My Shaved Legs...

Icy Wheelies

2012-02-07T11:22:00.002-05:00

Floyd did it. A few times.

Robbie just as much. Maybe more.

Beppu even got in one for the cameras.

But did they ever do it on ice?

Training Days on Ice

2012-02-06T11:17:00.001-05:00

Yes. That is someone riding their bicycle on a frozen canal.

8 (+) Reasons Why I Hate Sundays in December

2011-12-04T12:27:00.002-05:00

1. Waking up late, but earlier than you'd like, so you can attend a group ride.

2. Discover that your rear tire is flat just as you're leaving.

3. Forced into switching cassettes, since your winter bike is an 8 speed.

4. Discovering 50 meters later that your cassette is loose.

5. Grabbing your good bike, when you'd rather leave it tucked away for the winter.

6. TTing to the meeting point, and arriving 5 minutes late.

7. TTing to the next 6km, in vain hope of catching the group, who are prone to slow starts, but never seeing them.

8. Turning around, because you can't be bothered.

Then the rain starts.

Back

2011-09-13T09:51:00.005-05:00

Hey.

It’s been awhile.

Still alive. Believe it, or not.

Never finished the follow up the my last entry. Let’s just say that the FD’s teammate is a prophet.

Since that past post I've done a fair share of racing. Nothing worth writing about.

Work took over for a bit.

Then I went back to the Heartland.

While I was there I -

Threw it down on many an occasion with the Cannibals. Always a pleasure.

Ate plenty of comfort food. Burp.

Mixed it up with Townies and Gownies. Always fun.

Rolled a clincher in a hairpin turn, during a training race, but somehow managed to keep (the rest of) the rubber on the road (and grass).

Had an argument with a newly minted Cat 4™ about how to ride in a paceline. Always entertaining.

Found myself delayed by a tropical storm.

Did some post-storm cleanup.

Flew back.

So, yeah... here I am.

Back.

Districtskampioenschap NH (prelude)

2011-06-16T09:32:00.004-05:00

I lean forward, from the backseat, trying to listen to the conversation in front of me. With the din of the windshield wipers swiping back and forth, coupled with my rudimentary Dutch, I catch half of what’s being said. The Flying Doctor is driving, and in the passenger seat is one of his teammates. He's more of a time trial specialist than a road racer, but he's here to qualify for the national championships.

They’re talking about the course we’re driving to. None of us have ever raced it. I’ve heard that it’s easy. I’ve also heard that it’s technical. Maybe it’s both? I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.

The one thing that is of real concern is the rain. It’s the worst kind for a race: enough to bring up the oil on the roads, but not enough to wash it off.

The subject segues to that of other riders. Who’s going to be there. Who won’t be. Who to watch. Who to watch out for.

This leads us to start talking about various riders. The ones that you want to avoid because if there’s a crash chances they’re in it. FD's teammate tells us about one particular rider., and how if he sees him in a race, he’ll go out of his way to get to the other side of the road. I think I know of the rider. Tall, bald, pale, almost always in a skinsuit, with skinny legs, and a pot belly. He has a brother that looks just like him. One rides a black bike, the other a white one. I'm not sure which one is the one to avoid. I’ve never seen either go down, but considering the way they race I’m not surprised. They (he?) tends to get a little too close and personal for my liking. The fact that both almost a foot taller than me doesn’t help either.

We arrive, and after some small talk in the parking lot, we go to pick up our numbers, then head back to the car to change. I use the race flyer as a floor matt, so I can keep my feet dry while I change in the drizzle. While the course may be new to me, the surroundings are not. It’s an industrial park. There’s even a port-o-potty. I almost feel like I’m home.

to be continued...

1,004 words about the Oranjeronde van Amsterdam

2011-04-30T15:09:00.002-05:00

Flowers.

Report to follow.

Rub a dub dub

2011-04-26T06:41:00.007-05:00

Souvenir from Zaandam.

Easter Monday. A bright and sunny day. Tweede pas. Twee Bruggenronde van Zaandam. My first crit of the year.

Starting on a bridge, with a (thanks to the gates surrounding the course) tight left turn on to a speed bump, followed by a serpentine 200 meter long stretch of bricks leading ‘up’ to the second bridge, into the wind, with a shallow descent, banking left, on to another left, which leads you back to the hill that you started on. If pressed, I’d call it a challenging course.

I could try and regale you with tales of how I spent my 65 laps, circumnavigating the 800 meter long circuit. I won’t. It was a day spent mostly stuck somewhere in the middle of the peloton. The few occasions I found myself on the pointy end of the stick, I opted for caution. Don’t ask me why.

Perhaps it was the fact that this was my first taste of a touchy feely peloton this year: feeling a handlebar against my rump as I lean into a turn, handlebars brushed, tires rubbed, a wheel on my foot, a disgruntled rider subtly swerving into my front wheel. The joys of crit racing.

Next time. Next time.

Return to the Battle of the Bulge

2011-04-18T15:33:00.002-05:00

It's that time of year. Yes sir, lucky me. Once again a weekend of haute cusine, fancy wines, and leg breaking climbs were on the cards.

The weather was almost perfect.

The bikes were ready.

The wine was waiting.

But first things first: a warm up ride on day one.

After that, a quick shower, a quick beer, then the cooking commenced.

And the table was set.

Amuse (when in Belgium do as the Belgians do. In this case, eat mussels).

Sting Ray with pineapple sauce and fennel.

Lambs Rack with potato pancakes and red chicory.

After that succulent meal sleep was had by all. The following morning we awoke, had breakfast, and made our way to the ol' standby of the Route Buissoniere.

After that, beer was consumed. Potato Chips as well. We even showered.

Then...

Slow cooked Cod, with a smoked cheese sauce and spinach.

The next course was Steak and frites, but sadly I was so hungry I forgot to take pics.

By the time desert arrived, I was ready.

Beet root jelly with red fruits.

The morning after the night before, and everyone prepares for our return to the Wanne and the Stockeu.

Post Stockeu reward.

Books and covers

2011-04-13T14:15:00.005-05:00

The Kabouter.

Half the race i was somewhere around him.

He drove me nuts.

When he was ahead of me, he was always a bit too much to the right, or the left.

I could never get past.

When he was next to me, my comfort zone was always breached.

When the peloton broke in half (thanks to Bunny's attack) he was on the wheel of the rider who couldn't hold the pace.

I was behind him.

For once i understood what the WK means when he says that it sucks to ride behind me.

No draft. Or so I told myself, when I was shot backwards.

Turned out he finished 4th.

Turns out he's a European champion in both the the road and time trialing, as well as world champ in the TT.

He's even the father of a pro.

Lesson learned (once again) - never judge a book by its cover.

Classic

2011-04-02T16:50:00.003-05:00

Spring is here.

The most beautiful word in the Dutch language - Voorjaarsklassieker - is in full effect.

If I was a smart man, I'd have the beers chilled, the doritos in the bowl, and the TV on tomorrow.

Thing is, I'm smart, but stupid.

No Ronde for me tomorrow.

The choice was simple: observe or participate.

I chose the latter.

In the rain as well.

Yep. Stupid.

Report tomorrow.

Perhaps with something about today.

The Caboose

2011-03-21T08:13:00.008-05:00

Meet up before the race. Go for an easy spin to wake the legs from their 2 1/2 week long slumber. Sit in during the race. It was a good plan. A fine plan indeed.

Swerving past people on city bikes, their thoughts clearly on the beautiful day, not the road ahead. I make my way through town.

My bike feels odd. My saddle high. My tires soft. I feel drunk.

Hardly a surprise. I’ve only been back “in country” for a day, after a 24 hour long trip back from the other side of the world. My excuses are ready.

WK and Mickey (the racer formerly known as KMII) are waiting for me at the meeting point. I pull up, shake hands, and we proceed on our merry way for an easy loop of the Ronde Hoep. The sun is shining. The wind marginal. All is good.

The warm up is spent catching up on the races that I’ve missed. Who was in form. Who isn’t. Breaks that stuck. Crashes missed. I find myself riding next to Mickey, into the wind. Each time this happens I wave the WK through. I need to follow the plan: take it easy today.

Our warm up complete, we arrive at the clubhouse. We collect our numbers. Say hello to a few friends and teammates. One of them is Banana Legs, who is back after his own hiatus. Another is a new member of the team. On training rides he’s been like the Energizer Bunny, he just keeps going, and going, and going.

I pass on riding a pre race loop, and pull up to the line. It’s busy today. Considering the weather, this comes as no surprise. The start is delayed to allow the overflow enough time to sign in.

Mickey pulls alongside, and a few rows further back is the WK and Bunny. I take another look around, surveying the field. There’s a familiar face next to Mickey. Someone who I’ve been in a few breaks with over the past year or two. I note that he’s traded in his Cervelo for a Wilier. Next to me are a group of juniors.

Eventually Andre steps out of the clubhouse, and sets us loose. Instinct kicks in. As soon as I’m fastened in my pedals, I sprint ahead.

I have no intentions of staying away. None at all. I'm fully aware that I don’t have the legs today. Besides, that’s not the plan. I see someone in the corner of my eye. It’s Mickey. I ease, and he passes, towing a few of the juniors behind him. I look behind and see that we have a gap. I get out of the saddle and dig.

It takes longer than it should. For a moment or two I fear that I’m about to be dropped. By juniors! Misplaced pride takes over. I manage to claw my way to the last wheel. Mickey is at the front, pulling the cast of kids along behind him, with yours truly making a cameo as the caboose.

I figure we’ll stay away for a lap. Maybe two. We’ll be reeled in, and I’ll settle into the warm embrace of the peloton. Then all will return to plan.

As I comfort myself with those thoughts, I see Bunny ride past me. Then past all of the juniors clinging to Mickey’s wheel. Then past Mickey. Mickey accelerates, and eases onto Bunny’s wheel. They start trading pulls. It’s not supposed to happen like this. I’m not supposed to be here.

A lap, or two later, some more company joins us. Reinforcements. One of which is Wilier guy. From my vantage point of the back of the group, I see that we have a large gap. Large enough that I don’t see the main peloton.

Twenty minutes in we hear that we have a gap of 30 seconds. A lap, or two, later it’s 35 seconds. Several laps later 45. We’re pulling away. Actually, they’re pulling away. Each time I take the occasional pull I struggle grab the last wheel.

My legs empty. My heart rate in overdrive. I accept my role for the day. Caboose.

I rethink my plan as thoughts of the Talking Heads pass through my head.

1,003 words about this afternoons race

2011-02-26T14:45:00.000-05:00

Wet and gritty.

The end of the beginning

2011-02-19T16:54:00.013-05:00

photo courtesy of dolly van der laan

Cold. Windy. Dry. One out of three. Good enough. Today is the day. The beginning of the beginning at Sloten.

It’s February. No pressure. No Worries. Just some training. With a number pinned on. That’s the plan.

Granted, I’ve opted to break out the good bike for today. My winter bike is showing its age. All 18+ years. Not that I plan on trying anything special today. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Nope. This is training. Nothing more.

I meet the KMII and the WK a few hours before. We saunter along at a leisurely pace. Circling the loop of the Ronde Hoep. Eventually we arrive, as scheduled, at the clubhouse.

Numbers are collected. Friendships reacquainted. Weights and training hours are compared. It’s all good.

I see the Berlin Wall, a teammate and training partner. He missed out on our pre-race warm up. Too busy doing domestic duties for his Mrs. We go out for a few warm up laps. Two weeks ago the course was covered in twigs and dirt. Today it’s perfect. Keurig.

I pull up to the line. Waiting there for the rest to arrive. One by one the familiar faces pull alongside. The WK, Berlin Wall, van der Terminator, Thomas the Taxi … Finally Andre arrives. We wait a bit longer, and the Flying Doctor appears. He’s wearing a pair of leg warmers that makes me think of the Irish diaspora in Barabdos.

Finally, Andre makes an announcement. We’re sent on our way. At least I think we are.

I make my trademark move. For the show, and only for the show. I look back and see that nobody cares. I’m alone, apart from another rider. I’ve done a few training runs with him over the winter. He’s strong. Much stronger than I’ll ever be. He pulls through and I follow, sitting on his wheel.

He sets the pace. I follow, until +/-500 meters before the strip. I take over. As we approach the line, I see Andre, waiting on the line. That wasn’t the start. Dummy. Me.

Stop. Pause. Repeat.

I do it again. I jump off the line. Once again I’m not alone. I don’t know the rider, but I know the team. It’s a good one. It doesn’t take long to realize my mistake. When he pulls through, I suffer.

Fortunately we don’t stay away for long. The peloton reels us in. What follows is the usual series of attacks, and counters.

I ride past the FD. He says something, but I can’t quite hear him. I catch his gist: nothing is sticking.

The BW rides past, and I nod at him – go. There’s a teammate up ahead. They should go for it. I ease up, as he jumps. It’s suicide, but suicide is painless. Or so the song goes.

Their venture doesn’t last long. About a lap. They’re pulled back. The riders doing the job are from a variety of local clubs. The thing that I notice is that many have the same leg warmers. Team Amsterdam. The men (boys) to watch.

What follows is gripping stuff. If only I could remember it. Thing is I dig so deep to get to them that I’m not registering, I’m only reacting. The FD is there, beckoning me on. So is the van der Terminator.

The group is working together. Or so I think. I look behind, and see that we don’t have a clear gap. I ease. I’m not the only one. I look up the road, and see that the TA boys haven’t given up. They have a gap.

I think about jumping, but wait. Someone jumps, towing vd Terminator along. I latch on to his wheel. The next 2 km last forever. I dig deep. Deep into the proverbial pain cave.

The TA boys are just ahead of us. We’re clawing them back. I’m in the red. Deep. As deep as a trapped Chilean miner. Deeper.

Just when I think I’m lost, vd Terminator comes past and dials it up a notch, or two. Probably three. I’m glued to his wheel. I want to pull through, but I can’t. Finally he eases. As he does, someone swings past us.

I jump and grab his wheel. To my surprise vd Terminator is gone. He must have gone too deep.

The TA Boys are ahead us. Just. We’re getting closer. Closer. Closer. We’ve made it. The gap is closed.

Someone from the break rolls back, and tells us to work. I shout, a plaintiff, phlegmy, foamy shout, that we’ve just closed the gap. Chances are there was some colorful language thrown in.

I skip a pull, or three, and catch my breath.

The end of the beginning of the beginning has begun.

The beginning of the beginning

2011-02-18T11:28:00.003-05:00

It began last Sunday. Technically. Yes, it was a race. No I wasn’t really racing. Call it a leg opener. If starting at the back of a 112-man peloton, then holding on for dear life after every accordion effect corner can be consider as such.

So, the feet have been dipped in the proverbial water. New faces. Old faces. Many not seen since last October.

Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be a homecoming. Of sorts.

The Flying Doctor, KMII, Weg Kapitien, Bone Crusher ... who knows?

The countdown begins.

See you there.

Commercial Appeal (PSA)

2010-10-26T14:45:00.001-05:00

Always a cheery thought, knowing that if you have a heart attack on the road that you have 6 minutes to live.

Commercial Appeal (Insurance)

2010-10-24T06:47:00.002-05:00

The latest cycling related commercial.

This one consisting of a businessman, chasing down three pannekoeken on a ride, while he's on his way to work.

If truth be told, this has happened to me on occasion.

Standby

2010-10-24T06:19:00.000-05:00

Off season has kicked off.

Kind of feels like this:

WVA Sluitingsrit (2010)

2010-10-10T14:13:00.010-05:00

Yet another season comes to a close, and that means one thing: Sluitingsrit. For those that live in around Mokum, a Sluitingsrit involves: a kids race; a 2 man TT; and one last hour + (X) laps around Sloten sports park for the year.

I could bore you with tales of my first 2 man time trial since the early 90s, but I won't.

I could write a detailed report of how I continued my 2 man TT experience in the subsequent road race, but I won't.

What I will do is present a series of snaps, taken after the race, when the fun began.

The race is over, and the crowd patiently waits for the prize giving ceremony.

Some sit.

Some stand.

Some wait quietly.

Some chat.

The trophies wait.

The Flying Doctor, the chairmen of the club, reads the results.

Then hands out the silverware.

Winner of the juniors race.

Santia Tri Kusuma, winner of the women's race.

In case you're wondering, yes - she's on the Indonesian national team.

Winner of the 50+ Master's race.

Just off the podium in the 50+ race, but a very special Rider.

Winner of the 40+ race.

Tonton Susanto, winner of the Amateurs race.

Yes, another member of the Indonesian national team.

From what I heard from the WegKapitien, he's super strong, and he should know, seeing as he was in the winning two man break.

Speaking of the WK, here he is.

Ryan Ariehaan, another member of the Indonesian national team.

He finished 5th overall , and deserves special praise from yours truly. I spent +/- 45 minutes off the front with him. Let's just say that he never skipped a pull. I, on the other hand...

Once the cups were doled out, it was time to fill them.

WVA'ers chewing the fat.

Banana legs, WK, and Strammer Max strike a pose.

MC Splinter hits the pipes.

While his back up singers kick in.

The crowd soaks it in.

And the season closes.

Back

2010-10-08T08:01:00.001-05:00

Hey there.

Been away for awhile. Off to distant lands. Doing things. Seeing things.

Now I'm back.

Back here.

More or less.

A sort of Homecoming (Fall River)

2010-08-17T11:41:00.013-05:00

I step out of the car, and stretch. My right hamstring tight from the 2 hour drive. I look around, searching for the registration. The blandness of the location leaves no obvious sign as to its whereabouts.

