Every Boy Needs a Hobby and a Better Raincoat

On Passions
Today, BSNYC reminded me how lucky I am to have cycling. I look forward to every weekend ride the same way people live for their vacations. By Wednesday evening, I'm plotting the route, tweaking the bike, exchanging plans with JK, and generally getting excited. Come Thursday I might tone down the workout to leave me fresh. On Friday night I love the ritual of packing my bag, laying the bottles, bar, and gel on the counter, and setting up the steel cut oats in the slow cooker. Then, on Saturday morning, I like to get up early and have a hot breakfast with tea, while brewing a mug of coffee for the road. In fact, I love this routine so much that I can go for long stretches without a proper vacation only because it means I get to ride more. (Obviously, though, vacation + La Roleurette + bike is the best, so I had a great time in Portland this summer.)

This is why when my feet were troubling me a year ago, I dove into a mini spiral of despair. Riding was a fulcrum to leverage so many other good things in life. One little arthritic joint took away my entertainment, exercise, therapy, connection to the seasons, chance to be outside, opportunity to eat a lot, confidence, and, frankly, identity. For a while, I was no longer a cyclist, and wondered if I would ever be one again. I grudgingly attempted to swim. I put my bike magazines into an old suitcase, stopped wearing my bike t-shirts, and generally avoided looking at anything bike-related. I went to the gym on Saturday mornings. I had brunch. Brunch! (La Roleurette did like the brunch part.) The fact that I had a brand new unbuilt Indy Fab frame only added insult to injury. I wrapped it in a blanket and stuck it behind the couch - out of sight, out of mind.

Thankfully, new orthotics (and quitting all ultimate) put me back in the saddle this year with an even greater appreciation for riding.

So what of the people without cycling, knitting, running, cooking, or Something You Love to Do? Are their lives a soulless vacuum? Everyone needs a passion they can point to. Otherwise, what do you read about on the internet?

On Being a Piss Poor Mechanic
Speaking of hobbies, I generally like to do my own wrenching, particularly with the Mancave fully operational. But, god, I suck at it. On Sunday night, I cleaned the bike and disassembled the crank to clear up a persistent creaking. In the process, I managed to strip the crank arm bolts and screw up the new chain. Yesterday, after running around to get replacement bolts and asking dumb questions at the shop (Performance Bikes!!! I'm so humiliated.), I fixed it all up, then almost overtightened my seatpost clamp. Sometimes I'm just not in synch with my torque wrench. Was that the click? Was that it? Shouldn't it have clicked by now? Better start again. Um, hello? Click? What's going on in there? Not clicking, that's what.

In Cycling News
Last night saw the usual Monday Tempo Ride of Terror with Mistress Wendy. Despite some unusually friendly pre-class banter - perhaps to make the newbies feel welcome - she ended the class by yelling at us NOT TO TAKE OUR HANDS OFF THE BARS while cooling down. In retrospect, that may have been to save the newbies from being bucked off by their wildly spinning pedals. Still, classic Wendy.

Truth be told, I'm really feeling spin class. I find myself consistently entering a blissed out endorphin state at some point during the hour - usually right after my heart rate reaches AT1, and before the extended forays into AT2. In that brief window, the legs feel strong, the circles are smooth, my breathing is controlled, and the music has me psyched.

For extra entertainment, spin class also offers up wacky hijinks. Last night, Courtney (Triathlete? I'm thinking yes. You can just tell sometimes.) dismounted mid-class, pulled a Clif bar out of her bag, stuck it IN her shoe, remounted, and resumed pedaling. Edible orthotic? Warming up dinner? I asked no questions.

After class, I showered, walked out of the gym, and felt a wonderful sense of well-being, enjoying the smell of rain on the pavement, and the breeze announcing the arrival of the season's first storm.

Speaking of which, I got soaked this morning. The old Marmot Precip just isn't shedding water like it used to, despite retreatments. The plastic bags over the socks also did little to stop the water running down my ankles. On the plus side, I felt nice and cozy when I changed at work and settled into a cup of tea and a spreadsheet. On the minus side, putting on wet socks for the ride home sucks.

Marin again?

Saturday. JK had recovered enough from her head cold to ride on Saturday, but wouldn't be up for an assault on Hamilton. So, once again, I found myself crashing a Saturday club ride, this time with a slightly larger group of Marin Cyclists.

Fairfax was buzzing, with Biketoberfest descending on downtown. But the festivities hadn't started when we headed out to do a 47-mile loop through Nicasio, Pt. Reyes Station, and Bolinas-Fairfax Rd. The group had some stronger riders, and we made great time through the Nicasio Reservoir wind tunnel. "Too slow for you?" a woman asked. Not at all! I was stupidly saving myself for a much longer and harder ride, confusing Bo-Fax Rd with the Marshall Wall to the north. It wasn't till our bakery stop at Pt. Reyes Station that I realized my confusion, and that the ride was a lot shorter than I'd thought.

Still, the rollers on Highway 1 between Olema and Bo-Fax did a number on my legs, particularly since I was caught between two groups, and fought like hell to latch onto the back of the front trio. We regrouped at the base of the climb, and I shed my vest. Although the coast was solidly socked in, I anticipated some friskiness on the climb, and would warm up quickly.

