That's right. BMW drivers suck. All of you.
I was riding with our normal Tuesday/Thursday group south on White Chapel Boulevard near Bob Jones Park. Our group is pretty orderly (well, usually), and that day we were riding downright politely. We had a nice single-file line moving up the road, with the lead rider pulling off to the left in a slow rotation.
If you're not familiar with this area, which many of you probably are not, this section of White Chapel Boulevard is a 30mph two-lane country road with 2-6" of shoulder right of the white line. It provides access to neighborhoods north of TX114 near the south side of Lake Grapevine. Since these neighborhoods do provide access back to the south, it's not technically dead-end, but the road is only useful as access to those neighborhoods.
It has a huge park with ballfields and soccer fields (football, for the rest of the world), playground, a dog park, and miles of lakeside hiking trails. It has two schools along it, horse farms, and lots of open space.
In other words, a perfect road for bicyclists. Out of the way, quiet, pretty, and lined with facilities that encourage outdoor sports and activities.
So we're riding this road, as we do every Tuesday and Thursday. There's a mean little hill that rises out of a creek bottom perhaps a quarter mile from the elementary school. There's always south wind in Texas, and this is a southbound section of road. It's not a big climb (this is Texas), but it's punishing and we tend to ramp up the effort to make up for the lack of pitch or length.
I'm leading the single-file pack up this hill. I've hit my limit for suffering, so I wheel off to the left, letting the next rider continue the push as I slide backwards relative to the line to find an open spot.
We're probably only doing 20mph or so. We may be quick, but we're not world class.
I get about 3 wheels back when a BMW 760LI blows by me, engine roaring as the driver accelerates hard.
When I say he blow by me - and I assume it was a "he", it's a typically male car, being driving in an escalated-testosterone-level way - I mean he passes me with inches to spare.
And when I said inches, I mean precious few inches.
I have the image of the passenger mirror missing my handlebars by such a small margin that I had cognitive dissonance - I was still upright, but my conscious was curiously thinking I was flying through the air. The blast of air of the 50mph car (in the aforementioned 30mph zone) probably augmented the reality.
As I say: BMW drivers suck. All of them.
Sadly (and, perhaps, funny at the same time), many of my cycling friends are nodding their heads in agreement. There's no doubt that the, shall we say, "more financially endowed classes" are more likely to treat vulnerable road users (like cyclists) like scum.
(Transparency: My wife and I just bought a Mercedes-Benz. A *used* MB. 6 years old, because we can't afford a new one. And we hope it doesn't break down because we can barely afford to fix this one.)
But that's an aside; not just a statement about BMWs, but a statement about many premium brand owners. I'm talking about BMW owners. They suck.
Right?
Of course not. There's clearly at least one BMW driver that sucks. One BMW driver that has no respect for other's life or well-being. One BMW driver defines all BMW drivers.
Unfortunately, like most people, cyclists tend to unfairly lump people into groups. I've done it at least twice in this post, and I'm about to let loose with a little bit of our little "club's" prejudices.
Our perspective is different from most, which makes for interesting conversation.
I've had fewer little problems with people who are in the lower end of the socioeconomic scale. For whatever reason, those drivers tend to make room and be in less of a rush. This seems to cut across almost every race and creed.
There are a lot of Mexicans and Central Americans in Texas, and from a cycling perspective I'm glad. There's no doubt that some look at me funny, but they are absolutely respectful on the roads. When I see them working as landscaping / lawn crews, they go so far as pause work and slow their weed-whackers, leaf blowers, and lawn mowers so I don't get a blast of clippings as I pass. (That happened again last night - some people are awesome.)
Don't worry. The local Caucasians make up for it - except for country folk.
I have few problems when riding around the country. If anything, country folk are the people I enjoy riding around the most, aside from their absolute passivity when driving. I've had farmers and ranchers sit 100' off my wheel for minutes waiting for a passing opportunity delivered on a golden platter accompanied by light from the heavens and angels singing.
That does not apply to certain groups of rednecks, however, who seem to relish the opportunity to throw objects, buzz, or belch fume-laden diesel smoke on anyone that triggers their feelings of inadequacy.
Rock haulers are downright scary. I think drivers would agree with me. Frac trucks aren't much better.
I have never once had a negative encounter with anyone remotely resembling a Muslim. Never. Every single case has been respectful.
But with that in mind, there are places where I feel more in control of my survival during rush hour than I do on Sunday mornings before church. Between the relatively poor driving of older folk (which I'm rapidly becoming) and some "God will be PISSED if I don't run down this cyclist who could make me late to church!" mentality, certain roads can be downright dangerous.
That's right. Practicing Christians are part of the problem.
And that brings it back full circle to our BMW driver. BMW drivers suck.
I know it's not fair, and perhaps that's precisely the point. If you don't like how you, or your "group", are perceived, change it. If you don't like how you're lumped into a "group", don't do it yourself.
And, please, don't drive like an asshole. Thanks.
Showing posts with label bicycling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bicycling. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Suddenly, Autumn!
I've had the opportunity to live in many places across the US - Vermont, Virginia, Illinois, and now Texas. Every place I go I hear the same thing: If you don't like the weather, wait 5 minutes and it'll change.
Summers in Texas tend to bring very consistent conditions. Hot. Sunny. Convection oven breezes. There's no "wait for to change", it simply doesn't change for 3 months.
This year was different, with the bulk of July avoiding any real resemblance of heat. We even set some records for lowest highs with some places reporting highs in the upper 70s. Seriously. In a state where July usually means LOWS in the upper 70s, frequently the low 80s.
As cyclists, we were not just enjoying this, we were living it up. It was wonderful.
Finally, summer arrived in August, and we've been seeing more "normal" temperatures. With that heat came my typical heat-induced physiological failure: my performance guttered. For 3-4 weeks, I suffered through having a short wick that burned far too fast, and dealt with much longer recovery times that reduced me to a single hard ride a week - and that ride was still soft.
Demoralizing, every year. This year, it hit right as we came into the prime of the Texas road racing season, kicked off by Hotter than Hell. Well, at least it continued to live up to its name.
August is the build up for the grand finale of the year, the Texas State Road Race Championships, ridden on Fort Hood outside Copperas Cove. The heat played a double-whammy on me this year, waiting until August to shred my month of preparation going into my first "real" attempt to race (and hopefully place) in the Championship.
Tuesday, Wednesday were late-blooming heat waves last week, setting new high temperature records on Wednesday (101F). I had intended to reel back the effort on my ride Tuesday so I'd be rested for the upcoming weekend of racing, but the group was spritely and I let myself get sucked into 25 miles of attacks, and blistering pulls, and generally hard riding.
Oops.
Cloudy skies on Thursday kept temperatures reasonable as I managed to dial back my effort in our group ride. I took out the TT rig to make sure it was riding reliably before the second stage of the upcoming race: an individual time trial held on Saturday afternoon.
But as they say, if you don't like the weather, wait a bit. It'll change.
And change it did.
Texas is amazing in one regard - the ability to have downright radical changes in weather in a very short period of time. A few years ago at the Texas Time Trials the overnight countryside temperatures reached 32 degrees; we were freezing our asses off. 12 hours later, 4 in the afternoon, and it's 96 - with a 30mph south wind.
That was without fanfare. More amazing is when fronts roll through, taking 80F to 50F in minutes. Those tend to have a little more excitement - 60mph straight line winds, at least, as the front passes.
So this past weekend was the Coleman Chevrolet Stage Race held in Douglassville, TX, about 30 miles outside of Texarkana in the east Texas countryside. And it was 101 on the Wednesday before.
But not this weekend. Friday morning brought the sound of raindrops on our skylight as we awoke. It was downright chilly as we drove to work that morning. WOOHOO!
We were fortunate to have perfect weather conditions all weekend, with highs in the upper 70s and lows in the upper 50s or low 60s. You couldn't ask for a better race weekend.
This coming weekend is the Texas Time Trials, where I plan to ride the 6-hour solo "upright" (non-recumbent) event. TTT is technically not a "race" per se, although the promoters make that mistake on occasion.
That said, I have, or had, designs to chase the course record, but again Texas weather will likely get in the way: we're going to get heavy rain Saturday afternoon. Looks like I'll be taking precautions to ensure I have a safe ride.
I have a State Road Race Championship to prepare for.
Summers in Texas tend to bring very consistent conditions. Hot. Sunny. Convection oven breezes. There's no "wait for to change", it simply doesn't change for 3 months.
This year was different, with the bulk of July avoiding any real resemblance of heat. We even set some records for lowest highs with some places reporting highs in the upper 70s. Seriously. In a state where July usually means LOWS in the upper 70s, frequently the low 80s.
As cyclists, we were not just enjoying this, we were living it up. It was wonderful.
Finally, summer arrived in August, and we've been seeing more "normal" temperatures. With that heat came my typical heat-induced physiological failure: my performance guttered. For 3-4 weeks, I suffered through having a short wick that burned far too fast, and dealt with much longer recovery times that reduced me to a single hard ride a week - and that ride was still soft.
Demoralizing, every year. This year, it hit right as we came into the prime of the Texas road racing season, kicked off by Hotter than Hell. Well, at least it continued to live up to its name.
