January 27, 2014 § 12 Comments
This weekend’s Big Bike Beatdown in Santa Barbara featured another two-day, two-wheeled brawl while grown men with nothing better to do risked life and limb on shitty roads as they dodged cracks, slammed into potholes, narrowly avoided oncoming traffic, wantonly broke sporadically enforced yellow-line rules, and shook their heads in fury while the braindead moto ref stopped the entire peloton three times for a “pee break.” After the dust settled, a few things were clear:
- 90% of the full-on, raging masters peloton would be completely burned out by the middle of March.
- 95% of the full-on, raging masters peloton had done enough races so far this year (four) to have a perfect excuse not to show up at Boulevard next weekend.
- You can’t make chicken salad out of …
While Facebook broke most of the Internet with repeated posts of race results (“Look! Freddy got 45th in the Cat 3’s! Good job!”), the first real race of the year revealed itself, and it’s a race that we’re going to keep seeing for the next eight months. Yes, the Fastest Legs in the West squarely beat the Best Bike Handler in the West. But it was close, and it promises to get better.
Tale of the tape
In this corner we have Charon (pronounced “faster than you”) Smith, the best crit racer in his 35+ age group. Charon wins more races in a season than most racers even enter. He combines dedicated training, natural speed, courage when things get gnarly, and a profound sense of fair play to produce winning results year in and year out on the SoCal crit scene. Despite the fact that he’s an easygoing guy, he’s a keen competitor, a leader, and great source of inspiration for a lot of people.
It wasn’t too long ago that Charon was essentially racing for himself, having to scrape out every single win singlehandedly. By racing consistently, fairly, and by always congratulating his opponents — win, lose, or draw — he has gathered a strong following of friends who gradually morphed into the best 35+ team in Southern California. No longer forced to race by himself or with one or two teammates, Charon is now backed with serious horsepower in the form of Kayle Leo Grande, John Wike, Ben Travis, Rob Kamppila, and the other first class racers who make up Surf City’s race team. More importantly, Charon’s optimistic attitude and positive message have helped create a team that firmly believes it’s on a mission to win, and win, and win.
With only a handful of races into the season in the bag, Charon’s team has far and away the most victories. Proving that it’s a team, Surf City is stacking podiums, stacking breakaways, and sharing the victories and placings among the teammates. But make no mistake about it: The team’s anchor is Charon, and when the heavy artillery starts firing in a field sprint, he’s the guy lobbing the 16-inch shells.
And in the other corner …
We have Aaron Wimberley, about as different from Charon as a cobra is from a tiger. First of all, the boy has a full head of hair, so you could say he’s won the battle right off the bat. But since it’s not a hair styling contest, we have to judge these two guys on their bikes. Where Charon is the quickest guy on two wheels, Aaron is the best bike handler. Only a few guys have Aaron’s skills — John Wike, the bike wizard who also rides for Charon, and Phil Tinstman come to mind. Aaron has rocketed up the ranks from lowly Cat 5 to getting a bronze medal at nationals on a fiendishly technical course.
He’s unbelievably quick and has off-the-chart race smarts. Scientific, methodical, and unwilling to count further down than first place, Aaron has been in the wilderness for the last couple of years riding with little support and lots of second-place finishes in a crit scene dominated by team efforts. This year, however, he’s moved over to SPY-Giant-RIDE, the best team in the galaxy. (Disclaimer: It really is.) Aaron rides like a gunslinger. Independent, self-reliant, takes no shit from anyone, and is more than happy to explain your shortcomings to you in colorful language. I will never forget the time he described my jumps as something akin to “watching a big blue bus go up a steep hill dragging a space shuttle.”
The question this year is whether Aaron’s new alliance with the best team in the galaxy will create the teamwork and support he needs to beat the Fastest Legs in the West (for an old dude). Judging from the finish at the Mothballs Crit this past Sunday, it could happen.
Roaring into the final 200 meters Charon had the help of Kayle Leo Grande, himself one of the fastest finishers in the 35’s, as a lead-out. Even against these two motors, Aaron managed a very respectable second, with Charon winning comfortably but not easily, but it’s my guess that Aaron’s not showing up in hopes of getting second. More organization and support from SPY-Giant-RIDE teammates could well prove to be the final push that Aaron needs to win against Charon in a drag race.
What to look for
SoCal has few crits that are technical enough to give Aaron a chance to use his bike handling edge. Most of the races are four-corners, wide, and they finish with a fast man throwdown. However, there are some exceptions. Look for Mike Hecker’s 805 Crit series to provide challenging courses, potentially huge crosswinds, and an arena where Charon’s flat-out speed may be offset by Aaron’s wizardry in the turns. The San Marcos Crit will also be a place to see bike handling and a slight bump take the sting out of a drag race finish.
And of course any given race has an amazing crop of first-class speedsters fully capable of winning. Danny Kam, Phil Tinstman, Mike Easter, Chris DeMarchi, Rudy Napolitano, John Abate, Michael Johnson, Randall Coxworth, Jamie Paolinetti, John Wike, Ivan Dominguez, Eric Anderson, Brian Cook, Josh Alverson, Patrick Caro, and Karl Bordine are all 35+ riders who stood on the top step in a crit in 2013. There’s no reason to think they won’t be going for the top step again this year.
