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.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Belgian Weather
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.
I'm spitting on my palms and rolling up my wool baselayer sleeves. Hope my buddies don't wimp out.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Spring Classics Time!
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?
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?
Friday, February 18, 2011
My Own Private Ventoux
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.
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.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Hiatus
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
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
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