Our tribute to the greatest cyclist. Keep an eye out, we are hoping to have some prints available soon.
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.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Rapha Cycle Club NYC
I had the chance to catch the final time trial of the TdF this year at the Rapha Cycle Club in New York....nothing here but hate. The kind of hate that is really intense love and respect, where you rant in crazy posts because EVERYTHING these guys do is amazing and continues to constantly make my jaw drop. The kind of hate you reserve for people that tease you with something this cool, only to tell you it will all go away in three months time. The Rapha Cycle Club is like a beautiful mistress that you know will only break your heart when she leaves, but you will enjoy it to the fullest in the meantime.
The entire space is open and inviting with plenty of seating to watch the Tour on the flat screens and grab a cappuccino from the espresso bar (Thank you Third Rail Coffee and Stumptown Coffee Roasters!!)
The back half of the space is more of a gallery, with plenty of stunning photography that captures the passion of cycling and this amazing centerpiece, the Voiture Balai, one of, I believe three, that Rapha owns.
A shot of the broom attached to the back
Vintage jerseys and memorabilia were on display all over the club. So much great stuff to look at.
What may be one of the biggest cowbells I have ever seen.
An amazing quote that sums up a true passion for cycling and why we do it.
Rapha's design aesthetic is top notch and they did not stumble one bit where the Cycle Club is concerned. Hopefully they will continue with these pop-ups in other parts of the country (Portland anyone?!?) Chapeau Rapha! well done...again...jerks.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Epic...for one
Epic rides come in all shapes and sizes. After days of thunder and lightning competing with the tornado sirens I was antsy to get outside for some fresh air. As I left the garage I looked up and saw bright blue sky for the first time in days…and then a quick glance over my other shoulder revealed an angry black beast of a cloud that was rolling my way. I decided to chance it and settled on a loop around The Devil’s Folly, that way if it got really bad I could make it back home from almost any point on the ride. As I settled into a rhythm, the black beast expressed her displeasure and started spitting at me, but determined to wring every ounce of sunshine out of this ride I sped on towards the blue. As I made my first turn the blue sky was to my left and the black beast keeping pace with me on the right
Mile 3: As I start to cross over the small bridge the fragrant honeysuckle invades my senses, It is sweet and relaxing and takes me back to sunny warm days growing up in the south. As my legs continue to turn the pedals I think about times where I would jump on my bike at sunrise and not return until it was so dark I could no longer see, completely wasted of energy, caked in dried sweat and dirt and grinning ear to ear, ready to do it again the next day.
Mile 4.2: As I make the turn onto beech I’m settling into a good groove, the blue sky has slowly but surely beaten back the black beast, but her presence is still felt in the form of a wicked headwind. I’m turning my pedals but it feels like I’m going nowhere. The cool breeze continues to be inviting on my sun warmed skin, I put my head down and keep churning.
Mile 5.8: I glance up and see a handpainted sign on the side of the road: Doran Farm Market, 1 mile and an arrow pointed to my left. I get the urge to just explore today, to see what new things I can find, so I turn around and take the rolling country road. I roll into the gravel parking lot of the farm and lean my bike up against the side of a white washed barn. I grab a list of the “pick your own” fruits and veggies they offer and check out the rows of homemade preserves, chow-chow, and pickles, and one treasure: apple butter BBQ sauce, and had I been able to load up the glass jars into my jersey pockets would have cleaned them out of their entire stock. I settle on a handful of fresh strawberries and sit down beside the barn and my bike and dive in. The strawberries are so juicy that the juice runs down my chin, but I don’t care, the moment is perfect and I soak it all in.
Mile 8: As I cross the storm swollen Blacklick creek I see the old barn and farmhouse up ahead. I love the place. I have photographed it covered in snow, but the warmer weather has revealed a whole new look to it and I stop to admire a true representative of a time long gone. A time when simplicity was enough, before we were all in such a hurry.
Mile 10: As I reach the village and cross over Market street I start to feel like I’m crossing back through time. The houses are more modern here, bigger, every amenity. I pass the golf course with the 18 holers out in their Sunday golfing best. I keep pedaling.
Mile 11.6: As I approach the house I see the back of a giant sign that appears to have a message painted on it, as I get closer I see that it is about five feet tall and six feet wide and says “Jes is” on it. As I pass the front side I glance back and the front says “JESUS IS RISEN” in day-glo orange and black. As I continue on I think to myself that we are all just trying to get it right, sometimes we just have to start over until we are happy with the result.
Mile 12: I hit the roundabout that swings me around and starts me headed back and as I approach the old neighborhood a car comes no more than five inches from completely changing how my day goes. I yell in protest, but the driver doesn’t even slow, doesn’t even glance back, doesn’t even care.
Mile 15: I make the turn onto Market Street and head into the center of the village. As I approach the coffee shop, I decide a mid ride doppio sounds about right. As I pull to a stop and lean my road bike against the brick wall, the contrasting click of my mountain bike cleats alerts the small group of “euro roadies” that have been celebrating their post hammer fest. As I step directly through the viper pit I sense their disgust as surely as if I had a giant tattoo on my arm that said “Campy Sucks” and had my jersey tucked into my bibs. I don’t mind, I don’t ride for them, I don’t count the grams that my bike weighs, I don’t have a coach, I simply ride.
Mile 17: Climbing the hill up to the bridge over the highway I imagine as my own little roubaix, except the beautiful age old cobbles are replaced by loose gravel and flat inducing potholes, and the team cars are large trucks, but soon I make it through back on to open roads.
