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.

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.

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…

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...

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.