Numero quatre Lance brings home

Lance brings home number four. Awesome. The man is like a machine, which is so impressive because he is so much a human in so many ways. Maybe the French will finally show him some respect.

Photo gear for the Tour


Famed cycling photographer Graham Watson posted photos of the equipment he uses to cover a typical race.
I brought along some camera equipment to the Tour as well. Not as much as Graham, but coincidentally, some of our gear overlapped. I used some similar film: Fuji Provia 100F and Fuji Velvia. I also carried the same flash as Graham (#3 in his photo: SB28) and two of the same lenses (#8: the 80-200mm f2.8 and #11: the 16mm fisheye f2.8). I wish I could afford some of those other lenses, but as an enthusiast it's hard to justify the expense. Someday.

Blech


CBS owns the rights to broadcast the last stage of the Tour. Well, they showed about a few minutes worth of actual riding from the last stage today. Basically, they showed Robbie Mcewen sprinting across the finish to win the stage and the green jersey. American cycling coverage is terrible.

Article on Enron

New article by Malcolm Gladwell in this week's New Yorker.

Challenges ahead

One of the great things about Lance, and other greats I admire, is that they're both confident and brutally honest. After coming in 2nd in today's time trial (and moving up to 2nd place overall), Lance said:
"I really wanted to win today; I can't say I'm not disappointed. I didn't have a super day today, but not a terrible day either - I was really suffering over the last 5 km, but Botero's no surprise. He beat me by more (time) in the Dauphin

Sunday is HBO

Season premiere of Sex in the City Sunday, and a new season of The Sopranos Sept. 15. The former is a way to lure women to your place, and the latter is the perfect lead-in to guys Sunday Poker night, $5-$10 Texas Hold'em.

17 miles, 3000 feet to Paradise

"I become a happier man each time I suffer."
Lance Armstrong said that when discussing why he cycles. Sounds like just another pithy sports quote, but anyone who cycles consistently for a few years knows exactly what he means. I would clarify Lance's quote by saying that a cyclist is only happy when he's worked hard enough that he can suffer even more than normal.
It's not just the early season, out-of-shape-after-a-winter-of-sitting-on-your-ass, suffering that cyclists enjoy. It's after you've trained a whole season and are in good enough shape so that you can increase your exertion and raise the ceiling on your suffering...that's joy.
Yesterday I drove out to Rainier with my bike stuffed in my back seat (it actually does fit, with tires removed, even with my top up). It's a fairly long drive, and I listened to grave, dramatic movie soundtracks the whole way to psyche myself up for the climb to Paradise, which sits at about 5,200 to 5,300 feet above sea level. Most of the way out there, the skies were gray, heavy with gloom, but somewhere on highway 7 I saw a solitary patch of blue sky. Soon, bright sun was shining down everywhere as if it had been awaiting me at the park.
Pulled into a campground just inside Nisqually, unloaded my bike, put the tires back on, pumped them up, and set off for Paradise. My altimeter read 2,310. I had no idea how long the climb was, and I didn't really care. I was excited at the prospect of a true, long, torturous climb after spending all season riding the tiny hills in Seattle. This was a Tour-worthy climb, noble suffering.
Also, the last time I rode to Paradise was in RAMROD last year, and that time I had ridden a flat tire in to the rest stop just above this campground and had suffered the whole way up to the top. It seemed like everyone passed me on that climb, and memories of that painful ascent had become a mental block. I had to conquer my demons, just as Lance had to overcome a mental hurdle on the Col de Joux Plane, where he bonked in 2000, in this year's Dauphine Libere.
No need to recount the whole ride. What is there to say about mountain climbs on a road bike? You strain in a low gear almost the whole way up, plodding along at around 9 to 10mph, dripping sweat, for about two hours, sliding around on your saddle all the time to try and work different leg muscles. Great fun, believe me, even though I know you don't. Beautiful views off the cliffs at the side of the road.
I didn't exactly fly up to Paradise, but man it's satisfying to reach the top. I sat on a picnic bench and stretched out. A young Muslim girl of about three or four years old stared at me in my strange biking outfit as if I was some alien. Looked at my bike computer and my watch. I'd climbed 3000 feet over 17 miles of paved road.
The drive home was great. Put the top down, cranked the heat up on high, cranked some less dramatic, happy pop music up even higher, and sang at the top of my lungs with the sun warming my neck and the wind mussing up my hair. Zipping in and out of traffic at 100mph, my bike in back, that's heaven. If I'd taken a random exit by mistake and headed off East into the open roads, I wouldn't have given a damn where I was going. Would have kept driving until I ran out of gas, then pulled my bike out and started riding.

