velophoria

The Year in Spandex

2012-01-02T17:16:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the Velophoria 2011 wrap-up. I figure I’d wait ‘til every other media outlet in the world had its annual retrospective orgy before I offered up my priceless pearls of wisdom.

It was, as regular readers know, a tough year emotionally, with my dad's illness and his passing in November. However, I took a full 11 days off for the holiday break, and I’m feeling a bit more spunky coming out of it than I was going in.

With the break, I’ve had some time to consider my athletic year, separate from the crush of everything else, and was surprised to realize that it was extremely successful, especially based on my ever-increasing reliance on the smiles-per-hour (versus miles-per-hour) metric.

I did things I’ve never done before, including my first-ever season of cycling dirt roads, trails, and even some straight-up single-track. This I accomplished on my Salsa Vaya (a 2011 purchase): an on/off road bike with drop bars, no suspension, and narrowish 35 mm tires. Not bad for a guy of 47 to pick up his first dirt skills on that puppy, eh?

I did things I’ve been trying to do for a few years – such as finding a well-established local road riding group I could fit in with. I went on five or six outings with them, had fun, made friends, and managed my share of the work load respectably.

I also did things I’ve been longing to get back to for decades. I had long thought that running, which I enjoyed quite a bit as a college student, was out of the question for me, due to creaky, aching joints. Turns out that, using a very slow and deliberate introductory schedule, I was eventually able to build back up to the “runner’s high,” and even complete a 5K. I ran most often at 7:00 a.m. on weekdays, through inches of snow and the coldest winter on local record for years.

Finally, I returned to another activity I’d been away from for years: Cross-country skiing. I rented at the (pretty good) local ski area three times, and had a blast. Good way to make use of the record snow falls last year. I got Mrs. V out with me once, and she really enjoyed herself too.

I’d say that’s a pretty good list for one dang year. To celebrate, Mrs. V and I just went out and bought ourselves presents to make the coming winter a little more exciting:

Have a great, active new year. If an office-bound, middle-aged dude like me can get out there all year ‘round, so can you!

Beauty Persists

2011-11-20T12:50:00.000-05:00

A little bit of normalcy returned to Velophoriaville this week -- a full week of work, followed by many hours of catching up on chores around the property (cutting brush and raking leaves -- not exactly torture on a beautiful fall day). Finally, I took a couple hours yesterday to really get out there on a bike and vacate.

Six weeks of unrelenting intensity fell away. As my friend Herringbone once so aptly wrote (I'm paraphrasing here), "As soon as I got on the bike, I felt better." Miserable head colds, injuries and inactivity, four days in a chilly, dark house without power, endless tense waiting for Dad to die, hopeless wishing that he would never die, anguish over his suffering, and then the surreal visit to NYC last weekend after he passed on...

To say it all melted away is cliché: The more accurate statement is that it vanished, the moment I rolled out of the garage with an image of Atkins Reservoir, shining in the sun at the top of a dirt-road climb, crystallized in my mind's eye.

The day was untouchable, 48 degrees and clear as a bell, the shadows chilly and the sun toasty, the colors of every object -- barns, trees, meadows, tarmac -- condensed and intensified in the surreal brilliant Kodachrome autumn light. Contrast was cranked up to 11. Everything seemed cut out of brilliantly hued paper and pasted on top of everything else.

I discovered a couple of new hiking trails and some broad singletrack well-suited to the Vaya's limited off-road capacities. Farther on, I paused at the reservoir to snap a shot, breathe, and feel grateful. The silence was golden, the air was scrubbed clean.

A middle-aged, fit-looking guy ran by with his dog, and we smiled at each other knowingly: "This is as good as it gets, it's why we do these crazy things." Caught up to him further down the road and he asked about the Vaya, said he lived on one of the many dirt roads in the area and rued his purchase of an upscale road bike poorly suited to local surfaces. Gave a hearty endorsement of my bike, and rolled on for home, powered up, as always, by a friendly interaction during a ride.

Last night, a deluxe dinner at an elegantly understated Argentinian steakhouse in Northampton. Mrs. V. and I chatted and laughed as if we were still courting, charged up with delight in each other's special-ness.

Death comes. Death goes. Grief is a process we're all involved in, know it or not. Everyone falls down and hurts themselves. Bodies heal -- or they don't. Power lines collapse, bad news comes in clusters, people will be mean and stupid. But there's a lot of good in this world.

Beauty persists.

Go find some.

Now Cracks a Noble Heart

2011-11-08T21:55:00.001-05:00

So.

The man who, 44 Springs ago, happily lugged me around Central Park's bike loop on the back of Raleigh three-speed and then treated all of us to the famous soft serve at the Boat House, has left this Earth.

The guy who, 40 Springs ago, ran behind my candy-apple red bicycle (training wheels freshly removed) on the boardwalk in Riverside Park, with his hand steadying the seat until I gathered enough speed to stay upright for ten yards, has left us.

The man who, 31 Springs ago, booked me on my first bicycle tour, in which I ranged from Boston to the Green Mountains to the White Mountains, is gone.

That man bought me my first road bike for that trip, a burgundy Saint Tropez, a cheap, heavy, Asian, steel boat anchor, famous for nothing beyond hauling my tuchus all over the East and West Coasts during two high school summers. While I was still admiring the sparkly paint job, the movie Breaking Away was re-released (due to Academy Award nominations); one soft Friday night in April he pressed a ten-dollar bill in my hand and sent me to the Embassy on Broadway and 72nd Street, knowing that it would strike a chord -- but not knowing nearly how big a chord, nor how long-lasting.

That same man stubbornly forbid me to try organized bike racing during the very next summer. He had so many admirable qualities, but he also could be controlling, distant, and overbearing, especially in those days. He decided I would earn money and get my teenaged rear end out of the house. Decent ideas, but I'll always regret not finding a way to sign up for local races anyway, even against his wishes, while I was young, strong, and reckless enough to be somewhat good at it.

* * *

But let us rewind to the beginning. Way back to Riverside Park, when I was about seven. Because what happened there not only is a primal bike memory, it also reflects something more profound about our relationship.

He took his hand off the seat. While running alongside, he took his hand away, to let me experience self-sufficiency.

I shot along the boardwalk on my own steam for a good ten yards before I turned to look over my shoulder and make sure he was still there, and not knowing better, I let my shoulder, arm and hand followed my chin, the front wheel came off-center, wobbled a little and then a lot -- and then I was down on the pebbly pavement. Top speed had probably been six miles per hour, but at that age, every crash is a disaster, life-threatening. But to be honest, I was more upset at what had happened just before the crash and the scraped skin. My father had deceived me. My own dad led me to think he was there when he wasn't. That was a new formulation in my little Technicolor child's world.

Eventually, he got me back on the bike, and the realization came over me (or perhaps he just talked me into seeing) that I had, actually, ridden on my own for thirty feet -- so perhaps I could do it again.

The next three or more decades would mostly be an awkward dance, in which he usually had his hand on my saddle when I didn't want him to, and didn't when I did. Throughout a dysfunctional childhood in my mom's house, Dad did his level best to provide me and my sister with a sense of confidence and a compass for this confusing world. He himself was confused, still a young man, freshly and very acrimoniously divorced. He was with us a lot, but he could only do triage.

So, I wandered all over the map for my first 40 years, unmoored, looking for Me, for Truth, for Safety and Inner Peace. I made some good things, and some glorious and bloody train wrecks. I broke my own heart and lost hope many times over, and, consequently, he suffered, silently, stoically, more than I'll ever know.

Finally, in middle age, I woke up. I went to grad school (his idea), found a career that I fit into, found an amazing woman, found a beautiful place to live, found a beautiful house to stay in for a long time, and found myself, ourselves, beginning the process of adoption. In about seven years, I did all the growing up and risk-taking I had managed to avoid for four decades. It's been harrowing, still is, but it's been good, too. Smartest seven years of my life, hands down.

Dad was so pleased all along, he probably popped buttons on four different shirts. I was finally out of the nest and flying. He was there for my joyous wedding, helped with expenses in grad school, there for my graduation, visited the house we finally bought... quietly smiling, and giving me congratulations each time.

In the last few years, noticing me become the man he always wanted me to be, he began steadily confiding in me, treating me almost as an equal. This blew me away, of course -- my stoic, overbearing father was leaning on me? My life was sweetened immeasurably. Last Spring, when he received his diagnosis, he opened up yet more, quite a lot, in fact. Amongst the upset and anxiety, I was overjoyed. Ages before, he had his hand out to steady me, now, by the blessings of God, I could return the favor. More and more, he disclosed his fears, worries, and joys, and relied on me for perspective, for reflection. He recognized my growing steadyness and maturity, and reached for it to brace himself. I was overwhelmed, even awed, but I can tell you this: I never took my hand off that saddle. I could finally pay him back for the steadfastness he gave me so unthinkingly over the years.

* * *

Dad died Sunday night, after a seven-month bout with cancer. He was strong and dignified to the end, and, thank God, did not have a lot of physical pain to deal with.

I know in my heart he is looking back over his shoulder, just like me all that time ago. He was a doting family man, and his greatest sadness was leaving his wife and children. But now there are no training wheels needed, nor anyone's hand on the saddle. Far from falling, he's flying.

Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
~ Hamlet, Act V, scene ii

Lines From the Front

2011-11-04T21:46:00.000-04:00

Weird times continue. Waiting for a loved one to die is like living in a science fiction story; everything around me is familiar, but somehow changed. And someone with a very odd sense of reality is writing the scenes. It's as if every day were spent engulfed in an eerie orange glow. Or on a city floating in the sky. There are good people in the story, angelic beings proffering soothing ministrations; protective familiars trotting faithfully at your heel. They are among the legion of supporters of the benevolent King, lying on his deathbed. Yet there is an evil presence lurking in the background. You can't see or touch it, but something in the rhythm of the prose makes you stick your nose in the air and sniff nervously.

Nothing is as it was, but nothing has changed. Limbo. Perhaps you're stored cryogenically on an outer-space staging ship, floating in orbit, getting by on minimal power, life support systems only, waiting, waiting.

To add to the surreality, we had a freak 10 inches of wet, heavy snow here last weekend that took out power from a record 700,000 customers in Massachusetts alone. We were without power for almost five days. Living night and day in front of the fireplace, cooking in tiny camping pots over the flames. Remember how ready you were to go home after your last long camping trip, all rank, dank, and cold to the bone? Yeah. Like that, except already home.

My longest workout in the last month has lasted 27 minutes. My injuries and head-cold and a ton of busy-ness have kept me off the road. This has not helped mood. Tomorrow, I hope to go out and have a real adventure -- cover a shocking 12 or 15 miles. When I exercise, my quads turn to overheated oatmeal. They just disappear on me. I am not the man I was a month ago. Now I know why most of America refuses to start an exercise program. Working out when you're weak is one of the most unpleasant sensations available outside of a dentist's office. There's not one fun part of it until it's well over.

And yet none of this is a heartfelt complaint. More and more I feel like life just is what it is. Enjoy the pleasant stuff, don't run from the hard stuff. Be alive, be here. Blah, blah, blah: all that New Age stuff turns out to be annoyingly on target.

As for a Reward after it's all over, I know less about that than I ever have. There is nothing like watching a loved one go through extended suffering before he dies to winnow out the wheat from the chaff in your spiritual beliefs. The little bit of sturdy stuff stands after the rest has been whisked away like so many empty hulls on a stiff breeze. So what's the sturdy stuff, you ask? (Don't we all want to know that one?) For me, for today, it's summed up in my latest entry in a journal I've been keeping of my thoughts and feelings from the time of my Dad's diagnosis:

You can stop an organism, and if you don’t, it eventually winds down, like a watch that can no longer be wound. But you can not snuff out Life. I don’t know where it goes. I don’t know if it coheres as a “person” or “soul” once the organism stops. But I know that the Life in me, and the Life in Dad, will not die. Can not die.

It sure isn’t a lot. And it’s less than I used to think I knew, a whole lot less. But it’s a lot more than nothing, too.

That's my postcard from the front today. Not cheery, but certainly not depressed. And that's saying quite a lot, considering.

Keep 'em turning.

Life and How to Live It

2011-10-24T18:21:00.001-04:00

It's been a while. Sometimes life throws a few extra balls into the mix, and one of them just has to get dropped for a while. Here I am, though, bending at the knees, keeping the other balls going with one hand as I pick this one up.

Good to see you.

Bike riding has been at nil for a couple weeks. I went down, hard -- I mean very hard -- two Saturdays ago, riding the Vaya on trails that were, in fact beginner-level. That was, in fact, why I'd driven down there. A beautiful place, but let me tell you, I learned a lesson about riding in the fall: Leaves are treacherous. One second I was up and enjoying, the next thing I can remember, I am on my back, pulling hard for air, but only making this horrible sucking sound. No air. As in, none. For a good 30 seconds or so. I tore muscles in five different places around my shoulder and ribs, and haven't slept a normal night since. At first, a lot of "sleeping" sitting up on the couch; lately, I can actually lie on the bed.

Meantime, my body is so busy trying to patch itself back together that I catch my first head cold in a year. It was, let's just say, a humdinger. All the more fun because I couldn't blow my nose -- ribs hurt too much -- and coughing or sneezing produced such a blast of pain, you could hear my whimpering all over the house.

All of this would have been par for the course if my Dad's fight with cancer hadn't taken a serious downhill turn. A couple weeks ago, he made the decision to stop treatment, because it simply wasn't working. The cancer had spread from liver to both bones and lymph system.The Hail Mary treatment they offered him seemed like a cruel joke. Another round of chemo after four or five months of it with negative results? Um, no. Basically, at that point, you try to make the end as clean and dignified as possible. Your ticket has been punched, and you have to sit back and experience the ride. It's all over but the waiting and decaying.

As soon as I heard that, I picked my tuchus up out of my sick-bed and hauled ass down to NYC. Dad and I managed to have a conversation that, I now realize, will be our last real one. He's still talking, but hardly. It was an intense and wondrous and excruciatingly difficult talk. I went down knowing what I wanted to say, and I said it. I had no idea he was going to say so much -- it shocked me, really. I'm so grateful to have had that chance. But I was brain-dead for a good few days afterward.

There's even more big stuff going on elsewhere in my life, but I'll spare you. You get the idea.

As recently as few weeks ago, I'd just run my first 5K, with a decent time, and was getting stronger every week. I was riding like a champ, strong and true. Today, I went "running" and barely made two miles, with lots of walking breaks. I'm off bikes until my shoulder and ribs can support me more reliably. I'm very grateful to be running at all; I went down so hard, I'm pretty blessed not to have broken something.

I have good days and bad days. A bad morning can be followed by a great afternoon. I'll get a decent few hours, and then hear from family that Dad no longer can get out of the bed, can't really see anymore, and isn't making much sense when he talks.

I take it as it comes. My practice right now is to say a big "YES" to all of it -- the periods of clarity at work, the hikes with my wonderful wife, the bad news, the frailty and decay of my beloved dad. It's all YES. It's all life. Life is the middle-of-the-night doubts and pitch-blackness, and life is the surreal beauty of a technicolor morning run in the brilliant foliage, sun caressing the hills in the distance. I remind myself that I am not the one dying, that in fact, I have a great life, a better life than I ever imagined possible. That tends to work pretty well.

Maybe tomorrow I can even go for a ride. The one ride I've had recently gave me goosebumps -- 25 minutes of flat terrain that was more scintillating than the 50-mile charity ride I did back in September. I remembered, "Yes, this is how I experience the beauty of life."

No time to waste, man -- gotta stay busy living. When Dad needs me, or his wife needs a hand, I'll be down in a flash, and I'll try to live all of that, too. And I'll bring my running shoes.

A Wire From the Front

2011-10-07T13:03:00.004-04:00

HOME-TOWN YANKEES BROKE MY HEART STOP RAN MY FIRST 5K LAST WEEKEND STOP PLANNING TO RUN MY 1ST ORGANIZED 5K THIS MONTH STOP RIDING LESS ENJOYING MORE STOP GONNA GET ME SOME DIRT THIS PERFECT NEW ENGLAND FALL WEEKEND STOP TELEGRAM STYLE OF WRITING IS ADDICTIVE STOP CAN'T STOP STOP

BikeFest 2011

2011-09-26T09:51:00.000-04:00

Yes, yes, I'm still here, lock up the messenger pigeons, and put away that cattle prod. I've been absorbed in, shall we say, "other stuff." Life stuff. You know -- what we do when not staring at a glowing screen? You do remember that, yes?

I've also been touched by the classic end-of-season malaise, but not as bad this year as previously. I'm still riding, still enjoying, but I have to double-check before I go out: Do I want to do intervals, or do I really want to cruise to the library and check out the latest Batman comics? More often than not, it's quirky rides, like 'splorin' new roads, riding to an event, or just slow-pedaling to the top of the hill by my house and checkin' out the sunset. Love it -- bikes were built for fun and transportation, back before the Victorian jocks got hold of them and decided they were one more way to prove their mustachioed manhood.

I did do a great little ride this past weekend, Northampton Cycling Club's annual BikeFest. Decided I was only in shape for the 43-miler, which turned out (of course) to be 48-miles-plus. Met up with a couple buddies, who promptly disappeared over the horizon about three miles from the start (no worries -- it's part of the unwritten group ride contract). Rode my own ride for about five miles -- as usual, floating in that no-man's land between the fast and the merely fit -- waiting patiently for a group of riders up ahead to realize that they'd let adrenaline get the better of them, and to start drifting back to a more humane pace. I saw them at the top of a hill and worked my way up to them; we finished together, more or less, and some of them were quite friendly and fun to ride with.

It was an ugly day, warm and soupy-humid, but the scenery -- distant, jagged peaks dressed in thick rolls of cotton-candy mist -- was fully up to par.

Back at the start/finish, we gathered for excellent jambalaya (speesy-spicy!) from the Lone Wolf in Amherst, and local hero Roger Salloom's excellent little combo doing rockin' Lonnie Smith and Chuck Berry covers, which added a little sunshine to a drab, wet day. Spirits were high, conversation was good, and I was glad I'd been talked into the day.

Here's to people getting together to do what they love!

What I Did for my Labor Day Weekend

2011-09-06T11:26:00.000-04:00

Artifact of Tropical Storm Irene: Blocked trail in Monague on Saturday. Time for some hike-a-bike through the woods!

Cranberry Pond in Sunderland, on Labor Day. Dirty roads, dirty weather. I tried to climb the fire road up Mt. Toby (in the background) but didn't have low enough gears or fat enough tires (okay -- or strong enough legs).

When you have a bike that thrives on faux-roads, you have fun exploring under highway trestles.

And you find mysterious inscrptions on stone blocks by railroad tracks.

And you turn off trails or roads onto newly-discovered single-track networks. See that footbridge way at the bottom? Hike-a-bike, from there upward. Fun!

The Pioneer Valley Three-Oh

2011-09-01T14:02:00.000-04:00

Been well over a week since I stared at the blank screen with some kind of momentum building up behind my eyes. I've been in bike hibernation or something. Maybe it's the coming of September, all my young clients going back to school, sending me back into some kind of youthful transitional period. Just not thinking in terms of writing. Then, of course, tropical storm Irene was a bit distracting last weekend. No damage to house or property, I'm glad to report, unlike many towns close by, which are torn asunder. I'm sure I'll be finding washed out roads on my rides well into the fall.

