If The Shoe Fits...

Many years ago, while still in elementary school, I once made the mistake of wearing my soccer cleats while riding my BMX bike to practice. Long story short, I had somehow managed to press the cleats into the pedals in such a way (such was the force of my pedal stroke!) that when I arrived at the nearby fields and needed to remove my foot from the pedals, neither foot would dislodge, and I more or less fell over onto the grass, much to the amusement of my teammates.



Do NOT wear ON bike

Earlier this fall, possibly while still ensorcelled by and suffering from withdrawals post-FIFA World Cup, I took part in a faculty/staff vs. students soccer match at the university campus where I work. In the process of our victorious route of the upstart student team, I noticed a friend of mine who had these old, wonderful leather cleats she used in her glorious undergraduate days on the pitch. They were a pair of Adidas ‘Copa Mundial’ shoes (which, in Spanish, means World Cup. Hmm, coincidence?)

Anyway, what caught my eye about them was that in an age of synthetic wonder-materials and radical designs for sporting equipment, these shoes still retained a very classic, traditional look about their craftsmanship and something very timeless about their simplicity. I literally took a shoe out of her hand while getting ready in the parking lot adjacent to the field and examined the shoe closely (as she, of course, looked at me as though I were crazy). I looked at the shoe’s upper, the heel, the tongue, the top-sole, and the cleated bottom. The shoe seemed amazing in its singular purpose, namely, to make contact with, strike, and control soccer balls, all the while providing traction for the fortunate player who happened to be wearing them.

My subsequent investigation into whether these shoes were still manufactured and sold only added to my obsession,.. err, infatuation.. uhmm, I mean, interest in these shoes. They seemed so wonderful in a way that made me want to play soccer more often, if only to possibly justify my purchasing a pair and running around a grassy field with them on my feet. “Heeey, looook at meee and my cooool shooooes!!!”

Yes, this IS STILL a mostly cycling-related blog. But, if cross-country skiing has somehow weaseled its Nordic ways onto these pages, then why not a word or two about beautiful soccer cleats? But ENOUGH already about the soccer cleats! ¡Basta ya! Let us switch the fine footwear talk to something more appropriate to this venue: cycling shoes.

A wise bike racer once told me that a major difference between the old pedal, clip, and strap cycling setup and the newer, “clipless” shoe + pedal systems that emerged in the mid-1980s was all about abuse. That in one instance, the shoe used to take most of the abuse from the rider’s foot and the pedaling motion, and twisting and being strapped into the pedal, etc. And that in the more contemporary setup, it was the pedal that took all of the abuse, now serving as a platform surface onto which the rider’s foot was locked as if in a ski-binding. In fact, it was the French ski-binding company, ‘LOOK’ which had pioneered this new setup. I can still see LeMond and Hinault battling it out on the Alpe, and around those same years, old stubborn Sean Kelly of Ireland still holding out with the old ways.

Needless to say, I’ve owned a few pairs of cycling shoes over the years. Most of my road shoes have been a variation on the basic spring-loaded pedal + cleat ‘LOOK’ or Shimano-model. For my mountain bike and cyclocross adventures, I’ve almost exclusively rolled with Shimano ‘SPD’-type cleats.

My humble but steadfast SiDi 'Genius' shoes

Most worthy of mention here are my SiDi shoes ("Genius" and "Dominator". Gotta love those names, so appealing to my fragile male ego!) One road pair, one mtn. (“off-road”) pair. And of course, my “race day only” semi-custom moldable carbon-soled Shimano R220 road shoes.

SiDi 'Dominators' dominating my office!

Both pairs of SiDi shoes are absolute workhorses that, like many things which come from Italy, do not sacrifice style in the name of function, even though they function extremely well. Not few have been the times that I’ve paused for a moment before or after a ride to just look at the shoes and admire their sublime earnestness just prior to putting them on, or after removing them. It’s probably just as well I contemplate their beauty and craftsmanship then, as I most often literally forget I have them on my feet while riding the bike. To me, THAT has to be the mark of a great shoe. So comfortable and maintenance-free, that one need not worry about that most constant interface with the machine.

Ready to blast-off!