VR Seattle

Sang and I hosted a going away BBQ for Jenny and Adam today. If the two of them should miss Seattle, they can always see some of it on the web at VR Seattle.
Here's the tunnel I go through just about every time I go for a bike ride, the I-90 tunnel which opens up on Sam Smith park. I've gone through it countless times, so I know the slight downward slope and the cool breeze to expect when heading through the tunnel East, with fresh legs, clicking up to the big chainring, the sound of my chain jumping up and clicking into place reverberating through the tunnel with a satisfying mechanical echo.
Here's a view of the I-90 bridge which I cross once I'm through the tunnel. I hate the bridge. It's about a mile and a half of windy, noisy, dusty, bumpy pain. When riders pass you on the bridge you can't hear them approaching. I hate being passed on the bridge. Coming west on the bridge is more enjoyable. The first two thirds are downhill and you can easily hold speeds in the low twenties. Then it ends with a nice gradual ascent which gets your heart rate going. That's the spot to overtake other riders if you have any pop left in your legs.

Dancing up the mountains

I think the reason I continue to bike, even though it's often long, dull, and a pain in the ass, is that I want to be able to dance up the mountains. Riders who spin their pedals lightly and just float up the mountains, overcoming gravity and their own body weight, ride through adversity in such a pure and simple way. It's a grace I seek in my own life, to be challenged, to put down the hammer, and dispel all obstacles with exertion and joy. Everything feels like a burden now, and only energy, positive thinking, and discipline can carry me through it all.

The Ring

AICN linked to the first trailer for the American remake of the Japanese film, The Ring. Wouldn't you know it? The trailer is Japanese.
A really, really fun horror flick, but the trailer seems to confirm that it won't seek to be original in any way. Just borrow everything possible from the Japanese film, including the video footage, the sound effects in the trailer, and insert Naomi Watts. Vanilla Sky, La Femme Nikita, when was the last time an American remake bettered the foreign source material?

34 seconds back

Lance lost more time to Galdeano today and is now 8th, 34 seconds back. Lance's wheel got tangled with a teammates' tire in a crash near the finish line.
Nothing he can't make up later, but it adds some drama to this year's Tour.

Vin Diesel as Hannibal?

Stumbled on this article. Even if you don't read French, you can probably interpret that Revolution Studios has acquired the rights to adapt Ross Leckie's novel about Hannibal into a film, and they want Vin Diesel to play Hannibal (not Lecter, but the one who rode the elephants over the Alps to attack Rome). What a strange casting choice. For some reason I always pictured Hannibal as more cerebral. Vin Diesel, with his gravelly voice, shaved head, and stocky frame just strikes me as a stylized meathead.

Cycling, soccer

As to whether soccer and cycling will gain in popularity in America? Doubtful. Not when football, baseball, and basketball are on TV year round, their athletes competing on the field and acting in commercials and movies, splashed on magazine covers. Cycling is expensive and painful. Soccer isn't expensive, but it just doesn't mesmerize America's attention except when it takes the world stage. Same with cycling. Can the average American name an MLS soccer team? Can any of them name a bike race other than the Tour de France?