August is the build up for the grand finale of the year, the Texas State Road Race Championships, ridden on Fort Hood outside Copperas Cove. The heat played a double-whammy on me this year, waiting until August to shred my month of preparation going into my first "real" attempt to race (and hopefully place) in the Championship.
Tuesday, Wednesday were late-blooming heat waves last week, setting new high temperature records on Wednesday (101F). I had intended to reel back the effort on my ride Tuesday so I'd be rested for the upcoming weekend of racing, but the group was spritely and I let myself get sucked into 25 miles of attacks, and blistering pulls, and generally hard riding.
Oops.
Cloudy skies on Thursday kept temperatures reasonable as I managed to dial back my effort in our group ride. I took out the TT rig to make sure it was riding reliably before the second stage of the upcoming race: an individual time trial held on Saturday afternoon.
And change it did.
Texas is amazing in one regard - the ability to have downright radical changes in weather in a very short period of time. A few years ago at the Texas Time Trials the overnight countryside temperatures reached 32 degrees; we were freezing our asses off. 12 hours later, 4 in the afternoon, and it's 96 - with a 30mph south wind.
That was without fanfare. More amazing is when fronts roll through, taking 80F to 50F in minutes. Those tend to have a little more excitement - 60mph straight line winds, at least, as the front passes.
So this past weekend was the Coleman Chevrolet Stage Race held in Douglassville, TX, about 30 miles outside of Texarkana in the east Texas countryside. And it was 101 on the Wednesday before.
But not this weekend. Friday morning brought the sound of raindrops on our skylight as we awoke. It was downright chilly as we drove to work that morning. WOOHOO!
We were fortunate to have perfect weather conditions all weekend, with highs in the upper 70s and lows in the upper 50s or low 60s. You couldn't ask for a better race weekend.
This coming weekend is the Texas Time Trials, where I plan to ride the 6-hour solo "upright" (non-recumbent) event. TTT is technically not a "race" per se, although the promoters make that mistake on occasion.
That said, I have, or had, designs to chase the course record, but again Texas weather will likely get in the way: we're going to get heavy rain Saturday afternoon. Looks like I'll be taking precautions to ensure I have a safe ride.
I have a State Road Race Championship to prepare for.
Friday, June 27, 2014
The Rules...and Life
No matter how you feel about them, The Rules have some truths about cycling, and life, worthy of consideration. I'll admit, I don't follow all the rules, I am not a Velominatus, but I do subscribe to some of the ideals that it represents, both on the bike and off.
When you look at the real intent of the rules, you see it's really about being committed. In cycling, there's a certain aura, even mystique, to being a roadie; reading these rules you can see that. From color matching on the bike and color-coordination in the kit (clothes), to well-tended tan lines, using kilometers (instead of miles), and only allowing espresso and macchiato (instead of coffee or lattes).
I also suppose you're only allowed to take dainty sips from white china with your pinkie finger out while holding the tea plate in your other hand underneath.
Side note, if you ride / race and don't drink coffee, 1) more power to you; and, 2) you should.
Deep down, the rules aren't just about cycling; they're about life.
As the Rules say...
...it's all about looks. Appearance is everything in road cycling, and many roadies will quickly rate those around them by how closely others tend to their appearance; the better kept a cyclist is, the more they follow the written and unwritten rules of form and fit, the more respect they get.
Rule 7: Tan lines should be cultivated and kept razor sharp.
The ring of lighter-colored skin above the deeply-set tan earned through hundreds of hours outdoors on the bike: it's unattractive, and looks unkempt.
This can be hard, even for people like me, as kit can vary in fit, but there's also a practical reason to keep tan lines sharp: burns. There's nothing worse than having a perfect tan line at the bottom of the shorts with a quarter-inch burn ring just above it. It hurts, and it looks terrible.
Rule 8: Saddles, bars, and tires shall be carefully matched.
I cringe whenever I see a bike with different color tires, wheels that don't match or are the wrong color for the frame or tires, bright bar tape that doesn't match the palette of the frame. It's like seeing a car with different wheels on it; the owner simply doesn't keep up with maintenance or doesn't pay attention to details.
Rule 33: Shave your guns.
Let's be honest: there's always tells; at a bicycle ride hairy legs is one of them. I'll be the first to admit there are some strong, talented, hairy-legged (ew) people out there; I didn't shave my legs until I finally got serious enough to buy a real bicycle, and that was only 3 years ago. But, in general, hairy legs means quick dismissal.
Rule 53: Keep your kit clean and new.
On the surface these rules can seem unfair, and even a little bit prejudiced. By my experience, however, it's also generally true: you can judge a cycling book by its cover.
The rule really is this: always look better than you have to. Cyclists may take this in a certain direction, setting specific rules to maintain a mystique, but in the end it's really about representing yourself in the most positive light.
Whether it's mismatched kit or a novice-level knot on a tie, never forget that appearances count. Look good, and you'll be received well. Look good, and you may have the opportunity to do well.
Another aspect of the rules...
...is about being a positive contributor. Cycling, and life, is full of people who don't contribute, don't bring light to the life around them.
Rule 67: Do your time in the wind.
No cyclist likes wheelsuckers, people who use the draft solely to their benefit without making a contribution. Cyclists especially detest wheelsuckers who do so then take off in the dwindling miles to leave behind the people who did all the work.
We all know wheelsuckers, people who only work to grab the coattails of someone else's successes. We even know a few who have made an art of sprinting ahead of hard working people to claim completion and credit.
Earn what you receive. Do your time in the wind.
Rule 19: Introduce yourself
Although this is a little about networking, it's a little more about joining existing social networks. Joining an existing club ride can be very daunting, especially for a new cyclist; and even for veteran riders there's plenty of pitfalls.
Take the time to introduce yourself. Learn who the group is, and who the primary people are - who the leaders are. Learn the rules, and follow them.
Rule 43: Don't be a jackass
As a common group, cyclists share a common perception from others. It's absolutely critical that we think of what our actions may mean for the greater community. What we do could come around to haunt someone else, whether it's immediate response to something we do or adding to pent-up emotion that results in someone's action later.
This is true in all things. Be respectful of those around us, treat people fairly - as they would want to be treated. Earn karma, and help others pass it along.
Finally, the last bit of advice from the Rules...
...is about commitment and dedication. Like in life, cycling will only give what you put in, and sometimes you have to put in a hell of a lot more than you're going to get out - pay it forward.
Rule 10: It never gets easier, you just go faster.
Training to get faster, to get stronger, never gets easier; in fact, the effort and regiment necessary to gain becomes greater and greater as your capability grows. You may get out of training what you put in, but the returns decrease over time - faster by smaller and smaller increments.
You have to build a system in which to grow, and you have to dedicate to that system in order to get anything out of it. Life never gets easier, you just gain more experience and knowledge to deal with it.
Climbing a hill is like wrestling a gorilla. You don't stop when you get tired. You stop when the gorilla gets tired.
Rule 9: If you're out riding in bad weather, it means you're a badass. Period.
Riding in the cold, wind, rain, snow (or some combination) is the sign of insanity - or complete dedication. It's not about passion, it's about commitment.
Such as it is in life. It's not always bright skies, warm days, light winds; more often than not life throws in a challenge we must surmount. Whether it's 100F+ temperatures, 30mph winds, or changes at home or at work that rock the boat of our lives, it's those that get out there with a smile and dedication to move forward that will ultimately gain and grow for the experience.
Rule 93: Descents are not for recovery. Recovery Ales are for recovery.
Reaching a peak doesn't mean the end of the road (except in mountaintop finishes, but even then typically the race goes on the next day). The race continues, and the descent off the top is no time to stop putting in the effort to stay ahead of the pace.
Success starts early, even immediately following success. Don't relax; use each pinnacle to drive for more, perhaps higher opportunities. There will be time to recover and prepare for the next chase, be sure to wait until that opportunity comes before starting to relax.
Rule 64: Cornering confidence increases with time and experience:
This pattern continues until it falls sharply and suddenly.
Falling on a bicycle sucks, well and truly, and nothing does more to shatter riding confidence than to have a major wreck. Unfortunately, they happen, sometimes because of our own confidence, and sometimes because the world is a difficult place.
We all suffer failures, on the bike as well as the lesser parts of life. Physical wounds from these failures take time to heal; challenging ourselves to outperform our past will help heal our mental injuries, and only through that will we begin again to gain and grow.
Rule 5: Harden the F**k up (HTFU)
Cycling is hard. You're in a pack, halfway up a climb. 45 miles in, 17 to go. The pace has been brutal, and even now the tempo is painful as you work the sustained 8% grade. Your legs are screaming so loud you can't hear your own breathing over the sound.
Through the fog...you see it. The head flick. The glance over the shoulder. Then it happens, someone attacks. A moment passes, then someone chases. From within the oxygen-deprived, heart-pounding, lactic acid-fueled haze, the voice: chase, or lose.
This is absolutely not about "getting over it." You don't get over it, but you do have to bear it.
Opportunities don't only come when you're prepared to chase them. Sometimes you have to grit your teeth and work through the pain of failure, loss, and hard work to grab on to something truly valuable.
Life is hard. You just need to be harder.