The ascent started all civilized. We chatted comfortably about the closure of Market Street in SF, tan lines, and other bikely subjects. A guy explained that squirrels are "basically tree wolverines" when I said I saw one eating a checken leg last week. "Now this is nice, " I thought. "Tree wolverines?" Then, a fast skinny guy on a lugged steel Bianchi decided to "attack" about halfway up the climb. I responded, but the effort put me well into the red zone. I wondered if I could keep pace till the summit. Another fellow in a Seaco jersey bridged up and hung on.

We stuck together, and I kept the cramps at bay by getting out of the saddle and keeping the circles smooth. Despite my whingeing, I enjoyed the challenge, and reveled in the work. We were rewarded with a gorgeous break in the fog up top, and a sunny return via Alpine Dam Rd into Fairfax.

Biketoberfest was in full swing. I got a brat and potato salad and ogled the gorgeous bikes from Rivendell, Sycip, Soulcraft, and other local builders. I admit my bike obsession is a source of some embarrassment. Much like people who are afraid to profess their love of Felicity, US Weekly, or Twilight, I consider bike shows a guilty pleasure best kept in check. Maybe I should just yell out at the top of my lungs, "YES!! I LOVE BIKES AND I'M NOT AFRAID TO SAY IT!!"

Check out the cauldron of paella. It's so eye of newt.

Sunday. Recovery ride. Freezing cold on the ridge. Fog blowing across the road. Opted to descend Claremont and go home on the flats, instead of frigid suffering on Grizzly Peak. Listened to the Two Johns Podcast, where they discussed this clip.

Berkeley Hills Death Ride 1

I left work this evening with every intention of taking it easy, since I'm thinking of riding up the backside of Mt. Hamilton this weekend. So I cruised down the Berkeley marina for a change, then back through the flat part of Marin Avenue, planning on coming home early.

Instead of turning towards home, though, I just kept going up Marin, and before I knew it I was gasping for air on the steepest road in Berkeley, my heart rate pinned to 100%. (Ironically, I was wearing the monitor to keep my effort low.)

Marin Avenue is the toughest of the Berkeley Hills Death Ride series. So tough, in fact, that I never thought to give it a go. The "easy" bits are around 14%, but it hits 30% towards the top. About 624 feet of elevation gain over one very narrow mile. I would never start a ride, planning on tackling Marin. Apparently, the only way to get up this thing was to fool myself into it.

The lower parts of Marin aren't actually that steep. I could maintain a comfortable standing pace. Each section lured me up a bit more, till I found myself halfway up the climb. At that point I wasn't going to stop, still feeling pretty strong.

About a third of the way up, though, my legs hit the anaerobic wall, and I had to unclip, lest I find myself staring at the bumper of an oncoming Prius while pinned under my bike. I walked up to the next cross street and let my heartrate come down. Looking up the road, I thought I could just gun it to the next resting point, then decide whether to go any further. So I got a little momentum and bumrushed the hill. Upon reaching the next cross street, I keeled over the bars, gasping, till the nausea subsided. Then I looked up and thought, "I can do that one more time." And so it went till the top.

I enjoyed the descent on Grizzly Peak, spinning lightly to keep from tightening up. Then, a nice hot shower, stretch, self-flagellation with The Stick, and dinner with my old friend, Costco Ravioli.

I'd actually try this again, next time stopping to gather myself at each cross street without getting off the bike. Definitely a great anaerobic workout. My legs still feel wobbly, though.

More Silicon Valley Dullness

I find myself in yet another Silicon Valley Starbucks (chocolate banana smoothie), using their wi-fi connection while waiting for a meeting to start. I am simultaneously appalled by how often this is happening to me, and thrilled by my ability to access my work desktop remotely.

Given this state of affairs, it's probably not good for my mental health to be listening to a new travel audiobook in the car. Travel memoirs tend to spark my dissatisfaction with the banal work life, and often leave me feeling that I'm living a "life of quiet desperation."

Fortunately, The Sex Lives of Cannibals by J. Maarten Troost is about a place so bleak, so inhospitable, so ridden with giant cockroaches, that I'm actually happy to be in an air-conditioned mega coffee house, instead. The book reminds me (with dry British wit) how boring, uncomfortable, and lonely some exotic places can be. And I just have to evoke memories of miserable guest houses across two continents on my extended honeymoon with La Roleurette to show me how nice it is to be home.

Sweet Buzz

Mistress Wendy laid down her unique brand of tempo riding torture tonight, and hit us with the most bizarre soundtrack ever. I was psyched for Glory Days, surprised, but pumped by Walking on Memphis by Marc Cohn, amused by the Crash Test Dummies (I turned to the girl next to me and said, "This is the kind of album you can buy at a gas station), and appalled by the God pop during cool down. I actually looked up to see if anyone else thought it was weird. Could Wendy be a gay ultra-marathoning Bible-thumper? I inspected the chains around her neck and thought I saw a cross in there somewhere. Marty, a regular, piped up. "Having some fun with the music, eh?" In the locker room, Lawrence speculated that Wendy was finding religion.