Whatever happens … it’s gonna be fun to watch!
January 17, 2014 § 12 Comments
My excuse isn’t great, but it’s pretty damned good: 118 miles on Dave Jaeger’s French Toast Ride, where I’ll have to smack down young posers like Jay-Jay LaPlante, Aaron Unpronounceablelastname, Greg “I have another mortal virus” Seyranian, Dan “when does the ride start” Cobley, and one or two other flailers like King Harold and DJ himself. Yeah, I’ll bust their chops up the Lake Casitas climb, on the 101, and then with G$ I’ll time trial from Ventura to the top of Balcom while Stern-O, Bowles, Spivey, and the Long Beach freddies take turns licking each other’s open wounds.
Shorthand: I’ll be too tired for the season opening crit in Dominguez Hills, but I’ll try to make it anyway.
What’s your excuse?
The man with the plan and the white Mercedes van
When Chris Lotts kicks off the season opening SoCal crit on Sunday, January 19, lots of people will be complaining. Why? Because it’s a lot easier to complain than to race your bike. Studies show that complaining exerts a biological cost of less than .00001 homeostatic watts, whereas putting on a single bike race shortens your lifespan by roughly twelve years. Chris is now -459.7 years old, and getting younger by the week.
There are a shit-ton of reasons that you need to be at the CBR race on Sunday, and to show you why, I’ve compiled a list of whines that I’ve heard over the years. If you’ve thought or uttered more than three, I’ll call the whaambulance and have you taken (at your cost) to UCLA Harbor so that they can rub salves and ointments on that special place to relieve your butthurt.
1. “That’s a stupid fuggin’ four-corner industrial crit. That’s not bike racin’.”
Riiiiiiight. What you really want is a 100 km kermesse over wet cobblestones in 42-degree weather and spitting rain, because you’re hard like that. So what if you’ve never finished Boulevard or Punchbowl? In your Velominati fantasy life, you are a Hard Man who can’t be bothered with “easy” races like this. Fortunately, your doctor continues to renew your prescription as soon as it runs out.
2. “CBR races are too easy.”
Easy? Then why do the same handful of guys win every race, races that have 100+ entrants? Hint: Because the other 99 wankers feel strong and fast and fit until a) the winning break rolls up the road, or b) Charon opens up his sprint.
3. “Those races are way too expensive.”
Let’s see … $2,500 for your carbon tubulars … $750 for your three team kits and skin suit … $140 every other month for your training Gatorskins … $72/year for your stupid Strava Premium subscription … $3,900 for your Campy SRM power meter … tell me again about how that $35 entry fee for close to an hour of full-on racing is gonna bust your budget?
4. “Lotts annoys the shit out of me.”
Poor baby! Break out the butt salve! So you can take bumping bars, hitting the asphalt at 30 mph, and racing until your eyes pop out of your head, but you can’t take a little diversity of opinion? You crumple up and die when Chris talks about his “Christian Tingles” web site? Awww, I feel really sorry for you, and I envy the little glass bubble you live in and the inheritance that protects you from getting out and LIVING IN THE REAL FUCKING WORLD.
5. “Those races are a clusterfuck. A handful of big teams control everything.”
Guess what, limpster? The guys on those “teams who control everything” got there by racing their dogdamned bikes, not by sitting at home reading Jonathan Vaughters’s Twitter feed. What’s stopping you from making the break, sitting in, and letting the “big teams” do all the work as you cannily outsprint them to the finish line (besides the fact that you always race at the back and don’t train hard and are 30 pounds overweight)?
6. “I’m more of a stage racer than a crit rider.”
Yeah, and I’m more of a Martian than I am a New Jerseyite. Look, stupid, if you want 21-day stage races, you’re living in the wrong city, county, state, nation, and body.
7. “It’s too early in the season.”
Oh, I get it, the Interwebs coach you pay $399 per month to tell you that you’re “making great progress” has advised you to wait until, say, April? Did it ever occur to you that he wants you to wait until April in order to delay the crushing reality that’s going to batter your ego when you still finish 51st after an after-tax-dollar investment of $15k? Hint: P.T. Barnum said it.
8. “Crits are too sketchy.”
I see. Because you’re the one steady wheel out of the 100+ numbskulls, and, like the mother who watched her son in the marching band and commented “Look! Everyone else in the band is out of step!” you think that no one knows how to properly handle a bike except, of course, you?
9. “Crits are too short to give me a good workout.”
Yes, I understand completely. No one in history has ever ridden to a race, raced, then ridden home. You’re obligated to drive to the race. It’s in the bylaws.
10. “We need more road races in SoCal, like they have in NorCal.”
So you’re going to promote a road race? I didn’t think so. Or you’re going to race in NorCal? Nope — too far and hard and expensive, right? So why not shut the fuck up and support the one guy who shows up week in and week out, who has the genius of being able to put on a bike race and make money at it (okay, so the genius is Vera), and who can take your abuse and never take it (too) personally? Answer: Because you’re not very good, your ego is tender, and it’s easier to talk about bike racing than to race your bike.
