Monday, May 9, 2011
R.I.P Wouter Weylandt
Not much to say here, just a very sad day for cycling. Our thoughts and prayers are with his family, friends, and team.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Bike Spouse
It seems that we have been hibernating for most of the winter, but we have seen a glimmer of spring and it was good. I had the joy of taking a trip home to Atlanta this past weekend and I managed to wake my pasty legs up enough to squeeze in a ride while there. This brings me to what this post is actually about: The Bike Spouse. The person you spend more time with on your bike than anyone else. We all have one, and they are there through the good, the bad, and sometimes the very very ugly. Sometimes people get really lucky and their bike spouse is their actual significant other....I am not one of those people....mine is a guy named Brad. For the past 14 years, if I was on a ride or at a race, most likely my buddy Brad was right there suffering with me. Mountain? Yup. Road? Uh-huh. Cyclocross? That one hurt the most. I moved a few states up about a year ago, so now he's more like a bike mistress and this past weekend was one of those rare times that we have been able to get together on a visit and actually get some riding in. We were commenting about how we couldn't remember the last time we were able to ride in February and have spring like temps. We rolled out easy Sunday morning and settled in, catching up on stuff and decided on one of our old turnaround points. A couple of group rides cruised past, but we were just happy to be getting some miles in. On the way back my legs definitely started to feel the long winter of laziness. We cruised back in to the parking lot, just under 35 miles on the computer, and huge grins on our faces. It was a great ride with a great friend, and a great way to spend a warm spring day....in February. It was a definite wake up call to get back on the bike. As for the Brumvagen Cycle Club, the literary legs are shaved and ready to start cranking out new posts on a regular basis. Welcome back everyone.
Monday, December 6, 2010
"The Cannibal"
Our tribute to the greatest cyclist. Keep an eye out, we are hoping to have some prints available soon.
Reluctantly Crouched at the Starting Line...
I'm in the snow, shivering...waiting. Waiting for the shot to be fired from the gun that will release me from my misery. I think to myself about the choices that brought me here. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?" I ask myself silently over and over again. I am brought back to reality by a voice. I nod my head along with the other lambs that have been brought to slaughter. The director goes over our last rights and I steel myself, for I know the suffering will be swift in coming, as he utters those two little words. It is a command, not a question: "Rider's Ready."
Reality has slowed down, there are no sounds, I am solely focused on the gun. An odd aroma invades my nose. A mentholated concoction of good juju slathered on body parts as armor from the constant blades of wind that would otherwise cut you in two. The quick pop of the pistol rings in my ears as all Hell breaks loose. Another cyclocross race has begun.
The cyclocross racer is an odd breed. Those unfamiliar with cyclocross only shake their head in disbelief when it is described to them. It is an all out exercise to see how far one can push the physical limits of their bodies while shattering their existing psychological limits, or more accurately, the most fun you have ever had on a bicycle. Usually a timed race on a looped course mixing road, singletrack, and surprises (barriers, sand, alligator pits, flaming hoops) forcing the rider to dismount and run with the bike over their shoulder. The worse the conditions are, the better.
I settle in mid-pack as we transition from road to muck, cowbells and cheers pushing me along just as much as my own legs turning the pedals. We hit the first section of barriers and dismount. The rider next to me is having problems, his left pedal griipping his cleat like a vicious dog causing him to slide into the first barrier. I leap, clearing his bike and the barrier and smoothly leap back onto my bike. Seemingly out of danger, I continue to suffer along.
Two laps in and I'm dangling off the back of a group somewhere between the middle and the end of the strung out riders. I start to calculate how much more I will have to dig into the reserves to make it to the end. I know that if I lose the wheel of the rider in front of me I will drift until the next segment of the winding snake swallows me up and spits me out hammering the final nail into the coffin of my will.
I cross the line again to start the last lap and continue the battle with my personal suffering. My voice is shrieking in my head to stop, telling me we have nothing left, we are empty. I continue to ignore it as much as I can knowing that the minutes are ticking down and the end is in sight. I approach the last set of barriers before the final turn. I dismount clean and hurdle the first barrier, three steps, my breathing pounding in my ear like a megaphone, second barrier is now clear, all that stands before me and salvation is one turn and a long flat wide open straight shot to the finish line. I take the final leap of faith to remount my bike and as I connect with the seat a dark force wrenches the back tire sideways. The next few seconds are a blur of snaps, pops, and mud ending with a new perspective. I was not aware until that moment that the human body could actually contort itself around a bike frame that way, a way in which it requires the kindness of a spectator to undo. As I pick myself up, and run through the mental checklist of possible injuries, my bike catches my eye. It looks odd. It is odd. It is very odd. Odd in the sort of way that tells me I will not be riding it over the finish line. The end is so close though, maybe two hundred yards at most. I shoulder my bike and start to jog. Cowbells are ringing with fury and the sound of an angry swarm of bees starts to fill my ears with increasing intensity until I reach the source: a small group of fans, each with a brightly colored vuvuzela pressed to their lips. I start to pick up the pace. I know that whatever energy is getting me across that line, with a massive grin on my face no less, is from the support of the crowd. The kind of support that says "We understand because we have suffered too." The same support I will be giving to another wretched soul in the next race. My pain is their pain, their pain will be mine. We are cyclocross racers.
