102 at 102

I meant to post something about the Dick Houston Memorial Woodminster Trail Race, a running event Karen and I competed in (even hiring a babysitter to able to do so). We chose it because it's incredibly convenient, the start about a mile from our house, and because its particularly gnarly profile lends itself to a cyclist's legs. My post was to be about spending the hour-and-a-quarter of the run coming up with reasons running is better than cycling, and never getting beyond "It's simple." Even "You don't crash" gave way to "This sucks so much that I wish I could crash so it would be over." But I came away feeling good about the effort, and the kids got to see their parents out exercising and competing in a beautiful environment.

But that meant I went a weekend without riding, so this week I was determined to make up for it. Karen's parents hosted their annual family reunion in Modesto, and I was going to ride out to Livermore after hooking up with the House of Pain group ride, for a solid 55-60 miles. But the evening before the ride, about an hour before our annual Tour de France kickoff party began, a change in family plans dictated that I'd need to ride to Livermore...and then to Modesto. Yahoo! weather told me that I was in for a doosie, with the Far East Bay reaching 100 degrees.

That's the ride I did last year -- home to Danville, to Livermore with House of Pain, and on to Modesto -- and it nearly killed me as the temperature hit 104 with ten miles to go, only to be saved by a seemingly divinely generated cloud that blocked the sun and granted a merciful drizzle. The difference was that this year I could feel after about ten pedal strokes, still within sight of home, that my legs were stale; I didn't really feel like riding at all, let alone churning out 100 miles on the hottest day of the year.

Things remained tolerably temperate until Danville, but by the time I hooked up with the ride I'd unzipped my jersey a third of the way down. I felt er...warmed up, and my legs a bit fresher, but every surge in the group's clip left me struggling to close a gap; clearly I didn't have my best legs. On a brief climbing section, just beyond Collier Canyon, where I typically try to take some time at the front and push the group's pace, all of about five seconds in the wind left me sapped, and soon I fell off the pace. I looked at my odometer: 48 miles down. Ugh.

As the group turned right in Livermore, I took a left and headed towards and then up Patterson Pass. I still had a full water bottle and plenty of food, and as I settled into a steady rhythm instead of the group's intermittent, surge-y clip, I started to feel stronger. Patterson Pass was a grind, but I topped out after the very steep final section feeling like I would up to the rest of the ride -- after I clipped off 8 kilometers at 70KPH down the back side.

On a ride like this one, my annual Penance Ride -- surely I'm making up for some wrong I did sometime -- a convenience store is an oasis, and the one I always stop at in Mountain Home did me right. For the first time in my cycling career I indulged in the pro rider's favorite, Coca-Cola, which with a caffienated Clif Bar gave me a boost that I felt for a solid 20 kilometers. Good thing, too, because east of the wind farms over Patterson/Altamont things get very warm, and there's very little to provide an emotional boost as the body wears down. The windmills were still, every one of the hundreds or so up there, so I had no tailwind to prod me along. The roads from Tracy to Modesto are straight and flat as the mercury in a doctor's thermometer -- and my guess was that the temperature was nearing 98.6 degrees.

But I've done this ride probably ten times now, typically not in such heat, but always with some kind of adversity -- an atypical headwind, a hangover, or a lack of training miles in my legs. Now I know the roads well, and I can segment the ride from Tracy: the miles-long, dead-straight run along Schulte south of Tracy, and the turn south on Kasson to the relative humidity of the San Joaquin River delta; the Copperopolis-style patchwork surface before the turn onto Airport Road, and the dairy smell that runs the full length of the ride from the last cul-de-sac of a Tracy neighborhood to the first one in Ripon; the gunshot cracks at the firing range, never failing to startle me into a swerve; the convenience store-cum-bar where John Deere cap-wearing truckers and farmers chase Jagermeister with Pabst at noon on a Saturday, eying this lycra-clad alien walking funny along the drink fridge, hip-hop -- not Hank Williams -- reverberating so strong it can be felt outside...It's all expected, even comfortable now, right up until the mercifully suburban familiarity with which West Ripon Road, the longest stretch of all, sends me into the last few kilometers before Karen's parents house.