See you on Sunday. Or not.
December 26, 2013 § 6 Comments
I’m recently becoming on the cycling fan. With usual German thoroughness I have learned with excellence how to understand the Tour of France and the Giro of Italy. Before I learn to follow the Vuelta, however, could you explain to me what it is?
It is the largest bicycle race in the world that no one cares about.
Sorry to bother you again, but if it’s such a big race, why doesn’t anyone care about it?
The main reason no one cares is that it’s a bike race, but there are other reasons too, like everyone using more illegal drugs at the Vuelta than the usual quota of illegal drugs at the other grand tours, and all the good riders quitting after a week or so in order to prep for worlds, and the same seven spectators who line the roads, and the fact that it’s in Spain, which most Americans confuse with Mexico and assume there’s a drug cartel on every corner waiting to kidnap them and sell their parts to be made into Al Contador’s beef.
Wow, you sure are an asshole! The Vuelta is the most exciting of all the grand tours! Spain is a friggin’ beautiful country. Great wine and food and perfect weather and bitches. Eff you, Cap’n d-bag! Also, Horner rocks time a million!
“The most exciting of all the grand tours” still translates into “as exciting as watching someone diagram sentences.”
How would you compare the hardest climbs of the Vuelta, like the Angliru, with something like the Stelvio or the Alpe?
The main difference is that unlike the Alpe or the Stelvio, no one cares about the Angliru, and not just because it’s hard to pronounce. They don’t care because it’s part of the Vuelta. You could line the Angliru with porn stars and beer kegs and people still wouldn’t care. Wait a minute … I think we’re on to something.
November 25, 2013 § 68 Comments
- Quit calling it “masters.” A master is someone who has reached the pinnacle of his craft after years of study and accomplishment. If you were a “master” of cycling you’d race the Pro Tour. If you were a “master” of cycling you would need more than a license and a $35 entry fee to be recognized as such. Suggestion? Start calling it “Old Folks Racing.” Part of the problem with masters racing is the delusion that’s reinforced by calling yourself a “master.” You aren’t, so quit lying about it.
- Scrap the prize money. You don’t deserve one red fucking cent for winning an Old Folks bicycle race. Prize money fuels the delusion that you’re a pro. You aren’t. You are an old person racing a bicycle masquerading as a young person. Yes, you. If don’t want to be classed with the old people, race with the young ones, you know, the punks who line up in the P-1-2 race and can kick your sorry ass from here to Sunday and back. Let’s see how many of those 120-mile hilly road races you win, Ace.
- Test. Drug testing works. It may not catch all the cheats, but it catches some of them and scares away a bunch of others. Instead of wasting our money on officials, waste it on drug testing. Officials who don’t want to volunteer for free like every other person who helps out in a bike race should go ride their bikes. And spare me about how professional all of the paid refs are, thanks. If we have to race without officials, I bet the promoters and riders can live with it just fine.
- Increase the length of bans. Two years is a joke for Old Folks racers, or didn’t you get the memo that 90 is the new 20? Make it ten for a first offense. You drank some contaminated herbal tea? Sucks to be you. PS: Next time you drink a special herbal tea that you bought from a company that advertises in a weightlifting steroids online forum where everyone uses a nickname, maybe you better think twice.
- Permanently ban dopers from certain events. Once you test positive, you’re forever banned from national and district championships. Whaaa? Yeah. But at least you won’t have to explain to people what an “Old Folks Racer National Champion” is.
- Permanently note doper status on licenses. Indicate on every license, in bold black letters beneath the rider’s category, that he has been “Sanctioned for doping.” Welcome to the race.
- Allow promoter discretion to deny entry. Give promoters the right to unilaterally bar a sanctioned rider from the race even after the ban has expired. Sanctimonious, self-serving liars who refuse to come clean about their sordid cheating will have to drop the facade and live with permanently brown noses for as long as they want to race.
- Require nicknames. Assign mandatory demeaning nicknames to busted dopers, which names must be used whenever their names are announced or printed in the official results. “Douchebag Danilo,” “Lame-ass Lance,” etc.
- Assign a unique “scumbag” series. Dedicate a certain number series that may only be used by busted dopers, such as the 900’s. “There goes a Niner!” people will say. No matter what you do, your past as a drug cheat will not be forgotten.
- Limit the damage. Put a limit to the number of ex-dopers you can have on a single team, and make the number “1.”
Do all this, or even most of it, and we’ll go back to what we once had when we were called “veterans.” We’ll have old folks who enjoy life during the week, race on the weekend, and take geriatric competition for what it is, which isn’t very much.
November 21, 2013 § 1 Comment
The Los Angeles Grand Prix is this weekend. Make time for a morning or an evening, or both, of world-class track racing at the best velodrome in North America.
The historic return of the world’s fastest track racers to Los Angeles is finally here. This weekend, Nov. 22-24, the LA Grand Prix will bring together racers from eleven countries over three days to sprint the fastest, take the most laps, burn up the boards in an incredible display of athleticism, daring, and no-gears, no-brakes bike racing.
