Out With the Kill Takers

I grew a bit concerned this morning when only Troy and Corey were there to set out on a Sunday jaunt.  Mercifully, the Gravel Conspiracy had taken enough out of them that the pace was pretty moderate and the conversation, when the wind would allow, was flowing.  We closed the day with coffee, plans for Dirty Kanza and a smile.

"I'm sore.  You sore?"  "Yeah, I'm sore."

"This headwind is not helping the recovery."  "Huh?"  "What?"

Three is not a crowd, not with these machines.

Jay joined us in Cortland and I had a spin-fest with a tailwind the whole way back.

"... a little kingdom, torn with factions and exposed to revolutions."

While the Lincoln scene has scattered between the Gravel Conspiracy and the Branched Oak 12hr this weekend, upcoming travel and events are keeping me at home this weekend.  A little yard work, soccer and normalcy but that doesn't mean I didn't "Do Work."

Wittstruck.  I had no idea this road was so good.

He's So Dreamy

When Cyclingnews becomes US magazine... our Mac ends up with this as wallpaper.

Mrs. Snob's current crush... Fabian the beau-hunk

A Few Stills from Maastricht

Note the gully for you to roll your bike up.

Dick.

NAHBS is in Richmond Next Year...

... and Johnny thinks we should get these guys to play an off-site party.  The man is genius.

"Hup, Hup, Hup"

Somewhere near the end of the Amstel Gold, Eddy Merckx rode up the Cauburg then was unceremoniously told to get off the course by an overzealous race official.  Eddy simply obliged and then, once off, decided to take a small path up a grassy knoll instead of fighting his way through the crowd.  As I snapped this photo, I shouted a classic cross "hup, hup, hup."  When he reached the top, the Cannibal turned and gave me a smirk.  I couldn't tell you if it was approval or annoyance.  

Look out.  Only the greatest cyclist of all time coming through.

TransIowa V5: Poor Oliver (Contains "Abrasive" Language)

While I can be pretty loud at times, I am generally a pretty quiet person, particularly in groups or crowds. So when Corey first told us that Oliver had been kind enough to volunteer for support duty my first thought was, "I don't think I have ever even spoken to that guy." I knew he had done Kanza last year, but couldn't recall a conversation.

After pulling from the race, I slowly morphed into SuperFan/Support Guy and told Oliver to look out because he now had a partner in crime. I then proceeded to talk his ear off burning all of the emotion energy that comes with pulling from a race.

He'd mentioned at some point that he was a bit concerned about being the outsider of our crew so then feel right into the mix in having to deal with me on a mental bender.

While I suspect he knew why I was so chatty, he was also quick to point out that we'd actually chatted at Kanza and we'd been introduced at Yia Yia's once.

"Really?"
"Yeah, it was during the commuter challenge."
"The one where people wouldn't pay up unless you went to Yia Yia's?"
"That's the one."
"I don't remember that."
"Yeah, and then we talked about your phone at Kanza."
"My phone?"
"Yeah, your iPhone."
"Oh... that. I remember that."
"Yeah... I thought you were a bit... ummm ...abrasive."

And that's where Oliver made his mistake. I have a habit, particularly when wound up, of putting words in people's mouths. And off I went...

"Abrasive huh?"
"Well, you're so quiet that..."
"You thought I was a cunt..."
"No... I..."
"An abrasive cunt."
"Well..."
"You think I am an abrassive cunt."
"But now..."
"Oh, I see. You still think it. Cronin, the abrasive cunt, that's how you think of me. Well that's just fucking great!"

We laughed hard and shortly thereafter had to go grab EB from some random gravel road.

It's true though, I am.

Rapha's Road Journal Begins

As I was pushing my way through a damp, spongey 'B' road section somewhere along the 100 mile mark of TransIowa, my phone rang. A quick glimpse showed a phone number I didn't recognize, thought, "Who the fuck is that?" and simply put my phone back in my pocket. In an somewhat ironic near-miss, it turned out to one of the guys from Rapha regarding the Michigan ride I am 'hosting' in a few weeks.

When I first heard the voicemail, I thought, "Man, maybe if I had answered this I would have been inspired to keep riding." Of course, now that seems a little silly. Rapha makes a fine garment, but performance roadwear doesn't exactly contain mystical healing powers... if they do, I really blew it.