Also, I've been writing up rides and tech and philosophy like a house afire since mid-February, and I think I'm feeling the psychic wear and tear, much as I feel the season wearing on my body. Mrs.V. has returned to her public school librarian job and needs some support. And we have other demanding stuff on the docket right now, too.

But don't worry, folks, I'm riding. Mostly on the Vaya, because both my road bikes are on the D.L. I've done what I can for them with my tech skills, and now have plans to haul them both in to a good local bike shop tomorrow and see what experienced hands can render.

I think that's one more reason for burnout: I haven't been able to take advantage of the diversity of riding because I've only had my gravel/dirt machine for the last few weeks or more. I had that brief fling with the 29er, but it didn't work out. (Flings rarely do.) I was hoping that would provide me a whole new angle on riding -- woods, mountains, trails. Turns out, I'm really only suited to a little of that, at least for now. The Vaya mostly scratches that itch pretty well.

I did three or four hours on hurricane day (Sunday) to plot out an extended dirt road ride here in the Valley. It turned out to be way more vertical than I was hoping; dirt roads in this part of New England generally lead upward. I haven't been able to find many of those lovely lo-o-ong, rolling roads they have out in Kansas and Iowa, where you could easily put together a century without ever riding pavement. So, we'll see if I'm up to what I have tentatively titled The Filthy Fifty. 4,000 feet of climbing, and composed of 75% dirt,gravel, and a smidgen of single track. Rigorous.

Aside from that, I'd like to go for a few long leaf-peeping rides this fall; I love kitting up with arm warmers and embrocation and rolling out in the chilly, clear weather. It's inspiring after a summer of sweat pooling incessantly under my helmet pads. I also find myself looking forward to the infamous cyclocross races at Look Park in early November; perhaps I'll attend on my Vaya and take a stab at the course in-between races, as many spectators do. 'Cross is coming, bundle up!

That's the three-oh from the Pioneer Valley today.

Look to This Day

2011-08-23T13:39:00.000-04:00

As I said yesterday, I think the Salsa Vaya is my kind of bike. Today, I headed off for some reconn on a small area in the north of Amherst that I'd recently been told hides some short but lovely trails. Indeed they do -- flat, smooth, well-maintained, and scenic. The pleasure the Vaya allowed was riding up there on the road, then nosing off into the woods until I ran out of trail, then turning on to a gravel road and sniffing around for another trail, and so on. I've never seen a bike more perfectly suited to this kind of advenutre.
Scenes from a Tuesday morning well spent:

Memorial stone in Mill River Recreation Area

Mill River riffle

More Mill River trail

Presumably the site of the old mill

I even covered a snippet of the famed Robert Frost Trail (Puffer's Pond on left)

I think the Vaya wanted a souvenir of this lovely jaunt

A Fling Forgiven

2011-08-22T13:03:00.000-04:00

Well, when you're pushing 50, these things happen.

We've all heard about the guy who runs out and buys the bright red sports car to compensate for his fading manhood. As for me, I bought a mountain bike. Like, with about 15 minutes of forethought.

I was gonna test ride it -- really, seriously! But this mysterious other buyer was circling around, and my friend selling the bike said I might want to move fast. I figured, what the hey! So I have almost no idea what to do with it. I want to learn more about single-track riding. It's a gorgeous bike. I'll grow into it.

I was wrong.

I rode that stunning beauty four times, and never once had a really good time. It was like being on someone else's bike. The 700c wheels -- my norm -- felt huge with those fat tires sitting on them. I couldn't really get over very much that I couldn't get over with the much narrower tires on my beloved, fully rigid Vaya. Between all that air in the tires and the suspension fork, I just couldn't feel the surface of the trails or roads, which led to worse handling, not better.

Maybe it's just too advanced a bike for me, or maybe I need a 26er; my friends who race say that smaller wheels allow them to pick their way through the rocks, roots, and tight turns of New England more nimbly. Or maybe I just wasn't built for mountain bikes.

Saturday, after another frustrating ride, I called the shop and asked my pal if he'd take the Mariachi back as a straight trade for the Vaya I had swapped. He was very understanding, and to my great relief, said simply, "Sure!"

It's good to have that bike back in the stable where it belongs. I plan to lay slightly fatter rubber on it, maybe 40 or 43 mm, so I can reel in those those nasty gravel and washed-out fire roads a bit more handily. But nothing like the 2.2" tires on the Mariachi. Beasts, they were.

I grew up a road rider, and perhaps I'll always be defined by that provenance. But that doesn't mean I don't like to get dirty. Salsa's Web site says of the Vaya, "Designed to take on any surface that someone might consider a road." In the end, that might neatly describe yours truly, as well.

I've Been Turned

2011-08-15T13:09:00.001-04:00

Well, the dirt-loving virus that took hold of me when I bought my Salsa Vaya has completed its hijacking of my brain and legs: Yesterday, in a feverish haze no doubt brought on by too much time on single-track (or too many blows to the head falling off of single-track)...

...I purchased a mountain bike.

To be specific, a Salsa El Mariachi, with 29-inch wheels, a metallic-flaked dark charcoal and ruby-red paint job, classy components, tubeless-ready rims, and snappy WTB Bronson 2.2-inch tires.

I'm both thrilled and nervous. Will I like real mountain biking as much as I think? Did I give away that beautiful root-beer-brown Vaya in vain?

I managed a straight trade for the Vaya (also a Salsa), a bike that I am certainly grieving today. If I could have kept both, I surely would have. The Vaya is a solid, lovely bike, well-built to its purposes, but those main functions -- touring/commuting or gravel-grinding -- aren't things I can do enough of around here to justify keeping such a nice bike in the stable. My master plan includes a separate treasonous act: trading in my racy Cannondale for a slightly more comfortable but still-swift bike, which would handle both pavement and gravel, and be more forgiving of my middle-aged back on longer rides. At that point, I'll be able to do single-track and rougher fire roads/double-track on the 29er, and longer gravel and road rides on the road bike. (I sure wish I had the scratch to keep all the beauties that have passed through my clutches.)

Words can't describe my disorientation when I enter my garage and spy that broad-shouldered draft horse leaning against the wall. I'm used to a featherweight thoroughbred with wafer-thin tires. It's a weird thrill -- sort of like the day I bought my Ford Bronco when I moved to the mountains of New Mexico years ago, after having driven only economy cars to that point.

I'm really looking forward to taking the Mariachi out on the trails I've already mastered (and, especially, the ones I've almost mastered) on the Vaya, to experience the difference between riding dirt on a modestly-geared touring bike with cyclocross tires and drop handlebars, and on a wide-bar bike with monster-truck wheels, a classy suspension fork, and silky-smooth disc brakes.

I suspect some of you old (uh, I mean old-school) mountain bikers out there are cringing at the idea of a 293er, thinking "When I was starting out, the wheels were the size of a silver dollar, and you could have put Action Jackson on my saddle and he would have reached the pedals! Harrumph!" Well, have mercy on me. I'm a 47-year-old rank beginner to this discipline. I have the most grown-up job I've ever held, a terrific marriage, a new house, and kids in the not-too-distant future. To top it all off, it's not like I'm starting off with a bumper crop of athletic talent. In short, I need my energy and body intact at the end of the weekend. My impression has been that 29ers make mountain biking a little easier (or a lot, depending on who you ask), especially on the rooty, rocky, narrow trails of Olde New England.

Besides, this is a looker, with an outstanding reputation, and made by a small, still-funky company run by people who really ride and love bikes. What's more, the guy who sold me the Vaya was looking to get rid of the Mariachi right at the moment I was considering 29ers -- it was another one of those "right place, right time, right bike" deals I seem to have a knack for.

So rejoice for me. And then hook me up with some beginner's trails, because I can't seem to find any around here, and I'm tired of falling on my popo.

Wendell State Forest: A Land Apart

2011-08-14T11:44:00.000-04:00

Dear Pioneer Valley nature lovers who haven't been to Wendell Sate Forest: You are missing a gem, and it's right under your nose.

I spent two hours surfing the double-track up there on Saturday, and I'm not sure I've seen a prettier patch of land in our corner of Olde New England.

There are many miles of NEMBA-groomed single-track here, but I can't vouch for it, because, as rugged as the Vaya is for a road bike, it was barely tough enough to withstand some of the two-track. I didn't get pictures of the truly rough stuff in the first mile or two of Jerusalem Road; I was too busy puffing and sweating over the jagged, closely-spaced, shark-tooth rollers. More than gravel, the roads there are lined with stones, ranging from marble- to golf ball-size. Not great for maintaining control on steep downhills with narrow tires and drop bars. Eventually, death-grip braking on the descents, with my popo hanging out over my rear tire, became as tiring (and tiresome) as the constant climbs, and I sought out friendlier terrain.

Below are scenes from Brook, Wickett Pond, Carlton and Dirth Roads; more rolling in feel, yet with enough zingers to keep the quads softened and the esprit challenged.

Trust me: mere snapshots from a cell phone won't do justice to the back-of-beyond peace and spiritual vibe out there. I saw not one other human being the entire morning (other than a grounds guy on a bush trimmer giving the roads a haircut). Nor biker, nor hiker, nor vehicle humming, on a lovely morning in August.

While I was delighted with the solitude, I also felt a twinge of worry. Don't give the State House reason to cut back on funds for this remarkable treasure folks. It took me 25 minutes to drive there from my front door; load up the bike and just go. It's a win-win.

Strange Gods

2011-08-14T09:21:00.001-04:00

August 2011 -- Expeditions into the hills of Amherst, though strenuous, have borne fruit. Stumbled upon unspoiled evidence of a race bearing the runic moniker of MTBers. The stone likeness below was erected beside a mountain trail -- mysteriously, not used for transport to other important locations or for the bearing of goods. Purpose of trail still to be determined. Apparently, this primitive, perplexing people worshiped a deity not recorded in other annals of the time.

No Country for Old Men

2011-08-08T11:27:00.001-04:00

Pondering the imponderables is just what I do, both for a living and for "fun." Whenever my mind isn't occupied with something concrete, I launch inward, soaring ever-tighter circles on whatever updrafts I can find in that bizarre land called the Great Mystery. It's just how I'm wired.

So, late this afternoon, after yet another piece of hard news about my dad's health, I velcroed up the bike shoes and rolled out the Vaya for some local dirt: The paths of the cemetery just down the street from us.

I don't like graveyards, as a rule; they have always elicited a sullen downwardness in me. Tonight, though, it was the place to be. I found that rolling slowly up and down the swales and vales was much better than walking, standing or sitting, the three typical modes in such a haunt. I kept moving, just faster than the moist tendrils of entropy insistently trying to twine themselves around my rear spokes. That meditative speed enabled me to feel myself alive among the dead -- yet alert enough to catch, out of the corner of my eye (where all worthy revelations show up) whatever it was that called me down there today.

It became clearer than ever to me this afternoon that no one has any idea how long my old man will be hanging about this earthly veil. Being who I am, my reaction was, head for where the dead folks are.

I was the little kid who, when there was a bully lying in wait for me after school, sought him out in the hopes he would do his worst. I have always had a feisty hatred of the dread unknown. Living in fear is far worse to me than whatever punishment today might dish out.

This graveyard is pretty, really. It's small, lined with maples and oaks; there are no paved paths, only dirt. Lots of old-time gravestones from antiquity. Soft woodsy smells everywhere. The afternoon was hot and sticky, but not stifling. I let the fire of the sun bite into my skin; it's summer, I'm alive, and I didn't want to miss a fleck of sunlight, no matter the temperature.

As I circled around for the third time, I became aware of an unseen boundary forming about the cemetery, perhaps called up by my ritualistic revolutions. I was alone, and suddenly knew myself to be in a land apart, a twilight place, where colors were vivid, but also translucent, shot through with late-summer light. The air took on a gentle tension, as if a miasma were gathering. I flashed on my father telling me, on a walk a couple months ago, that he felt like he was in a different country. He was referring to the odd land of Clinicalia -- hospitals, specialists, big, loud, "imaging" machines, biopsies taken at mysterious, capricious intervals. Yet I think some part of him knew that, past the shore of that strange new territory, lurking in the dark interior, lay yet another reality altogether. I was lingering in a gateway to that farther land this afternoon, gazing past the stones, leaning on the handlebars, thinking how Dad's become the best friend I've ever had, and that, in the long view, I have nothing to complain about. I checked myself for anger, sadness, fear. They had all retreated, at least momentarily, driven back by the ghostly golden summer light, and the unquestioning, unquestionable presence of the Big What.

I moved on. Rolled a few circles about a big cross in the middle of the cemetery, where there were mysterious gifts laid out for... the Madonna? The deceased? A few rags, dirty from cleaning headstones. A muddy cloth doll. A CD, still packaged, of children's songs.

I turned to go. On the path leading to a gap in the fence, I glimpsed -- out of the corner of my eye -- a large headstone engraved with the word Joy in bold letters. I always get my insight if I go knowing that I might not.

I pedaled easily home, and joined my wife for dinner and a cheesy old movie -- a Sunday night in the land of the well.

Confessions

2011-08-04T09:39:00.000-04:00

dear diary,

am so ashamed!!!!! spent 3 of my last five rides on singl track!! what will my group ride frends say when they see mudd on my legs?? the paint job on my newest bike is getting, like, all chuwed up from rocks or sticks or something. every day i ride up to the trailhead with my helmet pulled so lo i can't see, just in case one of my roadie frends goes by and is all, like, "doood! what is up with the baggies + t-shirt???!!!"

OMG! Who am i???

=v=

Zen and the Art of Dirt

2011-07-31T17:39:00.002-04:00

Let's start with a koan today, students: If a bike falls in the forest and no one is there to see it, did it really fall?

Not yesterday.

Nobody was skating 35 millimeter wheels off-camber down a hill of big roots covered with pine needles yesterday, just to see if he could stay upright. Thus, nobody slid slowly and inevitably onto his side and shoulder, and no one heard no one quoting, "OOOMPH," or some such like that.

Zen tip number one for dyed-in-the-wool-jersey roadies just building basic dirt skills: Hit the trails early. Mountain bikers are slackers, and will never show up before 10 a.m.

You see? Nothing never happened yesterday, because no one was present to hear that nothing.

That was my one fall (kidding -- never happened!) on an early, bright-hot Saturday morning in the Valley. I rolled out feeling sluggish and surly, realizing only just before the trailhead that I'd skipped morning coffee. Twenty minutes after a quick espresso at Atkins Farms market found me picking up speed on the local trail network, a smile spread over my grizzled mug.

I'm so thoroughly enjoying my study of dirt. I haven't learned much at all yet, but everything so far seems like corollaries of what I think are fast becoming the two Universal Principles of Dirt: 1) Steer with your hips and head; and 2) keep moving, a little faster than you think is sane. Here are some of the declensions:

- Handlebars are not for steering. Sit back in the saddle and use your hips, or put weight on one of your pedals. If you have enough momentum and your weight in the right place, the front wheel will flow in the right direction (overall), no matter how rooty or washed out the trail. A light touch on the bars at most (especially when your bike is fully rigid and thin-tired; your arms and legs are your shocks. Be very nice to them.). Body English, first, last and always

- Center of gravity is everything; wither goes thy tanden, so goes thy bicycle.

- The old chestnut, "Look where you want to go," could not be more true. The sharper the turn, the more you need to point your head through the apex (my shoulders and hips tend to follow -- that's a lot of why). Like most of Zen, and most of dirt-riding, it's counter-intuitive, but works like a stinkin' charm.

- Momentum will cover a multitude of sins in line-picking (though a better line will always win in the end). If you don't got the mo' when you need it, you'll have to manufacture it, with a sudden surge. This will make you strong -- eventually. Better yet, if you really want to stay upright, is to just go a little faster generally. Counter-intuitive, right?

- Braking is not helpful for anything except a full stop, or scrubbing speed before a sharp turn. You can't do just about anything else well or safely while you're braking. If you're scared, don't brake -- look more closely where you're going. And let up on those handlebars!

- Finally, don't leave yourself in too low a gear; you might not be able to power through that next scary patch. Again, not logical; I mean, if you're in trouble, you want to be able to turn the pedals quickly, right? Wrong; you'll spin and spin and go three miles per hour, and the lack of momentum will land you in the dirt (at best).

* * *

Like a new disciple, I'm zealous, proud, and full of knowledge today. But that wise old master, the Mountain, just sits placidly and smiles, knowing that tomorrow, bike and body are bound to part in a fascinating new way. And that, too, will be learning, will it not, Daniel-san?

I'll leave you with some images from the ride. I'm off to trap a fly between a pair of hex wrenches.

Sixes and Sevens

2011-07-26T11:45:00.001-04:00

A hard, but rewarding weekend – and believe it or not, I’m not referring to cycling. Although, in a sense, the difficulty-to-reward ratio was similar to an epic ride.

Mrs. V. and I were over in the Catskills for a family gathering with my father, quite sick with cancer since April, and my step-mom. Dad’s not doing great. I won’t waste words trying to describe how hard it is to see my vibrant Old Man failing and suffering and scared. Suffice it to say,I would run through brick walls if I thought it would lighten his load even a little. The hardest part is, there’s nothing I can do on that front. Chemotherapy is a cure that’s almost as bad as the disease. There were lots of strange vibes in the air this weekend, lots of spoken and unspoken changes in the family dynamic, but overall, a very positive visit. We're growing closer and deeper as a family, and for that, I am very grateful.

I awoke quite out of it Monday morning, sporting something like an emotional hangover, or maybe more like a hairball. Intestines acting weird, head heavy, mood sludgy. The day was gray, sticky, and still. I spent the morning at sixes and sevens, drifting uneasily from one thing to the next.

Finally, despite threatening clouds, I did what you’re thinking I did, what I know how to do. I kitted up and steered my beloved Vaya out toward some local flowy trails about five miles from our door.

A steady rain started on my way to the trailhead. It felt so much like an extension of my mood, I almost didn’t notice it at first. I considered turning around, but instantly rejected the idea. I needed to ride, period. I emptied my mind as best I could and pressed on toward the trailhead, hoping things would work themselves out once I got into the woods. They often do.

I’ve spent most of the last few weeks on the road bike, so when I first reached the dirt, I was all over the place. After a while, the rain abated a bit, I could see the trail a little better, and I picked up a little speed. I poked around, discovering a lovely loop: Good-sized, flat-to-rolling, with just a few steep ramps of loose soil and roots which I could enjoy powering up, and enough washed-out, rooty sections to get the adrenal glands firing over something more substantial than the feverish thoughts haunting me of late.

Riding mountain bike trails with 35 millimeter tires, a rigid road frame, and traditional touring gearing does more than just soak up your power like a loamy sponge; it demands a lot of desperate maneuvering and bucking-bronco-style handling skills. The first time I rode real single-track (a test ride of the Vaya this spring) I had the simultaneous experience of being a rank beginner, and yet falling in love and picking up skills surprisingly smoothly. I still feel that way. Half the tricky sections I clear are due to pure luck or sheer momentum. I have more narrow misses than I care to think about. But when they come, I often stop, turn around, and study the root or rock that nearly threw me, and get clear on what happened. Frequently, I’ll ride that section again, and even again, until I have a better feel for the dynamic. That part reminds me of my days as a guitarist, going over and over a lick on a recording by some hotshot gunslinger. That moment when I got it cold – when I couldn’t tell the difference between his guitar line and mine – gave up a feeling quite similar to nailing a patch of trail I could only skitter through before. That sensation is quite a useful antidepressant; it’s called agency in the psychotherapy world.

