November 9, 2013 § 2 Comments
Now that you have mastered The Rule, we will move on to the finer points of BWR-ing. Although most successful BWR-ers focus on things like nutrition, training, careful selection of the appropriate equipment, prayer, and an adequate insurance policy that includes a customized graveside service, it is also crucial that your 2014 BWR campaign be adequately stocked with excuses. Please become familiar with the following, and add your own as necessary.
1. “I’m a roadie, not a ‘cross racer.” Indications: Road wanker who’s too chicken to ride dirt and needs a good reason for not signing up in the first place.
2. “There’s too much off-road dirt and shit.” Indications: Road wanker who’s too chicken to ride dirt and needs a good reason for not signing up in the first place. Also, “trackies” who are unfamiliar with gears, brakes, bicycling.
3. “I had too much bacon at the BWR pre-ride breakfast.” Indications: None. There is no such thing as “too much bacon.”
4. “I was overdressed.” Indications: You brought a pair of armwarmers.
5. “I was underdressed.” Indications: All you had was a pair of armwarmers.
6. “I flatted. Twelve times.” Indications: You got one flat and thumbed a ride home in the sag wagon.
7. “My frame snapped in half because of the rough roads.” Indications: You got scared by the first sandy section and quit.
8. “My wheels collapsed.” Indications: Same as No. 7 above.
9. “I got sand in my shorts and it rubbed my vagina/nutsack painfully raw so I had to abandon.” Indications: Riders whose vaginas/nutsacks have not yet achieved the consistency of elephant hide.
10. “There was way too much climbing.” Indications: Riders who are wider than they are tall.
11. “The selection of goodies at the sag stops wasn’t diverse enough for my rather unique dietary needs.” Indications: Vegans, breathanarians, congenital idiots.
12. “Just wait ’til next year.” Indications: 99% of finishers, 100% of quitters.
April 7, 2013 § 5 Comments
As a friend of mine from Texas told me many years ago, “It’s not the flop on the bed, it’s the walk up the stairs.”
How right he was, and now that it’s the morning of the day, all that’s left is anticipation. What a delicious sensation is anticipation, mixed as it is with hope and fear, confidence and anxiety.
Anticipation has been raging through me nonstop since last night. It was the difficulty in falling asleep.
It was the reverse trickle of mole, ice cream, and birthday cake that gurgled up to greet me with a little “Hello, friend” as I lay in bed.
It was waking up at one o’clock…”Did I miss my alarm?”
It was waking up at two o’clock…”Is it four o’clock yet?”
It was waking up at three o’clock…”Just one more hour.”
It was getting up at 3:30 and abandoning all pretense that those final thirty minutes would be spent any way other than with eyes wide awake. “What the hell. Might as well shave my legs.”
The anticipation comes from the expectation. The expectation comes from the telling and re-telling of what lies ahead. The telling and re-telling comes from the training, the practicing, and the miles we’ve all invested to be “ready” for today, whether”ready” means to conquer, to be honorably acquitted, or just to drag yourself in tatters across the finish line.
Each little checkpoint has bolstered or weakened our confidence. Weight going up? Bad. Legs feeling awesome and light? Good. Bike looking sparkly and clean? Good. Last minute equipment change making you feel funny on the bike? Bad. Images of finishing strong? Good. Images of horrible dirt catastrophes? Bad.
Some have been prattling on about “the hay being in the barn.” Perhaps it is. But now the well-fed stallion is being led out by the reins, snorting and stamping and raring to run, or the undernourished nag is resisting with every step, neighing in terror, and dreading what lies ahead.
In a handful of minutes you will sign-in your name, pin on your number, scarf down your waffle, throw a leg over, and flop on the bed.
I hope it’s good for you, because the walk up the stairs has been all I could have ever wanted in a lover, and so much more.
April 4, 2013 § 19 Comments
You know how your mom taught you that cheating is wrong?
Well, nothing’s changed since then.
Webster’s Third International Dictionary defines cheating as “Any activity regularly engaged in by cyclists.”
The Oxford English Dictionary is more succinct: “Cheating: A form of cycling.”