What can I say about my Shimano R220s? These wonder-shoes have a carbon + thermoplastic molded, custom-tweakable sole that can be shaped and re-shaped with the application of heat (assuming your local bike shop carries them). Anyway, these shoes are the modern bike-geek equivalent of those Shrinky Dink-type things one would put in the oven in the 1980s (toxic fumes, anyone?). Straps, ratcheting buckles, sleek mesh, ridiculous stiffness for power transfer onto the pedaling surface… Wearing these on my feet is probably the closest I’ll ever get to wearing one of those NASA space suits that astronauts get to wear. All that technology… What’s not to like?

Sadly, mine are decomposing in the
Milpitas, CA landfill, I'm sure...

I finally turn to my first pair of cycling shoes. They were a pair of (gasp!) lace-up Detto Pietros. Smooth, all black leather, with a bunch of little holes for ventilation. The sole was a hard molded plastic that had a cleat that one had to literally secure into the shoe with nails and a hammer! Retro indeed. Someone ought to take the top-soles of those Dettos and attach them to a bottom one can casually wear around the house or around town, and they’d probably make a killing with the early-onset midlife crisis/urban hipster crowd!

Italian champ Felice Gimondi, 1968
or '72, it's hard to tell...

Shoes, they support our weight, and carry most of us through our lives’ journeys. Cycling shoes in particular are a bit odd, for they are not at all designed for walking much, and are most NOT in their element when not attached somehow to a bicycle pedal. Sort of like wearing those fly-fishing waders when not actually standing in a river? Perhaps. But just as fly fishermen have waders and a whole bunch of other specialized, task-oriented objects that might seem weird or secretive to the uninitiated, so too do cyclists have in their shoes a seemingly mundane object that even at its most utilitarian, can rise to the level of fine aesthetic craftsmanship and secret sauciness. Just don’t try to play soccer in them.

Watt Watt ! ! !

Power sim on-the-cheap!

One of the training possibilities I’ve been dabbling with over the last couple of months has been the use of a power meter device (rather than relying solely on heart rate) to gauge, monitor, tweak, and keep within proper training intensity. As power meters like PowerTap, SRM, and Quark are quite pricey, I decided to start playing around with a more economical alternative that is made to work with my Kurt Kinetic trainer… With a help and tutelage of a friend of mine who has wholeheartedly started using a REAL power meter, I started to establish and follow my numbers.



Data Overload! (Ok, not certain who these data actually belong to)


AND … Just as I suspected I would, I quickly found myself overwhelmed with a vast array of data, and just as quickly found myself not-so-interested in it. This, if anything, is a reality-check for me. I am, simply, NOT a “numbers” guy. While I can FULLY appreciate, and do not doubt the value of power as a metric and training tool, I know myself well enough to know that I would not end up using this amazing piece of training technology to really get the most out of it or make the expense worthwhile. I also believe that approaching such an upgrade with a “I spent all that money, and that should motivate me to use it…” attitude is probably the WRONG way to go about it.

 No… I’ll just tell myself that I’m just more of an “old-school” sort of guy when it comes to training. There’s an old legend about the great Eddy Merckx once having responded with “ride lots” to the question of what his training secret was. And, while I’d like to say that it works particularly well for me, who AM I kidding, right? The mileage I put in from season to season might vary, but beyond the quality miles, there are simply too many other training variables (nutrition, sleep, focused training, etc.) that I can still vastly improve upon before I go throwing a couple thousand (more) dollars at my lackluster motivation and fitness.

Merckx rode "lots"... and won lots too

It’s not so much an economic decision, really, as it is a moral, be-true-to-thyself sort of reckoning. It’s just not who I am, in the same way that purchasing a couple pairs of Assos FI 13 S5 bib shorts (the alpha-numeric bit is secret code for OUTRAGEOUSLY EXPENSIVE) is just not me. Swiss-made Assos cycling clothes are, by the way, supposed to be worth every penny. And, the way I see it is that they’d sure better be, for as much as they cost. I think I’ll start with a pair of Assos socks and maybe go from there? I have used the Assos chamois cream, and I can most certainly attest to its virtues. BTW, this is a fine product as well: http://www.enzoscyclingproducts.com/products/chamois-cream/enzos-buttonhole-4oz  But, I digress...

Again, it is worth pointing out that using a power meter really IS the most effective, accurate training tool to use when following a “scientific,” training program. And therein, lies the rub… It takes a greater deal of structure and intrepid dedication to stay on the task of following such a prescribed program in order for it to be most effective. I either enjoy the mystery of the guesswork, or I’m simply too much of a lazy schlub to bother with downloading all the data and they try to make sense of it.