While I have a few weeks to go, the Continental Calling Tour has already begun with a Road Journal you can follow. (Hey Corey, you'll see Mena was part of a ride post tornado, so all that scenery we saw was put to all of the uses we discussed.)

TransIowa V5: "No Mas"

Five times over five years.  That seems like a very long time and nearly represents the entire length of what I would consider my evolution as a cyclist who will occasionally races his bikes.

 

It's something I hadn't really though about until all the TI V5 riders gathered near the graveyard at the start-line.  Mark said I couple of things I didn't quite catch so I looked at MW to ask what I missed and he replied, "Nothing you haven't heard four times before."  

With that little nugget nestled in the back of my brain, the race started, we all turned pedals and off we went.  The first 40 miles were a cruise and I assume that was largely due to what I assume had to be a nice tailwind.  At one point, I was up front with BJ Bass (finisher!), who I finished TI V3 with.  We exchanged hellos and thoughts about being at the sharp end but then pulled off and let someone else carry on.  Cooler heads, etc.  Most of the forty was spent thinking "is this too much?"  However, it was obvious my heart-rate was good, the legs were fine and that soon enough reality would raise up in the form those winds not hitting me square in the back.

The only snag was EB flatting just shy of Checkpoint One.  I pulled off with him, enjoyed a quick natural break and looked back to see Eric with a strange look on his face.  He'd just discovered the flat but what he hadn't discovered was the fact his tubes weren't the right type.  I set back off telling him I would soft pedal and we would work together to rejoin the group.  It wasn't until miles later I'd learned of the issue with his tubes.  

After a small detour just after the first checkpoint, Corey and I started rolling with a small gaggle riders and that lovely tailwind was now pressing against us and we organized cue sheets and started leg two.  Fairly quickly, I fell back and started riding at my own pace.  In hindsight, I probably should have just held a wheel for a while as it seemed to take forever before the group miniaturized and vanished from sight.

Perhaps five years of Iowa has jaded me, but that entire section would have to work hard to become more boring.  North two miles, East one, North three miles, West two, etc, etc.  After a bit, Eric came by on a mission to rejoin Corey's group and that was it for a while.  I rode solo and thought a lot about things outside of cycling.  Keeping half an eye on route and half an eye glazed over at the landscape.

Someone will have to help me with the town we hit somewhere around the 75 or 80 mile mark, but it was sometime after that town that my ride went sideways.  Nothing dramatic happened, it was just a gradual decent into mediocrity and, as sad as it sounds, all I could think about was how I would write about the fact that I was failing at another TransIowa.  Instead though, I fired off the post below and moved on.

Around what I think was the century mark, I saw a host of riders leaving a convenience store near the interstate, I thought about bridging but opted to stop for a Drumstick instead.  At the time, I thought that was likely some second chase group, that I should just keep to myself and see how things went.  Plus, I wasn't giving up the goodness of the Original Sundae Cone.

The great thing about the Drumstick is that it is ice cream you can ride with.  I remounted and headed up the road.  Immediately upon hitting gravel I saw two dogs in the rode with a couple of riders going past.  The dogs didn't really bug anyone but from a distance looked like they were just hanging out.  Once I finally got close, I saw one had a stick in his mouth and was ready for play.  He got in front of me and zigged to my zag so well that I couldn't get by him.  Then, I did the dumbest thing I have ever done in all of my miles of Iowa gravel, I tossed him the last of my drumstick.  You know, the chocolate part in the bottom?  Gone forever.  Fuck me...

Shortly after, I bridged to George, who I had seen then missed earlier, and Jeremy.  It was nice to have someone to ride with but it was also tough as we all seem to ride different styles.  With all the short climbs I tended to yo-yo around them in what I felt was likely an incredibly annoying thing to watch.  

At one point we found Dennis who both confirmed we actually weren't that fair back and the fact I am the village idiot for thinking we were sitting in the middle of the pack, then promptly rode away from us.  That guy is strong.  He just needs to get Murphy's Law off his back.

Somewhere along the way, my right achilles decided to say hello in a pretty unfriendly way and my pace went down.  It was a strange sensation because it wasn't always clear when or why it would ache.  In fact, at times it felt better to just hammer than anything else.  The three of stuck together, waiting on someone through rough patches and cruising together when times were good.  After a while of silence nearing checkpoint two, he came up and asked, "How's Mr. Thirty-Revolutions-A-Minute Doing?"  I am not sure how wide I smiled, but it was hysterical.  

