Thunderbirds are go?

With Silence-Lotto switching bike supplier from Ridley to Canyon this season, Evans came to Paris-Nice with the intention to get used to the new equipment, especially with regards to his time trial bike.
cyclingnews.com

I wonder if he named his bike Thunderbird 5?

Detours

I thought the body was the wierdest reason I'd ever have to take a detour. Maybe, maybe not. Years ago, during the inaugural NYC TA century, I found myself in the front group. While these kinds of rides are rides, and not races, at the time I didn’t know any better. We had been riding at a brisk pace, following the course markings, focused on getting to the finish in Union Square.

As weaved our way through van Cortland Park, in the Bronx, we came to a junction in the road that was blocked by yellow tape, with “police line do not cross” printed on it. Strange. A couple of riders promptly ducked under the tape, and continued riding. The rest of us followed suit, until we spotted a group of cops, about 30 meters ahead.

One of New York’s finest noticed that there was a group of 10-12 men in lycra riding through their crime scene, and told us in very direct language that we should find another way to Union Square. That’s when I noticed that the police were standing by a park bench, with a white sheet covering it. A white sheet, with a large red blotch seeping through it, I should add.

Now, call me unimaginative, but I never imagined I’d experience such a surreal detour again. Maybe, maybe not, which leads me to why I’m reminiscing about my own real life version of Law & Order.

Yesterday, I was out on the road with my old friend, the KM, riding a +/- 70 km loop, known as the Haarlemermeer. It’s nothing special, most of the time you ride along canals, the one thing that makes it slightly unique is that the route brings you past/around Schiphol.

As we rode a steady pace, I spotted a few faces from the race the day before. My legs were sore, but the company was good. It was a nice, albeit unremarkable ride. That was until we aproached two raod barriers, marked “No Pedestrians”, blocking the road ahead. I slowed, unsure of what to do. Meanwhile the KM continued on, riding between the barriers. Just as I was about to follow, I spotted a man jump out of a car. He was wearing a Neon yellow suit, with Verkeersregelaar printed on it. He shouted from the KM to stop, and the KM complied.

I soft pedal over to them, and listen as Neon man tells us that we can’t go down this route, while the KM points out that the sign said no pedestrians, not no bicycles. They banter for a bit. A few motorcycle cops come out of nowhere. The KM continues pointing out that the sign says nothing about bicycles, but there’s no way we’re going to be able to continue. I look up the road, and realize why. I can see, off in the distance, just off of the road, in a field, the ten day old wreckage of a Boeing 737.


photo source

Race Report (Sandbagging, bad timing, what to do?)

Race day.

Last day. February.

Bad timing. What to do?

Race and not watch, or Sandbag and watch? That was the question.

A smart man would not even think twice. He’d race. Yet your humble narrator, could not resist the temptation to watch the first big race of the year – the Omloop - on TV. So, a plan was devised. I hasten to add, not by me.

Four of us were to meet early; ride for an hour; turn up for the earlier, easier race, and hope that the organizers would understand our plight, and let us ride. Sounds simple enough, and surprisingly it was.

What to say about the race? Not much. I had no intention of racing it, per se. No. I was there to get some time on the saddle, and put in some efforts. One of my Gang of Four had other plans, and did his best to get away, which managed to, in a group of three. I moved myself up to the front of the group, and started soft pedaling.

Much to my surprise, everyone complied. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes later – I’m not sure, I wasn’t paying attention – the group was pulled in. A few laps later, another friend, Mr. Late, pulls alongside, and tells me that he has a plan. We’re to rev things up with four laps to go, with the intention of launching our friend to a winning break. I thought it was a few laps too soon, but nodded in agreement. We may have been sandbagging, but we are human. The time comes, and the plan fails, much as I expected.

Bad timing. For once, Mr. Late is too early.

The bell lap arrives, and I move up, placing myself about 5th wheel, in front of the friend who’s racing for a result, and behind Mr. Late. We hit the last long straight, and Late opens it up.

I shout to him. Trying to tell him to not completely bury himself so we can work together, knowing that as long as we keep it fast, nobody will try and come around, and we can make one last effort to launch our friend. He pulls off, and it’s my turn. I keep the tempo, until I hear Late shouting. There’s a gap?

I see someone bridging up to me, and jump on his wheel. There are two of us, and we have a legitimate chance on fighting for the win. We take a few turns, and then I remind myself that I wasn’t here to race. We hit the last hurdle of the course, a viaduct, less than 500 meters to go.

Race day.

Last day. February.

What to do? I brake, and watch as the field sprints past in pursuit.


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