Flick

Flick is the term for knocking a cyclist off his bike at high speeds. I got that from an article on Lance Armstrong in the latest New Yorker. Good profile of Lance and intro to the sport, so if you've never read anything about him or cycling, I recommend it while it's posted for free this next week. The New Yorker tends to post a few articles from each issue for about a week.
This morning I got up later than usual for my daily cruise around Mercer. Was supposed to call Jesse at 6am, but talk radio on the alarm didn't penetrate my sleepy head until 6:30. In this last crunch to train before I head off to France, my mileage is up, and when that happens, I need more sleep. I haven't been getting it, and getting up in the mornings is excruciating.
Usually I ride counter-clockwise around the outside of the island. It's a few miles longer as a ride, the fun windy portion doesn't come until the end of the ride, and most importantly, it's easier to spot cars pulling out of driveways because the driveways on the right slope up to the street and are not as enshrouded in trees and shrubs. Running behind, as soon as I made it across I-90 I decided to go clockwise instead.
Most of the early ride I was trying to wake myself up and get a rhythm on the bike. In the morning it takes me longer to get loose, so it's hard to feel fast and fluid on the bike. About two-thirds of the way through the ride, on the West side of the island, I accelerated down a short hill and was coasting at about 25 mph when a dark green (was it blue, black?) SUV pulled out of a driveway on the right. I had just glanced down at my bike computer for a second and when I looked up the car was about ten yards in front of me.
When I was in grade school, living in Palatine, I used to ride my 10 speed around the block over and over. One day I was looking down at my tires and not at the road ahead and ran into the back of a neighbor's car parked out on the street, in front of that neighbor's house. That neighbor happened to be sitting on his porch. A middle-aged guy, he was none too happy. He called for his wife and came over and barked at me ("Why don't you watch where you're going?! I just bought that car!" and so on and so forth). Later they visited my parents to ask for payment for a broken taillight.
Maybe I was thinking about that traumatic event from my childhood this morning because I nailed my brakes and swerved hard to the right. Of course, I don't have anti-lock brakes on my bike and at 25mph my tires locked up and skidded. The front of my bike dropped into a ditch by the side of the road and stopped, while my body continued on and over the top. My left foot popped out of my pedals, my right foot still locked in. I stepped down on my left leg to try and avoid falling on my bike and hyperextended it as it landed in a muddy hole. I continued to rotate forward and put my right hand down to brace my fall and bent my wrist back hard on the driveway.
Everything was two points of sharp pain: left knee, right wrist. Then relief when I noticed my bike looked unharmed. Then a burst of joy at being alive. Then momentary panic: what if I had broken my wrist or reinjured my left knee? One week from my trip to France, that would be unacceptable. With adrenaline pumping hard through me, I couldn't gauge the seriousness of my injuries. Everything felt okay, but I wasn't sure.
The SUV had long since disappeared. Some harried worker rushing of to work, no doubt oblivious to my plight. I waited by the roadside for a bit and a few cars drove by, but I didn't flag any of them down. I wasn't sure what I'd say to them if I did. On my own. So I climbed back on my bike, wiped the gravel and mud and blood off my wrist and legs, and set off for home. No doubt watching the Tour helped inspire me. Every year some Tour rider goes down in a crash and gets up covered in blood, bike partially mangled, collarbone or wrist broken, and a huge bloody abrasion on the outside of his thigh from skin dragged across pavement at 30mph. And somehow he staggers in on his bike. Sometimes they recover to go on and finish the Tour. Most times they drop out the next day or fail to finish in a fast enough time to make the cut. Cyclists, with body fat in the low single digits, are much more susceptible to sickness than the average person.
In stage two of this year's Tour, Thor Hushovd of Credite Agricole joined two other cyclists in a long breakaway attempt. In the middle of the stage he had to stop with severe leg cramps. They continued to plague him throughout the stage. Long after everyone else had finished, he was out on the road, a mechanic massaging his cramping leg while he fought back tears. Somehow he made it home, cheered on all the way by a sympathetic crowd.
Compared to those guys, my plight was nowhere near as dire. But I did have a problem in that I'm not as strong as those guys, either. With one leg and one arm, I was dangerously off balance on my bike and could barely hold a straight line. On the uphills, I couldn't get out of the saddle so I had to muscle up in a low gear, gently resting my right hand on the top of my handlebars.
Typing is somewhat painful, so to sum up: X-rays negative, wrist ain't broken, leg is hyperextended but still functional, and I hope to regain enough strength in both to be able to climb at full strength up the Pyrenees and Alps in a week. There will be plenty of fans at the side of the road, waiting to cheer on the pros, and they'll likely spare some for me, too.
Every cyclist who logs enough miles will have a near-miss to report, and almost all will have one bike accident to recount over beers. Now I have mine.

A new kind of hero

The Bourne Identity wasn't a great film, but one of its appeals is the pragmatic, serious nature of Jason Bourne. He's a suitable new hero for the post Sept. 11 America, which is ironic considering he's based on a character from a novel published in 1980. Bourne's character in the film can be read as a metaphor for our nation under attack. He awakens near death, with little or no memory, as many of us did after Sept. 11. Who is Al Qaeda? Why do they want us dead? Slowly, the clues come back, and in both cases a ruthless CIA plagued by internal machinations and bickering is at the heart of things.
Bourne is the America we want to believe we are. He's not an obnoxious American stirring up trouble abroad. No, the international world is out to get him despite the fact that he just wants to get the girl and retire peacefully. Agents of all nationalities come after him in all parts of the world, including Clive Owen as The Professor, just as terrorists seem to be attacking us from cells distributed throughout the world. Wherever Bourne goes, he brings trouble to those he comes in contact with, just as many nations have mixed feelings about accepting American military, economic, and political assistance for fear of retribution from neighboring states. Bourne doesn't deserve this--his whole loss of memory came when he couldn't bring himself to complete an assassination orchestrated by the CIA. Perhaps that is where his story diverges from the truth, as the U.S. government has rarely hesitated to intervene overtly or covertly with force to achieve its ends. But that's not the hero we wish to embrace.
Like our government, Bourne is not afraid to react with deadly force when attacked, and he does so efficiently. We hope our military and intelligence agencies are equally competent.
Most of all, Bourne represents an America which just wishes to be left alone. Contrast him with our popular heroes from the 70's, 80's and 90's, like James Bond, the suave and sophisticated incarnation of the ugly American. Brash, arrogant, always dispatching his various foreign foes with a cruel, almost disdainful sense of humor. Or John Wayne, the rugged, macho American. We sense in these earlier heroes strains of the haughty, presumptious America which is what terrorists claim to be reacting to in launching its attacks.
Bourne is none of these things. He is confused--why are we under attack? He just wishes he could have a little peace and quiet. So do we all. But it's unlikely, considering a sequel is in the works. Sadly, the same fate likely awaits the rest of us.

Macintosh pop-up killer

Has anyone found a free, effective Macintosh-compatible pop-up window killer? I am so damn sick of Orbitz ads popping up everywhere I go.