Though cycling is nothing more than cheating on wheels, it takes a special event to really bring out every cyclist’s uncontrollable urge to cheat his mates. An event, like, say, the BWR.
Name, address, and category, please
Riders doing the BWR had to fill out an application. One of the questions was “Yo, wanker, what USCF category are you, if any?”
Maybe they thought no one would read their entry application. Maybe they thought they could fake out the BWR…”Who’s gonna know if I’m a Cat 1 or a Cat 5? Shoot, I had that fake license made for Tour of Tucson so I could start in the front and that went off without a hitch.”
Or, maybe they mistakenly thought that the risk of detection was low and therefore worth the lie, as low-ranking or unlicensed riders were going to be relegated to the second wave of starters.
Drumroll, wankers! Below is the fully published list of flailers and liars who’ve hilariously listed themselves as Cat 2 and yes, even Cat 1! Wankers who get dropped going out of the parking lot! Wankers who wouldn’t know the front of a peloton if you gave them a motorcycle and a push from Bahati!
[Kidding. I would never publish that list. But it exists, so you can go ahead and squirm anyway. You know who you are, and more importantly, so do I!]
Being relegated to the second wave is apparently a mark of undistinction. Certain unnamed riders have gone out of their way to grovel, plead, and make guest appearances to ensure they leave in the first wave. You know, that’s the wave with the guys who are going to drop you forever at about Mile Six.
My advice? Lobby for Wave Two. It’s the golf cart crew. It’s where the fun will be. It’s where the only pressure will the the PSI in your tires. It’s where you can admit that you don’t have a chance in hell of winning a jersey, and you could care less! You’re here to do a tough ride, acquit yourself honorably, eat some waffles and drink some beer.
I begged to be sent off in Wave Two, but my request was denied with two words: “Sorry, no.”
Do I care? Nope. I’ll get shelled and enjoy my day regardless.
PS: The big cheat
If anything about the propensity to lie about one’s lame USA Cycling category is serious (and I’m pretty sure nothing is), it’s this: People who lie on entry forms are kinfolk to people who cheat on the course by cutting it. Last year the big story was that only a handful of riders actually did the entire route. When faced with the unpleasantry of Country Club Lane at Mile Zillion, they somehow missed the turn that had been marked with bright orange paint.
Not this year! Everyone who wants to be deemed a finisher has to join Strava and upload their ride data. No data, no jersey. Worst of all, no commemorative ale. So just do like your mother taught you: Don’t lie. Don’t cheat. And eat your vegetables. You’ll need ‘em.
March 28, 2013 § 17 Comments
After the forty-seventh person sidled up to me and asked, “So, why’d you kill the blog?” I decided that an explanation was in order. Speculation and gossip always trump reality, and I heard some good faux explanations. My top three faves:
1. You’ve been sued, right?
2. Someone powerful is very angry at you, huh?
3. You ran out of [expletive] to write, didn’t you?
I did in fact run out, but not out of [expletive] to write. I ran out of time.
I had always told myself and anyone who asked that this blog only took up “An hour a day, max, and often not even that.” That much was true as far as the writing was concerned. I type quickly, and compose as I type.
But the planning and thinking that preceded each post, and the mental exhaustion that set in after each topic went live meant that the true toll was much more than an hour. I’d need multiple martinis after each posting, which was a huge problem as I’ve been sober for over three years now, give or take a couple of beers.
My work flow was disastrous. As soon as an idea occurred to me, or a funny thing happened on the road, I had to write it down and couldn’t rest ’til the job was done. That was partly practical. I have great difficulty holding onto ideas, and if I don’t sit down and whack ‘em out they go away, never to be found again. Sure, there are notepads and voice recorders and all kinds of ways to memorialize ideas, but none of them worked well whistling down Latigo at 40 mph, and if I sat at the desk and began notating, the notes would turn into full-blown posts. Boom. Day shot.
I also had self-imposed deadlines. My two readers were eager for the latest burnt offering, and they would let me know it. Being the kind of guy who likes to please everyone and who can’t stand it when people are unhappy, and having a day job that is all about deadlines and time limits, I fell into the manic state of “gotta blog now,” and somehow maintained it for a very long time. Note: More than a week was a “very long time.”