A racer slowly cycles past. I ask for directions. He points me towards a tent and a port-o-potty, just over the hill. I should have known. Some things never change.

I make my way through the parking lot. Walking past riders in various states of dress and undress. Their only means of privacy are the towels wrapped around their waists. No clubhouse, café, or local community center to change in here. No sir. This is an industrial park crit, which so happens to be set in the outskirts of a post-industrial city. Some things never change.

I’m early, so there’s no rush. I stand on the side of the course, next to family members sitting on lawn chairs, watching their loved ones fly past every other minute. There’s a small break ahead of the field. I doubt it will last, but don’t stick around to see. After a few laps, I grow bored, and head to the tent to collect my number.

When I’m there I ask if two friends, whom I’m expecting, have signed in yet. Nope. I must be early.

I head back to the car, and send an SMS to SoC, one of the friends I’m expecting, and secretly supporting today. He’s on his way. I send another SMS to SdC, the other friend that I’m expecting. No answer.

I pin on my number. I set up my bike. I drink a bottle of water, and casually chew on Fig Newtons. I pump up my tires. I change into my kit. Sans towel.

Eventually I see SoC drive past, but he doesn’t notice my car. As I watch him pull up the hill, I get an SMS from SdC. They’re parked up by the tent. I join them, and their wives. We make idle chi chat while SoC sets up his bike.

Once everyone is ready, we clip in, and ride towards the port-o-pottys. Some things never change. I ask SoC if there’s any specific plan for the day, and he quietly states that he’d like to win. Considering his past history on this course, a podium in a lower cat, and a top ten in the field sprint the year before, this seems like an obtainable goal.

When the three of us finally get around to warming up, I notice that SoC’s demeanor has changed. He’s gone quiet. We let him ride ahead, to channel his “Dark SoC,” and discuss the various scenarios that might play out, and what our respective roles will be. Mine is simple: mark the danger men, and try and keep things together for the sprint.

SdC briefs me about the riders I should keep an eye out for: one I already recognized earlier, thanks to his girth, who SdC and SoC have a history with; a rookie sprinter who’s been tearing it up this year; and a track racer with a strong team. As we’re talking, the rookie rides past with a teammate whose bibs are kept together with what looks to be 30-40 safety pins. When we go back to the cars to dump bottles, SdC motions something to my left, and I discover that I’m parked next to the Track racer.

When the course finally opens, we do a quick lap on the 1 mile circuit. One lap is more than enough to see that technique won’t play a big role today: four corners, a big ring hill, and a finishing straight with a head wind. Easy. The hill will hurt – in the beginning and in the end. The sprint into the headwind, will require a good leadout or, at the very least, patience.

We pull up to the field, waiting to start. To my surprise I can easily line up in the second row. SoC and SdC choose to stay further back. I leave them be. I look around. There’s a small guy in front of me, old and craggy, on a Cannondale with a rear disc wheel. I find myself momentarily perplexed by that, until I notice that the Track rider is standing next to me.

Something is said by the announcer, but I’m not listening. I think it’s about the neutral support. Finally we’re set free.

I clip in, and jump on the wheel ahead of me. We hit the first turn, leading downhill, and the speed picks up. Two hundred and fifty meters later, we hit the second turn leading to the bumpy pavement of the back straight. With the tailwind, and the shallow descent we quickly hit the third turn, to the hill. I take the inside corner, and find myself sitting near the front. My instincts are to push it, but I opt for caution, and spin, following the wheel ahead of me. As we crest the hill, we swing left, on to the long finishing straight.

I settle into somewhere around 10th place. Trying to avoid the front. Keeping an eye out for the danger men, and their teammates. As we power up the hill the second time around, I see the track racer move to the front. He jumps, and I latch on. It’s over as soon as he’s started. He was probing. I settle back in.

We hit the back straight again, and I see a few riders dangling off the front. I don’t think much of it. On the base of the hill I see that they’re opening up a gap. I sit somewhere between 5th and 10th, expecting the racers ahead to react. They don’t.

I don’t know why, but I find myself accelerating. I don’t think I’m pushing it. Really, I don’t.

But I’m closing the gap to the two riders. I look over my shoulder, and see that I have a gap. As I turn on the finish straight, it appears that the break is slowing, waiting for me. Or maybe it’s the headwind that’s slowing them down? I don’t know. I bridge to them, and sit back, leaving them to carry on with the work, while I recover for a few moments.

Over the next lap, I notice a few things about my breakaway partners. I realize that one of them was in the break that I saw in the previous race. He’s wearing a cycling cap under his helmet, and has real glasses on, a local Laurent Fignon. He seems to be riding strong and smooth. My other breakaway partner, on the other hand, apparently has no clue on how to cut a corner. A lap later he either sits up, or we drop him. I’m not sure which.

I dig in, and hope that we get some company. A lap passes and I notice Mrs. SoC and Mrs. SdC standing on the hill. I look back, hoping to see a counter, but the peloton is intact. Another lap passes, and I see that The Mrs.’s have moved to the back straight of the course. I sneak another peak on the hill, and see that we’re not gaining any ground. I take my pulls, but try to keep them short. No use in burning myself out when my real work lays ahead.

A few laps pass, and a prime in announced. We don’t have much more time. Fignon is doing most of the work now. I debate about pipping him for the prime, but he’s earned it, so I sit on his wheel as he crosses the line.

We stay away for another lap, or two. He asks me if I’m cooked. I shrug. He says that I should work, seeing as I won’t have anything left for the sprint. I smile.

Finally we’re caught. I drift back, maybe 20 deep. A lap later I move back up. Time to mark.

The rest of the race is a simple loop. Jumps from the left. Jumps from the right. They’re mostly probes. At least I assume as much.

For some reason, most of them are followed by someone shouting “rider right!” or “rider left!” to warn the peloton.

With each warning, I grow more and more irritated. I don’t know why, but I find it childish and cheap. I stifle the urge to use some… colorful language. When the umpteenth warning is shouted, I scream a plaintiff “Oh. Shut. Up!” It’s ignored.

I keep my eye out for the Rookie. I keep my eye out for the Track Rider. I keep my out for the Chubby Checker, the rider with the history. I also start to keep my eye out for the Oompa Loompa with the disc wheel and a guy wearing a generic black and white kit. The latter two more out of self-preservation, than any real concern about their strengths.

The lap chart whittles down, and apart from watching one of the Track Riders teammates ride off the road and into a barrier, for no reason whatsoever, there’s nothing of note.

With less than five laps to go it’s becoming clear that this will end in a sprint. I stay near the front. Just in case.

With four laps to go, I see Chubby move up to the front for the first time. People start surging before the third turn. I patiently work my way up the hill. Doing what I have to stay near the front, but nothing more.

With three laps to go there’s another surge on the back straight. The Oompa Loompa squeezes past, on my left. I drift to the middle of the pack.

We’re on the penultimate lap, and someone is shouting. “Rider left!” “Rider right!”

There’s someone up the road. We crest the hill, and hit the finish straight, and I notice that the pace has slowed.

I shift gears, and surge forward, shouting to the peloton “Rider left! Rider left! Look, look! I’m attacking!”

To be honest, it's not much of an attack. I dig, and dig deep. Dragging the peloton, hoping that SdC and SoC are where they need to be.

I hit the 1st corner for the last time. I pull off on the downhill, and watch as the field slows. I shout at the rider behind me to attack, or pull through. He does nothing.

We bounce through the 2nd turn for the final time, and I see the Rookie, with his Safety Pin teammate, come past me on my left. I try to grab his wheel, but have to settle for the Oompa Loompa’s. I look over and see the Track Rider on the other side of the road, moving up, sitting behind a few teammates.

As we approach the 3rd turn, to the hill, there’s one more surge. I think I have enough for one last effort on the hill, but the Oompa Loompa takes the corner wide. I try one last time to push it, but get cut off by the B&W squirrel. With that, the peloton blows past me. I watch SoC fly by, somewhere midpack.

I look back and see SdC. We soft pedal up the hill, to the finish.

I catch SoC on the cool down lap. Dark SoC is gone. Smiley guy SoC is back.

I ask him how he did, and he says “Second, or third. I’m not sure.”

He pulls up to the finish, and has his podium picture taken: next to a van, in an empty parking lot, in an industrial park, in a post industrial city, on Sunday afternoon, standing next to a port-o-potty.

Some things never change.

WK Soumagne

2010-08-02T03:02:00.002-05:00

A simple email. Sent by the Wegkapitein. Subject "WK." The message, directed to the KMII: "Maybe something for you?" Including a link to the 2010 edition of the ICF World Championship, in Soumagne, Belgium.

As it turns out, the WC isn't so much a World Championship, but a Belgian championship, with cameos by Dutch, German, and English riders, with a few Israelis, and even one American. But that would be quibbling.

As for the race itself, sadly there's not much to report. It can best be summed up with this: I came, I saw, I finished.

Loading the car, in the shadow of the Olympic stadium.

A short ride along part of the Amstel Gold Course in Limburg, where we would stay for the evening,

A rare sight in the Netherlands: hills.

Sunday: Soumagne.

The sublime.

The schematic: What's in store for us (9 laps for me, 13 for my baby faced teammates).

Finish line.

Rodania!

Done and dusted.

What's a teammate do when he's done racing? Hand bottles out, of course!

Post race debriefing.

A week amongst the Lucchese (Urban)

2010-07-29T07:02:00.002-05:00

Old friends of mine moved to Tuscany a few years ago, and have been raving about it ever since. I'm not quite sure why the stars never aligned, apart from the usual money/time/etc, but I had yet to pay them a visit. A month ago an impromptu invitation was extended. I perused a few budget airline websites, found a good price, and bought a ticket. Three weeks later I landed in Pisa, with a carry on bag containing bike kit, a toothbrush, and some street clothes. Just my luck, there was a spare bike, which happened to be the same make, model, and size as my own, waiting for me. Now that's what I call hospitality.

Herewith, some pics.

While Lucca was where I would be staying, this is (more or less) the terrain that I covered.

Looking down on to Lucca.

The famous city walls of old Lucca, built to keep the Fiorentini out.

In the past they were used for car races. These days, the only racing done on them is cyclo-cross.

Start grid from the last race.

If you want to go for a ride on the 4km circuit, you can pay extortionate rates to rent a bike at this place.

Some of the Lucchese prefer to keep it simple.

The back streets provide some welcome shade from the searing heat.

Some sights.

Torre Guinigi.

Piazza dell'Anfiteatro.

San Michele in Foro.

Stairway to heaven.

Duomo di Lucca.

While at was inside the Duomo, I thought I heard thunder (the skies were looking ominous).

It turned out to be something completely different.

I left the piazza, and walked towards the sound.

First seeing some immaculately attired motorcycle cops.

Then seeing what was the cause of the commotion: Placebo doing a sound check for their evening concert.

Both tourists and locals enjoyed the 'show.'

A week amongst the Lucchese (Pastoral)

2010-07-29T06:45:00.004-05:00

And, of course, one should not forget the Tuscan landscape.

Farm along the Serchio.

Views from and along the Piccolo Mortirolo.

Just one of many road side shrines, this one on a descent.

Tuscan vineyard.

Ascending Passo del Cipollaio. The white peak is marble quarry.

Western view from the top of the Cipollaio.

One day I went out on my own.

My plan was to follow along part of the route of the Via Francigena.

Which happened to also be on the course of the Gran Fondo Michele Bartoli.

Which brought me to some interesting climbs.

And historical sights.

At the end of the ride, when I was back in Lucca, I decided to try a short, sharp climb that Mr. B apparently used to do intervals on.

Right, just off a road, and on to this, followed by a very sharp right, then...

Up this, and swing right.

Then up this.

I rode it a it a few times. Interesting.

Yesterday was my last day, so the plan was to get up early, and squeeze in a 5 hour ride, to and along the sea, before my afternoon flight.

My Host with the Most included a few 'bumps.'

With their views of valleys.

And civilized alternative to a 7-Eleven.

The Mediterranean in sight.

Finally descending down to the coast, and riding on pancake flat roads for the first time in a week.

Alongside various hotels and resorts.

And that's about it.

Some amazing riding in the region. I only have two regrets: one is that I didn't have the chance to get some shots of an amazing bridge, and the other is that...

Instead of imbibing upon the local plonk, I mainly drank this stuff (which isn't so bad, especially considering the fact that it was actually the brand that I learned how to like beer with. Many moons ago).

finito.

Race report (Heavy race, that Ouderkerk)

2010-06-24T14:43:00.012-05:00

photograph courtesy of Dolf Kloosterziel

Grey skies, and damp roads. I think of Mark Twain and San Francisco as I stand shivering at a traffic light. The light goes green, and I clatter over some tram tracks as I cross the intersection. Bumpity-bump. I hear my bottle rattle in its cage.

Considering some of the races I’ve done recently, I suppose I should be used to the sound. Rijsenhout, with its mix of wet bricks, manhole covers, speedbumps just before, and after a turn, and asphalt. Nes, with those five trips over a bike path consisting of randomly placed concrete slabs. Weesp, with its mix of old and new bricks, some rough, some smooth, some sandy.

I’ve been listening to the rattle and hum of my bike and fillings for the past month. I brace myself. Today will be no different. In fact, it will most likely be the pinnacle. Bumpity-bump.

Koningin Julianalaan. Asphalt, with some bricks, and some bumps. A tight turn on to Prinses Marijkelaan. Bricks, bumps, and more bumps. You don’t so much ride it, as surf it. A right turn on to Koningin Emmalaan. More bricks, less bumps. Right again, on to Hoger-Amstellaan, another yellow brick road that leads up, and back to Koningin Julianalaan.

A “heavy race, that Ouderkerk. Very selective” someone said, the day before. Too true. Last year, after a far too long break from criteriums, I ‘raced’ it.

It wasn’t a pretty sight: I found myself chasing wheels after watching gaps open in every corner, and while I was fighting for survival, two riders were lapping the field. Bumpity-bump-bump.

This year was going to be different. With a few crits under my belt, my cornering technique has been improving. It’s still not what it once was, or what it has to be, but I’m getting back into the groove. Or so I tell myself.

I pick up the KMII, who’s just returned from the Trois Ballons. The two of us make our way to the course. I can hear the announcer, calling the juniors race, as we cross the Amstel. We watch the juniors taking the corner on to Marijkelaan. I notice that the field is completely blown. They’re all over the course. “Heavy race, that Ouderkerk.”

We pick up our numbers. I drop off my bag at the strip, then chat briefly with an old training partner who’s volunteered to marshal a corner. He suggests that I give the race a try, not knowing that I have a number in my jersey pocket. Once the niceties are covered, the KMII and I leave for a Ronde Hoep. Time for a warm up.

I’m perfectly content to just ride easy, but not the KMII. Taking into account how blown the juniors race was, he has a point. We do a few efforts. It hurts. I remind myself that that’s what warm ups are for.

We get back to the changing rooms with time to spare. There’s the usual nervous chatter, and the familiar scent of embrocation filling the air. I pull on my skinsuit. It takes more effort than I would like. As the KMII helps me with my number, I notice a rider in the corner. He's one, of the two, that lapped the peloton last year . I ask him if he’s planning on a repeat. He half scowls, half grins, and says that he doesn’t have the same legs as then. We’ll see.

I ride a quick lap around the course. A final scan of the bumps and turns. The race doesn’t start for 10 minutes, but they’re are already lined up. I coast in and slowly, gently, weave my way closer to the front.

I gaze to my left and see that the KMII has done the same. The announcer acknowledges the sponsors of the primes, and various other inner-race competitions. I look around. Scanning the field of 85 racers.

There are a few that I should keep an eye out for: Abdu, one of the best sprinters in the area; another rider, who I’d never seen until last week, who’s now a wearing the white leaders jersey of the Amstel en Vecht series, of which this is the third and final race; and of course the man I’d just spoken with in the changing room, Sir Lap-a-Lot.

With the crack of a starters pistol, followed by the clicks and clacks of cleats meeting pedal, we’re off on our bumpy way. After struggling to clip in a few weeks ago, and paying the consequences for it, I manage to get started without any issues. Unfortunately the same cannot be said for some of those immediately in front of me. The mad dash for the first corner is on, and I find myself somewhere in the middle, having to wait my turn.

I swing right, and hit the undulating bricks of Marijkelaan. Wheels are bouncing, and bottles rattling in their cages. I want to get to the front, but there are too many riders in the way. I bide my time, waiting for the next corner, where the road widens, and the bricks are smoother.

We swing on to the Koningin Emmalaan, and the peloton stretches out. I’m too far back to see what’s happening ahead. I dig in, holding the wheel in front, ready to pounce if he lets a gap open. Briefly the pace relents, the next turn, ever so acute, on to Hoger-Amstellaan, ahead. Once again, I wait my turn.

I round the bend, and move past a few riders, trundling along the bricks, up the speed bump, and on to the next turn. When I’m back on the Julianalaan, I finally start moving to the front. It takes another lap, or two, but eventually I get to where I want to be.

Drifting amongst the top 10-15, trying to be one of the first five through the corners, I relax for a lap or two. I hear my name being shouted on a few occasions. I think it’s Andre on the Hoger-Amstellaan, I know it’s my friend, the volunteer, on the corner leading back to Julianalaan. I see another friend, who’s another training partner, with his wife and daughters. I wave.

Along the course there are loudspeakers. Due to a combination of sound quality, my heart rate, and my limited Dutch, I struggle to understand what’s being said. All I catch is a “Ho, ho!” I think he said something about a leaders prize sprint, something I’m not too bothered with. I follow, and counter, a series of surges and attacks.

While this is going on, I notice something I hadn’t seen previously: Lap-a-Lot is off the front. He must have gone early. That must be what the announcer was going on about.