Conventional wisdom

My mind gravitates towards ideas that revoke conventional wisdom. I enjoy articles like the one about the health of low-carb vs. low-fat diets which I cite below, ideas like the ones Stephen Wolfram postulates in A New Kind of Science, and some of the recent (last two years) writing by Voros McCracken on pitching and defense resonate with me.
Okay, I've already discussed the first two ideas before. What about Voros McCracken's ideas on pitching and defense? Voros' analysis showed that pitchers have little control over the rate of hits on balls put in play. Instead, that statistic of hits on balls put in play is much more strongly correlated with a team's defense as Rob Neyer notes when examining some of the recent research by Dick Cramer.
Voros' work does explain why so many of history's greatest pitchers have high strikeout rates. That's the best way for a pitcher to prevent a ball from being put in play and earning an out. Once a ball is hit and put in play, the chances that it falls for a hit are likely the same for Pedro Martinez as they are for Jose Lima, the team defenses behind them being equal. It gives you a greater appreciation for pitchers who have low strikeout rates who still manage to maintain low ERAs over long periods of time. There aren't many, and the ones who do almost always have to have pinpoint control.

Atkins Diet--what if it's right?

Fascinating article in the NYTimes Sunday Magazine about the Atkins diet, obesity in America, and the frightening thought that perhaps fat isn't all that bad for you but carbs are. One of the more enlightening discussions of the topic that I've read. Worth reading for folks who have been wondering how to eat healthy and lose weight, which is about 90% of people I know.
Of all I've read on the topic, this article was the most convincing in presenting evidence that casts doubt on the healthiness of a high carb, low-fat diet, commonly represented by the food pyramid taught in schools all over the country, with 6-11 servings of grains at the base and minimal fat at the apex.
The joy of the prime of cycling season is that none of this matters. I can pretty much eat whatever I want to because I'm burning off so many calories. But for the other month's out of the year, it's appealing to imagine that simple adjustments to one's diet might lead to noticeable changes in weight and long-term life expectancy.

I can't move my arms

Yesterday I went out on Lake Washington on Eric's speedboat with Todd, Juli, Aaron, and a whole crew of others. I learned some new things. First, riding in the front of a speedboat being driven at high speeds is a lot of fun. The boat angles up, and you see only the sky as you bounce around like so much loose cargo. Second, wakeboarding is exhausting on the arms (when you don't know what you're doing). After watching Travis and Jared skimming around the water with seemingly little effort, I thought "I have to have a go at that." About 15 fruitless attempts later my arms were lead and I'd imbibed a good pint of Lake Washington. Splendid good fun because everytime Eric slowly cranked up the speed on the boat, and I felt the tension of water below my board, I thought to myself, "I'm going to get it this time."
Also, it's a new challenge to look forward to this summer. A summer without a new hobby or something to learn is death. My mind is still trapped in the past, in school, at the beginning of the quarter, perusing the coursebook, looking for new classes in random subjects.
Last night I barely had the strength to shift gears in my car or turn a doorknob. This morning I couldn't push myself up out of bed. I awoke at 6:30 in the morning to try and watch Stage 2 of the Tour. For the 15 minutes before 6:30, my alarm clock was on, and some lady was chatting about some farmers who raised their chickens and cows using a particular diet that produced better tasting cheese, and I was so tired that her words actually permeated my thoughts. I dreamed I was wandering in this dark, dingy, abandoned prison, and this farmer was leading me from cell to cell, where he kept his animals. Peacocks, chickens, and goats wandered around while the farmer sprinkled feed on the ground. Felt like Hannibal Lecter's asylum, but all the time I was supremely excited to rush to the supermarket to purchase a brick of this special brand of cheese. I woke up, and for about 3 minutes I remembered the name of this brand of cheese. Meant to write it down, too. Now I've forgotten it, and frankly I can't tell what part of the dream was imagined, and what was real. Don't even know if this brand of cheese even exists.

Le Tour

The Tour de France started yesterday. The Prologue was exciting, a short 4 mile time trial. Laurent Jalabert came out with a miraculous effort to complete it in 9' 10", then Lance maxed out with an even more incredible effort to win the Prologue by two seconds in 9' 8".
People think soccer is ignored. So is cycling. With Lance in his prime and Ullrich out of this year's Tour, attacks will come from all sides. Anyone with OLNtv who isn't watching is missing out on two hours of high drama every day. What these 190 or so cyclists will do over the next three weeks is to complete the most incredible endurance event in the world. 2100 miles of cycling, sometimes up mountain grades rated at about 20%, with only two rest days.
Also, everyone seems excited that the U.S. may become competitive in international soccer. Well, the U.S. is further ahead in cycling. Many teams' have American race leaders. Of course there's Lance, but some of his former teammates have moved on to other teams to be the boss. Tyler Hamilton (2nd in the Giro D'Italia this year), Levi Leipheimer (who placed in last year's Vuelta) to name the two most well-known. Floyd Landis, one of Lance's domestiques, finished second to him in the Dauphine Libere and showed himself to be a promising climber and possible future GC contender.