But, really, it comes does to one thing in the end:
And remember Rule 4: It's all about the bike.
When you look at the real intent of the rules, you see it's really about being committed. In cycling, there's a certain aura, even mystique, to being a roadie; reading these rules you can see that. From color matching on the bike and color-coordination in the kit (clothes), to well-tended tan lines, using kilometers (instead of miles), and only allowing espresso and macchiato (instead of coffee or lattes).
I also suppose you're only allowed to take dainty sips from white china with your pinkie finger out while holding the tea plate in your other hand underneath.
 |
| I suppose it's ok to use plastic if you're on the team bus prepping for the next stage. |
Deep down, the rules aren't just about cycling; they're about life.
As the Rules say...
...it's all about looks. Appearance is everything in road cycling, and many roadies will quickly rate those around them by how closely others tend to their appearance; the better kept a cyclist is, the more they follow the written and unwritten rules of form and fit, the more respect they get.
Rule 7: Tan lines should be cultivated and kept razor sharp.
The ring of lighter-colored skin above the deeply-set tan earned through hundreds of hours outdoors on the bike: it's unattractive, and looks unkempt.
This can be hard, even for people like me, as kit can vary in fit, but there's also a practical reason to keep tan lines sharp: burns. There's nothing worse than having a perfect tan line at the bottom of the shorts with a quarter-inch burn ring just above it. It hurts, and it looks terrible.
Rule 8: Saddles, bars, and tires shall be carefully matched.
 |
| Isn't she beautiful? |
Rule 33: Shave your guns.
Let's be honest: there's always tells; at a bicycle ride hairy legs is one of them. I'll be the first to admit there are some strong, talented, hairy-legged (ew) people out there; I didn't shave my legs until I finally got serious enough to buy a real bicycle, and that was only 3 years ago. But, in general, hairy legs means quick dismissal.
Rule 53: Keep your kit clean and new.
This really speaks for itself. Dirty clothes are dirty (and look dirty). Clothes wear out. Don't let your inability to maintain a wardrobe result in you looking sloppy.
 |
| Looking Pretty. |
The rule really is this: always look better than you have to. Cyclists may take this in a certain direction, setting specific rules to maintain a mystique, but in the end it's really about representing yourself in the most positive light.
Whether it's mismatched kit or a novice-level knot on a tie, never forget that appearances count. Look good, and you'll be received well. Look good, and you may have the opportunity to do well.
Another aspect of the rules...
...is about being a positive contributor. Cycling, and life, is full of people who don't contribute, don't bring light to the life around them.
Rule 67: Do your time in the wind.
No cyclist likes wheelsuckers, people who use the draft solely to their benefit without making a contribution. Cyclists especially detest wheelsuckers who do so then take off in the dwindling miles to leave behind the people who did all the work.
We all know wheelsuckers, people who only work to grab the coattails of someone else's successes. We even know a few who have made an art of sprinting ahead of hard working people to claim completion and credit.
Earn what you receive. Do your time in the wind.
Rule 19: Introduce yourself
Although this is a little about networking, it's a little more about joining existing social networks. Joining an existing club ride can be very daunting, especially for a new cyclist; and even for veteran riders there's plenty of pitfalls.
Take the time to introduce yourself. Learn who the group is, and who the primary people are - who the leaders are. Learn the rules, and follow them.
Rule 43: Don't be a jackass
As a common group, cyclists share a common perception from others. It's absolutely critical that we think of what our actions may mean for the greater community. What we do could come around to haunt someone else, whether it's immediate response to something we do or adding to pent-up emotion that results in someone's action later.
This is true in all things. Be respectful of those around us, treat people fairly - as they would want to be treated. Earn karma, and help others pass it along.
Finally, the last bit of advice from the Rules...
...is about commitment and dedication. Like in life, cycling will only give what you put in, and sometimes you have to put in a hell of a lot more than you're going to get out - pay it forward.
Rule 10: It never gets easier, you just go faster.
Training to get faster, to get stronger, never gets easier; in fact, the effort and regiment necessary to gain becomes greater and greater as your capability grows. You may get out of training what you put in, but the returns decrease over time - faster by smaller and smaller increments.
You have to build a system in which to grow, and you have to dedicate to that system in order to get anything out of it. Life never gets easier, you just gain more experience and knowledge to deal with it.
Climbing a hill is like wrestling a gorilla. You don't stop when you get tired. You stop when the gorilla gets tired.
Rule 9: If you're out riding in bad weather, it means you're a badass. Period.
Riding in the cold, wind, rain, snow (or some combination) is the sign of insanity - or complete dedication. It's not about passion, it's about commitment.
 |
| A rainy 42F in February, and we're racing |
Such as it is in life. It's not always bright skies, warm days, light winds; more often than not life throws in a challenge we must surmount. Whether it's 100F+ temperatures, 30mph winds, or changes at home or at work that rock the boat of our lives, it's those that get out there with a smile and dedication to move forward that will ultimately gain and grow for the experience.
Rule 93: Descents are not for recovery. Recovery Ales are for recovery.
Reaching a peak doesn't mean the end of the road (except in mountaintop finishes, but even then typically the race goes on the next day). The race continues, and the descent off the top is no time to stop putting in the effort to stay ahead of the pace.
Success starts early, even immediately following success. Don't relax; use each pinnacle to drive for more, perhaps higher opportunities. There will be time to recover and prepare for the next chase, be sure to wait until that opportunity comes before starting to relax.
Rule 64: Cornering confidence increases with time and experience:
This pattern continues until it falls sharply and suddenly.
Falling on a bicycle sucks, well and truly, and nothing does more to shatter riding confidence than to have a major wreck. Unfortunately, they happen, sometimes because of our own confidence, and sometimes because the world is a difficult place.
 |
| ...and this is going to suck. |
We all suffer failures, on the bike as well as the lesser parts of life. Physical wounds from these failures take time to heal; challenging ourselves to outperform our past will help heal our mental injuries, and only through that will we begin again to gain and grow.
Rule 5: Harden the F**k up (HTFU)
Cycling is hard. You're in a pack, halfway up a climb. 45 miles in, 17 to go. The pace has been brutal, and even now the tempo is painful as you work the sustained 8% grade. Your legs are screaming so loud you can't hear your own breathing over the sound.
Through the fog...you see it. The head flick. The glance over the shoulder. Then it happens, someone attacks. A moment passes, then someone chases. From within the oxygen-deprived, heart-pounding, lactic acid-fueled haze, the voice: chase, or lose.
This is absolutely not about "getting over it." You don't get over it, but you do have to bear it.
Opportunities don't only come when you're prepared to chase them. Sometimes you have to grit your teeth and work through the pain of failure, loss, and hard work to grab on to something truly valuable.
Life is hard. You just need to be harder.
But, really, it comes does to one thing in the end:
It doesn't matter how fast you go...you must never give up.
Progress is progress. I've hit the wall so hard I could barely balance on the bike for how slow I was moving; many of us have. We just have to keep going and we'll eventually get there - where ever there may be.
And that's how it is. You don't have to chase every break, you don't have to always be at your best. You don't always have to be primped and polished, and you don't always have to have a smile on your face.
You do have to keep moving. It's only through that effort that you'll find yourself in a different, hopefully better place.
And remember Rule 4: It's all about the bike.
Monday, June 9, 2014
My Fleeting Passion for Professional Cycling
As I've said, there's a story behind everything. Here's my story why I don't watch professional cycling.
There was once a time where I felt passion for professional cycling. It lasted 7 days.
It's the 20th of July of 2006. I'm sitting in my assigned room in a secured compound in Kabul, Afghanistan. I've ridden various Russian-built helicopters across the country 3 of the last 5 days, and I've been out of the relative safety of our compound every single day.
I've been in the region for a week. I'm still a little jet lagged. The air is thin, and full of dust and other crap (literally). I'm tired, constant travel tired. Constant threat tired; I'd been in dangerous parts of the world before, this was more just a constant wear rather than a new experience keeping me up at night.
At least it wasn't like Baghdad, where you could set your clocks to the morning bombings. But, again, that's another story.
It's my first down day, if you can call it that. We were supposed to travel today, but circumstances wouldn't allow; instead, I spent the morning meeting with the local staff, then met with our travel coordinator after lunch to plan the flight for my team the next day.
So, I'm sitting in my room. After the constant buzz of activity and motion - the constant flip of attention between the road and the objects alongside the road - I can't focus without noise. I need input.
I flip on the television. Which, surprisingly, works; and more surprisingly even has English channels.
I start to flip. Flip. BBC News; nope, too close to my world. Flip. Indian daytime dramas (soaps, if you could call them that); nope. Flip. Middle-eastern music videos...
There's something a little surreal about watching a Middle-Eastern female in a westernized female lead-singer mixed with belly-dancer outfit shaking her rump to a large group of men in traditional solid-white middle-eastern garb. Nope.
Flip, nope. Flip, nope. Flip, nope.
Flip, Floyd.
A pair of British announcers are discussing the man on the screen, Team Phonak's Floyd Landis. It took me a minute to realize: this is live. I'm watching the Tour de France, live, and I'm watching possible history being made.