Jeremy, George and I rolled into Checkpoint Two around 15th place.  I grabbed some cue sheets, said hello to Oliver, our support guru and parked myself in the grass next to the War Wagon.  My achilles throbbed out some pain to the beat of my heart and I decided to grab some food to see if it would subside.  It didn't and I decided to stop.  

Some time a few years ago Jeff Avey made a point to say to both Corey and I that "just because you can go on, doesn't always mean you should."  It was that, Mrs. Snob's text messages asking me to be smart and having a few friends tell me how long it takes to recover from really damaging your achilles that combined for the decision to pull a Roberto Duran.  "No Mas."

I burned some anger and disappointment for a while.  Then stopped being a baby, rallied and starting walking around seeing if there was anyone I could do anything for.  Everyone was basically set, so I warned Oliver he had a sidekick and to expect a long night of putting up with my antics and bullshit.

Those things (Oh and there are many) will have to come in another post though.  This thing is long-winded enough.

Done!!

MG gets his first. MW chalks up a second. Respect!!!

M to the 2nd Power

The Matts are only a short while away from closing out a TI finish.

The rest of the crew pulled for various reasons so now it's all about
MW and MG.

Mile 95

Cramping. Walking Hills and generally failing

Ready to Roll

Too Many Chefs

PRSD- The Pre Race Shut Down

I have been the observer of and often aid in many race preparations for Skip. I have repeatedly observed and finally termed a phrase for the phenomena that rears its head as the race approaches. It is the Pre Race Shut Down. This occurs a few days prior to departure for any big race. Despite a good positive attitude earlier the week, something changes. The desire to go to the race, pack for the race, and generally be pleasant to be around disappears. Weeks of over analysis wasted. This is where I know I need to step in and not allow Skip to derail his own train. I takeover the little errands, make the trips for spare tubes and equipment, make sure all needed clothing is clean, and generally keep things moving in a positive direction. Usually by departure time, the phenomena has somewhat subsided, so that he will actually go to the race.

Who can explain this strange occurrence to me?

Mrs. Snob

Belgium Style Lunch

Whipped

On the way to sign in...

... and just after the finish.

Actually, what struck me more than seeing them together both immediately before and after the race was how thin the rider's leg looks in that first photo.  

That Short Little Race

While walking around the Netherlands isn't exactly the way to prep for ~330 miles of gravel, TransIowa doesn't wait and suddenly it looms this weekend.  

The bike is relatively clean, the gear is 38x16 and the mindset is to just tick off the miles and take it as it comes.  A few remaining details, such as putting my computer back on, and pinkie will be ready to roll.

As Butch pointed out, I just need to remember my jacket and things will be just fine.  (though the banana plastic does make a nice story.)

North American Scum

From the beginning of the Amstel Gold, I found myself wondering how Ryder Hesjedal was fairing.  The former mountain bike superstar turned road machine was near the front all day and went with what looked like a potential winning move near the end of the race.  That break didn't hold and he ended up around 35th on the day.

Apparently, Ryder also got the joy of peeing in a cup postrace.

The finish at the Amstel isn't all the way up the Cauberg so after crossing the line, the riders still have to climb another quarter mile to get to where their team buses are parked.  We saw Ryder shortly after he finished slowly spinning his way up toward his bus.  He looked completely tanked and that 'I just rode my ass off' expression marked his face.  Without any premeditation, I yelled out, "Good job, Ryder.  Way to work man!!"

Chalk it up to hearing North American English, but his head popped up and he looked over to give us a head nod and return my wave.  After weeks of what I would guess is hearing people yell in everything but his native tongue, it looked it he may have thought it nice just to hear something familiar.  

Italian SuperStar

One moment I wish I'd caught on video was when Damiano Cunego stepped from the Lampre team bus.  We were standing about 30 yards away, in the middle of a noisy throng of people, but the eruption when he stepped out turned everyone's heads.

About six people raised a banner high and shook it wildly as Damiano grabbed his bike and threw a leg over it to head to the sign-in.  As he got closer, I noticed he had a wry smile on his face that either said, "this is sorta silly" or "damn, it's good to be king."  Who knows.