I stopped for a while beside a pond to nibble at a Clif bar and watch puffs of dense mist being blown across the surface of the water. It wasn’t a Zen moment. The rain didn’t come down like a blessing, didn't wash away my cares and leave me reborn. My father was still deadly ill, I still needed a better job, on and on; all the stressors were still stubbornly tangible. But for the moment, they were surrounded by damp forest smells and total isolation and flowy, earthy trails, and new-found agency pulsing through me with each heartbeat. The mean and the grand, the fun and the dreadful; in the wet woods, there was room for everything to rest side by side in a grudging truce, which might last only until I pulled, soaking wet, into my garage, but it was enough. There was a balance. My sixes were sevened, and my sevens sixed.

I wiped the rain-sweat from my face and time-trialed home.

A Midsummer Break

2011-07-18T11:23:00.001-04:00

My man Juancho recently quoth,, "nothing sucks like a rest day," so I'm guessing the mid-summer heat and constant hammering since February has got nearly everyone feeling flat these days.

Everyone, that is, except Joel and Rob, the two sandbaggers I rode with yesterday. They're regulars at the Wednesday night ride I've been attending, and they seemed to be just beyond my fitness level, so I invited 'em for a hilly 40-miler yesterday, to sharpen myself a bit. Well, they ate my lunch, and let me tell you, it would have been steep and hot enough out there even if I had kept my lunch.

Even with the aid of legal dope (an espresso from the redoubtable Cushman Market baristas) and enough cool liquids to float an ocean liner, I struggled up the S-curves into Shutesbury (a hill I'm usually smart enough to ride downward). Yeah, it was hot and all, but it was just as hot for those guys. Weaving and wheezing around a bend and seeing your ride buddies nowhere in sight is enough to turn your esprit de corps into esprit de corpse. (No knock on them -- I'd've done the same if I could). My heart was pounding so hard in the melting heat, my carotid arteries seemed to be trying to burst out of my neck. You know -- the kind of pounding that makes you see flashes of light with every beat. Pure suffering.

By the time we hit the final flattish 15 miles, I was cooked -- literally. I sheepishly tucked in behind Joel, who bravely led the charge for home into relentless, baking head winds. If any local gals on the market want to know what his cheeks look like, I can offer a detailed description of their ripple-tude. Body was saying "Quit, quit, drop back, let them wait for you at the next intersection!" The only thing keeping me pummeling the cranks as the heat came off the pavement in shimmering waves to cook us dry like chicken breasts was pride, pure and simple. That, and telling myself it would feel worse to see them pulling away yet again than it would to just keep pushing. Suffice it to say, I stayed with them.

I spent that afternoon on the couch guzzling ice water and vitamin C, eyes glazed, body limp, consoling myself by getting lost in the heroics of that day's Tour stage. (Andy Shleck for the top of the podium in Paris, by the way.)

I think I'll take it easy this week. I've been noticing dwindling enthusiasm lately, and that's a bright red flag for overtraining. If nothing sucks like a rest day, I better find something to distract myself for seven of them. It's time to recharge.

I'm One of Them

2011-07-14T11:57:00.002-04:00

I joined that local Wednesday night ride for the third time last night, and it seems I am strong enough to make a showing, at least. After three years in the Pioneer Valley searching for a group that is neither too fast nor too slow, I think I've finally found one. We rode up into the hills above Northampton, and, after going flat and fast the first two outings, I got to find out how my climbing stacked up next to riders I've been getting to know. This is the benefit of a regular group; I begin to sort out how fast I actually am, instead of constantly wondering, without anyone with whom to compare.

This is one the slowest of the rides the Northampton Cycling Club sponsors, although everyone agrees (perhaps self-servingly) that it's not a true "C" ride, because NCC is simply a bunch of hammerheads. You may discount this argument, having heard it before, and that's fine. I'm buying it -- it's the way I sleep at night. For what it's worth, most of us in the group have been B or even A riders in other clubs in other locations. Why NCC is so amped up is a question for another post. I have tried their B rides more than once, and been unceremoniously dropped -- I mean those guys were flying, in a double rotating paceline, and constantly ramping up the speed.

So, okay. Here's the verdict: Currently, it looks like I'm faster than most of the (relatively) slow, but not all of them. Some guys in this group are more hardcore than I am. For now. When they peel away on the flats, they stay away, and I'm caught chasing them, solo. When they make a move on a steep hill, I have trouble keeping up with them -- but again, I'm far ahead of the "peloton."

With that said, I did discover last night, to my pleasant surprise, that I am far and away the fastest descender. I'm either stupid enough or skilled enough (I like to think it's both) to hammer through steep curves others brake into. The extra few pounds around my middle probably don't hurt either; gravity is your friend, kids!

I can't help feeling like being the fastest descender is sort of a condolence prize -- "You're not really in shape, but man, you sure can eat up those downhills!" But you know what? I'll take it.

I know. I've become one of those bloggers, posting excruciating details about tiny, invisible victories and defeats no one who wasn't there cares about. "But enough about me; let's talk about what you think of me!"
So sue me. I'm having fun trying to beat people -- something I've ached for these four years, since I swung my leg over a saddle for the first time in 25 years. The folks are super-friendly and the competition is just fierce enough, without that nasty "I beat you so I deserve to live -- for today" edge.

I've made a date for a ride this weekend with a couple guys from the group who're faster than me. Everyone better be looking for me over their shoulders on Wednesday nights. After all... it's only July.

Vaya con Rios

2011-07-09T09:33:00.000-04:00

No apologies for the post title. I've been storing that one up.

A quick hour or so early on a Sat. morning, before the townfolk are on the roads, down to a peaceful area along the Connecticut River in Hadley, a place where everyone goes for solace, beauty, reconnection.

First the gravel roads down there, described in a recent post, then wound my way onto a six-inch-wide trail through a cornfield, the leaves whacking me bupbupbupbupbup -- first time I've been shucked by corn -- and I am wet through my clothes by the end of one row. Onto the footpath, at first a raised bed that runs above the fields. I stop and lay the bike down to stand at one particular place where, in the early mornings, you can face east to the ascending fire of the sun, masked comfortably behind a single regal tree rising at the edge of a cornfield. Birds singing madly everywhere, a little tai chi breathing and gazing at the amazing. Crops EVERYWHERE, as far as the I can see... green, green, green... redolent musk of flowers, moist warm earth, pollen, basically the perfume of GROWTH and LIFE hanging heavy in the heavy air. Clouds burning off.

A few hundred yards down that path, I'm riding along the river, mist rising off mirror-still water, birds yet in concert all around, and the sole human in sight a fellow out on a scull, the morning so gentle I can hear his oars (if that's what they're called in sculling) working in their fixings. I race him along the path, back to the road, and then I'm off up the hill by more farms and farms, 'til I pull on to our lawn.

Yes. This is where I live.

There Will Be Mud

2011-07-04T15:02:00.001-04:00

Scenes from a Saturday morning well-spent. Used the Vaya to explore some gravel ascents on Mt. Toby in Sunderland, then found some of the highly-reputed singletrack up on top. Did a little climbing on that, too; some day, I'll have to get a pair of decently fat tires to put on the Delgado Cross rims the Vaya came with.

For a long-time road rider trying to recover from all the fussiness of that discipline, the joy of intentionally riding through a mucky puddle or sketching out my rear tire is new to me. I felt like a six-year-old set free in the woods.

So, the dreck on my bike (below) might not look like a lot of mud to some of y'all, but it was sure fun for me.

Strength in Numbers

2011-06-30T13:36:00.000-04:00

I rarely do group rides, because it usually works out that I'm faster than the slower folks, but slower than the fastest folks. I end up soloing much of the ride, with only the thought of those before and behind me to keep me company. Kind of disappointing after all the effort of getting to the roll-out on time.

Last night was different. I joined an after-work ride. It was, for once in recent weeks, a gorgeous night in Western Mass, a true early-summer evening: Temps in the high 70s, cool breeze, big puffy clouds against lucid blue sky. Folks were friendly -- a good sign. Yeah, there was a little "my hard ride was harder than your hard ride," but very little.

Early on, I was in a group that slowly broke away, eventually also breaking the speed limit of the ride. We were forgiven, and allowed to run at our own speed. Run we did, working hard to keep up a brisk canter into the familiar Connecticut River headwind. As we crossed the bridge at South Deerfield and buzzed south on the other bank, the evening sky was stretched out on our right, and the fields, mountains and water all around us nearly glowed with perfection. I had a grand smile on my face the whole way, thinking, "I live here!"

What a refreshing change from solo riding all the time. I am, by nature, a social person; I generally feel most alive in interaction with others (hence my job as a psychotherapist). I ride solo a lot because it's hard to find friends who ride at my pace. I've had three dependable riding buddies in the three years since we moved to the Pioneer Valley, but all of them have since moved out of state. (The Valley is a very transient area, because its main industry is higher education.)

Solo has its rewards, but in a group, there's that constant sense of camaraderie, working together. Chatting is lots of fun -- jobs, good routes, bike parts -- but there's something subtle but powerful that happens when everyone clams up and falls to work. A mutual, unspoken agreement passes from the front to the back of the paceline, and in the silence, the whirring of gears, the insistent squeak of someone's cranky cranks, the click of gears changing, the wind in helmet straps, and the constant stream of data from my legs and lungs, all recede. In their place, for a few moments or minutes, comes an active calm, like being one of a swiftly moving school of fish that decides and acts as one, instantly and thoughtlessly. The worries that nibble at me all day -- and, to some degree, make me the individual that I am -- fall away, and it is good, good, good, to be part of a unit, and nothing more or less.

All in all, a good ride. There was a spontaneous sprint for a speed-reading unit along the road. There were half-serious breaks chased down half-seriously. There was bonhomie and soaking up of the sun. I think I'll be back.

To Texture

2011-06-27T11:18:00.000-04:00

Saturday, I felt good. I'd slept two complete nights in a row -- like manna from heaven these days. I just had to go spend my new-found energy.

I cooked up a mostly-gravel ride for my Salsa Vaya; there were some roads I'd learned of from reading the route maps of an infamous annual late-winter ride in these parts, called Cushman-Roubaix. I strung them together with some of the other gravel I've found in recent months, and voila! 37 miles, almost half of it unpave'. Much of that was very vertical, and therein lay the rub; before long, I found myself humping up a 14% sandy grade. There was lots more like that over there in Pelham, and, after an hour of such labors, I was inspired to name the route, "The Tenderizer." The first 40% will definitely soften you up.

The overall ride, however, was so rewarding that the town of Pelham was fully forgiven for dressing its most ridiculous grades in a costume of loose sand and rock. (It seems like most towns do that out here, and it's baffling; wouldn't steep roads be easier to maintain if they were paved?) Even on the uphills, I had the feeling I was riding on singletrack, so close, deep and verdant were the woods:

Brooks babbled and burbled through lush roadsides:

I passed a neatly coiffed and perfectly-set house, surrounded by natural beauty...

A closer look revealed a 6-foot-high burger boy ready to serve rowers on the pond...

Mists enshrouded fertile hillsides...

And a friend was readily made in an upland pasture.

That was just during the climbing. I was moving too fast to get any shots of the long, exhilarating descent from Shutesbury Center to North Leverett Road and the Leverett Co-op, my frequent lunch stop. I can't recommend Montague Road highly enough, a lengthy, snaking bobsled ride that occassionally found little whoops of joy escaping my lips as my rear wheel did small fishtails around bends. From the Co-op (after a quick field repair of my rear derailluer) came another great gravelly descent, down Hemenway Road all the way to Route 63.

I am loving graveling more and more. Paved roads around here mostly have surfaces chopped up by other weather-related damage. That chop will slow you down and jounce you without remorse -- it's effect is wearing, interfering, annoying. Gravel, on the other hand, while also quite irregular, feels more like texture. It forgives, it lets me lose traction for an exciting moment or two (and I've come to love rather than fear that moment), it keeps me on alert.

Most of all, it feels real.

These roads are made of stuff you can find on a walk in the woods. They have the same surface our cycling ancestors pioneered the sport on -- first on bone-rattling, precarious high-wheelers, later on the relatively sporty, 28-pound safety bike. They completed the first centuries and cross-country tours on those beastly machines, on roads just like these (maybe worse) probably in times I couldn't beat on silkiest tarmac. They competed in the first stage races, grinding themselves to a filthy pulp day and night for weeks. They were hard, hard people.

But I think they also knew, more deeply than we hard-paved roadies, forever seeking the smoothest, slickest ride, that dirt equals fun. Why do you think folks who ride the looser surfaces almost always post a shot or two of their grubby bikes and splattered legs?

Dirt equals fun. Go ride some.

Fields at Dawn

2011-06-23T12:15:00.001-04:00

I'll be spending today at work, like most weekdays, except today, I'll be ttrying not to think about my father's appointment with his oncologist, to receive the verdict after his first round of chemotherapy.

Not surprisingly, I haven't slept well in weeks. I was feeling typically leaden and blurry this morning -- frustratingly opposite the feeling I had in April and May, awakening bright-eyed and ready for bear. For me, bad sleep is like Kryptonite. My mood and concetration drop like a stone; on the bike, my legs feel weak and my motivation roller-coasters.

So this morning, common sense said, "Sleep in." My cycling sense said, "Squeeze in a Dawn Ride." Which do you think I went with?

We are lucky enough to live in the Produce Basket of Massachusetts. Our town, I think, has more farms per square mile than any other on our side the Pioneer Valley. Below, some evidence, produced on my ride, of the deightful fertility we see everywhere we go.

Shame-faced

2011-06-21T17:18:00.002-04:00

It happens every year.

I love riding fast. I love feeling strong. Crushing a 30- or 40-miler is just pure joy. So, when I get on a bike alone, I find it very hard not to push. And when I push, I get stronger. (So far, so good.) And when I get stronger, I set racing-type goals. (Uh-huh…) Then I push more. (Uh, wait…) Somewhere around there, a major stressor (or two, or three) pops up in my life. Still I push. (Yes, I do include recovery weeks.) Slowly, subtly, I start losing sleep. Start feeling dead in the legs. Start not wanting to ride, and feeling cranky all the time.

Still I push – because I set a goal, and reaching goals is noble, right? It makes us feel good, right? Onward!

But is that really why I push so hard? No.

I push because I hate myself. Or some part of me does.

The part of me that wants to prove that bully from summer camp wrong by ripping the legs off of his stand-in on the latest group ride – but at the same time, agrees with him that I’m a worthless lump. It’s shame, pure and simple.

It’s sometimes said (a little simplistically) that strong competitors either love to win or hate to lose. I’d have to put myself in the second category. If I can ride faster than someone, I often feel an unhealthy high, which comes more from relief than joy. “Phew!! I'm okay. I beat someone, so I must be okay!” How far is that from the pure joy of crushing a solo 40-miler? It’s measurable only in light-years.

This stuff feeds off shame like a cancer. After decades of working on myself, I like to think there isn’t any self-hatred left; then I start to feel strong on the bike, and Voila! Mr. Kill-or-be-Worthless comes crashing through the locked door to the basement of my psyche, and starts setting off M-80s and stink bombs.

I’ve basically never known the bright joy of healthy competition. I have friends who compete that way; the rush, the effort, the jostling for position… it’s all goodness to them. If they win, great! If not, oh, well – they have a killer story. I would really like to know what that feels like.

Until that day, I may have to steer clear of most competition -- or find a way to sneak up on it and take it by surprise. All suggesions are welcome.

Winds of One Hundred

2011-06-12T15:04:00.001-04:00

Thirty quick ones up into Leverett and over Cave Hill today. I forgot to take the cell phone for photo purposes, which worked out well, because I soon decided I was going to time trial the whole route. Without the camera, I forced myself to take mental photos of some of the striking stuff I saw. Verdant fields in the misty morning, the life-green crops popping more than usual in the suffused light. Slight wisps of moisture daintily caressing the slopes of Mount Toby. Peeks of steely-gray Connecticut River through the trees along Route 47, north of Sunderland's historic center.

The blessing of all the suffering I did on Memorial Day is that it seems to have added to my overall endurance and strength -- instead of simply exhausting me for a month, as all-out, desperate efforts have in the past. So, I rode strong today, and that's better than caffeine or antidepressants for the mood. Of course, saddling up the featherweight aluminum racing steed made for a feeling of superpowers, after all my steel and wide-tired Vaya-riding.

I was hesitant to take on a serious goal like the Tour de Quabbin so early in the season. All that climbing and mileage, before I was really ready for it...? Now, I'm thinking it might have been just the thing. Having recovered well and feeling rambunctious, I'm thinking century... as in, "imperial." As in the big One-Zero-Zero. Old friend Kenny says we did one together on our AYH West Coast tour, back in um, er, cough, cough... 1980. (?!?) That would have been with seriously weighty panniers, a cheap steel bike, and probably standard gearing, not to mention California grades. Never mind: if true, I hereby declare it an accomplishment of another lifetime. I was 16, strong, and worry-free; literally anything was possible. I plan to be much, much more impressed with my 2011 version.

Any ideas for what to call it? A medieval century? The Second Century, A.D. (After Domestication)?

One important note I forgot from last week's gravelly 35: On my way up silent, beautiful Pratt Corner Road, I startled a deer immediately at the edge of the woods, not twenty feet from me. You should have seen, and heard, his white-tailed rump bounding over the bushes.

Rattlesnakes, Mosquitoes and Bananas

2011-06-05T17:24:00.000-04:00

Thirty-five glorious, hard miles this afternoon, about 60% of it dirt/gravel. The first half was nearly all climbing, some long six and seven per cent hills, and some oh-so-lovely ramps of 15 and even 17 per cent. My first extended dirt ride on the Vaya was a delight. That bike is an albatross on paved road, and a rocket on gravel. It was built for it, and you can feel it wanting to fly the moment the road turns gritty.

My first time on three of the dirt roads, and were they fun! Well, all but Rattlesnake Gutter Road, a local legend I had to try to believe. The first quarter mile or so was more vertical than anything I've ever ridden on a bike -- and on a washed-out, loose-rock road. It was devilish -- straining along at 5 mph, standing on the pedals, tires slipping, going slow enough for the mosquitoes to swarm me. To escape the bugs, I went so anaerobic I had to get off the bike and walk up the 17% pitch, swatting all the way. Oh, joy!

I will bathe in DEET before my next gravel ride.

No regrets, though -- just the opposite. You see things you won't see any other way when you ride the "unimproved" roads. Observe:

Classic New England small-town burying grounds

Cue ominous music...

Cliff walls along the eponymous gutter

As a reward for the brutal climb, a gorgeous little falls at the top

Still Life with Banana

Leverett Co-op's sundial sign, and stained glass windows

Cranberry Pond, Mt. Toby looming behind

I'd never even known the pond, cemetery, falls, or rock formations existed, though they are all just off of roads I ride all the time. The beauty of dirt is that you get off the beaten tarmac.

Persistance

2011-06-02T12:06:00.000-04:00

On the way into work this morning, I stopped off, as I occasionally do, at my favorite little stretch of the Swift River, studded with lacy trees, briskly running a glassy, cool green. Five minutes sitting by one particular noisy riffle there always lifts my spirits.

Friends will sometimes disappoint you, even let you fall, hard. Pivotal, beloved parents fall ill and face death. Clients can come in one after the other, complaining, and looking to lay blame. Tornadoes can even lay waste in the middle of bucolic New England. But the river, the water, pushes on and on. The burbling, glooping and whooshing have been going on in that one tiny spot for ten thousand years -- that's maybe two hundred thousand perfect spring mornings like this one, cool breezes in the glade, warm sun peeking through the leaves, river singing its song a few feet away.