I take in just enough to realize the Landis, an American, was way out ahead, before the announcers cut back to the previous day's events that had put Landis on the ropes and effectively ended his TdF hopes for the year. I watch as Landis crumbles mere miles from the finish, disintegrating in a way that was clearly psychologically crushing.
I had heard about Landis through my monthly reading of Bicycling Magazine, a habit I no longer keep. He struck me as the kind of person we wanted to win the Tour, painted in such a good light, painted as truly different from Lance Armstrong's in-your-face, dare-you-to-accuse-me, hyper-aggressive way.
Floyd seemed to be a real person, down to earth rather than on a pedestal like Armstrong. While I had little interest when I read the articles, I suddenly found myself glued to the screen. America's boy was about to become a hero, and I was watching it happen.
I wanted to Floyd to win. I wanted to be like Floyd. I wanted him to win, because if he could, I could.
I watch the miles dwindle away. I feel the relief every time the gap is put on the screen - it's holding. I watch as he grabs water from the team car, pouring it on his head.
I feel a little more confident when Landis' coach says Floyd can hold 400w for an hour under these conditions, he's well within the his limits.
I start to worry when I learn Landis' radio had failed, likely shorted by all the water he was using to keep cool.
I watch as the lead begins to dwindle. First, by seconds, little concern. Then more seconds, piling up to minutes. The gap has closes past the time he needed to take the lead. I am on the edge of my bed, trying not to scream at the TV "THEY'RE CATCHING UP! GO! GO, DAMNIT!"
Finally, Landis crosses the line. He's done everything he can, it's up to the chasing peloton. I sit, counting the seconds, then the minutes. A couple climbers finish, then the main peloton. Landis puts 5'42" into the next finisher, jumping up to third place. Lots of punditry - Landis could do it, just needs to hold on for the last couple stages before he could seal it all up in the Individual Time Trial.
As I travel around Afghanistan for the next few days, I'm constantly checking the results, looking for Landis, looking for our guy to come through. I stay up late to see the replay of the ITT, watching the times as Landis makes 1'29" on first place GC Pereiro to claim the overall win. I watch the procession into Paris, the yellow jersey on the back of a heroic American who overcame a cataclysmic failure to win the Tour in the closing days.
I'm a believer. And I'm a pro-cycling fan. The days of questionable victories by Lance and others are over, a new brand of winner has been crowned.
27 July 2006. Landis' A test comes back positive for testosterone. My faith is shaken, but I focus on his innocence and await a second test.
5 August 2006. Landis' B test comes back positive for testosterone. Landis is stripped of his win.
As quickly as I started to find a passion for professional cycling, I lose any faith in the sport or its participants.
So, today I have little interest in professional cycling. Instead, I ride. I race. And I do everything I can to be honest about it.
I don't care about professional cycling. I want to believe, but my faith has been crushed. You can blame Floyd Landis for getting me interested, and you can blame the whole peloton for pushing me away.
There was once a time where I felt passion for professional cycling. It lasted 7 days.
It's the 20th of July of 2006. I'm sitting in my assigned room in a secured compound in Kabul, Afghanistan. I've ridden various Russian-built helicopters across the country 3 of the last 5 days, and I've been out of the relative safety of our compound every single day.
I've been in the region for a week. I'm still a little jet lagged. The air is thin, and full of dust and other crap (literally). I'm tired, constant travel tired. Constant threat tired; I'd been in dangerous parts of the world before, this was more just a constant wear rather than a new experience keeping me up at night.
At least it wasn't like Baghdad, where you could set your clocks to the morning bombings. But, again, that's another story.
It's my first down day, if you can call it that. We were supposed to travel today, but circumstances wouldn't allow; instead, I spent the morning meeting with the local staff, then met with our travel coordinator after lunch to plan the flight for my team the next day.
So, I'm sitting in my room. After the constant buzz of activity and motion - the constant flip of attention between the road and the objects alongside the road - I can't focus without noise. I need input.
I flip on the television. Which, surprisingly, works; and more surprisingly even has English channels.
I start to flip. Flip. BBC News; nope, too close to my world. Flip. Indian daytime dramas (soaps, if you could call them that); nope. Flip. Middle-eastern music videos...
There's something a little surreal about watching a Middle-Eastern female in a westernized female lead-singer mixed with belly-dancer outfit shaking her rump to a large group of men in traditional solid-white middle-eastern garb. Nope.
Flip, nope. Flip, nope. Flip, nope.
Flip, Floyd.
A pair of British announcers are discussing the man on the screen, Team Phonak's Floyd Landis. It took me a minute to realize: this is live. I'm watching the Tour de France, live, and I'm watching possible history being made.
I take in just enough to realize the Landis, an American, was way out ahead, before the announcers cut back to the previous day's events that had put Landis on the ropes and effectively ended his TdF hopes for the year. I watch as Landis crumbles mere miles from the finish, disintegrating in a way that was clearly psychologically crushing.
I had heard about Landis through my monthly reading of Bicycling Magazine, a habit I no longer keep. He struck me as the kind of person we wanted to win the Tour, painted in such a good light, painted as truly different from Lance Armstrong's in-your-face, dare-you-to-accuse-me, hyper-aggressive way.
Floyd seemed to be a real person, down to earth rather than on a pedestal like Armstrong. While I had little interest when I read the articles, I suddenly found myself glued to the screen. America's boy was about to become a hero, and I was watching it happen.
I wanted to Floyd to win. I wanted to be like Floyd. I wanted him to win, because if he could, I could.
I watch the miles dwindle away. I feel the relief every time the gap is put on the screen - it's holding. I watch as he grabs water from the team car, pouring it on his head.
I feel a little more confident when Landis' coach says Floyd can hold 400w for an hour under these conditions, he's well within the his limits.
I start to worry when I learn Landis' radio had failed, likely shorted by all the water he was using to keep cool.
I watch as the lead begins to dwindle. First, by seconds, little concern. Then more seconds, piling up to minutes. The gap has closes past the time he needed to take the lead. I am on the edge of my bed, trying not to scream at the TV "THEY'RE CATCHING UP! GO! GO, DAMNIT!"
Finally, Landis crosses the line. He's done everything he can, it's up to the chasing peloton. I sit, counting the seconds, then the minutes. A couple climbers finish, then the main peloton. Landis puts 5'42" into the next finisher, jumping up to third place. Lots of punditry - Landis could do it, just needs to hold on for the last couple stages before he could seal it all up in the Individual Time Trial.
As I travel around Afghanistan for the next few days, I'm constantly checking the results, looking for Landis, looking for our guy to come through. I stay up late to see the replay of the ITT, watching the times as Landis makes 1'29" on first place GC Pereiro to claim the overall win. I watch the procession into Paris, the yellow jersey on the back of a heroic American who overcame a cataclysmic failure to win the Tour in the closing days.
I'm a believer. And I'm a pro-cycling fan. The days of questionable victories by Lance and others are over, a new brand of winner has been crowned.
27 July 2006. Landis' A test comes back positive for testosterone. My faith is shaken, but I focus on his innocence and await a second test.
5 August 2006. Landis' B test comes back positive for testosterone. Landis is stripped of his win.
As quickly as I started to find a passion for professional cycling, I lose any faith in the sport or its participants.
So, today I have little interest in professional cycling. Instead, I ride. I race. And I do everything I can to be honest about it.
I don't care about professional cycling. I want to believe, but my faith has been crushed. You can blame Floyd Landis for getting me interested, and you can blame the whole peloton for pushing me away.
Friday, June 6, 2014
24 Hours in the Canyon
I attended my absolute favorite bicycling fundraising event this past weekend.
One of the most beautiful things about cycling is that we're a truly generous bunch. All an organizer has to do is set up a safe route, provide support at 15 mile intervals, give out t-shirts, and hundreds (or thousands) of cyclists will pay $30-40 for the privilege to ride. These little rides put a few thousand dollars into the pockets of valued local charity organizations every weekend.
There's even national events touring around the US. These events are enabled by major sponsorships and attract tens of thousands of riders who cover tens of millions of miles, raising millions of dollars every year to support worthy causes.
Bike MS150
Tour de Cure
Ride to Defeat ALS
Great events, great people, great causes. As cyclists, we're a truly giving group of people.
There's one event that's unique. This event provides for riders of every type, gives the opportunity for each participant to push themselves as hard as they want, and is set in one of the most beautiful places in Texas. And it's the only combined and simultaneous road and mountain bicycle racing event in the US.
It's a race against the clock, just like the disease it fights. It has races ranging from 6 hours to 24 hours, with awards for those covering the largest distance.
That's right. 24 hours of racing. Cancer never sleeps. Why should we?
24 Hours in the Canyon
Ryan Parnell, the event director, is a gift to humanity. He's truly a great man, an all-around good guy; I have an immense amount of respect for him. It's clear he puts a tremendous amount of time and effort into making his event, 24 Hours in the Canyon, happen...flawlessly. The attention to detail, the personal touch for every person who comes in contact with him, the selection of such high quality, wonderful people to help him make it happen.
I just wish I knew more names!
Ryan leads a huge team of volunteers to put on the 24 Hours in the Canyon event every year. They handle every detail, make sure everything is sorted, make sure everyone (racers and support) are informed. They have great sponsors, enabling Ryan to put on a variety of events throughout the weekend while giving him access to resources that make his event far and away the best I've ever experienced.