No, I am not hiding this hair with a helmet until I absolutely have to

Just a second or two after I snapped the shot above and Italian fan came up and started screaming at Cunego in Italian.  He was about six foot three and just towered over the boy wonder pumping a fist and continuing to scream for what seem far too long.  Cunego's face never changed and he just wound his way through the crowd toward sign-in.  

Not only was the passion incredible, but the way you could stand right next to the rider's was a shock.  Cunego was obviously used to it, but I wasn't.  After Cunego rode past,the Italian fan turned and talked wildly with his friends.  They obviously were ready for a repeat victory from the Italian superstar, but unfortunately for them, he waited too long to jump and finished fifth.

Maastricht and the "Art Room"

And by art, I mean "art of love."

When we stepped off the train in Maastricht, I may have been sporting wood.  I was too excited to tell.  The Netherlands themselves were filled with a lot of well put together people taking care of their daily lives by bicycle.  Take this, along with the fact that Maastricht as a city tastefully combined an aged infrastructure with well-thought out modern architecture and I was hooked.

Train Station

We, and by we I mean I, decided to take a few laps around the block before searching for our accommodations, the Eden Design Hotel.  The city market was rolling between the streets and the one block walk I had decided upon quickly started becoming much more than that.

Here's where I should have stopped and bought some clothes

As luck would have it, Josh caught the fact that we were walking right by the entrance to our hotel.  "Well, let's go check in!"  Mrs. Snob had set the reservation and took care of us in spades.  If you don't like modern architecture, don't go.  The hotel was all angles, form and function.  As I chatted with the Dutch beauty at the desk, she got a small grin on her face and explained that we didn't have two beds as requested.  Josh and I were going to have to share.  "We're comfortable.  We slept against each other on the train."  But, as I smiled, she smiled back in a way that should have told me a surprise was coming.

Entry to the Art Room

After looking around for room 100, we realized that it was right in front of us, in the form of a large piece of art.  We took a few shots, read the inscription on the door and made our way in for a quick clean up before heading out for dinner and more views of the city.

Love... exciting and new

YES!!  I've already got the room reserved for Mrs. Snob and me.  That may be the only thing that would keep me from constantly wanting to roam around Maastricht.

London in 60 Minutes

Immediately following the end of my work obligations which took me across the Atlantic in the first place, my travel companion Josh Ferguson and I were in full Amazing Race mode with the goal of getting to Harwich International on England's east coast for the overnight ferry to Amsterdam.  Despite jumping on the wrong train momentarily in London's subway system, we ended up queued and ready for the train to Harwich with an hour to spare; an hour to run around London.

Josh.  Wondering why I am throwing gang signs when he snaps a picture.

After jumping out into the street and discovering that Starbucks does indeed cluster everywhere, we just started walking.  Frankly, I had no idea where we were in relation to anything Chevy Chase might have yelled back to his kids in European Vacation.  Big Ben, Parliament?  I had no idea.

Wait... Wait... Okay, subtract two... YES... We have time!

After spying Dirty Dick's across the street, we crossed and I started looking for narrow streets.  The logic: the more narrow the older and, likely, more scenic.  Yes, clueless.  I was just starting to think we should have just grabbed a beer at Dick's when we turned the corner and things got more interesting. 

Narrow Street Theory

Bikes Shops!  One had just closed as it was a bit past 6pm, but the second was open and, just as I started to go in, saw this opportunity to change career paths...

Too bad my attitude sucks.  What's a CV anyway? (Yes, that's sarcasm.)

After taking some time to explain a fixed gear and subsequently a fixed gear freestyler to Josh, along came Simon to sell us a bike.  (Insert "Hello my name is Simon" cracks here.)  Simon, however, was more than happy to chat about riding in London and our little excursion.  In fact, it turns out Simon is somewhere on the West coast this week having planned a Portland to LA trip himself.

This handsome lad is indeed Simon

After that teasingly too quick taste, it was back to the train station for a ferry ride over the English Channel and across the North Sea.  For the record, London is also in the midst of the fixed gear trend, but they wore it well, at least in the minute timeframe I was floating around the city.

Gold

Some times you need reminded to remember to live life out loud.  Stay tuned for the long version...