46.8

Did a century ride (100 miles) with Tim and Jesse on Saturday. Brought a lot of gear with me in my Camelbak, two full waterbottles, toolbag, pump--I was loaded down. That meant I was heavy. Not so good on the uphills, but on the downhills heavier cyclists move faster. On one hill on the way into Enumclaw, I ripped down the hill and hit 46.8 miles per hour, my all-time top speed.
When I'm flying down hills, I think two things. One: if I should get the wobbles, or my front tire catches on something and falls off, I will likely die. Two: this is living!
Three weeks until I have to climb the Alps in France, and I'm just not in the shape I'd like to be. Frustrating. Coulda, shoulda, woulda ridden more miles. Too much work. Blah blah blah. No excuses. Salads for the next three weeks.
During a bike ride of that distance, one encounters many things. A couple hundred manhole covers and sewer grates. About several dozen instances of roadkill. And a few obnoxious hillbillies in their pickup trucks, unwilling to share a few feet of shoulder with fellow human beings on two wheels. To those $#@!%@'s who blast their horns or shout profanities or drive really close or swerve to knock us cyclists off the road, I wish a flat tire in the middle of the desert.

Hello, I'm not home

With the rise of voicemail, I imagine answering machine sales have flattened out. It means that one of the favorite scenes of filmmakers may become an anachromism. That's the scene where one character tries to reach another on the phone to apologize, or to warn them about something, and the person on the other end either refuses to answer the phone, can't get to the phone because they're in mortal danger, or misses the call because they're out. The phone clicks on and you here the voice while the filmmaker displays a closeup of the answering machine.
"Hey, it's me. Pick up if you're there. Please. I have something I have to tell you, so if you're there, it would be great if you'd pick up. [Pause] Okay, I guess you're not there. I just wanted to say that, well, I was wrong yesterday. What I said. I was, I don't know, scared. Listen, I love you. I'm crazy about you. This is killing me..."
"Fred, get out of there now! It was Johnson all along, he erased the tape. Look, I can't explain, just get out now."
[Fred is down on the floor, gagged and bound, lifting his head to stare longingly at the answering machine. All you see is the answering machine tapes spinning lazily.]

en fuego

In creative writing 101, you're taught to avoid metaphors of fire or heat because they're so cliched. "Burning passion." "Fires of inspiration." Stuff like that. One which still seems to slip through the cracks is "eyes like burning coals." I read that twice this weekend. I don't even get that one. Do eyes really look like burning coals? What do burning coals look like? I think of grilling when I think of burning coals, and no one I know has eyes that look like that.
En fuego is okay, though, but only when Dan Patrick uses it.

How to build a universe that doesn't fall apart two days later

Since Philip Dick is all the rage, here's an interesting essay by the man himself. Written in 1978.

Tune-up complete

Lance Armstrong won the final tune-up for the Tour de France, the Dauphine Libere. I finally decided to take the plunge and head over to France for the last week of July to catch Lance in the mountains and ride some of them myself. I couldn't pass up the chance to see the finest cyclist of his generation, the cancer survivor poster boy, live and in person, pursuing his fourth straight Tour victory. Who knows what will happen next year. Maybe he tires of the sport, maybe he gets injured, maybe he loses form. Life is short.

Riding through the rain

Last week, work destroyed me. I was basically catatonic Friday night. I couldn't really think of anything to say to anyone I ran into after work. I was exhausted and my brain had shut down. At some point during the night I was out on Lake Union and a whole series of ships had burst into flames. Fire engines went cruising on by, and all the while it all went in my eyes and never got processed.
I barely had any sleep all last week, so I thought I'd sleep the deep sleep of the just on Friday night, but I awoke early on Saturday as usual. It's the one day of the week I desperately want to sleep in and can't. The weather was gray and drizzly, and while I had committed to Tim that I'd ride a long ride with him, secretly I was hoping for a rainout. I was awake but my body was asleep.
So when he called and said it was raining where he was and asked me whether or not I still wanted to ride, I of course logically said yes. My longest ride all season was about 60 miles, so of course we decided to do a 100, consistent with the doctrine of gradual increases in mileage.
The first half of the ride we got drenched. It's my fifth winter in Seattle, and I've realized it's not the severity of the weather in Seattle (it's one of the mildest climes I've lived in) but the duration of the gray season which slowly wears out all but the sunniest of personalities. We were cold, wet, and covered in mud from the road. Even worse, because of the backspray from out back tires, neither one of us could draft off of each other so we had to expend a ton of energy.
We had to stop for food and warmth at a Subway in Enumclaw. The second half of the ride, the sun poked out on occasion. By then my legs were shot and it took an eternity to make it home.
Eight hours on the road, 104 miles, a pair of sore legs.
So Sunday morning I woke up early again and thought it was strange that I had only needed seven hours of sleep. I picked up Lucky Jim, read about five pages, and passed out with the nightstand light on for two hours and dreamt about work. I dreamt I was in a huge and unproductive meeting with a whole bunch of my co-workers, and at the peak of my frustration I woke up.
I leave for my sister's wedding Wednesday, and I can't wait.