If Ryan and his team make the event, the attendees make the event even better. These are some of the best people in cycling, people who sincerely believe in giving, work hard to raise money to support the cause and the event. These are people who sincerely believe in using the bicycle as a way to give a little more.
Even more, there are many cancer survivors among the competitors. I have the greatest respect for them, they are truly the most hard-core riders I'll ever meet. The very fact they come out and push after such challenges is amazing; that they do it to help others going through what they survived is truly inspiring.
For many of us, cancer strikes close to home. One of the members of our 4-person 24-hour mountain bike team is a survivor. He had the second fastest laps on the team, and put in 7 laps over the 24 hour race, day and night, with little sleep. I passed many survivors on the course, most riding 12 and 24 hour events, and was awed by their sheer will.
I have nothing but the greatest respect.
As the host location, Palo Duro Canyon State Park is home to some of best, most accessible MTB riding in Texas - a nearly perfect package trail quality and scenery, all within reasonable distance of civilization.
It has roads, too. There is no discounting the road portion of the event, or the beauty seen from those roads. For me, the trails are the main attraction.
24 Hours in the Canyon provides no shortage of opportunity for personal challenge. Friday has a hill climb, a 1 mile race up the 10% average grade switchbacks leading out of the canyon. There are categories for both men and women, and categories for road bikes, geared mountain bikes, and single-speed mountain bikes.
I can't imagine doing that climb on a single speed, particularly not a single-speed mountain bike. That's truly hard-core.
There are cash awards for the fastest climbers, but that's really not the point. A good friend of mine was the last one up the climb last year. He is fighting cancer, yet still rides 3-4 days a week and rode in the 2013 two-man 12 hour race after finishing the hillclimb. For him, finishing the climb without stopping was a great accomplishment, one that I give immense respect.
Then there's the main events: solo or team, all male / all female or mixed, 6, 12, 24 hours, road or mountain, single speed or geared. It's almost guaranteed there is an event for you. You don't have to be there to win; the fact you're there, the fact you're challenging yourself, is a victory itself.
The starts for the main events is staggered through Saturday and Sunday, culminating in a common end at noon on Sunday. The start of each new event infuses new life into the course, adding a palpable excitement even as fatigue begins to wear at the longer-distance racers. As 6 hour racers begin to pass the 12 and 24 hour racers, you can feel the transfer of excitement, an increase in will; the pace picks up.
If you're looking for an exceptional event, with truly wonderful support and exceptional participants; if you're looking for a personal challenge with opportunity to race your own race, as you want to race; if you want to support a worthy cause and know that everything you do is going to support that cause, this is your event.
Ryan and his team of volunteers run 24 Hours in the Canyon as one of the best organized, friendliest, professional, and beautiful endurance races in Texas. Don't take my word for it. Come down and see for yourself.
One of the most beautiful things about cycling is that we're a truly generous bunch. All an organizer has to do is set up a safe route, provide support at 15 mile intervals, give out t-shirts, and hundreds (or thousands) of cyclists will pay $30-40 for the privilege to ride. These little rides put a few thousand dollars into the pockets of valued local charity organizations every weekend.
There's even national events touring around the US. These events are enabled by major sponsorships and attract tens of thousands of riders who cover tens of millions of miles, raising millions of dollars every year to support worthy causes.
Bike MS150
Tour de Cure
Ride to Defeat ALS
Great events, great people, great causes. As cyclists, we're a truly giving group of people.
There's one event that's unique. This event provides for riders of every type, gives the opportunity for each participant to push themselves as hard as they want, and is set in one of the most beautiful places in Texas. And it's the only combined and simultaneous road and mountain bicycle racing event in the US.
It's a race against the clock, just like the disease it fights. It has races ranging from 6 hours to 24 hours, with awards for those covering the largest distance.
That's right. 24 hours of racing. Cancer never sleeps. Why should we?
24 Hours in the Canyon
Ryan Parnell, the event director, is a gift to humanity. He's truly a great man, an all-around good guy; I have an immense amount of respect for him. It's clear he puts a tremendous amount of time and effort into making his event, 24 Hours in the Canyon, happen...flawlessly. The attention to detail, the personal touch for every person who comes in contact with him, the selection of such high quality, wonderful people to help him make it happen.
I just wish I knew more names!
Ryan leads a huge team of volunteers to put on the 24 Hours in the Canyon event every year. They handle every detail, make sure everything is sorted, make sure everyone (racers and support) are informed. They have great sponsors, enabling Ryan to put on a variety of events throughout the weekend while giving him access to resources that make his event far and away the best I've ever experienced.
If Ryan and his team make the event, the attendees make the event even better. These are some of the best people in cycling, people who sincerely believe in giving, work hard to raise money to support the cause and the event. These are people who sincerely believe in using the bicycle as a way to give a little more.
Even more, there are many cancer survivors among the competitors. I have the greatest respect for them, they are truly the most hard-core riders I'll ever meet. The very fact they come out and push after such challenges is amazing; that they do it to help others going through what they survived is truly inspiring.
For many of us, cancer strikes close to home. One of the members of our 4-person 24-hour mountain bike team is a survivor. He had the second fastest laps on the team, and put in 7 laps over the 24 hour race, day and night, with little sleep. I passed many survivors on the course, most riding 12 and 24 hour events, and was awed by their sheer will.
I have nothing but the greatest respect.
As the host location, Palo Duro Canyon State Park is home to some of best, most accessible MTB riding in Texas - a nearly perfect package trail quality and scenery, all within reasonable distance of civilization.
It has roads, too. There is no discounting the road portion of the event, or the beauty seen from those roads. For me, the trails are the main attraction.
I can't imagine doing that climb on a single speed, particularly not a single-speed mountain bike. That's truly hard-core.
There are cash awards for the fastest climbers, but that's really not the point. A good friend of mine was the last one up the climb last year. He is fighting cancer, yet still rides 3-4 days a week and rode in the 2013 two-man 12 hour race after finishing the hillclimb. For him, finishing the climb without stopping was a great accomplishment, one that I give immense respect.
Then there's the main events: solo or team, all male / all female or mixed, 6, 12, 24 hours, road or mountain, single speed or geared. It's almost guaranteed there is an event for you. You don't have to be there to win; the fact you're there, the fact you're challenging yourself, is a victory itself.
The starts for the main events is staggered through Saturday and Sunday, culminating in a common end at noon on Sunday. The start of each new event infuses new life into the course, adding a palpable excitement even as fatigue begins to wear at the longer-distance racers. As 6 hour racers begin to pass the 12 and 24 hour racers, you can feel the transfer of excitement, an increase in will; the pace picks up.
If you're looking for an exceptional event, with truly wonderful support and exceptional participants; if you're looking for a personal challenge with opportunity to race your own race, as you want to race; if you want to support a worthy cause and know that everything you do is going to support that cause, this is your event.
Ryan and his team of volunteers run 24 Hours in the Canyon as one of the best organized, friendliest, professional, and beautiful endurance races in Texas. Don't take my word for it. Come down and see for yourself.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Training with Power
Thanks to Fatty for his post that triggered this entry.
I'm a bit ridiculous with my bicycling, and I always have been.
Very soon after getting back into riding about 10 years ago, I was looking for data. First, it was a simple cyclocomputer. Speed, distance, average speed, time.
Very soon after, it was a heart rate monitor, a cheap one that displayed on a wristwatch which I mounted to my handlebars with a drafting eraser under the band to hold it in place.
Yeah, I was the epitome of road bicycle style, hairy legs and all.
I quickly saw that heart rate wasn't telling me anything, especially without some data recording capabilities. I'd feel great with my heart at 165bpm, and feel like I was about to pop at 140bpm. Heart rate was just not very helpful.
I was also deluded into thinking I was truly fast. I was occasionally able to beat the other riders in the Tuesday/Thursday pick-up ride on my aluminum framed Specialized. They knew me by name, and I even had a nickname: Red Chris. (I wore red kit exclusively for years, and my bicycle was red.)
I thought I was cool. I thought I was fast.
So I bought a power meter: a CycleOps PowerTap SL 2.4, built with Mavic Open Pro wheels and DT Swiss spokes. Top notch kit. I put my shiny new wheels on my hardly new Specialized, tripling the value of the bicycle with the swing of a quick release skewer.
I was so cool. No one else had a power meter at the time. They were still pretty rare even at the pro level. I ran out and did a hard ride. I recorded heart rate, power, speed, cadence. I rush home, hook up the LYC (Little Yellow Computer) and download the data. I bought software to help me analyze and track my power training. I reviewed my power in detail.
And I realized that I stunk. I was slow. Weak. Pathetically weak. Didn't register on the charts weak.
Buying a power meter was one of the most demoralizing moments in my cycling career, if you could call it a career. I suddenly knew my standing in the world of bicyclists, and it simply wasn't very high.
My ego was badly bruised.
Then I read the instructions. I need to zero out the torque! Next ride, I get out, zero out the torque. I reset, ride hard, capturing all this data. Go home.
I still suck. My ego was almost fatally crushed. My dreams of riding in the Tour de France were fading fast.
