Time Management

The season is rapidly approaching its half way point and with it comes low resting pulse rates, increased metabolisms, irate drivers, and a tan so defined it is laughable to the uninitiated. As July gets underway, the miles continue to climb and our passion for the bike and the time we spend in its presence is reaching a feverish crescendo. The cycling lifestyle is everywhere around us and, at times, all encompassing. Not only are there hours dedicated to riding and racing and talking about the sport, but with the Tour beaming worldwide we now dedicate even more of our already scarce time to cycling. With all of this time spent deep in the cycling mindset, our loved ones and friends can arrive at only one conclusion: cyclists are nuts!

Well, we agree wholeheartedly, we are a passionate bunch and to some that passion can easily be mistaken for an obsession. I mean, who in their right mind says "no" to the second piece of cake? And, yes, we know lycra ("spandex") is funny to everyone but us. With the time we spend riding our bikes, talking about bikes, preparing our bikes, or shaving our legs we could easily dig into something more substantial like solving world hunger or at the very least finishing that bathroom renovation.

Here in its simplest form is our excuse: cycling makes for a healthy body and mind (as well as alienation of those who are not indoctrinated).

So...to our friends and family, our jobs, and all the non-cycling outlets that make up our busy lives: thank you for your understanding and your patience. Thank you for affording us the additional hours to fit our 10 pounds of passion into our 5 pound days. Your investment in us insures you get us at our very best.

July is a tough month for us, trust us when we say that we miss you too and we look forward to reconnecting. August will be a quiet month, we promise.

September on the other hand...

Recharging

Getting rundown is as inevitable as bonking. It happens to us all. It comes unbidden, in surprising new ways each time it happens.

That we get rundown isn’t the point. It’s like bonking; the only real question is, “What next?”

Why, you plug the A/C adapter in, dontcha? It used to be that all I needed to recharge was a few long days in the saddle; knock out 250 miles or so and my head would be screwed back on straight.

More and more, I’m noticing that if my bike isn’t just right, from a clean chain to perfectly adjusted shifting and brake throw, I’ll be struck with a need to give my ride a thorough going over before I’ll feel ready to ride.

Spending time in the garage has always been soothing for me. IPod cranked, a special mix serenading me, easing my concentration, I’ll happily putter for hours on a weekend afternoon, cleaning bikes, parts, making adjustments or upgrades.

Lately, I think I’ve been experiencing the male equivalent to nesting. I’ve got years of accumulated parts and until recently they were stashed in boxes with no real organization. I knew where things were, but that was only true if a remembered I had them. I forgot about tons of stuff.

One day I opened up a little organizer the better half brought home for me. Suddenly, the little plastic dividers weren’t just more work, but rather a means to serenity, a way to find calm in a mountain of unused stuff.

It became a game of Concentration. I reunited a set of titanium water bottle bolts (Wow, a complete set of four?) and then discovered a cash of batteries for bike computers I thought no longer worked (So maybe they did take four years to dry out). Rather than just wasting my time sorting things when I could be doing real work—like truing a wheel—it became therapeutic and each emptied cardboard box felt nearly as good as a post-ride Stella.

With an array of ordered nooks, dividers and containers, it feels like I’ve got more now, and I’ve discovered a number of items I can spare for friends or keep around to start whole new projects.

NAHBS - 2009

The Hero Poster

As compared to some sports (notably, surfing) cycling is a sun-soaked desert woefully shy of art depicting its heroes in action. It would be easy to attribute the shortage up to the fantastic drama of the reality of racing itself. John Pierce, Cor Vos, Graham Watson, James Startt and Chris Milliman have all shot incredible images that capture epic moments of human suffering and triumph that seem more reliable and trustworthy due to the actuality of the circumstance.

It may be that cycling's lack of art is related to the amount of fiction being peddled as memoir. The thinking with the acquisition editors is that if it's true, it just seems, well, truer. As a society, our appetite for reality in television, books and the rest of our lives lacks imagination.

From the protagonists themselves to the landscapes and of course, even the machines, cycling is deserving of a truly heroic treatment by artists who appreciate those efforts, those sacrifices and, of course, those wins that come at the end of monumental days.

So when we were alerted to artist and graphic designer Cynthia Lou's poster treatment of her beau Sergio Hernandez (a rising star on Rock Racing), we were both excited and relieved. Excited because we found her take on the heroic to be fun and fresh and relieved because, for once, it was nice to see someone give cycling some attention.

We'd love to see her take on Johann Museeuw, Tomeke, Fabian Cancellara, Eddy Merckx, Paolo Bettini, Rik Van Looy, Roger De Vlaeminck and Eric Zabel ... for a start. A series perhaps?

Here's what we like best: Cynthia is taking commissions. Commemorate your achievement or the high-flying coolness of your sweetie with some of her work.

http://www.mysuperheroposter.com/

Service Course

A typical PRO road team requires a lot of stuff, from bikes and wheels to kits and food. A well-funded team receives this by the truckload early in the season: shelves stocked, bikes built, tires glued, and kits disseminated. For the entire season, inventories of gear are kept in some nondescript, bunker-like warehouse on the edge of town. This is known as the Service Course.

When the team travels to races, the trip begins by backing trucks and team cars up to the Service Course to load up gear before rolling out in search of a victory. When in the field, team trucks and buses serve as the rolling Service Course and small parts, pressure washers, vices, grinding wheels, spare parts, spare frames, and spare kits all have a home in the organized and spotless rolling team shop.

But what about the small time team, or the independent rider? Anyone who has ever traveled to a race or even traveled to merely ride knows that the rental car and the hotel room are the Service Course. If hotel management ever knew just how resourceful bike racers are, they would ban us like pets and rock stars.

I have built bikes, rebuilt BBs, mixed bottles, glued tubulars, done laundry, cooked for a crew of 10, and hosted post-race parties all from the confines of team HQ - the hotel.