As much of a relief as it has been not to blog, it’s been frustrating, too. Hundreds of great topics have slipped away never to be recaptured, things that could potentially change our lives forever, like the big group ride on PCH where countless riders were almost taken down by a gigantic, glistening, pink self-pleasuring device that had been abandoned on the side of the road.
What was the story of that device? How got it there? From whence did it come (so to speak)? Wherefore wert it cast aside?
Quality stuff, right?
Although the blog is now baaaaack, it’s not really ever coming back. I’ve limited myself to twenty minutes a day. It’s amazing how long it takes to finish something when you’ve only got twenty minutes to work on it. I’ve also instituted a new policy: Henceforth I will actually read what I’ve written before hitting “publish.” The simple act of reading something through in its completed state was a revelation, not unlike hearing your own voice on tape for the first time. “I sound like THAT?”
In this case, however, it was “I wrote THAT? What was I thinking?”
So that’s the best explanation I can give. What follows is what you’d expect: A preview of the 2013 Belgian Waffle Ride. What else?
Ignorance is bliss until April 7 rolls around
Despite the exhortations of the ride’s founder and the chirpalong “Uh-huh!” of those who have test ridden the 2013 version of the Belgian Waffle Ride’s newest course, only a handful of riders showed up two weekends ago to check out the entire route. This was a shame, because although it was a vicious and brutal day that left the handful of finishers completely shot, it was also the last opportunity before April 7 to experience the final course under fast conditions.
Here’s the take home for those who are somehow going to drag themselves to the start line (Patrick, Gerald, Ted…read carefully!):
1. A few short miles into the ride, and still in the “neutral” zone, the route takes a right off El Camino Real onto Kelly Drive. This immediately leads to a massive wall, which is short but so steep that the field will summarily be reduced from 100 or 150 to 50 riders or less. Maybe much less. There may be opportunities to regroup owing to traffic signals, but the wrong combination of stoplights will effectively separate you from the lead group forever when the pace lights up over this “neutral”-ly grueling hill.
2. Shortly after this monster there will be another wall that starts out as a moderate climb and quickly becomes a “grab for your biggest rear cog.” Panic will ensue, as those who have not pre-ridden the course realize that the ride hasn’t even begun and they’re riding at their limit. How many bullets left in the magazine with 120 miles to go?
3. At the 22-mile mark there is the first feed zone. Do you need food now? You’re doomed. This is where those who are still in the main pack of 50 or so riders will race by the feed zone and leap off the edge of the bike path. Yes, leap. All the funsies officially end here, and the first King of the Dirt segment begins. Sit back in the saddle as you plunge off the ledge or you will endo. There’s some more soft sand, a ditch, and then a long, firm, dirt/grass section where the ‘crossers will go ape. It’s inconceivable that more than twenty or thirty riders will survive this selection. The numbers will reduce further at the end of the trail, where you’ll have to dismount, throw your bike over your shoulder, and clatter up a sheer rock embankment in your roadie shoes to get atop the path again. If you haven’t crashed, flatted, been dropped, or given up, count yourself lucky, or a contender, or not very smart.
4. Covered in your first fine film of dust, you’ll get a breather on the smooth asphalt of the bike path, but it won’t last for more than a couple of minutes. You’ll next encounter some fancy 180-turns, a curb-hop, and a launch onto a really nasty gravel section. It goes on for a couple of miles, and if you don’t thread the beaten section of the gravel you’ll be out amongst the large, loose, gravelly chunks, where crashing, flats, crashing, flats, crashing, flats, and losing control will send you off onto the embankment studded with massive, sharp paving stones, and from there into the river. Make sure you’ve got good tires and girded loins and a life preserver. You’ll need ‘em.
5. At the end of this section the pre-final selection has been made. It will be a small group. A little pavement, a swig from the bottle, a deep breath, and folks will be looking around to see who’s left. It will be a select group. There will be a few minutes of peace punctuated by a sprint, after which you’ll ascend the next piece of unpaved road. This is about a mile long and will be the third section in the KOD calculations. If there are any stragglers here who should have been kicked out the back earlier on, they will exit stage rear now. You’ll be thoroughly lathered.