So connecting one familiar landmark to the next, I was able to break off the last 30 kilometers much more comfortably than last year, even mustering a final few quarter-mile efforts over 21 mph. I rode into Karen's parents' driveway with a half-full water bottle and, it seemed, a modicum of energy left -- only nearly to succumb to nausea as soon as I stood up off the bike. For all the self-coercion along the way, most of it relating to the food and drink I'd consume after finishing, I found that all I could do for fifteen minutes was sit quietly in a dark, air-conditioned bedroom, feeling my heart rate come down and my stomach settle. Ultimately I emerged, and admittedly enjoyed the wonder in Karen's relatives' voices and eyes as I replied, "Yes, just got here; I rode from Oakland."

I looked at the thermometer in their backyard, read 102, and had a thought: I walked -- slowly -- to the garage where I'd parked my bike and looked at my computer. The odometer read 102. Perfect, I mused. Poetic.

Self-Justification - a Coda

I recently wrote even more boastfully than usual, relating having "won" on a group ride near Palo Alto, but yesterday I was taken down a peg.

With a meeting planned on the Peninsula for later in the day, I drove down very early to catch the Palo Alto Morning Ride, departing from downtown at 6:25. The ride traces many of the same roads as Saturday's Spectrum Ride, so though I was feeling pretty stale from the hard efforts over the weekend, I figured I'd again try my early escape.

Many of the same roads, but definitely not the same riders: while Saturday's group was depleted by local races going on simultaneously, this field was stocked, including a number of category ones, and a couple of pros. But my hero gear kicked in as we started up the steady climb before Portola Valley, and I again swung wide, stood on the pedals and went to the front. I pedaled furiously, and soon my legs were searing and my breath was heaving, and after about a minute I glanced back and saw...the entire group, pedaling seemingly effortlessly. In fact, a couple of guys bolted by me with a real attack, and much of the field followed. Already spent, I had to muster nearly as much effort just to stay in contact and not find myself pedaling home alone.

Humility: I know it's a good thing.

Self-Justification

You've paid your $30 entry fee. You've purchased fancy race wheels and tubular tires, glued them together and mounted compatible brake pads. You packed your race-day bag, complete with the special fueling arsenal you finally hit on. You threw in extra wheels, and a trainer, and tools and a pump, and you set and adhered to your alarm -- 5:20 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

Oh, and you trained for this race. Some.

All that preparation; you wouldn't let a little rain keep you from racing at Pescadero, would you?

If you were me you would!

In business school I learned about sunk costs; in essence, I believe the point was that having already spent money shouldn't make you take risks you wouldn't normally consider. Figuring the entry fee -- and all that time spent packing and preparing -- was a sunk cost, I stood near the start line of this 75 mile race, replete with thousands of feet of elevation gain, and thousands more of snaky, likely slippery descents, stared up at the sky and thought, "I'm pretty sure the sun's shining in Palo Alto."

I told my friends and teammates as much; about half issued some derivation of "wimp," typically far less civil, while the others said something like, "Huh. Interesting." Driving away I felt serious regret pangs -- until my car's wheels gave out for a moment climbing up the back of Haskins Hill, the course's key feature.

In Palo Alto I parked my car beneath cloudy skies, but on dry pavement, and rode until I met up with the Spectrum Ride, a renowned group ride that can be like a race, but that seemed slimmer and maybe a bit slower; makes sense, with a race going on not far away. But as they say, If the ride is too slow, go to the front -- so I went to the front for a fair amount of the circuit.

Even with Pescadero happening, there were still some strong riders out, some 2s and fellow 3s, and one kid who seemed intent on driving things every time the road turned up. The ride includes a number of surge-sections and three sprint points, the most notable of which comes on Portola Road, just before Alpine, a couple of miles after a 500-meter rise. The kid told me he would gun it on that rise and would try to stay away; sure enough, he jumped on his pedals the moment we started climbing. His wasn't much of an attack, and I was able to get right on his wheel. After 20 seconds of gradual acceleration, though, we were flying up the climb; he slowed just perceptibly, and I came around for a pull of all of five seconds before he went to the front again.