Life goes sour for a time, but the river persists. Beauty persists. Life persists.

Pick Your Poison

2011-06-01T10:36:00.000-04:00

An overcast, warmish-cool morning, with peeks of sun. Legs feel surprisingly strong after Monday's extravaganza. That's always a treat after an epic ride -- the heap of fitness that's been added to the pile. To keep it at recovery level, I did a photo safari, and came up with these shots. Amazing what you can find in your own neighborhood if you just open your eyes and try a new road here and there.

Since the Memorial Day sufferfest, I've wanted to do nothing but ride more and more. Not sure I want to know what that says about me.

Til next time, keep 'em turnin'!

Tour de Quabbin 2011

2011-05-31T10:52:00.000-04:00

Well, I did it. I completed the 2011 Tour de Quabbin. It was beautiful, and very, very ugly. 68 of the most beautiful miles of road in Massachusetts; 4700 of the most ugly vertical feet of climbing east of the Berkshires. This included three good-sized hills of up to 10%, and five lengthy stretches, some of them miles long, rising to 6 or 7%. Cruelly, the two most brutal sections came within the last 15 miles.

I had done this loop a couple years ago, and sailed through it, but that was at the tail end of the season. Yesterday, I was sadly undertrained, and I suffered like a dog on the last 15 or so miles. This included the classic "nearly fell off the bike" scenario, involving leg cramps so painful, I swore I might never stand upright again. I even walked the nasty 10% hill into Wendell -- only because the pain made it impossible to pedal.

But I finished the final seven miles on the bike (very, very slowly), as knackered as I've ever been on a bicycle. I cursed. I wheezed. I reached that point where simply thinking a thought was so painful, I had to empty my mind completely in order to complete the next turn of the pedals. I opened credit accounts with gods I made up on the spot, and instantly maxed them out. I flashed on Tim Krabbe's immortal quote, "I had to go on. I couldn't do it anymore, but I had to go on. Body and spirit shook hands and moved to their corners."

In the end, I rolled into the start zone alone, and nearly the last to finish. But you know what? I finished that sucker. Lots were faster than me -- but no one suffered as I did, and finished nonetheless. (I will, however, note as a point of pride that I was among the first to roll into the lunch zone, nearly halfway through the ride.)

A word of thanks to the warm people who did a stellar job organizing this terrific challenge; the vibe was family-friendly, very cool and helpful, the map was great, and there were super-nice folks in support vans (mostly parents ready to pick up their kids when they wore out) all along the way, though I will again vainly point out that I was helping others with tools and advice, but never used support myself.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, here are eleven thousand choice ones:

Waiting for the rain to let up at the start zone.

The eponymous Quabbin Reservoir, largest inland body of water in MA, around which we rode.

View in the other direction -- the Quabbin Reservation.

Lunch at a winery in Hardwick. Few partook of the grape...

Reaching Rte. 122 in Petersham, mile 47, called for a celebratory photo.

Finally at Wendell General Store. Wendell is home to quirkiness, like this floppy-hatted dude on his "bike."

More delightful Wendell quirkiness. There was an outdoor poetry reading going on across the road from the store.

This was gone in about five minutes.

Spent and grimy legs at the finish.

Vaya, looking like a Vaya should.

The tale of the tape.

When I was finished, the mere thought of being on a bicycle made me want to vomit. This morning, I'm pondering my next event. I think they call that, "punishment for gluttons."

T Minus 2 hrs.

2011-05-30T06:49:00.000-04:00

Slept well -- against all odds.

Knee feels semi-good.

Body feels strongish.

Mind calm and focused.

Food, gear, map, laid out and ready.

Oatmeal and egg inside my body.

Let's go see what this is all about.

Welcome to the Rat's Nest

2011-05-28T13:27:00.001-04:00

"My knee hurts a lot. I'm going to set up the Vaya with 23 mm tires and do the big Memorial Day charity ride with lower gears."

"Yeah! I'll be nice and comfy all the way and I can spin up the hills!"

"But then I'll be slow as molasses and won't be able to keep up with my friends!"

“Right, but I promised myself I wouldn't try to keep up with them; if it happens, it happens. I'm supposed to be riding for fun and stewarding my health!"

"Maybe I should set up the old Giant again -- yeah, triple in the front, lighter than the Vaya, still comfy."

"But I haven't ridden that bike more than an hour in nearly two years! Maybe the setup will be all wrong!"

"My knee hurts. Maybe I should just skip the ride altogether; I don't want to screw it up totally. I'd sacrifice a month of riding just to have one fun day..."

"Maybe the eleventh time I stretch my glutes 'til they're like overcooked noodles will cure the knee problem... but Mrs. V. is getting awfully tired of trying to talk to me while my face is buried in the rug..."

Above is a sampling of what makes me periodically think I should just give up doing events of any kind. Yes, sadly, all those thoughts come from one mind. My mind.

Believe it or not, almost every day, I get up and feed myself and manage reasonably well the multiple, demanding tasks of a professional job and a rewarding marriage. And then I set a cycling goal for myself, and the wheels start coming right off the wagon.

I know you have this same syndrome. It's these moments (hours?) that lead us to wonder yet one more time, "Why do I do this again? Cycling is supposed to be fun! If I want deadlines and drudgery, I can just go to work!"

I want to know what you do to cope, to make it better. Two days 'til roll-out.

In a word: Help!

Ruins at Dawn

2011-05-26T12:20:00.000-04:00

Another shot from another dawn ride. In case any of you think this former city slicker doesn't really live in Ruralville these days:

Life and How to Live It

2011-05-24T09:14:00.000-04:00

Another soggy, gray day here in paradise. So, I went out anyway. (Insert smiley-face here.) I'm feeling fit and strong, like I might actually be able to make the super-hilly Memorial Day 70-miler my friend invited me to. I'm right on the razor-thin edge of over-training: I can go faster than ever, and rarely get winded, but I'm a le-e-etle bit tired all the time. Time to pull back to maintenance rides, to lay in wait in the bush, sharpening my machete and mixing the war paint. ("I will not ride competitively. I will not ride competitively. Etc.")

Meantime, I...

1) ... follow the Giro (yawn... Alberto "Babyface" Contador, contented and mature... as long as he's got 4:30 on his nearest competitor);
2) ... continue mad-scientist experiments to perfect my home espresso; and...
3) ... last, but certainly not least, deal with my dad's illness, and help him and the family deal with it.

You know -- life.

Skeptical Tolerance on a Cloudy Day

2011-05-15T17:04:00.000-04:00

Been sleeping poorly lately, so I was pretty wiped when I awoke yesterday at 6:30, for what was supposed to be a fun road ride through some pretty good local hills. Decided to try my planned route of about 38 miles and 2200 feet anyway, because I'm contemplating a very hilly metric century with friends on Memorial Day, and I'm not sure I'm going to be up to it. (Insert rambling, neurotic, self-doubting paragraphs here.)

By taking it very slowly, I was able to enjoy myself and feel somewhat fresh for the first 25 or 30 miles. One of my secrets was to stop and photograph anything that caught my eye. Here are some shots from Hadley and Leverett:

Don't know why they cover these fields, but it makes a unique view.

Expand to see tractor tractoring through exact center of frame.

Parked in front of the Leverett Co-op for a pee break. Their bulletin board is a magnet for local crunchy-granolas.

For Rent: One gently-used robin's egg. Outside Shutesbury post office -- highest point of ride.

Sadly, one shot did not make it: A terrific banner tacked to quirky Leverett's tiny Historical Society building, reading, "Skeptical Tolerance Since at least 1810." I think this captures what I love about the Pioneer Valley: Nutty, but interesting.

I started melting down after the miles-long climb from the Connecticut River up to Shutesbury. Crankiness, tiredness -- you know the drill. It was the longest twelve miles I've done in a while. I must needs get me some rest.

Calling the Everyday Heroes

2011-05-11T12:57:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it seems like the whole country has become addicted to extreme.

When I sit at my computer and surf the biking blogs, I get overwhelmed with messages of titanic effort, suffering, redemption, epicness. Maybe it's just reflective of the epidemic that's swept the whole country.

Hundreds of miles of mountain biking in 36 hours! Raising thousands of dollars for an unimpeachably righteous cause by exercising myself into the ground! Jumping off cliffs and flying! Drinking enough caffeine to power a small town for a week! Lobbing extreme political statements over the partisan divide like hand grenades! Billionaires brazenly lying on the witness stand (and getting let off the hook -- cool!)! Entrepreneurs! Gamblers! 13-year-old girls showing more skin than a Vegas hooker!

Bigger! Faster! Sronger! Richer! Younger! Go! GO! GO-O-O!!

Okay, America. Place your feet on the floor, let your belly relax, and take a dee-e-p breath. Hold it........... Okay; now let it out.

* * *

I still get suckered by the extreme side of my most beloved sport. I get lured by the esacpades of guys even older than my 47 years who pack survivalist essentials into a bike-frame bag every weekend and fly off to ride three days into the middle of the arctic tundra, without sleep, surviving on nothing but caffeinated gels and scavenged berries. I read about dudes who put in hundreds of austere road miles toward their impeccable race-readiness,, perfectly kitted and oozing Euro style, as they float effortlessly past the 150-mile-mark.

And then I seriously feel I am missing out, or there is something flat-out wrong with me. Am I weak? Is my manhood in question here? Should I go see my doctor?

Where there is room for someone who just loves to ride a bike? Sometimes hard and fast, sometimes slow and pleasurably, maybe stopping to take a few pictures, chatting with a local. Where are the folks who do a little of everything, the people who turn down a road just to find out what's down there -- but time-trial back out, because the legs feel fresh that day?

Where are the people who aren't looking to completely redefine themselves every time they swing their leg over a saddle?

We are outliers. Persona non grata.

When I first started riding avidly a few years ago, I took myself way too seriously, and aimed at becoming one of the Extremers. Over time, as regular readers know, my body gave me a serires of very clear messages that this was not my fate. And yes, I am sad I can't ride hundreds of miles at a stretch -- it sounds like a blast. But I am learning, (very) slowly, to enjoy what I do have. And I am learning that there really are everyday heroes right here in the anonymous middle of the continuum, people who get up before the sun on a Saturday morning so they can ride over both those hills they were contemplating the night before -- but at their pace, not looking for records or redemption, and then go back and clean the house, shop for the food, play with the kids, and basically do a good life, contentedly below the radar.

If you're out there, send me a message in a bike bottle, huh? Or better yet, start a blog. I need some inspiration.

A Cup of Zen

2011-05-06T14:17:00.002-04:00

It's well known that cyclists love their coffee. Perhaps we are drawn to it as socially-approved dope. Or maybe it follows naturally from our inner nature, in love as we are with tradition, fancy gear, and pretty much anything European. In any case, I'm no exception. Traditionalist, esthete, and cyclist that I am, I also spend a fair amount of time seeking the perfect cup of rich, strong coffee. For months, as our recent trip to Italy approached, I became ever more excited by the opportunity to experience a culture famous for perfecting both of these mysterious arts. Italy did not disappoint.

Americans think they have gotten the art of coffee down pat in the last 20 years. News flash! The Italians have been working on it since the Dutch were stealing Manhattan from the Indians. Their coffee is so perfect, I nearly wept as I drank my final cup in the Rome airport, knowing that I was not to taste its like again until the next time I touched that distant shore.

In Italy, prendere un caffe, taking a coffee, is an old and gracious ritual, redolent with national character. Here are some of the principles I gleaned in my short time there:

Do not go to Italy if you prefer brewed coffee to what Americans call espresso. Brewed coffee doesn't really exist in Italy -- and where it does, you don't want to drink it. If you belly up to the bar and ask for un caffe`, you will receive an espresso. There are many other styles of coffee available there, but, with the exception of an occasional cappuccino for breakfast, I never saw anyone order them.
Less is more: I had something like 20 coffees while in Italy, and I never once was served more than an ounce or two. Four or five delicate sips is a serving. More would only confuse your ecstatic taste buds. That's why they use the iconic tazzinas, the tiny cups and saucers usually marked with the brand of the coffee served.
Less is more, II: You only need four minutes to enjoy the perfect caffe` in the perfect way. But you must never rush. You are engaged in a ritual far older than you; show respect.
Less is more, III: There's no need to order a second cup. (I never saw it happen.) Five sips, a brief chat with the barkeep, and you're off, trailing a merry "Buon giorno!" in your wake. Taking a coffee is a pause in your day, a chance to chat with friends, or to quietly savor and reflect. There are many moments during the day ideal for pausing. Best is mid-morning, on your way somewhere. Four in the afternoon also works well, for a pick-me-up, hours before your 8:30 p.m. dinner.

While out and about town, you're never more than 50 paces from an espresso machine. However, I saw no equivalent to our trendy neighborhood coffee houses. You can go to a bar, a caffeteria, an osteria, or any other of the omnipresent establishments that serve food. But one law seemed immutable: The better the food, the better the coffee. I learned to stay away from the bars, which, during the day, are basically just snack shops. The most consistently excellent coffee I had in Italy, to my surprise, was in the dining room of our expensive hotel in Siena. Their food was unbelievably good.
Good coffee is inexpensive. Although food prices were dizzying, a caffe` universally costs one euro -- about $1.44 when we were there. It would be unseemly to overcharge a fellow citizen for what is, essentially, a civil right: Good coffee and good company.
If, like many Americans (especially the young), you like your coffee to leave you a bit breathless with adrenaline, stay in the States. Coffee in Italy picks you up, but that's less than half of its purpose. It never left me overcharged. (And I usually drink half-caf, which I found non-existent there.)
When an Italian has a coffee, there is nothing else being done. There is no working, there is no walking between shops, and there most certainly is no driving. From what I've read and witnessed, there is simply no such thing in Italy as a "to-go cup." It's not that it's forbidden; there's no consciousness that such a thing could exist.
Finally, taste. This is clearly a more subjective topic, but my observation showed that the inky-black, super-bitter stuff young American "experts" have turned espresso into, you'll only find at the cheap, inattentive joints on the street in Italy. The best eateries -- the places where they make food the way we would kiss our own children goodnight -- served a three-dimensional, aromatic cup, easy on the tongue, yet strong. It was never burnt or overpacked with "flavor."

In short, the experience of having a coffee in Italy is the fullest expression of one of their unique concepts: sprezzatura. Roughly translated, this means, "effortless beauty." It's probably the last thing left on Earth that's not for sale at Starbucks.

May Day, May Day!

2011-05-01T08:36:00.002-04:00

In the ancient, earth-based religions, May 1st was a very significant moment in the turning of the calendar. Called Beltaine by some traditions, it's a cross-quarter day, occurring half-way between the start of two seasons, and in those days, it marked the beginning of farmable weather, supremely significant in that deeply agrarian time. Celebrations got raucous and lusty, involving food, spirits, and running ribbons around a Maypole (phallic symbol, anyone?). Christians later morphed the celebration into May Day, the name more familiar to us Post-post-moderns.

Currently in Velophoriaville, it's a supernal spring morning. Sun-kissed, dewy, and chilly, but with a promise of warmth later on. Delicate white violets are scattered like confetti on the front lawn, and new greenness is everywhere, banishing memories of the long, hard winter. The steam rises from a mug of freshly-brewed coffee nearby. And I'm prepping for a dirt/gravel adventure.

One weekday morning last month, I turned off my usual road to work, Route 9, which blessedly runs through the Quabbin Reservoir nature reservation, a gigantic swath of woods and water in Central Massachusetts. I'd always been curious about a certain little side road on the Western edge of the town of Ware. Not least alluring is the name of the road: Enoch Sanford. (Who...?) The paved part runs down a beauteous part of the small, picturesque Swift River, and then ends quickly at a dirt turnaround; however, right there some double-track runs off into the woods.

I made inquiries with a local about that double-track one morning this week before work, and learned that it runs at least four or five miles, and is supposed to be pretty. Google maps more or less confirms this, and says it is part of the Swift River Wildlife Management Area. However, most of the satellite view of the road is hidden in trees (promising...!) so the precise truth is unclear. I have a Salsa Vaya now, and discovering the exact truth down a stretch of disused double-track is just exactly what it was made for ("...designed to take on any surface that someone might consider a ‘road’," the company says on their site). Hand-crafted steel and 35 mm tires will pave the way -- so to speak.

I have an additional reason to ride in the woods today. I received some very challenging news about my father's health yesterday. I'm 47, and he's 77, so it doesn't come as a total surprise, but you're never fully ready to get that call. He's my Old Man, you know? He's going to live forever. Anyway, this means it's time for some serious nature therapy, and my prescription is to ride deep into the woods, on a new bike, on an old road, by a pretty little river.

How are you going to celebrate Beltaine, a day of passing and of rebirth? I'm going to find out what's down the double-track at the end of Enoch Sanford Road. Email me quick if you want to come along.

A Taste of the Two-Wheeled Life in Italy

2011-04-25T14:30:00.002-04:00

Elegant cyclists abound. Note shoes!

Mrs. V. and I just returned last night from Italy, the Valhalla of cycling, the Aasgard of Coppi and Bartali (which would make them the Thor and Loki of the Earth plane...?) cradle of Cippolini, etc., etc. 12 hours of sleep and a couple espressos have taken the edge off the jet lag, but it's not nearly gone yet, so I'm just checking in to record just a few impressions. I hope to immortalize a lot of pictures and thoughts in a more detailed post later.

Yes, there are cyclists everywhere. Everywhere. I was hoping for this and was not disappointed. Even the day we arrived, as we made our way from the Florence airport over the mythic Highway 222 (the skyline drive of Chianti country, a sub-region of Tuscany) toward Siena, we saw fully-kitted ciclisti in ones, twos and even sixes wending their way over very serious hills with broad, green-and-brown vistas that spark the imagination of stage-race tifosi. I feared that would be the end of my exposure, but indeed, everywhere in Toscana, on weekdays, too, I witnessed the same. On a side-note, the old-school devotees in Italy do not wear helmets.
The cyclists, of course, are not all in full kit. Most of them there, as here, are casual, everyday riders, running errands, going to see a friend. In the tiny seaside village of Levanto, our final destination, quite a lot of people used bikes instead of cars to navigate the winding, needle-thin roads, always busy with the famously headlong Italian drivers. They rode to the beach, to the bars, to dinner; everywhere. Italians on bikes, whether outfitted for a stage race or a coffee run, look startlingly elegant to American eyes. Like they were born to it -- surprise, surprise. Young ladies in glamorous outfits sailed elegantly through the streets of Florence, full purses dangling, cell phone pressed to one ear, cigarette gracefully floating in their handlebar hand. Old men, white-haired and bent, pedaled glacially down the footpaths of old Siena, on their implacable way to the next part of their day, presumably by the same means and on the same streets they've used all their years.
In the States, the folks in full kit are usually competitive in spirit, and often fit in body. In Italy, the more sporty guys (I saw no women on bikes in cycling kits, for what it's worth) were going 12 mph with a striking cadence of about 100 rpm. This was true whether they rode alone or in groups. Not having had the chance to ride with them, I can only guess at the psychology behind this rule, which was universally applicable. As closely as I could surmise in eight days, the Tao of Life in Italy can be summed up in one phrase: Piano, piano. Slow and easy. Why push? The same task can be done with effort or with grace. Grace is infinitely more beautiful, and beauty, when all is said and done, is the spiritual life-blood of the Italian world-view. (Which, in turn, clarifies the lack of helmets.) It is far more important to enjoy oneself -- and to look stylish while doing so -- than to get there quickly. Regular readers can imagine how much this aspect of the country and its cycling community appealed to the Velosopher in me.