For years after that, I capture my data. I don't buy a new bicycle. I regret the investment in a power meter that cost as much as a sweet new mid-level carbon bike.
I realized that the fastest way to see how much you suck is to buy a power meter. There are times when you're suffering, you feel like you're working yourself to death. Legs screaming. Heart pounding. Gasping for air.
Look down, you're doing 50% of your normal power. And you can't turn up the wick.
At least, with a simple cyclocomputer, you can delude yourself. Sadly, high technology doesn't lie, it tells the cold hard truth.
But, it's those moments where you learn. And learn I did. Over time, I started to understand what my power meter was saying. I learned what it meant about my performance in a broad sense, and my body's response to my activities. I started to get faster.
I learned a lot that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with making power.
I learned about hydration, and the impact it has on power. Food, and the impact it has on power. Temperature. Riding position. Sleep.
I learned a lot about power, too. I learned about the impact of using power, the impact of accelerations, tempo, threshold riding. I had sudden clarity on the idea of "matches" and what happens when you light them. I gained clear understanding of the advantage of drafting, both as the drafter and the draftee.
I learned how to manage my performance; how much capacity I had, how to have capacity when I needed it, and how to develop more through training.
Even more, I learned how to combine information. Heart rate and power. Power and cadence. I learned how each affected the other, how to utilize them to my benefit. I started to understand how my body would act when I was tired, dehydrated, hungry, poorly fueled, hot, cold, sick.
Today, I have two wheelsets with power meters, and I seriously considered putting a power meter on my MTB wheelset (still regret not doing that, the stats would be really cool to compare and contrast with road). I know my thresholds, I know my limits, and I can see them play out on a screen in front of me when the time comes.
I also know how I compare to typical competitors, and I know what I need to do to be competitive with them - or to force them to respond.
And, most importantly, I know how to see when I need a break.
Buying a power meter was the best thing I ever did, despite the outrageous price tag when I did it. A power meter is the most powerful tool available for bicycling, right behind the bike itself. I wouldn't be half the rider I am today if I didn't have all the knowledge I gathered through simple observation of my power meter.
And I'd probably still be deluded into thinking I could ride the TdF. Today I know that'll never happen. Cat 2, or maybe even Cat 1, but not that.
Hey, we gotta dream.
I'm a bit ridiculous with my bicycling, and I always have been.
Very soon after getting back into riding about 10 years ago, I was looking for data. First, it was a simple cyclocomputer. Speed, distance, average speed, time.
Very soon after, it was a heart rate monitor, a cheap one that displayed on a wristwatch which I mounted to my handlebars with a drafting eraser under the band to hold it in place.
Yeah, I was the epitome of road bicycle style, hairy legs and all.
I quickly saw that heart rate wasn't telling me anything, especially without some data recording capabilities. I'd feel great with my heart at 165bpm, and feel like I was about to pop at 140bpm. Heart rate was just not very helpful.
I was also deluded into thinking I was truly fast. I was occasionally able to beat the other riders in the Tuesday/Thursday pick-up ride on my aluminum framed Specialized. They knew me by name, and I even had a nickname: Red Chris. (I wore red kit exclusively for years, and my bicycle was red.)
I thought I was cool. I thought I was fast.
So I bought a power meter: a CycleOps PowerTap SL 2.4, built with Mavic Open Pro wheels and DT Swiss spokes. Top notch kit. I put my shiny new wheels on my hardly new Specialized, tripling the value of the bicycle with the swing of a quick release skewer.
I was so cool. No one else had a power meter at the time. They were still pretty rare even at the pro level. I ran out and did a hard ride. I recorded heart rate, power, speed, cadence. I rush home, hook up the LYC (Little Yellow Computer) and download the data. I bought software to help me analyze and track my power training. I reviewed my power in detail.
And I realized that I stunk. I was slow. Weak. Pathetically weak. Didn't register on the charts weak.
Buying a power meter was one of the most demoralizing moments in my cycling career, if you could call it a career. I suddenly knew my standing in the world of bicyclists, and it simply wasn't very high.
My ego was badly bruised.
Then I read the instructions. I need to zero out the torque! Next ride, I get out, zero out the torque. I reset, ride hard, capturing all this data. Go home.
I still suck. My ego was almost fatally crushed. My dreams of riding in the Tour de France were fading fast.
For years after that, I capture my data. I don't buy a new bicycle. I regret the investment in a power meter that cost as much as a sweet new mid-level carbon bike.
I realized that the fastest way to see how much you suck is to buy a power meter. There are times when you're suffering, you feel like you're working yourself to death. Legs screaming. Heart pounding. Gasping for air.
Look down, you're doing 50% of your normal power. And you can't turn up the wick.
At least, with a simple cyclocomputer, you can delude yourself. Sadly, high technology doesn't lie, it tells the cold hard truth.
But, it's those moments where you learn. And learn I did. Over time, I started to understand what my power meter was saying. I learned what it meant about my performance in a broad sense, and my body's response to my activities. I started to get faster.
I learned a lot that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with making power.
I learned about hydration, and the impact it has on power. Food, and the impact it has on power. Temperature. Riding position. Sleep.
I learned a lot about power, too. I learned about the impact of using power, the impact of accelerations, tempo, threshold riding. I had sudden clarity on the idea of "matches" and what happens when you light them. I gained clear understanding of the advantage of drafting, both as the drafter and the draftee.
I learned how to manage my performance; how much capacity I had, how to have capacity when I needed it, and how to develop more through training.
Even more, I learned how to combine information. Heart rate and power. Power and cadence. I learned how each affected the other, how to utilize them to my benefit. I started to understand how my body would act when I was tired, dehydrated, hungry, poorly fueled, hot, cold, sick.
Today, I have two wheelsets with power meters, and I seriously considered putting a power meter on my MTB wheelset (still regret not doing that, the stats would be really cool to compare and contrast with road). I know my thresholds, I know my limits, and I can see them play out on a screen in front of me when the time comes.
I also know how I compare to typical competitors, and I know what I need to do to be competitive with them - or to force them to respond.
And, most importantly, I know how to see when I need a break.
Buying a power meter was the best thing I ever did, despite the outrageous price tag when I did it. A power meter is the most powerful tool available for bicycling, right behind the bike itself. I wouldn't be half the rider I am today if I didn't have all the knowledge I gathered through simple observation of my power meter.
And I'd probably still be deluded into thinking I could ride the TdF. Today I know that'll never happen. Cat 2, or maybe even Cat 1, but not that.
Hey, we gotta dream.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Fatigue vs. Burnout
I'm tired.
This past Saturday morning, like many Saturdays here in Texas, presented the opportunity to ride in a bicycle rally. These are organized, pay-to-ride events with rest stops, support vehicles, and law enforcement protection, put on to benefit a non-profit or another organization beneficial to society.
(They're also called T-Shirt Rides because they always give away T-Shirts printed with the event name, logo, and sponsors. I have a ton of T-Shirts from these events.)
Not to say I ever stop on these rides, nor do most of the people I ride with. For us, it's a race, but lacking prizes or any sanctioning. A somewhat dangerous, disorganized race.
And I was tired. My legs felt like blocks, my heart rate would skyrocket at every moderate effort, and my stomach would turn if I burned the wick too long.
To explain, I have to go back a few more days. Last Saturday I raced in two circuit races (which I didn't win), and by the end of the second race my legs were shot. Not wise enough to rest, I rode trails on Sunday, another 2 hours on the bike. Still not resting, I did hill repeats on Monday, which are about as fun as they sound.
(If you're from a hilly / mountainous area and have been to North Texas, you're chuckling at the phrase "Hill Repeats". Trust me, you'd not be chuckling after you did a few of them with me, despite the short length of the climb.)
After that my legs were really screaming. I knew I was in trouble, so I took two days off, then went on a group ride on Thursday planning to take it easy. Or not, as I once again poured what little I had left out on the pedals. Wisely, I rested Friday.
So we're at the local rally on a perfect Saturday morning, I'm lined up at the front with 1000+ riders behind me. Most are recreational riders, but there's a small spattering of ridiculously fast racers. I felt the twinge of lingering fatigue in my legs, but hoped it would burn off after warming up.
Sadly, that wasn't to be the case. I was on the ropes within 10 miles and never really was able to get myself put together. I was a non-factor at the end of the ride.
So, yeah. I'm tired. I still want to ride, but I just have little more I can give.
Once I've hit this point, where deep fatigue sets in, I have to lay off the bike for a bit. It's like all things. Once we hit our limit, we have to dial it back or risk something more than simple fatigue. We risk getting sick; getting moody and irritable.
We risk burnout.
Fatigue is a funny thing. It's not necessary tired in a physical, or even mental sense. It can be the wearing down of interest - we can become tired of watching the same TV show, eating the same food all the time, or playing the same games. We get tired of our commutes, and we certainly get tired of our jobs.
We can burn out on all of those, fun or not. I try to avoid burning out on bicycling, while I'm not always successful I've found ways to help reduce the chances.
Know my limits.
I listen to my body and mind, I try to hear the signals when I'm getting worn down. It could be the immediate acid feel in my legs when I push, or the irritation at little things while on the bike. If I'm too tired to perform at the level I want, frustration can build.