As we close in on Lap-a-Lot, I see him look over his shoulder and soft pedal. He’s waiting for us to reel him in, which we do somewhere after start/finish. At this point I’m beginning to feel confident through the turns. A novelty. I countersteer on to Marijkelaan, and pedal through. Whack. Pedal strike.

Fortunately it’s nothing more than a graze. A warning. I get out of the saddle and pedal on. Bumpity-bump.

A lap later, a prime is announced. The pace picks up, and I do my best to stay near, but not on, the front. I’m not really interested in the prime. If I can get my entry money back, fine. Otherwise, I’d rather keep an eye out on the counter. The sprint goes down, and I’m either just in the money, or just out. Don’t know. Don’t really care. The counter doesn’t materialize.

The next few laps are a repetition of attack, Bumpity-bump, chase, “Ho, ho!”, Bumpity-bump, counter, Bumpity-bump, attack, “Ho, ho!”, Bumpity-bump, prime lap, Bumpity-bump, “Ho, ho!”

I hear my training partner’s wife shouting my name. Then I hear him, doing the same. I let my ego get the better of me, and start showing off, throwing in some half-hearted attacks, and riding on the front. It’s not the smartest thing to do, but it’s fun.

I lead the field on Julianalaan, for no reason whatsoever. As I pass my friend and his wife, I point at them and smile. The speakers cackle. I hear a “Ho, ho!”

A prime is announced. The KMII takes over, and shouts something. I nod. Not sure what he’s just said. Then I realize he was speaking in English, and not Dutch. He said he’d pull, and I’d sprint.

I tuck in behind his wheel, as he ratchets up the pace. We barrel down the back stretch of bricks. Bumpity-bump. Knowing that the KMII also struggles with corners, I sneak a peak behind, and finger my brakes. I half expect a surge, as he slows before the turn. It doesn’t come. The KMII swings through, and ups the pace. I dig to hold his wheel. We round the bend, and I shift down a gear.

The line is 200 meters away, and the KMII digs even deeper. I struggle to hold his wheel. As soon as I start to sprint, I realize that I can’t come around him. Two riders pass us, and we finish 3rd and 4th.

“Ho, ho!”

After the prime, things return to normal. More or less. The same repetition of attack, Bumpity-bump, chase, “Ho, ho!”, Bumpity-bump, counter, Bumpity-bump, attack, “Ho, ho!”, Bumpity-bump, prime lap, Bumpity-bump, “Ho, ho!”

I’m trying to hold back. I know I can get a result if I ride smart. Thing is, I haven’t been riding very smart. I bounce along the Marijkelaan. I remind myself that this is a “heavy race.” While I’m having this conversation with myself, I see what looks like a dangerous move rolling off the front. It’s Lap-a-Lot and the Leaders jersey rider.

I chase after them, and manage to bridge. Glancing behind I see that we have a gap. I hear my name being called by my friend and his wife. I hear it from my friend the volunteer. I see the KMII’s girlfriend, then hear her shouting encouragement.

This is when I really should be showing off, but the effort to catch them has taken its toll, so I sit behind, skipping turns. I don’t like it, but discretion is the better part of valor. Or so I tell myself.

Fortunately for me Lap-a-Lot and White jersey just get on with it. I look at the lap chart. It’s something like 15 laps to go.

We hit the corners, and I discover how well Lap-a-Lot and White jersey handle their bikes. All I have to do is follow their line, but I’m losing meters with each turn. I sprint back to catch a wheel, then sit in and recover before the process repeats.

I catch something out of the corner of my eye. It’s another rider. I think I recognize him. Yep. That’s him. He’s strong. I’m feeling OK. Or maybe I feel more confident, knowing that there is one more wheel to grab on to. I join the rotation.

We cross the star/finish line, and the speakers cackle. “Ho, ho!” I hear our names called out. A prime is announced. I’m too tired to speak Dutch, so I shout - really a plaintive wail - “f_ck the prime, f_ck the prime!”

The four of us continue to work. The corners are either getting easier, or the others are taking them slower. There’s more cackling on the speakers, but all I can make out is “Ho, ho!”

I look at the lap chart. 6 laps to go. Then I look behind, and see that we’ve been brought back. Gruppo compacto.

We’re back on the Marijkelaan. I hear the now familiar chorus of loose bottles rattling in their cages. I stay near the front, and see a few riders pass. I know one is a former Dutch champion. Of what discipline, and when, I don’t know. He’s old, but wily.

I’ve seen the other ride off in winning breaks at least twice this year. I’m in no position to follow, so I hope the KMII goes with them. I look behind, but I can’t see him. Two more riders jump, and they're away.

The peloton seems content to let the break dangle ahead of us. We cross the start/finish. I look at the lap chart. 5 laps to go.

We return to the bumpity-bump of Marijkelaan. The break is something like 200-250 meters ahead of us. We hit Emmalaan, and I see a rider jump. I ride to him, and follow his wheel through the next turn. I pedal briefly in the wind, then pull off. Then I see Lap-a-Lot spring forward.

The peloton watches. I know it’s now or never, so I chase him up the Hoger-Amstellaan. I take the corner as quickly as I can, and dig deep. I’m crawling all over my bike, twisting my head, trying to get as low as I can go. I’m closing in, but I’m not quite there.

I hit the next turn, and I’m close. I notice Lap-a-Lot look over his shoulder. He’s seen me. He eases and waits. I latch on, and pause to recover, as he ups the pace. I pull through, but all I do is slow us down.

Lap-a-Lot takes over, and flies through the following corner. We’re getting close, but not close enough. I see the KMII’s girlfriend. She’s holding out 3 fingers. Three laps to go.

I take another pull, and I’m feeling better. Not great, but better.

We’re on back on the Marijkelaan. Bumpity-bump.

We trade pulls. Mine short. Lap-a-Lot long.

The four ahead have widened their lead.

We hit the Julianlaan for the 43rd time. I hear “Ho, ho!”

I hear (at least I think I hear) my friends shouting my name. I dig a little deeper, and get a little lower.

Bumpity-bump. We’re back on Marijkelaan.

Bumpity-bump. We’re on Emmalaan.

Lap-a-Lot takes the next turn smoothly. I don’t. He has a small gap, and I go even deeper to get back on to his wheel. I don’t want to be swallowed by the peloton.

Not now.

“Ho, ho!”

For the last time, we’re riding down Julianlaan. I look under my arm, and see that we’re still clear.

I spend my last trip over the Marijkelaan chasing to get back on the wheel that I lost in the previous corner.

I’m fading. Lap-a-Lot keeps on going.

Three corners to go.

He’s tearing down the Emmalaan.

Two corners to go.

As we hit Hoger-Amstellaan, Lap-a-Lot gaps me. This time I can’t close it.

I crest the dike, and swing right one last time. I hear my friends shouting my name.

The break of four have just finished their sprint.

Lap-a-Lot has 20-30-40 meters on me. Maybe 50?

I shift into the biggest gear that my legs can handle, and race to the finish.

Heavy race, that Ouderkerk. Very selective.

“Ho, ho!”

The Road Ahead...

2010-06-11T03:08:00.002-05:00

Is paved with baksteenen, steentjes, and klinkertjes.

Giromania hits the Mortirolo

2010-05-28T03:16:00.003-05:00

Hard to believe that three weeks ago the Giro was below sea level. Since then, much has happened, and just as it's heating up, it's beginning to wind down. Only 3 more stages to go.

With a mere 42 seconds separating the top favorites of Evans and Basso (and they're not even in the lead) today's ascent of the lesser known (but trust me: hard as hell) Santa Cristina, followed by the gruesomely grueling Mortirolo... well, it's going to be fun to watch.

To whet your appetites, here's some views, taken two years ago, when I was in the area for the Gran Fondo Marco Pantani.

Before ascending the Mortirolo, the peloton will pass through scenic downtown Mazzo di Valtellina.

The fun begins.

Before the hard part begins.

Not a climb for people with vertigo.

Close to the Pantani monument.

The monument.

After the monument the road 'flattens' to a mere 9-10%, then the trees clear.

At last, after 1300 Meters of climbing, they hit the top.

Enjoy the view.

Then begin the descent down to Edolo.

From there they make the final push, uphill, to the finish in Aprica.

Scenes from Sloten (Elite Districtskampioenschap Noord Holland)

2010-05-25T06:25:00.002-05:00

Riders ready.

Thomas the Taxi takes a look.

de Haan hunts.

Wily vets relax.

Wise men nap.

Others scratch.

Andre soaks it in.

Commercial Appeal (Coffee and Bad Ideas)

2010-05-23T14:43:00.001-05:00

It doesn't get much more Dutch than this.

Glamorous location with unglamorous people. √.

Blond woman, with big sunglasses, and a voice deeper than mine. √.

Man in need of haircut with Don Johnson stubble, whose idea of a conversation is "huh?" √.

Coffee with cookie on the side. √.

Now, the trick is: can you spot the cyclist?

R v S (Bone Crushing and Head Shaking)

2010-05-17T07:16:00.018-05:00

photo courtesy of Veeteetje

I wake up, and shake my head. No pain. A good sign.

It’s the morning after the night before. A night spent at a party inside Castle Loevestein, the former prison of Hugo de Groot. As tales were told of de Groot’s famous escape out of the prison, I prepared myself for the following day like a bike racer should: keeping myself hydrated with one too many glasses of wine; carbo loading via repeated visits to the desert buffet; and a little bit of stretching on the dance floor.

Ideal preparation for a bike race. Sure. OK. Maybe not. To overcompensate for the previous evenings indiscretions, I mull over the idea of using my aero wheels. I’m reluctant because there’s a rough stretch of bumps on the course. Rough enough that I’ve broken a few spokes on it last year. I throw caution to the wind, and go for the 50cms of placebo. Whoosh whoosh whoosh.

When I arrive at the course, I see the Flying Doctor. He raced earlier, with the Masters. Wondering what I missed, I ask him how it went. Sprint finish. OK. I didn’t miss anything. After watching the 50+ race pass by for a few laps, I head into the clubhouse to collect my number. The WegKapitein enters, and announces with a big smile on his face, that there’s no entry fee today, as he goes over to the clubhouse TV to change the channel from F1 to the Giro. It’s almost as good as it gets.

Other riders filter in, while the WK and I chat. The rider, who the KMII rode away with a few weeks earlier, and as I later learned a few months earlier, comes over and says hello. I extend my hand, and he responds with a firm handshake. So firm that my knuckles hurt. Bonecrusher asks us what our plans are for the day. Seeing as the KMII isn’t here it’s a simple plan: attack.

Once the 50+ race is over we mount our bikes and go for a warm up lap. It’s a little windy, but nothing too severe. Most importantly, my legs feel OK. I think.

I pull up to the line, and wait for the festivities to begin. I make small talk with some club mates, who've just finished the 50+ race. One of them asks me if my wheels are new. I shake my head, and say “placebo.”

Hans, the former director of the club that organizes the day, tells us what the race involves. I’m not listening. I’m looking at a sticker on the stem of young Ozzie's bike. Printed on it are four letters: HTFU. I laugh. He says it helps. And with that, we’re sent on our way.

Normally I like to jump away from the peloton immediately. An old habit picked up from many an American crit. Today, someone else beats me to it. I chase after him. It takes a little longer than expected. My legs aren’t as fresh as I’d hoped. Maybe I should have avoided the dance floor last night? Too late now.

I sit on his wheel. No use in killing myself this early in the race. I look back, and see a few riders bridging to us, while the peloton appears content to let us dangle. The reinforcements arrive, and Bonecrusher is in the lead. He rides past us, and I dig to jump on. We’re a group of 4, or is it 6? I’m hurting so bad that I’m hanging in the back, and when I do go the front, I can only maintain the pace for a few strokes of the pedal. Not good.

Several laps pass, we’re still away, and I’m still struggling. I notice out of the corner of my eye that several other riders have joined us. Behind me, I hear a familiar voice shouting “ride!”

It’s the WK.

I drift back, and see that we have what looks like a good group. It’s early, but maybe this can stick. Another lap or two passes, and I look over my shoulder and discover that I was being overly optimistic. We’re caught.

Riders swarm past, and I find myself in the belly of the peloton. I take a sip of water, and hope that my legs loosen up. They usually do. They usually do. They usually do. I repeat the thought to myself.

I look up the road, and see that I’m too far back. Focus. I need to focus. I move up, on the right side of the road. It’s not that difficult. Eventually I find myself behind Bonecrusher. OK. Good. Then I hear a familiar snapping sound, followed by a tick, tick, tick. I don’t even have to look to know that I’ve broken a rear spoke. So much for placebos.

I raise my hand, and wave the peloton past. Stopping once the last man ride by, to shove the broken spoke into some spokes to prevent it from hitting my seat stay, then ride to the start/finish. I don’t have an extra wheel. My race is done. I pull in, and a few club mates, the 50+ gang, see what’s wrong. One of them, the Pirate, offers to give me his wheel.

I jump over the fence, back on to the course. A woman who’s watching tells me to watch out, because I almost knocked over her beer. In gentler terms than I really wanted to use, I remind her that there’s a bike race going on. An official is asking for my number, while someone tells him about my mechanical.

I’m getting nervous. I need to be ready before the field returns. The Pirate hands over the wheel, and another club mate gently tells me to keep calm as he helps me get it in. I look back, and see the peloton approaching. I clip in, and slowly start rolling.

The field passes. I jump in, and settle for a place somewhere near the front of the middle. I look up the road, and see that there are a few riders off the front. One of them is the WK. I move towards the front, and prepare to cover if need be.

After a few laps, the break is reeled back. There’s a brief lull in the hostilities, until another attack is launched. It’s Bonecrusher, on a solo flyer. Another rider, in orange, reacts. I think I know who he is, but I’m not sure. If he is who I think he is, then he’s not bad. I’m close enough to join, but I’m as boxed in as Hugo de Groot was when he made his escape from Castle Loevestein.

The WK shouts at me, telling me to go. I know that he’s right, but what can I do? Somehow, I manage to find an opening, and jump. Shifting into a bigger gear I claw my way to the twosome ahead. It hurts, but I’m closing in. I manage to make it across, and sit on for a minute to catch my breath.

My legs are feeling better than earlier. Or maybe the front wheel placebo is helping, I don’t know. I join the three-man rotation. After a pull, maybe two, I see that we have company. Two more riders. One big, one small, both strong.

Our party of five settles in, and pulls ahead of the chasing field.

The collaboration is remarkably good. Bonecrusher is clearly our motor, taking long hard pulls in the wind. Big and Small have no problems holding and setting the pace. The rider in orange is slowing things down. I find myself riding past him, as soon as we hit the wind.

A prime is announced, and I hope that my companions have their priorities straight. As we approach the line, and the pace line remains intact, I see that they do. Class.

Unaware of the time gap, we rely on the occasional look over our shoulder. I choose to remain ignorant. If we’re caught, we’re caught, and if we’re caught, I’m probably done for the day.

After a while Orange stops taking pulls. I’m not thrilled about it, but I keep focused on the road ahead. We settle into a strong, and reasonably fluid pace. The occasional surge, the occasional moment of quiet.

We pass by the start/finish and hear that we’re 35 seconds ahead of the chasing peloton. Not quite as far as I hoped, but still something.

We carry on. I take my pull, and drift to the right, as we sweep through a left turn. Bonecrusher takes over, followed by Big and Small. Suddenly, from the left side of the road, out the grass I see a tan, or was it white, blur darting across the road. I shout, just as I hear a whack, followed by flying fur coming out of Bonecrusher’s rear wheel. I’m pretty sure Small ran over it as well. Was it a dog, or a cat? I don’t know. I look behind, and see something lying on the road.

Somehow everyone stays upright. Heart pounding, I ride up to Bonecrusher, and say “not a pretty sight.” We freewheel for a moment, so the rest can regroup. Seeing spectators alongside the road, we shout, telling them about what just happened.

A lap later we pass the scene of the flying fur, and there’s no dog or cat to be found. Just a few parachute balls on the side of the road.

It doesn’t take long to return to the swing of things. We hear that our gap of 35 seconds remains intact, as another prime is announced. Once again we ignore it. Everyone takes his turn in the wind. Well, everyone apart from Orange. I drop back at one point to motion him forward, but it’s of little use.

I find myself wondering why Small is wearing winter booties on a dry, reasonably warm day. I find myself wishing he was wearing a pair of bibs, instead of the shorts that leave a patch of his back exposed. I admire the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of Big’s aero wheels. I note how effortlessly Bonecrusher is churning away in the wind, and remind myself that he’s the man to watch at the end.

Bonecrusher, Big, Small, Orange… all sneak peeks over their shoulder. I just look ahead. Perhaps that’s why I’m surprised that out of nowhere we have a new companion. He arrives just before yet another prime, and in the confusion there’s a sprint for it this time. Have I completely lost track of time, is this the finish sprint? I jump, but it’s pointless, they’re 10-120 meters ahead.

The line is crossed, and everyone eases. It’s back to business. Good. It was only a prime. Still, I’m a little irritated by the sudden desire to sprint for one, so I sit in, and passively protest by skipping a few pulls. I later discover that it was to keep Orange from poaching the prime. Fair enough.

The next time we cross the line, I hear that we’re still at 35 seconds, and I see that there’s 8 laps to go. I put a little extra effort into my next pull. Better safe than sorry.

Laps are completed, we’re closing towards the finish, and we continue to work well together. Bonecrusher, Big, Small, the FNG, and myself. Orange is nowhere to be seen. I don’t bother looking.