Allora, eccole! So, there you go! A taste of the two-wheeled life in the mother country. More to come.

View from the castle in Tuscan town of Vinci, birthplace of Leonardo and cycling heaven.

To the Ancestral Home of the Sport!

2011-04-15T09:07:00.000-04:00

Mrs. V and I are off tomorrow to the land of Coppi and Bartali (and Bianchi and Moser and Giordana and Castelli and...) for a week, so Velophoria will be on hiatus. Send up a prayer to the ancient Tuscan gods that I can get a little two-wheeled time in on those famous strade -- perhaps even the bianche ones, where my dream cycling event takes place every year (WHY can't there be school vacation in October??? Or an Eroica in April???).

Day after we return, I stop by the LBS to pick up the Vaya! One great way to soften the return from an amazing vacation.

Ciao, amici!

The Call of the Wild

2011-04-10T15:03:00.002-04:00

Why would a died-in-the-wool-jersey roadie, who rode this racing bike in 1980 (the royal blue version in the box)...

and this racing bike in 2010....

... be spending the last two weeks obsessing about a heavy, fat-tired bike, with geometry so relaxed it can handle pavement, dirt, gravel, and even single-track? Oh, yes! And featuring -- shudder -- disc brakes??

It's a long story.

I went to my LBS -- Hampshire Bicycle Exchange, a great shop and a subject for another post -- a few weeks ago looking for the fattest tires that would fit my Giant OCR 3, so I could turn it into a little more of a dirt-road bike. No luck; the best I could fit were 25 mm tires, barely wider than road racing tires.

While I was there, the owner, Chris, planted a seed. He's a enthusiastic fan (and dealer) of the fun, unique bikes Salsa have been making out in Minnesota for a number of years, and he personally owns one of the earliest examples of their Vaya, the roughneck bike described above. He suggested that perhaps I was trying to make an orange out of an apple, and should consider purchasing a more rugged rig.

I went home, looked up the Salsa, and it turns out there is a small legion of passionate fans out there. They ride for fun -- to get out in the woods or the fields, to spontaneously turn off on to a gravel road just to see what's down there. The kind of fun I'd been dreaming of, only half-aware, since Mrs. V. and I moved out to this beautiful rural area replete with farm fields, hidden mountain bike trails only vaguely hinted at in oblique conversations, and tons of intriguing roads too sketchy for my thoroughbred, skinny-tired CAAD 8.

I gobbled up every post and page I could get get my virtual hands on. One beautiful and inspiring site (created by an employee of Salsa) was especially instrumental in whetting my appetite for some Salsa, with many lyrical posts like this one.

Finally, I returned to the Exchange on Friday afternoon, hoping to have a conversation with Chris about how we could make a Vaya affordable to me. Guess what? He'd ridden his in that morning, so I could test-ride one right away. Guess what? He's exactly my bike size.

And guess what? He had just recently decided to sell the very bike I was about to test.

No! Yup.

After a quick and encouraging ride in the parking lot, he generously offered to let me ride it as long as I wanted on Saturday. I sped over there eagerly yesterday morning on my Cannondale, jumped on his bike, and headed off for a true adventure. He'd told me about some trails a few miles south of his store, and I was itching to try them.

Woah... this riding-bikes-in-the-forest thing is really cool! Wow, the trees are really close, they're practically hugging me as I ride! Wow, smell the pine on the breeze! Woah!!! Downhill on roots and piles of leaves is scary! But FUN! WOAH, speeding over big humps is like being on a rollercoaster!! Let's do that one again! And again! Wow... look at that beautiful pond! I've ridden near here hundreds of times and never even knew it was here! Hey, I'm learning how to pick a line, how to steer with my hips like I've always heard you should, how to trust the back wheel to steer the front! This is GREAT!!!

Many, many wows and woahs later, I headed back to the shop. I'd stayed out far longer than I expected, because I was having so much fun I couldn't make myself leave. On the way back, I even pulled off the main road onto a couple of dirt and gravel "roads" -- one of them just some muddy double-track, calling to mind Salsa's verbiage about the Vaya: "... designed to take on any surface that someone might consider a ‘road’."

It's been a long, long time since I've been that excited just to be on a bicycle. It looks pretty likely that this one is coming home with me soon. (Update, 4/13/11: I just returned from putting half down on it, and will be picking it up in about 11 days. Can't wait!! Thanks, Chris!!)

As an homage to the lovely posts on gnatlikesbikes, here are some more shots from the wilds yesterday:


Beauty and the Bridge

Wheeee!!!

"I took the one less traveled by..."

Double-track and the Holyokes in the distance

Promise?

The four elements: Earth, Water, Steel and Rubber

In Flanders Fields the Flahutes Grow

2011-04-04T13:18:00.000-04:00

Did I lie? Did I even exaggerate? Was the 2011 Ronde van Vlaanderen not an epic? The last 40 kilometers were among the most exciting racing I've watched. What fun!

If you merely glanced at the picture above, you'd be forgiven for thinking it was from last year's edition, especially when compared to the shot from that race I posted this weekend. Same spot. Same cobbles. Same rider. Same "smile" on Cance's face. Even the same kid screaming in his ear! But wait -- who's that insane guy clinging to Cancellara's wheel? Could the Swiss legend have been pedaling with feet of clay? Ah! Therein lies the tale.

Here's hoping Paris-Roubaix, the Queen of the Classics, is at least as much fun next week!

The King of the Classics

2011-04-02T08:54:00.001-04:00

If you're a racing fan (and a traditionalist), you're supposed to light on fire every year for Paris-Roubaix. I like Paris-Roubaix; I've seen a few of them, and they're fun. I even have the documentary, a great piece of work. But the races I've seen don't hold a candle to those fabled, mud-spattered, gore-fests of yore. And the terrain... it's too wide-open, somehow inaccessible.

As far as I'm concerned, you're not a classics fan unless you know by heart how to spell the Tour of Flanders in Flemish.

The Ronde van Vlaanderen is intimate, intense, fast; more small-town Belgium than epic France. The hills are bite-sized; maybe it's because they're like the terrain here in Massachusetts that I can feel the quad-burn of the climbing in this race more vicariously. And, then there's what the younger set, the illiterati, call an "added bonus:" smaller hills means witnessing tough climbs happen at a ridiculous pace.

And while the Queen of the Classics is known for its cobblestones, don't you miss the pavé sections tomorrow -- they're juicy, jolty and jumbled, every bit the real thing.

Finally. There are. The. Fans.

It would be hard to name one country the most rabid cycling nation in the world, but if Belgium ain't the most feared contender, I'll eat Eddy Merckx' 1970 bike shorts (don't forget: made of wool and real leather chamois). A peek at last year's edition bears sufficient witness:

Cancellara soaks in the Flandrian atmosphere

Need I say more?

Just pray that the Internet gods allow 1) a decent feed site, and 2) sufficient bandwidth tomorrow morning, or you'll hear my scream of pain from one end of the state to the other.

For extra-genuine flavor, throw a paper cone of pomme frittes in the air when Cancellara breaks the tape -- again.

Spring Has Sprung and so has my Knee

2011-03-31T13:35:00.000-04:00

Ah, spring -- when a middle-aged man's fancy turns to thoughts of old injuries.

It's becoming increasingly apparent that every spring is going to involve what Paul Fournel calls (and I'm paraphrasing here), "a revival of an old argument with a cantankerous knee." I successfully tried running through the whole winter at base/moderate levels, my cardiovascular capacity climbing while my legs retained some of their strength from last cycling season. But, for the fourth year in a row, once we hit March and April and I start adding intervals and hills, my left kneecap starts getting that lovely mortar-and-pestle feeling.

By now, fortunately, I know not to panic. Mostly.

If I stretch a lot, increase intensity slowly, and in the meantime just accept the aches and pains of an aging human body, I'll probably be strong and fit by May. (We'll see; moderation is still not my strong suit.) Even so, every year, it's a little annoying and worrisome.

Ah, the rites of spring.

Falls Road Rondo

2011-03-27T10:56:00.001-04:00

Sunday morning. As my second cup of coffee cools, and a Flemish announcer murmurs sweet Gent-Wevelgam nothings in my tiny computer speakers, I sit reminiscing on a somewhat Belgian ride yesterday with Racer Rob.

We set out from his house in Sunderland under clear blue skies, with temps in the mid-30s, and the stiff, relentless March winds off the Connecticut River soon made clear what the deal was going to be. We turned off the main road and wended our way up rolling hills that only partially protected us from the gale. Fields folding upon fields, fences and old farmhouses stretching in the sun after a long, hard winter, we climbed a steady ten minutes, and were rewarded with views of humpy northern Mass, with the river peeking in and out of the picture, too.

(Wow -- heroic finish to Gent-Wevelgam!)

Down and around the hummocks we flew, a peloton of two, chattering away about tire sizes, vacation plans, and job changes. When we hit the flats, another reward: a brisk tailwind, which always makes me feel fitter and faster than I am. (Have you ever noticed how risky it is to sit up no-hands in a tailwind? The wind shifts imperceptibly, and it's like someone yanked on one side of your bars. The hands go back on real fast.)

South on Falls Road, and one more reward:

The eponymous feature of Falls Road

With the river riding high on the banks directly behind us, we took a quick couple shots of the falls and a hit or two of H2O. Never seen the falls this full before; I guess record snowfalls have their upside.

Home stretch. Rob always picks up the pace right around now, and even when early-season unfit, he's absurdly fitter than myself. I internally set a realistic goal: Just stick to his wheel up the half-mile five-percenter that leads to his driveway. Before I know it, he's getting smaller and smaller, and my thighs feel like running lava. It always ends this way; I wouldn't have it any other way.

By the time we roll up to his door, we're finally warm. The final reward? Five minutes with Rob's adorable boys, one running around playing fireman, and the other in his lovely mama's arms, giving me the heart-melting darshan like the Buddha he is.

In Which I Try Badger Balm as an Embrocation

2011-03-24T16:59:00.000-04:00

A Dawn Ride this morning at 7:20 led me out in temps in the upper 20s, thinking that the March sun would take the edge off and make the RealFeel or whatever they call it more like mid-30s. I forgot that we live in the headwind capital of New England, and the wind off the river, unimpeded by the flat farmfields in-between, can be brutal. It was cold. I should have gone running. In fact, that's what I kept telling myself as my fingertips grew ever more painful.

However, my legs were warm. I once again protected them with something more than just clothing.

In my new adventures with all things balmy and unguential, I recently bought a tin of Badger Balm's Sore Joint Rub. It's kind of spendy, but I had a gift certificate to Whole Foods, so it was happily free of charge to me. I kind of hedged on my choice of Badger products; they have a Sore Muscle Rub that includes more capsicum (extract of either cayenne or chilis; the stuff that makes most embrocations feel hot) but I chose the Sore Joint deal because I already have a hot embro... and because the zippier Muscle Rub stuff smells a lot like those odorous herbal ointments for repelling mosquitos. Not very enticing.

The Sore Joint balm, on the other hand, derives some of its heat from ginger extract, and let me tell you, it smells delicious. I love to rub down with it first thing in the morning, before a ride or run. That spicy scent zips right up my nose and gets my brain all kinds of charged up.

However, no matter how much I rub on, it doesn't give more than a slight warm glow. That's not really what it's for. So the cold protection I derived from it this morning was more due to the heavy, waxy nature of the balm (hard to remove from the tin, therefore, but also better at staying on the skin). It kept the windchill off the gams pretty well, though I'd say my Vaseline-embro home brew is the most effective recipe yet. (Last weekend, I rode with that in the upper 30s, and, with knickers on, my calves and shins felt comfy and energized.) (I should mention that Badger has an Extra Strength Sore Muscle Rub, which, while still smelling bug ointment-y, claims to have extra heat and might make a more suitable cold weather embro.)

I'll probably stick to using the Sore Joint Rub for its intended purpose. It's got arnica extract in it, and I have had miraculous results with that stuff when dealing with aches, pains, and especially bruises or swelling. It's even healed slightly torn muscle overnight, once or twice.

Well, I admit it: I'll probably also pull the stuff out in April, when it's in the 50s and I don't need heat as much on my legs. Sometimes I even slap it on in the moring before work (on the pretense that there might be soreness later if I don't rub it up now). I just can't resisit a vigorous, aromatic rubdown.

I'm even spitballing ideas with Mrs. V. about creating my own, home-brewed embro sometime in the next few months. If you have any ideas for a product name, use the comments section. I'll consider all submissions.

Recovery and Detraining

2011-03-15T13:01:00.000-04:00

When recovering from an over-reaching phase, with symptoms of heavy legs, lack of motivation, and poor performance, it's always hard to tell when I'm ready to start building again. When I first return to the road, my legs are usually still heavy, and performance is still lower, that could just be the detraining effects of time off. I sometimes wait too long after recovery periods and lost more fitness than necessary -- and, at other times, come back too early and dug myself in a deeper hole than ever. These days, I'm trying to finesse the middle ground.

Leg Leavening

2011-03-12T13:58:00.000-05:00

Heavy legs. Is there a more evocative expression in the athlete's lexicon? I knew I'd be suffering from that malady today, so I tried, for the tenth time or so, to use embrocation as a remedy. I'm happy to report I finally succeeded.

A year ago, lured by the wonderful aroma, attractive packaging (sadly, recently changed) and, of course, the tradition and ritual, I purchased a jar of Mad Alchemy's Mellow Heat blend. Since I have only used it under tights or warmers, which increases the heat factor, it turned out to be anything but mellow. There followed many an antic caper involving hopping about in my kitchen post-ride, whimpering in pain.

One lesson learned the hard way: Dish soap is the best way to remove embrocation quickly, thoroughly and painlessly.

After a few experiments, I think I've finally hit on what to do if your embro is too hot. The answer is embarrassingly obvious: Vaseline. (Take it easy there, guys; I'll be filtering for inappropriate comments.) I first applied a goodly layer of it this morning, rubbing down the muscles and connective tissue just as I would with embro. (I love this part, like a combination massage and supercharge.) Once I had a sheen going, I dipped into the Mad Alchemy and layered that on, rubbing it in just as well.

Results were very pleasing.

I wore lighter tights today, allowing the heavy winds to penetrate a bit in order to lighten up on the friction factor, and also to test the brew a bit more than I have. I felt the breeze on my legs, but, even in the beginning, they didn't feel nearly as cold as they would have without the balm. As I warmed up, of course, the heat factor rose a bit, and the legs felt even better. Nevertheless, I was, as predicted, feeling sluggish and uninspired by about halfway through. All of a sudden, at about 70% of the way, I felt that "tropical breeze" sensation that I've read about waft across my pins. My speed picked up oddly, and the realization came over me that I had an extra half-hour in me that simply hadn't been there 10 minutes before. It was like discovering an extra gas tank. What a treat! Certainly good enough to keep trying the stuff.

There are still variables to conquer: Learning at what temps I can ride bare-legged, how to manage the effects of the sun on embrocated legs (under tights, it's like turning the dial to Broil) and what the effects are over long rides. I look forward to these experiments.

As a little bonus, I sit now before the laptop, in a chilly house, wearing only a baselayer above and bike shorts below, and feeling the most cozy warmth emanate from the gams. You just can't beat it; it's like someone lit a toasty blaze in the fireplace.

Let me know your experiences with embrocation.

My Unconscious is Smarter than I am

2011-03-10T16:01:00.000-05:00

I always get a little depressed whenever I have to take a rest week. I guess when the red flags include physical tiredness, irritability, achey joints, and sluggish performance, it's not surprising that I feel a little moonish over the idea of cutting back on my favorite pastime.

Interesting; I had a dream a couple nights ago in which I had this urge to go swimming in a quiet pond in the wilderness. I felt the sparkling sunshine, the soothing water, and an unusally refreshed sensation as I thought about it. I went looking for this pond, but all I found was a beach where folks were body-surfing in tall crashing waves. I thought to myself, "That looks really great, and usually I'd choose that. But I'll hold out for that pond." Pretty clear message, right? Yin over yang for a little while. Body and mind need a break.

Yet soon after -- it was either that day or the next -- I did a very demanding running workout, only days after the hardest bike ride I've done this year. My body felt strong and eager to go, just as it usually does right before it starts declining.

Guess my unconscious has a better handle on my best interests than I do. For the next week, I'm taking it light.

The Spring Buy

2011-03-06T16:14:00.001-05:00

Avid cyclists know that, after seeing robins pulling worms out of the ground, or that first bare patch of lawn in two or three months, the most welcome harbinger of spring is the bike buy. Make a list, check it twice: New bar tape? New tools for the shop? Maybe a whole new ride?

Here are the newest members of my team, researched for days and just ordered this afternoon:

Specialized Borough CX Pro

1) Specialized Borough CX Pro: I've been intending to upgrade my second bike -- a humble but sturdy Giant OCR 3 -- into a "snow/rain/commuter/dirt road/hardpacked trail" bike for some time now. These tires will be the first step. I'm now looking forward to the next slush storm, to climbing up some of the fabled dirt-road hills around here, and to generally messing about a lot more on my bike this season. 32 millimeters of cushy rubber to smooth out those spring potholes; relatively smooth center for a faster ride to the dirt via the pavement; and then a dash of knobby-ness on the shoulders for biting into turns during those scary-fast gravel descents. Ooooh, yeah... fun city.

Spin Doctor Pro G3

2) Spin Doctor Pro G3 Work Stand: It's simple -- I've had enough squatting on 47-year-old knees. I'll work on my bike more, and more efficiently, if it's comfortable, stable and stylish.

Diadora X-Country

3) Diadora X-Country MTB shoes: With the help of my friend, No One Line (thanks for the advice and the cleats, d00d!) I've gotten up the guts to switch to MTB pedals and shoes for all but the fastest of rides this year. I'm a born-and-bred road guy, so why would I pay good money for (gasp!) heavier shoes? A few reasons: a) See above. I'm going to be off-road more this year, even if on a road bike, so I want to be able to put my foot down and get actual support out of it. b) For 30 years now, I've been slipping and sliding down convenience store aisles from New England to Nothern California on my road cleats, and now I'd like to try actual walking. (I'll miss the uncomfortable stares, though...). c) One more concise and compelling reason: Double-sided entry. Fewer dangerous pauses trying to get started at a green light, or back in the pedal after putting a stabilizing foot down on the dirt.

If I've managed to get you interested while writing about a shoe, a bike stand and a tire, you're either a hopeless bike nerd, or I deserve a Pulitzer. Now go line up your own spring buy and pull the trigger. Nothing is better than waiting for that doorbell to ring. Speed the day!

Of Wind and Wool

2011-03-05T13:09:00.000-05:00

It was indeed exactly as I'd hoped this morning, 32 degrees (a bit chillier than expected) and spitting rain. Yum -- somehow I always manage to find a sweet little groove in-between the raindrops, and chug away like the roleur I fancy myself to be (but really am not). So it was this a.m., rolling steadily by snowy farm fields, the wind very chilled after passing over them, the rain spattering my glasses to a filthy film, the skin around my face and ears chilled deeply despite liberal pre-ride applications of Vaseline. All was right with the world. Could have used a buddy or two to make that stretch between 50 and 80 percent -- the longest mile, always -- a little more cheerful, but that's a nit not to pick.

