Boo

I have not been biking. I have not been doing anything but working, getting my ears yanked off by a toddler, and sleeping poorly. I moved to a house across town. It's at the foot of a pretty monster hill. Why they even use this hill in the tour of california. It's pretty big. Da(umb) Robot gets a boner over this.

I do not. I am now an even worse cyclist and my move from a triple to a double has turned into an epic fail. I went from just barely being able to do moderate hills, to not even being able to make it up the hill to my house. So I did what anyone with some cash burning a hole is his pocket would do. I bought a new cassette.

However, I did something that only I would do. I bought a 14-23 cassette. Which is much harder to climb with than the 11-25 I currently have. Not the little sprocket dummy. The big one. Ugh. Good thing the place I bought the cassette from will take it back.

Oh and it gets worse. I really stopped paying attention to this blog. Then I return and find out that Da Robot has taken it into a new hardcore realm of cycling that I'm pretty sure will make fun of me and spit espresso at me when I try to click the "Publish Post" button in a few minutes.

Shit, I'm just trying not to have a heart attack on every steep hill and my blogmate is a fanatic who may or may not have designs on kidnapping euro cyclists, keeping them in a well in his basement and having them rub lotion on themselves then putting the lotion back in the basket. You think I'm being a funny guy, but I'm serious. The good news is I don't think he checks this blog anymore either. So maybe I'll try to wuss this thing out.

Roubaix, bitches! Roubaix!

Moser

I've taken delivery of an early '80s Moser 51.151, the bike released to commemorate Moser's setting of a new record for the Hour, 51.151 kilometers.

It's a little '80s ugly, and it's built out with Shimano 600 components, so I'm going to try to rework it with Campagnolo bits and pieces, but I'm WICKED FUCKING PSCYHED.

I had been mulling dropping a chunk of change on something new and shiny and high tech, but in the end, I thought it better to spend a little money on something old and classic and still quite good.

I bought a bike, rather than a fetish.

I'll get a picture for you.

More on the UCI Radio Ban

Just a follow on from my comments about the UCI radio ban:

Cycling News - Michael Barry

It's nice to hear a pro rider saying the same things I was thinking.

More inspiration

I could literally watch this kid ride all day, then get a quick nap, get up, and watch him ride some more.

He's not human. He's a robot designed to kick ass.

Just some quick comments

1) The UCI has moved to eliminate 2-way radios from the pro peloton. I won't get into all the pros and cons of this move, but there's an article here on VeloNews about how Johan Bruyneel and Bob Stapleton think it's a bad idea. They say riders will be less safe without radios, but the truth is, in my opinion, Bruyneel and Stapleton just fear what will happen if they can't exert complete control over what their riders do on race day. Somewhere Bernard Hinault is chuckling to himself.

2) I'm happy for Cadel Evans. I've always liked him as a rider, even when he's come off as a whiney prick. Full disclosure, Evans is of Welsh descent, and I'm a Welsh robot, so he's been a natural favorite for me. Anyway, it's good to see him come good at the end of the season, and I'd add, not all too surprising that he wins his biggest race, not supported by the sad cast of Silence-Lotto, but rather by the aggressive riding of his countrymen. Note to Silence-Lotto, this guy can win big races if you support him properly.

3) There's talk Astana will lose their ProTour license. Duh. If you're running a show where teams are allowed to go without paying their riders for months at a time (keep in mind this is the very top division of pro cycling) and keep your license, you're running a pretty crappy show. Full disclosure on this one, I want Alberto Contador out of that team, so we can see him race Schleck, Wiggins, Evans, Menchov, Armstrong, et. al. on an even playing field, instead of hamstrung by a crew of cut-rate Kazak cyclists led by unrepentant doper Vinokourov.

4) I find myself plunging deep into fall without the benefit of a single road bike in my collection. What happened? How did I arrive here? And how can I solve this intolerable problem?

Cross Season

So, it's cross season. I've never ridden cross competitively, though my everyday bike is a cross bike, set up fixed for city bombing. I've had it off road, and it's what we, in New England, call "wicked fun."

So in honor of cross season, here's a video I ripped off of the Embrocation blog:

SCHOOL OF CROSS from Dave Christenson on Vimeo.

10 Things I Don't Like

1) When people call their bike a "whip."

