Cycling vs. just propelling the bike

For ten years, I have been spinning. For 5,000 miles, I have been spinning. The middle chainring has been my comfortable friend and I have never been anything but a mediocre cyclist. That started to change Wednesday when I rolled through the crisp morning air alongside one of the city’s most active cycling advocates.

“Get in the big ring and stay there,” she commanded. “You’ve just been moving the bike forward.”

There were sprints from one mailbox to another, lessons on pre-breathing hills and shifting techniques for climbs. She invites people to ride with her every other morning for hill climbing, sprint training and race simulation, but said that most people drop off as the weather chills. And then there’s me – someone who hates mornings but has realized that sticking to a training schedule will be impossible without help. I need something to tell me to hit it hard and to not stop even when my legs start to hate me. I need someone to keep me from developing bad habits.

I need someone who’s been there to encourage me.

“You’re four weeks away from kicking my ass,” she said when we finished the morning ride. I don’t really know what she meant, nor do I entirely believe her, but it sounds good to me.

A roadie discovers dirt on roadie terms

For the first time in my life, I have distracted boys.

For 45 minutest this afternoon, I rode back and forth on a small patch of mowed grass behind a baseball field, oblivious to the legions of soccer moms and dads who descend on the YMCA fields behind my house each day. Several times, I heard a man yelling at the grade-school-aged boys he was trying to coach. Apparently, a person jumping on and off a bicycle countless times is far more entertaining than pop flies and grounders.

Scrat the Fraken-cross bicycle finally came home and, after two rides, is helping me to re-capture the spirit of a child: Strap on your helmet and don’t worry about getting hurt. Channeling my inner youth is the only way this is going to work because it’s the only version of me willing to throw myself on and off a bike, rip around tight corners and practice bunny-hopping speed bumps all while relishing in the accumulation of mud and dust. It’s the part of me that sinks into the determination required to do these things over and over and over. And it’s the part of me that does it all with a big, open-mouthed grin.

Somewhere along the way, many of us lose our fearlessness and become “responsible adults.” We wear suits at one time or another, have professional jobs and generally sequester our inner badass inklings for very specific events. We no longer go at life with unbridled gusto.

And then we decide to try something crazy called cyclocross and find ourselves in spandex running through the muck with a bicycle on our back. OK, so I haven’t yet done exactly that, but something about it seems very stupid and very life-like. If I learned anything from watching the cross race two weeks ago, it’s that cross humbles. People are learning it from scratch at all ages. You ride it like you ride through life: sometimes having to get off and push, sometimes getting to fly, often with mud on your face but also often to the sound of cheers and cowbells.

What, there are no cowbells in your regular life?

On paper Scrat is nothing special, just a mishmash of old and new parts, all of them cheap and heavy. But throwing it around on grass at 50 psi (the bike is ambiguous enough be neither a he nor a she), resembles the kind of reckless and meandering play-riding we did as children. Scrat is purpose-built to take a beating and to not warrant too many tears shed should a fatal crash occur (for it, not me).

Don’t drink and ride

Or you might make some paradoxically stupid store displays

I saw my first Globe (Specialized) bicycle last night. It was propped up by a stack of boxes, its lime green color seeping through clear bottles of alcohol. I was out to buy cream sherry and a nice bottle of cheap chianti for beef bourguignon, but I became more interested in the fleet of bicycles employed around the liquor store as advertising pieces.

The Globe Vienna was definitely the nicest ride in the building. A handful of cheap, no-name mountain bikes were arranged like Hummers and Jeeps: scaling perilous arrangements of boxes decorated to sell an attitude. At the front of a store was a white fixie branded with whatever hellfire it was selling. I wish I had paid attention to what exactly the alcohol was, but I was too perplexed by the display of a branded racing kit hanging next to a fixie. Which group were they trying to connect with?

I asked the guy ringing me up what the deal was. He shrugged and said, “It’s just some promotion.”

Unintentionally, I woke up thinking about this, still utterly flummoxed by how cheap, boring-looking bicycles are supposed to get my attention about a certain elixir. I can understand wanting to sell an attitude, but those mountain bikes that looked suspiciously like something from Mal-Wart are the equivalent of building up a display around a Ford Taurus. It’s just hard to get excited or feel cool buying whatever it is that’s being sold when a cheap bike conjuring up memories of my non-drinking childhood is doing the marketing.