Mercer morning loop

Did a loop of Mercer with Tim and Jessie this morning, and that's like chasing two motorcycles. Yikes. It is proof, though, that there's nothing that will push you harder than having a workout partner who can kick your a$$ six ways from Sunday. That's true in life generally. Hopefully you come to a point in your life where you're secure enough to swim with bigger, faster, smarter sharks in all aspects of life. I'm closer to that than I have been in the past. It's humbling because the majority of the time I feel like an idiot, a sloth, or the ugly duckling. But I'm secure with where I stand. If it were any other way, life would be so dull.

Booked

BTW, now that I'm done cycling, you better book me soon. My open dates are going fast. I'm out with a different person every night. A few lunch appointments remain in August, but weekends are nearly sold out through September. Call now! My popularity is at its zenith! Soon, the novelty will wear off as people realize I'm no more interesting after the 1000+ miles of cycling than I was before it.
Runaway shoes dot com! Runaway shoes dot com!

RAMROD

The night before RAMROD, I spent all this time preparing two sandwich bags filled with food and supplies. Clif bars, sports drinks, GU, spare tubes, CO2 cartridges, bike tools, etc. And then Tim came by to pick me up, and I left the two bags on the kitchen table. Noonan!
But of course, I didn't realize this until much later, so let's not jump ahead. Tim picked me up on Wednesday night, and we drove down to Enumclaw. Jesse's knee had acted up so he had to drop out, leaving just Tim and I from our original RAMROD crew of 6 or 7. It's another reason the ride is so challenging--it actually takes out riders before they even make it to the starting line.
We stayed overnight in Enumclaw, in a room in a building Erynn Petersen owns down there, right above some store shops. Tim and I were amped up for the race, and we had a hard time settling down. The room was dominated by a huge pool table that she and her husband had just had resurfaced, and we shot a few games and cooked a huge heaping of pasta to carbo load. We slept in two bunk beds at the end of the room, and I felt like I was a pro racer on the road, sleeping in a dorm.
At that point, I realized I had forgotten some of my food and supplies, and I had to avoid a sense of panic. I still had two spare tubes, and I could just eat more food at the rest stops. Still, little mistakes like that the day of a big race can be mentally distracting, minor frustrations that cause you to panic. Fortunately, I managed to fall asleep, and after what seemed like 10 minutes of sleep we were up. It was just after 4 a.m. on Thursday, and the registration desks were open. We dressed, carried our machines out, and drove over to the start line in the early morning dusk, when all is grey, subdued, and chilly.
We signed in, pinned our numbers on our jersey, and walked to the start line. Because the ride followed a somewhat dangerous course, each of our numbers had a start and finish tag. At the start line, they'd rip off the start tag to note that we had departed. If they didn't rip off a corresponding finish tag at the end of the race, they'd know to send out the search teams to look for the missing rider at the bottom of a cliff or ditch or something like that, the race volunteers explained. Oh.
And then, we were off. I wore the yellow jersey of DogDog.com that my STP team bought me the year before, hoping it would bring me the same good luck I had experienced the year before. Tim and I were frozen as we hit the farm roads out of the Enumclaw fairgrounds. A dense morning mist hovered over the fields we passed by, and occasionally we choked on the pungent odor of cow dung.
We eventually caught up to a fairly fast pack and latched on, and soon we were cruising. I tried to keep my heart rate under 150, but the adrenaline was pumping and I was over 150, occasionally touching 160. Not sustainable, but it's hard to hold back when you're full of energy. We were cooking at speeds over 21 mph for a good two hours or so, all the way to the base of the climb to Paradise.
Then, suddenly, I couldn't turn the pedals over anymore. It felt like I had popped. I was near the front of the paceline with Tim, and then I pulled out to the left to drop back. I moved back a few spots. And then back a few more. And then I lost contact with the first part of the paceline, and our entire line shattered, and Tim was gone. I started panicking. I hadn't even ridden 50 miles, and I had already hit a wall. Soon I was alone. I crossed the entrance into the park and entered the woods. The climbing had begun.
I staggered into the first rest stop by myself and met up with Tim again. I told him to continue on without me. Then he felt my tires, front and back, and said the back tire felt flat. I gave it a squeeze. It was flat. No wonder it had felt so difficult to turn the pedals over. The curse of the flats had bitten me again. The local mechanic helped me to fix it up, and I set off again. Tim had left with a group ahead, and I tried to keep a steady pace. I knew it would be difficult to catch the pack by myself. I knew I had over 5000 feet of climbing ahead to reach the top of Paradise, and I just wanted to make it over the top. RAMROD contains two major climbs, Paradise and Cayuse, but I wasn't even thinking about Cayuse yet.