2) When the stem and handlebars are referred to as the "cockpit."

3) When people ride track bikes with flip-flops on. DON'T YOU LIKE HAVING TOES?!?!?!?

4) The term "fixie."

5) That Bicycling Magazine puts bikes that cost more than $1500 in their "new riders" review bikes.

6) Single speed mountain bikes.

7) Guys racing Grand Tours to warm up for Worlds. Guys pulling out of Grand Tours to save themselves for Worlds.

8) Race radios.

9) Cyclo-computers.

10) Not having enough money to buy more bikes.

Salvation

Is there a place called Salvation? And can I ride to it? How far? Century? Double Century? Or a wheel-spinning millennium?

How many saddle sores do I need to get in, and how much lactic acid do I need to be carrying? Is it uphill all the way? Is there a headwind? Will someone pace me? Will the echelons string across road like accordions of mercy and deliver me, just as a hole develops in the heel of my old wool socks?

Will the Earth spin under my wheels, and will all the trees blur into one, tall green spire? Will my chain run dry and my cables stretch thin, on my way to Salvation?

Can you even get there on a carbon fiber horse? I'd best run steel. To be safe.

The sweat soaks all the way out the brim of my cap and the lycra lets hold its grip. The road turns up and disappears, asymptotic in the distance. There's a rasp in my chest and a creaking in my bars, and I used my last spare tube hours ago. It doesn't matter, because the side walls of these thins tires are nearly gone. I've gone sallow in the cheeks, almost gray. I blend into the winter-bleached asphalt, pebbly and rough. And cars swish by, oblivious, the radio on too loud.

I'm near Salvation now. I know I am, but how much further?

How much further?

Friday Video - Julien Dupont

This dude is really a very serious mother fucker. I don't even give half a shit that he ain't pedalin'.

Something I love about bicycles - Part VII

Headhunters.

A headhunter is a special kind of commuter, the kind that is very, very competitive, seeking to pass the maximum number of riders during his or her daily commute. It doesn't matter whether the headhunter lives a mile from the office or twenty. Each day they set out to destroy the competition, the college kids on their rusty, old ten-speeds, the mountain bikers riding two inch knobbies on the pavement, the department store bikes and the carbon fiber dreams. The headhunter merely wishes to pass. To pass is to win.

I have been a headhunter. I have vanquished old women with baskets full of flowers. I have derived smug pleasure from passing a lycra-clad roadie and from burning past kids on freestyle BMX bikes. I don't know why. I don't know what I was hoping to accomplish or what I was proving about myself. I've certainly let all that go now.

But I love the headhunter still, even if I put up a little resistance as he tries to pass.

Something I love about bicycles - Part VI

CRASHING!?!!?!!??!!?

Crashing hurts. The older I get the more it hurts. And because I've been riding a long time, my crashes happen quickly. I don't find myself in slow-motion, "oh-no-what's-going-to-happen?" crashes. I'm riding, and then I'm down. And bleeding.

A good crash reminds me I'm alive. A good crash pegs back my more aggressive tendencies and keeps me safe for months.

Some crashes are funny and help me take myself less seriously. Some crashes put me out of commission for a while, which gives my body a chance to recover, not just from the crash, but also from the daily pounding I give it.

Crashes win you sympathy. And scars.

A crash teaches you where the edges of things are, where you stop and the asphalt starts.

Carnicería masiva

That's Spanish for 'massive carnage.'

Something I love about bicycles - Part V

I love joggers. Where I ride in the summertime, part of my route anyway, runs up through a park that ribbons along a river, and this particular stretch of urban parkery attracts myriad joggers, many of them college-aged women. And what amuses me about them, other than the obvious gift of youthful svelteness, is their preference for a certain genre of aggressively sloganed t-shirts.

These are shirts that say things like: "No pain, no gain," "Don't mess with me," "Pain is weakness leaving the body," "Only the strong survive," "If you're gonna beat me you better RUN!," etc, etc, etc. They're so earnest, so positive, so playfully A-personality deranged.

I haven't the heart to tell them they'd be faster on a bike.

Daveed Millar

I am generally loathe simply to post a link to content on another site, unless that content is a kick ass video that involves shredding of hot asphalt, slaying of beasts or large animals deficating.