Even non-cyclists can recognize a really nice bicycle when they see one. The liquor store should go across the street to Bike World and borrow a couple of Madones, Fuel MTBs and BMX bikes with edgy paint jobs. They’re eye-catching, they look expensive and they’re distinguishable from each other. They also don’t look like what many people commute to work on. Commuter bikes just don’t seem like good salesmen for tequila.

The $2,300 Question

Dear Outside Magazine Gear Girl,
I just started mountain biking at 50. What’s the best equipment for me?

Gear Girl’s answer to the 50-year-old newbie mountain biker infuriated me. Not only was it short, lacking information about helmets, gloves, shoes and perhaps hydration, but Gear Girl flatly suggested (and with no justification) a $2,300 bike: the Trek Fuel FX with full suspension, one of their most expensive women’s mountain bikes. She then went on to say that if money is of no importance, the newbie should spring for the $4,720 model because of <insert lengthy explanation here that would make no sense to a newbie.> There was also no mention that it might be strange for a green rider to be on the best women’s bike in Trek’s off-road line. “Mountain biking requires good gear from the get-go, perhaps more than any other sport,” Gear Girl explained.

Well, sure. If you’re going to do real mountain biking, don’t buy a NEXT from Mal Wart. One week out of my 2008 cross-country bike trip, a girl rode with us on a $100 Target “road” bike. It had no quick releases. Because she was inexperienced (didn’t steer away from debris) and because the cheap tires were so thin, she had major headaches changing flat tires. But there are other options. Unless the 50-year-old newbie is going to be rock hopping and jumping off ledges, I think she would do just fine with a sub $1,000 ride from any of the honorable, American bicycle companies that trickle down a great deal of their top-end technology to us penniless peons.

I keep an eye on the local Craigslist and have lost track of how many expensive bikes with low-mileage are being sold. The stories are almost always the same: “I bought it, but never really got into the sport,” or “I didn’t have time to ride it enough to justify it.” It means the rest of us can get good deals, but it also means they’re out a ton of money not only for the bike, but all the gear they got to go with the bike.

Unless you know for certain – by divine revelation – that you’re going to be into the sport as a hardcore regular, your very first bike doesn’t need to be one of the best. If you shop smart, you can do wonderful things with lower-end products from high-end companies. I have two examples. The first is that I played on a cheap “beginner” clarinet through six years of concert and marching band. I was told I’d probably need to replace it once I joined the high school varsity band, but that never proved to be true. Despite not being first chair, I was always called on to tune the clarinet section. My beginner instrument had the best sound in all the band.

Whoops. Did I just out myself as a nerd?

The more relevant example is my first road bike. Last night I went (yet again) to see if my cross bike was ready to be picked up. The only thing left to do (since Friday) is cut the steerer tube. Somehow, Scrat managed to get sucked into the bike shop black hole of forgotten projects, but I did bring home my Cannondale frame off which the parts for the cross machine were taken.

One of the shop guys asked if I was willing to sell the frame – a 1999 CAAD2 aluminum R300 – because it fits him perfectly and is in good condition. It was my first road bike and the one I rode across the country last summer, so of course I can’t part with it (especially since it was “handmade in the USA”). He said he’d rather ride most of the older bikes people bring into the shop than anything new and carbon that they’re selling.

We got into a discussion about frame and parts quality. My R300 was the cheapest (good) road bike on the market when my dad bought it for about $700. It had Shimano RSX components (Sora/Tiagra equivalent) and a quill stem that probably weighs five pounds. The frame is rather heavy, but would still make an awesome machine were I to throw on a carbon fork and build it up with lighter parts. But the old RSX components and Mavic wheels are going to do just fine on my cross frame. Talk about longevity!

Maybe Trek has Outside’s Gear Girl in their pocket, but I sure hope that the 50-year-old mountain biking newbie doesn’t drop that much cash on her first MTB bike, at least not until she falls in love with the sport and starts kicking the asses of women half her age.

Disappointment, Happiness, Progress

Passing the time at my first CX race … on the sidelines

I was one of only two cowbells on the sidelines. I rang it furiously as the crossers zipped over the narrow dirt paths snaking through the grass fields and low-lying woods of Padre Park. I rang to encourage the riders and assuage my growing disappointment. I was standing in jeans and a T-shirt, bike-less, restlessly watching the only cyclocross race in my hometown pass me by. The course was perfect for a beginner: smooth with only one bike carry, only two barriers to jump and a casual group that spread so far out it was impossible to tell who was in front and who was behind if you weren’t paying close attention. But my cross bike was sitting in the shop half built, so I was sitting outside in riding-perfect weather with a Coke and my camera and my cowbell.