It need not be my well being, but how the environment affects me: heat takes away my mental focus - motivation - at an incredible rate. Lack of sleep has a profound impact on my desire to ride in general (and is the primary reason I have stopped riding in 24 hour races). I am very sensitive to these limits about myself and strive to stay within them.
Mix it up.
About a year ago I hit the motivation wall. I had zero interest in the bike. I would ride, come back frustrated and disinterested. I'd take a week off, but it wouldn't change. 2 weeks off. 3 weeks off.
I dusted off my old mountain bike and did a trail ride. And absolutely stunk. So I did it again. And stunk. Again, and stunk, but a little less. I started to ride again.
I find new and different things to do. New routes, new groups. New intervals, new riding styles. I don't get stuck in a rut; I take advantage of different opportunities, I thrive on them, and I create diversity when I need something completely different.
Take breaks.
No matter how much I mix it up, there will be times when I simply lack the fortitude to ride another mile. This is really hard for me, I have very poor throttle control when I'm on the bike; but, since I know that, I know a break for me is completely off the bike or scheduling rides with people who are much slower than I am.
I've realized I'm at my limit now, so I'm taking a full 4 days off before my next event.
It helps to remember that you only get faster when you take the time to recover.
Have purpose. (Or) Set (good) goals.
Motivation comes from having a reason to do what you're doing. There is only one reason someone would ride their bicycle in North Texas in July afternoon 110F heat: they have something they are trying to accomplish.
For me, it's not some grandiose, over-the-top goal (although some would disagree). I have a simple goal: podium in the 6 hour race this weekend (see? not grandiose). My riding goals typically range week-to-week ("win" this week's rally), punctuated with targeted events (win a specific race). Last year at this time my mid-range goal was to place in the Hotter than Hell 35+ 4/5 race and my long-range goal was to upgrade to Category 3.
I find myself in no-man's land now as I accomplished both of those goals and haven't committed to a new long-range goal. I'm happy with that, which is why I suggested goals be "Good".
Change what I can, accept what I cannot.
The Serenity Prayer.
There are plenty of things that present opportunities for stress. Rain when I want to do trails, the weekend before a major trail event. Heavy traffic. Rough road surfaces. Flat tires. Summertime heat.
Or maybe my own limitations. Tired legs on a rally day. Getting dropped by faster riders.
I know what I can change and decide if I'm going to; and I know what I can't change and I work around it or let it go. I strive to prevent stress from becoming frustration.
Have FUN.
This is the perfect guide to end on. I sincerely believe that everything I do should be fun, even when it's work. Make no mistake. I work on the bike, I work as hard on the bike as I do at home, at work, and every other place.
I ride because I enjoy riding. I work because I enjoy working and the work I do. Whether it's driving the pace in an aggressive group, or a relaxing pace on a sunny morning with my son, I'm having fun. The moment it stops being fun is the moment I stop, just as I did when I lost motivation in early 2013.
So, I'm tired...
...but I'm taking a break, my legs slowly recovering. I've set goals for this weekend and sincerely believe I can accomplish them.
And I'm just not going to worry about all the other stuff that really doesn't matter. Soon enough, it'll just be me and my bike.
Soon enough.
This past Saturday morning, like many Saturdays here in Texas, presented the opportunity to ride in a bicycle rally. These are organized, pay-to-ride events with rest stops, support vehicles, and law enforcement protection, put on to benefit a non-profit or another organization beneficial to society.
(They're also called T-Shirt Rides because they always give away T-Shirts printed with the event name, logo, and sponsors. I have a ton of T-Shirts from these events.)
Not to say I ever stop on these rides, nor do most of the people I ride with. For us, it's a race, but lacking prizes or any sanctioning. A somewhat dangerous, disorganized race.
And I was tired. My legs felt like blocks, my heart rate would skyrocket at every moderate effort, and my stomach would turn if I burned the wick too long.
To explain, I have to go back a few more days. Last Saturday I raced in two circuit races (which I didn't win), and by the end of the second race my legs were shot. Not wise enough to rest, I rode trails on Sunday, another 2 hours on the bike. Still not resting, I did hill repeats on Monday, which are about as fun as they sound.
(If you're from a hilly / mountainous area and have been to North Texas, you're chuckling at the phrase "Hill Repeats". Trust me, you'd not be chuckling after you did a few of them with me, despite the short length of the climb.)
After that my legs were really screaming. I knew I was in trouble, so I took two days off, then went on a group ride on Thursday planning to take it easy. Or not, as I once again poured what little I had left out on the pedals. Wisely, I rested Friday.
So we're at the local rally on a perfect Saturday morning, I'm lined up at the front with 1000+ riders behind me. Most are recreational riders, but there's a small spattering of ridiculously fast racers. I felt the twinge of lingering fatigue in my legs, but hoped it would burn off after warming up.
Sadly, that wasn't to be the case. I was on the ropes within 10 miles and never really was able to get myself put together. I was a non-factor at the end of the ride.
So, yeah. I'm tired. I still want to ride, but I just have little more I can give.
Once I've hit this point, where deep fatigue sets in, I have to lay off the bike for a bit. It's like all things. Once we hit our limit, we have to dial it back or risk something more than simple fatigue. We risk getting sick; getting moody and irritable.
We risk burnout.
Fatigue is a funny thing. It's not necessary tired in a physical, or even mental sense. It can be the wearing down of interest - we can become tired of watching the same TV show, eating the same food all the time, or playing the same games. We get tired of our commutes, and we certainly get tired of our jobs.
We can burn out on all of those, fun or not. I try to avoid burning out on bicycling, while I'm not always successful I've found ways to help reduce the chances.
Know my limits.
I listen to my body and mind, I try to hear the signals when I'm getting worn down. It could be the immediate acid feel in my legs when I push, or the irritation at little things while on the bike. If I'm too tired to perform at the level I want, frustration can build.
It need not be my well being, but how the environment affects me: heat takes away my mental focus - motivation - at an incredible rate. Lack of sleep has a profound impact on my desire to ride in general (and is the primary reason I have stopped riding in 24 hour races). I am very sensitive to these limits about myself and strive to stay within them.
Mix it up.
About a year ago I hit the motivation wall. I had zero interest in the bike. I would ride, come back frustrated and disinterested. I'd take a week off, but it wouldn't change. 2 weeks off. 3 weeks off.
I dusted off my old mountain bike and did a trail ride. And absolutely stunk. So I did it again. And stunk. Again, and stunk, but a little less. I started to ride again.
I find new and different things to do. New routes, new groups. New intervals, new riding styles. I don't get stuck in a rut; I take advantage of different opportunities, I thrive on them, and I create diversity when I need something completely different.
Take breaks.
No matter how much I mix it up, there will be times when I simply lack the fortitude to ride another mile. This is really hard for me, I have very poor throttle control when I'm on the bike; but, since I know that, I know a break for me is completely off the bike or scheduling rides with people who are much slower than I am.
I've realized I'm at my limit now, so I'm taking a full 4 days off before my next event.
It helps to remember that you only get faster when you take the time to recover.
Have purpose. (Or) Set (good) goals.
Motivation comes from having a reason to do what you're doing. There is only one reason someone would ride their bicycle in North Texas in July afternoon 110F heat: they have something they are trying to accomplish.
For me, it's not some grandiose, over-the-top goal (although some would disagree). I have a simple goal: podium in the 6 hour race this weekend (see? not grandiose). My riding goals typically range week-to-week ("win" this week's rally), punctuated with targeted events (win a specific race). Last year at this time my mid-range goal was to place in the Hotter than Hell 35+ 4/5 race and my long-range goal was to upgrade to Category 3.
I find myself in no-man's land now as I accomplished both of those goals and haven't committed to a new long-range goal. I'm happy with that, which is why I suggested goals be "Good".
Change what I can, accept what I cannot.
The Serenity Prayer.
There are plenty of things that present opportunities for stress. Rain when I want to do trails, the weekend before a major trail event. Heavy traffic. Rough road surfaces. Flat tires. Summertime heat.
Or maybe my own limitations. Tired legs on a rally day. Getting dropped by faster riders.
I know what I can change and decide if I'm going to; and I know what I can't change and I work around it or let it go. I strive to prevent stress from becoming frustration.
Have FUN.
This is the perfect guide to end on. I sincerely believe that everything I do should be fun, even when it's work. Make no mistake. I work on the bike, I work as hard on the bike as I do at home, at work, and every other place.
I ride because I enjoy riding. I work because I enjoy working and the work I do. Whether it's driving the pace in an aggressive group, or a relaxing pace on a sunny morning with my son, I'm having fun. The moment it stops being fun is the moment I stop, just as I did when I lost motivation in early 2013.
So, I'm tired...
...but I'm taking a break, my legs slowly recovering. I've set goals for this weekend and sincerely believe I can accomplish them.
And I'm just not going to worry about all the other stuff that really doesn't matter. Soon enough, it'll just be me and my bike.
Soon enough.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Lessons from the Dirt
I'm roadie.
I typically ride a road bicycle, the kind everyone knows; the kind with curly handlebars, the kind ridden by (stereo-typically - and fortunately changing) colorful Lycra-wearing skinny guys wearing helmets and reflective sunglasses.