In this instance, however, and in lieu of actually saying something substantive about the Vuelta España, I will direct you here for David Millar's diary entry from yesterday. It made me laugh. It gave me information. It made me laugh again. And then it exposed the raw, human side of pro racing that we so seldom get to see.

Read it. If you like bike racing.

I do.

So what? Shut up!

OK, so I haven't been here for a while. We're in a fight, in case you hadn't noticed.

When was the last time YOU called ME? Huh? Why is this relationship all one way?

Here's a video of a guy slaying the proverbial beast. He has no brakes. I don't know why, but I'm psyched they left all the crash bits in there. It makes me feel less like throwing all my bikes on the train tracks and walking away.

On riding fixed

I've been riding mostly fixed for the last two years. The exceptions have been a couple rides on my mtn bike and a little bit of Sunday cruiser travel. So it's been a pretty complete immersion. I've even ridden some middle distance road rides fixed with my friend Sam. And let me say, I like riding a fixed gear bicycle. It's fun.

To be sure, it's very much the fad in American cycling at the moment. I get the impression that the same is going on in Europe and Japan as well.

It's at the point, here in Boston, where I see businessmen in their business casual rolling around on track bikes, which, lest you get the wrong impression, I think is totally awesome. The more the merrier. Cycling fads sell bikes, get people excited about pedaling their asses around and generally contribute to the overall velocipedic karma of the city.

I've learned a hell of a lot about the physics of cycling from riding fixed. I can say honestly that I'm a better bike handler now, and the learning process continues. It feels as though I understand some added nuance every week that passes.

Having said all that, it is also true that I find myself pining for gears and coasting. Perhaps it's my obsession with pro racing that fuels this derailleur lust. Perhaps it's just time for me to move on, or at least to let some other horses into the barn.

One thing I've never quite understood about what I'll call the "fixed gear community" is the way (and yes I'm totally generalizing) is their need to denigrate other cycling genre. I see stickers like "Fixed Forever!" and "No Fucking Gears!" the latter of which is pretty funny, cause bikes don't actually go with no gears. I think what they meant was "One Fucking Gear!"

Still, to each their own.

I like bikes. All kinds. I jumped on the BMX bandwagon when I was a kid. Next came ten speeds. Then mountain bikes. Then I rode road bikes for a bit, before going back to mountain, and then fixed. Rather than seeing a problem with my lack of consistency as regards my cycling preferences, I think the world is FULL of bikes I haven't ridden yet. I look forward to a whole lot more bandwagon jumping in the coming years.

Friday Video - The Return (ENECO Tour)

I've been neglecting my duties here. Life has been busy. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Anyway, here is your Friday Video, a snippet from the bunch sprint at the ENECO Tour. This is Tyler Farrar's first big win of the season (after finishing second to Marc Cavendish so many times). There's also some pretty significant ouchey here.

Enjoy!

New Game Idea!

Throwing hot Capri Suns at asshole cabs.

Work up your own scoring system.

Up

After many weeks of intending to get my ass on the trail for a little bit of mountain bicyclery, I finally managed the trick, up at our place in Vermont. For this bit of trail-oriented dering-do, I enlisted the companionship of a former pro racer, who, fortunately, has long since given up the hammer. We agreed, during a telephonic planning session, to roll for an hour or so, over a smooth, flat fire road, that hugs one of the local lakes. All was to be calm, controlled and relaxing.

We drove to the trailhead, discussing the loathsomeness of driving-to-ride, and then disembarked, squidging our way out of the parking lot and onto the former railway bed that serves as a hiking/biking trail in summer and skiing/snowmobiling path in winter.

Chit chat ensued, as we made few demands on the give and take of our front forks. I could have carried a cup of coffee. I might also have been able to complete a paint-by-numbers, such was the smoothness and steadiness of the trail.

Then it turned upward.

"No problem," I thought. "We'll just crest this little rise and then resume relaxing rollery."

But the fuckin' thing just kept going up, bending to the left, going up, bending to the left, going up, bending, up, bending, up, ad absurdum. Thankfully, my traveling (travailing?) companion dispensed with pedaling early on, and instead applied a technique I call ride-n-walk. You ride until you hit your own personal redline. Then you get off and try not to vomit. Then you walk the bike, until it's flat enough and the bile has receded enough to go again.

We did that for about an hour, then we rode the descent we'd earned, and that was, as the kids say, "the balls."