I start thinking about the finish. I have to play it smart. I’m fairly certain that Small won’t be a problem. He’s strong. Very strong. But he also seems a little inexperienced. Big, I’m not sure about. He’s done more than his fair share of work, but he looks more like a diesel than a sprinter. The FNG I really have no idea about. He’s a skinny kid, with pasty legs, but he did manage to bridge up to us, and is probably the freshest of the lot. I‘ve seen Bonecrusher on the podium twice this year, so he’s the logical guy to cover. As I contemplate the various scenarios that may pass, Orange reappears. Is he playing us, or is he having a bad day? I don’t know. I doubt I’m the only one who’s ready to pounce on him if he sprints.

Three laps to go.

The split is called out, but I can’t quite make it out: 55, or 15 seconds? I ask. Big tells me 50. Apart from Orange, we all continue to take our pulls.

Two laps to go.

The pace eases. We start looking at one another. I wonder if this is a bit premature, but go along with it, choosing to skip a few pulls.

Bonecrusher accelerates on the hill, but it proves to be nothing more than a probing attack.

One lap to go.

There’s an attack. It’s Big. Bonecrusher covers him immediately. Small closes the gap to the two, and I latch on. He does sterling work, and brings them back.

The pace drops briefly, then picks up again.

Bonecrusher jumps, but he’s pulled back. I find my way to his wheel. We climb the hill, and it’s 500 meters to go. I‘d rather be 3rd man than 2nd, but this is where I am.

I ease, and look out of the corner of my eye. The FNG jumps, and Bonecrusher lets him get a gap.

I make a decision to go with him, and hope the surprise is enough to do the job. I close the gap, and sit.

We have a gap. I think.

We hit the last turn, and the FNG’s pace is dropping.

There’s still 300 meters to go, but the time is now.

I jump, and sprint as hard as I can.

250 to go.

I’m clear, although I know it’s not going to last for long.

200 to go.

I’m still clear, but I see a wheel on my left.

150 to go.

Big, followed by Bonecrusher passes.

100 to go.

Small passes me.

50 to go.

I shake my head. This time it hurts.

Ronde van Sloten (prologue)

2010-05-16T14:55:00.005-05:00

You make plans, set goals, and hope to achieve them. It’s logical. They help give you focus, direction, and and structure. In theory, it’s a good thing. I guess. For various reasons, I haven’t had any over the past few seasons. Perhaps it was an unconscious decision to be a dilettante. Perhaps it’s because I’m indecisive?

This year things are different. Slightly. One of my first goals was to be in good form for the Vikingtour, a ‘classics’ style race in the North of Holland. My goal was plan was simple: get myself into enough form so I could help launch a teammate to success.

A business trip to Spain, and a certain volcano in Iceland, interfered with that plan. C’est la vie. Fortunately I was able to make up for it a few weeks later.

Since then, things have been more ad hoc. Still riding. Still racing. Having fun. No direction. Sort of. Kind of. Unless you count this weekend’s Ronde van Sloten.

Initially I signed myself in for both the Masters and the Amateur Bs race. I figured I’d try and do what I had done a few months earlier: ride my race with the Masters and try and help with the Bs.

There were only two problems: a strange rule by the KNWU that forbids doing two races in one day (really?); and the fact that I was attending a friend’s 50^th birthday party the evening before.

Knowing the friend whose birthday it was, and the friends who were giving me a lift to the party, as well as taking into account that rules are rules, I had to reassess my plans. I could only do one race. So, a decision was made.

Seeing as the Masters race was at 11:30, and the Bs was at 3PM, it was an easy choice to make.

To be continued…

Commercial Appeal (Vision)

2010-05-12T08:23:00.003-05:00

Tacos, snacks, beer, Coke, cars, energy, newspapers...

I thought I'd seen it all.

Apparently not.

I guess I need better glasses. Hmmm... which ones should I get?

Arrivederci, Mokum

2010-05-11T08:54:00.004-05:00

Arriverderci, Mokum
Goodbye, goodbye to Mokum
City of a million skunk lit faces
City of a million warm embraces
Where I found the one of 198 faces
Far from home

Arriverderci, Mokum
It's time for us to part
Save the lap bells for my returning
Keep my shaven legs stretched and turning
Please be sure the flame of pain keeps burning
In your legs

Arriverderci, Mokum
It's time for us to part

Save the lap bells for my returning
Keep my shaven legs stretched and turning
Please be sure the flame of pain keeps burning
In your legs

Zuidas (Giro d'Italia, Stage 3 start)

2010-05-11T05:52:00.004-05:00

I woke up on Monday morning, and hit the snooze on the alarm. Again, and again, and again. I was tired. Too many hours spent on the bike, and too many hours spent watching the real deal has it's consequences. I decided to skip the start of the 3rd and last stage of the Giro in Amsterdam. I had more than enough photos, and really... what was there to see?

Then I received an SMS from a friend, on his way to work, expressing his jealousy that I had the chance to see one more day of the Giro. I thought about it, and realized he had a point. I also remembered that I was thinking about picking up some souvenirs for my nephews and niece.

OK. Up. Out of bed. On the bike. Off to catch the start.

Today's stage began out of the center, in a generic business district called Zuidas.

It lacks the charm of Museumplein, but I doubt that the city center could handle being closed down for another day.

After the circus of Saturday, and the spectacle of Sunday, Monday seemed quiet.

Initially the police made up most of the crowd.

The sponsors stands didn't have many visitors.

I guess all eyes were once again on Yolanthe.

I worked my way along the barriers, and found a nice spot.

Right behind my friend from yesterday.

And nearby the VIP zone.

While Yolanthe was entertaining the crowd, Girbecco and friends passed by.

Followed by a Baldato.

And a Big Sean.

Then the riders started to appear for the sign in.

Thomas Voeckler, early again.

A bashful looking Ted King.

The man who became a cyclist thanks to Kevin Costner.

BMC in full effect.

The Piccolo Principe, looking more like Beavis.

A determined looking Vino. Or maybe that's a relaxed looking Vino?

Pippo, received the gaze of an admirer.

Chris received a few inquisitive gazes.

Stefano Garzelli just gazed.

While Gilberto Simoni seemed to be enjoying himself, as he whistled by.

The riders came, and went.

Some spoke with the MCs on stage, like Tyler Farrar.

Some stopped to sign autographs, like Carlos Sastre.

Some stopped to do a quick interview, like David Millar.

Some stopped, and perhaps found themselves lost in thought, despite the cheers of fans, like Ivan Basso.

Some rode past, and chatted, like Robbie McEwen.

Some actually stopped, and chatted, like Marco Pinotti.

Some chatted amongst themselves, like compatriots Svien Tuft and Michael Barry.

Eventually the signal was given that it was time to depart for Middelburg.

And off they went.

Leaving Amsterdam behind them.

Start at Museumplein (Giro d'Italia, Stage 2)

2010-05-10T08:40:00.005-05:00

On an unseasonably crisp May morning, I found myself walking with a friend. Direction: Musuemplein. It was day 2 of Giromania, and we wanted to see the start of Stage 2. We had a simple plan: get there early, take a look, then head out for a ride with some friends who we were meeting up with.

We arrived about an hour and a half before the scheduled departure time.

Today there would be no joy in getting into the VIP area with the Carabinieri.

Once we settled in, it was a matter of waiting, and keeping an eye out for the racers arriving to sign in.

Not yet, give him time.

Then, out of nowhere a rider appeared, signed in, then worked the crowds, signing autographs.

Martinique's very own Thomas Voeckler.

Shortly after, a pink pedicab arrived, bearing the Giro trophy and Yolanthe Cabau.

After that there was a lull.

Staff and press schmoozed.

Recent cycling fans as well.

Then the riders started to appear.

At first one by one.

With the occasional team entrance.

Including reigning World Champion Cadel Evans.

After signing in, and giving a short interview on the stage, Evans made his way back to where he arrived.

After that they started flowing in from all directions.

Our friend Fabian even made an impromtu entrance at the corner of the gate we were leaning on.

This apparently confused the Carabinieri, because a few minutes later, when a local racer arrived to survey the show, the gate was opened for him to enter.

Young Danny passed on the offer.

Meanwhile the show went on.

Danilo Hondo seemed to enjoy being back.

Mario Bruseghin cordially obliged requests to say cheese.

And Vino received a few welcome back handshakes.

Time was ticking, and Yolanthe, accompanied by former Tour de France winner Joep Zoetemelk, made way to the official start line.

Having signed in, Mr. Wiggins sat in her draft.

The pleoton was almost complete. Just one more rider had yet to return from signing in.

It's Tyler Farrar.

He pulls up to the back of the group, and kicks back.

He's obviously relaxed.

So relaxed, that as the peloton departs, he has yet to clip in.

Better hurry up, you've got a race to win.

Finish (Giro d'Italia Prologue)

2010-05-09T15:40:00.006-05:00

Time was running short, and the plan was to get to the Olympic Stadium, to try and see some of the favorites at the finish. To be honest, I was dubious. Considering how busy it was at the corner of Ceinturribaan and Hoobemakade I was certain it would be ten times worse there. But hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

We walked back towards Museumplein and picked up our bikes. Seeing as my mine was close by, I found myself waiting by the Concert Gebouw, while my friends went for theirs.

I found myself zoning out and watching the Rai helicopters hovering over the city.

My friends were taking longer than expected, so I started looking for them.

That's when I noticed the flow of racers, returning from the finish, heading back to the team buses coming past.

Or making their way back to the team's hotels.

Even Italian champions have to carry their own bags.

After idling our way towards the stadium, and parking our bikes, we finally made it to the finish, where it appeared that I was correct. It was a mad house.

The crowds were several people deep.

But, with a little persistence, we managed to get to the front of the gate.

In time to spot riders like Fabian Wegmann finishing off their day.

I thought that we had it as good as we were going to get, but - yet again - one of my friends said we should move on. I considered parting ways, but reluctantly joined them.

We circled around the side of the Citroën dealership on the corner of Stadionweg, and spotted more racers riding back to their team buses.

Including Mr. Wegmann.

We sneaked a peek inside the stadium.

And Pippo Pozatto peeked back.

We left the stadium, and tried to find somewhere to see the closing meters. It wasn't looking good. We were surrounded by VIP tents, stands, and viewing platforms. No magic pass, no entry.

Unless you're this guy.

After a few minutes of trying to decide what to do, and where to go, I was almost at my wits end. It had been a long day, I was tired, and cold, and at that point I was ready to call it a day.

I was trying to explain the futility of being where we were to my friends, and motioned over at a fenced off area. A Carabinieri behind the fence was watching.

I have no idea why he responded the way he did, but he shrugged his shoulders, and gestured towards the door.

I nodded.

The door was opened.

And there we were.

Just in time to catch Pippo bringing it in.

I looked across the road, watching people drink wine from glasses and eat soup from ceramic bowls.

I looked behind me and saw a more modest setting.

No matter. There was plenty to be seen by all.

A Flying Scot.

A Mod.

And a World Champion.

Not a bad result, if I do say so myself.

Ceintuurbaan and Hobbemakade (Giro d'Italia Prologue, Amsterdam)

2010-05-09T12:25:00.003-05:00

Having had our fill of getting up close and personal with riders and team support, as well as the the crowds on Museumplien, it was time to go see some action. The only question was where? A short walk towards Hobbemakade was the obvious choice. Go left, and you can see the first several hundred meters of the prologue. Go right, and you can see catch the riders with +/- 3 kilometers to go. It was an easy decision to make. Righty tighty.

Looks like we weren't the only one's who took a right.

Perhaps it was a classic case of "the grass is always greener", but the crowds on the other side seemed thinner. There was only one problem - getting there. I asked one of Amsterdam's finest where the closest crossing to the other side, and discovered that we would have to take a boat.

The boat seemed like too much work, so we parked ourselves on the bridge on Ceintuurbaan, crossing Boerenwetering, on to Hobbemakade.

Things had changed since the last time I was there.

The view was not bad, as long as you didn't mind stretching a bit, I just wish I had a better vantage point.

Like the one up there.

Still, I shouldn't complain.

You could definitely get up close and personal.

My companions got itchy feet, so we moved on with the plan to meet up with some friends at the other end of Ceintuurbaan.

Riders rode past at regular intervals.

As the spectators took it all in.

Some going to great lengths to show their interest in bicycles.

3 km to go.

You always knew when a Rabobank rider was coming, and going for that matter, because the crowds would go ballistic.

The pretenders watch.

Suffering through a time trial means: a funny face here...

and a funny face there.

Eventually we had our share of funny faces, and made way for our next destination - the Olympic Stadium.

But first, we had to walk back, and continue to soak up the special Giro meets Amsterdam atmosphere.

Start at Museumplein (Giro d'Italia Prologue, Amsterdam)

2010-05-09T10:07:00.005-05:00

After visiting the Renners Kwartier at the opening prologue of the Giro d'Italia, it was time to move along and see what was happening on Museumplein.

Unsurprisingly, things were busy.

With a little pushing, and shoving, we were able to get reasonably close to the start ramp.

After watching a couple of riders take off, we moved a bit further, and managed to catch sight of some making their way to the staging area.

The early birds tried to stay loose.

Which left some of the crowds perplexed.

Looky here, it's former Giro winner, the Little Prince. But he's going the wrong way?

No worries, two time Giro Champion and teammate, turned rival, and teammate again, Gilberto Simoni is on the case.

Riders Quarter (Giro d'Italia Prologue, Amsterdam)

2010-05-08T14:02:00.004-05:00

It will take a little time to sort through all of the photos I took during this afternoon's prologue at the Giro. In the mean time I thought I'd share some snaps taken in the "Renner's Kwartier", or rider's quarter as it's known in English.

After a friend of mine had told me that he asked every person he knew ) a lot) for a VIP card, and had no joy, I assumed that meant the Renner's Kwartier was a no go zone.

Apparently I was incorrect.

So incorrect, I wondered why it's not called the Public Quarter?

The first team that I spotted was Sky. They kept themselves busy warming up, and the public as far away as possible.

Next up was Quickstep. They were more accommodating to the public, but I was looking for homeboys.

Just my luck that Garmin was a few team buses away.

They let you get close up.

Admire the scratches from past pedal strikes.

And even listen in to a chat between Garmin Director Sportif Matt White and an American woman working with the team about bikes, cars, and schedules.

While the Garmin warm up area was reasonably quiet, the Rabobank area - what with the home crowd and all - was full of folk glad handing, and the like.

While the Rabo's were busy, and Garmin was quiet, the AG2R La Mondiale was almost dead.

It was cold and clammy, but the Saxo's kept themselves hydrated.

One of the higjlights (for me) was when Gustav Larsson almost ran over my foot.

I shouted "Give 'em hell", and to my pleasant surprise I received an "I will." And he did.

Further along, things were reasonably busy at the BMC area.

BMC owner Andy Rihs keeps an eye on the details.

While the fans and photographers are twitteratied.

Fellow New Englander Ted King was in the zone.

Meanwhile, it appears that after the recent news Liquigas were being sent a message by the local sanitation workers.

Even with all of the garbage, they still drew in a crowd.

The Quiet Before the Storm (Giromania hits Amsterdam)

2010-05-07T14:41:00.003-05:00

Yes. I know. Too much.

But hey, my apartment is very close to the start. VERY CLOSE.

Besides, I have nothing better to do tonight, seeing as I'm squatting the Classico Boretti.

So, here's the latest status of the start of the Giro - done.

Entrance.

Start.

Front view.

Side view.

Queen B smiling on the enterprising Italian merchant.

Customers.

I hope the T-Shirt, Baseball hat, 4 fridge magnets, bracelet, and license plate is worth the €10 that I paid.

Scenes from Museumplein (setting up shop for the Giro d'Italia)

2010-05-07T08:00:00.004-05:00

Less than 24 hours to go, and Museumplein has yet another construction project underway: the start of the opening prologue. I decided to go for a walk, and see how things were going, and here's what I saw.

Bored folk in bright vests try to keep sluggish Amsterdam traffic flowing.

The depart village isn't ready, but an enterprising souvenir salesmen has already found a plum spot to set up shop - next to the Van Gogh Museum.

The signs around the site indicate that the crew are Italian imports. Seeing as the world will be expecting the Giro d'Italia to kick off at 2PM CET one hopes that they're quicker than their Dutch colleagues.

Props.

Sponsors booth?

Not sure about the slogan. Maybe I just have a dirty mind?

View from the back of the start ramp.

Under the start ramp.

Bridge over untroubled water.

Looking at the start.

National radio interviewing an Amsterdam fireman about filling the pond. Queen B seems to be enjoying the show.

Mokum Time (Giro d'Italia Prologue recon)

2010-05-06T03:31:00.008-05:00

The wait is nearly over. Amsterdam has made the quick switch from all things orange to all things pink, and on Saturday afternoon the official festivities commence with the opening prologue. Seeing as I've been asked by a few friends from out of town for suggestions on places to watch, as well as my own curiosity about the layout of the course, I went on a little recce the other day. Here's what I saw.

The previous visit of the Giro kicked off at the uninspiring monstrosity that is called the Groninger Museum. This year the organizers continues with their museum theme by choosing Museumplein (home of the currently closed for construction Stedelijk Museum, closed for construction Rijksmuseum, and open to sell posters Van Gogh Museum).

It's a little difficult to figure out where exactly the depart will be situated, but based on the official map, I'd say it starts somewhere around here.

Too bad the Rijksmuseum has been closed for over 7 years. It would have been a beautiful sight, seeing the race go through the building, like city cyclists used to do.

Instead, I assume they will take the bike path.

Which leads directly to Hobbemastraat.

And take a 90 degree left on to Hobbemakade.