There more at stake than bragging rights, because UCI points will also be awarded at this Class 1 event, which is also the National Track Calendar finale and the 2013 US Paracycling Championships. If you’ve always wondered what track racing is about, this is the best opportunity you’ll have to see it up close and personal.
Some of the storylines that will play out over the weekend:
- Home Advantage: Sarah Hammer, six-time world champion, two-time Olympian and Olympic silver medalist will be racing in front of friends and family on her home track. Sarah born in Redondo Beach and raised in Temecula, and is one of the best U.S. bike racers ever.
- Northern Border Clash: The reigning Olympic silver (USA) and bronze (Canada) women’s team pursuit will go head to head on Friday. Team Canada has bested the US with a silver medal in the last world championships and world cup, races. Will the Canadians maintain their ascendancy, or will it be time for the Americans to even the score?
- 30 Years Later: The track cycling world returns to the site of the LA84 Olympic velodrome in the completely rebuilt indoor track here in Carson, a world class facility and the fastest track in North America.
- Stars all day long: The Grand Prix is fully integrated with the US Paracycling Championships. Come watch world champions Greta Niemanas, Jenn Schuble, and Allison Jones, a six-time Paralympian in cycling and skiing and 2014 Winter Olympics hopeful as they battle it out for the ultimate prize.
- Full Gas Sprinting: A deep sprint field featuring Olympian Njisane Phillip, and seven other countries have brought their fastest track sprinters to bang bars and shoulders in a raw display of power and speed.
- The Whole Omnium: The women’s omnium is stacked! Olympic silver medalist Sarah Hammer will be here to race along with other top Americans, including World Cup silver medalist Gillian Carleton, and world championships silver medalist Sofia Arreola will be the tip of the cycling iceberg — an iceberg that’s going to sink some ships!
For discounted group tickets, call 213-763-7934, and save $100 for every 10 tickets purchased.
Schedule: Friday 11AM Morning Session — 6:30PM Evening Session
Saturday 9AM Morning Session — 6:30PM Evening Session
Sunday 9AM Morning Session — 3:00PM Evening Session
Los Angeles Grand Prix by the Numbers
- 11 Countries Represented: USA, France, Mexico, Canada, Trinidad & Tobago, Slovakia, Columbia, Chile, South Africa, Venezuela, and Suriname
- 12 Olympians
- 4 Olympic Medal winners
- The best paracylcing track racers in the world, including world champions, world record holders, and paralympians
November 20, 2013 § 10 Comments
How the hell did they pick me to drive? Oh, yeah — I was from California, so I must be an expert driver, so they convinced me to rent the car at the airport. The airport gave these Irish drunks fits, because it wasn’t in Brussels but in some ‘suburb’ called Zaventem. Compared to any city in California, Brussels was was a fairly small city, almost a sprout. It only had million people. But the Paddies stared out the window like a Jayhawk farmer on his first trip to New York City. I turned on the wipers because, yeah, it was raining. DidI even need to add that? I fuggin said I was in Belgium.
It was March 12 and still winter, the northern Euro winter that ends sometime in August for a week or two. “What the fuck am I doing her?” I wondered.
One thing these Irish lads were good for was the money. They paid their share of the car rental and gas, and then some. Insurance? These were bike racers.
I pushed the envelope and rented an Audi 400. It was six years old, and easily big enough for four men who were used to cramming themselves into the crevices of econoboxes. The Audi cost $16 a day instead of $11 for the VW Golf, but we were living large.
Seamus had a decrepit PreAlpina rack, and we shipped it as baggage, tied together with four bungees. Ot came rolling down the luggage belt at Zaventem, and from the stares and glares, we might as well have been bringing in an elephant. The bikes came next, in cordura nylon cases, and shit howdy, they looked Euro-fesh.
The Paddies checked out the bikes, put on the pedals, seats and bars while I went off to the car rental counter, speaking English to a girl who countered in Flemish. Flemish was hard to understand, unless you were fluent gargling marbles. Fortunately, with a couple of pound notes as a bribe, I was whisked off to the Audi. I drove it around to the curb and Seamus whipped out a spanner and put the rack on. I could actually see the paint chip from the roof rails as he defaced it. I was about to say something, but I got ahold of myself … another day maybe … not.
The bikes were not damaged. They went up top, along with a spare pair of wheels and the tool box. It was fucking cold outside, at least 20 degrees colder than when we left Dublin, and it was starting to rain harder. Belgium in March is about as pleasant as Belgium in September, October, November, December, January, February, April, and June, which is to say it’s a wet, frozen shithole. Oh, and it’s great for bike racing, but only if you actually know how to race your bike.
Our destination was a little town called Tienen, but all the towns in Belgium are little, and cold, and wet, and cobbled, and this was where the race started the following day at noon. Tommy said that if I was going to get a ‘big’ car, I should have hired a Mercedes, and that the Audi was a ‘girl’s car.’ I told him to bugger off. After six months, I already knew how to speak English, if that’s what they speak in Ireland.