Reminded once again of my deep gratitude for the progress so many companies have made in creating soft baselayers and glove liners out of virgin wool. Nothing, but nothing, works as well, especially once wet. Just having it on makes me feel safe and warm and strong out there in the challenging weather.

Belgian Weather

2011-03-04T13:57:00.002-05:00

38 degrees and spitting rain and/or sleet tomorrow morning. Belgian weather, and some of my favorite to ride in.

I'm spitting on my palms and rolling up my wool baselayer sleeves. Hope my buddies don't wimp out.

Spring Classics Time!

2011-02-26T08:54:00.004-05:00

There's a white plastic box on my kitchen counter that's showing a bike race going on in Belgium right this moment.

Yes, the video is terrible. Yes, it keeps quitting and I have to reboot the page. No, I don't understand a word of Flemish (which actually kind of adds to the charm).

But there's a white plastic box on my kitchen counter that's showing a bike race going on in Belgium right this moment.

Isn't that cool?

My Own Private Ventoux

2011-02-18T17:39:00.002-05:00

Wherever you live, you have it: Your hill.

Upon reading those words, you may already have a snapshot in your mind's eye of the closest place to your house where the road turns upward. I'm lucky, living in New England; mine is only seven minutes from home, just far enough to warm up a bit before I hit the base.

In February, just back on the bike after months of maintenance-level fitness and not using cycling muscles, that little bump seems far longer and harder than I remember it. In September, after 20,000 leagues of climbing, sweating, huffing and puffing, it's a piffling pimple, to be surmounted out of the saddle and forgotten the moment I complete the descent.

But I am always glad to see it. Mine is a short stretch of road with homely little farms and perpetually half-renovated homesteads lining the sides, and even a brief patch of forest. At the bottom of the descent is a picturesque little lake on one side, and an old mill building perched over the stream on the other, recently converted into a simple but elegant home.

Wherever your Ventoux is, go climb it the next moment the weather allows. Climbing is a metaphor for life, or something close to it, and reaching the top feels good every time.

Hiatus

2010-09-25T08:35:00.002-04:00

Dear Reader,

You have arrived at Velophoria, a collection of essays, rants, ponderings, ride reports, history lessons, and attempts at humor, all woven together by the common theme of the finest machine man ever invented: the bicycle.

The blog is currently on hiatus, but there is much to be enjoyed here. Click around, you'll find what a potpourri of thoughts, facts, photos and oddities. Please do comment on things that interest you.

In the meantime, I claim all moral rights to the name "Velosopher," a handle that describes so much of who I am, I can't imagine anyone else using it as authentically as I.

Keep 'em turning,

- V

Low on Matches

2010-05-24T12:07:00.003-04:00

I’m burning out.

Well, technically, it’s not burnout – that’s a step beyond this. I guess they call this “over-reaching.” My legs are heavy. My motivation is low. I think about riding and I get that “Ugh” reaction, instead of my usual charge of energy.

It’s only my third year in the sport, but I’ve already been through this a few times. (In fact, I had a terrible case of overtraining a year and a half ago, and wrote a post about how to avoid it.) I’ve learned that the problem is equal parts physical and mental. I’ve been training for months for a goal event coming one week from today, and I’ve tapped both sides pretty deeply.

Physically, I’ve increased my distance and altitude numbers very dramatically in the last three or four weeks. I mostly enjoyed it, but then I went for a shorter, taper-style ride this weekend, and I felt like dirt. I practically fell asleep on the bike during the second half of the route. I’ve also had a resurgence of chondromalacia in the last week, probably related to the spike in intensity and duration. Finally, let's not forget that Mrs. V. and I also bought and moved into our first house last month. All life stressors are training stressors at some level.

Mentally, a different story. This is the first year I’ve been healthy this far into the spring, that I’ve been able to ride whenever I saw fit. Part of that is due to my more thorough winter training, a lot of time on rollers, on elliptical machines and in the squat rack, stretching, watching diet like a hawk, etc. I was determined to build up steadily this year, and I did well at that.

What I didn’t expect was to feel so unexcited just as the weather started to turn warm and sunny. The idea was to hit the spring hard. But here I am, fuzzy-headed in the mornings, only slightly interested in the Giro d’Italia (which is my favorite grand tour), and so on. I’ve been training scrupulously for five months, and my body and mind say I’m done, and done now. I’m going to have to find a way to fire them up for Memorial Day. It isn’t a race, but it’s a harder ride than I’ve ever done, and I want to enjoy it.

Then I'll rest, take some time off the bike, detrain a little, let my systems re-set. I always, without fail, worry about the fitness I'll lose -- fitness I paid for with precious hours and energy. And, without fail, I come back stronger and more excited than ever. Maybe not right away, but sooner than I think I will.

When I do, I'll settle on my next goal, to fire me up for the middle of the season.

Mass Bike Week

2010-05-16T17:24:00.004-04:00

Have you ever been cut off or yelled at by a motorist? Have you ever wondered if that move you make at that certain intersection -- you know, the weird one that no one can figure out -- is legal? Have you ever wanted to tell a driver exactly where they can go -- I mean, where they're allowed to drive when you're on the road?

Massachusetts is celebrating Bay State Bike Week starting tomorrow. They've kicked it off with a catchy PR campaign to quickly and memorably educate drivers and cyclists on the basics of road laws and courtesy. Go check it out. It's a word-of-mouth campaign more than anything, so do your part. Spread the word.

Prolly a lot more needs to be done, but I'm proud of Mass bike advocates' level of activity and effectiveness. It's relatively high.

Besides, the SRSR logo is very cool. I hope they make bumper stickers from it real soon.

Sunday's Velophoria Incident

2010-05-09T17:16:00.008-04:00

Fifty miles today, with 3,800 feet of climbing overall. I'm slowly getting my climbing legs back; it's taking longer than I thought, but slowly the piernas are recalling that they really can scale a 15% wall, on two wheels, in the middle of a six-mile uphill stretch. Mostly they only give snarky commentary like, "Are you joking? We do hope you are joking."

It was CRAZY windy today down in the valley. I mean one of those days when the wind seems to come from every direction, all the time, to batter and bruise you relentlessly. Persistence, cruelty; the winds of the river valley know no limit in these qualities.

'S'why I climbed up into the sheltering hills as quickly as possible -- in fact, the hills of Wendell State Forest, a preserve I hadn't explored enough to this point. There was a long stretch, close to an hour, when I was way up high over the trees, on a dark, smooth ribbon of road, not a sign of civilization, good tunes fueling my climbing legs and the impossibly clean wind gassing up my lungs with each searing gasp. That is a good setting for climbing, with no head-shaking homeowners out weed-whipping their roadside lawn. I like to keep my true, deep, self-inflicted suffering between me and the vast sky. Sometimes it's the only thing big enough to absorb it all.

Two great sightings: Leaning against someone's barn just south of Miller's Falls on Route 63 was a lovely old upright steel tandem. I could tell it's still being used, because it sported a dandy oilcloth handlebar bag, the old-fashioned kind that are so much back in vogue these days with randonneurs. Then, at the end of the ride, as I turned off the main road near our house, I caught something coming the other way out of the corner of my eye. Before I even looked straight at it, I knew it was out of the ordinary. It just felt weird, the speed of its movement and the weird shape and color of the object. It turned out to be one of those recumbents covered with a hard shell; sort of like this one...

... except a) I'm pretty sure it featured only two wheels, and b) it was electric blue. I gave the rider (driver?) a friendly wave, and he waved back. So much for a UFO sighting -- piloted by a human.

All in all, a satisfying Sunday's work.

A Fixed Position vs. the Eternal Flux

2010-04-26T21:58:00.004-04:00

As a Navy cadet, I failed a course in celestial navigation, partly because of my innumeracy and partly because I thought the navigator’s perpetual quest to fix his position created a bad precedent for piloting through one’s life where the course must follow the eternal flux, a grand flowing that turns celestial fixes to flumdiddle …. A fixed position lasts only a moment, but the times when I remembered a particular run of river and what it was like… moments like those can reappear and last for hours, even until the end. The more miles I put under me, the more those recollections become the very vessels carrying me to the finish.

~ William Least Heat-Moon, River-horse

Velophoriacs know that I am constantly trying to reconcile my goal-oriented, driven side and my reflective, outdoors-loving, John Muir side.

I don’t know if it’s just that I’m tired out and distracted by our current, all-consuming adventure of buying and moving into a house, or if I’m really beginning to figure out which side of that equation I really fall on, but lately, I’ve been finding myself more and more just going out for a ride. I still have some large-scale goals, and I still do specific workouts and gym exercises, but less than I used to.

When I got my shiny new cherry-red Cannondale CAAD 8 last year, I couldn’t bring myself to mar the esthetics with a cyclocomputer. Eventually, I found that I rode with more zest and awareness without it. I left my heart-rate monitor at home a lot, and learned to feel the difference between a three-hour pace and a two-hour pace. I noticed my surroundings more. I varied my routes more.

With all of that feeling and perceiving going on, I found it really intriguing that I got faster and stronger than I'd ever been. Numbers didn't tell me that; rather, when I rode with friends, their breathing would be more ragged, or I would take more and longer pulls than they would.

That kind of large-scale, real world measurement was much more rewarding than, “I finished that route one minute faster than last month” or “I added 5% to my max elevation.” Those numbers, in fact, mean nothing beyond their own constricted frame of reference, because the variables that the “eternal flux” throws at me from one ride to the next – even on the same route – are infinite. The next time I rode with friends, it might rain. Or I might have ridden hard the day before, or be working on a demanding project at work. It boils down to this: I would either be stronger than them, or I wouldn’t. If I wasn’t, they would tow me. Next time, I might be able to return the favor (and take the credit). That’s the flux I want to be a part of, be at peace with. That’s the world-view I’ve been seeking since I was old enough to start thinking for myself, and realized that I was the only one making myself crazy with comparisons, measurements and expectations.

It’s almost May, and I still don’t have a computer on my bike. It’s been weeks since I wore a heart-rate monitor. But I’ve already made some sweet velo-memories for 2010 – and, at the same time, managed to be the one doing the towing on a couple of rides. I’d call that the beginning of a reconciliation of opposing desires. And of a great season.

Fingernails + Chalkboard

2010-04-25T10:47:00.002-04:00

How on earth does Sean Kelly manage to talk so much, say so little and sound so annoyingly monotonous?

Pleasure Riding: Oh, Right!

2010-04-20T06:52:00.000-04:00

I cannot recommend highly enough the practice of making a recovery ride also serve as a ride with your sweetheart. (Unless your sweetheart is more of a hammerhead than you are, in which case, maybe you should ask her/him to do a recovery ride with you.)

Mrs. V. is a fine cyclist, but her talent is not hammering (at least, not yet). She is a champ at riding for the enjoyment of it -- a precious gift, which I have lost to a rather embarrassing extent. However, without external motivation, she doesn't really get out much.

So, for the last few weekends in a row, I've asked her to accompany me on a quiet Sunday ride, and the results have been very fun and convivial. Pretty country lanes, burbling brooks, quiet, shady cemeteries, frequent stops, lots of good conversation, and an emphasis on pleasure.

For someone who often takes his riding more seriously than his talent merits, it's a terrific change of pace, a reconnection to why I started riding a bike all those decades ago. It's a re-direct from all the obsession over mileage, goal events, and invidious comparisons.

It's also a nice opportunity for Mrs. V. to feel a bit of excitement about this "hobby" on which I lavish so much attention, time and, occasionally, money.

You've probably heard of the Slow Food movement, a response to the inundation of fast food. It looks like I'm starting my own personal Slow Ride movement. Won't you join?

Hills and More Hills

2010-04-18T19:38:00.004-04:00

Three hours and forty minutes of solid effort today, up and around Montague, Leverett, Shutesbury, and back south into town. Lots of long, steady climbing, at one point seven or eight miles of mostly up -- anywhere from five to 14 percent.

I hesitate to think what such a ride, on a cloudy, mid-40s, windy-sprinkly afternoon, would have been like without the stalwart companionship of my trusty iPod, playing everything from Chick Webb swing to Bruce Cockburn folk-rock to early, edgy Dire Straits. A good friend, in lieu of someone who would actually do the ride with me. At my pace, that is -- fast on the flats and sloooow on the hills. (I need more hill training.)

About 60% of the way through, I developed wicked ITBS in my left leg, an old acquaintance re-met. Here's hoping I can un-inflame and stretch out that puppy to keep training on track. I'm thinking I can.

The incomparable Mrs. V had a turkey dinner on the stove when I got home, and listened interestedly (or faked it convincingly) to the tales of this semi-brave Ulysses. ('Dja catch that, Wrecking Ball?) I really am blessed beyond measure in my marriage to her. As the Rev. Sidney
Smith (my pop's favorite philosopher) said a few years ago, "Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today."

Onward to a movie and dessert. Life is sooo good.

Baiku #1

2010-04-17T09:41:00.003-04:00

Spring day after work
Short climb over local hill
Wife waits patiently

4/14/10

Obsession

2010-04-13T16:53:00.000-04:00

I have a somewhat obsessive personality. For the last few years, that obsessive lens has been focused on cycling.

If it’s a beautiful day out, I note to myself how much more beautiful it would be if I were out riding in it, wind streaming over my skin, sun soaking me warm. If I’m driving a particularly attractive stretch of road on the way to work, my body starts to feel the sensations it might feel if I were riding that road – the hills, the turns, the rough or smooth surface.

When I don’t have a client at work, and I can’t make myself do any more of the lovely paperwork I’m supposed to be churning out, I’m on-line reading someone’s blog post about Roger de Vlaemink’s tendency to shift with his ring fingers rather than index fingers, and tracing the lineage of mythical lore which that gave birth to over the years.

Mrs. V and I got married almost three years ago, and haven’t yet had our honeymoon, due to other life events getting in the way. We’ve been talking lately about where we’ll go, because we hope to make it happen in 2011. My number one choice is Italy. Yes, I do want to go there for the food, the culture, the beautiful countryside, and the unique people. Probably enough so that it would be on the short list anyway. But the fact that it is the birth place of Coppi, Bartali, Colnago, Campagnolo, and, especially, the Giro… well, that’s enough to edge it up to number one. My wife understands, bless her (and, thankfully, is also interested in Italy).

The obsession before this one had nothing to do with bicycles. For nearly thirty years, off and on, I could think about nothing but music, and especially guitars, and especially [[[my guitar. I listened to and bought and played music compulsively. I could talk about it for hours. I came home from work, had a bite to eat, then disappeared into a room and practiced one lick until midnight. These days, I disappear into my laptop to research whether I should buy 23 or 26 mm tires. But I’m married now, so I do it in the dining room, where, when my sweet wife walks by, I’m reminded that I could be spending time with her, and I generally tend to shut the computer off a little sooner than I would have in the past.

It kind of scares me, this obsession thing. It’s so “all or nothing.” I mean, when it gets to the point where I feel lost if I can’t stick to my training schedule because of a short cold, well, doesn’t that seem like the line where a passion turns into a life-limiting, short-sighted stranglehold? Am I afraid of something? What would happen if I were to back away from this thing a little? Probably what has happened at other times in my life when I’ve been just doing the day-to-day without any particular focus to my passion: A kind of flaccid hollowness to my days that looks eerily like depression.

I know more men who are like me in this regard than women. Women (as I’ve observed them, on a very abstract whole – save the hate-mail, please) seem to derive their life force, their true north, from a variety of places. Work, friends, family, house. If they have a hobby, they often have more than one. Maybe cycling and blogging and cooking and gardening. Take one away, and they lean on the others. That’s called “healthy.”

I’m working on something that hovers comfortably in-between the two poles of obsession and pointless diffusion. I’ve been consciously tinkering with it for a few years now. Like most changes, especially the important ones, it’s acutely uncomfortable, and I mostly learn the hard way.

Any helpful thoughts, or perhaps just empathy, would be appreciated.

When Domestiques Raided Restaurants

2010-04-13T13:23:00.007-04:00

This is just one more reason the Giro will always be the grand tour in my eyes. It's very possible riders did all this in France and Belgium at the time, but there's an Italian flavor here that is undeniable.

Pay special attention to :53, when the waterboys go nuts looting a local store, and a beautiful moment at 2:07 when a rider uses an old-school technique to open a mineral water bottle. Try that on a carbon stem today... Ah, the good old days.

Mangia!

Ode to a Headwind

2010-04-10T13:24:00.003-04:00

I wrote this a couple years ago around this time, so forgive the reference to the wrong month. After three hours today in the wind, I couldn't resist posting it here:

Ode to a Headwind

When the trees are all blown halfway over
And grit fills your mouth 'til it's cracked and it's parched
When your handlebars fight you like cobras
You're cycling New England in March

When the roads are all pot-holed and mangled
And you're struggling to keep your front wheel pointing straight
When you ride on the flats at 10-degree angle
At a glacial, detestable, crustacean rate

That's when you know that you're cycling New England --
Might as well go on a long tour of Finland --
When you're cycling New England in March

Egg Recovery Ride

2010-04-04T16:22:00.003-04:00

Image: Bike Friendly Arlington

Took Mrs. V. on our first joint ride of the spring today -- it was Easter Sunday, and 71 degrees with blues skies. The Valley is just delightful right now, birds busting out all over, trees showing that first faint veil of lacy yellow-green, pine-cone aromas wafting out of the roadside woods.

The missus was lamenting last night that we don't have any Easter traditions yet, as we've only been married a few years, and, moreover, I'm Jewish. I pondered this after she left for church this morning, and remembered a brilliant idea, passed on to me by the ever-thoughtful No One Line. I had told him that I wanted to get my sweetheart more into cycling, and he suggested that I take her for short rides around the neighborhood, having hidden a picnic basket or such-like not too far away, and surprise her thusly. I liked the idea at the time, had been pondering it ever since. When I began puzzling over the Easter question this morning, and then remembered that we'd discussed going for a ride this afternoon -- well, as the Brits say, the penny dropped.

I threw some pedals on my winter bike (now seasonally re-incarnated as my town/pleasure/dirt-road bike) and dashed around the neighborhood finding sweet spots to hide chocolate Easter eggs before she got home. I live in the country, so it weren't too hard.

Mrs. V is a particular fan of New England cemeteries, so the first couple were hidden behind time-worn 300-year-old headstones, way in the back of our little local burying grounds. I hid others in other pretty spots along the way home; by a stream, behind fence posts. This part was almost more fun than actually taking her on the ride later.

When she got home, I was lounging about, and tried to show only the usual enthusiasm for the idea of a ride. When we got to the graveyard, I dropped a few cryptic (Get it? "Cryptic?") hints about searching around gravestones with certain names on them, and let her loose -- thus adding a dash of treasure hunt/history adventure to the usual hunt approach. You should have seen her smile when she found the eggs: Sweeter than Easter candy.

It was an ideal ride home, happy, chatty, and beautiful. She reports now that she had no suspicion that I had hidden eggs in any other locations until we stopped the seond time. I gave vague hints each time, and she was as game as could be.

We had a blast, and she was happy as a little girl on Easter. Mission accomplished!

Ford F 150:TT Roadster::Giant OCR 3:CAAD 8

2010-04-03T12:14:00.002-04:00

Busted out the CAAD 8, last year's NOS purchase, in honor of the advent of April, and of the temps in the 70s (??!!).

Beautiful day, beautiful ride. Legs felt awfully sluggish, and I finally figured out: Duh! I'm short two low gears now. Welcome to the jungle.