+/- 150 meters later, a right turn is made on to Stadhouderskade, which is a stretch of smooth asphalt that lasts for 400 meters.

Then they hit the intersection of Stadhouderskade and Weteringlaan, where they take a left turn.

Most tourists know this corner well, seeing as it's the home of the Heineken Museum.

I've never been. Due to that fact some may call me a philistine, but I think most would call me a discerning beer connoisseur.

The stretch along Weteringlaan is short and curvy, circumnavigating a round about...

Then crossing over some tram tracks, before reaching the bottom of Vijselstraat.

Once the racers hit Vijselstraat it's more or less a clear path of 850 meters, over several bridges, and into the heart of the city.

With the Munttoren in sight, the riders will know that a sweeping right turn on to a narrower, and bumpier road is coming.

Once the turn is made, they're on scenic Amstel.

I wouldn't be surprised if this is one of the busiest areas for spectators - seeing as it's the closest point of the race to Centraal Station.

The bridge that crosses over the road is one of four pedestrian bridges along the course.

This street happens to be the first one I lived on in Amsterdam, so they'll pass my old apartment. Strange that.

This is probably one of the only 'technical' - and that's really pushing it - parts of the course. Amstel is paved with klinkertjes, baksteenen, bricks.

Amstel sweeps along the river it's named after, until you hit the Blauwbrug.

More tram tracks are traversed, and the Amstel is crossed.

Amsterdam elevation.

The descent down Waterlooplein. I doubt there will be time to hit the flea market.

Once Waterlooplein is passed, there's a sweeping right that will briefly take the riders on to Mr. Visserplein, then on to Weesperstraat.

The Dokwerker should get a pretty good view.

Weesperstraat is a long, straight, smooth stretch of road where you can really turn on the gas.

This view alongside this road is probably the most nondescript of the day.

Weesperstraat becomes Wibautstraat once Sarphatistraat, and the bridge immediately after it, is crossed.

Same road. Different name. Just as beautiful.

Finally a right turn is made on to Ruychstraat, where the road narrows.

After 200 meters and a sweeping turn...

It's back over the Amstel, over what is probably the highest point of the course, the Nieuwe Amstelbrug.

After the treacherous descent from the bridge, it's straight going on to Ceintuurbaan, and through the Pijp, for about 1,300 meters.

Eventually the racers find themselves taking a left, back on Hobbemakade, but heading South, out of the city center, this time.

This stretch, which also happens to be one that I find myself on many a ride out of the city, is a short 250 meters.

After that, there's a sweeping right turn on to Stadionweg.

Which then brings the race to the tree lined and bricked paved Apollolaan for the next +/- 1.300 meters.

Apart from the trees and high end real estate, one of the few landmarks on this road is the Amsterdam Hilton Hotel, of Bed In fame.

He may not be racing the Giro this year, but the Boss will be watching.

When you reach the end of Apollolaan, you hit Olympiaplein, which is the 1km to go point.

A few more bricks, and on to Olympiaweg. No time for caution.

A sweeping right, and they're back on to Stadionweg.

From here, the final destination should be in sight.

More tram tracks are crossed.

And the final turn of the day is taken.

Final straight, and you're done.

Two actually.

Giromania hits Mokum

2010-05-04T10:01:00.004-05:00

Difficult to believe that in 4 days that Amsterdam will be jam packed with professional cyclists riding around the same streets that I have been riding on for years, although on slightly nicer bikes than mine.

Over the coming days I will be posting a photographic recon of the prologue course, as well as (hopefully) some action shots from Saturday's prologue, and possibly from Sunday's and Monday's stage.

Covering Queen's Day

2010-04-30T15:10:00.008-05:00

Queen’s Day. To some it’s all fun and games. To me it’s hell holding a can of Hieneken and dressed in Orange. What better way to avoid it, than participating in the 56e Oranjeronde van Amsterdam?

After my Ash induced Spanish adventure, and subsequent assault of the Ardennes, I managed to get my legs readjusted to the windy ways of the lowlands. With a few training races in the legs, and a few easy days in between, I set off on damp roads. Riding through light drizzle to the usual place.

While the roads are the same, the organization is different, as well as the sign in. This means that I will get my first look into the hallowed halls of Amsterdam’s oldest bike club. If only I can find it. When I arrive, I’m spotted by the WegKapitein. He points me in the right direction.

Number obtained, I sit down and talk the talk with the WegKapitein and a few racers from another club. The KMII arrives, and introduces us to a rider in blue. He's a member of our team, but has yet to get his kit. Numbers pinned, small talk made, we make way for the course.

Marco, a friend, who I haven’t seen for awhile, almost rides into me, and says hello. As we catch up, I notice he’s got lipstick on his bottom lip. For some reason, I'm not surprised.

Marco Lipstick runs off to register, and we head towards the start/finish. Waiting, and watching the 50+ race, we hear that there’s yet to be a successful break throughout the day. We also learn that there will be 3 primes, as well as a leader’s jersey. While it’s not clear to me how the jersey will work, the KMII explains that it’s a points race within the race. OK. Fair enough.

Finally we’re given the go to enter the circuit, and take a lap. I chat with the KMII about race plans A, B, and C that we emailed about the day before. As we assess the riders around us, we agree that maybe it’s an idea to try and keep it easy for the first few laps.

The lap complete, we roll up to a group of riders spread out on the road, waiting 30 meters behind the line. I take my position in the second row. The Flying Doctor, fresh from a stage race in Sardinia arrives. Nods and smiles are given. Something is said, but I’m too amped to hear it. The field moves, and I struggle to click in. No worries. We’re only moving up to the official start line. I slide into the front row.

Some niceties are spoken, and we’re set off on our merry way. I grind up the sole bump on the course, and accelerate down the hill. I remind myself about my chat with the KMII, about sitting and watching, as I see him fly past. I shift and jump on to his wheel. With a small group of riders we surge forward. A small gap opens. It doesn’t take long to close.

And that pretty much sums up the majority of the race. Gaps. Sprints for primes. Sprints for the mysterious leaders jersey. We learned that there had yet to be a successful break throughout the day, yet we persever to do just that. We – the KMII, the Wegkapitein, and myself, all three of us – are riding well. Lap after lap, attack after attack, we’re in the mix. But it’s not working.

I slide back, and find myself chatting with Lipstick. He’s telling me tales of his past dominance on this course. Who he beat, and how he beat them. I’m half listening, and half looking up the road. I see the KMII make a move. He’s off the front, with another rider. The WegKapitein is ahead of me, and if I’m not mistaken the teammate in blue that I met earlier, as well. They move to the front, and start making things complicated for the other riders. I see someone having words with the WK and then Blue. Blue shrugs.

I move up, and join them. We lower the pace, and for whatever reason, nobody is taking over. That’s fine with us.

We cross the start/finish line. Four laps to go. Ten kilometers to go.

We crest the hill, and I see the KMII and his companion ahead. A few riders attempt to bridge, but with no success. We’re covering everything. We’re slowing it down. We’re not making many friends, but the KMII is making time.

The long straight begins, and ahead of us – 15 seconds, more? – is the KMII. I look over and see the rider who had words with Blue. I recognize him. It’s Talent. Believe it or not, that’s what he calls his blog (more or less). He jumps. I latch on. He's surprising me today. He’s tearing it up. He’s improved since last year. Just not enough. He eventually realizes that I’m not going to pull through. He eases.

We cross the start/finish line. Three laps to go. Seven and a half kilometers to go.

The hill is crested, and the gap ahead remains the same. There’s a brief lull, and then more riders attempt to bridge. The WK and I continue to mark them. I’m pretty sure the KMII is dying a thousand deaths, but I also know he kind of enjoys that.

We cross the start/finish line. Two laps to go. Five kilometers to go.

The WK is in the wind, on front, 3-4 riders ahead. I see Talent pass by my right, and watch as he leans into the WK, briefly throwing him off his line, and then watch him try and another attack.

I call him a something that my mother wouldn't approve of, and chase. The WK does the same. We catch him, and I see the WK grab him by the scruff of the neck. I roll past, hearing the WK shouting, but not listening. We need to stay focused. There’s another surge, and I dig in to cover.

We cross the start/finish line. One lap to go. Two and a half kilometers to go.

The surges have died down. The peloton is racing for third place.

We enter the last sweeping turn before the long straight. I look up the road, the KMII and his companion are far ahead of us.

Less than half a lap. One kilometer to go.

Classy Cannonball

2010-04-29T14:36:00.005-05:00

Cannonball Cav captivates us with his charm and class, again.

Can't wait to see how the Banana Republic dental work turned out.

*follow up*

Apparently Cannonball row regrets his actions, what with the children watching and all.

*follow up 2*

Apparently insincere apologies only go so far.

A weekend of wining, dining, and training in the Ardenne (part I)

2010-04-26T10:44:00.003-05:00

For the past several years I've had the luxury of spending a late April weekend with a group of friends in the Ardennes. While the reason why we go is simple - to ride our bikes - there's also the added benefit of having a cook and a sommelier in our midst. This means that we tend to ride ourselves into the ground, then build ourselves back up with exquisite fare, only to drive ourselves back into the ground again, this time with wine. The next day we repeat the process. It's a joy.

As an added bonus, this year Liege-Bastogne-Liege was taking place while we were there. I was almost giddy with the thought of seeing two monuments within weeks of one another.

Who would have ever imagined that a once in 100 years event would almost get in the way? Certainly not me, but that's what almost happened. Long story short: I found myself in Spain when European airspace was shut down thanks to Bjork, only managing to get back the evening before our departure.

After the usual 4+ hour drive, including the required traffic jams through Maastricht, we arrived in the sunny Ardennes.

We chose our rooms...

Fixed flats.

Unpacked morning provisions.

Evening provisions.

And in-between provisions.

Then it was time to start preparing our meal.

Our dinner (Papaya salad, steamed rice, and Shrimp in red curry).

Our desert (coconut custard with mixed fruit and roasted coconut).

The following morning we set off on rough roads, in 20°C weather.

Unfortunately there was a wheel touching incident 15 minutes into the ride, which meant two from our group of eight had to call it a day, before it had even begun.

After that inauspicious start we found ourselves traversing the Route Buissonniere once again.

We had to walk through part of it, thanks to a Goth festival in one of the villages along the route.

After 5+ hours, and 2300 meters of climbing, we were done and dusted.

Back to the house to put our feet up, and rehydrate.

Once that was done, we got started on dinner.

Before that, there was some bubbles from Moldavia.

And amusen from Mokum, followed shortly by...

Langostinos with leeks.

Beef Wellington with Turnips.

And an orange chocolate mouse with a mosaic of fruit, and passion fruit cream.

Every calorie was counted. Honest.

A weekend of wining, dining, and training in the Ardennes (part II)

2010-04-26T08:30:00.002-05:00

We woke up the next morning with sore legs, and a few sore heads, but to reasonably clear skies.

We ate breakfast, and over one last cup of coffee made our plan for the day: ride towards La Roche, and try to catch part of La Doyenne.

Sunday morning, quiet roads.

After 90+ minutes, we saw that we arrived on the course, about 20 minutes ahead of the race.

We followed the arrows.

Receiving the occasional cheer from friendly spectators, and the bored glances of team cars waiting for the peloton to pass.

After a long, shallow descent from Samrée to La Roche-en-Ardenne, we entered the city center.

It was full of history.

From Medieval.

To reasonably recent.

The arrows along the course took us to a small square, with a road leading to the ascent of Côte de la Roche-en-Ardenne.

We rode a few kilometers up the road, and chose a spot to watch the racers pass.

Seeing as this was still early in the race, there were no helicopters to announce the fast approaching break.

And there they are.

Followed shortly by an entourage of police, officials, traffic control, and press.

Five minutes and 20 seconds later, the chasing pleoton arrives.

And charges past.

After that I rode to the top.

Then descended back down to La Roche, to meet up with my friends for a snack.

After that, we rode back the way we came, trying to get there in time to see the last few hours on TV.

The return leg was without signs or fanfare, although - to the very observant eye - there was a special souvenir lying on the side of the road.

Part III: Dust in the Wind (Paris-Roubaix, Secteur Five)

2010-04-12T06:56:00.005-05:00

Word started getting round that Cancellara was tearing it up, all by himself. We saw a helicopter in the distance, and knew that he was getting close.

The Gendarmes arrive, paving the way on the pavé, on their Motorcross bikes.

The wump, wump, wump of the rotors draws near, the dust picking up off the ground.

And there's Spartacus, riding oh so nonchalantly, with his helmet tipped to the side.

The chase group follows 2+ minutes behind.

Roger Hammond on the front, doing his bit for the Mighty Thor.

Tommeke, Tommeke, Tommeke...

Chasing the chase.

Chasing the chase of the chase.

And like that, it's all over. The crowd departs.

The real race is up the road, for the remaining riders it's a race to the showers.

Or a race away from la voiture balai.

Part II: Dust in the Wind (Paris-Roubaix, Secteur Five)

2010-04-12T06:34:00.005-05:00

To avoid some of the wind that was whipping around, we made camp alongside a building near the start of the secteur, and had a small picnic. With no TV nearby, I found myself reluctantly checking what was happening with the race on my iphone. God knows what my phone bill will be like. In the mean time, the Under 23 race was approaching.

In the distance, just before Camphin-en-Pévèle, a lone rider off the front.

The cobbles await.

There he is.

Early signs of the dust bowl to be.

In hot pursuit.

The rest of the main peloton.

Chase.

Once the U23s were gone, there was a lull. Nothing to do but wait for the caravan, and then the main event.

Enough time for a leisurely ride.

To sit in the sun.

Or get some work done.

I decided to head back to the corner of the secteur.

It would be windy (oh it was), and probably colder (that too), but it would probably be the best place to see the action (you can decide).

It proved to be a popular spot, drawing in a wide variety of fans, from all generations.

New.

New(ish)

And old.

Eventually the caravan arrived.

Tossing out (amongst other things) candy, cotton hats, shopping bags, inflatable 'bats', and flags.

Into the Lions den.

Part I: Dust in the Wind (Paris-Roubaix, Secteur Five)

2010-04-12T05:43:00.006-05:00

After last years amazing experience of beer, bratwurst, and pavé, the friends who brought me to see Paris-Roubaix decided to return for another visit to the Hell of the North. The previous trip was a last minute affair. Regardless, somehow we managed to find ourselves at a near perfect spot, filled with atmosphere, and even more importantly: live TV coverage of the race.

Initially our plan was to return to secteurs 4 & 3 at the Carredefour l'Arbe and Gruson. Unfortunately an overreaction bu the mayor of Gruson to some obnoxious supporters along the Carredefour ruled that out. No beer, no fun. At least that was the decision of one of my hosts. So, a decision was made. We were to stay in the area, but in a quieter zone, namely that of secteur 5, at Camphin-en-Pévèle.

Less crowds, more pavé, a lot more wind, and even more dust, but if you brought it, you could drink a beer.

Enough talk, on with the pictures.

I caught an early train to Gent, where I was picked up by friends, to make the drive down to France. GPS's being what they are, we accidentally found ourselves driving through the streets of Tourcoing and Roubiax when we should have been on the highway.

At one point I thought I recognized where we were, then I saw why.

Eventually we arrived, and after a pintje, we followed the paint on the road to the cobbles.

The end of secteur 5. Before crossing under the marker, we were asked to 'respect the pavé, and walk on the side of the road.' Honest.

I think the cobbles have put up with sterner stuff than me.

Flemish flags abound.

With a Brit mixed into the batch.

Signs, pointing out the corner on secteur 5.

The corner.

Early birds and more flags.

Big Brother comes to Sky

2010-03-31T07:59:00.006-05:00

I thought it couldn’t get any gimmickier than four years ago the Discovery channel, having just lost their golden boy to retirement, came out with a program called Race to Replace. Apparently Team Sky found some inspiration, because it was reported today that the directors have passed the buck of team selection for the Tour de France squad on to the riders, who will choose amongst themselves which lucky ones get to fill the nine slots.

The question is, what will the catch word be when the various riders get the knock back: you’re fired; Auf Wiedersehen; shut it down, turn it off, get out, and fcuk off out of my kitchen... ?

Just remember boys, you’re there to race, not to make friends.

Round

2010-03-29T09:10:00.009-05:00

Round and around
Around, around, round, round
Mushrooms on the horizon
Mushrooms on the horizon

Round and around
Around, around, round, round (repeat)
- John Lydon

Too lazy to ride an extra 10-15 kilometers, to ‘play away’ and race at yet another Kampioenschap van Whatever. Instead, I chose to ride an easy hour and a half, and then ‘play at home’ at the usual spot.

I meander along, at a leisurely pace, into the wind. Taking in the familiar sights of meerkoeten, windmills, and runways. Eventually I turn around, and head to the race. With the tailwind, I think I should be fine. I watch a group of weekend warriors pass. No rush. I let go on.

A few minutes later a scooter appears. He’s not going fast, and it’s some shelter from the side winds, so I jump on. Sore legs. Apparently I haven’t fully recovered from the previous two sessions of riding behind a scooter, courtesy of the KMII and his girlfriend, earlier in the week. Considering how hard those days were, I’m not surprised. Both times on the same course that I was racing today, that I raced last week, that I raced two weeks ago.

OK. The legs aren’t feeling great. Or, to be more specific, much like the route for today’s race, they weren’t fresh. Still better than riding those extra 10-15 kilometers to race the Kampioenschap van Whatever.

I arrive with more than enough time to sign in, and have a snack. Pinning on my number I look around the clubhouse, and out of the windows. Looks busy. I spot WK, FD, BB, and Thomas the Taxi – a super strong rider, who never seems to mind when I suck his wheel when he makes a blistering attack.