I had no qualms about driving a girl’s car, of course. When I was just out of college, I had a 1979 Peugeot 504 finished in a color the French charitably called “Hibiscus Pearl,” even though it was actually a dirty shade of white. This was a pure girl’s car, verified every time some guy in a pickup would pull up next to me and stare inside, hoping to see some hot North County chick coming home from the gym. Instead, he got me, which taught him a crucial lesson: if you want to ogle women in cars, stick to the Fiats.
But most bike racers didn’t mind driving a girl’s car, or getting ferried in a girl’s car. Some riders, mainly like Boyer, wanted their cars to be manly and tough, so they bought a pickup or had their rich girlfriend drive them around in a Mercedes. I liked the guys who went to races in a pickup, jacked up so high off the ground that no one under six feet could get inside the cab, because nothing said “manly” like cruising to the bike race in tight wool shorts and a 4-wheel drive mudder.
We got to the hotel, which was really a cave with a roof. For Seamus and Tommy the mere thought of a night away from home was like heaven to them. They had no idea how to travel. The room was on the third floor, we walked up the stairs, and the beds were maybe six feet long, so I opted for the floor and left the other three to fight over which two got the “beds.” I was asleep by ten, and they were still bickering.
At 9:00 AM I could only think “Holy mother of god, I am hungover and haven’t had anything to drink in a month.” I went downstairs and out the door, relishing the quiet and the fresh air, then walked over to a little café and asked for breakfast. One thing you needed to know is that they didn’t eat waffles in Belgium for breakfast. They ate cheese, that stinky white soft cheese that masquerades as Brie, but is really from an unknown animal of unknown origin.
I also got some coarse wheat bread, honey, and jam. I ate everything I could and washed it down with coffee, a universal beverage that all countries have in some fashion or another. After I tipped the waiter, he looked at me as if I was an idiot who didn’t know how to count. “That’s the tip, asshole,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t.
I went home to the wretched room and arrived to find the others feasting on breakfast with bread and crackers and sausage and all sorts of vile shit spread all over the room and spilled upon the floor. Obviously, they had brought food with them, because, of course, they were poverty stricken bike racers. It smelled so bad in there, like four bike racers and four bikes had spent a night in a room designed for one clean person.
Dressed, we rolled out at 11:30, signed in, and warmed up. I was back at the start after finishing one of three 45 km laps, already shelled two minutes into the race. I stopped and was greeted with what John Muir would have called “The Enormity of Silence.” They just couldn’t fathom why I was there and not back in my luxurious hotel if I had been so badly dropped. I reached over onto the table where the organizers had a microphone, and grabbed a pastry and a cup of coffee. I rode off. I figured that if I had to be miserable for three more hours, at least I was going to enjoy a cup of coffee and a sugar bomb. They said nothing and looked at me like I was from Mars.
We had more road races Saturday and Sunday, and you can fill in the blanks. The rest of the trip was miserable, cold, wet, and I got punched out the back about a third of the way into every race. They went fast there, and it was really hard to sit in when it was 40 degrees and sleeting.
No one else was anything more than pack filler. But we were rollin’ it, baby, and nobody quit, at least until we finally gave up.
– By Dean Patterson, more or less –
November 16, 2013 § 8 Comments
In a month and a half we’ll begin our third season of the SPY bicycling team. Lots of people wonder what it’s like to be an old creaky fellow with a leaky prostate and bad vision while riding for the premier old fellows racing team in California and therefore the galaxy. I’d sum it up like this:
Riding for SPY is fun.
In the first two years we saw that there were other teams with better racers. We’ve never had the fastest racers on our squad, but despite that our 45+ team was the winningest one in SoCal, our cyclocross masters teams are hands down the best, and our 35+ team, P/1/2 team and development riders mean that each year more and more people want to ride with us. Add into the mix that our women’s team, led by Jessica Cerra, is already primed to have a super year, and I think the reasons that people want to join the SPY cavalcade are simple : Swag and fun.
When you’re an old fellow, if you have any perspective at all, you realize that if your hobby is best measured in wins and losses, it’s probably no longer a hobby and has become what the rest of the world calls a “job.” You realize that as much as you’d like to win, even more than that you’d like to compete — and win — with people you actually like, doing things you actually enjoy, decked out in swag that makes you feel like you’re winning even when you place 78th.
SPY’s ethos is best described as having a happy disrespect for the usual way of looking at life. Put another way, “Beware of the usual!”
Living up to our mandate
We’re not told to go forth and win races, although we’re given plenty of leadership and racing and training opportunities to do so. What we are told is that once we put on the kit, we’re ambassadors for a brand. Not sales staff, or preachers, group thinkniks, but ambassadors, people who are here to deliver a message.
What message? This message.
1. Ride the front as much as you can on group rides, wherever you may train. Be a leader. Why? Because the usual way of doing things is to hide in the pack and show your face, if at all, at the coffee shop. The usual way of doing things is to use the work of others in order to benefit yourself. The unusual and irreverent way of doing things is to put your share of work into the group effort, and maybe even a little bit more than your share. If you’re too afraid of getting dropped or of not making the split, bite the bullet and … go to the front.