The hotel room is your sanctuary, your temple for the pre-race prep. Ride the rollers, hang your freshly washed kits in the window, and wash the nasty bike that just endured a warm-up of torrential rain and toothpaste-thick mud. Wheels off, bike on the fork tips, shower on: done... then try to get the big chunks to go down the drain. Gear bags and travel cases stack up in the room's corners like freight containers at port; horizontal surfaces become home to the grocery and messenger bags containing the personal items that help us adhere to the pre-race rituals, attempting to bring the comfort that comes from routine.

Like many of you, I seek out the extended stay types with a fridge, microwave, stove, and often, a common living room area with a couch. The added space is always in-demand and offering up the couch helps out a mate and can offset the travel expenses.

Having a PRO bus and support staff would be ideal, but for those of us who live the dream at our own expense, the hotel room is our beacon in foreign cities and a warm embrace during the cold cyclocross months.

Jose Alcala - Neutral Race Support

They say a rolling stone gathers no moss. In this case, a road-hardened, neutral support mechanic is tough to catch at idle.

We have seen Jose at the races, exchanged greetings with him, and even passed his caravan on remote stretches of America's highways, but we've never had the chance to actually sit and have a conversation with him. If Jose wasn't setting up or tearing down at an event, he was bustling to switch a wheel, pulling Gs on a race course in the NRS Volvo, or making last minute tweaks to a competitor's ailing machine. BKW cornered race mechanic Jose Alcala a few weeks ago while he prepared the neutral race support (NRS) machines for the 2008 season. Although his hands never stopped turning wrenches, we managed to talk for a bit with Jose and learn more about what life on the road is like for he and the team at Specialized Event Management, LLC.

Jose has made his living in the bike world for the past 16 years. Beginning his tenure working for Competition Bike and Sport in Larchmont, New York (a shop that no longer exists). It was here that the fire was kindled and, like many of us, Jose was unable to shake the habit. Jose's years as a mechanic range from long hours in a shop to long hours on the road. During the years on the road, Jose has worked with the best of the best: 7 years with Campagnolo/Saeco, 2 with Lampre/Caffita, and 1 year with Saunier/Duval.

Jose's career didn't always center on the mechanical aspects. He was head coach for New York's Century Road Club, and during his years on the East Coast, Jose met fellow NRS mechanics, Hank Williams and Butch Balzano. Jose credits Hank with providing him with an early introduction to the ways of PRO wrenching and Butch with getting him out of the shops and on to the road.

Jose continues to work with Butch as part of Specialized Event Management, LLC, a company hired to provide rider support at races and to groups and industry events. Specialized Event Management relies on key sponsors to bring their resources to over 200 events annually. Sponsorship for 2008 comes in the form of vehicles from Volvo Motor Cars, frames and forks from Orbea, and rubber from the folks at Michelin.

A side note on Butch: Butch has been a neutral support mechanic for 20+ years and, to his credit, 20 of those years were spent delivering reliable service on race day to the competitors at Fitchburg-Longsjo Classic. Butch has really poured himself into these events as a true labor of love. In the early years, resources were thinner than they are today, Butch drove his own car, lent his own wheels and bikes and, got by with a little love from Campy in the form of a discount. Despite the high hurdles, Butch kept at it. The cycling world is truly blessed to have people like Butch who keep the flame lit.

Jose and company spend a lot of time on the road, roughly 290 days per year. Like all professions, work becomes a stream of familiar faces and Jose is careful to also keep in mind that his profession is unique in that he sees his clients when they are highly stressed and many are facing the day for which they have spent months training. With this consideration, Jose is careful to treat his clients with respect, remembering to simply be nice and do his job well. Jose laid it out very succinctly: he says his job is "a marketing job with a small dose of mechanics thrown in." For Jose, his presentations aren't done in a board room but rather in parking lots, expos, and road courses.

BKW: What items make life on the road tolerable, what can you not be without?

Jose: The Volvo, wheel sets, SRAM components, coffee, and good music.

BKW: What gear will be packed into each of the 5 Volvo NRS vehicles for the 2008 season?

Jose: 5 Orbeas built with SRAM components, 25-30 pairs of Zipp wheels, a mix of 404s, 303s, CSCs, and 808s, tools, spares, 3 Silca pumps, 2 Ultimate work stands, an A-Frame Ultimate display rack, a smattering of components, 4 boxes of SRAM parts, 2 Force and Rival, 2 Red, chains, spokes, saddles and Michelin Tires.

BKW: What gear/tools are most critical to your day?

Jose: Yellow Snap-On #2 flathead screwdriver and my Chicago Case Tool Box in limited edition white.



BKW: What is the best part of your job?

Jose: Seeing familiar faces far from home and the ability to continue playing a key role in racing. Without question, I have the best seat in the house!

BKW: And the worst part of your job?

Jose: Sometimes the travel, there is an element of danger we always have to be aware of.

If your summer plans take you out to the races, make sure you drop by and say hello to Jose and his team. And if your plans include pinning a number on your jersey, then it is a must that you drop by and say hello to Jose and Co. Who knows, it may be you who needs the lightning quick wheel change.

The Specialized Event Management L.L.C team

Chad Contreras
Merlyn Townly
Chris Kreidl
Jeff "Jasper" Mattson
Butch Balzano
Jose Alcala


Jose Alcala by the numbers:

Years in industry: 16

Number of songs in iTunes: 4,000

Miles driven annually: 60,000

Total dollar value of bikes handled annually: $1.5 million

Number of events attended by NRS in 2008: 120 (200 when you count stage races)

Stand and Devour

I can't remember sitting down for more than a handful of lunchs in the 20 years I worked in a bike shop. The majority of lunches were consumed while lean against a counter. Lunch in the bike retail world is a phenomenon unto itself.