When Bear Claws Attack!

No, I’d rather think of different metrics for training purposes… like how many miles and how fast I have to ride to burn off that last Panera bear claw I ate, or am about to eat after whatever ride I am on (especially a weekend ride). Okay, even that much rational thought seems to take the fun out of the experience. I did, however just read that those bear claws are about 440 calories EACH!!! Talk about a bear claw attack! I have first-hand experience with these, and let me tell you, they put up a good fight, but worth every bite. And, unlike the Assos shorts or wattage-measuring wonder tool, deliver results every time!

If you choose to train with a power meter, then more power to you (no pun ORIGINALLY intended, but now that I see it, let’s go with it). I just know it is not for ME … at least, not at this glorious juncture of my amateur bicycle racing career. Either way, you should not take my advice (nor did I claim to be dispensing any) … And besides, why should you believe anyone who’s given this much thought to the virtues of certain pugilistic pastries over sounder training-related nutritional choices?

"SUGAR BOMBS" Oh, the HORROR!

Speaking of which, I literally have a bike racing colleague who once referred to my choice of what I had assumed a healthy snack (a Honeycrisp apple) as a “sugar bomb.” An APPLE!!! Damn, I should have known that any fruit with the word "honey" as part of its name was just too good to be true! Needless to say, this racing icon of the local scene is a sight to behold whenever he’s turning his pedals in anger. He does of course, use his power meter to its full potential. And he no doubt watches what he eats, gets enough sleep, and puts in the sacrifice and dedication that it takes to excel in our grueling sport. But where’s the fun in that?

Swish, Swish, Swish...

So I finally gave in this year to partaking in the winter activity that many of my “better” bicycle racing friends and cronies already indulged in: cross-country skiing. Being originally from the San Francisco Bay Area at just about sea-level, I was never really into winter sports much growing up. Sure, I have the faintest memories of watching the Winter Olympics now and again and fawning over (then) East German figure skater Katarina Witt, being amazed by the totally insane ski jumps of “the flying Finn,” Matti Nykänen, or the U.S. men’s hockey team with its “miracle on ice.”

Temperate, Mediterranean climate notwithstanding, let’s just say the ethno-cultural three-ring circus of my childhood was more inclined toward images of dancing skeletons than racing skeletons, sombreros and tequila vice than hat tricks on ice, and perhaps more in tune with pico de gallo than Picabo Street.

Anyway, after a couple of rounds of badgering and soliciting advice from said cronies, I finally made my way to an REI store and a local ski shop and eventually did get kitted out at the REI (where I received excellent service, by the way). I was all set, with skis, boots, bindings, and poles. I even purchased a little tub of ski wax for the tips and tail ends of my “wax-less” classic Nordic skis.

In my eagerness, I had to roll straight to one of the local county forest preserves to try out my new setup. Before we get into that madness though, let me just say that the process of teaching oneself to cross-country ski is akin to what it must be like to try and learn to swim or ride a bike as an adult, having never learned as a child… awkward and unnatural.

Pull skis out of car. Walk to what might only seem like an appropriate spot adjacent to parking lot. Place skis on snowy ground’s surface. Clip into binding with one leg, then another. Waddle-step around like a penguin a bit and start sliding around like I’m on the NordicTrack indoor exercise machine commercial in my mind, only now I’m doing this FOR REAL. Oh, what’s that?... A slope? Oh, now I’ve fallen, and like the old lady in that classic TV commercial …“I can’t get up!!!” (wow, those TV images do get into our brains!) Ok, so I’m back up, trying not to laugh out loud too loudly, and looking around for jeers and unfortunately entertained onlookers.

This same process of alternating arms and legs gliding (okay, more of an ungraceful sloshing at this point), falling, and getting back up to repeat goes on for the better part of half an hour, before I decide to retire to the comfort of my car’s heater on full blast (it was a crisp 16 degrees that afternoon). Better make my way over to get some coffee, soup, and a bear claw for nourishment and much needed consolation.