I also happen to be a skinny guy, and I am frequently found in colorful (red, white, and blue) kit, wearing a well-ventilated helmet and reflective sunglasses. Virtually indistinguishable from the masses, at least for the outsider.
What may come as a surprise to many is that I also get dirty: I ride the trails.
Even more surprising: I like to ride fast on the trails. I like to push the limits.
There's so much to love. I love the grinding crunch tires make grabbing onto a loose trail as weight transitions from side to side through fast sweepers; the thrill of feeling the rear end slide slightly in a corner, suddenly hooking up with a hard push of a pedal to thrust the bike forward; feeling trees tap the back of my shoulder as I twist my body around them to squeak every inch of speed.
Clearly I take a fair amount of risk. It's calculated risk, trained risk, but risk all the same. I know nature will win if I come into contact with her. I know which trees I've hit but you'd never be able to tell.
We, as humans, are really good at recognizing risk when it's up close and personal. We'll smoke a cigarette or eat a double cheeseburger and fries, but we're ready to run like hell when something moves in the bushes behind us.
Make no mistake. I recognize the risk of every treegate, every rock garden; I recognize the risk in a visceral way, and I've bailed on even simple terrain features because my confidence (risk tolerance) plummeted.
I manage my risk. I get good, grippy tires. I have a well set-up, full suspension mountain bike. I wear full-finger gloves. I wear a helmet. I wear (sun)glasses. I maintain my bicycle, and I check over all my equipment before every ride.
I don't over-ride new trails. (Usually.)
We all do this. We manage risk every day. I just happen to do it as a job: I manage information security risk.
It's hard, and my trail riding is a great example of why.
When presented a choice laden with risky options, the sense of control over that choice can give a sense of control over the results. In other words, by deciding to take a risk, I'm also control if the risk will manifest.
I decide to aggressively ride trails, so I'm not as likely to wreck. Worse, while the precautions I take may give some mitigation, I over-estimate their effect.
What is more challenging is that risk that is not clear and present is harder to for us to respond to. As I ride along a cliff edge I'm extremely cautious and ride slowly - the risk is visceral, and has a visceral response. As I ride on a trail that could have cliffsides on it, I ride faster. Until I see the cliff before me, I'm less likely to consider the risk I'm creating by taking less care to manage my speed and control.
It's even worse with things like eating unhealthy food. The effect of eating a fat-laden cheeseburger is far off, occurs incrementally, and is countered by the initial benefit the burger provides.
Intellectually, this is incredibly frustrating. We're fighting the built-in human instinct to worry about what matters now as we try to illustrate the risk of the future. Many executives are watching dollars, it's a struggle to make an investment in something that doesn't address an immediate concern. We even have a term for people who can do this: visionary. A great example is employee pay in retail; paying employees better results in a cleaner, better organized store, with better customer service and better sales outcomes.
I'm a loyal Costco customer (and a former Costco employee). Costco treats its employees very well, and is exceptionally profitable. I simply cannot understand why other companies don't make these investments.
I digress slightly to make a point. If such a decision that drives directly to the bottom line is resisted, our plight in Information Security is tenfold. We're not adding to the top line like Costco, we're preventing loss at the bottom line.
Our world plays out like this: We create elaborate risk charts. We budget for contingency action after an event. We document impact of fines, legal expenses. We estimate collateral damage to brand. We get a sympathetic audience, but we see only incremental change.
Then it happens. Target. Epsilon. South Carolina. Risk manifests, and everyone wants to know "can it happen to us?" This is the Nuclear Power Plant of risk, one melts down and suddenly everyone wants to shut down their local plant or move away. If you're at one of these, or other, organizations, your security budget exploded. For the rest of us, nod your head with me: I've used these events to illustrate the information security risk we take.
We made the risk real.
So I hit a the tree. Why? Did the front tire wash out? Did the suspension rebound too quickly? Too slowly? Not enough damper? We present technical solutions to drive risk out of the system.
Or was I simply riding too fast? The human is the root of most of our risk, whether it's not knowing there's a proverbial cliff behind a link in their e-mail, or cutting corners in the implementation or use of technology preventing them from seeing the tree before we hit it.
As for me, I was probably just riding too fast. I'll learn my lesson...at least until I've recovered, then I'll do it all over again.
(I'm sure there's a few of you that didn't feel a need to ask for investment after a major security event. I would love to hear your stories - how did you get the support you needed to be fully invested in information security without having the driver of manifest risk across the street?)
I typically ride a road bicycle, the kind everyone knows; the kind with curly handlebars, the kind ridden by (stereo-typically - and fortunately changing) colorful Lycra-wearing skinny guys wearing helmets and reflective sunglasses.
I also happen to be a skinny guy, and I am frequently found in colorful (red, white, and blue) kit, wearing a well-ventilated helmet and reflective sunglasses. Virtually indistinguishable from the masses, at least for the outsider.
 |
| All you cyclists look alike! |
Even more surprising: I like to ride fast on the trails. I like to push the limits.
There's so much to love. I love the grinding crunch tires make grabbing onto a loose trail as weight transitions from side to side through fast sweepers; the thrill of feeling the rear end slide slightly in a corner, suddenly hooking up with a hard push of a pedal to thrust the bike forward; feeling trees tap the back of my shoulder as I twist my body around them to squeak every inch of speed.
 |
| I can't do this...but I'd love to. |
Clearly I take a fair amount of risk. It's calculated risk, trained risk, but risk all the same. I know nature will win if I come into contact with her. I know which trees I've hit but you'd never be able to tell.
We, as humans, are really good at recognizing risk when it's up close and personal. We'll smoke a cigarette or eat a double cheeseburger and fries, but we're ready to run like hell when something moves in the bushes behind us.
Make no mistake. I recognize the risk of every treegate, every rock garden; I recognize the risk in a visceral way, and I've bailed on even simple terrain features because my confidence (risk tolerance) plummeted.
I manage my risk. I get good, grippy tires. I have a well set-up, full suspension mountain bike. I wear full-finger gloves. I wear a helmet. I wear (sun)glasses. I maintain my bicycle, and I check over all my equipment before every ride.
I don't over-ride new trails. (Usually.)
We all do this. We manage risk every day. I just happen to do it as a job: I manage information security risk.
It's hard, and my trail riding is a great example of why.
When presented a choice laden with risky options, the sense of control over that choice can give a sense of control over the results. In other words, by deciding to take a risk, I'm also control if the risk will manifest.
I decide to aggressively ride trails, so I'm not as likely to wreck. Worse, while the precautions I take may give some mitigation, I over-estimate their effect.
What is more challenging is that risk that is not clear and present is harder to for us to respond to. As I ride along a cliff edge I'm extremely cautious and ride slowly - the risk is visceral, and has a visceral response. As I ride on a trail that could have cliffsides on it, I ride faster. Until I see the cliff before me, I'm less likely to consider the risk I'm creating by taking less care to manage my speed and control.
It's even worse with things like eating unhealthy food. The effect of eating a fat-laden cheeseburger is far off, occurs incrementally, and is countered by the initial benefit the burger provides.
 |
| Sorry, Sonic, but this turns my stomach. |
Intellectually, this is incredibly frustrating. We're fighting the built-in human instinct to worry about what matters now as we try to illustrate the risk of the future. Many executives are watching dollars, it's a struggle to make an investment in something that doesn't address an immediate concern. We even have a term for people who can do this: visionary. A great example is employee pay in retail; paying employees better results in a cleaner, better organized store, with better customer service and better sales outcomes.
I'm a loyal Costco customer (and a former Costco employee). Costco treats its employees very well, and is exceptionally profitable. I simply cannot understand why other companies don't make these investments.
I digress slightly to make a point. If such a decision that drives directly to the bottom line is resisted, our plight in Information Security is tenfold. We're not adding to the top line like Costco, we're preventing loss at the bottom line.
Our world plays out like this: We create elaborate risk charts. We budget for contingency action after an event. We document impact of fines, legal expenses. We estimate collateral damage to brand. We get a sympathetic audience, but we see only incremental change.
Then it happens. Target. Epsilon. South Carolina. Risk manifests, and everyone wants to know "can it happen to us?" This is the Nuclear Power Plant of risk, one melts down and suddenly everyone wants to shut down their local plant or move away. If you're at one of these, or other, organizations, your security budget exploded. For the rest of us, nod your head with me: I've used these events to illustrate the information security risk we take.
We made the risk real.
So I hit a the tree. Why? Did the front tire wash out? Did the suspension rebound too quickly? Too slowly? Not enough damper? We present technical solutions to drive risk out of the system.
Or was I simply riding too fast? The human is the root of most of our risk, whether it's not knowing there's a proverbial cliff behind a link in their e-mail, or cutting corners in the implementation or use of technology preventing them from seeing the tree before we hit it.
As for me, I was probably just riding too fast. I'll learn my lesson...at least until I've recovered, then I'll do it all over again.
(I'm sure there's a few of you that didn't feel a need to ask for investment after a major security event. I would love to hear your stories - how did you get the support you needed to be fully invested in information security without having the driver of manifest risk across the street?)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)