If business is slow, order lunch. This may be a question for lawmaker Murphy, but what is it with food and shopping algorithms? If lunch were a 12 noon thing, one could argue that people use their lunch to run errands. In a bike shop, there is no set lunch time. In the heat of the Saturday battle, lunch is an afterthought that presents itself long past noon, a fleeting memory like faces in a crowd. Hey, I recognize that rumble in my stomach. That shaky feeling in my hands. Oh yeah, my dear old friend lunch. Good to see you, old man.

Once the food has arrived, it sits in a box, cooling off, breaking down, and seeping its grease into the cardboard that houses the nourishment. There it will sit until it reaches room temperature and begins to congeal. At that point, five minutes will surface, enough time for three bites and a splash of beverage. If you're lucky, you will repeat these actions until the indigestion sets in, and the tempo of the shop resumes its break-neck pace.

Whatever the meal, whatever the time of day, there's a very good chance your meal will be consumed in a vertical position.

Bon appetite!

Limits

Don’t say that. Don’t wear that. Don’t drive like that. For most of our lives we’ve been taught to live within confines, not just accepting the rules, but very often anticipating them and adapting to them before stepping out of bounds. We frame it as what’s appropriate.

The limits we choose to respect define us as surely as the ones we don’t. We are loyal to friends and family. We follow traffic laws (most of them). We pay taxes (whatever the accountant deems necessary), and sometimes we attack even when we know we’re riding on borrowed legs.

Each ride we go on is defined in concrete terms. We have a finite number of red-line efforts. Our endurance is measured in a hard number of hours. We know how much we have to eat and drink each hour to stave off the bonk. We know how fast we are willing to go in a corner before we apply the brakes. It’s a peculiar calculus, where each variable affects every other variable for no ride comes with an unlimited budget.

Each of these dimensions taken individually doesn’t mean much. Taken together, they form a picture of a rider. From strength to staying power to metabolic rate and nerve, we can be certain we each ride or race with someone who knows our limits as well as we do.

These limitations not only define the sport, they dominate it. Every dimension of cycling has the potential to liberate as well as constrain. An 11-23 cassette gives us seemingly endless gear options, unless you’re not a PRO and find yourself in the Alps and then we all wish for more gears … or a rocket pack. Carbon fiber handlebars absorb vibration but if you crash, they are strictly single-use.

But training is a bit like digging for buried treasure. You never know what you might find. For weeks and even months, our progress can be predictable, sometime frustrating, but then we peak and suddenly there truly is a new you. You catch the competition off-guard. Your friends suggest you pee in the cup. But for you, the surprises are endless and the deepest efforts fun, even long after you pin the needle.

The mere concept of succeeding in competition, of winning a race is to believe in surpassing limits. And that’s the trick isn’t it? It’s un-training your mind to exploit that fitness to its fullest measure. How far from the line can you attack and hold it?

Each time we surpass an old limit we must reassess who we are as a rider. And the further we surpass those old limits, the greater the surprise. Who would have thought that after months and years of work, what we find at the end of a sprint is a person we barely know?


Image courtesy John Pierce, Photosport International.

Addiction

“You’re addicted!” The only way you’ve avoided hearing that phrase is by either not telling people you ride most days of the week or by not actually riding most days of the week. Such sins of omission are entirely understandable. Keeping the peace, or a low profile can be difficult enough when you’ve got a tan like a panda bear and legs as hairless as Michael Jordan’s head. The full story has been known to cause non-cyclists to think your last known address was Area 51.

But addicted? It’s not like any of us would ever say, “I can stop this any time.” We don’t pretend our lives could go on without cycling and remain fulfilled, enjoyable. And shouldn’t that be the definition of addicted? Shouldn’t a true addiction be something we are honest about, the thing without which our lives would lose some luster?

We, ourselves, can joke about being addicted to cycling. About how when we miss our riding we get the DTs. How we get neurotic without that outlet.

No matter how we joke, most people simply don’t understand our devotion. From following the racing, to structured workouts and, of course, the numbers of hours we spend in the saddle each week, our love for the sport can seem unnatural, even unhealthy. And anything done to excess must be unhealthy, right?

But here is where I find the difference remarkable. True addictions narrow one’s world. Whether drugs, alcohol or compulsive disorders, addictions define a person’s world into necessary and unnecessary and as the disease progresses, less and less is necessary. Meals, jobs and eventually even loved ones can be determined expendable by the brain hijacked by the disease.

What cycling has done for my life is anything but. I don’t think anything else in my life taught me the value of hard work the way training has. My interest in cycling has led to learning about physics, metallurgy, physiology, GPS technology, blood chemistry, metabolism, diet, European cultures and cuisine, Hannibal, and wine, not to mention expanding my knowledge of other subjects I was already interested in including geography and photography.

My experience can’t possibly be unique. But universality is no standard by which to judge. The epiphany I came to in defending my love of and devotion to cycling is that the sport has made my world bigger. What it has done for me is nothing short of miraculous. It has exposed my weaknesses and foibles like no shrink could. I give nearly everything in my life greater effort thanks to cycling and there’s a chance that I’m a more tolerable person to friends and family.

I doubt very much the definition of addiction includes feeling better about yourself.

Junk Miles

Even if your training isn’t regulated with Swiss train precision, chances are you ride some base miles in the early season, do something approximating intervals in the spring and whenever the mood strikes you, really, really hard efforts once you start to feel fit, and recovery rides any time you can talk yourself (and your friends) into it. It’s a form of discipline that balances the enjoyment of riding against the desire to get fit without making it, well, work.

Any sort of periodized training plan, aside from being PRO, suggests an understanding of junk miles. Junk miles are the purgatory of the cycling world: Neither hard enough to be true training that will result in the coveted faster you … and not slow enough to allow you to gain any recovery at all. For most of us, the concept of junk miles was a little difficult to grasp at first. Worse yet, even when we thought we understood it, our bodies were usually slow to follow. I was lucky to have a friend who was a Cat. II to my Cat. Nothing.