I realized, as I moved along at about 7mph, that I had never even climbed more than 250 feet at a time. 5000 feet would be some 20 times higher than the highest climb I had ever done. It would hurt. My legs were still burning from trying to catch folks with my flat earlier, and the thought of not being able to finish crossed my mind for the first time. Slow and steady, slow and steady. I tried to find a steady tempo that would leave me heart rate below 160. Stronger riders started passing me regularly, but I resisted the temptation to stand out my saddle to pursue. Only 50 miles into the ride, I had changed my goal. I wanted to finish, and I didn't care if I would be the last rider in.
The climb took ages. I had to drop into my lowest gear, and still I could only turn my pedals over at about 65 to 70 rpm. My butt was more sore than normal, and I kept squirming on my seat to try and find the position of least pain. Fortunately, the view around me was so beautiful it took my mind off the physical suffering. The sun had finally poked its head out, and above me I could see the snow covered peaks of Rainier. The mountain itself is so massive from up close. It inspired awe, maybe a bit of fear. Every fifteen minutes or so I could pop my ears, like on an airplane. That's how high up we were.
When I finally made it to the top, I had to pull over in the Paradise parking lot and take my shoes off, my feet ached so much. Bike shoes are intended to be very snug, almost like rock climbing shoes or ballet shoes, so that as much of your legs' movements are transferred to your pedals. The sacrifice is that as your feet swell, they ache. This was as high as I would be all day, and I felt relief that I hadn't cramped up, but my entire body was not happy.
After a short break, I managed to force myself back onto the bike for the first big descent, the reward for the long climb. It would be one of the longest descents I had ever done, and soon I was up to 39-40 miles per hour, just flying. My legs were so tired I could barely keep my pedals at 3 and 9 o'clock, and I hung onto my handlebars for dear life over grates and irregularities in the road. Descending is exhilarating and frightening. One bad turn and you could be projected over the edge off a steep hill to who knows what. At the same time, passing riders on a descent, cutting corners as sharply as possible--there's nothing like it. It's about as much fun as you can have on a road bike, other than passing folks on the hills.
At the bottom was a rest stop, where I ran into Tim for the last time during the ride. My legs were sore to the core now and I was just barely past halfway done with the race. I tried not to think about Cayuse. Then, right out of the rest stop, I flatted. This time, I had to pull over and fix it myself, and I felt myself losing my cool as rider after rider passed me on the side of the road while I spent fifteen minutes or so putting a new tube on and trying in vain to get it up to minimum pressure. I couldn't get the tube up to 130 psi with my frame pump, but I had no choice but to go on with a semi-inflated tire until I ran into a support vehicle with a floor pump.
The next thing I remember is beginning the ascent up Cayuse, a shorter hill than Paradise in elevation, but much tougher because of the grade. This time, I struggled to stay between 6 and 7 miles per hour, and the sun was now beating down through a clear sky. I unzipped my jersey all the way down and tried to keep the sweat out of my eyes.
I was suffering. Various pains would appear out of nowhere during the ascent, and each time I tried to stay calm and wait it out. First it would be my quads, then my right hamstring, then my right shin, then my left. My right foot throbbed. At one point, I pulled over and took my right shoe off and tried to massage the pain out of my foot. My bike started to wander around the road a bit, my body too weak to keep it straight. Halfway up, I stopped to have a volunteer shower me with cold water.
Finally, the peak of Cayuse. The torturous climbing was over, though 44 miles still remained. A banana and a swig of water, and then I started bombing towards the finish line. Most of the last leg was downhill, and I was able to keep my speed up around 20 mph for a good portion of that time. I was pleasantly surprised with how much energy I had left considering I'd ridden most of the day alone. I never really found a cyclist or group moving at the same pace, so it was a long, lonely day in the saddle.
So I finished. Twelve hours total, of which about 10 of them consisted of ride time. I averaged about 15.5 miles per hour, and in total I covered about 157 miles. My average heart rate? 141.
Bill and Scott called to congratulate me, which was nice. After suffering most of the day alone in the mountains, I had this insatiable need to download.
The whole ride was more than I was prepared for, especially the two climbs. Basically, it was like a stage of the Tour de France, only longer. The climbs were pro-level grade. I was proud of myself for finishing, and more in awe of Lance Armstrong and other professional cyclists than ever before. I can't imagine doing that day after day for three weeks as in the Tour de France.
Next year, I may do it again. I didn't climb that well, and if I did it again I'd want to be in a position to attack on the mountain climbs, as opposed to hanging on for dear life. But for now, the training and suffering is behind me, and I look forward to getting back to life.