Two familiar faces also make their racing debut today. There’s the Professor, a friend and teammate. I’ve only seen him once since last season, and that was during one of the motor pacing sessions with the KMII. He's is an eccentric and infuriating talent, always complaining about his lack of form, usually after he’s torn your legs off. The other debutante is Banana Legs, who’s another friend and teammate. We’ve spent a lot of time training through the winter, but now that the season has started, our schedules have clashed, with him wanting to push it, when I want to rest. Hopefully today we’re on the same page.

On the first lap I do my usual form test, and confirm that indeed my legs are sore. What’s somewhat strange, or perhaps not strange at all, is that while they may be sore, I’m not having any problems keeping near the front, or jumping in the initial flurry of attacks. I tell myself trying to calm down. To chose my moments wisely. There are only so many matches to burn. Even if my sore legs are faster than expected. I stay close to the front. Ebbing and flowing with the pulse of peloton.

Several laps pass. I notice BB sauntering by, about 300-350 meters before the start/finish line. I look at his cassette, and know that it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to grab his wheel, so I do. He accelerates. I jump, sprint actually, attempting to catch his wheel. It’s almost there. Almost there. Almost there. I have it.

He looks behind, then eases a little. I do the same, ride alongside, and say “no damage from two weeks ago?” I’m not 100% sure if he understands my poor Dutch.

While I wait for the answer, Thomas the Taxi rides past. I leapfrog from BB to TT, and then hold tight, as he shifts into a bigger gear and pulls us away. Meter by meter my sore legs burn. I contemplate letting go. I remind myself that as painful as this is, Tuesday, behind the scooter, was tougher. A flick of the elbow. My turn. I pull through, and immediately apologize: there’s no way I can maintain the same tempo. Honest. True to form, TT tells me not to worry about it, “help is on the way.” We exchange pulls, bumping over the irregular asphalt, and wait.

When we’re caught, the pace holds, ever so slightly, then the chain begins to turn. There are now 12-13 of us, including BB, FD, the Taxi, and unsurprisingly the Professor. I steal a glance behind, and see that we’re away.

We work well together, taking short pulls, then peeling off smoothly. Legs turning big gears, around and around. It hurts, but it’s manageable.

Only 22 more laps to go.

Round and around
Around, around, round, round
Mushrooms on the horizon
Mushrooms on the horizon

Round and around
Around, around, round, round (repeat)

KvA (Part III)

2010-03-26T07:03:00.002-05:00

I wake up hungry. It’s an oddly pleasant sensation, after an off season of indulgence. Which is why I decide to race when all I want to do is rest. Ride to eat. Dig in Deep. This is the time to push. To punish. There will be plenty of time to recover on Monday. Yes sir. With that in mind, I pull myself out of bed and prepare for my third and final KvA this weekend.

To be completely honest, racing is not the word to describe what I am planning on doing. Yes. I pay my money, pin on my number, and find myself standing on the line, yet again. I’m one of approximately 90 other riders, here at Sloten, on this windy Sunday afternoon. Race it was, but race I was not going to do. Even if I wanted to, I can’t.

I’m not alone. The WegKaptein is here as well. His plan, the same as mine; hang on, and hope to finish. If we don’t, that’s fine. This is training. We’re not the only gluttons for punishment: the Flying Doctor, and one of his teammates from yesterday’s break, are here. We chat about yesterday’s race, and what to expect from today. The FD suggests exercising caution in the beginning. Sage advice.

Andre, the Grand Poobha of the weekends events, sets us off on our journey of 32 laps around the 2.5km course. Habit dictates that I spring off the line. I’m not fast. Not at all. Still, for a few hundred meters I’m alone. I stop pedaling, and coast until the field rides alongside. The whir of aero wheels, and the buzz of conversation surround me. Ah, a nice start. I’m happy.

As we circle the course, I remember that I spotted the photographer from yesterday. He’s probably close to the start finish. Once again, vanity sends me forward. I move up, and I make a senseless attack, hoping the camera is set, and the lens is in focus. Sad, I know. Once again I’m caught. This time I can only here the whir of aero wheels.

The wind feels stronger today. Or maybe I’m weaker. One thing is for sure, the field is anything but weak. I see familiar faces and kits, of the local young guns, including BB, a rider for a Dutch pro development team. I’d been in a few breaks with him last year, where he toyed with us – in the friendliest of manners. If I had any ambitions today, I’d try and mark him. I’m sure I’m not the only one thinking that. With his orange, blue, and white team kit, unmistakable to all, he may as well have a spotlight on him.

On our second circuit, the pace picks up. On a long stretch of road, we string out, riding on the right edge of the road. Why don’t they shift left? There’s more than enough space? I think to myself, that if this is a taste of what’s to come, then today will not be a comfortable day on the bike. Then the pace eases. A bit.

We go through a sweeping turn, and I find myself on BBs wheel. Hmmm… Should I? Should I try and hang on, and see where it takes me? I think about it. I focus on my breathing. It’s OK. I focus on my legs. Not so OK. No. Today is training, not racing. Not even trying to race. That was yesterday. He moves forward. I stay where I am.

The field sweeps through the next gentle turn, on to the long stretch of straight road, where everyone rode the gutter. The mass of riders starts to stretch, and then they spread. Then I hear it: the familiar clatter of metal (carbon?) scraping the tarmac. Riders in front of me brake. I see a bike flying in the air. I brake, just in time. It misses me by 30 centimeters. Or did I miss it? Somehow I stay up, and try to regain my momentum.

I break my rule – never look at a crash – and glance to my right. I see a pile of arms, legs, bodies and bikes. At least that’s how I remember it now. In the midst of the pile I spot two things, BB is his orange and blue, and more significantly – the WegKaptein’s bike, lying on the road. I want to stop, to see if he’s OK, but I’m already in the midst of a group, chasing the peloton ahead.

The field has slowed down. They’re in neutral. I spend the next 3+ minutes preoccupied with thoughts about the WK. We circle back to the scene of the crash, and I see him, along with BB, and a few other riders, back on their bikes, ready to rejoin the race. Gluttons for punishment.

KvA (Part II)

2010-03-25T16:13:00.006-05:00

The burn in my legs, from the consolation sprint, is waning. I circle the course, cooling down. Or is that warming up? I have another race, and it’s starting soon. Very soon. So soon, that I see people lining up as I roll in.

I jump off of my bike, hand €2 euros over, refill my bottle, shove a muesli bar down my gob, take a quick ‘sanitation pause’ behind some bushes, then hop on to my bike, pushing my way through the riders I’ve just raced with, to get to the ones I’m about to race with.

I have just enough time to look over and spot my two teammates, Mr. Late the WegKaptein (road captain), and the Kop Man II (not to be confused with the original KM). They’re close, but not close enough. The plan is simple: help the KMII. All winter he’s been training like a man possessed, but during the early races, he’s been more preoccupied with training, rather than racing. The night before Late and I bombarded him with emails, pushing him to go for it, and pledging our support. The only problem is that his hip has been bothering him, and he wasn’t sounding his usual confident self.

Once we’re given the go to start, I ride alongside him, and ask how he feels, if he’s up for it. He smiles, and answers with the affirmative. I see that he’s riding his good bike, complete with aero wheels. It’s a positive sign.

I have no idea how my legs will fare after the previous race. Only one way to find out. I find myself riding towards the front of the field. Ouch. We pass the start/finish, and I drift back.

The peloton begins to string out into one long line. My burning legs express their displeasure. I’ve clearly dug deeper than I should have in the previous race. I’m somewhere in the middle. I look towards the front, and see the KMII riding comfortably. Meanwhile I’m digging deep, just trying to hold the wheel in front of me. If only my legs weren’t so sore. I’ll be alright. I think. I hope.

The pace eases. Just a bit. The pain subsides. Just a bit. I work my way up the field, close to KMII. I wonder where our third Musketeer is. He can’t be behind me. Can he? Nope. He’s up the road. I must have missed it. He’s in a break, with the rider who won this race last year. I’m impressed. More importantly, our plan is working.

The wind has picked up, the pace as well. Once again the field stretches out, in pursuit of the riders ahead. Another lap passes, and they’ve been reeled in. Once again, I move towards the front. A teammate from last years winner jumps. The WegKaptein shouts at me, telling me that it’s my turn. I jump. At least that’s what I try to do.

Somehow I managed to bridge up to the rider in white and baby blue. I’ve brought along company, which is fine by me. I drift back, and let the two (or was it three?) of them set the pace, while I recover. Our endeavor doesn’t last long. We’re caught within a kilometer.

As I drift back, I notice that the KMII is riding near the front. I want to try again, which is what I would normally, stupidly, try to do. Thing is, I don’t have the legs.

A counter attack is launched, and I see the WegKaptein cover it. It’s over as soon as its begun. I notice that I'm drifting further back back. I slowly start moving forward.

Then it happens. From where I am, it's not entirely clear what's happening ahead. It appears that last years winner jumps, along with another favorite. The pace picks up. I’m in self preservation mode, doing what I have to do to hang on. Fortunately it’s only a brief surge. The pace drops. The pointy end of the peloton dulls. I look for the KMII. He's not with us, he's up the road. The break is away.

What follows is somewhat boring. Last years winner’s teammates (all 10, 15, too many of them) disrupt whatever chase there might be. For a while the WegKaptein tries to keep the pace high “to try an keep them within sight.” I suggest we do the opposite. After all the KMII is in the break.

We’ve done what we wanted to do. Now it’s up to him. He will not disappoint.

KvA (Part I)

2010-03-17T06:13:00.006-05:00

Photograph courtesy of Kristel Nijssen

The early morning sunshine, with its promise of all that is good, was gone. Not a surprise. Disappointing, but it was dry, which was still better than expected.

The atmosphere in the club house was jovial, with well over a hundred wily vets, preparing to race. Some of us hadn’t seen each other since the previous Fall, and caught up with the usual small talk, about the weight we had gained, the new equipment we had obtained, and the limited time to train. Nothing has changed.

I warm up for a few laps, discuss my lack of form with the Flying Doctor, who I know is one of the people to keep an eye out for, if only my legs could follow suit.

I take my customary sanitation pause, then ride up to the line. The Flying Doctor asks me if I’m up for it, and I give my prepared excuse: I’m going to ride conservatively, because I want to help a teammate in the following race. Honest. Really.

The race starts. I jump off the front. I’m not going fast. Neither is the peloton. We circle the 2.5km course, and the pace picks up. There’s a photographer out there today, so I try to get near the front. It’s not easy, what with the size and quality of the field, coupled with the wind. I manage to get there. More or less. Vanity triumphs. Hopefully he obliged.

The attacks begin. I remind myself that today is more about training than racing, and I have plans for later in the day. I ride near the front, but merely to watch. I see the Flying Doctor ride off. He’s with a few other riders, at least one of them a teammate. Another one of his teammates comes past, and I contemplate jumping on his wheel. No. Shouldn’t do it. Have to save myself.

Knowing that Flick is on me wheel provides me with the perfect excuse to not even try and join the possible break. I'm not going to do him any favors. The fact that the race had only just started has nothing to do with it. Nope. Nope at all. OK. Maybe a little. Maybe a lot.

What follows is uninspiring fare. The break of five, including the FD and two of his teammates, dangle in front of us at 30-45 seconds for most of the race. At one point I thought we were close to pulling them in, then I realize that the peloton has been reduced to a group of 20 to 30 riders. I see a car come on to the course, which usually means there’s been a crash. By the time we pass it, I see one of the FD’s teammates, holding on, his chain broken. Victory denied.

We enter our last lap, and the build up for the consolation sprint begins. I get out of the saddle and wind it up. Kind of. Have to save a little for the next race. Right?

Race Report Routines

2010-03-17T05:29:00.003-05:00

Some people like to read race reports. I tend to think that unless you're someone who can actually write well, or if something special happens, they all sound the same. Like an interview with a celebrity, the facts may vary, but the substance, or lack there of, is the same: yada, yada, yada. fast. yada, yada, yada. hard. yada, yada, yada.

Having gotten that off my chest, I will shortly share with you, dear readers, some moments from the past weekend, where I entered three races. All of them on the same course.

Do you see where I’m coming from now?

1,001 words about my first race of 2010

2010-02-28T04:43:00.000-05:00

Gritty.

Updated Homage

2010-02-22T07:09:00.005-05:00

Scan art history, and you'll see plenty of works inspired by bicycles and cyclists, from Boccioni, Calder, Hopper, Picasso, Hirst, and on, and on.

Perhaps the most famous work of 'bicycle art' is Marcel Duchamp's assisted readymade Bicycle Wheel. Even your average philistine racer/cycling enthusiast knows this work, even if they don't know it's art.

The piece is simple: it's a an upside down steel fork, with wheel (sans tire), inserted into the seat of a wooden stool. Give the wheel a turn, and enjoy. Duchamp likened it to looking watching the flames of a fire. These days, if you attempt to turn the wheel of the 1951 recreation of the original 1913 original, you'll get a reprimand from the guards at MOMA.

Never fear, you can now spin without worry. An artist (whose name I failed to discover, perhaps the media sensation of the fair?) has updated Duchamp's wheel. This time it's an aluminum stool, a carbon fiber fork (made by Pro), with a disc wheel, and a tubular tire. My initial impression was that it was a clever update, but the details (like the choice of an Ultegra hub) took some of the shine away. I won't even comment on what looks to be inspired by early Kieth Haring subway ad drawings graphic on the disc).

In case you didn't find yourself in Madrid last week, and want to look at the 'flames', here's hoping this suffices.

Winter Training Distilled to One Image

2010-02-10T09:28:00.002-05:00

Commercial Appeal (Man Power)

2010-02-01T08:31:00.003-05:00

OK. It's true. This commercial may not wuite be un to the standards of last years Stella ad. Nor is it as on the mark as the Hapklaar spot. It definitely surpasses Keanu's Coca-Cola plug.

But.. but, considering what the weather has been like recently, and the fact that I've picked up a few, probably more, off season souvenir kilos thanks to the type of product it endorses, I had to include it.

Thanks goes to a certain grumpy cyclist in Binghampton for the tip.

16,073 Words about the Amsterdam Clubkampioenschappen Veldrijden*

2010-01-30T12:42:00.004-05:00

Even the volunteers at sign in are required to wear helmets.

The boys from the 'burbs crowd the line.

The boys in black, hang out in the back...

...and chew the fat.

Off they go.

Some race.

Others chase.

Or nearly fall on their face.

But only one person will remain in first place.

The long view.

The aftermath.

WTC Flowers (Juniors)

WTC Flowers (Seniors)

WVA Flowers

Gaul Flowers

*translation: Club championship Cylco-cross/Mountain Bike.

Davis Phinney's Biceps

2010-01-10T10:06:00.004-05:00

When people hear the name Davis Phinney, they think of that crash, Connie, Taylor, 7-11, and recently the fight.

Me? I think of all of those, but in the end i still marvel at his biceps.

With that in mind, I present to you some additional photographs from the 1992 Fitchburg Longsjo Classic.

What not to wear (Team Sky)

2010-01-04T20:09:00.003-05:00

Oh boy.

The Adidas designers are back in the pro peloton.

After all of those years drawing up plans for pink and black jerseys, one would have hoped that they had learned something by now.

Apparently not.

As the Limeys would say: Black and Blue is the tits.

Old Old Young

2010-01-03T22:50:00.005-05:00

It's January.

The cycling world sleeps.

The diligent train.

The lazy gain weightt.

Me? I gain weight, and dig through old boxes of pics.

On that note, some images I took at the 1992 Fitchburg Longsjo Classic, of a young triathlete turned cyclist, from Plano, Texas who was training for the Barcelona Olympics.

Big Tex beats Steven Swart at the line at the Fitchburg circuit race. Damn, that was a wall and a half.

Big Tex, presented to the public before the final crit.

Radioshack (The Next Generation)

2009-12-10T14:13:00.000-05:00

Commerical Appeal (Retro Rapha)

2009-12-06T16:15:00.006-05:00

OK. I admit it. This isn't a commercial for Rapha. It's not even a commercial.

These are some clips from A Day Out, the Alan Bennet penned, Stephen Frears directed, BBC short, circa 1972.

Black & White, tweed, facial hair, wool caps, cobbled roads, steel bikes ridden at a mind numbing leisurely pace... can you blame me for thinking it was a Rapha ad?

It's a Rad World

2009-11-24T15:04:00.001-05:00

T-Shirt Time Capsule

2009-11-05T11:03:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I was bored and curious, so I did what everyone with a computer does when they're bored and curious - I started googling. What was I googling, you may ask? The first race I ever did - the Durant's Downtown Danbury Criterium.

This is what I found:

Danbury Bicycle Races

Last year 500 bicyclers participated in the Downtown Danbury Criterium. This year, with nine races scheduled from 8 A.M. and 3 P.M. today, up to 900 participants are expected. No more than 100 cyclers are permitted to race at any one time.

The start and finish lines are on Main Street near the Public Library. Entry fees, due at the starting line, are $5 to $8 depending upon the age of the cyclist and length of the race. The course runs down Main Street onto White Street, Ives Street and Liberty Street, and back to Main Street.

Distances range from 10 to 50 laps; each lap is seven-tenths of a mile. The last race begins at 1 P.M., with awards ceremonies scheduled to begin around 2 P.M. Cash prizes of $10 to $60 will be awarded in numerous categories, including children, novice, United States Cycling Federation members and seniors.

No one will be permitted to race without a helmet. All involved downtown streets will be closed to traffic from 10 A.M. to 3 P.M.