We rode like this -- flat-out, his pulls twice as long as mine -- over the crest, down the gradual slope into Portola Valley, past windy hill and up the steady rise to the finish line. I'd tried this very move before, and while I was pretty sure we were moving faster than I'd managed in the past, I was certain I'd glance back and see the surging field 30 meters behind. Before doing so I stood, and stomped, and went to the front, and put in a surge that had me beyond the redline, head dangling over the bars and legs and lungs searing. I kept it up for 30 seconds, glanced back and saw...no one behind us.

We swung around the final bend, saw the line at the PV fire station, sat up and shook hands. The field came through about 20 seconds later. Speaking with someone else on the return trip, I found out that my mate is a very accomplished professional triathlete; I'd chosen well.

We rode back to Stanford, and then down to Los Altos and beyond; I turned around and rode alone for another 90 minutes. I returned to my car dry, and unscathed, and with 75 miles on my odometer.

I don't know if such an effort would have earned me any points at Pescadero; I heard later from one teammate that the course wasn't so slippery -- and from another that he and others all decked it on the very descent I'd been dreading. So I feel justified.

On this Blog's Name

Yes, I've changed the name. I'm not sure what precipitated the change. Just growing older, perhaps, thinking that with forty less than a year away such irreverence as the former name was inappropriate? Or that a PTA President shouldn't have the a-word in his blog title?

Or maybe it was realizing that "Riding Bikes, Raising Kids and Kicking Ass" is both un-funny and self-aggrandizing.

New title suggestions gladly accepted.

Greve-in-Chianti -- Day Seven

By the time we’d been in Chianti a week and I’d watched hundreds of riders rolling through those lush hills, and taken one pleasant but modest ride with Karen and Dave, I was chomping at the bit – or, at the cranks, as it were. I’d enjoyed our hikes and runs but was hankering for a big ride, one that would take me to new Tuscan towns, and would let me run down a few full-kit-clad aficionados, both local and tourist.

So again we walked into Ramuzzi – me, Karen and this time my dad – this time given Marco a bit of time to open the shop; at 9:30, though, he was still clearing a path through the throng of bikes, from the front door to the counter and back to the shop, where the real business clearly took place. This time he wouldn’t accept a credit card, or even ID. He pulled out the same bikes we’d ridden earlier in the week and we climbed on and rode south, again towards Castellina.

About a mile outside Greve I noticed Karen wiggling on her bike, and asked her what was wrong. Someone else had ridden the bike during the week and the saddle height was a bit different. She said it wasn’t a bother, but knowing that over the course of a few thousand pedal strokes an annoyance can become a real pain (or even an injury) I told her I’d ride back and grab an allyn from Marco (I guessed he wouldn’t mind loaning me one). And so I found a mission, one of those rare occasions when uber-fitness bears practical, unselfish benefits: Ride fast enough and the serum will get to the sick kids in the snowbound village before it spoils! Or, your wife won’t have to ride quite so far on an uncomfortable saddle.

So I hammered back to Greve, scooting between Smart cars at stoplights, found Marco and asked him for an allyn. He found one, decided its flats weren’t flat enough and power-filed it in front of me. I tucked the like-new allyn in my jersey pocket, hopped back on my bike and powered my way back out of town and up the climb to Panzano, a week’s worth of anticipation firing my legs. Looking at the church atop the hill and imagining my maiden ahead, I felt not so much like the dog-sled courier as a knight-errant atop a sturdy (though not terribly light or stiff) steed.

In Panzano, Karen and my dad stood in the piazza beneath the church, paging through a travel guide they found; I arrived sweating and already very winded. We lowered Karen’s seat a smidge, she decided it felt better and we rode down the backside towards Castellina. On the descent I sped by the longest snake I’ve seen outside captivity, a narrow six-footer that was slithering to the other side of the road like it was more frightened of me than I was of it. Thinking that snakes aren’t necessarily like deer – the presence of one doesn’t mean that of others – I descended on, imagining taking the sweeping turns like an Italian pro – or at least a layer away from that, like imagining that I was Dave Stohler imagining that he was an Italian pro.

We climbed to Castellina with my dad, who’s always enjoyed measuring himself against a steady ascent, leading the way. Near the crest I determined that I needed to get moving if I was to finish the ride I’d mapped out; after telling Karen and my dad as much, I stepped on the pedals, topped out in town and started a blissfully long descent, 18 kilometers of carless roads and broad curves, down into the best-named city outside of Ireland, Poggibonsi.