Spring breeze

It's been sunny and pleasant this week in Seattle. It was a long winter, in more ways than one, and I can't remember a time when I was more happy to see the sun. I love the feel of a cool spring breeze.
I think the long hours at work and my reclusive lifestyle these past two to three months have left me feeling, I don't know, nostalgic? Lonely? Tired, for sure.
Rode the Daffodil Classic on Sunday. You can read my account of it on my RAMROD blog. 70 miles in the rain and cold. Not pleasant, but maybe rides like that will toughen me up. I remember a few of those last year early in the season, and if you want to be a cyclist in Seattle, I guess you just have to get used to it.
But my cycling diet is leaving me grumpy. Salads just don't satisfy me. Still, I need to get down a few pounds for RAMROD. Blech.
Jenny asked me for a review of the X-files Season Three DVD on Friday, and she said she needed it Monday. So of course, late Sunday night, I finally open the DVDs and leave it on in the background while surfing the web for plot synposes. It was like cramming for a college exam again. I put on the soundtrack, put the DVD on, scoured the web, pulled out my fountain pen, and started just jotting random notes down. Writing short reviews aren't easy. I fell asleep on the sofa, then I had to whip out the review in an hour at work using all my notes. Don't tell Jenny. But I think it turned out okay, and now that I remember season three, I suggest you pick it up. That was good stuff.
Finally got around to reading this article about Microsoft and his inner cadre of technical advisers. It was in the business section of an old NYT. The article talks all about Bill Gates' inner cadre of technical advisors. Seems like Bill is the type of businessman who still derives more pleasure from engineering than from running the business. I think I might be that type of manager, if I stayed in business. Anytime I read an article about these Microsoft senior folks, I feel stupid. They all have PhDs in computer science, have written all sorts of crazy software, play chess in their spare time, random stuff like that. But then I encounter some idiotic feature of some Microsoft application, and I realize that it takes more than raw smarts to design a good application.
Case in point. The other day, I was using Powerpoint, and I went to the File dropdown menu and all the save and print commands were gone. How can you hide the save and print commands? Those should never be hidden since you have to use them everytime you edit a file. This is a new feature in Office 2000, in which the application remembers the most recent commands you've used and only displays those commands. Sounds potentially smart, but it's annoyed me everytime I've encountered it. I wonder if they even user tested it. Everytime I use those menus, the commands I want are in a different place. The idea of an interface that adapts to your usage patterns sounds good in theory, but no one's nailed it yet. Consistent user interfaces still rule in my book most days.
Of course, to turn off this smart logic, I had to dig all around the menu system to find the on/off switch which took me another five minutes or so.
Saturday, I played golf with Robert, Ryan, and Kord. I haven't seen Kord for years, since my college days. He still looks the same, and he's still doing the med school thing. Gorgeous day out at Gold Mountain. I still stink at golf. I will become good at that sport one day. Maybe this is the summer to do it.
I watched Yi Yi. Winstar, respecting good cinema, actually put their screener in widescreen. What a great film. It took me three nights to finish, it was such a long film. I've never seen anything by Edward Yang before, and it's always exciting to discover a new director whose work you enjoy. I definitely need to find some of his other work. Asian cinema holds a particular appeal for me because so much of it reminds me of my own family and childhood. Yang has a very distinctive directorial style. He definitely qualifies as a director whose work, as Peter Bogdanovich put it, lets you know "who the devil made it." Interesting use of medium shots. Very few closeups. Whole scenes are shot at a medium to long range. You see characters talking inside a house, and the camera is shooting in through a window. The camera rarely moves or pans. Almost like watching a play.
Watching that film by myself over 3 nights reminded me that I need a movie buddy. I am currently without a movie buddy, which makes it tough to keep up on movies. Maybe I just have strange taste in films. Rachael could have potential, but she goes to bed way too early. Same with Bill. That would never work with my schedule. Audrey loves to watch movies, but her problem is she stays up too late. Rich only likes movies like Cool Hand Luke. His tastes are pretty narrow. Dan's got the free time, but he would also drag me to see stuff like Tomcats. So would Jason. Aaron had pretty good taste, but he's in London now. Howie doesn't really watch movies; I have no idea what's wrong with him. Jenny was pretty open-minded about movies, but she's engaged now. Bean has pretty similar tastes, but everytime I watch a movie with her she falls asleep. I must bore her to death.
Oh well, maybe I don't need a movie buddy. Maybe I can get Karen to move out to Seattle. I used to drag her to all sorts of movies. A willing soul she was.
Jason bought me a new rolling backpack/luggage thingy. My garment bag, I have to admit, was looking pretty pathetic. The wheels don't roll, the side of the bag has torn completely open. It's the end of an era. I had that thing since my consulting days. It was the first piece of luggage my mom ever bought for me. Strange, how you'll replace certain things which are in perfectly good condition, just because they bore you, while you'll remain loyal to the most beat up, trivial things like a pair of bike gloves which would cost a pittance to replace.
Went to Peter's engagement party on Sunday. Finally got to meet his fiancee Klara. He's been staying with a woman who has been here in Seattle for years and has many ties to UW and the Seattle art community. That house was amazing! Some of the artwork hanging on the walls has toured through museums like MOMA in NYC. Chatting with all of Peter's acting friends, I realize I have a large gap in my life now that most of my friends are from work. I lack melodramatic, eccentric artist friends. Chatting with people like that is so easy. They're always on stage.
I wanted to just stay in that house. It was like an artist's womb.