“When I say easy, I mean easy,” he would say to me. My body understood “easy” the way a cat understands “heel.”

Ultimately, what we learn is that riding is a binary system. When you go hard, you go really hard, whether a three-minute interval, a full-on sprint or the half-hour climb. And when you go easy, it’s really easy. Frankly, it reminds me of a dog I had. When he was on he had the energy of a top-fuel dragster on Red Bull and anger. And when he was resting he slept the sleep of a bank vault, only with his tongue hanging out.

But there comes a point in the season when you’ve accomplished what you set out to do. Wins, upgrade points, epic rides, by late summer only the most dedicated riders still have unfinished business. The resulting mix is a once-a-year bouillabaisse of sustained fitness, great weather and waning motivation. So what is there to do?

Junk miles. Let’s hear it for going out and riding 80 percent with friends. Putting in an attack hard enough to send a message, but not so hard to leave you (or them) crippled for the rest of the afternoon. Let’s hear it for turning off the wattage meter, leaving the heart rate monitor at home and riding your priciest wheels after work. Going someplace pretty just for a change of scene.

Sometimes, pretty hard is just right.

Doubt

When the sh*t goes down and the screws are turned, we all wage the war against the ingress of doubt. Like cold, salty ocean water, doubt will find its way inside a breach and then... it's only a matter of time before the ship goes down.

Following an effort so hard that it leaves the eyes bloodshot and your feet fried, a rider tries to sort out the race's details. How can one's fitness vary so greatly on back-to-back days? All things being equal, one can point to doubt.

At times, denying doubt is harder than any of the physical efforts doled out. When the group is strung out into a razor sharp point and riders begin popping, doubt becomes tough to ignore. At that moment, the difference between a good day and a bad day is determined by the mind's willingness to ignore the persistant whisper of that f*#ker doubt.

Image courtesy John Pierce, Photosport International

Currency

The sticker may be the single most valuable form of currency in the bike world. On the surface, stickers are created equal, but upon closer inspection, stickers, like currencies, have differing values. Don't get me wrong, all stickers are important, but like teaching the value of money to a child, five singles are not as valuable as a twenty dollar bill. Here is a brief tutorial on the denominations of the sticker world.

Loose change - Loose change stickers have the lowest value and are often affixed to common, daily items such as travel mugs, the backs of your MP3 player and, on occasion, they are used to make minor repairs in place of tape. In the bike retail world, these are the stickers that find their way to garbage cans, parts bins, and new guy's tool box.

Singles - Singles have a bit higher value than loose change. Like the dollar bill, you would step off the curb to grab one of these. Singles are often a bit larger or offer a cool die-cut shape. Singles are also good for daily items (see above), but their value makes them good for the bumper of your car, the window in the service area, or maybe to cover a rust spot on the trusty '85 Ford shop van.

Fivers and the Ten Spot - Close in relation to one another, the value of the Fiver and the Ten spot is often determined by your love and personal investment in the message delivered by the sticker. A Sun Records decal carries more weight than a Sidi sticker that came with your shoes. Both are cool, but until Elvis records a historically relevant tune at Sidi HQ, the Sun sticker trumps. Fivers and tens are perfect for your tool box, even if you are a clean aesthetics kind of cyclist. One of these babies would make the clean lines of your roller cabinet that much tighter.

Twenty and the Five-0 - Now we are talking about some serious booh-kooh. If lost, the twenty and the Five-0 are the type of decals that are mourned and even warrant a bit of eBay time to try and find a replacement. Stickers like these are never wasted on short term items like cars, computers, or rental apartment refrigerators. The battle over where to place these gems is sure to be waged in your mind. Like your retirement savings strategy, think long-term.

Hundos - The largest of the folders, hundos represent the top of the sticker heap. These stickers can be any size, any vintage, and any area of interest. The value of the hundo is so great that often you hang on to it for years, waiting for the right place to affix such a valuable commodity.

Rare and Precious - Some adhesive-backed images were never meant to be adhered, plain and simple. The rare and precious are worthy of a designation greater than sticker, they are elevated to the designation of decal. Decals are coveted, they are the reason you have a sticker drawer, or special plastic bag in which all decals are stored. Some decals may be twenty plus years old and have only seen the light of day on very rare occasions; they may even have a home inside a bag inside the bag. Decals may never have their backs peeled off and their stickiness may never be realized. But like a collectable postage stamp, or an antique pistol, their worth is not measured by their functionality but rather by their pure essence.

As long as I have been a cyclist, stickers have always brought a simple joy. As a kid, I would run from booth to booth at the bike shows collecting stickers. Later in life, as I walk the isles, I still find myself pulled to booths, which among other things, has a pile of cool stickers on their table. Like cycling itself, the hunt for the perfect sticker keeps me young at heart.

Belgian Knee Warmers

Real, big-time bike racing was descending on my town. Barriers lined the sidewalks and minivans festooned with roof racks filled the available parking. A door slid open and there were the two stars of the Panasonic-Sportlife team: Viatcheslav Ekimov and Olaf Ludwig, both Olympic Gold Medalists.

While crowds mobbed Greg LeMond just 100 feet away, just a few people stood around the Panasonic-Sportlife van—bike racers and Winning subscribers all. The Panasonic-Sportlife team was to our select audience the ultimate Belgian PRO team. Ekimov and Ludwig signed a few autographs before sitting down on the tail of the van. What happened next was a revelation to me.

I had read that pro cyclists got their legs massaged and had even seen a short clip of a post-race massage on Tour de France coverage, but the pre-race massage was news to me. Further, the experience was my first with a warming embrocation. I watched as the soigneur applied the cream to the pros legs, watched as his thumbs and fingers moved through their hamstrings as if he were pushing through pudding; bread doesn’t knead this easily.