Reality has slowed down, there are no sounds, I am solely focused on the gun. An odd aroma invades my nose. A mentholated concoction of good juju slathered on body parts as armor from the constant blades of wind that would otherwise cut you in two. The quick pop of the pistol rings in my ears as all Hell breaks loose. Another cyclocross race has begun.
The cyclocross racer is an odd breed. Those unfamiliar with cyclocross only shake their head in disbelief when it is described to them. It is an all out exercise to see how far one can push the physical limits of their bodies while shattering their existing psychological limits, or more accurately, the most fun you have ever had on a bicycle. Usually a timed race on a looped course mixing road, singletrack, and surprises (barriers, sand, alligator pits, flaming hoops) forcing the rider to dismount and run with the bike over their shoulder. The worse the conditions are, the better.
I settle in mid-pack as we transition from road to muck, cowbells and cheers pushing me along just as much as my own legs turning the pedals. We hit the first section of barriers and dismount. The rider next to me is having problems, his left pedal griipping his cleat like a vicious dog causing him to slide into the first barrier. I leap, clearing his bike and the barrier and smoothly leap back onto my bike. Seemingly out of danger, I continue to suffer along.
Two laps in and I'm dangling off the back of a group somewhere between the middle and the end of the strung out riders. I start to calculate how much more I will have to dig into the reserves to make it to the end. I know that if I lose the wheel of the rider in front of me I will drift until the next segment of the winding snake swallows me up and spits me out hammering the final nail into the coffin of my will.
I cross the line again to start the last lap and continue the battle with my personal suffering. My voice is shrieking in my head to stop, telling me we have nothing left, we are empty. I continue to ignore it as much as I can knowing that the minutes are ticking down and the end is in sight. I approach the last set of barriers before the final turn. I dismount clean and hurdle the first barrier, three steps, my breathing pounding in my ear like a megaphone, second barrier is now clear, all that stands before me and salvation is one turn and a long flat wide open straight shot to the finish line. I take the final leap of faith to remount my bike and as I connect with the seat a dark force wrenches the back tire sideways. The next few seconds are a blur of snaps, pops, and mud ending with a new perspective. I was not aware until that moment that the human body could actually contort itself around a bike frame that way, a way in which it requires the kindness of a spectator to undo. As I pick myself up, and run through the mental checklist of possible injuries, my bike catches my eye. It looks odd. It is odd. It is very odd. Odd in the sort of way that tells me I will not be riding it over the finish line. The end is so close though, maybe two hundred yards at most. I shoulder my bike and start to jog. Cowbells are ringing with fury and the sound of an angry swarm of bees starts to fill my ears with increasing intensity until I reach the source: a small group of fans, each with a brightly colored vuvuzela pressed to their lips. I start to pick up the pace. I know that whatever energy is getting me across that line, with a massive grin on my face no less, is from the support of the crowd. The kind of support that says "We understand because we have suffered too." The same support I will be giving to another wretched soul in the next race. My pain is their pain, their pain will be mine. We are cyclocross racers.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
The Creed
we push along the ribbon, with grit in gears we toil
washed away by triumph, the blood & sweat & soil
punishing climbs and bombing descents, we cry for all to hear
"Together we ride, we suffer as one, now in each hand a beer!"
washed away by triumph, the blood & sweat & soil
punishing climbs and bombing descents, we cry for all to hear
"Together we ride, we suffer as one, now in each hand a beer!"
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Read, Dog-Ear pages, Re-Read.....
I bought this book a few years back, devoured it, put it in a drawer and went on with the day to day. Cleaning out some stuff recently I ran across it and dropped it onto the bedside table. I was between books and decided to read it again, this time probably a little slower than before. I remember it being a good book, but not this good. I came across page after page, quote after quote that spoke to me. After a bit the book started to take on a new shape with folded corners of pages causing a weird literary tumor of sorts in the upper right corner.
The Rider by Tim Krabbe is an intensely intimate look at a half day race from one rider's perspective. Kilometer by Kilometer, inch by inch the race is described in detail. The highs and lows, the suffering and pleasure is all laid bare for the reader.
Many have tried to make a case that the race is a great metaphor for the rider's life...it isn't. Make no mistake, the race is EVERYTHING to the rider. The race IS life to him, a life he believes he will either live or die by. The angels and demons he battles here are all on two wheels. Many of the riders begin to seem wraithlike as if death would be a welcome escape from the hell they seem to push through.
The Rider is an amazing piece of literature, an amazing read for any cyclist or fan of cycling, and beautiful portrait of the riders whose passion overcomes pain.
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