The legs felt great tonight. My heart rate went up effortlessly, the sweat rolled off me, and the endorphins made for an amazing buzz. Sometimes spinning is fun.

Incidentally, I got DIRECTV to cough up two months of Premium channels (including soccer coverage) and a WHOLE SEASON of NBA League Pass. Not bad!

The New Guy

Friday night, La Roleurette, some friends, and I checked out the Oakland arts walk in Old Town and Uptown, two neighborhoods the City has been trying to jump start for years. Momentum is growing, with a middling artist presence and nicer restaurants starting to gain a foothold. But the local market is awash with empty condominiums, so things will be slow for a while. A decent number of hipster fixies and other cyclists cruising around.

On Saturday morning I hitched on the Mission Cycling club ride, which started at the south end of the Golden Gate Bridge, and sheared off into three separate routes in Marin. Around 25 people showed up, and folks described it as a medium-sized group. Apparently, several regulars had headed north for Levi's Gran Fondo.

The only other time I'd joined a club ride was a couple of weeks ago with the Marin Cyclists. That was a much smaller group, and having JK as a wingman greased the social gears. This time it felt a bit awkward being the solo stranger, standing around waiting for the ride to get going as everyone chatted up their buddies and tourists swarmed around taking photos in front of the bridge.

When you show up on at an ultimate pick-up game, you HAVE to interact with other people on the field, making for a good entree. Although the culture (and sometimes rules) of the game occasionally vary, you catch on within seconds, as long as you have any basic experience in organized ultimate.

In contrast, the normal new guy vibe, coupled with the unspoken rules of group cycling (how fast, do you stop and wait, where do you stop and wait, do you sprint for town lines, etc.) makes for a more tricky situation.

I rode with the A-group at first. After weaving through a charity walk (pink cheerleaders! disco music! fanny packs!) and climbing and descending Camino Alto, they broke off for Paradise Loop, a flat 35-miler. I got some satisfaction from not being the slowest climber, and even passed one guy with impressive legs, and a high-end carbon rig with a Powertap. I wanted to see if I could hang, but also hoped for a longer ride, so I dropped back onto the B-ride to Nicasio.

These guys moved slowly through town, pissing off three drivers on the way (at least pretend to come to a stop?). We hung around Fairfax Coffee Roasters for a bit, refilling bottles and using the bathroom, then most people just turned right around and went back to SF. Very weird to navigate 20 miles of flat suburban bike path riding, just to do a 180.

Five of us kept going north to Nicasio. The crew went slow on the climbs, but kept up a decent pace on the flats, which was a huge help with the insane wind. At one point, I went hands-free to put on my vest, and almost got blown over. I eventually had to stop, then had a bitch of a time clawing my way back onto the paceline. On the return leg, we took the bike path through Samuel Taylor State Park. Slow, but gorgeous. You can almost hear the leaves about explode into fall colors.

By the time I got back home I'd done a solid 80 miles, with some good efforts on the flats and mini-hills.

This experience confirmed that living in SF is a drag for cyclists. The GG Bridge and Sausalito, are ok as novelties, but quickly become a hassle on every single ride. Still, I liked the group - younger and hipper than the standard club riders. Also, their kit rocks. It would be more appealing if I didn't have to deal with BART just to get to the start. For city riders, I can see the allure of just showing up and making a plan on the spot.

Today I took it easy like Sunday morning. Great fall weather. Instead of the usual routes, I just wandered straight up the steeper Berkeley hills at a casual standing climb, never letting the heart rate get up. Lots of cool houses and one-lane roads up there. I carried the bike up one of the narrow staircases that crisscross the hills, and saw Bambi.

Mid-Week Miscellany

On Competition II

After my post about why I don't compete, Embrocation made a good case in favor of stepping up to the line, also in the context of cyclocross. I have to admit, it's a pretty compelling argument.

Pillow Talk

Instead of the usual spin class, I got up early to ride before work. Somehow, I have no problem setting the alarm on weekends to have fun outside. Gravity must be stronger during the week, because the battle was epic this morning. I try to prep everything the night before, and get out the door without breakfast. Otherwise, any excuse to slow down just drags out the hard part. Once I'm on the bike, it's fine.

Cable Sadness

Apparently the Universal Sports promo was just for a month on DIRECTV. I now find myself with no cycling coverage at all. Damn, that was an awesome channel. The Vuelta, one day classics, World Championships, small stage races, cyclocross champies, curling. Curling!!! So good! I'm actually considering making the switch to Comcast. DIRECTV would have to woo me with a pretty sweet package involving Premier League soccer and premium channels to convince me to stick with them. Ironically, if they hadn't given me the free taste, I wouldn't be jonesing for it now. Um, guys - bad decision to give me a free sample of a channel you don't carry.

Problem is I have a deal with AT&T because of the DIRECTV service, and AT&T is super handy when I'm on the road and want access to wi-fi at St*rbucks. St*rbuks everywhere = wi-fi everywhere. Plus, I have the damn dish, and it's a hassle to return the DVR. Inertia, like gravity on weekdays, is a force to be reckoned with.

DIRECTV. I wish I knew how to quit you.