Suddenly, the aroma hit me. It was distinctly European, heady and exotic, as if it were the smell of bicycle racing itself. I had no idea that the massage was helping to warm their muscles in anticipation of the day’s stage. It took talking to a Cat. II teammate of mine to explain how a proper pre-race massage with a warming “liniment,” as he called it, could help prepare a cyclist for the day’s demands.

That I’d been exposed to something I hadn’t read about in any of the magazines made me feel like I had been let in on a secret. I was hooked. That there could be a wealth of hidden knowledge not even hinted at in the magazines gave the sport a new depth for me. As much as I loved the straightforward simplicity of my impression of bike racing, the idea that your success might depend on your pre-race knowledge and ability to prepare made bike racing alluringly complicated.


Before my next race I went out and bought a tub of Icy Hot. It didn’t have the impressive Euro scent but I was amazed at its ability to shut out the cold. More than anything, what stayed with me from that day was the smell of the embrocation and the way their muscles, especially their hamstrings, drooped from their legs as if they were wet cloth. I couldn’t yet reconcile how something so relaxed, so without tension, could contain such explosive and controlled power.

Sine Qua Non

Without which there cannot be. It’s a Latin legal term for what is indispensable, essential— the body that denotes the crime. More recently it has come to stand, in a broader social context, for the thing that gives meaning to life.

That we think of cycling as sine qua non is no surprise. Anything that adds meaning to life with each rising sun cannot be otherwise. For us, cycling is a beloved part of any meaningful day.

This spring a friend had a crash—his second this year—which left him sore for weeks. It was enough to shake his faith in cycling. He admitted some weeks later that he considered getting off the bike.

His statement got me to thinking about the cyclists I’ve known over the years who have given up the sport. Some drifted away, appearing on group rides less and less over a succession of months until one day someone asks, “Hey, whatever happened to…?” Others seem to vanish, disappearing as suddenly as if they had moved to another city. And then others moved on to the next fad when Lance retired. Ten years ago they were into fly fishing, and now it’s golf or something. No matter which way, I’m always mystified by their turn away from the sport. How someone can log hundreds of miles per week for years at a time and then suddenly turn it off like a light switch at bedtime is a bigger mystery than the fall of Rome.

Notwithstanding the incredible demands that family and career can place on our lives, some cyclists simply move away from the sport. That anyone can decide, “I’ve had enough of this,” has caused me to wonder just what it is so many of us find so requisite. We may think cycling’s draw is to obvious what Michael Jackson is to freak show, but we also know we’re in the minority on this. Frankly, it’s easier to understand those who never come to appreciate cycling’s draw than it is to comprehend those who wander from the light.

Cycling’s place in the lives of the lifers isn’t at the pinnacle; it only seems so. It’s easy to think that because cycling is often the most enjoyable thing we do in a day, it must be the best part of our lives, but you’d never say such words aloud. The truth is, cycling can be the glue that holds the fragile bits of our lives together. It’s the release that makes paying the bills, taking out the trash and the unfinished action item possible.

Back in the good ole days when Greg LeMond was wearing the yellow jersey, he made a statement that gets at the heart of the matter. Alluding to his family he said (and I paraphrase), ‘Without them none of this would have been possible. I’d never have won the Tour; I wouldn’t be in yellow now.’

And maybe that’s the secret. Cycling gives us the ability to achieve more than we could without it. Our relationship to cycling is a sort of marriage. But it’s married to more than us—we’ve wedded it to our lives. When it works, it can teach us not the value of sticking with something, but how walking away from anything robs us of more than the thing itself.

Seeing the Changing World

I wrote this in 2001 in the wake of the 9/11 attacks. The piece never found a home but the attacks and the piece came to mind recently as I watched a preview of M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening. As this is the season for vacations, I thought it might be an appropriate time to see the light.

It's no secret that I believe time off from work spent away from home isn't a vacation unless you have a bike with you. I'm realizing that I just don't believe it's a good idea to travel without a bike. By day I write for a trade publication that covers the electronic security industry. I spend my time interviewing the people you pay to make your home and your business safe. As I write this it is the 24th of September, 2001 and most of America is trying to come to grips with the aftermath of what are now being termed the Sept. 11th attacks. Less than two weeks prior to the attacks I was in New York city for a trade show at the Jacob Javits center. Using one of those great little passes you get from the USCF for travel on United, I loaded up my bike carrier and headed for the city that never sleeps (and trust me, it doesn't).

I had but two specific goals for my bike while in NYC. I wanted to go for a ride with writer J.P. Partland, and I wanted to ride in Central Park, the latter being a quintessentially New York-roadie activity in my imagination.

My Times Square hotel gave me close proximity to the park and I rose early to go spin around the loop. Years of VeloNews reading gave me an appreciation of the course's few features, so when I rounded the loop's north end and hit the road's one real hill—a hill insignificant to racers at 20 mph, but known for breaking big men when hit at 30 miles per hour—I felt like I was walking from the desert into Mecca.

For those of you who remember the name Jackson Lynch, former PR honch for Polo Sports and Trek, and before that an editor for Mountain Biker and Bicycle Guide, he was the one guy on a road bike I saw that morning. You might think that mention to be an aside, but it is part of my point: The bicycle has the ability to make the big world seem small.

After my ride the next day with J.P., I got brave. I decided to take my bike downtown and play in traffic. I figured if I was going to go on record and claim that the best way to see the world was from the seat of a bicycle, I better back it up by riding in a less idyllic setting. I headed straight down Broadway for the financial center. Once, a few years back, a girlfriend completely enamored of America's financial center had driven me through the district late at night. Even at two in the morning it seemed to pulse with an unseen ingenuity.

I rode several loops around the World Trade Center. At the time, the event seemed significant only on a personal level: I was in the presence of one of the world's most significant structures. I knew most of my friends would think me crazy. Maybe not now. On the same ride I made sure to pass the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings. I marveled at each of those landmarks, ever in awe of the New York commerce machine.