After running 9 miles, the Mr. joined me at a picnic table to watch the master’s race. We listened to the shouts of, “Let’s go, old man!” and I explained the course, the bikes, and whatever else I could make up. After a long pause, the Mr. uttered the magic words every cyclist longs to hear from their athletic but non-riding spouse: “I could get into this.”

Cyclocross might be the missing link between our bike-related interests: the meshing of speed, agility and fresh air away from the open roads. When a lover of technical MTB riding and a long-distance roadie marry, common ground appears in the form of cyclocross. We shared a sacred moment, soaking up the early-fall sun and casting hungry eyes over the slalom-like course and dirt rising into the air.

I went into the shop yesterday to get fitted on my cross bike so the steerer tube can be cut. If you have read this blog before, you might remember my excitement about using the cross frame and my old road bike to learn a little bit about bike building. I was going to transplant the parts myself on the back porch, enjoying the beautiful fall weather. Well, clearly that didn’t happen. As we all know, the cross season could be a lot longer, but it isn’t. I don’t have enough time for hits, misses and miscalculations.

So off the bikes went to the shop for an in-patient operation. Scrat doesn’t look as beastly or haphazard as I expected; Fernando did a phenomenal job cleaning up the Cannondale’s 10-year-old parts and because most of the bike and its parts are black, she’s actually rather sleek. If I’m lucky, I’ll spend this afternoon tearing up the sidelines of the YMCA soccer fields behind my house.

It’s good to be alive

The fine line between dedicated and crazy

Fortunately for cyclists, a bike has a short-term memory. Misery one moment, pleasure the next, everything evened out in the end. Bikes are kind of like big, joyous dogs bounding around outside with little regard to the location or weather. They just want to run free.

Sunday morning I went out to ride with a group of women I met the day before at Trek’s Breast Cancer Awareness Ride. They aren’t an official club, just a bunch of friends with a love of life on the bike. As we gathered, the day showed no signs of abiding by the forecast and dawned wet, cold and windy. No one had thought to bring their rain jacket, but we pushed off anyway, hoping the rising sun would bring better weather.

I spent much of the north-bound portion of the loop with my head down to keep the wind-blown rain from stinging my face. After a long summer with many weeks of continuous 100-degree days, the 50-degree air was mercilessly cold. About an hour in, our clothing began to soak through and all conversation died away. Riders sunk into their own little worlds, seeking some inner motivation to press on through the rain. Trails of muddy water crept up the backs of my companions. Cars passing us honked.

I tried to conjure up memories of the Tour of California to channel the grit of the pros in the face of crappy weather. But I’d forgotten to refuel en route and as soon as we hit the 60-minute mark, I started to bonk on the hills. I was simply miserable: cold, wet, muddy and devoid of energy. Slowly, my brain stopped cranking out new thoughts.

The only sign of commercial life on the route was a gas station where we regrouped and decided to cut the 40-mile ride to around 26 miles. I scarfed down a Snickers bar and watched as life crept back into the faces of my thawing companions.

The second part of the morning was a completely different ride. Refueled, pushed by the wind at our backs and inspired by thoughts of hot showers and hot chocolate, we raced home with renewed optimism. Even though I still couldn’t enjoy the scenery lest my contacts get flusehd out of my eyes, I soon forgot how much the wet, cold, headwind climbing had sapped my mental and physical energy only an hour prior.

I arrived home frozen but energetic. The pleasure of the last few miles was enough to erase the misery of the first several and I could already look back on the morning as a success.

The bike has a short-term memory. It does not keep record of the most miserable hours on the road. All it remembers is that it got to play. If you listen, you, too, can remember nothing but that you got to ride.

Meanwhile, progress on the cross bike has stalled. All I have so far are brakes, pedals, tires and the original stem from the Felt. The Cannondale still hasn’t made it home for the parts transplant and I’m worried that I won’t be able to build up Scrat in time for San Antonio’s only cross race.

Good ride eats

One of my favorite lunches is a fresh, healthy wrap that takes all of three minutes to throw together, perfect when you stumble in after a hard ride needing carbs and protein. Fresh veggies, IMHO, also help replace the heavy feeling in your stomach that can sometimes result from excessive consumption of energy bars, gels and peanut butter sandwiches.