Last year, started riding the 'Dale in early spring, out of shape, couldn't tell the difference in handling. This year, rode the "Gigante" (as No One Line calls it) Jan.-March. Got on the 'Dale, and in the first two minutes, I was blown away. What a beautiful-riding bike. Fast. Light. "Handles like a dream," to quote Tony Stark.

The Valley this morning spread herself before me like a come-hither maiden shedding the virginal snow-laced wedding dress. She is ready -- and so am I.

Diary of a Wimpy Cyclist

2010-03-31T08:21:00.001-04:00

Lately, there's been a tidal wave of Velophoriacs writing People magazine, the Weekly World News, congresspeople, and Martian headquarters leaders, to the following effect: Why, WHY do we not know what the Velosopher looks like?! Every day we are force-fed Cruise's baby's latest gas bubble, Obama's dog's fleas -- but no Velosopher? IS THERE NO JUSTICE IN THIS VEIL OF TEARS?!!

Well, I hope you're happy now. The pic below was subtly snapped by some vile paparazzo slithering through the bushes across from my house last week as I stepped outside, minutes before embarking on the weekly long ride, clad only in my bib-shorts and bike shoes.

People!! Have I no dignity left me?? Is it so much to ask -- the right to skin-test the ambient temperature before a ride, without the wide world knowing about it??!

For Merckx' sake, leave me alone!

If you, too, want to avatar yourself as a Wimpy Kid -- you can't fool me, I know you do -- go here.

Of Wood, Chrome and Campy

2010-03-29T09:53:00.010-04:00

An exciting visit Sunday morning to my first bike swap – this one officially for “antique” bikes, of which there were many delectable examples present. Yes, there is bike porn at the end of this, but see if you can delay your gratification long enough to peruse my account.

I had the boon of the uplifting company of No One Line, who rode first thing the 10 or 15 miles to my house (a stalwart, he, in the icy March air, the day after a brutal ride in the hills). We toasted our adventure with a healthy dose of Bialetti-brewed espresso – the time-honored libation of the europhile bike geek. Thence, into my jalopy and off to Monson, Mass., whose Memorial Town Hall, itself a handsome antique, played host to the swap. Definitely an out-of-the-way location, Monson is odd, and oddly appealing. It’s got scattered clues to a quirky outdoors/history-loving/local business-supporting sub-culture there, underneath the “just another failed mill town” veneer.

Having never been to a swap, much less one in a tiny, old-school town, I was unprepared for the homely/homey nature of the crowd. We were some of the youngest attendees, on either side of the tables, and I'm middle-aged. Of course, the room was also 98% male -- it's mostly guys who are weird enough to give over 80% of their waking hours to obscure historical restoration and repair hobbies. The vendors were mostly bearded and pot-bellied, sporting faded hiking boots, worn-out wool sweaters, and looking for all the world like just another guy off the street of any small hard-luck town. Like maybe they did some hunting in the fall, and a little fishing in the warm weather. You know -- just old guys. Being naive, I sincerely doubted that these shapeless, cantankerous characters could really be serious cyclists, much less fonts of knowledge about the difference between 1930s and 1940s Campagnolo derailleurs.

I’m sure you already have guessed how wrong I turned out to be. In short order, I discerned that these gents knew more about bikes than I probably ever will. More, even, than NOL, a scholar up to whom I frequently look for tutelage on all things velocipedic. The flurry of obscure brand names, outdated measurements, and general arcana they exchanged with their customers (often hard to distinguish from the vendors) was dizzying, intoxicating.

More than the boxes full of tarnished Campy derailleurs, more than the saliva-inducing rows of lovingly restored bikes, I lusted after this knowledge, the ability to casually reel off the details of restoring a 65-year-old drive train. As they say on the swap floor, “How much for that?” Answer: Decades of loving, slightly unbalanced obsession. I would have to end up living like these guys, and probably looking like them, to achieve some measure of their wisdom and skill. They are the sadhus of the bike world: transformed into outsiders by their spiritual asceticism, yet at the same time, invaluable sources of insight.

My guide through these mists of secret knowledge was NOL with his years of research and wrenching in various capacities. Best of all, he lives faithfully the DIY, reduce/reuse/recycle, nothing-goes-to-waste mentality that makes a swap meet more of a vital connection point than a curiosity. I learned to dive into dumpy-looking cardboard boxes overflowing with a daunting quantity of miscellanea, and patiently sort through them, coming up with the diamond in the rough.

I ended up purchasing a few small items that will serve me well, and for which I paid a mystically small amount. It was a strikingly minor purchase compared to the satisfaction it brought. A large bottle, for example, of Finish Line citrus degreaser, 90% full. I will without doubt use every drop of this bottle, and someday far in the future, as I drop the container in the recycling bin, I'll fondly remember the elegant single dollar I paid for it back in Monson in 2010.

Okay -- enough philosophizing. (As if!) I know you're waiting for the bling. How could I deny you, faithful reader? There were beauties aplenty, and here is a sampling:

"For you?" the seller asked. "$1000 – but I'd take $800.".

The Legnano, made in la Madrepatria. No CO2 inflators in those days.

Lug lust for a Hetchins. Siiiigh.

Hetchins chrome. "How much, how much???" Forced myself not to ask.

'50s Schwinn lights the way home from an after-dark date at the soda fountain.

Hydraulically-powered low rider. I had to sing. "All... my... friends..."

Our choice for Best of Show: Perfect restoration of a late 19th-C. Hanover. Puts one in mind of Major Taylor.

Elegant.

And made right heah in Massachusetts.

The Hanover's inch-gauge chain and ring teeth – try and break that puppy.

Wood rims sport tires thick enough to deflect bullets.

Hanover handlebar grips -- leather tightly wrapped and varnished.

Like I said -- Best in Show. Hanover badge.

Weighty Decisions

2010-03-16T10:58:00.002-04:00

Now why in the wide world would I spend a morning in the gym, when it's 45 degrees and sunny out?

Come ride with me in a few weeks and you'll find out.

Puttin' sum'n in the bank.

That is all.

Belgium Ain't got Nothin' on Mass.

2010-03-13T17:15:00.004-05:00

High of 42 degrees. Winds gusting up to 28 miles per hour. And rain.

Perfect.

You know what they say about early season rides: If it ain't rainin', you ain't trainin'.

Hit the Internets yesterday and goaded a couple of buddies into riding with me today. They were pretty game, it didn't take too much, though Racer Rob balked, apparently still not acclimated to the damp New England chill after the temperate lands of his native northern Utah. I wrote back shamelessly reminded him of the many ridiculous over-efforts he's managed to coax me into. Wasn't sure if that alone would do it, so I also made quick, unflattering reference to his manhood -- a graceless coup de grace which apparently did the trick.

In fact, in a year and a half of friendship with both these guys, who are also good friends with each other, it's the first time we've managed to get all of us on the road at one time. I wanted champagne and a ribbon cutting, but they demurred, being both modest and abstemious.

The start was ominous. Like Lear shouting into the teeth of the dooming storm -- "Blow, ye winds, and crack ye hurricanoes!" -- we knew we were in for it. When we all started leaning into the "side-winds" (I can't think of a term that actually captures them) at a 45-degree angle, we even got to try echeloning -- a first for two of us. The dry and warm drivers behind us were not amused, but we sure were.

Rob, true to his grimpeur roots (there are definitely mountains in northern UT) "encouraged" us into a couple of noticeable hills at the far end of our route. As Jacob so accurately pointed out, hills are always worth it -- after you've finished them.

When we neared Jacob's homestead (our finish line), I realized I still needed time to make my goal for the day. Fool that I am, I turned as they headed straight. Straight, that is, for baseboard heating and warm food. I foundered pretty quickly without companionship -- in this weather, having friends along is like having hot tea in your bottle. I realized I was starting to get cold in my core, and was lacking calories. I soon took a shortcut back, making for only an additional :20.

Friends, wives, children and a mug of herbal tea were waiting upon my return. Salves, all.

Despite the weather -- nay, thanks to the weather -- we had a grand time. That is, if smiles, quivering quads, and enthusiastic comments shouted above howling winds are any judge. I hereby declare they are.

Strade Bianche: The Hell of the South?

2010-03-07T11:44:00.005-05:00

Strade Bianche (White Roads) is Italy's newest answer to the cobblestoned spring classics of the north. Yesterday, in the third edition of this young race, riders covered 190 km, much of them comprised of steep white gravel paths made from the indigenous marble of the gorgeous Tuscany region in which the race is set.

Why would I would want to travel to Tuscany in March? After all, it's the chilly off-season, not much warmer than New England right now. Well, clearly the beautiful countryside, so popular in books and movies of the last few years, is one reason, not to mention those infamous gravel roads.

But I'd point you to the last 5:30 of the video below to show you what really attracts me: Locals crowding the boulevards, side streets and arches of ancient Siena, jostling and gossiping in the cool spring air, waiting to see the multicolored peloton whizz through the canyons. See that "cafeteria" right by the finish line? You'd find me right around there, warming myself by wrapping my hands around a demitasse of perfect espresso, grinning and cheering.

If you prefer to do your cultural appreciation from the saddle, complete with vintage kits, goggles, 70-year-old bikes, and metal water bottles rigged to your handlebars, go ride the gran fondo version of Strade Bianche, called L'Eroica (The Heroic -- don't miss this fun Outside article on it, with great pix). It covers many of the same roads, and takes place every fall. (In fact, L'Eroica predates Strade Bianchi by a number of years, and was the inspiration for the pro race). The tourist version was meant to raise awareness of the need to protect Italy's storied white roads, as it was those perilous byways on which the giants of old rode their heavy steel bikes day and night in races that would have the hard men of today forming picket lines and sending whimpering protest tweets.

Just another Euro-lust post, brought to you by Velophoria, the nostalgia-fueled blog you love to love.

By the Numbers

2010-03-06T15:40:00.003-05:00

One sunny day in March, 50 degrees.

One week kicking a small but sticky cold, no riding or gym workouts.

One restless boy.

One hour of indecisive waffling -- would my scheduled ride of 2:00 set me back into headcold-ville?

One minute of riding before I knew I'd done the right thing.

One @#$! of a headwind -- standard issue for Massachusetts in March.

One heavy feeling in legs on hills that felt minor last week.

Many wafting aromas hinting of thaw -- farm-field manure; inky, overturned earth; pine trees scenting the road as I dash by.

Three stops to check in with the body and ask whether this is helping or hurting the effort to kick out the cold.

Two detours to add a little time in the sun and hills after the answer came back, "Keep going."

One extra detour because my street was blocked off by police cruisers and fire engines. A poor family down the street from us had a very big house fire in the brief time I was on the road.

One prayer of thanks when the officer in the cruiser told me the house number, and it wasn't ours.

15 extra minutes in the sun and wind getting to the other entrance to our road.

One happy boy sitting eating almonds, bananas and pretzels, drinking OJ, taking (final?) Wellness Formulas and garlic pills, and writing a post on his blog, sun blasting through the French doors.

Avanti!

Velophoria Incident Report

2010-02-21T11:00:00.006-05:00

Yesterday, it was 44 degrees and sunny enough to blind me, so I embarked with great anticipation on my first true (outdoor) “long ride” of the year. I was expecting pure Velophoria all the way, but to my surprise, about an hour in, I was sluggish, uninspired, and contemplating cutting down the length of the ride.

So, I’m leaning on my top tube by the side of the road, chomping on raisins and almonds, feeling the sun on my back, trying to make up my mind how much further to go. Over the rise comes a rider out of his saddle, and the colors of his jersey are familiar. A moment later I place them: the Kissena Cycling Club in New York City. Only one dude I know of around here flies the blue and orange of the Empire State: No One Line, who I’ve been lucky enough to have in my neighborhood for the duration of this school year. Is it him? The rider shouts a friendly, generic, “Hey” to me, which alone speaks in his favor; most cyclists will simply lift a hand, at best, or just ignore you. I check his bike: A brand-new, matte-black Spooky Skeletor, a truly sinister whip. It’s NOL, all right. I shout his name, and he hits the brakes, does a double-take, and yells, “What are YOU doing here?” – as if he didn’t know. There follows much hail-fellow-well-met.

We were headed in opposite directions, but that just seemed silly. My route puzzlement clearly answered by his fortuitous appearance, I glommed on to the opportunity to ride with a friend through the knife-like February wind, as a way of brightening the day. And brighten, it did. We chattered away like magpies, about everything from bikes (natch) to woman mathematicians (his partner is a hard-rockin’ example) to novel-writing.

If I could dream up a perfect ride partner, it would be one who was in far better shape than me, inspiring me to hammer up a few hills I wasn’t at all planning to hammer up – and then, too, a delightful conversationalist with a broad-ranging zest for life, so when we’re back in February Base mode, we reel in the miles unnoticed (except for the perfect New England scenery; NOL comes most recently from the Big City, so the contrast ‘round here leaves him agreeably gobsmacked at times).

I guess I was dreaming yesterday, because before I knew it, it was an hour later, and I was just hitting my stride. We parted ways with promises to be in touch, and I finished out the last of my 2:30 with a little left in the tank, and some extra gratitude on top of that for friends, and the marvelous and mysterious forces that nudge us across each others’ paths.

Velophoria, indeed.

Chasing Dave Stoller, Pt. II

2010-02-17T14:58:00.005-05:00

[Read Part I here.]

So, this bike thing. Could it do for me what it did for Dave Stoller?

It seemed like Dave and I had similar personalities. What’s more, Dave’s vehicle to happiness and self-expression was a ten-speed. I had a ten-speed, too -- a brand-new ten speed. and I was going on a four-week, haul-ass trip on that shiny new thing in two months. What if I actually prepared for that? What if I showed up in shape and impressed everyone with my cycling prowess? What if I did what worked for Dave?

What if, indeed

The very next day, I was in Riverside Park, doing laps around the empty half-mile promenade alongside the broad, steely Hudson, which flowed to my left, and then my right, then back to my left. I wanted to experience riding fast, as fast as I could. Sure, I’d had a bike before, but that was for transportation, fun, freedom – not speed. So, I got down in the drops, stood on the pedals, and I felt a new, powerful connection with the bike as I bolted down the flat pavement.

I liked that.

After a couple days of this, it became clear I needed a bigger challenge. I got up the nerve to head in the other direction from the front door of my apartment building, over to the the five-mile bike loop in Central Park.

My first two laps left my lungs burning like a house afire. I decided right there and then to quit smoking. Popular friends? What popular friends? What did they know about oneness between body and machine? What did they know about the Dave Way? They were shallow, insecure; they wouldn’t be caught dead wobbling their bike down the road, un-ironically singing an aria at the top of their lungs. Me? I was on my way to Davehood.

I dove in head-first. I started getting up early on Saturdays to beat the crowds to Central Park, where I went 'round and 'round the loop, now including the extra mile and the more serious hill starting at 116th Street. I picked up speed, endurance. I drafted racers here and there. I began to understand how doing something hard over and over pays off. This was an insight that was to inspire me for the rest of my life.

I went on the trip, up through the mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont, and enjoyed riding strong. When I got back, I talked my best friend Kenny into signing up with me for an AYH trip the next summer, down the West Coast, from Portland to San Francisco (which is a whole ‘nother post). I bought my first issue of Bicycling magazine. I bought Richard’s Bike Book and learned to adjust my derailleurs, my brakes. I began taking apart my bicycle in my bedroom (to my parents’ dismay). I even learned to repack my hub bearings.

Somewhere along the line, thoughts of Dave began to drift to the background, as I discovered, in my wide-eyed, teenage way, my own reasons for, and style of, riding the bike and enjoying it as a way of life. At some point, we all have to branch off from our source of inspiration and forge our own path, yes?

Which, when I think about it, is just exactly what happened to Dave.

For me, Breaking Away will always be more than just a great movie about a great era in cycling. It was the right parable, appearing to the right student, at just the right time. For this confused 16-year-old, it was a bridge to strength, self-worth and a boatload of fun. Grazie, Steve Tesich – I’ll always be grateful.

Chasing Dave Stoller

2010-02-12T14:50:00.005-05:00

I am 16 years old, and it is spring on the Upper West Side of New York City. The breeze off the Hudson River has lost its icy edge, become a tad warmer and more fishy. The trees are greening out. Somewhere far away, a very young Greg LeMond is training with the doomed 1980 Olympic cycling team, but I’m not aware of anything beyond homework and friends.

My dad, wanting to make sure I don’t sit around and rot all summer, has just recently signed me up for a crazy month-long bike trip with something called American Youth Hostels. He then shepherded me to Angelo’s bike store on Amsterdam Avenue (with soft-worn wooden floors and a perpetual aroma of bike oil and new rubber) to buy a burgundy ten-speed with a fancy badge on the front reading “St. Tropez.” Maybe it was made in Japan, maybe it was cheap, but it was pretty and it did have a French name. We were told it would last as long as I wanted to ride it.

Since then, the bike had been sitting in my room collecting dust, awaiting my departure for the trip. Then, one Friday night, my parents were going out with friends. Dad pressed ten dollars into my palm and told me to grab some pizza, and then head down to the Embassy 72nd Street and take a look at this little movie they’d seen and liked. It was called Breaking Away, and it was about teenagers, and cycling. Since I was going on a bike trip soon, who knows, maybe I’d like it.

I walked out of the Embassy four hours later a different person. How had someone climbed inside my head and made a movie about me? Dave Stoller was me. Eccentric. Obsessive. An incurable dreamer. With a father who ceaselessly worried about and pestered him, but who also, somewhere inside, loved and cared for him. They knew me, for crying out loud, they knew me somehow!

But bigger yet: The idea that you could be passionate, geeky, confused, and athletically successful. What?!? Why, Dave was happy, he had a niche! Huh. I had loved playing touch football, softball, frisbee. But I’d given that all up in a search for more friends, girls and popularity. I was smoking cigarettes, shifting from one group of friends to another. You know: Teenage identity crisis.

So, this bike thing. Could it do for me what it did for Dave Stoller?

Tune in next time and find out.

C'est impossible!

2010-02-07T10:46:00.003-05:00

In classic old-guard style, Anquetil makes today's ultracyclists look tame. Perhaps the best part isn't Anquetil himself, but the technicolor commentary from his directeur, Raphael Géminiani.

This was too delectable not to repost from VELOGOGO (apologies, guys!).

Halfway

2010-02-02T08:07:00.006-05:00

Today is Imbolc (pronounced either IM-ulk or IM-bulk), an ancient festival predating Christianity, and even the Celtic tradition, dating, in fact, all the way back to Neolithic times. It marks the day halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. The age-old tradition of weather prognostication on this day is echoed in the modern North American version: Groundhog Day.

The day originally was based on the beginning of lactation for the ewes, who were preparing for lambing season. But it soon evolved into a recognition that the ground is warming just a bit under the snow; seeds and tree roots are starting to stir in their sleep. It won't be long before the first early flowers peek up through the whiteness.

I'm not a pagan or a Wiccan, but I have to admit that this festival has always been special to me since a friend introduced me to it while I was living in the mountains of northern New Mexico. Ever since, I begin to notice the changes in my surroundings that begin in late January. It might still be frigid outside, but the sun itself feels a little bit warmer on my back during an afternoon ride than it did a few weeks ago. Another example: Last night, as I was leaving work at 6:00 p.m., I noted the last dribble of sunset still in the western sky (appropriately , it was the night the festival begins -- February 1). This is certainly a marked change from the sunsets of early January, which sometimes seem to begin not long after the end of a late lunch.