So that was my maiden voyage en route to Thor-like Nordic fitness. Subsequent, regular ski-outings have thus far proven exhilarating and quite positive. I seem to fall less, and feel smoother and have those moments of being “in the zone” at times. I even have enough oxygen in my brain to take the occasional photograph (2 of 3 deer, not impressed with my technique): 

I do regret having lived in the Midwest this long, and waited just as long to make the leap and start skiing. A couple of friends tell me that once I master “classic” Nordic style, I can try “skate” skiing, and that I will become addicted to the speed. On that note, how about the sport of “biathlon,” where competitors race against each other on a course and have to occasionally stop and take pot shots with their back-slung rifles at target settings on the course!?!? Really, how awesome is that? Skiing and shooting!!! (here's Germany's Magdalena Neuner being awesome, skiing and packin' heat!):

One variation on a Nordic sport at a time though, please. I should probably take care that I can ski for a couple of hours without falling down before I go strapping a loaded weapon on my back and hitting the snow. I’m on it though, so those Norwegians and Swedes had better watch out!

Racing from "Base Miles" to "Echo Base"

The 2010 Illinois State Cyclocross Championships have come and gone, which wraps up my “competitive” cycling season for the year. The day was “epic,” at least as far as the weather and course conditions were concerned. But, before I get too immersed in lurid descriptions of the epic-ness of this epic-fest, I’d like to back up a bit to a few weeks ago… (insert dreamy-harp, once-upon-a-time musical riff here)…

Earlier this fall, I had decided to take a hiatus from racing the local, Chicago Cyclocross Cup racing circuit, opting instead to spend vast chunks of weekend days putting in longer miles at easier intensity, figuring I simply had not had enough racing in my legs (ok, not much AT ALL) during the summer season to take me into fall cyclocross with enough of a base. So off I went into the languishing fall and waning weekend afternoons.

Elaborate plans I had worked out post-dissertation defense, final edits, and graduation simply had not materialized this summer. Instead, I started teaching on a regular rotation and things got crazy at work, and (insert reader-preferred excuses here and here…). Long story short, it simply didn’t happen.

So, when I embarked upon my anemic attempt at a series of ‘cross races that I did take a stab at, it was under less than ideal circumstances as far as any sort of proper “training” was concerned. What’s more, I even experienced a phenomenal crash into a camera-toting videographer in one of the races that completely left my front wheel trashed (hmm, best order up a new set of CX-specific hoops to rebuild around those old hubs…).

After a few more subsequent disappointments on two wheels (say, the whole month of November), I decided to go into self-imposed racing exile to spend some quality time with Bruni & Co. “Bruni” is short for Brunhilde, my trusty 2005 Raleigh ‘Team Cross’ CX bike... the “& Co.” means whatever else I happen to have ridden. And quality time it was!... It probably included as much coffee and pastry as Accelerade and PowerGel. On a few occasions, I even went out and overcooked my estimate of available sunlight (see last posting). Note, the igloo under construction, post-race:

So, with some longer miles in my legs, and the freshened (delusional?) perspective that a break from competition will bring, I decided to NOT race what was left of the 2010 Chicago Cyclocross Cup series… ESPECIALLY the last, Hoth Ice Planet scenario that is typically the Montrose Harbor race…*Until*, of course, I gave in to the ever-lurking manly-man peer pressure that includes the usual on-cue chorus of “Come on man, I’ll race if YOU race…” and “Dude, you got that new wheelset rebuild, don’t you wanna use it?” Yes, such intense male gauntlet throw-downs happening in the deadly serious environs of said friend’s Sony Play Station 3 setup. Challenges to one’s masculinity simply take on more weight under such circumstances, and are never to be taken lightly! But ultimately, at the end of the day, it was I who made the decision to seek a final hurrah of racing glory for the season. And glorious, it was.

The final race of the series at Chicago’s Montrose Harbor is close enough to the shore of Lake Michigan that there is an actual mix of snow, ice, and sand on some stretches of the course, no doubt blown about by gale-force winds coming off the lake, as well as the fact that the course intentionally meanders onto the actual lakeshore itself in places. Keep in mind, this is December in Chicago. Cold. Wind.

But, remember what I’ve mentioned about competitive bike racers. D e l u s i o n a l . The need to suspend one’s disbelief plays a strong role in all this. Am I the only one that gets the occasional moment of self-doubt about such an enterprise? “Hey, it’s December in Chicago, 20 degrees out with crazy wind-gusts.. AND there’s four inches of snow on the ground… Should we really be racing bikes?”

H E R E S Y ! ! ! ! !