Sitting here, those buildings, and the people who worked in them, are present tense for me. The smells of the diesel, the deli I passed, the way my eyes teared at the exhaust, the angle I craned my neck to peer through the shadows cast on everyone below, and the reverberations of the trucks, buses, cars and honking taxis off the surrounding concrete captivated me with its raw energy. I'd leap off the line, dodge the traffic, only to pause for the light and a look at the changing skyline.

The Big Easy

I was visiting the folks at Specialized for a writing project unrelated to BKW last fall when I got the invitation to join Mike Sinyard and some Specialized staffers for Mike’s weekly abuse session called the Big Easy. To the degree that one can reasonably expect truth in advertising I think the Big Easy strikes the right balance. It was certainly “big” but it was anything but “easy.” Starting in Morgan Hill at Sinyard’s home, the ride takes in a clockwise loop that heads over the mountains for the coast through Aptos and Soquel, and then back over the mountains before dropping back into Morgan Hill.

No one had a GPS unit on their bike, so my route notes are limited to estimations by those present. I’m told the loop was 80-85 miles and had 10,000-11,000 feet of climbing. We were gone roughly five hours.

I’ve been hearing about this ride for some years and have been very curious about it. I knew if I ever had the chance I would move heaven and earth to attend. Sinyard rides a Roubaix exclusively; I suspected that the roads used in this ride might have something to do with it.

Our route took us over three significant climbs and by significant I mean they were all long enough to make a Cat. V cry. The first climb turned to dirt less than half way up and demanded steady power, careful steering and a light touch through the loosest of the gravel. The descent down the other side was steep, narrow, occasionally rutted and as twisty as the plot of a Hollywood thriller. It was, in short, hairy enough to take the edge off the fun.


We rolled into the hamlet of Corralitos and stopped at the tiny market to refill on water. Sinyard has an utterly charming habit of referring to everything that’s not water as juice. It reminds me of something my dad would say, but his habit of looking after all those present had a warmth and caring that was more maternal than paternal. Andrew Hammond, one of the instructors for SBCU (and a very strong rider) said with forboding tone of finality, “Well, that’s it; no matter which way we go, we have to climb to get home.” His voice rang with horror picture doom. I was delighted.

Our route took us through Aptos, Capitola and to a small market on the old San Jose-Santa Cruz Highway that Sinyard said he’d been visiting on his rides for 30 years. He told me of how the market recently sold and the new owners had taken down the old sign; he was genuinely sad about the loss of the little piece of local history. Leaving the market we ground our way up a long, shallow grade toward our rendezvous with Los Gatos. After topping out on the climb we had a short descent to a detour that forced onto a gravel path descent.


On the edge of town the group faced a decision. Or rather, it would have been a decision any other day, but this time, with a guest present, there was no choice. We would do Hicks, a road that skirts Almaden Quicksilver Park and an ascent of such ferocity that Andrew told me he had no idea how long or steep it was, only that after the first 100 meters he goes to his personal happy place and waits for the torture to end. Turns out, I went to my happy place as well, which was a bit back down the road from his.

As we spun back to our start point, Sinyard’s home, I played back the day’s events as much as I could in my head. I wanted to make permanent as many of the day’s features as I could. The upshot of my mental replay was that I was filled with a sense of mortal envy. I couldn’t believe how lucky these folks were to have such extraordinary riding so close to home.


Leadership works best when it is credible and has the ability to inspire. Sinyard wasn’t the fastest on each of the climbs, but he was rather conspicuously not last, either. It was evident from attitudes of the employees present that each had brought his A-game that day. Perhaps what was most impressive is what didn’t happen: Sinyard didn’t race the course. He rode at his own pace, enjoying himself and didn’t try to prove that he was still alpha dog at the top of each climb or in getting to the bottom of each descent.

Sinyard has a peculiar habit whenever he flies back from Asia; he meets a van driver at the airport who has his bike and a change of clothes for him. He then, despite the jet lag, rides the nearly 100 miles home.

It would be foolhardy and inaccurate to suggest that for a bike company to find success its CEO should be a serious cyclist. But it was evident in talking with Sinyard that being a rider and having products that made each ride more enjoyable was clearly no less a priority in 2008 than they were in 1974. He rides a Roubaix; that’s his road bike of choice, rather than the company’s flagship Tarmac SL2, which bolsters the argument that the bike isn’t just a hybrid with drop bar.

Back at his home at the end of the ride he made us smoothies, salad and spaghetti. It would be easy to take the cynical view and chalk his hospitality to a CEO turning on the charm for the media, but I can’t accept that idea. His charm was too natural, his hospitality too genuine, his love of hard roads too real to improvise.

Mid-Week Classic

The Mid-Week Classic (MWC) gets its name because it's held every Wednesday. Both the route and intensity are much akin to a one-day Classic. It starts early in the Spring, which often means temps are cold and conditions vary from sunny and warm to instantaneous downpours and the race has little time for pleasantries. The MWC is a bare-knuckle, fisticuffs event complete a "no-rules" policy, which basically states that it's "game-on" at exactly 5:30 p.m. The course is 40 miles out and back and the terrain varies from rolling hills and false flats to a nasty criterium section complete with multiple chicanes and a rutted series of back roads punctuated with potholes, off-camber turns and some spontaneous gravel in sections.

The MWC makes no apologies and takes no prisoners, which is why it's a favorite for the local Category ones and twos. I incorporated the MWC into my weekly schedule two seasons ago and feel that it has drastically improved my fitness. I guess if I'm not going to pay a coach to train me, the next best thing is to make sure I show up on the important training rides.

The MWC is an epic event, but one ride in particular was so over the top, that I'll never forget it.