Wikipedia says, "Celebrations often involved hearthfires, special foods, divination or simply watching for omens (whether performed in all seriousness or as children's games), a great deal of candles, and perhaps an outdoor bonfire if the weather permits." All great ideas; sometimes I simply go for a walk and look around for signs of the change.

Shamefully, Wikipedia omits the critical ritual cyclists have evolved over the last century or so: The purchase of new tires and bar tape. Some sects, it seems, focus instead on a shiny new chain and cassette. Modern historians agree that, in fact, any sundries will do which make our bikes look and feel new again for those first pre-spring group rides or races in a month or so.

Renewal is on its way. Have hope, and light a candle.

Roll Your Own

2010-01-30T11:34:00.003-05:00

It's seven degrees outside.

I'm getting on my rollers.

What more is there to say?

Okay, okay, here's a Scooby snack for a chill winter's morning: Go here for some decent twists on the roller/trainer workout.

I hereby solicit you to post your own variations in the comments section.

Get On the Path and Stay On It

2010-01-24T12:20:00.003-05:00

Your assignment for the day, should you choose to accept it:

Relate this quote...

But mastery isn't reserved for the supertalented or even for those who are fortunate enough to have gotten an early start. It's available to anyone who is willing to get on the path and stay on it - regardless of age, sex, or previous experience.

~ George Leonard, Mastery: The Keys to Success and Long-term Fulfillment

...to this popular post on this well-known cycling blog.

I found it an inspiring exercise for an uninspiring point in the yearly training cycle. Hope you do, too.

Discover Jacquie Phelan. Again.

2010-01-23T17:11:00.004-05:00

Velophoriacs will enjoy a blog I've just stumbled over. Well, actually, the story of my discovery of Jacquie Phelan's blog is too rich for this quick post, and will have to wait for another day. Just go there. By reading Velophoria, you've already proved you like weird points of view. Jacquie spits me out the back in that category (not to mention the real-life, rubber-meets-the-road cycling category) in very short order. (For those who don't know, Jacquie was a massive MTB champion, and later a massive MTB promoter.) What's more, she's funny, smart, independent and strong.

Go. Read. Benefit.

Code of the Road #2

2010-01-23T16:25:00.003-05:00

Riding with a buddy means never having to say you're sorry for interrupting the conversation to bomb the descent. Just go. At the bottom, simply pick up where you left off, as if you hadn't stopped conversing.

A January Air

2010-01-16T12:50:00.002-05:00

A weekend morning above freezing, first time in about six weeks.

A professional seminar this week: 45 hours in a stuffy hotel ballroom listening to someone talk.

A layer and a layer and a layer. Hot Gatorade in an insulated water bottle, to keep it from getting frigid.

Astonishment at the difference between hefting stacks of weights at the gym and pedaling a bicycle up a hill.

The pleasant warmth inside just the right amount of gear. Sunlight like a warm hand on my back after emerging from the trees.

A surge of confidence after the biggest hill of the ride. A brief roadside contemplation of the sounds of trees and wind, birds, distant airplane motors. Surge of gratitude for living in Western Massachusetts.

Stepping delicately into the roadside snow to pick up a beer bottle some yahoo tossed out his window. Wait – do yahoos throw O’Doul’s bottles? In the Pioneer Valley, this kind of makes sense.

A rebirth of the familiar dialog between achy leg portions and my mind.

A neighbor in a cowboy hat, work boots and field coat carrying a vintage wood surfboard from his car to his house, through the snow. Again: Glad I live in the Valley.

The blast for home on rolling terrain: dogsCarsFieldsHousesDogsCarsFieldsHouses…

Slip and slide over the driveway ice. Burst through front door, a blend of sweat, enthusiasm and outdoor-fresh-smelling air. Kiss wife. Make lunch. Write post.

As the Earth Turns

2010-01-10T10:13:00.004-05:00

December and January are to the world of blogging about the cycling life as kryptonite is to Superman. If I were to have written entries here in the last few weeks, they would have looked something like this: "Rollers. Gym. Rollers. Gym. Missed workout. Missed workout. Ate prohibited food, gained weight. Rollers. Gym."

Not exactly gripping. Plus, y’all know the deal, ‘cause we do this every year. I didn’t mind writing about it the first couple years. It was all new to me. I wrote a post about how rollers contribute to souplesse – and then a post about what souplesse actually is. (This remains tied for all-time most popular Velophoria post.) I wrote about my first time going hands-free on the rollers. I wrote many variations on the post showing a picture of the snow outside my window, complaining about how long it’s been since I’ve ridden outside.

But today at the gym, pulling a long stretch on the elliptical machine and then another one on the exercise bike, well, there was just nothing exciting about the situation. Not to say I didn’t enjoy myself. I like a workout no matter what. But it just didn't offer up new material or insight for a philosophical kind o’ guy like me.

As I drive to work these days, surrounded by icy white hills, I occasionally get a little warm glow remembering a ride last season on a particular road I’m passing; I can call up the details -- the hills, the views -- and I feel the promise of that and much more coming this summer. Hold on folks; in a month, a local club around here will be starting its pre-pre-season rides in the hills (canceled only in case of icy roads).

It’s coming. Really.

Quality Speaks for Itself

2009-12-27T15:08:00.006-05:00

Santa was extra good to me this week; maybe I actually managed to subvert/sublimate my naughty nature just often enough in 2009. I must have, since they say you can’t fool him.

First up was something I’ve been jonesing for since I asked my friend No One Line where he got his dapper cycling cap. He referred me to Walz Caps. When I first visited their Web site, it seemed as if someone had been designing headwear for me for years, but had mischievously kept it a secret from me. I had a very hard time choosing a cap. (I settled on the black and gray wool model pictured at the bottom.)

I’d been shopping for just the right one for months, but with no luck. I owned a mass-production cotton Castelli job already; I’d used it for countless rides. It’s okay, but I was looking for quality -- and here it was. You can tell at a glance that a Walz cap is special, but until you think about it, you can’t say exactly why. It just makes a person look more… I don’t know… stylish, but in a quiet, European way? Unself-consciously cool? Maybe just good? Yeah, that’s it: Walz caps just make you look, and feel, good.

You can pin this down to specific details, such as a better cutting pattern, better materials, better craftsmanship, better esthetic, and so on. You can compare their subtly different look to more “unique,” hand-made caps out there made from baroque, colorful fabrics that just scream, “Look at me! I‘m so artsy, I can‘t stand myself!” You can even sit down to write a blog post vainly attempting to define ephemeral notions like quality and craftsmanship.

Or you can throw down your coin (and not much of it, by the way), wait breathlessly by the mailbox -- and then wear the thing everywhere until it falls off your head in tatters.

I’ve tried both approaches, and, as of this moment, I’m sticking with the latter.

Once you lay eyes on it, there's no doubt.

Next up: The other quality wool gift.

Registration Open for Levi's Gran Fondo

2009-12-20T13:18:00.004-05:00

Would I pay $130 for what basically amounts to a century ride? Hmm...

If it took place on the most remote and challenging roads in one of the most beautiful regions of California...

If I had the chance to meet and support my man Levi Leipheimer... (I harbor no illusions I'd be able to ride with him for more than the first 100 meters, along with 3,000 other folks)...

And if someone would go the cab-fare from Western Mass and put me up when I get there...

I'd be there.

Another one for the bucket list.

(True, the video below is a puff piece. But if it doesn't make you sigh with envy, I can't imagine what would.)

Cyclingdirt.org 'Cross Nats Coverage

2009-12-14T13:06:00.003-05:00

Well, the coverage of the 'Cross Nats over at Cyclingdirt.org this weekend ranged from the ridiculous (nearly all of one race was covered with the microphone battery dead -- no sound whatsoever) to the sublime (The Elite Men's was an exciting race and the boys had gotten most of the bugs out of the system by then). I encourage Colt and friends to keep up the good work.

Now, clearly there is room for improvement. I had to surf like crazy around cyclingdirt to find the actual page on which the live video was showing. Operating on a shoestring budget, the guys ran from vantage point to vantage point during the races. They were constantly out of breath, and the video ended up blurred and frozen. It looked like Blair Witch Project meets A Sunday in Hell. However, the core of the coverage was strong. Up-close views of the gaps and the run-ups were particularly enjoyable. And Colt's commentary was suprisingly taut and informative. For a young, inexperienced guy running around with a buddy holding a vid-cam, he was pretty eloquent and knowledgeable, and he kept me in the know. During the closing interviews after the Elite race, he asked a couple of unexpected, penetrating questions ("When the performance stats of the top five guys are so similar, what makes the difference on a day like today?"), and forced racers to think and be interesting on camera. Not a common phenomenon.

Finally, there was a charm to some of the rough edges, too. Walking up to riders' tents minutes before or after a race, and finding them in various states of preparedness for and disposition toward a live public appearance. Colt's moxie in butting to the front of any line, elbowing past journalists undoubtedly from media outlets more respected than his own. And just the general, jovial "Can you believe where I'm standing/who I'm talking to/what I'm doing??!" atmosphere was very refreshing. At the end of the day, I felt like I'd been hanging out at Bend -- not like I'd been watching slick coverage of a race that could have happened anywhere.

So, however fast your Web site and accompanying coverage grows, Colt, I hope you keep that good stuff. Keep it raw.

Snow-'crossed

2009-12-09T17:16:00.002-05:00

Word from Bend is that there's snow on the ground there, so the 'Cross Nats live coverage coming your way this weekend (which I gave you a link to here) are probably going to be delightfully messy -- something, perhaps, like this:

[Thanks to Heidi at Everdayathleteblog.com for the vid link.]

Streaming the 'Cross Nats

2009-12-09T09:51:00.004-05:00

Those of you reading this while the snow is flying (most of you, I think), take heart! Cyclocross may have ended for us, but there's still a drop or two of fun to be extracted from the ever-lengthening outdoor cycling season.

Cyclingdirt.org, which I recently learned is a hub (pun intended) for 'cross information, videos, interviews, etc., will be streaming coverage of the National Championships in Bend, Oregon, this Saturday and Sunday. I can't vouch for the quality, but go here for the streaming schedule, and here for the Cyclingdirt overview of the event. And feel free to weigh in with other streaming opportunities coming up.

Truth, Justice and The Roadie Way!

2009-12-08T07:48:00.001-05:00

Beware, Fixie Fashion Fools and Faux-Pros!

THE BLACK BULLET!

~~ Two-wheeled Terror of the Tarmac ~~

IS ON THE ROAD!!!

So True

2009-12-06T19:25:00.005-05:00

First snow of the season in the Pioneer Valley yesterday, and this a.m., the trees all glimmer and gleam against a cobalt sky. If it really does get up to 35 degrees, I’ll pop out for a ride to enjoy the beauty. Whether I’ll need the face-mask remains to be seen. (Don’t laugh, youngsters; as Mel Brooks, playing the Two-thousand Year-Old Man, said, “We mock the thing we are to become.”)

I’ve long since hauled out the winter bike, and have been enjoying giving it overdue TLC:

Stock photo of winter squeeze.

Some links in the chain were a bit stiff, but then, I guess you could say that about me, too. Also, the Giant and I took a fall a couple weeks ago, fooling around on the branch-strewn grass, and my wheels got out of true. That part actually made me happy, because I'd had real fun and suprising success truing the wheels on my main (cycling) squeeze this summer:

Decidedly non-stock photo of summer squeeze.

Of course, those are Ksyrium Equipes, with the low spoke-count; the Alexrims on my Giant have the traditional spoke-count and present a bigger challenge. Well… I did it, no problem, and on the bike, too. (I don’t own a truing stand.)

There’s something soothing about truing. It’s purely tactile, so different from the conceptual, high-pressure work I do day-to-day. I like the cold metal of the spoke wrench against my fingertips, the “ting-ting-ting” as I tighten and loosen, the zongg of the spokes when I pluck them to check the tension. Best of all, I love spinning the wheel and seeing the smooth, fractional gap between rim and brake pad when I’m done, and the reward of knowing, without doubt, that my task is complete. That's hard to find in this life, eh?

So here’s to trueness, freedom, and the cyclistic way.

And a warm winter.

'Cross is...

2009-11-26T07:25:00.000-05:00

This makes cyclocross look so stupid that it's just plain fun(ny):

And this just makes it look plain-ol' stupid:

Inside my Cornucopia

2009-11-25T13:48:00.003-05:00

For my great marriage, first and foremost. For better health than this time last year, and a rockin’ fast bike I didn’t have a year ago.

For stepping out to go to work and smelling trees and earth and air – not cement.

For a new gym membership, giving me something besides <> rollers to use for workouts during the winter. And for the terrific new feeling of cross-trained fitness.

Countless long rides in one of the most beautiful places in the country. And my big-climbing metrics this year, the furthest and highest I’ve ridden since the early ‘80s. And especially for the prospect of my first century ever next year.

For a greater acceptance of my puzzling new health limits since I reached my mid-40s.

For the first job in my fairly seasoned life in which my reservations are outweighed by my appreciation.

For this changeable, puzzling, thrilling thing they call Life.

'Cross Funnies

2009-11-21T08:28:00.000-05:00

Quick, before everyone in the world starts creating and posting their own one-button animations, go here and laugh your tuches off. It's about cycling, I promise.

Intensity and Immunity: New Research

2009-11-20T10:36:00.005-05:00

As I've documented recently, I'm experimenting with my first real off-season, during these cool-to-cold months leading up to the Solstice. My body seems to be appreciating it. So far -- insert loud knock on nearby wooden furniture here -- I've been far stronger and healthier than last fall. Better sleep, better immune system (despite working in a community mental health center where 80% of my clients are children), better overall energy and mood.

One aspect of my program is workouts that are more frequent, but shorter and less intense. I would classify them as "light to moderate." Clearly, this fits in with the typical off-season/base-season thinking regarding building a cardiovascular fitness base. But I also have been doing it on the theory that light exercise improves overall health and immunity -- especially handy during this cold and flu season -- whereas intense exercise improves fitness (and, of course, fun), but at a cost to overall health, especially in the immune system.

This, too, is a pretty common idea. But I haven't tried it before. Too stubborn or dumb or something. Well, so far, it's been paying off. Well, today I read of some very interesting research that supports all of this, and takes it one step further: Heavy exercisers are more likely to get sick (in this case, contracting the flu) than even those who don't exercise at all. I have to admit, I'm feeling pretty good about my off-season plan today!

So, get out there and -- take it easy.

The Last Word on Knees

2009-11-10T07:30:00.001-05:00

I've become something of a connoisseur of articles on knees. You know -- that concatenation of bone, ligament, muscle and tendon that separates your shins from your thighs? Endurance athletes tend to have a lot of trouble with 'em. I'm certainly no exception, as Velophoriacs know too well from early posts here, detailing part of my odyssey with knee issues.

In my Firefox bookmarks folder, I must have over forty articles on knees: Physiology, strengthening, stretching, self-massage, blah, blah, blah. But ever since I recently bought a nice pair of running shoes and started fooling around with trying to run again, I've done a bunch of research on knees in the running literature. That's when I found this gem. I was surprised; I'm disappointed by Runner's World's tendency to print quickie sidebars entitled something like, "Five Tips for Joint Health." Useless. Nonetheless, this full-length piece is the best (and most enjoyable) summary of all the thinking, past, present and cutting edge, about knees I have read so far.

If you have any good ones yourself, feel free to post in the comments section.

Crossing Paths and Cyclocross

2009-11-07T17:46:00.006-05:00

Wonderful bike-related incidents in the last two days: A first in-the-flesh meeting with No One Line, who has moved to my part of Massachusetts (lucky me!) and a visit to the Cycle-Smart International cyclocross race in Look Park (in Northampton, MA) where local boys Jeremy Powers and Jamey Driscoll once again laid waste (as Sri Bobke would say) in the Elite division.

That last race was all I was able to make, but it was great fun, including an insane rock-and-root-strewn run-up, where I stood with No One Line and his friends, cheering and ringing a free cowbell from Mavic (score!). As fun as it is to watch, I never fail, within the first 30 seconds of attending a 'cross melee, to have the same reaction: "This isn't what bikes are built for!" All the more amazing then, no? As NOL put it, those guys are "lean and mean, but all fast-twitch." The wattage level they put out for a solid hour is amazing.

The whole retro-boho-beer-sippin'-facial-hair-and-handmade-cycling-cap-sportin' 'cross culture was on full display. With one foot firmly on the road to geezer-hood, I love being around the energy, creativity, haughty self-consciousness, and pure athleticism. A heady mix, delightful for short bursts of time. It was a lovely day for 'cross: 50 degrees and sunny. Well, okay, the wannabe Belgians probably would have preferred 40 degrees and raining, but it was sure a good day for standing around watching other people burn up glycogen like it was goin' out of style...

Stop by tomorrow -- a beautiful day predicted and more cycling insanity for those willing to pay the measly $5.00 parking fee. Me? I'll be out on a ride, inspired by the studs I saw today.

Giro Promoters Lose Collective Minds

2009-11-04T20:16:00.006-05:00

First they move the Tour of California to May so it conflicts with the Giro (?!?#$%?), now this absurd proposal.

It's enough that winter is coming. Do they have to mock and torment us so?

velophoria

The Year in Spandex

Beauty Persists

Now Cracks a Noble Heart

Lines From the Front

Life and How to Live It

A Wire From the Front

BikeFest 2011

What I Did for my Labor Day Weekend

The Pioneer Valley Three-Oh

Look to This Day

A Fling Forgiven

I've Been Turned

Wendell State Forest: A Land Apart

Strange Gods

No Country for Old Men

Confessions

Zen and the Art of Dirt

Sixes and Sevens

A Midsummer Break

I'm One of Them

Vaya con Rios

There Will Be Mud

Strength in Numbers

To Texture

Fields at Dawn

Shame-faced

Winds of One Hundred

Rattlesnakes, Mosquitoes and Bananas

Persistance

Pick Your Poison

Tour de Quabbin 2011

T Minus 2 hrs.

Welcome to the Rat's Nest

Ruins at Dawn

Life and How to Live It

Skeptical Tolerance on a Cloudy Day

Calling the Everyday Heroes

A Cup of Zen

May Day, May Day!

A Taste of the Two-Wheeled Life in Italy

To the Ancestral Home of the Sport!

The Call of the Wild

In Flanders Fields the Flahutes Grow

The *King* of the Classics

Spring Has Sprung and so has my Knee

Falls Road Rondo

In Which I Try Badger Balm as an Embrocation

Recovery and Detraining

Leg Leavening

My Unconscious is Smarter than I am

The Spring Buy

Of Wind and Wool

Belgian Weather

Spring Classics Time!

My Own Private Ventoux

Hiatus

Low on Matches

Mass Bike Week

Sunday's Velophoria Incident

A Fixed Position vs. the Eternal Flux

Fingernails + Chalkboard

Pleasure Riding: Oh, Right!

Hills and More Hills

Baiku #1

Obsession

When Domestiques Raided Restaurants

Ode to a Headwind

Egg Recovery Ride

Ford F 150:TT Roadster::Giant OCR 3:CAAD 8

Diary of a Wimpy Cyclist

Of Wood, Chrome and Campy

Weighty Decisions

Belgium Ain't got Nothin' on Mass.

Strade Bianche: The Hell of the South?

By the Numbers

Velophoria Incident Report

Chasing Dave Stoller, Pt. II

Chasing Dave Stoller

C'est impossible!

The King of the Classics