Mile 18.2: I make the turn towards home and notice that the black beast has decided to sneak up on me from behind, and wants to race. The last eight miles is pretty much a flat straight shot so I tuck in and give it everything I have left. A red winged blackbird caws at me from a lamp post and I imagine him cheering me on saying “Allez, Allez” and I punch it up another notch.
Mile 26: I roll into the garage just as the black beast catches me. She’s not happy, she couldn’t ruin my ride and she’s letting me know it. She opens up and howls and bangs her fists and cries in anger the rest of the afternoon…
Mile 3: As I start to cross over the small bridge the fragrant honeysuckle invades my senses, It is sweet and relaxing and takes me back to sunny warm days growing up in the south. As my legs continue to turn the pedals I think about times where I would jump on my bike at sunrise and not return until it was so dark I could no longer see, completely wasted of energy, caked in dried sweat and dirt and grinning ear to ear, ready to do it again the next day.
Mile 4.2: As I make the turn onto beech I’m settling into a good groove, the blue sky has slowly but surely beaten back the black beast, but her presence is still felt in the form of a wicked headwind. I’m turning my pedals but it feels like I’m going nowhere. The cool breeze continues to be inviting on my sun warmed skin, I put my head down and keep churning.
Mile 5.8: I glance up and see a handpainted sign on the side of the road: Doran Farm Market, 1 mile and an arrow pointed to my left. I get the urge to just explore today, to see what new things I can find, so I turn around and take the rolling country road. I roll into the gravel parking lot of the farm and lean my bike up against the side of a white washed barn. I grab a list of the “pick your own” fruits and veggies they offer and check out the rows of homemade preserves, chow-chow, and pickles, and one treasure: apple butter BBQ sauce, and had I been able to load up the glass jars into my jersey pockets would have cleaned them out of their entire stock. I settle on a handful of fresh strawberries and sit down beside the barn and my bike and dive in. The strawberries are so juicy that the juice runs down my chin, but I don’t care, the moment is perfect and I soak it all in.
Mile 8: As I cross the storm swollen Blacklick creek I see the old barn and farmhouse up ahead. I love the place. I have photographed it covered in snow, but the warmer weather has revealed a whole new look to it and I stop to admire a true representative of a time long gone. A time when simplicity was enough, before we were all in such a hurry.
Mile 10: As I reach the village and cross over Market street I start to feel like I’m crossing back through time. The houses are more modern here, bigger, every amenity. I pass the golf course with the 18 holers out in their Sunday golfing best. I keep pedaling.
Mile 11.6: As I approach the house I see the back of a giant sign that appears to have a message painted on it, as I get closer I see that it is about five feet tall and six feet wide and says “Jes is” on it. As I pass the front side I glance back and the front says “JESUS IS RISEN” in day-glo orange and black. As I continue on I think to myself that we are all just trying to get it right, sometimes we just have to start over until we are happy with the result.
Mile 12: I hit the roundabout that swings me around and starts me headed back and as I approach the old neighborhood a car comes no more than five inches from completely changing how my day goes. I yell in protest, but the driver doesn’t even slow, doesn’t even glance back, doesn’t even care.
Mile 15: I make the turn onto Market Street and head into the center of the village. As I approach the coffee shop, I decide a mid ride doppio sounds about right. As I pull to a stop and lean my road bike against the brick wall, the contrasting click of my mountain bike cleats alerts the small group of “euro roadies” that have been celebrating their post hammer fest. As I step directly through the viper pit I sense their disgust as surely as if I had a giant tattoo on my arm that said “Campy Sucks” and had my jersey tucked into my bibs. I don’t mind, I don’t ride for them, I don’t count the grams that my bike weighs, I don’t have a coach, I simply ride.
Mile 17: Climbing the hill up to the bridge over the highway I imagine as my own little roubaix, except the beautiful age old cobbles are replaced by loose gravel and flat inducing potholes, and the team cars are large trucks, but soon I make it through back on to open roads.
Mile 18.2: I make the turn towards home and notice that the black beast has decided to sneak up on me from behind, and wants to race. The last eight miles is pretty much a flat straight shot so I tuck in and give it everything I have left. A red winged blackbird caws at me from a lamp post and I imagine him cheering me on saying “Allez, Allez” and I punch it up another notch.
Mile 26: I roll into the garage just as the black beast catches me. She’s not happy, she couldn’t ruin my ride and she’s letting me know it. She opens up and howls and bangs her fists and cries in anger the rest of the afternoon…
Friday, May 28, 2010
TEAM KIT PREVIEW
Sneak peek at the new BRUMVAGEN C.C. jersey. We may get dropped during every ride we do, but we can still look stylish when it happens. Wheel and Crossed brooms logo pattern across the back pockets because, you know, argyle has been done.
SO MUCH FUN IT MAY BE A SIN
One of our favorite rides through the rolling backroads of our city. Approx. 22 miles of sinful fun. A fast, mostly flat loop with a couple of devilish surprises. The Cue sheet will be posted soon...
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
WE HAVE ARRIVED....WE JUST TOOK OUR TIME
BRUMVAGEN C.C. is a cycling club built around the love of the ride. Sure, we may compete every now and then, but it is more about comaraderie than winning. It's not to say we have a "neverpodium" kind of attitude, it's more of a "if we win we win, if we don't we don't" because no matter what there is always something cold to celebrate with at the end of it all.
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