Such thoughts are quickly banished by another strange brain fluid mixture that counters with “Dude, what would be *truly* epic would be if it were all cold and windy like this and it started snowing, AGAIN…”

The absolute best parts of this race were the starting straightaway of frozen tundra, and the final moment of crossing the finish line. There was something truly primal about the start of the race, as though the field were moving headlong in desperation to reach the first corner (only to hit the brakes and slow down) if only to generate enough body heat to stay alive. I was, depending on who you ask, “giggling like a schoolgirl,”… or… “laughing maniacally, like a raving lunatic…” Either way, I was at THIS point in the race, actually having a good time.

Ice + snow = lack of traction, even with barely inflated tubular tires. So barely inflated in fact, that a couple of times I actually stopped on the course to check my rear tire to make sure I was not running completely flat. Okay, I had to dismount anyway to hoof it over frozen quicksand, so I may as well check tire pressure, right?

So after about one to one and one half laps of this madness, I’m starting to generate enough body heat to at least be able to fantasize about people sitting in elegant houses, sipping warm drinks (preferably, hot cocoa or hot apple cider) in front of a cozy fireplace. Raising alpacas in California… or sheep, in Ireland… or wearing wool sweaters made from alpacas or sheep, while sipping hot drink in front of said cozy fireplace… All the while, my brain is concurrently attempting to harness the fine motor skills to keep the bike upright AND keep pedaling, lest I fall over (which, I eventually DID), and be taken by a local Hoth Wampa.

It’s not long before I am waaay off the back. So far off the back, in fact, that a local cross country skier friend of mine is riding his bike along the side of the course, openly mocking me about when I’m going to decide to make my tactical, decisive move for the victory. So far off the back, that I am actually lapped by the race leaders. The upside to being lapped is that it eventually means that the end is near, as some race officials tend to really enforce the “lapped rider,”… “Hey, get a load of how far off the back this guy is!” rule.

So, amid the sounds of cheering fans, hecklers, and clanging cowbells (more cowbell, please!) I’m eventually, ignominiously (along with seemingly everyone else) ushered off the course with the official’s blow of the whistle and wave of the hand. HURRAY, I can STOP NOW!!!... This is the one race of the year where the shame and humiliation (ok, agony) of defeat is ameliorated by the conclusion of the harsh racing conditions. “What? Time to jump into a car with the heater going full-blast? Right on!!”

And that, brings to an end, my bicycle racing season for 2010. It is also the last race in a certain “racing age” category (let’s say, a particular ‘decade’ of a number between 20 and 40). Perhaps I’ll save the lessons learned from bike racing in that interval for a later posting. For now, I’m so tired, I need not count sheep nor alpacas, though I’m certain they, will haunt my dreams. Better they, than Hoth Wampa.

Lights!... Camera!... Miles.

In the interest of trying to squeeze in some late-November (pre-Thanksgiving) miles, I went out today for another long steady distance ride. A friend of mine refers to these types of rides as "LSD" (Long-Steady-Distance, ... get it?). While there is happily, no LSD of the chemical kind involved in this sort of training, a bad 'bonk' experience can make one feel as though... well, never mind.

This time of year, these rides either happen exclusively on weekends, supplemented by a night or two during the week indoors on the Kreitler rollers. There's simply not enough daylight at the end of the workday to get many quality miles in. That leaves the option to go out and ride in the morning... but really? Leave the comfort of a warm bed when it is sub-freezing outside? I'll simply admit here and now that I am not enough of a "hardman" as we like to refer to those Belgian hardmen of cycling's 'Spring classics'. These days, I'm actually trying to heed German pro Jens Voigt's admonition to "HARDEN THE F*** UP!!!" Indeed.

In recent memory, it seems more and more that my idea of a "hard" ride is one that fails to involve a stop at a Starbucks or Caribou for some sort of pumpkin-gingerbread sugary syrup latte goodness. ESPECIALLY during the fall months.