Twenty yards from the finish of the Amstel Gold

Waiting at the Finish/ da Cauberg

Along the Walk to the Finish

Watched lap one come thru and then started toward the finish.

Awaiting the Start

Team Saxo Bank's Bikes at the Ready

Team Car Parking

Hell Yeah!

Border Crossing

Step off the ferry in the Netherlands and at passport control, I am
asked, of course, "What will you be doing in the Netherlands?"
"Attending a bike race."
"Pardon?"
"Going to the Amstel Gold."
"Ahhhhh.". And with that, a big smile crossed his face and we were on
our way.

So far, I love this country.

No, It Never Ends

In London

My Kind of Name

"It's The Little Differences"

I wasted a lot of thought on this little trip to Europe.  Thought primarily around the idea of continuing to ride and workout while still staying disciplined regarding the fact that I am here for work first and foremost.  However, instead of posting pictures of the English countryside and laughing at myself for struggling with the fact the English drive on the opposite side of the road, it has only taken one "delayed" bag to turn all of that thought into nothing.

Once letting go of the fact that I would have just the clothes on my back for an unknown time, we made our way to Hatfield via 'tube' and train, then strolled through the confusing streets until we needed to ask for an assist and a man literally walked us to our destination.

Often, cliches are founded in fact and I've enjoyed the extra bit of politeness that seems to come from interacting with people here.  

I also watched Manchester United in a pub full of people last night.  It seemed like a wonderful display of self-abuse given that with soccer/football the scoring is so few and far between that you heard far more ewws and oohhhs than actual cheers.  Everything is a near miss and a wince.  However, after several rounds of Bulgers cider and a 1 - o MU victory, everyone went home happy.

According the the airline, my bag should arrive tomorrow, which will be nice considering we head to Amsterdam via ferry the following day.  I've been holding off buying clothes under the hope that my bag will arrive and I'll be covered.  We shall see.  Of course, in the back of my mind continues to sit the fact that I haven't ridden at all and will likely end up going well over a week without any saddle time.  Perfect prep for TI.

Maybe I'll just go find a McDonald's and order a Royal with cheese.  Hell, I may even go in a Burger King.

Mmmm. Cup of Corn

Wonderful

Not the way to start things off on arrival.

Packing for a Classic

I pack for business trips in the same fashion that I pack for races; lay it all out on the couch and then stare at it until I realize what's missing from the pile.

With a recorded Roubaix running in the background, it occurred to me that one item conspicuously but appropriately absent from my travel wardrobe was a superfan costume in which to run climbs during the Amstel Gold.  So, while I will take a pass on making an idiot of myself in such a highly particular fashion, it does seem to me the costumed superfan has to be a fairly easy field to break into.

Fat guys with syringes aside.  The superfan view from the States generally revolves around two guys.  The horned Upstart and classic (and consistently horned) Devil.

Downside:  You need a neck like Mike Tyson

The horned upstart has rolled a few Euro campaigned, but really stood out during the Tour of California this year.  He definitely has a unique schtick, which is key, but those multiple costumes require a lot of overhead.  Plus, let's face it, he's set up to hear comments like, "I wonder what's he's compensating for?" due to the size of his horns and it's probably not his VO2 Max.

Lack of vertical aside, he's the standard... but sandals?

The man they all look up to, the Devil.  Consistent costume, calm reserve (excepting the above) and able to place himself at key moments of a race as well as Armstrong places himself at the tete de la course, he is the pinnacle of superfandom.  (Yes, 'superfandom.'  I'll be brutalizing Dutch soon enough so I might as well start with my own language.)

Downside.  Ruler of Hades or not, he's not getting any younger.  The timing is right for a young upstart, new blood on the rise.  It's just not going to be me and, hopefully, none of the guys who tried out during the ToC.  

I think we have a reality TV show in the making.  See you from the road.

Another One Bites the Dust

Saw it coming but didn't quite make it home.

This...

... Is the scotch my buddy Matt brought into my office. Happy Friday.

The Backward Slide

One on the many time proven peculiarities of my personality is the ability to pass judgement against myself and then do everything in my power to prove myself wrong (and therefore be wrong in the end, no matter what the result).

Case in point:  My upcoming trip to Europe. 

Somewhere during the return trip from Arkansas, likely nestled somewhere between conversations about Corey's swollen knees and D St's EW(TBD) rides, we realized that the next event on our shared horizon is TransIowa.  