Mediterranean wrap, Mellow-Velo-style

Whole-wheat tortillas
Tabouleh
Hummus
Cucumbers
Tomatoes (if your tabouleh lacks them)
Feta

Warm up a tortilla, chop the veggies into small cubes and spread hummus on the tortilla (you can use pita, but that’s too much dry bread for me). Top with tabouleh, veggies and feta, roll up and chow down. Other additions or veggie replacements can include bean sprouts, bell peppers and roasted red peppers. Throw on a dash of paprika or cayenne if you’re feeling crazy.

If at all possible, use homemade tortillas and fresh tabouleh and hummus. Living in south Texas, I’m lucky enough to get tortillas from the local grocery store that were handmade, pressed and bagged 10 seconds ago. They’re much better than the packaged ones loaded with preservatives (just remember to keep them in the fridge so they last longer).

Enjoy!

Honor Guard Ride

After a south-Texas-area couple was killed riding their tandem last week, almost 300 cyclists turned out for a silent ride to honor the pair.

Cyclists line up across the street from the church in Boerne, Tex., where the memorial service for two, killed cyclists was taking place.

I’ve never seen people attending a memorial service wearing cycling jerseys with dress pants and skirts, but mixed among family members were members of the cycling family, filing into a church to remember a couple killed in Helotes, Tex., last week. Across the street, lined up two to three people deep, was a large group of even more cyclists – most of them strangers – standing with their bikes, helmets in hand. They were silent, except for the occasional whisper of, “It could have been any of us” and murmurings of agreement offered in response.

Last Thursday, Greg and Alex Bruehler were riding their tandem on a wide shoulder when they were struck from behind by a truck and dragged 200 feet. The truck was apparently overcorrecting after it had drifted. The driver, most likely, will not be charged with anything. (Click here to read the related San Antonio Express News story.)

The comments left on the Express News articles related to the incident are telling. Most people came down on one of two sides: 1. Cyclists should never ride on roads with such high speed limits (65 mph); or 2. The driver should be charged and motorists need to share the road. The other big argument I read was that cars and bicycles were never made to share the same road, and therefore should not.

As you may know, Gov. Rick Perry of Texas recently vetoed a safe passing bill despite overwhelming support from industry and both parties in the legislature. No one really knows why he did that, but I don’t think the bill would have helped in this instance. Sometimes I catch myself driving in a way that is not entirely alert. As a cyclist, I am far from reckless behind the wheel, but I’ve caught myself not paying attention to shoulders and bike lanes. I don’t believe that a safe passing bill will stop people from toggling their iPods, texting or drifting into a shoulder when talking to a car full of passengers.

What I do hope a safe passing bill will accomplish is to deter drivers who run cyclists off the road for sport or who pass us with three inches instead of three feet. They need to know that getting caught passing us (and motorcyclists, farm equipment, runners, etc.) so closely could be just as bad for their wallet and driving record as getting caught speeding.

Though it will never happen, I have an additional solution. I think we should incorporate a cycling day into driver’s ed so that new, young drivers understand what we cyclists deal with riding on roads alongside careless motorists. I think it would be even safer than letting a 16-year-old on a highway for the first time. Local bike shops could sponsor the day: They would teach a brief class, supply the bikes, offer SAG support and lead the group of students on flat roads with wide shoulders and low speed limits. Experiencing cars whizzing by their ears will hopefully get their attention more poignantly than some lame DPS movie made in the 80s.

As always, cyclists have to take responsibility for their own safety as much as possible. As I drove home last night, I nearly hit a cyclist. It was completely dark and she was riding without any rear lights or reflectors. It was only when her white shirt was illuminated by headlights that I saw her. I think the near miss spooked us equally. I wanted to stop and apologize as much as I wanted to stop and yell at her for being irresponsible. After the memorial ride, I was not only driving slow, I was specifically looking for cyclists riding home after the event, but I don’t see well at night.

Unfortunately, I know that’s not the only cycling memorial I will ever attend, though I wish it could be both my first and last. I am pleased that the community turned out in force despite the last-minute call to action. Greg’s parents walked along the line of cyclists thanking them. Standing off to the side, watching silently, was the seven-year-old, now-orphaned daughter of the couple.

As they said that evening, it could have been any of us.

The ever-important road shot

Seeking advice on compact digital cameras

Somewhere in rural Oklahoma, July 2008

Christmas is coming and I want to make sure I am fully prepared to make my request. Competing for the top spot on my list are a new compact camera to replace one that died and a set of lightweight wheels to replace the stock behemoths on the Felt. Until I start racing regularly, I will hold off on requesting the wheels (and my birthday conveniently falls on the same day as the first criterium of the local race season).