Considering that my race lasted about a lap, I don't recall much from it. As a matter of fact, I really only remember two things. The first was that I was the only guy with toeclips. That was far from helpful, and a convenient excuse for the brevity of my race. The second thing was the t-shirt I got for signing up. For some reason (probably the color - florescent pink) I actually wore it for years.

Being a pack rat when it comes to t-shirts, I started to wonder what happened to it. After a recent move, i had access to boxes whose contents hadn't seen the light of day for years. I hoped to find that old t-shirt, if for no better reason than nostalgia. Unfortunately it was not meant to be.

Nope. No hot pink t shirt faded to a dull salmon, but to my surprise I did find a t-shirt from my second race, the Tour of Holland (New Jersey, not the Netherlands).

That one didn't go down much better than the first, but the toeclips were not to blame: the steep climb and a poor choice of gears on the other hand... well, let's just say it was a memorable experience. The teal T-shirt, with its early desktop publishing font of choice - futura - may not have the clumsy caché of the Danbury shirt, but surprisingly it still fits.

What more could I ask for?

Hey Lance, where was the love for Kenny Scharf?

2009-11-03T08:15:00.006-05:00

I have to admit that Lance Armstrong's custom bike paint jobs have always left me somewhat dubious. If I wanted to be cynical, then I could point out how the whole project isn't very far off of Chicago's Cow parade, and all of the imitations that have come since. The one thing that has kept me being a complete cynic has been Armstrong's palpable pleasure in the creations by the chosen artists and designers.

The report from the Sotheby's auction "It's about the bike" has come in, and with some interesting results.

Unsurprisingly, the butterfly adorned bike by YBA (perhaps MABA is more appropriate these days?) Damien Hirst fetched the highest price of $500,000. For all we know, Hirst and an anonymous investor group bought the bike back. It wouldn't be a first. A distant 2nd to Hirst, was the considerably more understated bike by Japanese artist Yoshitomo Nara, which went for $200,000. In third place comes street artist, turned hipster entrepreneur KAWS, who's surprisingly elegant design brought in $160,000.

Perhaps the biggest surprise - to me - was the fact that the Trek Project 1 bike, created when Armstrong announced his comeback from retirement, hauled in $130,000. Unlike the other bikes, this one was created by a group of anonymous designers, as opposed to a group of anonymous designers working for a famous artist and/or designer. Then again, the bike has a good story.

I had expected the fussy and frilly bike done by street artist turned copyright infringer Shepard Fairey, to bring in a bit more than the $110,000. I guess that's what happens when you let yourself get over exposed? Maybe he should have asked Damien Hirst for some suggestions?

The $110,000, that the shiny black bike created by designer Mark Newson, brought in was also slightly lower than I anticipated. especially considering how high his work soared not so long ago. Then again, I haven't followed his market value for a while.

So, a night of surprises. That is, apart from poor old Kenny Scharf. I've never been a big fan of his bubble gum pop art. Too slick, trick, shiny. All gloss, no glory. That said, this time he came up with a reasonably attractive and - for him - understated design. Perahaps too understated, because his creation only managed to bring in a 'meager' $45,000. Poor guy.

Commercial Appeal (Fredelcious Beer)

2009-10-22T15:44:00.000-05:00

What did he say? That would be telling.

Commercial Appeal (touring)

2009-10-05T12:54:00.002-05:00

Once again the Dutch provide a commercial with a cycling involved. This one, for a mobile phone sim card, is quite simple: a guy, taking a break from his cycling tour, calling back home. Enjoy.

Ball Busting Bikers

2009-09-30T11:18:00.002-05:00

Some people say bike racing is for losers. Ha. They never heard of Cycle Ball.

Commercial Appeal (Ik ben Leontien)

2009-09-23T15:15:00.003-05:00

The latest commercial with cycling and/or a cyclist popping up. Considering that the commercial is for energy company Eneco, who happen to sponsor the Eneco Tour, it shouldn't be a hug surprise that they choose legendary Leontien van Moorsel as their star.

As far as commercials go, this one isn't very interesting, or funny for that matter. The highest marks I can give it is for its nod to Spartacus. Can't win them all.

Then again, it leaves me to wonder if I actually met the real Leontien?

Bunnyhopping the Bandwagon

2009-09-18T09:53:00.000-05:00

http://twitter.com/myshavedlegs

You've been made aware.

Chava

2009-09-17T10:34:00.002-05:00

While watching today's coverage of the Vuelta, I spotted a someone standing on te side of the road, holding a sign that read "Siempre Chava", as in José María Jiménez. Considering that the stage was finishing in Ávila, the hometown of Jiménez, as well as his brother-in-law Carlos Sastre.

At risk of getting sentimental about yet another Iberian climber, I thought I found myself digging around youtube to see if there were any videos worth posting. This is probably the best, although I'll never understand why people feel compelled to add cheesy music to cycling footage. I blame Phil Ligget.

Hold the Mayo

2009-09-15T09:51:00.012-05:00

It’s difficult to believe that six years have passed since Iban Mayo put his name on the map, so to speak. On the 20th virage of Alpe d’Huez, to be specific. Moments after an early attack by Joseba Beloki was reeled in by Lance Armstrong, Mayo stormed off on his own, with a little over 7 kms to go to the top of Alpe d’Huez, winning by 1’45”. After that he had the hopes and aspirations of Basque cycling fans planted firmly on his narrow shoulders.

I still remember how excited a friend of mine from San Sebastian was, with his talk of the next Basque Tour winner. I can also remember how he made lycra shoe covers, orange kits, and Orbeas seem cool.

image courtesy Christian Gianti

After shattering the record for ascending the Ventoux the month before, Mayo started the 2004 Tour as a clear threat to Armstrong. That threat never made it past the third stage, where Mayo crashed on the cobbles of northern France, and then proceeded to lose almost 4' to the favorites, and another 1’30” to Armstrong in the Team Time Trial the following day.

What was to be a coronation in the Pyrenees, with thousands upon thousands of Orange clad Basque fans lining the road, turned out to be a wash, with Mayo attempting to abandon on the second day in the mountains, only to be talked out of it. My friend, who was one of those thousands, had to solace himself in watching his compatriots jeer Armstrong and Basso, as he waiting for Mayo to ride by over half an hour later.

After the 2004 Tour, Mayo floundered, riding an anonymous Tour in 2005, to finish 60^th overall. The following year, he hinted at a comeback when he won a stage at Dauphiné Libéré, during his build up for the Tour. That brief spark of his past genius failed to materialize at the Tour. Once again, he rode anonymously. The only memorable moment being the footage of his attempt abandon discretely. Thanks to a cameraman, who would ignore Mayo’s pleas to leave him alone, he couldn’t achieve that goal.

By the end of the year, Mayo would end his six year long association with Euskatel Euskadi, opting go to Saunier Duval-Prodir and try yet another comeback. Things seem to improve. Perhaps it was the change of venue. Perhaps it was the fact that his fiend, and mentor, Joxean Fernández Maxtin was part of the organization. In his year at Saunier Duval, Mayo would win a stage at the Giro, then follow it up with a solid, if unspectacular 16^th place in the Tour.

Whatever hopes he had of building on his comeback were put to the wayside by a positive test for EPO. When the B sample resulted in an inconclusive result, the UCI had the B sample re-tested (to get their desired result?). To some (many?) it appeared that the UCI had a vendetta.

Mayo received a two year ban, which ended this summer. On Sunday, Mayo announced in the Spanish paper El Correo that there would be no more comebacks. Pity.

Agur Iban, and Gora, Gora, Gora.

Nevermind the Kraftwerk, Here comes the Gasoline

2009-09-14T11:27:00.004-05:00

In a land that is rich in cycling talent, but shockingly poor in musical talent, it shouldn't come as a surprise that a band has released a song in honor of a cyclist. Yet it has. At least to me, until I discovered the story behind the song.

It turns out that Koos Morenhout is a big fan of the Dutch band, The Gasoline Brothers. He liked them so much, he plugged them on his twitter account, which lead to the band's popularity spreading in the professional peloton. One thing lead to another, and the band promised to write a song for him if he won the Dutch Championships.

With an incentive like that, how could Koosje not win? By the end of August, a single called There it goes (for Koos), was released, and has since become the thing of tabloids and blogs throughout the lowlands, and has even had its share of viral marketing at the Vuelta.

Enjoy.

Do what I say, not what I do

2009-09-06T15:11:00.006-05:00

After a month off from racing, I found myself in a breakaway with +/-15 riders yesterday. How I got there, I’m still not sure. I suspect that it had something to do with one particular rider, tearing it up for two laps, and in the process shedding the peloton.

Once the gap was established, our group worked well, eventually lapping the field on the 2.5km course.

I hate when that happens. There’s always some lapped joker trying to jump in, and/or the final sprint gets all screwed up when lapped riders mix in. It drives me insane.

With a lap to go for the Masters (it was a mixed race) I rode off with one of my breakaway companions. We dangled off the front for half of a lap, until we realized it was pointless to continue.

As soon as we were caught the field slowed. Everyone soft pedaled. Lapped riders, marking each other. Pointless. That's when one of the lapped riders jumped.

I watched. There was no rush. I only had to mark my fellow break companions, one of which started to reel him in. The moment that the lapped rider saw a chase, he sat up.

I rode up to him and shouted "you've got to believe in yourself", and smiled. That's when - for some reason – I looked behind, and saw a gap. Everyone was still marking each other. I thought, ever so briefly, about what I had just said. What was the worst that I could finish, 4th?

I shifted into a bigger gear. There was 900, 800, 700 meters to go? Don’t think, do. Believe in your self.

I looked over my shoulders. The gap had grown.

I hit the main obstacle of the course, a viaduct with a short, sharp hill. As I crested it, I turned to look. I thought to myself “you’ve got to believe in yourself.” The gap was still there.

As the road dipped, I shifted again. 500 meters to go. I looked briefly at my speed, not that it mattered. My legs were burning. I tried to believe in myself.

400 meters to go. Believe in yourself.

300 meters to go. Don’t look. Believe in yourself.

250 meters to go.

200 meters to go.

150 meters to go. It doesn’t matter. I look. The gap remains.

100 meters to go, and I get out of the saddle and squeeze out whatever energy I have left.

50 meters to go.

30 meters to go.

10…

I cross the line, and look back. The gap is still there.

Hang the DJ

2009-07-26T16:45:00.002-05:00

You've just finished the most stressful race of your life, fighting back rivals and supposed teammates. All you want to do is kick back and celebrate, but before that there's a small ceremony, in front of thousands of live witnesses, and millions watching on TV. The culmination of which is towhen your your national anthem plays to the Parsian public.

Only one small problem, someone played the Der er et yndigt land, instead of the Marcha Real.

Whoops.

No Podium for You

2009-07-19T16:00:00.001-05:00

So say the Badger.

Chance encounters

2009-07-17T05:20:00.002-05:00

It was warm, and slightly humid. At least warm and humid for Amsterdam.

I decide to go for a short ride, out to the Ronde Hoep. Nice and easy. No helmet, just sunglasses and cap. Since the sun was out, I put some oil on my legs, hoping to catch some extra tan. In short - i was being a big poseur.

Until two weeks ago, it was only took a hop, skip, and a jump to get out of town. Now I'm in the center, and have to go across town. While it takes more time, and can be a pain with all of the red lights, i prefer it. It reminds me that i'm living in a city (or something like a city).

Anyway, I'm making my way to the Amstel, and I pass a woman, wearing a green dress, and a black shirt. something about the profile that i catch out of the corner of my eye seems familiar.

I turn, and realize who it is.

Hala, I shout.

Who's that?, she asks.

Then she realizes it's me, and tells me that she's just back from seeing our mutual friend - which is how we know each other - in London.

Then I realize that I'm in my bike clothes, and suddenly become too self conscious for my own good. We exchange a few pleasantries, and I say goodbye.

After all of these years, you'd think I'd have gotten over that. Maybe it was the oil on the legs?

Rest day = Jury day.

2009-07-13T16:34:00.003-05:00

Monday, July 13th. Rest day at the Tour de France.

As it happens, it's also a rest day for yours truly. What's a boy to do on his rest day? Help out wit the sign in and whatnot at his local training race.

Andre, the man who makes it all happen.

Rene and Floris, doing their thing for our thing.

Fashion faux pas.

'Koersen.'

Flashback '99

2009-07-04T04:18:00.002-05:00

It's a little difficult to believe that this was the issue of Cycle Sport that was on the shelves ten years ago.

The End

2009-06-27T14:07:00.000-05:00

Civilization means...

2009-06-26T16:55:00.000-05:00

civic service.

Shot at 2009-06-25

The things you say...

2009-06-15T04:25:00.004-05:00

When I'm racing, I'm one of those talkers. I don't mean an 'on your left' type of talker. I don't even mean a 'hold your line' kind of talker, although I've been known to shout that. Nope. I mean a Tourette's, mixed with some attempts at humor thrown in, kind of talker.

Try as I might, I can't hide my frustration with the way certain people ride. I've been known to shout to the peloton, after just being reeled back from a break, that it was some one's turn to counterattack. I've been known to call a badly organized break a group of prutsers. I've also been known to address riders in very direct language. That said, I try and save it only for the appropriate situations, and/or for people who really need it.

If I'm not digging too deep, I'll address my colleagues in Dutch. This usually lasts for the first 10-15 minutes of a race. After that, I'd guess that most of what I say is lost on my fellow racers. Mostly because it's in English, or in heavily accented Dutch, or a mix of the two. Considering some of the things that I say, perhaps it's a good thing that there's a language barrier.

That said, while I generally never remember my stream of conscious rants, sometimes some people do. On Saturday a guy came up to me and asked what I had said at a training race the week before. I had no clue what he meant, and muttered "I said a lot of things", which was true. When he elaborated, and told me when I said it, I knew what he meant.

Apparently it struck a cord, because he was one of 5-6 guys (who were racing in the 50+ category in a mixed cat training race) who asked me about it.

What did I say?

This: "een bidon van viagra voor de winnar", which translates as "a bottle of viagra for the winner." I've never seen a pack of 50 plus racers sprint so fast.

Le Professeur

2009-06-12T07:39:00.003-05:00

The recent news of Laurent Fignon's battle with cancer comes as shock. Like many cycling fans from the US, he will always be linked to the 1989 Tour de France. That is a pity, especially when you take into account his career as a whole ( including 2 Tour victories, one Giro de Italia, and twice at Milano - San Remo).

Let's hope that Fignon fights his disease as tenaciously as he did his competition. On that note, I present a short clip of Fignon's last professional victory.

Time is on my side

2009-06-11T08:36:00.003-05:00

No matter where you go, there you are

Buckaroo Bonzai.

I’ve often been asked what it’s like riding in Europe, and if it was much different than the US. I could go on about the cultural differences, or the differences of type of races, or style of racing... but I don't. Nope. the biggest difference, to me, is that most of the people I ride and race with grew up with the sport.

While I can’t say the same, I have been riding for a while. Long enough to know what racing with toes clips and down tube shifters is like. I once even managed to race in a white patent leather Cinelli hairnet, but that was a one off in Belgium. Done mostly so I could say I did it. Sad I know. Old, but not ancient. That’s me, or so I’d like to think.

One of the benefits of age is experience. Granted, I’m not the ‘wily old vet’ I wish I was, but I’m not a babe in the woods either. At the very least, I can spot a good thing when I see it, which brings me to a race from this past weekend, where I found myself in a breakaway, with something like 14-15 other racers.

To those who don’t race, finding good breakaway companions can make for an easier race. At least that’s the theory. If things go according to plan, all you have to do is take your turn in the rotation, and everyone will be happy. This is what I attempted to do, sometimes more successfully than others. After all, I’m only human, and I’m not exactly a spring chicken.

As you may also know, if you spend enough time with breakaway companions, you tend to notice small things. It’s like being stuck in an elevator, or a sleeper car on a train, with strangers. Normally you check out the bikes they ride, the quirks of their pedaling technique, the fact that the stitching of their chamois has popped, etc.

On Saturday, the one thing about my breakaway companions that left an indelible impression was how young they appeared. It's difficult to keep your morale up when you're groveling on the wheel of a poster boy for clearasil. It's even tougher when you get called squirrely by a someone who's probably young enough to be your kid. It was only later, after the race, when I was able to check the results that I learned that there were a few who were born around the time I first applied for a racing license.

Old, but not ancient? Hmmm… Maybe, one of these days, I might even be able to call myself wily.

Flemish humor

2009-06-11T05:49:00.003-05:00

Not one of the four, but one of the one.

If you cab=n understand Dutch/Flemish you might get a laugh. If not, helaas pindakaas.

Return of the Flying Scotsman

2009-06-03T15:32:00.004-05:00

I noticed that Graeme Obree is back in the news, with another one of his contraptions. Obree, and his tale of ups and downs, always brings back memories.

Back in the Autumn of 1992, I moved from the East Village of NYC to Edinburgh, Scotland. Culture shock doesn't even begin to describe what I experienced. The one thing that helped me transition from a cosmopolitan, multicultural city with good weather and even better food, to a provincial capital (even if it happens to be a stunning capital) was cycling.

It didn't take long to meet folk who like to wear lycra, shave their legs, and dish out abuse to friends and foes who share the same passion. The one thing that struck me as odd, was the cover boy of Scottish Cycling, namely Graeme Obree.

Regardless of what he went on to do, the image on the cover of the SCU Handbook was the one of those "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas moments." I still wonder if I should have seen that as a sign, and caught the next flight back to the Big Apple.

Commercial Appeal (Spin the Sidi?)