Last July we experienced a two-week period where the temps were relentless and hovered in the 32°-34°C range. The wicked humidity so common with July helped to create a recipe for a complete and utter cracker! At 5:15 p.m. the ride began taking shape; the usuals showed along with some new faces. At 5:30 p.m. the group was complete (25 of us in all) and we rolled in the familiar fashion up and out of town. Just as we passed the last of the tall buildings, the unofficial gun sounded and it was "game-on". The attacks began and they were relentless, one followed another and pretty soon, the group was strung out into a single file line, forced into a thin ribbon by the intense pace and strong head wind. Despite the 37°C degree temps the ride was like so many before it: fast, serious, and requiring the A-game.

As we rounded the halfway point and turned to the benefit of the wind, the skies began to cloud over and turn an eerie, greenish black, appearing bruised and angry. As the wind began to increase, so did the dust and debris, unleashed by 14 days of scorching temps and a relentless sun. As the darkest portion of the sky took hold of the MWC's route, the wind began gusting and the sky began to unleash its fury on the group. First the rain drops were few but large, when they hit your face or legs they stung and they were cold. Very cold. Then came the full brunt of the storm, the sky opened and released all the emotions it had been holding back for two weeks, the rain was so heavy that glasses were a hindrance. The rider in front of you was only a faint silhouette and the cars passing just feet from our shoulders were reduced to a series of red streaks.

The rain quickly overpowered the storm sewers, collecting on the tarmac and puddling in the low spots. The rain absorbed the heat from the pavement and, in turn, felt like tepid bath water as it soaked your clothes and filled your shoes. It remains one of the most visceral sensations I have ever felt while riding bike. The cold front that carried the rain quickly rolled in behind bringing with it an incredible drop in temperature and creating zones of temps varying enough to be felt by your skin. Despite the rain, wind, cold, and zero visibility we continued in a style typical of Wagner, maintaining the aggression and speed of a normal MWC but it was elevated to epic by the rains and the chaos they brought. As quickly was the rain came it receded, pulling with it the heat and humidity, laying waste to weeks of dust and debris and leaving all of us, wet and cold and and even more motivated to keep the pace high and the action strong. As we positioned ourselves for the final sprint of the ride, the sun began to reappear and temps had plummeted to a chilly 21°C, we all knew that we were part of a ride that was truly epic, a day where a line was drawn among the local cyclists. A line that delineated those who were there, and those who were not.

Clarity

Rooted in the complication of Western society, our daily lives lack the now of our ancestors. Days pass into weeks of restrained existence; days spent where our most definitive stroke may be command-S. Tens of thousands of years of descent with modification in our sapient brains tell us this isn’t what life is meant to be. So we go on vacation. And what do we do? We look for the defining moment. Something to restore life to our life.

In interviews with race car drivers, big wave surfers and overweight corporate raiders climbing Mount Everest, one hears a common refrain: that in their moment of greatest difficulty the rest of their lives ceased to matter. And it’s not that they didn’t care about the job, the family, the dog, the bills, it’s that if only for a moment, they could see life stripped of its complications, they could see themselves in an unencumbered way so that they were no more and no less than a person doing.

In the grand scheme, I believe that each time a person takes a timeout to reset their minds and bodies back to now something good is achieved. The more we pile layer and layer of mortgage, car payment, market fluctuations, long commutes, disconnected job roles as well as the awkward negotiation of family roles at home, the more we struggle to keep straight our life’s priorities. And as our priorities and roles abuse our sense of self each day, we struggle to find happiness or even peace. But such vacations can clear the smoke of a day’s stress by rooting us to a moment.

That said, I mistrust the urge to drive ever harder in our off-time, as if the trite, “work hard, play hard” makes anyone a better, more balanced person. What I find more problematic is the need for the Ordinary Joe to climb Mount Everest or undertake any activity that possesses what could be called “a statistically significant rate of death.” There’s something supremely selfish about fathers walking a knife’s edge between success and death.

As cyclists, you are already aware that mortal peril is not a prerequisite to stripping away the demands of the day. Obviously, you don’t need the sales pitch for why cycling is an ideal path to self-discovery. Rather, what encourages and mystifies me are the multitude ways that cycling can strip the day away.

I’ve gone so hard on climbs I couldn’t have told you my name at the top. Most of the greatest descents I’ve undertaken I recall as silent films—sound ceased to exist during those moments. Whole races have gone by where what remains etched is the sound of 100 chains playing over gears. The sound of rubber sliding, spokes breaking and metal gnashing can refocus your eyesight before you are even aware, causing you to look not for the line to follow, but for the hole, the escape route to safety. Any time I see a gap open there is nothing else on my mind other than putting a finger in that dike.

We can find those moments even when there isn’t effort involved. Who can take a leisurely spin at dusk and not be glued to the sunset? That we can strip the complications away so easily (not to mention inexpensively) can keep even the most type-A sort on a more even keel for all four seasons. We needn’t risk life to figure out that our families matter.

For those who manage a morning ride before work, there’s a benefit beyond the camaraderie and effort we show up for. As we spin the small chainring home we compile the day’s priorities: shower, family, work, oh—a few bills. Following a first hour spent rooted in now, the others seem much easier to understand.

The Feed Angel

If the course is the star and the racers the drama, then the chain lube that keeps the whole shebang moving is provided by the volunteer. In the annals of thankless jobs, the race volunteer ranks just behind Congressional Paige and just ahead of Poet Laureate. The tasks are rarely fun (unless you get your jollies from telling the locals that they can’t drive home right now) and the contribution is quickly forgotten (unless something goes wrong).

It’s little wonder they are so hard to recruit.

Tougher still to find are those who volunteer on behalf of the teams. They are to soigneurs what amateurs are to PROs. It’s all the passion, a fraction of the know-how and none of the compensation. How anyone can be recruited week after week to help a team’s racers survive under the acetylene torch rays of the sun, pinning numbers, handing up feeds, tending to the wounded and very often driving vanquisher or vanquished home to bed.