Unfortunately, my lead up to gravel's longest day includes a week spent in Europe for work and, at least during the pessimistic post-script to Ouachita, therefore a week without mileage.  Last year it was illness, this year, I had decided, would be travel which colluded to damper the day.

Never mind the joy of travel or the fact I will be going to the Amstel Gold race.  Let's just focus on the fact that riding miles will go to hell, shall we?

Of course, like with any largely fictitious problem, the solution was already being put into place as I enumerated the "problems."  And, as I was typing this in fact, helpful souls were already extending a hand.  

Hopefully, the mileage will stay intact, the blog will highlight pictures from the English countryside and I can suppress the number of challenges I invent to get in my way.  

Riding ~350 miles of gravel should be challenge enough.

Bigfoot Lives in Arkansas!!

The MonsterQuest team has been sent to investigate.

Enter SuperFan

After pre-riding the beginning of the Ouachita Challenge on Saturday, my main concern was to start conservatively enough not to blow sky high in the first few miles of the race.  So, instead of spinning like a hamster on crack, I was content to let the typical gap form between the single speeds and geared guys, with the idea of cracking things up gradually once the road turned up.

Initially, things went well.  I chatted a bit with Josh P (who rode very well) then started working my way forward up, trying to stay controlled even when standing out of the saddle on the steeper sections of the initial climbs.

After bobbling when a limb hit me in the face and having to then push the bike to the top, I got my rhythm,  tucked in with a couple of more singles and started weaving my way forward again.

On the fist slightly sustained downhill, the side of the trail was littered with guys already working to change flats when I found myself joining them.  Suddenly there was that familiar sound of air and Stan's releasing from my rear tire.  

For a moment, the Stan's caught and some guy said, "Hey, that sealed fast."  Of course, then it started spraying again and I was off on the side of the trail working toward a diagnosis.  I'd managed to gash the center of my tire in a way that created three little triangular flaps of rubber that the Stan's could never seal together.  I through a tube in, which simply pushed out of the tired and, after it lasted about thirty seconds, resigned myself to a seven mile race.

After walking out with a guy who was having the same experience himself and getting a ride back to the race start, I grabbed a map and went to find Corey at the second feed station.  

The guys running the station were dressed for fun with Pedro, an ape, a banana and other costumes were worn with an eye on fun.  They topped all of that though with the way they supported the riders.  After the lead rider came through, Cameron cruised in minutes later and, while I went to somehow assist, the boys at the checkpoint had him covered and, though an Ergon rider came in after Cam and left before him, Cam seemed much more prepared when he left.  

Rider's came though at a regular tick and I was just talking about Corey to a guy in a marching band costume when here he came.  Corey looked like he was just out for a ride, all smiles, fresh and ready to keep moving.  I gave him the proverbial shove off and took off to find the next feed zone.

After reaffirming that the Prius isn't exactly an off-vehicle, I skipped to the final feed-zone and chatted with a local volunteer for a few hours while I waited for folks to come through.  We were sitting at a point where riders rode off of gravel and up into the last section of single track.  It was interesting to watch tired riders handle what would normally be an easy transition to clean.  There was a lot of stopping and starting until the leaders of the 80 mile race rolled through.

The leader came through looking fresh and, while I expected riders to continue to come through, it was 20 minutes until another 80 mile rider came through.  Cam shot through in 3rd, then I played a waiting game for Corey.  Unfortunately, he'd fallen back from seventh after a bad crash.  He was followed closely by the 360 guys who were rocking and seemed to be having a great time.  

From there it was back to the start line and prep for the ride home.  Corey rode a great race.  After he crossed the line, he revealed knees that were swollen to the point where it looked like his knee caps were three or four times there normal size.  In fact, he spent most of the ride back with a bag of ice across both knees.

Though I'd personally like a mulligan, it was a solid trip and I had a good time watching Corey and the KC crew ride so well.  Next time, I may just have to join them.

Corey in 12th thru last CP

He said he had a bad crash earlier and had lost some spots as a
result. Cam was in third and two other 360 guys were just behind
Corey and looking strong.

Cam 3rd, Corey 7th leaving CP 2

Seething

I made it about seven miles, then everything went sideways. Time to
become Corey Godfrey super-fan.