2009-05-31T09:03:00.001-05:00

Lord only knows what Alberto Contador will do to the person the shoes stops at.

Black Cat, up!

2009-05-28T04:07:00.009-05:00

“A black cat crossing your path signifies that the animal is going somewhere.”

Groucho Marx

When it comes to cycling, I'm pretty superstitious. Just last week I shouted at a black cat, trying to scare it, as it attempted to cross the road. The cat ignored me, and scurried across my path. Fortunately nothing happened to me that day. Must have been my lucky charms.

Speaking of luck and superstition, I find myself wondering how superstitious Topsport Vlaanderen rider Ben Hermans is? I hope not very, but seeing as he 's a professional cyclist, my guess is that he is. If so, I hope someone lit some candles for him last night. He's going to need it after what happened in yesterday's first stage of the Ronde van Belgie.

Warning - if you're a cat lover, this may be a little difficult to watch.

This just in!

Sporza is reporting that a family in the village where the cat was run over, reported that they had 9 cats, and one of them didn't come home last night. The cat, whose name was Zorro, was found dead on the side of the road. After reporting the details of the deceased feline, Karl Van Nieuwkerke and Michel Wuyts paused for a minute of silence, in memory of Zorro.

This just in (continued)

"The animal probably didn't survive. I heard the spine cracking. Pity, but I couldn't avoid the cat. Luckily I didn't crash," said Hermans.

SRC (Côtes La Redoute, take 3)

2009-05-26T08:43:00.012-05:00

Shot at 2009-05-26

“There is no terror in a bang, only in the anticipation of it” Alfred Hitchcok

The alarm clock wakes me at 4:30AM. Ridiculously early. This is the time I should be coming home, not going out, but less than an hour later, out I go. It’s a twenty-minute journey to my ride to Maastricht. For once I’m not the last to arrive. We pack our bikes into the car, and squeeze into the seats. If all goes according to plan, in a little over five hours I will finish something I started 11 years ago.

As we make our way south, we note that we are not alone. Every other car has a racing bike on the roof, or the trunk, or inside. It’s a procession, the Ascension procession, better known as the Steven Rooks Classic.

We chat idly. As we pass all of the bicycle adorned cars, we critique the various bikes on view. Assessing the set ups, laughing at some paint jobs, wowed by others. The closer we get to Maastricht, the more bikes we spot, until two hours later we hit a small traffic jam, almost a kilometer long line of cars, all taking the same exit, all about to ride. We’ve arrived.

Bikes unpacked and put together; clothes changed; money exchanged, timing chip collected, and we’re off. In eight eighty kilometers I will finally, finally have my chance to climb the climb, that I’ve twice attempted, and twice failed to climb. Côte de la Redoute here I come.

The roads bottleneck with riders making their way south. Direction Liege. A small group passes us, recognizing them I jump on, and chat briefly with one of them. We pass a few groups, and then I realize that my friends are a few hundred meters behind. They’ve chosen for a gentle pace. Gentler than I prefer, but friends are friends, so I slow down and wait.

I see an older woman standing on the side of the road, and say “bon jour.” She replies with a “goedemorgen.” We’re still in the Netherlands.

After twenty plus kilometers of flat roads, and congested bike paths, the peloton parts. A right for the shorter course, cross the road, and swing left up the hill for the longer. A chorus of clicks and clunks accompany the symphony of shifts: the climbing has begun. Easy now.

I take off my vest and arm warmers, and pull a fruit bar out of my pocket.

Up, down, left, right, eat, drink, straight, wait.

Thirty-two kilometers into the ride we hit the first feed, fill our bottles and wait for the rest of the group to catch us up. I notice that the rest stop is located at the entrance to a Canadian War cemetery, which I find slightly disconcerting.

Up, down, left, right, eat, drink, straight, wait.

I find myself thinking of my first attempt at riding the Redoute, and how I never even made it, waylaid by a broken finger and bad back. Standing on the side of the road, shouting encouragement, and giving a few pushes up hill, and learning the Dutch term for “Ik hoef ‘et niet” from a cyclist with more pride than legs, ended up being my experience of the Redoute that day.

Up, down, left, right, eat, drink, straight, wait.

We ride through a small town, where the streets are paved with cobbles. I remember these cobble from two years ago. Back then it was raining, rendering the smooth cobbles slick. So slick, that I almost fell over, as I kept my pace slow, in my vain attempt at getting traction. Today it’s dry, and I notice that it’s a beautiful place, worth coming back for a visit I think to myself.

It’s a dash of the Ronde in Wallonia. Later in the day, I’ll have a dose of the Kemmelberg, when I find myself descending on some more cobbles. The riders in front of me slow down, and pedal gingerly. I grow impatient, and bounce along past them, through the arch, and up the hill.

Up, down, left, right, eat, drink, straight, wait.

I see a group of riders up the road. As I approach, it appears that there’s one rider at the front, and about ten behind. Their pace is moderate at best. As I ride past, I see that the rider on the front is a woman, and her bibs are so worn out, that they’re transparent. The men on her wheel seem to be enjoying the show.

Later, on one of the climbs – the Trasenster? – I will see another woman, riding a brisk pace up hill. Something doesn’t look quite right, until I realize that from below the knee she has a prosthetic right leg. I want to say complimenti, or chapeau, or keurig, but don’t. It may come across as patronizing, which is not my intention.

Up, down, left, right, eat, drink, straight, wait. Go.

With the ups and downs, and for that matter, the all arounds, our group has split up. We’ll meet again. I know where, I know when. Yes, at the top. The top of the Redoute.

I’m with the climber of our group. He’s been looking forward to today. After all, when you live in a country where a bridge is considered a high point, you don’t get many chances to show off your climbing prowess. I wish that the KM was here, because unlike our climber, he tends to ride an even tempo uphill. I can follow that. With the climber, it’s a classic climber's Yo Yo tempo: in the saddle, then out of saddle, backwards, accelerate, back in the saddle, tempo, repeat.

I’ve lost tack of how many times I’ve blown up trying to follow his rhythm, so today I won’t even bother. I’ll catch him on the descents. He’s not bad at descending, but I’m better. At least I think I am. It’s not that I’m even very good at descending – after all, I don’t get many opportunities to practice.

The thing is, on these kinds of rides, I don’t trust the riders in front of me. Had we left earlier, and gone with the front riders it would have been different. That’s not the case. Due to our slow start, we’re amongst the weekend warriors.

This becomes clear when I find myself descending down a long straight road. I’m passing people, in a conservative tuck, at +/-65kph. I don’t need to go that fast, but then again, I could be going faster. That’s when I notice some riders moving suddenly to the right. As I find myself wondering what’s up, I spot a water bottle rolling in front of me. There’s no time to react. There’s not even enough time for my life to flash in front on me. I loosen my grip on my bars, and hope for the best. I hit the bottle, and bounce. Somehow I keep going. I shout at the riders for not giving a warning. A kilometer, or so later I spot a rider with one bottle, and call him a prutser.

Up, down, left, right, eat, drink, straight, wait, but not for long.

One of my friends started the day with a little piece of paper, with the length and percentages of each of the eleven climbs of the day. That was clever. I wish I were that clever. I only had one climb on my mind, and it wasn’t the Haute Desnie. I use the momentum of the previous descent to start up the base of the climb. A minute later the climber joins me, along with another one of our party of five. I opt for caution, and let the climber set the pace, sliding in behind his wheel. I’ll never learn.

To my surprise he’s steady. I hold his wheel, and we start passing riders. The road is wide, and I try not to look too far forward. Give me a serpentine climb any day of the week, but when I see long relentless climbs coming up I tend to crack. This time ignorance is bliss. The climber keeps the tempo. Much to my surprise he’s not getting out of his saddle. I focus a few bike lengths ahead of him.

We pass more riders. I note something up the road, is this the end? Must be. Climbs don’t last very long in the Ardennes. This one does. This one goes on, and on, and on. At least that’s how it feels. I briefly lose contact with his wheel, and another rider slips into his draft. I ride along, and place my hand on the Squatter’s hip, gently pushing him away. He doesn’t like it, but I don’t care. We pass more riders.

I look up. Ahead of us, the road is littered with riders, but I don’t see the top. I shout – to myself, to my company, to anyone who’s listening – when the f___ is the climb over? Nobody answers. That’s OK. It was a rhetorical question. The climber maintains a bearable tempo.

We pass more riders. The climber says something to me. It’s in English, but I don’t understand. That’s a bad sign. He never speaks to me in English. The last time I remember him doing that was when he dropped me on the Giau, two years ago. Against better judgment, I look up the road. I see what looks like the crest. We pass more riders. I see a line painted on the road. I ease up. The climber continues. I’ll catch him on the descent.

Up, down, left, right, eat, drink, straight, but I no longer have to wait.

The descent doesn’t last very long. At least I don’t remember much about it. I see a town in a valley. At least, I think I remember seeing as town in a valley. I see a sign – Remouchamps – that means one thing… the Redoute is near. We enter the city, and briefly ride alongside the Ambléve, before taking a right turn, followed by a left. We ride underneath the highway, and I see the graffiti from Liege-Bastogne-Liege’s past. The Redoute has begun. Easy Now.

A few thoughts on Feed Stations

2009-05-26T08:33:00.003-05:00

The feed on the top of the Redoute.

After witnessing some of these things first hand, a couple of things to keep in mind when there's a feed station at the top of a climb.

1. A feed station, next to the top of climb does not mean you should stop pedaling when you cross over the official timing strip. Not only is that inconsiderate to those behind you, chances are you'll get rammed from behind, and rightly so. Pedal through.

2. Don't be one of those idiots who takes their bike with them while lining up to collect water/food/etc. It's rude.

3. Make sure to get there early. Otherwise, people like me will drink all of your cans of Aquarius, and eat all of your Onbijtkoek.

Olympia goes Olympic

2009-05-20T03:39:00.006-05:00

Last night the Olympia's Tour kicked off with an 8 km long Team Time Trial, starting and ending at the Olympisch Stadion Amsterdam. The race consists of a mix of developmental pro teams (Rabobank, Milram, Garmin), amateur teams from the Netherlands, Sweden, Denmark, and Norway, and a selection of the Belgian track team.

Seeing as you do't get many chances to see a high level of bike racing in Amsterdam, there was on;y one thing to do: hop on my town bike, and ride on down to watch.

I arrived fifteen minutes before the first team was to start.

Some teams were busy warming up...

... some were making their way to the start...

... and some were getting a feel for the first corner.

The TV motorcycle, poised for action.

Then it was show time.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1...

GO!

The Olympia Tour was underway, and the procession of teams commenced.

The wait at the start can have its toll.

A few words of advice, from a more experienced hand.

The Argyle boys arrive.

And depart.

Half of the Olympic track covered, and the teams exit the stadium.

10+ minutes later, the teams arrive.

Some squeezing every ounce of air from a last minute puncture before the...

Finish.

The fastest man across the line is interviewed, while the crowds wait.

To see the fastest team receive the customary kisses and flowers.

And the jerseys winners to be presented.

Creative Design

2009-05-14T11:14:00.002-05:00

There's nothing busier than a graphic designer, hard at work, designing the team kit for a small European team. Looks like whomever did the job for Diquigiovanni - Androni missed a chance or two to get some extra product placement in there.

Race Report (don't think, ride)

2009-05-11T06:47:00.002-05:00

After spending the previous 90 minutes trying to break free from the field, I give up trying with two laps to go. I find myself a good wheel and sit on. To my knowledge he’s a better sprinter than me, or at the very least he’s as good a sprinter as me. Good enough, not great, but someone I can beat. I think to myself - If things go to plan, I’ll have the perfect leadout.

Through the confusion ahead, I see a teammate just up the road. He’ll be caught, that much is sure. The question is when. The field strings out. It’s not a painful pace, just enough to keep any attacks at bay.

I see my teammate digging deep, trying to get aero. Not easy considering that he’s got to be a foot taller than me. He’s digging. We’re riding. I look behind, wondering where a rider in Green and Black is. I haven’t seen him for the entire race, but that seems to be his style, and judging by his results, it works.

We hit a long stretch of smooth pavement, and the rider on front slowly drags my teammate back. My wheel looks over his shoulder. I smile. My teammate digs, but to no avail. We catch him with a little under a kilometer and a half to go. I shout for him to jump on, but it’s too late.

There’s a small acceleration. I look behind, and see that we have a small gap. Nothing significant, but something. My wheel looks over his shoulder. Again. I smile. Again.

Someone jumps. My wheel? I think so. I can’t remember. Our gap widens, but it’s fools gold, so I remain firmly planted on my wheel. My wheel says something to me. I smile. The pace drops, and a mass of riders pass, I jump to latch on, but it’s over. I think.

Too many riders are in front of me. I won’t even make the top 10. That’s bike racing, better luck next time, next week will be different. As I crest the top of the short sharp ‘hill’ of the course, I see a flash of green and black go past. I dig. I dig deep. He’s gone. But I have momentum. I may as well use it. I shift into my biggest gear.

Meters ahead the field has slowed down. They’re getting cute, pausing before the sprint. Meanwhile Green and Black flies past them. I catch and ride past the main body of the field, on their right. There’s a rider, slightly further to the right, blocking my line.

For once I don’t think, I just ride. I squeeze through the gap, and jump with everything I have. Only 350 meters to go.

I can hear the jeers and yells at me as I focus on the green and black jersey just ahead. He’s getting closer. 300 meters to go.

My legs are burning, I want to sit in the saddle, but I force myself to stay up. 250 meters to go.

I look at my computer, and am surprised that I’m not losing momentum. He’s getting closer. I try to squeeze out whatever power I still have. 200 meters to go.

He’s getting closer. I dig deeper than I have in a sprint, for a long time. 150 meters to go.

He’s getting closer. I’m so focused on Green and Black, that I completely miss the fact that there’s another rider ahead of the both of us. 100 meters to go.

I keep my speed. So does Green and Black. Second place will be his. 50 meters to go.

I smile, and think to myself - wrong wheel, that’s bike racing, better luck next time, next week - and cross the line.

Commercial Appeal (Marco sings)

2009-05-10T08:04:00.003-05:00

After suffering a near career ending injury at the end of ther 1995 season, Marco Pantani had no choice but to sit out the 1996 Giro d'Italia. This wasn't just bad news for Pantani, but for the organizers of the Giro, seeing as Il Pirata was the golden boy of Italian cycling, and his absence would surely effect ratings.

Well, those Italians, they showed everyone that when life gives you lemons, you can make some lemonade. Capitalizing on ol' Marco's love of Kareoke, they invited him to sing a song for the bumper to the daily Giro coverage.

Herewith, I present Marco Pantani, singing "E adesso pedala."

57 words about Cycling

2009-05-09T14:47:00.002-05:00

apologies in advance to the ladies who may take offense.

Cycling is like the girlfriend you once had, who you knew was no good for you, yet you couldn't get out of your mind, always treated you like crap, but made up for it once in a blue moon with the ride of your life, leaving you sore in places you're embarrassed to tell your friends about.

.

Monocle Manga goes to Liege

2009-05-07T08:19:00.004-05:00

Thanks to a twitter tip off from a friend, I started listening to the Monocle Weekly podcasts a few months back. In case you’re not acquainted with the Monocle, it’s a magazine that covers 'global affairs, business, culture, fashion, and design.' For some unknown reason, until last week, I hadn’t actually gotten around to buying a copy of it.

When I did, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that they include a specially commissioned Manga every month, called Kita Koga, which is written and illustrated by Takanori Yasaka. What was even more surprising was the fact that the installment I had used the cycling world as it’s backdrop.

It shouldn't come as a great shock that the angle of the story is about drugs, or as the sub caption on the cover states "on the trail of a Belgian drug mule." The basic plot is that Kita Koga’s protagonist, Niels Wattanabe, is sent to Belgium by the Japanese government, to investigate an anonymous tip off about a drug ring. A professional cyclist is linked to the drug cartel, and the yarn that unfolds is “an intricate tale of competitive wrong-doing, fading careers, and athletic excellence.” It almost sounds like Astana or Rock Racing.

While the story leaves something to be desired from a cyclists point of view, and a little more research into the physiques of road cyclists would not have gone amiss, it was a welcome treat, with some fine bits of detailed draftsmanship, not to mention a plug for Luis Garneau. I wonder if the Monocle's Canadian editor Tyler Brûlé had something to do with that?

If only Liege looked so good in person.

Apparently the Devil is in the details.

Sport and Fashion

2009-05-06T03:38:00.006-05:00

Last month, I found myself strolling through the streets of Antwerp, which meant that a visit to w.a.l.t.e.r. had to be made. While I was perusing the latest offerings of Sofie D’Hoore, Dirk Van Saene, Bless, etc... I spotted a rack of suits that caught my eye.

These weren't suits in the conventional sense of the word, they were - for lack of a better description - skinsuits. One, in particular, caught my eye. It was a full length skinsuit, complete with fingers.

this can be yours for a mere €600.

I immediately thought of a certain Italian bike racer, who is no stranger to fashion. In fact, I wondered if Mr. Van Beirendock has been inspired by one of the most memorable garments in the history of cycling, namely the St. Bartholomew inspired skinsuit that Super Mario wore in the prologue of the 2001 Giro de Italia. Who knew?

Well, last night I was flipping channels, and who did I see on a Belgian chat show? None other than Walter Van Beirendonck himself. When they were glossing over his career, with footage from his student days with the Antwerp Six, at the Koninklijke Academie voor Schone Kunsten to the work that he did for U2 for their Popmart Tour in 1997.

I should have known better. Cycling is always late when it comes to fashion. Just look at all of the tattoos and mullets that have been popping up lately. At least Mario had style.