2. Take care of one another, and take care of others. The usual way of doing things is to only stop when you’re the one with the mechanical. This is your Sunday ride, right? You’ve waited all week for this, right? So if someone has a flat, well, that’s bike racing. The unusual and irreverent way of doing things is to recognize that there will be another Tuesday morning ride, and it’s probably not gonna kill you to help out a fellow cyclist. You’ll make a friend, you’ll energize the person you help to pass on the good karma, and you’ll go from being “all about me” to “serving others.”
3. Represent SPY and its team sponsors in the same way that you’d want them to represent YOU. Success doesn’t mean a podium in an old fellows criterium. Success is the sum of a life predicated on our collective good deeds, leadership, and the vicious clubbing of baby seals (to whom we apologize in advance and posthumously).
4. As a bike racer, or more accurately, as an elderly fellow drowning in a delusional vat of swag and beer and navel gazing, when you race your victory isn’t what matter. What matters are your actions and how they affect your team. What matters is whether you were ready to toil in anonymity and lay it all out there for the sake of a teammate.
5. Make people HAPPY. Collective groupings of old people racing bicycles isn’t a formula for happiness. Smiling and spreading positive energy is. So go forth and happify. Now.
From the touchy-feely to the hard facts
You probably expect me to praise SPY for all the usual reasons, but what are those “usual” reasons? And aren’t we supposed to beware of the usual? Rather, my affinity for the company, begun through personal friendship and swag, has transcended those two things to reach a level of discrimination I never thought I’d reach.
Because you see, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about bike products. Of course I love nice stuff when I can get it, but I’m not now and have never been a “bike guy.” I have one road bike and one ‘cross bike. One extra wheelset for the ‘cross bike. My road hoops are the same ones I train on and race on. For me, it’s always been about being lucky enough to cycle and to be part of a cycling community. The bike and the clothes and the parts are icing on the cake.
Of course, there’s one exception to that, and it’s the unusual exception of my eyes. I began wearing glasses at age 13, bout six or seven years after I first really needed them. My vision was so bad that I could only see movies from the front row. I’m still convinced that much of my early problems in school stemmed from an inability to see the chalkboard.
Having terrible vision has affected me throughout my life. I never learned to surf above kook level despite decades of trying. Why? Because I’m horribly uncoordinated and weak. But being unable to see the wave until it was breaking on my head didn’t help. Ball sports were always impossible, and even though I could see on a bike, my eyes were constantly irritated from the wind that incessantly screamed around the edges of my Laurent Fignon frames. Wearing superb prescription eyewear from SPY enabled me to win the Tour in 2011 and was directly responsible for the winning Powerball ticket that I bought down at the corner 7-11.
In actuality, my vision transformation on the bike thanks to SPY wasn’t accidental or the result of lottery-like luck. This eyewear is authentically bound to technical performance. The prescription glasses work in an incredibly demanding range of light and weather situations, including getting bounced on my head at 40 mph and remaining intact (the glasses, not the head).
This authenticity is so much more than, “The glasses work, dude.” It’s part of the background of the product, where and why it came into being, and what drives its evolution and subsequent iterations. Plus, SPY has never sponsored Lance.
The combination of “ride at the front” and “this shit works” forms the core of the proposition when you’re thinking about buying glasses. Do you want a product made by non-cyclists for cyclists and owned by a giant Italian conglomerate that also handles leather handbags, or do you want a product that’s made by cyclists who have to live with the shit they create, and who have to answer to the product’s utility in their own races and group rides?
Putting glasses on your nose … who knew it was so complicated? Well, it is, because when you wear SPY you’re choosing between Italian luxuory monolith or a variation on ZZ Topp: “That Little Old Performance Eyewear Company from Carlsbad.” Do things like happiness, irreverence, riding at the front, helping those who need it, and buying locally make a difference to you? If they do, maybe there’s something in this story for you.
The pros who ride SPY gear are chosen in order to transcend their stereotypes as “jocks” and tap into a multicultural lifestyle based on a love of outdoors activities. Us grizzled old dudes with leaky prostates believe in that transcendence, too.
November 8, 2013 § 41 Comments
Dear Southern California/Nevada Cycling Association:
Thank you for making Ontario the site of the 2014 masters state criterium championships. I know you had a chance to also designate the 805 Crit in Santa Barbara County, but that course blows.
Ontario is the crit course that masters love best and you guys “get it.” For starters, Ontario is biker heaven. Some folks call it a shit hole covered in puke, but they are just jealous. Four-turn biz park courses with huge turns that are big enough to pilot a small naval warship through are the true test of crit skills. Whiny bitches say “it’s too easy for a championship” and “it’s not a crit, it’s a yawnfest,” but who cares what they say?
Real crit racers know that the best test of crit skills is a course so stupidly easy that you can sail through the turns with your eyes closed. You guys get that. Respect.
Also, the 805 Crit is put on by Mike Hecker and fuck that dude. In 2013 his race was a total joke. It only had 10k in prize money and the races were so fuggin hard that no one could do more than one race. Who wants a hard race? Bike racing is for showboating and not cracking a sweat. If you have to bleed sperm out of your eyeballs in order to win, what’s the point?