So, today, while I thought my ride would be "epic" only in spirit, it turned out to be quite epic for real! On my way home, it seems the temperature dropped a good 10 degrees and the wind really started to howl. To add to the epic-y-ness of the experience, I had somewhat miscalculated the amount of sunlight I would have left late in the afternoon, and dusk quickly gave way to darkness. The suddenly overcast gloom did not help my cause. Finally, my lack of ANY lights on my bike for this ride meant that I'd become that guy... that idiot who goes out to ride in the dark with no reflectors, no flashing tail light, no head lamp... LUCKILY, most of my ride was along portions of the Fox River bicycle trail, so by the time it got really dark, I would mostly be invisible to other cyclists, runners, and evening strollers. Jens Voigt's injuries (seen here in hospital bed) were sustained not on a recreational bike path, but during the 2009 Tour de France. Jens and I are almost exactly the same age, separated by only 5 months, and a pro racing contract here and there. Otherwise, we have so much in common, Jens and I. "Jens" even sort of sounds like "Jes" doesn't it? But, I digress...

As much as I do enjoy group training rides (the more, the better), most cyclists know that it is essential to sometimes go solo, or with very few others from time to time in order to better manage the prescribed intensity of the ride. This time of year though, unless people are still racing cyclocross, most racers are well into post-season mode, and it can become increasingly difficult to round up a posse. So, one rides alone... and after a few miles, the mind starts to wander. On days like today, the brain turns to fantasies of Belgium or northern France early. "And now they've entered the Forest of Arenberg!!!."

The introspection comes next, along the lines of "It really is sorta cold today... perhaps I should have stayed in the house and hit the rollers..." and that leads to the self-doubt of "Why am I even bothering to do this? It's really not THAT much fun, just riding a bike... IS IT?... Come on, it's gotta be better than that Liege-Bastogne-Liege in 1980 with French great Bernard Hinault off the front..." THAT was EPIC.

I mean, it wasn't even snowing today. Fortunately, most racing cyclists also have an extremely high capacity for self-delusion regarding our past, current, and future abilities on two wheels. A little bit of self-delusion is essential to keep at it, for if one ever realized exactly how futile the pursuit of actual victory is (given all the variables one cannot control for), it would drive one insane (like thinking too much about the massive black holes that are said to exist at the center of galaxies). Not good.

However, a *little bit* of delusion, of the "I *am* big!!!" Norma Desmond-variety (as opposed to what used-to-be) will keep one training and racing well into AARP eligibility (perhaps they can kick down a race registration fee discount?). So it's not only the Lance Armstrongs and Brett Favres of the world who delude themselves into one more ride, one more season... but most of the amateur racers I know in their 30s, 40s, 50s. But what else would we do, really?

So the same desire and commitment to extend our viable racing lives thus gets applied to extending the season itself, when we DO remember to take our bike lights with us. Just like that... fiat lux and there is light. Here are some of mine:

Ultimately, we all ride for different reasons. Some a *bit* more deluded than others at their prospects for actual victory in competition. Winning is nice, and I can attest to that with the few podium spots I attained the better part of a decade ago (SO CLOSE to winning,... As Springsteen sang, "Glory days well they'll pass you by..." No doubt!). But it's really something else that keeps us slogging through, mile after mile, year after year. Bragging rights on the local circuit? A lifetime of (exaggerated) memories? The chance to win a stale box of Clif Bars? I'm not really certain.

But I do believe that Robert Louis Stevenson was onto something when he wrote:

"To be what we are, and to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end of life."

I only know that quote because I had to write the sentence about 800 times as punishment for daydreaming and "acting a fool" during the 6th grade. I now, somehow, feel vindicated.

Best go get my things ready for tomorrow's ride.

Falling Into Fall...

With the late September temperatures finally peaking in the high 80s in Chicagoland this week, it seems that summer finally had its last hurrah. FINALLY, a steady stream of days ahead in the 60s and low 70s. Fall in the Midwest is special,... well, at least it seems more so to a West Coast (SF Bay Area!) guy like myself that grew up knowing basically great weather, and o.k. weather (a cloudy or rainy day here and there). But here in the Midwest, we actually have seasons!.. and, plenty of deciduous broadleaf (term from my undergrad geography coursework days!) trees. This means fall colors!!