They don’t make a sunscreen strong enough to make those days comfortable.

In the Old Country, when numbers were made of silk and saved after each race, the mamas would come out to sew them onto the jerseys for the riders before the start. Such local town support is more than we can hope to experience in community races, but it’s an accurate reflection of how bike racing is received by most towns, even those in New Belgium.

While course marshals and registration volunteers are as necessary as the course, it’s the feed angel who gets tapped week after week and without whom the complexion of a long road race or hot crit can change utterly. Unlike the registration table where an extra five minutes won’t kill anyone, feeds have no margin of error; miss one and the race is effectively over unless it’s a crit. Combine that stress—imagine being on the receiving end of all the yelling that happens when a bottle is dropped—with the week after week need of a team in the middle of its season and it's a miracle that any team can keep its racers from bonking.

From time to time you’ll find the nonpartisan feed angel who will hold bottles for anyone wearing a number. It’s a special person who understands the race should be decided on legs, not on the level of support the riders can recruit.

Over the years I’ve seen feed angels who handle their duties with the brutal efficiency of a gas station attendant. Others seem overwhelmed by the rush of bikes and grabbing hands. But the best are those who can turn four or five hours into a barbecue at the beach. They can make you crack a grin when joy or humor seem as remote as $1 gas.

Racers have but one task when in the heat of competition. However, it’s the small kindnesses that can show our real gratitude. It’s a topsy turvy world where the racers cheer for the volunteers, but showing gratitude when it should be hardest to conjure could be the best thanks of all.

Of course, there’s nothing like a gift card to a day spa. We may not get treated like PROs, but that’s no reason to neglect them.

The Good Life, Naturally

Suppose you owned and ran a massively successful and beloved sports-nutrition company. You live in Napa Valley where you can run and ride horses and bicycles through heaven itself in your free time. What else could you want?

That’s the funny thing about entrepreneurial sorts. For most of us, we know Clif Bar’s Gary Erickson and Kit Crawford as the people responsible for creating an energy bar that tastes like real food and for growing the company so that we can find their products as readily as Moon Pies when we’re in a 7-Eleven.

To be sure it took them both—Gary the visionary/mad scientist of the kitchen and Kit whose natural sales ability could disarm and cheer Dick Cheney. The potent combination they present is a recipe for success in any endeavor.

Those familiar with Clif’s long list of products are probably also aware of the number of organic and natural ingredients used in those products. Gary and Kit are clearly pleased to think that every time someone eats a Clif product it is a victory for sustainable farming practices and natural foods.

At their farm in Napa they raise horses, goats, turkeys and chickens in addition to a garden and grape vines they planted. To say Gary and Kit live close to the land is something of an understatement; they embody the Slow Food Movement in a way that most of us can only dream about.

To hear them tell the story, it sounds like a love for organic food and new business ventures are occupational hazards for the pair. Living in Napa has resulted in many friendships with people in the wine business. And because the wine business attracts successful entrepreneurs the way starlets attract paparazzi, the pair wondered what they might be able to bring to the table. For them, the real attraction was in the intersection point between good wine and sustainable farming. The challenge was on.


An introduction to winemaker Sarah Gott was the final ingredient needed for the new venture—Clif Bar Family Winery. Gott is known for her work with Joseph Phelps and the winery she started with her husband, Joel Gott Wines. For some years she has pursued making wines from grapes from organic or at least sustainably farmed vineyards.

Before meeting Gary and Kit for lunch, I’ll admit I struggled to get my head around the idea that the people responsible for go fast foods could also be the force behind a new winery. But they are charming, dedicated and passionate; even a short conversation reveals that. Listening to Kit talk about preparing dinner from ingredients in her garden made me feel I was missing out on one of life’s great pleasures.

She believes their drive to deal with farms that engage in sustainable techniques even if they aren’t certified organic can help those farms bridge that gap by encouraging them to complete the transition. Kit says that certified organic is less important than employing sustainable practices.

Gary spoke of how his love of wine grew as a result of cycling tours he did in Europe. After finishing a long day’s ride he would enjoy a leisurely dinner with a bottle of wine.

Clif Bar Family Winery has released four wines. As we tasted them over lunch Kit and Gary stressed that they weren’t interested in releasing another $100 bottle of Cab, but rather wines that represented a good value to be enjoyed by people who appreciate the experience of a good meal.

There are two wines titled The Climber, a red and a white. The white is a blend, mostly Sauvingnon Blanc with some Pinot Blanc, Chenin Blanc and Muscat that retails for $12.50. Its citrus and grapefruit flavors and crisp finish make it the perfect antidote to a hot afternoon. Think of it as lemonade for grownups. The Climber red is a wild blend of Zinfandel, Cabernet, Petite Sirah, Syrah and Merlot. At $15 you’ll swear someone is getting gipped. It’s got the spice and bright fruit to stand up to any rich meal.


In lesser production are Gary’s Improv and kit’s killer cab. Gary’s Improv is mostly Zin with just a dash of Petite Sirah; it would be fun with hard cheeses, pizza or spicy sausage, but it’s best application may be at a dinner party when you want to make your guests say, “Wow!” And for those who want a great Cabernet to go with a NY Strip but don’t want the wine to cost 10 times what the meal cost, kit’s killer cab has the luxurious fruit and structure of a great Cab without having so much tannin that it will need to be laid down until electric cars are in common use. Gary’s Improv is $32 while kit’s killer cab goes for $35. It would be easy to pay twice as much for a lesser wine.

Kit and Gary have stories as rich and varied as Paul Newman’s and their drive to do good with their company while enriching the lives of their customers and living an enjoyable life is tragically rare. Given they run an impressive business, live a great life and seem to be having a positive impact on the planet, I wonder what sort of dreams you have when you can sleep that well.

Clif Bar Family Winery