, you want to visit an overly clean, upscale, yuppie Y. If the Y has a climbing wall, things are looking up. If you can climb the walls because of cracks in the brick and mortar, continue your search.

Step Two. Dress the Part. Pink Cars-R-Coffins t-shirts, brown Surly socks and black Vans do wonders for your YMCA "curb appeal." If you can stroll through the workout area like you're on the catwalk, you'll really make it count. Own it baby.

Step Three. Out Muscle the Muscle-Heads. This is a personal Snob favorite. After gathering several steroid induced rage-like glares, wait patiently in line for the leg press, squat machine or other like machine. Nothing bubbles the hate to the surface like getting outlifted by "the faggot in the pink shirt."

Step Four. Assist the Lovely Lady. Treadmills can be hard to understand. So can beautiful ladies. Combine the two past-times by aiding that make-up clad Miss in getting that machine up to speed. Be careful though. Remember, she really just wants to "tone."

Note: A smooth carry-out of step four in front of the gentleman in step three will really multiple your points. I like to call this the "daily double of roid rage."

Note from Dejay

Cold War Kids

Notice the Smiles at -3 degrees.

The road may appear to "T" but we thought the two white ribbons continuing straight were there to remind us of TI.

"Would you give your Mother a foot massage?"

Jonathan Page Second at Worlds!!!

Katie Compton also grabbed second in Women's Elite. YEAH!!

Speaking of cross, I found this video via Molly's site. It's a classic.

Scrooge on Wheels

Did some intervals today. Nothing crazy, just a little pace to remember you're alive. Cold, boring day. I have a watch strapped to my handlebars and I am sure I saw time start going backwards on me. This martini tastes good and he has a few friends. Cheers.

"Dad, that's gross."

The "There isn't anything worth shooting" shot.



Okay, I'll give 07 a chance.

Biscuits for Smut

As some of you know, yesterday morning I somehow decided to take a fall and lead with my left temple. It took most of the day for the pain to subside and half of the day to return to normal. Hell yeah!! I think it was that bastard Colonel Mustard with a pipe wrench. Now I need a new helmet.

Actually, I was nearly at work, hit some black ice and found myself lying in the middle of the road before I knew what was happening. Snob over ice.

"How many fingers? One. Now put your damn hand down."

Fixed in Six

The latest in aero tech wheels

Boo-tay

Cornbread trying to fight through a fresh six inches

The calm before the storm

Submission Hold

Fixed Gear Project - 1, Snob - 0

I am unofficially the worst mechanic ever, and that's only because I've never been certified.

Several months ago I had planned a day to convert last year's race machine to a fixie. Life intervened and the project sat, until last night. Optimism ruled the afternoon and I set up in the new downstairs to take a crack at the conversion.

An hour and a half later, I could still not get the powerlink to release off of my chain. How a person can be embarrassed while alone in a basement may be a mystery to some, but there I was, red-faced and pissed.

Jeff stopped by and had it off in 5 seconds.

I then triple checked my needed chain length, only to make it one link too short and that was it. Hands were thrown up. F-Bombs were dropped and I marched back up the stairs. Nothing has been touched since then.

When I was young, I nearly drowned while taking swim lessons at the Y. Apparently, I had snuck behind the instructor and was mocking and miming her. When she jumped in the pool, so did I and I sat on the bottom for a long time before someone noticed and pulled me up. Swimming was for the birds after that.

Post college, I decided I needed to move somewhere to learn to surf and therefore needed to learn to swim. I paid for a Y membership and went to the open swim everyday for weeks. I would grab a lane against the wall, rudely sometimes and paddle like some drunken carnie in a dunk tank until I would panic and grab the wall, then compose myself and go again. This debacle went on until I learned to swim.

I am sure this project will be the same way. The only difference so far is that I actually asked for help. I am sure there are people at the Lafayette YMCA still pissed off at the lane hog who can't swim.

Spin

Recently, Jeff, Corey, Butch and I were sitting at Yia Yia's and talking about Chris Eatough, Craig Gordon and last year's 24hr "Worlds." (In fact, Butch even blogged about it.)

At one point, we started talking about the film "24 Solo" and how it would portray the Gordon's victory. The skeptics (Jeff and I) commented that we felt the spin would be "this is what it takes to beat Eatough." It's a truth that can be embellished to make second place almost look more noble and Gordon a bit more insane. A snippet from the updated trailer is Gordon in the hospital commenting about how he couldn't pull away from Chris.

That's not to take anything away from either guy. It's more of a comment on what happens when you stand behind the view finder and the perspective you take with you when you get there. (including the knowledge of who is paying for the film.)

I am really looking forward to the film. It would be interesting to take someone who doesn't race endurance races or someone who doesn't competitively cycle. After all, I was called (as I am sure many of you were) a lunatic for riding to work in negative temps this week. What would a "non-racer" think of Gordan's win and how will the presentation affect their conclusions regarding 24hr racing, not to mention Eatough and Gordon?

How's that for thinking too much?

Team Over-Analysis signing off.

Simple is Never Simple Enough

Simplify. We spent the weekend finalizing the move to the new Casa de Cronin over the weekend. I thought we kept things fairly minimal but clearly we do not. After three trips to the city mission for donations and a call to the trash man regarding our endless bags of crap, I felt ridiculous. It was good to purge, but still an example of how many "things" you can accumulate for no reason.

I also missed three days of riding, which just fades my mood even further. Back tomorrow with a vengence. I have a flying Canadian on my tail.

"i want to be stereotyped
i want to be classified
i want to be a clone
i want a suburban home
suburban home
suburban home
suburban home
i want to be a statistic
i want to be masochistic
i want to be a clone
i want a suburban home
suburban home
suburban home
suburban home
i don't want no dead beat pad
i want a house just like mom and dad"