Also, that Hecker Wanker dude fugged the pooch because he put his races in downtown Lompoc/Buellton. The Ontario race is in a cool office park where you can look at really awesome square buildings filled with angry managers who fondle their secretaries and then get sued. That’s America, and SCNCA gets it!
Plus, Hecker Wanker got a fuggin beer company to put up beer tents. That really sucked. When I sit outside all day to watch idiots race their bikes in blindingly hot weather, I want to drink a glass of toasty warm mik. Cold beer by Firestone Brewery is so lame. At Ontario you can also top off your day by driving home on the 10. That rocks, whereas in Santa Barbara you have to fuggin stay overnight and then take your old lady to some froo-froo winery. Fugg that shit.
The other thing that sucks about Hecker Wanker’s races is that people actually enjoy them. Bike racing is about making people miserable, and Ontario’s crit course is the most miserable place west of the Mississippi, except for Lubbock. More mad respect. I hope they triple the entry fees because if it’s not a complete rip-off then it’s not worth doing.
But best of all, by putting masters states at Ontario you telegraph that guys like Hecker Wanker don’t matter. Who gives a rat’s ass if he’s promoting the sport in far-flung communities by putting the race down-fucking-town, in areas where SoCal racing is usually absent? Fugg that dude for being so ballsy. He needs to get in line and wait his fuggin turn. I propose taking a serious look at the 805 Crit in 2052. Seriously.
Finally, and I know that you guys get this, the worst place to ever put a big race is in the middle of a downtown. If you do that, ordinary people learn about bike racing, and as USA Cycling always says, FUGG THAT! Bike racing is for fancy rich awesome middle-aged douchefarts, not for regular people. If you put races in small town downtowns, then small town kids will get interested in racing bikes. FUGG THAT! Bike racing is for old people, for sure.
Anyway, good job, SCNCA. Keep putting our marquee races in Ontario. That place is the kind of shit hole that bike racers love best. Hidden from ordinary people. Keep the control in the hands of the old boy network. Water bottle primes. You fuggin get it.
October 28, 2013 § 23 Comments
I sat in my hotel room as the warm glow of victory, or something, washed over me. I had just vanquished my foe in the longest running Facebag comment war ever. He had ignominiously ceded the field with the cowardly claim that I was a stalker, a harasser, and that he had therefore reported me to the “proper authorities.”
I couldn’t help laughing at his silly subterfuge as I savored my victory. Sure, it had lopped 27 hours off my family vacation. Sure, my wife was livid. “How come you onna Facebag alla time?”
Sure, my son who we had come to visit was disappointed that every few seconds I would blurt out “You cocksucker! Take this!” And then furiously pound the iPhone’s keyboard, cursing and spitting and rending my breast.
Sure, we got kicked out of a couple of restaurants. And three bars. And a coffee shop. But at the end of the paddle battle, only one Tweetle Beetle was the winner. Me.
The congratulatory messages poured in. “You are the best Tweetle Beetle ever.”
“You own Facebag.”
“That was such an epic paddle battle.”
“Are you off your meds?”
“We are very worried about you.”
In other words, I was really happy, until I heard the knock on my hotel door.
Two burly men in blue uniforms and badges stood there. “Yes?” I said.
“Facebag police,” said the bigger one.
“Violation of terms of service, paragraph 37, section 34(a), page 987. May we come in?”
Without waiting for an answer, they pushed by me. “What’s going on? What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been reported by a user for violating the terms of service I just cited.”
“Who’s ever read those? What did I do?”
“Don’t play stupid. You broke the rule against being mean to cyclocross race promoters from Schenectady.”
“This is a joke, right? I had no idea he was from Schenectady. I made that up!”
The nicer of the two cops sat me on the edge of the bed. “Look, we’ve read the entire thread. Just confess and we’ll put in a good word on your behalf to Mr. Zuckerberg.”
“But I didn’t do anything! He said I was a crashtacular fred and that I should take his skills classes. I called him a newt and a salamander. What’s the big deal? These little Tweetle Beetle paddle-battles happen all the time. It’s Facebag, for fugg’s sake.”
The bad cop grabbed me. “Look, asshole. That wasn’t your ordinary paddle-battle!”
“No, wise guy, it wasn’t!”
“What was it, then?”
They both shouted in unison: “It was a Tweetle Beetle paddle-battle in a muddle in a bottle!”
The room became still as death. “Oh,” I said meekly.
“See?” said the bad cop. “Shit got real enough for ya now?”
The good cop put his arm around my shoulder as I softly sobbed. “It’s okay. Just sign this confession. We’ll both tell Mark you cooperated.”
“But all I did was go over his race resume on Cycling USA and point out what a wanker he was.”
“I know,” said the good cop as he dabbed at my tears.
“And I just said that for a coach he seemed kind of thin on credentials.”
“It’s okay, pal. Sign here.”
“And he called me a fucktard and said I was whacko and called Mrs. WM a ‘mail-order bride.'”
The bad cop was reviewing the comments. “Quit trying to make yourself out as harmless. Says right here you made fun of his second place finish in a road race.”
“There were only six entries!”
“And over here you made fun of all his DNF’s.”
“But he’s a ‘cross expert. Shouldn’t he at least be able to finish?”
