"Braking" the rules and Quadsworth Glitter Horses

Road bike races man, they can be so fun, but they're always so hard.
Monstercross too, that's another hard-but-fun race.

Another post 2 weeks after the fact. I'm lucky that I can say 'work is busy,' but got-dang work is busy. I'm a pooped trooper. Not as pooped as two weeks ago on Sunday night.

The WiMa road race was another good one. It puts to shame all those road races out there that need a $10k budget just to get off the ground. WiMa barely spends $1k, and still gets huge turnouts and rave reviews year after year.
This year the race was a great shakedown for me. Racing the Cat3, getting frisky elbows with fellow friskers, general hooliganism. I hadn't been doing much on the road bike, and the winter has been tough for training, so I had pretty low expectations. Had a mid-pack finish, which I strategically procured to hide from the chief ruth ref to avoid a DQ that would cost me... a mid-pack finish.  Road bike racers' #2 most important skill: Valid pre-race excuses.

the road pedals mean its a road bike, really

So the long and short of it is that I didn't get yelled at for using disc brakes in a road race. Wooo. Judging by the size of USACycling's 'cahones' I'll be having this excuse for a while.
On the flip side, having a new and fun bike to ride was really refreshing. I haven't enjoyed road bikes for a while, but having a road bike that takes a 29x2.0 really makes it hard to hate.

On the muddy side of this cultural phenomenon, we have Monstercross. Mark Junkermann is one of the chillest dudes around (to the full extent of chill) and he pulls off one hell of an event every year. An event so good, I make faces like this:    


When confronted by a camera with the full knowledge that there is a pissed and raging Quadsworth about to "pass" me from the rear. He's just jealous of the size of my butt...

I soiled myself in fear

 He came by me shouting "ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY EIGHT" meaning the souls he had crushed with his glittery fun horse, which now numbered 189 as my meager second wind turned into a merely flatulent wind.

After continuing to pummel my own -- now haggard -- resolve to keep the pedals turning, the coup d'etat was performed by one Honorable Sir Adam "hey wilson!" Croft. He's always so cheerful, and my minds eye always sees the gap toothed kid that just finished his third SM100 handily. My inner dialogue about my self-worth in the face of a mighty force like "little Adam" led to one of those inner-ultimatums, though in this case, the diplomat representing Give-The-Eff-Up was John Bolton, and the diplomat from We-Can-Do-This was Arnold Schwarzenegger. One has a giant furry mustache and actually gets his way all the time, the other struts around in a very public way but has relatively useless musskuls. In this particular game of Model UN in wilson's ego, Arnold managed to strut his way all the way to the finish, just a few seconds ahead of Adam, right up until the Croftfather pronounced that Adam had started at the back and therefor had a 2 minute faster time. BOLTON WINS AGAIN.

Arnold is moping in the corner clutching the results printout telling himself that his victory was a real one, really it was, I swear.

Metaphoric digressions aside, I had a really great time at a really great race, and that pleasure is nothing compared to the fun I had making the trophies for Mark to award to the Elite Men's and Women's winners. At some point I will post about my deeper feelings about hand-work; for now I'll stick to how really satisfying it is to make/fix/improve a thing that someone else appreciates. Whether it's a bike that does its job or an object that holds meaning or brings happiness, creating those moments for others is what keeps me going -- and brings me joy -- through the long days and tired hands.

May 2014 be full of satisfaction and hard-ass bike rides.

Il Pirata and the things we do for socks

And so another year passes, and another Pantani is ridden.

I would normally excuse my late-ness with a whiny complaint about how much that ride hurt, but in the spirit of il pirata, let's just say I've been busy at a 'clinic' getting my 'nutrition' ready for the grand tours.

Rolling into the Tevendale Homestead in the morning, we got our bikes out and suited up in our Mercatone Uno tribute kits, did a few lines of tribute coke. One of those things is true.

I missed most of the pre-ride riders' eulogy (death awaits on that mountain), due to a last minute batman tire pressure check. Unfortunately, I've never been good at the whole 'type-a' thing, so I wound up toodling over to the start as the powers-that-would-be proclaimed that the ride had begun. 48 miles of sometimes 200rpms and sometimes walking later I was tired and trying not to get smoke in my eyes. The fire pit/fire wood situation at the TevenCompound really needs some game-upping.

That was a terribly brief description of the ride. Let's call that the cliff notes "lite."

The cliff notes version:

• Rolled at the front -casual 200rpms- to the first grade on Davis Shop, them some asshole (Bryan Lewis?) attacked the il Pirata-don himself and upped the pace. A cadence of 250 is a little beyond me.
• Leisurely drifted back to 30th or so on the Col-du-Fox, then settled into a 'grupetto' for the road section to Marmolada, where I attacked, dropped my bro Zülle, and finally got the maglia rosa during which I burned way to many proverbial matches keeping up with my derailleur-clad brethren of the road.
• Got to see several friendly faces riding up the Mission Home climb. One friendly Design Physics couplet (todd and plassman?) and one short-bearded Metro riding in his traditional style: solo.

Marco Pantani

• 

  Metro Pantani- The resemblance is uncanny

  At the start of Simmon's Gap, I came upon one "Downtown" Lester Brown having arrived late and taken his Pro Team Bus to the start of the first climb. He's a sponsored pro now. Must be nice. I hope I'm still faster than him...
• Having done unspeakable things to my body on the voyage to the tippity top o' the pop, I began descending and immediately came upon and freshly "KTFO" rider on a 30second memory loop. Stayed with Plassman the Medic until SAG arrived (what kind of unofficial hard-man's ride has SAG anyway. Refer to rule #5). Rallied. Descended.
• Brokenback Mountain consisted of very little riding for me. maybe 10%. Apparently it's steep? Who knew.
• Back at the top o' the pop again, but in significantly worse shape, I imbibed half of a Brooklyn Brewery chocolate stout and 4 munchkins. Race nutrition y'all.
• Witnessed a second wreck near the bottom of Simmons, though this time the bicycle-driver performed some sort of mid-road-rash levitation which allowed him to run away from his bike. He was hooting in pain, so perhaps not as magical as it could have been, but he still went from sliding-under-bike to jogging away in one graceful maneuver. Bikes=Magic.

The rest of the ride and day is a blur of Quadsworth preaching the gospel, Nachos, and Cramps, so there's not much else to describe. Something about pink knitted stockings, but I think those are mythic.

I blame the TevenSmoke™for the lengthy delay in this post. 

Seriously promoters <Cat5ComplaintRant> straighten that out.