It also means fall riding and racing cyclocross (or, at least, plenty of TALK about racing cyclocross). It is a great time of year to ride in the Midwest, to the extent that, should one stop to take in a view or snap a photo, or call Lady Gaga's telephone, one is not immediately carried off by mosquitos the size of flying monkeys. Whether it ever happened or not, I seem to have these great memories of being on these "epic" weekend fall rides when I'd be rolling along some country road, and at times, a little jetty of air would leave a few leaves tumbling in my wake as I passed. I must have seen that on an old Buick commercial or magazine ad somewhere and it kinda stuck. Speaking of flying monkeys and other odd creatures on might encounter on the road, here are a few of my stalwart training partners I pass from time to time on a regular route:

They were less impressed with my lack of form than I was. I swear they kept saying "laaame, ... laaaame!!" every time I passed by. It always seems to be the same old scene, three billy goats gruff waiting for the mothership to land, or just sunning themselves in the late afternoon. In case any of my Chicagoland friends are curious to see this spectacle, they're on Beith Rd., way out west of St. Charles before crossing Meredith Rd. I take their chorus as a form of encouragement on the way out to meet the ride, (as I do the route backwards) and try to hold on as long as possible. Such mockery is a form of consolation on days (often) when I am spat out the back of the pack. These days, I'm just glad to see them, as I'm glad to see most of my bike racer geek friends. Yes, fall means great riding conditions and vistas, but it also means our days of youthful wanderlust in the warm sun are numbered. Sort of like the post-season for a baseball fan. Great memories and all that, but summer's end makes the reality set in that once again, the Cubs went nowhere (Let's go A's!!) and there's "always next year..."

Finding Form and Other Misplaced Things

Finding my “form” on the bike has been a MUCH slower process this year. It seems that the grandiose plans I had post-graduation of a summer filled with nothing but training and racing never did come to pass… (okay, training, racing, and a couple of journal article manuscript submissions) Well, at least the racing never happened. As far as training goes though, I seem to have deluded myself earlier this spring that it would somehow be a good idea to try a half-marathon (as in the kind you run, on foot…) this year, so for the last couple of months, the time spent “training” for the Batavia 'Half-Madness' half marathon has indeed taken away from at least a bit of time in the saddle. It SO MUCH seemed like a good idea at the time! On that note, I have NO IDEA how multi-sport, or triathletes, or whatever they call themselves do it… spend all that time training… swimming, cycling, and running… and maintain any semblance of a normal work and social life. I have a difficult enough time just keeping up with one real sport (er, cycling…) and one imaginary sport: FIFA ’10 on friends’ Sony Play Station(s).

Silly? Sure, but it is a LONG, winter in the Midwest. What else is one to do??? Shovel snow? Read books? Conduct scholarly research and writing? Blah!..

On that note, what exactly is “form” anyway? Cyclists like to throw that term around like it’s somehow part of some secret dialect within the cult or secret society they (we) all belong to. “Yes, Armstrong’s form was really groggy that spring, but by the time the Midi Libre rolled around, it was really beginning to come around…” Or, something that is seldom, if ever (okay, actually NEVER said), “Man, Velo-Maniac’s form is super strong this year.. he’ll really be a contender at the Sherman Park and Wood Dale Criteriums!!!” Most days, I’d be happy just to find less form of the kind that gathers at one’s waistline (a negative example, where LESS form is better!!).

So, with summer on the wane, and form just starting to find me, I will probably bid farewell to the likelihood of much racing on the road this 2010 season. However, all these miles are not for naught, as that nutty, cult-within-a-cult sport of cyclocross is nearly upon us. Yes, cyclocross, where grown men (and women) in tights participate in a steeplechase-by-bike or sorts, prancing over barriers in parks and other venues at maximum cardiovascular threshold, all for the chance to win a box of stale Power Bars or a couple of dollars back from their race entry fee which they had to pay in the first place.

Ideally, cyclocross is a way to extend the racing season on the bike (or in my case, START it) into the months of fall and early winter, whence presumably, one will emerge fitter (and yes, with better form) in the spring of the following year. This is of course, in an idealized world, where beer tents and bratwurst, and potato pancake stands do not exist on-site at the race venue. I am quite certain that I have actually had race days where I have consumed twice the number of calories I have expended. I mean, really, why be any sort of “endurance” athlete, if you can’t partake in a little nutritional sin from time to time, right? Serious athletes will mention something about the need to see “food as fuel…” whereby food is not merely consumed for the sheer pleasure and epicurean enjoyment that it brings, but for some loftier, noble goal of fueling the body, no more or less than it needs.

So, on that note, I am inspired to venture forth on an experiment. I should on this night, explore as scientifically as possible (for an historian), which dairy group product serves my nutritional needs more effectively… A pint of Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk, or a large strawberry sundae from Dairy Queen. Good form depends on it.