The nice cop looked up. “This wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t involved Dr. Knoll.”
“Dr. Knoll?” asked the bad guy. “The stinky foot doctor?”
“That’s Dr. Scholl. Dr. Knoll is the shrink for cyclists. He only gets involved when it’s serious. Or when someone pays. Or when he’s really bored.”
“Look, pal,” said the bad cop. “You signing or not? We ain’t got all day.”
I sighed and took the pen. It was a short confession: “I, Wanky, do hereby admit to having made fun of a cyclocross promoter from Schenectady such that it became a Tweetle Beetle paddle-battle in a muddle in a bottle. I henceforth promise to never do this again. A second violation will result in revocation of my Facebag license and loss of all paddle-battle bottle muddle KOM’s on Strava.”
I signed, and they left. After a few minutes I checked Facebag. “Wankmeister is a douchey crashtacular fred who needs to take my skills class,” read the item in the newsfeed. The writer was a cyclocross promoter in Scranton. My pulse quickening, I opened up and began reading the terms of service.
October 11, 2013 § 12 Comments
First KK set the hour record, then Fukdude set the hour record, and suddenly everybody was “training for the hour record.” But I wasn’t, because the only thing I know about it is that Eddy considered it the hardest thing he’d ever done. When I saw Fukdude get off his bike after an entire season of starving, training, intervaling, waxing his chain, and boring out his hair follicles for extra lightness, I knew the hour record wasn’t even in my imagination, forget actually doing it.
However, there are others who dare to dream big dreams, and no one dreams bigger than Hockeystick. Caught up in the excitement of watching a drained, depleted, dazed Fukdude get peeled off his bike, Hockeystick declared that he was going after KK’s hour record, as it was in his age group. This was shocking.
KK is only vaguely human. He’s one of a handful of people who can crawl into the pain box, shut the lid, and throw away the key. He’s got the perfect mix of athleticism, discipline, ability, and work ethic to take on cycling’s biggest test. But Hockeystick? Our dear, beloved Hockeystick? He of the happy-go-lucky smile, last to a fight, first to a feast, belly up the the bar and devil take the hindmost, when the going gets tough Hockeystick gets a note from his mom, why train when you can talk about it, I don’t like road riding because the sun is bad for my complexion, THAT HOCKEYSTICK? THAT HOUR RECORD?
No fuggin’ way.
I ran across Hockeystick on the way home from a race a couple of months ago. “‘Sup, Hockeystick?”
“Training for the hour,” he said.
“You? You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Man’s gotta dream big. Have challenges. Never give in to aging..”
“Never give in to aging? Dude, you look ten years older than you are. Your gut sags lower than your pecker. You’ll never set the hour record — KK has that.”
“I’m on a program. I’ve got a coach. My way, like the song says.”
“So tell me about the plan.”
“Long miles on the weekend. Steady cadence. Defined interval work on the velodrome.”
“What about diet? You still look like you’re hung over from Christmas.”
“Anquetil was a hard partier.”
“Anquetil was a multiple winner of the Tour, classics winner, hour record holder, the greatest time trialist the world had ever seen. What does that have to do with you?”
“Ya gotta dream big to stay young.”
“Dude, you can’t stay young. Everyone gets old. And some get older than others, quicker.”
“My way, baby.”
We parted ways.
An hour record hopeful walks into a bar …
A few weeks ago I was in a bar for a party, and who should I see on the high stool but Hockeystick. “Yo, Hockeystick. What the fuck you doing here?”
“Having a little snack.”
“Snack? That’s three plates of tacos in front of you. And a pitcher of beer. How many pitchers so far?”
“Dude! What happened to the hour record?”
“Nothin’. I’m going for it.”
“Impossible. You look like the Pillsbury doughboy’s fat grandmother. With his hour record attempt eight weeks out, Fukdude looked like a coathanger on a diet. KK was down to tendons and gristle. You look like an elephant seal getting ready for an Arctic winter.”
“I got this.”
“Got what? The bill?”
“The record. I got this.”
“Talk to me, bro. The only thing you got so far is arteriosclerosis.”
“I decided not to go after KK’s record.”
“Well, that’s a fuggin’ relief.”
“But I’m still goin’ after an hour record.”
“Which one? 210-lb. plus category? I didn’t know there was one.”
“Naw, I’m goin’ for the Eddy Merckx hour record, age 50+.”
“Merckx style. No aero. Just me, drop bars, spoked aluminum box rims. Mano a mano.”
“You’re fuggin’ kidding me.”
“Nope. I figured I couldn’t beat KK, so I looked it up and there’s this Merckx category that no one’s done in the US before in my 50+ category.”
“So all you fuggin’ have to do is ride around the track for an hour?”
“And no matter how slow you go, you set the record?”
“Like, you could pull a taco out of your skinsuit and drink beer out of your water bottle?”
“And still get to tell people you set the hour record?”
“Hockeystick?” I said.
“You’re a fuggin’ genius.”
He shoved the last giant taco into his mouth as a burst of sour cream and salsa drizzled down his chin. Then he drained his one-pint tumbler and smacked his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”