Growing Up in Middle Age

Regular readers may have guessed, from the prevalent post paucity of late, that I've been over-busy. It seems this thing called "real" life -- whatever the hey that is -- will have its way with me, over and over. It's all good stuff, but I find myself, one more time, drastically cutting back training goals.

This seems to happen every season. You'd think I'd learn and just set humble goals, easily met, but that's not the Velophoria way. If I'm not striving for something, I tend to develop freezer rot. You pull me out and I have that grayish-greenish hue that makes you go, "Hmmmm...."

But striving is not restricted to exercise. We're in the process of adopting a child, and the intensity that involves in terms of time, energy, and emotions is not to be trifled with. (The rewards will be worth it.) And y'all have heard about me building my private practice up; things are going slow there and they have to speed up, because I'm taking a second day per week there starting June. And that's in addition to my steady job.

The irony is, I'm more equipped at 49 to deal with all this than I was at 29 or 39 (or, believe me, I would have gotten it all done back then!). I'm in better overall condition, and I have a better emotional foundation and larger store of valuable experience.

But a middle-aged body can only handle just so much.

I was training for a century this spring, not for the first time, but this time, it looked like I was on track. My long rides reached 50 miles a few weeks ago, and the engine was just racing. I was dropping friends on hills I usually crawled up. This is the year!, thought I. I was drooling at the mental picture of the white oval sticker with "100" inside, prominently place on my car bumper. Then... boom! My energy and motivation dropped off the end of a table.

You know it's time to change something when you look at your bikes in the morning and think, "Ecch."

So, back down to the humble 30- and 40-milers for me. Hopefully with some friends, to sweeten the ride. Growing up is a bear, and it doesn't stop when you graduate high school. It certainly has its rewards, and it's a choice I make enthusiastically.

But the trade-offs are tough!

Jamis Quest Review Update

Today seems a good day for an update on my Jamis Quest review. It's been nearly a year since I bought it, and I've put enough time into tweaking and riding it since that review that my opinion has changed.

2011 Jamis Quest Femme

Bumper-sticker version: I liked it before, but I love it now.

I've been avidly putting in the early season miles this year, and the Quest comes up smelling like roses on rides of four hours or more. It affords a very comfortable riding position, absorbs road noise efficiently, and is surprisingly responsive.

Shortly before the first review, I replaced the original Ritchey Biomax bars with the Salsa Pro Road 2 in a wider 44 cm size. The aim was to further increase comfort, and I can confidently say I achieved that goal. The extra width helped the most: in or out of the drops, I have a more open chest, which leads to easier breathing. And I have far less neck pain, even at the end of long rides, as a result of the more natural shoulder position (spread evenly, instead of rounded forward to match narrow bars). Last, but certainly not least: no annoying "ergo" bends in the drops means that my hands have a greater variety of lower positions.

I also fine-tuned my saddle position a few weeks ago. The result was a lot more power, and fewer early-season knee pains than I habitually experienced on the racy Cannondale CAAD 8 that preceded the Jamis. It feels even more like the Quest is built for me now.

The X-factor I referred to in the first review -- the zing within the special Reynolds 631 steel tubes that's hard to put into words -- is still quite rewarding. Jamis shapes the tubes specially for each size of this model, so that each version is well-tuned, and I can feel it. When my legs are fresh, the bike is right there for me. This is, of course, true of any bike, but is more rewarding in a bike that weighs more, and is more comfortable, than bikes built for speed.

With its carbon fork, the Quest weighs in at 19.5 pounds without pedals or cages. That's no thoroughbred, but it's lighter than many of the more popular steel bikes, and isn't much more than the bikes on which Eddy Merckx and Team 7-11 conquired the world. (What's more, it's about the same as  many carbon fiber bikes, and with twice the ride.)

I've stuck with the 25 mm Vittoria Rubino Pros on my 2011 model. I was going to go to 28s for more cush, but I like the compromise of 25s: light and sticky enough for most road usage, with a smidge extra air for the nasty surfaces of New England. However, they really come into their own on those days when you feel like taking a left down a dirt road to get to that refreshing waterfall in in July or autumnal lookout in October. Those measly extra two millimeters have given me enough confidence to ride many of my usual unpaved stretches, if only for a few miles here and there.

I replaced the stock saddle early on with a WTB Speed V, my go-to seat. With firm foam that gives just enough, I don't feel the seat much until I'm nearly done with a five-hour ride.

In my full review, I addressed the problem of shimmy at high speeds and a bit of drift in the line. Flipping the stem a few weeks ago (and thereby dropping the bars a couple centimeters) helped with this; it provides more stability up front, due to more weight on the front wheel. Handling also became quicker and more enjoyable. With such a high head tube, I was ready to lower the bars after the first few hundred miles of the season.