I’ve done quite a bit of research, but in retrospect my research often comes up a bit short, so I would appreciate advice on jersey-pocket-friendly cameras. In an effort to make my search simpler, I narrowed my criteria down to one thing: photo quality. I don’t care what kind of controls the camera has; if it doesn’t take great pictures, I don’t want it.

Unfortunately, $300 seems to be the magic price point where cameras move beyond just “good for their class” into a realm where the photos can actually be considered great. But that’s quite the chunk of change and it’s hard to justify getting a really nice compact digital when I have a Nikon D40 digital SLR that I use on any occasion when it’s reasonable to carry it with me. But the D-SLR has spoiled me. I love to take photos on my rides and am being a bit fussy about this.

The pocket camera I use currently is a Panasonic Lumix FX10 that I bought for $150 when my cherished HP died post-Europe study abroad. It was all I could afford, but I have hated it since the earliest shots. The photos are grainy above ISO 100, white balance is weak, the low-light performance is non-existent and – despite what reviewers say – the image stabilization feature is worthless. I don’t like replacing things that are still mostly functional, but I also flat-out don’t like it. Despite good reviews of higher-end Lumix models, I don’t think I can stomach getting another. I’m hoping to pass the camera on to a younger cousin.

The model I have my eye on is the Canon PowerShot SX120 at about $250. I am of the school that believes Canons have some of the best photo quality (even though my DSLR is a Nikon) and the reviews are consistently positive when it comes to the quality of this camera’s shots. It also boasts a 10x, wide-angle zoom lens that takes macro photos at 1 cm away. Unfortunately, the SX120 rather bulky and would barely fit in one of the small rear pockets of a women’s cycling jersey. I’m debating about how important that is, since it would otherwise tag along in a purse/bag. If you ride with a camera in your back pocket regularly, what is it and how comfortable is it?

Any and all advice welcome. Thanks!

Epic embarrassing fail of stupid proportions

I don’t want to write this post. This was supposed to be a great post. The naked, spit-shined Felt was resplendent and svelte, stripped free of bottle cages, rear light and saddle bag. But alas, its moment of glory was not to be…

I am not an angry person. I don’t have fits of rage and never get the urge to destroy stuff. There are occasional descents into snarling funk-dom from which the passing of 24 hours is the only escape, but my halting foray into maturity has produced a temperament that is increasingly zen-like. Despite that, anger is the only way to describe what welled up in me last night when, at 6:45, I had to concede that I was not going to find the Austin Driveway and even if I did find it, I wasn’t going to get out of traffic in time to actually get there and be ready to race by 7.

After two months of anticipation and an entire day spent amped-up on the speed of excitement, my first criterium came and went like the international flight you just missed drifting away into the night sky. Traffic between San Antonio and Austin (the formerly-pleasant I-35 is now one big stip mall) put me near my destination at 6:15. I was missing the criterium tactics clinic, but was determined to make the beginner race. All I had to do was find Smith Road (which seemed simple on the map), but after two, creeping passes up and down 183, I had to give up and insert myself back into highway traffic for the hour-and-a-half drive back to San Antonio. Four hours later, I arrived home without having spent a single second on the bike.

The worst defeats are the ones that come from a failure to even start. The evening reminded me of a similar instance seven years ago when, as a young student pilot of 16, my parents let me leave school early on my birthday to take my first solo flight. As the door to the Cessna 152 swung open and my instructor started to climb out, I freaked. I told him I couldn’t do it. My parents drove the hour back home having seen nothing, and I spent the next several weeks hating myself and psychoanalyzing why I had bailed when I was clearly prepared.

It’s not quite the same since I didn’t back out last night, but it feels the same. I was hoping to wake up this morning newly refreshed, but instead faced the day despondent and empty. I may not get angry, but I do get disappointed when highly-anticipated events don’t deliver.

The Driveway Series continues for the next three Thursdays with regular criteriums scheduled. But adding to my frustration, the Women’s 3/4 race goes at 5 p.m., far too early for me to leave work and make it to Austin on time.  I can’t justify three hours of driving for a half-hour race.

I suppose this is where I say: Thank goodness for cyclocross! Yes and no. I want a fast-paced, ass-kicking race under my belt to know what it feels like, but again the curse of living in an athletically-lame city falls upon me. There are only two cross races in SA-town that I can find (both on the same weekend) and everything else is in Austin, with that dreadful hour-and-a-half drive between us.

I am not giving up, but I am feeling under-motivated.

Meanwhile, here are the links to a great article, 102 Tips Every Roadie Should Know, from Road Bike Action Magazine.

Part One | Part Two