This was the biggest Tuscan city I’d visited (not counting Florence), a landlocked cousin to La Spezia, with high-rises, big box stores and industrial edifices on the outskirts. It held some charm, but I was in a hurry and found signs to San Gimignano, where my parents had stopped earlier in the week, a spot that all the tourist books say one must visit.

Poggibonsi lies at the border of Chianti, a region designated for its grapes but characterized as much, from what I could tell, for its idyllic landscapes and easy feel. One traffic circle out of Poggibonsi and I was on the straightest, flattest road I’d seen since driving on the autostrade from Rome, a stretch bordered by knee-high weeds instead of picturesque grapevines. I heard insects buzzing and felt a moisture I hadn’t noticed all week. This was feeling less idyllic all the time.

San Gimignano was a respite, but one so brief as surely to disappoint the tour-book writers; I buzzed through the place Chevy Chase-style, in about five minutes. Absurd, I know; San Gimignano struck me as Siena Junior, and I’m certain it holds a special wonder, but now, at the farthest-out point of my ride, I was feeling some pressure and needed to move on. I rode around a piazza and didn’t see a typical public fountain, but figured I had enough water in my bottles until the next town.

Problem was, it was getting warm; it was past noon, and I needed to be back by three, and that fabled Tuscan sun had reached its apex. I slogged along some trucking roads, for the first time getting buzzed by local traffic, following signs to Colle di Val d’Elsa, and then on to Monteriggioni.

As I approached the “Monte” in Monteriggioni, plodding along a long false flat, I emptied the last couple of drops in my bottle and started to feel a bit woozy. I realized I’d ridden hard for most of three hours, and that it was quite hot. I stopped at a classic Italian spot, a combo café/bar/restaurant/convenience store, and downed a bottle of Gatorade before buying it. Then I bought a bottle of water, emptied it and heard the familiar hiss of acqua con gas. Great; fizzy water to quench my thirst.

I rode through a cooler, wooded stretch before turning onto the same long, gradual ascent from just north of Siena back to Castellina, enjoying the shade and gearing up for a climb in the exposed sun. The fizzy water seemed not to quench my thirst as well as I’d hoped – maybe I just imagined it – and before long I was again without water, now surely at the hottest point of the day. I duked it out for 15 kilometers, glancing now and again back at the distant Siena, and then up at the Castellina’s little castle.

Upon reaching the crest in Castellina, it struck me that I was treating this ride like any other, that I could have been riding in Danville for all the time I’d stared at my front wheel and the road ahead. So, deciding I had a few minutes to spare, I bought another Gatorade, a water – flat this time – and a raspberry gelato. I sat on the curb along yet another piazza, tourists and locals glancing my way. Restored, I climbed back on my Carrero and coasted down from the little town, along the vineyards, and the river and the churches and villas, remembering that tomorrow we would drive back to Rome and then fly back to the U.S.

On the final climb to Panzano I caught a group of touring riders, a branded van following them in support. They rode hybrid/cruisers, and they all looked miserable, ill-fitting helmets tipped back over their furiously perspiring foreheads. I passed a good ten of them, hearing dialects British, German and American, until I rode up behind a couple, a fit-looking guy nudging along a woman, his hand and the small of her back. I sneaked up quietly and placed my hand on his back, saying, “Everyone deserves some help.” He smiled and said, “Except you!” That gave me the boost I needed and I rode away to the top the hill; back at the Panzano piazza the group’s leaders were waiting, and I heard one of them say, gesturing to me, “I dunno…ask him; he looks like he knows where he’s going.”

Back in Greve I returned my bike to Marco, considered giving him a hug but decided against it, thanked him over and over and promised to tell everyone in America about him. I arrived back at the house in plenty of time for our departure to Florence.

Which is what I was in such a hurry to return for: our final dinner. It was a feast befitting one who’d just finished the Giro d’Italia, not a self-styled giro di Chianti. At Il Latini¸ sort of an authentic Buca di Beppo precursor, I ciao’d down on bread soup, beef, cinghiale, gnocchi, many glasses of Chianti and much, much more. It was as much food as I’ve seen since living in a fraternity house, and as much food as I’ve consumed since…well, since the last time I dined at Buca. It was a fitting end to a glorious week, a Big Night after a big day in the saddle.