6. At the bottom of the short descent you’ll enter what is a killingly hard part of the course. There’s a short climb followed by miles and miles of rollers. The worst ones come in a series of three, with the longest the last. It will punish you beyond belief, and will take a complete effort to stay with the group. You’ll then hit another long series of undulating ups and downs, none particularly hard, but each one will reduce your arsenal, almost unnoticeably, until you have to stand up and pedal. This is a great time to quit kidding yourself if you’re with the main bunch. Sit up and be ready to spend the rest of the day enjoying the ride and focusing on getting through it. Let the heroes go do their thing. You’re no hero; you don’t even have a thing.
7. If you’ve let your ephemeral fitness fake you into hanging with the group, you’ll eventually wind up on a long grade that goes one endless mile up Old Highway 395 to Rainbow. It will destroy you, because someone in the group will take the opportunity to attack or at least keep the pressure on. If you get over this, the only thing that awaits now is hell. Your reward for perseverance will be a huge serving of catastrophe.
8. There will be a long, undulating run-in through Rice Canyon Rd. that has a couple of short kickers but ends in a glorious, balls-out descent of almost 3.5 miles, railing through shaded, twisting turns that would be beautiful if you weren’t so terrified of clipping a wheel and going down, or cooking a turn and becoming a hood ornament to oncoming traffic. Gather yourself, don’t pedal any more than is necessary, and get ready for the end of the ride, which is much nearer than you think.
9. Couser Canyon climb isn’t very long; only about 2.8 miles with two or three really steep sections. If you’ve been play-acting on LA County climbs like Grandview or Ganado, in theory this one is a piece of cake. You’ll find, however, that this cake is laced with razor blades, which in turn are spiked with cyanide and served on a radioactive plate. All those punchy rollers you’ve been doing the past 60 miles? They come home to roost HERE. You will cross the peak utterly broken, wondering what the hell happened, and screaming at yourself that you can’t believe you wasted so much energy so early on. That’s right. The ride isn’t even halfway over, and all the hard stuff starts now. If you had given up at the very beginning and rolled at an easy pace until the top of this climb, you’d still have your work cut out for you. But you didn’t. You hammered and followed wheels and tried to fake out physics. Mother nature? She still doesn’t like it when you try to fool her.
10. A punishing series of rollers ensue. The Lilac-Wilkes-Sierra climbs take the softening up that’s been administered so far and turn it into a numbing, grinding, slogging struggle just to surmount each roller. Punctuated with terrifying, half-paved descents that require a perfect line to avoid flatting or crashing out, this next few miles will leave you drained and defeated. Which means, of course, that it will be relentless misery from here on out.
11. A quick turn takes you onto the next King of the Dirt section. It’s long, it takes the fastest and best riders three minutes minimum to complete, and it takes the flailers three times that long. Recent rains have left the dirt soft and sandy, which is shorthand for “prepare to do a lot of walking and/or tipping over.” The initial drop into the creekbed has been the site of frames splitting in half and of riders careening off into the barbed wire, where they’ve been shredded to ribbons. The road alternates between navigable and “Thank Dog I brought my 28,” as short pitches rise up almost vertically and are surfaced with loose sand interspersed with terrible potholes. The end is a steep paved climb.
12. By now you’ve been completely subdued, and the thought of finishing is the only thing on your mind. What’s left is so awful that all you need to know is this: Bandy Canyon, Lake Hodges Rock Garden, Questhaven, and Double Peak. This fearsome foursome packs the worst of the BWR into the final 30 miles, not even counting the awful climb from the rock garden back up to Del Dios: Vicious climbs, precarious dirt roads, and the numbing effect of 130 miles and close to 11,000 feet of climbing.
This year’s ride will be even harder because of the sheer number of participants. In addition to the well-known hammerheads, riders from Europe, Canada, and other far-flung hinterlands (even Texas) have registered for this epic beatdown, throwdown, and throw-up. So eat big the night before, and eat big the night before that, and eat big the night before the night before, and pack down as many eggs and waffles as you can on the morning of the big ride.
See you in the infirmary. Over and out.