*     *     *

Maybe you want to find out why everyone's been shouting about steel bikes again for the last few years. Maybe you're leery of jumping in and spending a king's ransom on a high-end Rivendell or Independent Fabrication. Mayhap thou'rt wary of losing thy edge in ye olde "spirited" group ride.

You'd do quite well to start with the Jamis Quest, a fine frame well-spec'd, that will take you wherever you want to go, at whatever speed you're ready for. It sports a sticker of $1800 (and it's sometimes available for less) -- pretty fair for a package including Reynolds steel, an Ultegra/105 drivetrain, and Mavic rims (on the 2011 model).

Quest on!

My Brush with Team 7-Eleven

I recently picked up a copy of Team 7-Eleven: How an Unsung Band of American Cyclists Took on the World--and Won, by Geoff Drake and Jim Ochowiz (the former team director). Those boys were a fun bunch -- quirky, enthusiastic, optimistic. Their high spirits keep the book lively throughout. I got to thinking about how I really missed the boat on them. But there is precedent on that...

My dad lived in Chicago in 1950, a senior in high school, home at night studying his American History like the good boy he was, while just across town from him -- a bus ride away -- Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf were nightly tearing off the roof and redefining the future of American music. Dad would grow up to be a ravenous fan of American music... but he never took that bus.

As a teen in 1978 New York City, I became a huge Yankees fan, going up to the stadium a few times a year and watching a ton of baseball on TV. I jumped for joy when they won and cried when they lost. But I entered the fold exactly six months after the mind-boggling Bucky Dent playoff game, which I'd barely noticed.

Finally, in the early 1980s, I had two years of all-consuming teen bike obsession. During that time, the 7-Eleven team was born, and promptly stood the American cycling world on its ear.  That iconic band of youngsters transformed the face of American bike racing, thanks to being the first U.S. team of professional cyclists, the first to compete on the Euro-pro scene (including the grand tours) and just generally a bunch of indomitable, handsome, cocksure heroes.

I don't have one memory of reading a news story about them at the time -- or even hearing the name of the team. It makes me sad.

However, I do have a one-degree-of-separation connection to the team, even if I didn't recognize it when it happened:

As a rabid sports fan, I was fully awake and aware for the historic 1980 Winter Olympics, and while I thrilled to the Miracle on Ice (and have worshipful drawings of the team in my old notebook to prove it), I was even more impressed by Eric Heiden. His unprecedented five individual golds certainly caught my attention, but it was his freight-train-like presence on the ice that kept me watching. He was really something to see.

Fast forward one year, past the alchemy of seeing the iconic cycling movie Breaking Away and also falling deeply in love with a new burgundy Saint Tropez ten-speed. One day, I read that Heiden had made the switch from two blades to two wheels, and I sat up and took notice. I eagerly scoured the papers for news of his exploits.

Finally, I learned that the man himself was going to be taking part in a bike race through Central Park and up Fifth Avenue. So close! I hied myself over there and camped out by the side of the road, my first time at a bike race. I'll never forget the thunderous blur of the pack whizzing by, the 10-second blizzard of human-generated wind and mechanical buzzing and guys yelling, and -- gone. Silence. Like they'd never been there.

But even more impressive was glimpsing Heiden himself after the race, casually leaning on his bike and chatting with someone, his mere physical presence radiating power and health.

I didn't go over to him. Hard to explain why, but it doesn't bother me to this day. I didn't have to shake hands with him, or hear him speak. He was a god -- descended from Olympus, for crying out loud -- and history has imbued us mortals with a genetic awareness that those who try to touch the gods had best be chosen, or they might get well and truly singed.

Heiden was the first superstar bike racer I ever laid eyes on, and though he never dominated that sport as he did speed skating, in my youthful, yearning eyes, it didn't matter. I didn't even know about Team 7-Eleven. I was focused on him, standing at the pinnacle of grace and power. I had managed to glimpse that summit up close.  I felt freakin' great.

Important things happen right next to us all the time. Sometimes they are just outside of our ken, but we discover them later, and fold them into our personal narrative, letting time and re-telling transform them into a vital key to who we are -- and who we were.

Apologies to the DPW

My apologies to the local DPW for leaving a long, black streak down Route 47 this morning. I know you guys work hard.

But today was my morning time trial, and I was under my baseline time by 1:03.

Whoopee!

Bear Down. Or, Ease Up.

For all those who have something left to prove, who are sure that your salvation lies out there one half-wheel ahead of the rest:  Bear down.

For all those who are a little burnt out, sick of training in the frigid cold, dealing with too much elsewhere in life, or are just generally in need of a little more lighthearted, two-wheeled exploration: Ease up.

Now you know why they call me the Velosopher.

Dismissed!